All the Days of My Life: An Autobiography
by Amelia E. Barr · English · Gutenberg #35706 · 1,095,762 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: All the Days of My Life: An Autobiography
Author: Amelia E. Barr
Release date: March 29, 2011 [eBook #35706]
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ALL THE DAYS OF MY LIFE: AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY ***
Produced by Katherine Ward and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
All the Days of My Life: An Autobiography
The Red Leaves of a Human Heart
By Amelia E. Barr
ILLUSTRATED
NEW YORK AND LONDON
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
MCMXIII
COPYRIGHT, 1913, BY
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
Printed in the United States of America
TO MY FRIENDS
DR. CARLOS H. STONE
AND
MRS. STONE
I INSCRIBE
WITH AFFECTIONATE ESTEEM
THIS STORY OF MY LIFE
Cherry Croft
A.D. 1913
[Illustration: MRS. BARR AT 80]
CONFIDENCES
This is to be a book about myself but, even before I begin it, I am
painfully aware of the egotistical atmosphere which the unavoidable
use of the personal pronouns creates. I have hitherto declared that I
would not write an autobiography, but a consideration of circumstances
convinces me that an autobiography is the only form any personal
relation can now take. For the press has so widely and so frequently
exploited certain events of my life--impossible to omit--that disguise
is far out of the question. Fiction could not hide me, nor an assumed
name, nor even no name at all.
Why, then, write the book? First, because serious errors have
constantly been published, and these I wish to correct; second, there
has been a long-continued request for it, and third, there are
business considerations not to be neglected. Yet none, nor all of
these three reasons, would have been sufficient to induce me to truck
my most sacred memories through the market-place for a little money,
had I not been conscious of a motive that would amply justify the
book. The book itself must reveal that reason, or it will never be
known. I am sure, however, that many will find it out, and to these
souls I shall speak, and they will keep my memory green, and listen to
my words of strength and comfort long after the woman called Amelia
Huddleston Barr has disappeared forever.
Again, if I am to write of things so close and intimate as my feelings
and experiences, I must claim a large liberty. Many topics usually
dilated on, I shall pass by silently, or with slight notice; and, if I
write fully and truly, as I intend to do, I must show many changes of
opinion on a variety of subjects. This is only the natural growth of
the mental and spiritual faculties. For the woman within, if she be of
noble strain, is never content with what she has attained; she
unceasingly presses forward, in lively hope of some better way, or
some more tangible truth. If any woman at eighty years of age was the
same woman, spiritually and mentally, she was at twenty, or even
fifty, she would be little worthy of our respect.
Also, there are supreme tragedies and calamities in my life that it
would be impossible for me to write down. It would be treason against
both the living and the dead. But such calamities always came from the
hand of man. I never had a sorrow from the hand of God that I could
not tell to any good man or woman; for the end of God-sent sorrow is
some spiritual gain or happiness. We hurt each other terribly in this
world, but it is in ways that only the power which tormented the
perfect man of Uz would incite.
I write mainly for the kindly race of women. I am their sister, and in
no way exempt from their sorrowful lot. I have drank the cup of their
limitations to the dregs, and if my experience can help any sad or
doubtful woman to outleap her own shadow, and to stand bravely out in
the sunshine to meet her destiny, whatever it may be, I shall have
done well; I shall not have written this book in vain. It will be its
own excuse, and justify its appeal.
AMELIA BARR
CONTENTS
PAGE
I. The Border Land of Life 1
II. At Shipley, Yorkshire 11
III. Where Druids and Giants Dwelt 25
IV. At Ripon and the Isle of Man 47
V. Sorrow and Change 60
VI. In Norfolk 69
VII. Over the Border 81
VIII. Love Is Destiny 91
IX. The Home Made Desolate 106
X. Passengers for New York 126
XI. From Chicago to Texas 146
XII. A Pleasant Journey 177
XIII. In Arcadia 195
XIV. The Beginning of Strife 214
XV. The Break-up of the Confederacy 235
XVI. The Terror by Night and by Day 259
XVII. The Never-Coming-Back Called Death 278
XVIII. I Go to New York 300
XIX. The Beginnings of a New Life 319
XX. The Family Life 335
XXI. Thus Runs the World Away 354
XXII. The Latest Gospel: Know Thy Work and Do It 374
XXIII. The Gods Sell Us All Good Things for Labor 405
XXIV. Busy, Happy Days 426
XXV. Dreaming and Working 446
XXVI. The Verdict of Life 466
Appendix I. Huddleston Lords of Millom 481
Appendix II. Books Published by Dodd, Mead and Company 488
Appendix III. Books Published by Other Publishers 490
Appendix IV. Poems 492
Appendix V. Letters 499
Index 513
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
Mrs. Barr at 80 Frontispiece
Mrs. Barr's Birthplace 8
Rev. William Henry Huddleston 52
Mrs. Barr at 18 98
Mr. Robert Barr 204
Miss Lilly Barr 288
Mrs. Barr November, 1880 364
Miss Mary Barr (Mrs. Kirk Munroe) 378
"Cherry Croft," Cornwall-on-Hudson 428
Miss Alice Barr 456
CHAPTER I
THE BORDER LAND OF LIFE
"Date not God's mercy from thy nativity, look beyond to the Everlasting
Love."
* * * * *
"Ask me not, for I may not speak of it--I saw it."--TENNYSON.
I entered this incarnation on March the twenty-ninth, A.D. 1831, at
the ancient town of Ulverston, Lancashire, England. My soul came with
me. This is not always the case. Every observing mother of a large
family knows that the period of spiritual possession varies. For days,
even weeks, the child may be entirely of the flesh, and then suddenly,
in the twinkling of an eye, the mystery of the indwelling spirit is
accomplished. This miracle comes not by observation; no mother ever
saw it take place. She only knows that at one moment her child was
ignorant of her; that at the next moment it was consciously smiling
into her face, and that then, with an instinctive gladness, she called
to the whole household, "the baby has begun to notice."
I brought my soul with me--an eager soul, impatient for the loves and
joys, the struggles and triumphs of the dear, unforgotten world. No
doubt it had been aware of the earthly tabernacle which was being
prepared for its home, and its helper in the new onward effort; and
was waiting for the moment which would make them companions. The
beautifully fashioned little body was already dear, and the wise soul
would not suffer it to run the risks of a house left empty and
unguarded. Some accident might mar its beauty, or cripple its powers,
or still more baneful, some alien soul might usurp the tenement, and
therefore never be able effectually to control, or righteously use
it.
I was a very fortunate child, for I was "possessed by a good spirit,
yea rather being good, my spirit came into a body undefiled and
perfect" (Wisdom of Solomon, 8:20). Also, my environments were fair
and favorable; for my parents, though not rich, were in the possession
of an income sufficient for the modest comforts and refinements they
desired. My father was the son of Captain John Henry Huddleston, who
was lost on some unknown sea, with all who sailed in his company. His
brother, Captain Thomas Henry Huddleston, had a similar fate. His
ship, _The Great Harry_, carrying home troops from America, was dashed
to pieces on the Scarlet Rocks, just outside Castletown, the capital
of the Isle of Man. When the storm had subsided the bodies of the
Captain and his son Henry were found clasped in each other's arms, and
they were buried together in Kirk Malew churchyard. During the years
1843 and 1844 I was living in Castletown, and frequently visited the
large grave with its upright stone, on which was carved the story of
the tragedy. Fifteen years ago my sister Alethia went purposely to
Castletown to have the lettering on this stone cleared, and made
readable; and I suppose that it stands there today, near the wall of
the inclosure, on the left-hand side, not far from the main entrance.
When my grandmother, Amelia Huddleston, was left a widow she had two
sons, John Henry and William Henry, both under twelve years of age.
But she seems to have had sufficient money to care well for them, to
attend to their education, and to go with them during the summer
months to St. Ann's-by-the-Sea for a holiday; a luxury then by no
means common. She inspired her sons with a great affection; my father
always kept the anniversary of her death in solitude. Yet, he never
spoke of her to me but once. It was on my eleventh birthday. Then he
took my face between his hands, and said: "Amelia, you have the name
of a good woman, loved of God and man; see that you honor it."
After the death of their mother, I believe both boys went to their
uncle, Thomas Henry Huddleston, collector of the port of Dublin. He
had one son, the late Sir John Walter Huddleston, Q. C., a celebrated
jurist, who died in 1891 at London, England. I was living then at East
Orange, New Jersey. Yet, suddenly, the sunny room in which I was
standing was thrilled through and through by an indubitable boding
token, the presage of his death--a presage unquestionable, and not to
be misunderstood by any of his family.
Sir John Walter was the only Millom Huddleston I ever knew who had not
"Henry" included in his name. This fact was so fixed in my mind that,
when I was introduced to the _one_ Huddleston in the city of New York,
a well-known surgeon and physician, I was not the least astonished to
see on his card "Dr. John Henry Huddleston." Again, one day not two
years ago, I lifted a newspaper, and my eyes fell on the words "Henry
Huddleston." I saw that it was the baptismal name of a well-known New
Yorker, and that he was seriously ill. Every morning until his death I
watched anxiously for the report of his condition; for something in me
responded to that singular repetition, and, though I never heard any
tradition concerning it, undoubtedly there is one.
Millom Castle and lands passed from the Huddleston family to the Earls
of Lonsdale, who hold them with the promise that they are not to be
sold except to some one bearing the name of Huddleston. Not more than
ten years ago, the present Earl admitted and reiterated the old
agreement. One part of the castle is a ruin covered with ivy, the rest
is inhabited by a tenant of the Earl. My sister stayed with this
family a few days about twelve years ago. Soon afterwards Dr. John
Henry Huddleston, accompanied by his wife, visited Millom and brought
me back some interesting photos of the church and the Huddleston
monuments.
The Millom Huddlestons have always been great ecclesiastics. There
lies upon my table, as I write, a beautifully preserved Bible of the
date A.D. 1626. It has been used by their preachers constantly, and
bears many annotations on the margins of its pages. It is the most
precious relic of the family, and was given to me by my father on my
wedding-day. Their spiritual influence has been remarkable. One
tradition asserts that an Abbot Huddleston carried the Host before
King Edward the Confessor, and it is an historical fact that Priest
Huddleston, a Benedictine monk, found his way up the back stairs of
Windsor Castle to King Charles the Second's bedroom, and gave the
dying monarch the last comforting rites of his church.
When they were not priests they were daring seamen and explorers. In
the seventeenth century India was governed by its native princes, and
was a land of romance, a land of obscure peril and malignant spells.
An enchanted veil hung like a mist over its sacred towns on the upper
Ganges, and the whole country, with its barbaric splendors and amazing
wealth, had a luring charm, remote and unsubstantial as an ancient
fable. In that century, there was likely always to be some Captain
Huddleston rounding the Cape, in a big, unwieldy Indiaman. That the
voyage occupied a year or two was no deterrent. Their real home was
the sea, their Millom home only a resting-place. By such men the
empire of England was builded. They gave their lives cheerfully to
make wide her boundaries, and to strengthen her power.
My father and his brother both chose theology, and they were suitably
educated for the profession. John Henry, on receiving orders, sailed
for Sierra Leone as one of the first, if not the first missionary of
the English Church to the rescued slaves of that colony. My father
finally allied himself with the Methodist Church, a decision for which
I never heard any reason assigned. But the reason must have been
evident to any one who considered the character and movements of
William Henry Huddleston. In that day the English Church, whatever she
may do now, did not permit her service to be read, in any place not
sanctified by a bishop with the proper ceremonies. My father found in
half a dozen shepherds on the bare fells a congregation and a church
he willingly served. To a few fishers mending their nets on the
shingly seashore, he preached as fine a sermon as he would have
preached in a cathedral. It was his way to stroll down among the tired
sailormen, smoking and resting on the quiet pier in the gloaming, and,
standing among them, to tell again the irresistible story of Christ
and Him Crucified.
He was indeed a born Evangelist, and if he had been a contemporary of
General Booth would certainly have enrolled himself among the
earliest recruits of his evangelizing army. In the Methodist Church
this tendency was rather encouraged than hindered, and that
circumstance alone would be reason most sufficient and convincing to a
man, who believed himself in season and out of season in charge of
souls. In this decision I am sure there was no financial question; he
had money enough then to give his conscience all the elbow-room it
wanted.
Soon after this change my father married Mary Singleton--
"A perfect woman, nobly planned,
To trust, to comfort, and command."
Physically she was small and delicately formed, but she possessed a
great spirit, a heart tender and loving as a child's, and the most
joyous temper I ever met. Every fret of life was conquered by her
cheerfulness. Song was always in her heart, and very often on her
lips. She brooded over her children like a bird over its nest, and was
exceedingly proud of her clever husband, serving and obeying him, with
that touching patience and fidelity which was the distinguishing
quality of English wives of that period.
And it was to this happy couple, living in the little stone house by
the old chapel in Ulverston, I came that blessed morning in March,
A.D. 1831. Yes, I will positively let the adjective stand. It was a
"blessed" morning. Though I have drunk the dregs of every cup of
sorrow,
"My days still keep the dew of morn,
And what I have I give;
Being right glad that I was born,
And thankful that I live."
I came to them with hands full of gifts, and among them the faculty of
recollection. To this hour I wear the key of memory, and can open
every door in the house of my life, even to its first exquisite
beginnings. The thrills of joy and wonder, of pleasure and terror I
felt in those earliest years, I can still recapture; only that dim,
mysterious memory of some previous existence, where the sandy shores
were longer and the hills far higher, has become fainter, and less
frequent. I do not need it now. Faith has taken the place of memory,
and faith is "the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of
things not seen."
Childhood is fed on dreams--dreams waking, and dreams sleeping. My
first sharp, clear, positive recollection is a dream--a sacred, secret
dream, which I have never been able to speak of. When it came to me, I
had not the words necessary to translate the vision into speech, and,
as the years went on, I found myself more and more reluctant to name
it. It was a vision dim and great, that could not be fitted into
clumsy words, but it was clearer and surer to me, than the ground on
which I trod. It is nearly seventy-eight years since I awoke that
morning, trembling and thrilling in every sense with the wonder and
majesty of what I had seen, but the vision is not dim, nor any part of
it forgotten. It is my first recollection. Beyond--is the abyss. That
it has eluded speech is no evidence of incompleteness, for God's
communion with man does not require the faculties of our mortal
nature. It rather dispenses with them.
When I was between three and four years old I went with my mother to
visit a friend, who I think was my godmother. I have forgotten her
name, but she gave me a silver cup, and my first doll--a finely gowned
wax effigy--that I never cared for. I had no interest at all in dolls.
I did not like them; their speechlessness irritated me, and I could
not make-believe they were real babies. I have often been aware of the
same perverse fretful kind of feeling at the baffling silence of
infants. Why do they not talk? They have the use of their eyes and
ears; they can feel and taste and touch, why can they not speak? Is
there something they must not tell? Will they not learn to talk, until
they have forgotten it? For I know
"Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting
The soul that rises with us, our Life's Star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting;
And cometh from afar.
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter darkness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home."
At this house, overlooking the valley of the Duddon, I needed nothing
to play with. Every room in it was full of wonders, so also was the
garden, with its dark walls shaded by yews, and pines, and glistening
holly, the latter cut into all kinds of fantastic shapes. The house
had a large entrance hall, and, rising sheer from it, was the steep,
spiral stairway leading to the upper rooms. The stairs were highly
polished and slippery, but they were the Alps of my baby ambition.
Having surmounted them, there was in the corridor to which they led,
queer, dark closets to be passed swiftly and warily, and closed guest
rooms--obscure, indistinct, and shrouded in white linen. It gave me a
singular pleasure to brave these unknown terrors, and after such
adventures I returned to my mother with a proud sense of victory
achieved; though I neither understood the feeling, nor asked any
questions about it. Now I can accurately determine its why and its
wherefore, but I am no happier for the knowledge. The joy, of having
conquered a difficulty, and the elation of victory because of that
conquest had then a tang and a savor beyond the power of later
triumphs to give me. I know too much now. I calculate probabilities
and attempt nothing that lacks strong likelihoods of success.
Deservedly, then, I miss that exulting sense of accomplishment, which
is the reward of those who never calculate, but who, when an attempt
is to be made, dare and do, and most likely win.
There was also a closed room downstairs, and I spent much time there
when the weather was wet, and I could not get into the garden. It had
once been a handsome room, and the scene of much gaiety, but the
passage of the Reform Bill had compelled English farmers to adopt a
much more modest style of living; and the singing of lovers, and the
feet of dancing youths and maidens was heard no more in its splendid
space. But it was yet full of things strange and mysterious--things
that ministered both to the heaven and hell of my imagination;
beautiful images of girls carrying flowers and of children playing;
empty shells of resplendent colors that had voices in them, mournful,
despairing voices, that filled me with fear and pity; dreadful little
heathen gods, monstrous, frightful! with more arms and hands and feet
than they ought to have; a large white marble clock that was dead,
and could neither tick nor strike; butterflies and birds motionless,
silent, and shut up in glass cases; and what I believed to be a golden
harp, with strings slack or broken, yet crying out plaintively if I
touched them.
One afternoon I went to sleep in this room, and, as my mother was out,
I was not disturbed; indeed when I opened my eyes it was nearly dark.
Then the occult world, which we all carry about with us, was suddenly
wide awake, also; the place was full of whispers; I heard the passing
of unseen feet, and phantom-like men and women slipped softly about in
the mysterious light. My heart beat wildly to the visions I created,
but who can tell from what eternity of experiences, the mind-stuff
necessary for these visions floated to me? Who can tell?
It was, however, the long, long nights, far more than the wonderful
days, which impregnated my future--the dark, still nights full of
hints and fine transitions, shadowy terrors, fleeting visions and
marvelous dreams. I shall remember as long as I live, nights that I
would not wish to dream through again, neither would I wish to have
been spared the dreams that came to me in them. The impression they
made was perhaps only possible on the plastic nature of a child soul,
but, though long years lay between the dream and the event typified,
the dream was unforgotten, and the event dominated by its warning. All
education has this provisional quality. In school, as well as in
dreams, we learn in childhood a great deal that finds no immediate use
or expression. For many years we may scarcely remember the lesson,
then comes the occasion for it, and the information needed is suddenly
restored.
[Illustration: MRS. BARR'S BIRTHPLACE
Born in the parsonage next to the chapel]
There is then no wonder that, in the full ripeness of my mental
growth, I look back with wondering gratitude to these first apparently
uneventful years on the border land of being. In them I learned much
anteceding any reasoning whatever. There is nothing incredible in
this. Heaven yet lies around infancy, and we are eternally related to
heavenly intelligences "a little lower" that is all. Thus, in an
especial manner,
"Our simple childhood sits,
Our simple childhood sits upon a throne,
That hath more power than all the elements."
For it is always the simple that produces the marvelous, and these
fleeting shadowy visions and intimations of our earliest years, are
far from being profitless; not only because they are kindred to our
purest mind and intellect, but much rather because the soul
"Remembering how she felt, but what she felt
Remembering not; retains an obscure sense
Of possible sublimity."
I have a kind of religious reluctance to inquire too closely into
these almost sacred years. Yet when I consider the material education
of the children of this period, I feel that I have not said enough.
For a boy educated entirely on a material basis, is not prepared to
achieve success, even financial success. The work of understanding
must be enlightened by the emotions, or he will surely sink to the
level of the hewers of wood and drawers of water. The very best
material education will not save a child who has no imagination.
Therefore do not deprive childhood of fairy tales, of tales of
stirring adventure and courage, and of the wondrous stories of the old
Hebrew world. On such food the imagination produces grand ideals and
wide horizons. It is true we live in a very present and very real
world, and many are only too ready to believe that the spiritual world
is far-off and shadowy. On the contrary, the spiritual world is _here_
and _now_ and indisputably and preeminently real. It is the material
world that is the realm of shadows.
I doubt if any child is born without some measure of that vision and
faculty divine which apprehends the supernatural. This is "the light
within which lighteth every man that cometh into the world." If that
light be neglected, and left to smoulder and die out, how great is the
darkness it leaves behind! Precious beyond price are the shadowy
recollections of a God-haunted childhood,
"Which be they what they may,
Are yet the fountain light of all our day;
Are yet the master light of all our seeing."
A child is a deep mystery. It has a life of its own, which it reveals
to no one unless it meets with sympathy. Snub its first halting
confidences concerning the inner life, or laugh at them, or be cross
or indifferent, and you close the door against yourself forever. Now
there is no faculty given us that the soul can spare. If we destroy in
childhood the faculty of apprehending the spiritual or supernatural,
as detrimental to this life, if there be left
"... no Power Divine within us,
How can God's divineness win us?"
CHAPTER II
AT SHIPLEY, YORKSHIRE
"Sweet childish days that were as long
As twenty days are now."
* * * * *
"A child to whom was given
So much of earth, so much of heaven."
Before I was three years old my father removed to Yorkshire, to
Shipley, in the West Riding. I never can write or speak those two last
words, "West Riding," without a sensible rise of temperature, and an
intense longing to be in England. For the West Riding is the heart of
England, and, whatever is distinctively English, is also distinctively
West Riding. Its men and women are so full of life, so spontaneously
cheerful, so sure of themselves, so upright and downright in speech
and action, that no one can for a moment misunderstand either their
liking or disliking. Their opinions hold no element of change or
dissent. They are as hearty and sincere in their religion, as their
business, and if they form a friendship with a family, it will likely
be one to the third and fourth generation. I correspond today with
people whom I never saw, but whose friendship for my family dates back
to a mutual rejoicing over the victory of Waterloo.
Of course I was not able to make any such observations on West Riding
humanity when I first went there, but I _felt_ the goodness of the
people then, and in later years I both observed and experienced it.
And it was well for me in my early childhood to live a while among
such a strong, happy people. They impressed upon my plastic mind their
confidant cheerfulness, and their sureness that life was a very good
thing.
Shipley was then a pretty country town, though it is now a great
manufacturing city, not far behind Bradford and Leeds. I was three
years there and during those years gradually dropped all remains of
infancy, and became a child, a child eager for work and for play, and
half-afraid the world might not last until I found out all about it.
At first I went to a dame's school. She did not take children over
five years of age, and to these babies she taught only reading and
needlework and knitting. We sat on very low benches in a room opening
into a garden, and we spent a good deal of time in the garden. But she
taught me to hem, and to seam, to fell and to gather, to stroke and to
backstitch, and when I left her I could read any of the penny chap
books I could buy. Most of them contained an abbreviated adventure
from the "Arabian Nights" collection.
Soon after we removed to Shipley a woman came into our lives, called
Ann Oddy, and my sister and I were told to be respectful to her and to
obey her orders. She was a clever housekeeper, a superior cook, and
had many domestic virtues; but she was authoritative, tyrannical, and
quite determined to have things her own way. Fortunately I won her
favor early, and for two simple reasons: first, my hair was easy to
curl, and Sister Jane's had to be carefully put in papers, and then
did not "keep in." Second, because she thought Jane was always ready
to go "neighboring" with Mother, and then was so secret as to where
she had been, and so "know nothing" of what was said; but I was better
pleased to stay in the children's room with a book and herself for
company.
Indeed I liked Ann's society. She had a grewsome assortment of
stories, chiefly about bad fellows and their young women, but
sometimes concerning bad children who had come to grief for disobeying
their good parents, or for breaking the Sabbath Day. There was
generally, however, an enthralling climax, relating to a handsome
young man, whom she _saw_ hanged at York Castle for murdering his
sweetheart. At this narration I usually laid down my book, and
listened with trembling interest to the awful fate of this faithless
lover, and Ann's warnings against men of all kinds who wanted helpless
women to marry them. In those days I felt sure Ann Oddy had the true
wisdom, and was quite resolved to look upon all handsome young men as
probable murderers.
The three years I spent at Shipley were happy years. I enjoyed every
hour of them, though the days were twenty times as long as days are
now. There was a great deal of visiting, and visiting meant privileges
of all kinds. We were frequently asked out to tea with our parents,
especially if there were children in the house to which we were going,
and there were children's parties nearly every week at somebody's
house.
It was a good thing, then, that our usual fare was very plain, and not
even the quantity left to our own desire or discretion. Breakfast was
always a bowl of bread and milk boiled, and a rather thick slice of
bread and butter after it. Fresh meat was sparingly given us at
dinner, but we had plenty of broth, vegetables, and Yorkshire pudding.
Our evening meal was bread and milk, rice or tapioca pudding, and a
thick slice of sweet loaf--that is, bread made with currants, and
caraway seeds, and a little sugar. But when we went out for dinner or
tea, we had our share of the good things going; and, if the company
was at our house, Ann Oddy usually put a couple of Christ Church
tarts, or cheesecakes, among our plain bread. She always pretended to
wonder where they came from; and, if I said pleadingly, "Don't take
them away, Ann," she would answer in a kind of musing manner, "I'll be
bound the Missis put them there. Some people will meddle." Then Jane
would help herself, and I did the same, and we both knew that Ann had
put the tarts there, and that she intended us to eat them. Yet this
same little pretense of surprise was kept up for many years, and I
grew to enjoy the making of it more perfect, and the changing of the
words a little.
The house at which I liked best of all to visit was that of Jonathan
Greenwood. He had a pretty place--with a fine strawberry bed--at
Baildon Green. He was then a handsome bachelor of about forty years of
age, and I considered him quite an old man. I knew also that he was
Miss Crabtree's sweetheart, and Ann's look of disapproval, and the
suspicious shake of her head made me anxious about both of them. What
if Miss Crabtree should have another sweetheart! And what if Jonathan
killed her because she had deceived him! Then there might be the York
tragedy over again. These thoughts troubled me so much that I
ventured to suggest their probability to Ann. She laughed my fears to
scorn.
"Martha Crabtree have another sweetheart! Nay, never my little lass!
It will be the priest, not the hangman, that will tie Jonathan up."
"Tie Jonathan up, Ann!" I ejaculated.
"To be sure," she answered. "Stop talking."
"But, Ann----"
"Do as I bid you."
Then I resolved to ask Jonathan that afternoon. It was Thursday, and
he would be sure to call for a cup of tea as he came from Leeds
market. I did not do so, because he asked permission for me to go to
Baildon Green with him, and stay until after the fair, and during the
visit I knew I should find many better opportunities for the question.
To go to Baildon Green, was the best holiday that came to me, unless
it was to go to Mr. Samuel Wilson's, at the village of Baildon. He had
a much finer house, and a large shop in which there were raisins and
Jordan almonds, and he had also a handsome little son of my own age,
with whom I loved to play. But one visit generally included the other,
and both were very agreeable to all my desires.
At Baildon Green I had many pleasures. I liked to be petted and
praised and to hear the women say, "What a pretty child it is! God
bless it!" and I liked to hang around them, and listen to their
conversation as they made nice little dinners. I liked in the evening
to look at the _Penny Magazine_, and to have Mr. Greenwood explain the
pictures to me, and I certainly liked to go with him in his gig to
Leeds on Leeds market day. Sometimes he took me with him into the
Cloth Hall; sometimes also men would say, "Why, Jonathan, whose little
lass is that?" And he would answer, "It is Mr. Huddleston's little
lass." "_Never!_" would be the ejaculation, but I knew the word was
not intended for dissent, but somehow for approval.
When I was at Baildon Green Saturday was the great day. Very early in
the morning the weavers began to arrive with the web of cloth they had
woven during the week. In those days there were no mills--all the
cloth was made in the weavers' homes. Baildon Green was a weaving
village. In every cottage there was a loom and a big spinning wheel.
The men worked at the loom, the women and children at the wheel. At
daybreak I could hear the shuttles flying, and the rattle of the
unwieldy looms in every house. On Saturday they brought their webs to
Jonathan Greenwood. He examined each web carefully, measured its
length, and paid the weaver whatever was its value. Then, giving him
the woolen yarn necessary for next week's web, he was ready to call
another weaver. There were perhaps twenty to thirty men present, and,
during these examinations many little disputes arose. I enjoyed them.
The men called the master "Jonathan," and talked to him in language as
plain, or plainer, than he gave them. Sometimes, after a deal of
threaping, the master would lose his temper, then I noticed he always
got the best of the argument. In the room where this business took
place there was a big pair of scales, and I usually sat in them,
swinging gently to and fro, and listening.
These weavers were all big men, the master bigger than any of them;
and they all wore blue-checked linen pinafores covering them from neck
to feet. Underneath this pinafore the master wore fine broadcloth and
high shoes with silver latchets. I do not know what kind of cloth the
men wore, but it was very probably corduroy, as that was then the
usual material for workingmen's clothes, and on their feet were heavy
clogs clasped with brass, a footgear capable of giving a very ugly and
even dangerous kick.
I have never seen a prouder or more independent class of men than
these home weavers; and just at this time they had been made
anxious and irritable by the constant reports of coming mills and
weaving by machinery. But their religion kept them hopeful and
confident, for they were all Methodists, made for Methodists, and
Methodism made for them. And it was a great sight on a Sabbath
morning to see them gathering in their chapel, full of that
incompatible spiritual joy which no one understands but those who
have it, and which I at that time, took for simple good temper. But I
know now that if I was a preacher of the Word, I would not ask to be
sent to an analyzing, argumentative, cold Scotch kirk; nor to a
complacent, satisfied English church; nor even to a meditative,
tranquil Quaker meeting-house; I would say, "Send me to an inspiring,
joyful, West Riding Methodist chapel."
This visit to Baildon Green was the last of my Shipley experiences.
During it Mr. Greenwood told me that he would have "a handsome wife"
when I came again, and that she would take me about a bit. I was not
much pleased at the prospect. Men were always kinder to me than women,
and not so fussy about my hair being in curl, and my frock clean. So I
did not speak, and he asked, "Are you not pleased, Milly?"
"No," I answered bluntly.
"But why?" he continued.
"Because I like you--all to myself." Then he laughed and was much
pleased, and I learned that day that you may wisely speak the truth,
if it is complimentary.
The event of this visit was Baildon Feast, a great public rejoicing on
the anniversary of the summer solstice. It had been observed beyond
the memory of man, beyond historical notice, beyond even the
traditions of the locality. There was no particular reason for its
observance that I could ever learn; it was just Baildon Feast, and
that was all anybody knew about it.
I was awakened very early on the first day of the feast by the bands
"playing the sun up," and before we had finished breakfast the
procession was forming. Now Baildon Green is flat and grassy as a
meadow, and when I was six years old it had a pond in the center,
while from the northwest there rose high hills. Only a narrow winding
path led to the top of these hills, and about half way up, there was a
cave which tradition averred had been one of Robin Hood's retreats--a
very probable circumstance, as this whole country-side was doubtless
pretty well covered with oak forests.
A numerous deputation from the village of Baildon, situated on the top
of the hill, joined the procession which started from Baildon Green at
an early hour. The sun was shining brightly, and I had on a clean
white frock, pretty white sandals, a new blue sash, and a gypsy hat
trimmed with blue ribbons. When the music approached it put a spirit
into my feet and my heart kept time to the exciting melody. I had
never walked to music before, and it was an enchanting experience.
The procession appeared to my childish apprehension a very great one.
I think now it may have consisted of five hundred people, perhaps
less, but the great point of interest was two fine young heifers
garlanded with flowers, and ornamented with streaming ribbons of every
color. Up the winding path they went, the cattle lowing, the bands
playing, the people singing and shouting up to the high places on
which the village of Baildon stood. There at a particular spot,
hallowed by tradition, the cattle garlanded for sacrifice were slain.
I do not know whether any particular method or forms were used. I was
not permitted to see the ceremony attending their death, and I confess
I was much disappointed.
"It isn't fit for a little lass to see," said my friend Jonathan, "and
I promised thy father and mother I wouldn't let thee see it, so there
now! Nay, nay, I wouldn't whimper about such a thing as that. Never!"
I said I wasn't whimpering, and that I didn't care at all about seeing
the animals killed, but I did care, and Baildon Fair without its
tragedy no longer interested me, yet I stayed to see the flesh
distributed among all who asked for it. There was an understanding,
however, that those who received a festival roast should entertain any
stranger claiming their hospitality. This ancient rite over, the
people gave themselves up to sports of all kinds.
But their Methodism kept them within the bounds of decency, for there
were favorite preachers invited from all the towns around, and if the
men and boys were busy in the cricket fields all day, they were sure
to be in the chapel at night. There was also a chapel tea party the
last afternoon of the feast, and after it a great missionary meeting
at which Bishop Heber's hymn, "From Greenland's Icy Mountains," was
sung with such mighty fervor as made me thrill and tremble with an
emotion I can yet recall. That night I solemnly determined to be a
missionary. I would go to the darkest of all heathen lands, and be the
first to tell the story of Jesus. I went home in a state of beatific
surrender, and whenever I think of that night, I am aware of a
Presence, and the face I wore when I was a little child turns to me.
And I am troubled and silent before that little ghost with its eager
eyes and loving enthusiasms, for I have done none of the things I
promised to do, and an intangible clutch of memory gives me a spell of
sadness keen and regretful.
This Baildon experience was one of those instances of learning in
childhood things of no immediate use. I was hardly six years old then;
I was seventy-six when it struck me, that I had perhaps taken part in
a non-intentional sacrifice to the God Baal. For four years ago I was
much interested in discovering that the Shetlanders, even to the close
of the nineteenth century, kept the same feast at the summer solstice,
and also made their children in some of the lonely islands pass
through the Beltane fires, in fact paying the old God Bel or Baal the
same services as the Hebrew prophets so often reproached the
Israelites with performing. But I believe that wherever Druidical
remains are found, relics of this worship may be traced either in
names, superstitions, signs or traditions. In a letter I received from
a Bradford lady dated September twenty-seventh, A.D. 1911, she says,
"It was rather strange but we had a man at our house from Thornton the
other day, and he was telling us how they paraded the cattle they were
going to kill at the feast through the streets, and I thought of you,
and what you remembered of it in Baildon."
These details may seem to the reader trivial and futile; on the
contrary, they were the very material from which life was building
character. For all that surrounds a child, all that it sees, hears,
feels or touches, helps to create its moral and intellectual nature.
See then how fortunate were my first six years. My physical being was
well cared for by loving parents in a sweet orderly home, and my
mental life well fed by books stimulating the imagination. Through the
"Arabian Nights" tales I touched the domestic life of the wonderful
East, China, India, Persia and Arabia; and at the missionary meetings,
and at my home, I met men who had been to these far away places, and
brought back with them curious and beautiful things, even the very
gods they worshipped. There had been hitherto in other respects a
good deal of judicious neglect in my education. Books had never been
anything but a source of wonder and delight to me. I had never heard
of a grammar and an arithmetic, and had never been deprived of a visit
or a holiday because if I did not go to school, I would miss a mark,
or lose my place in a class.
Fortunately this desultory education was marbled all through with keen
spiritual incidents and issues. For the spiritual sight of children
turns more sharply upon the world within the breast, than they show,
or that anyone imagines. They hold in their memories imperishable days
which all others have forgotten, visions beautiful and fearful, dreams
without name or meaning, and they have an undefined impression of the
awful _oldness_ of things. They see the world through doors very
little ajar, and they know the walking of God through their dreaming
sleep.
The happy and prosperous children are those, who had before all else
the education that comes by reverence. This education is beyond all
doubt the highest, the deepest, the widest and the most perfect of all
the forms of education ever given to man. A child that has not been
taught to reverence God, and all that represents God to man--honor,
honesty, justice, mercy, truth, love, courage, self-sacrifice, is sent
into the world like a boat sent out to sea, without rudder, ballast,
compass or captain.
But the education by reverence must begin early. Children of very
tender years may be taught to wander through those early ages of
faith, when God took Enoch, and no one was astonished; when Abraham
talked with God as friend with friend; when the marvelous ladder was
let down by Jacob's pillow; when Hagar carrying her dying child in the
desert saw without surprise the angel of the Lord coming to help her.
Nor is there any danger in permitting them to enter that dimmer world
lying about childhood, to which _Robinson Crusoe_ and _Scheherazade_
hold the keys. The multiplication table can wait, until the child has
been taught to reverence all that is holy, wise and good, and the
imagination received its first impulse. So I do not call such events
as I have chronicled trifling; indeed, I know that in the formation
of my character, they had a wide and lasting influence.
A few days after the fair, Jonathan Greenwood was going to Bradford so
he left me at my home as he passed there, and as soon as I came in
sight of our house, I saw my sister running to the gate to meet me.
"I have a little brother!" she cried. "I have a little brother,
Amelia."
"Mine, too," I asserted; and she answered, "Yes, I dare say."
"Is he nice?" I asked.
"Middling nice. You should see how everyone goes on about him."
"My word!" cried Jonathan, "you girls will be nobodies now. But, I
shall stick by you, Milly."
"Yes," I answered dubiously, for I had learned already that little
girls were of much less importance than little boys. So I shook my
head, and gave Jonathan's promise a doubtful "yes."
"Tell Ann Oddy," he said, "that I will be in for a cup of tea at five
o'clock." Then he drove away, and Jane and I walked slowly up the
garden path together.
"Father called him John Henry, first thing," said Jane, "and Mother is
proud of him, as never was."
"I want to see him," I answered. "Let us go to the children's room."
"He is in Mother's room, and Mother is sick in bed, and Ann is so busy
with the boy, she forgot my breakfast, so I had breakfast with
Father."
"Breakfast with Father! Never!"
"Yes, indeed, and dinner, too, for three days now. Perhaps as you have
come home, Ann will remember that girls need something for breakfast.
Father wasn't pleased at her forgetting me."
"What did she say?"
She said, "Mr. Huddleston, I cannot remember everything, and the
Mistress and the little lad _do_ come first, I should say."
"Was Father angry?" I asked.
"He said something about Mrs. Peacock."
"What is Mrs. Peacock doing here?"
"She is hired to help, but I think she never leaves her chair. Ann
sniffed, and told Father, Mrs. Peacock had all she could do to take
care of Mrs. Peacock. Then Father walked away, and Ann talked to
herself, as she always does, when she is angry."
This conversation and much that followed I remember well, not all of
it, perhaps, but its spirit and the very words used. It occurred in
the garden which was in gorgeous August bloom, full of splendid
dahlias and holly-hocks, and August lilies. I have never seen such
holly-hocks since. We called them rose-mallows then which is I think a
prettier name. The house door stood open, and the rooms were all so
still and empty. There was a bee buzzing outside, and the girl Agnes
singing a Methodist hymn in the kitchen, but the sounds seemed far
away, and our little shoes sounded very noisy on the stairway.
I soon had my head on my mother's breast, and felt her kisses on my
cheek. She asked me if I had a happy visit, but she did not take as
much interest in my relations as I expected; she was so anxious to
show me the new baby, and to tell me it was a boy, and called after
his father's brother. I was jealous and unhappy, but Mother looked so
proud and pleased I did not like to say anything disagreeable, so I
kissed Mother and the boy again, and then went to the children's room
and had a good cry in Ann Oddy's arms.
"Ann," I said, "girls are of no account;" and she answered, "No,
honey, and women don't signify much either. It is a pity for us both.
I have been fit to drop with work ever since you went away, Amelia,
and who cares? If any man had done what I have done, there would be
two men holding him up by this time."
"Ann, why do men get so much more praise than women, and why are they
so much more thought of?"
"God only knows child," she answered. "Men have made out, that only
they can run the world. It's in about as bad a state as it well can
be, but they are proud of their work. What I say is, that a race of
good women would have done something with the old concern by this
time. Men are a poor lot. I should think thou would want something to
eat."
I told her I was "as hungry as could be," but that Jonathan was coming
to tea at five o'clock.
"Then he'll make it for himsel'," she said. "Mr. Huddleston has gone
to Windhill to some sort of meeting. Mrs. Huddleston can't get out of
bed. I have the baby on my hands, and Mrs. Peacock makes her own tea
at five o'clock--precisely."
"Then Ann let me make Jonathan's tea. I am sure I can do it, Ann. Will
you let me?"
"I'll warrant thee." Then she told me exactly what to do, and when
Jonathan Greenwood came, he found a good pot of tea and hot muffins
ready, and he had given Agnes some Bradford sausage, with their fine
flavoring of herbs, to fry, and Agnes remembered a couple of Kendal
wigs[1] that were in the house and she brought them in for a finishing
dish. I sat in my mother's chair, and poured out tea; but I sent for
Jane when all was ready, and she gave me a look, still unforgotten,
though she made no remark to disturb a meal so much to her liking.
Later, however, when we were undressing for bed, and had said our
prayers, she reminded me that she was the eldest, and that I had taken
her place in making tea for Mr. Greenwood. Many a time I had been
forced to receive this reproof silently, but now I was able to say:
"You are not the oldest any longer, Jane. John is the oldest now.
Girls don't count."
In my childhood this eldest business was a sore subject, and indeed to
this day the younger children in English families express themselves
very decidedly about the usurpation of primogenital privileges, and
the undue consideration given to boys.
A few weeks after the advent of my brother, John Henry, we removed to
Penrith in Cumberland, and the night before leaving, a circumstance
happened which made a great impression on me. There was a circle of
shrubs in the garden, and a chair among them on which I frequently
sat to read. This night I went to meet Mother at the garden gate, and
as we came up the flagged walk, I saw a man sitting on the chair. "Let
us go quickly to the house," said Mother; but a faint cry of "_Mary!_"
made her hesitate, and when the cry was repeated, and the man rose to
his feet, my mother walked rapidly towards him crying out, "O Will!
Will! O my brother! Have you come home at last?"
"I have come home to die, Mary," he said.
"Lean on me, Will," she replied. "Come into the house. We leave for
Penrith to-morrow, and you can travel with us. Then we shall see you
safely home."
"What will your husband say?" the man asked.
"Only kind words to a dying man. Are you really so ill, Will?" And the
man answered, "I may live three months. I may go much sooner. It
depends----"
Then my mother said, "This is your uncle, Dr. Singleton, Milly;" and I
was very sorry for a man so near death, and I went and took his hand,
but he did not seem to care about me. He only glanced in my face, and
then remarked to Mother, "She seems a nice child." I felt slighted,
but I could not be angry at a man so sick.
When I went upstairs I told Ann that my uncle had come, and that he
said he was going home to Kendal to die. "He will travel with us
to-morrow as far as Kendal; Mother asked him to do so," I added.
"I dare say. It was just like her."
"Don't you like my uncle, Ann? I thought he was a very fine
gentleman."
"Maybe he is. Be off to your bed now. You must be up by strike-of-day
to-morrow;" and there was something in Ann's look and voice, I did not
care to disobey.
Indeed Ann had every one up long before it was necessary. We had
breakfast an hour before the proper time; but after all, it was well,
for the house and garden was soon full of people come to bid us
"good-bye." Some had brought lunches, and some flowers and fruits, and
there was a wonderful hour of excitement, before the coach came
driving furiously up to the gate. It had four fine horses, and the
driver and the guard were in splendid livery, and the sound of the
horn, and the clatter of the horses' feet, and the cries of the crowd
stirred my heart and my imagination, and I believe I was the happiest
girl in the world that hour. I enjoyed also the drive through the
town, and the sight of the people waving their handkerchiefs to Father
and Mother from open doors and windows. I do not think I have ever
since had such a sense of elation and importance; for Father and I had
relinquished our seats inside the coach to Uncle Will Singleton, and I
was seated between the driver and Father, seeing well and also being
well seen.
Never since that morning have I been more keenly alive in every sense
and more ready for every event that might come; the first of which was
the meeting and passing of three great wains loaded high with wheat,
and going to a squire's manor, whose name I have forgotten. There were
some very piquant words passed between the drivers about the coach
going a bit to the wrong side. On the top of the three wagons about a
dozen men were lying at their ease singing the prettiest harvest song
I ever heard, but I only caught three lines of it. They went to a
joyful melody thus:
"Blest be the day Christ was born!
We've gotten in the Squire's corn,
Well bound, and better shorn.
Hip! Hip! Hurrah!"
But as they sang the dispute between the drivers was growing less and
less friendly, and the driver of the coach whipped up his horses, and
took all the road he wanted, and went onward at such a rattling pace
as soon left Shipley forever behind me.
CHAPTER III
WHERE DRUIDS AND GIANTS DWELT
"... upon the silent shore
Of memory, we find images and precious thoughts,
That shall not die, and cannot be destroyed."
I was greatly delighted with Penrith. It was such a complete change
from Shipley, and youth is always sure that change must mean
something better. In the first place the town was beautiful, and
generally built of the new red sandstone on which it stands; but
our house was white, being I think of a rough stucco, and it stood on
one of the pleasantest streets in the town, the one leading up to the
Beacon. Its rooms appeared very large to me then; perhaps I might not
think so highly of them now. Its door opened directly into the
living-room, and it was always such a joy to open it, and step out
of the snow or rain into a room full of love and comfort. Since those
days I have liked well the old English houses where the front door
opens directly into the living-room. Ten or twelve years ago a lady
built in Cornwall-on-Hudson a handsome house having this peculiarity,
and I often went to see her, enjoying every time that one step from
all out doors, into the sweet home influence beyond it.
The sound of the loom and the shuttle were never heard in the broad
still streets of Penrith. Business was a thing rather pushed into a
corner, for Penrith was aristocratic, and always had been. The great
earls of Lonsdale lent it their prestige, and circling it were some of
the castles and seats of the most famous nobility. It had been often
sacked, and had many royal associations. Richard the Third had dwelt
in its castle when the Duke of Gloucester, and Henry the Eighth's last
wife, Catherine Parr, came from Kendal. The castle itself had been
built by Edward the Third, and destroyed by Cromwell. All these and
many more such incidents I heard the first day of my residence in the
town from a young girl we had hired for the kitchen, and she mingled
with these facts the Fairy Cup of Eden Hall, and the great Lord
Brougham, Long Meg and her daughters, and the giant's grave in Penrith
churchyard; and I felt as if I had stepped into some enchanted city.
Up to this time I had never been to what I called a proper school. The
dame's school at Shipley I had far outstepped, and I was so eager to
learn, that I wished to begin every study at once. There were two good
schools in Penrith, one kept by a Miss Pearson, and the other by a man
whose name I have forgotten. I wanted to go to Miss Pearson. She had
the most select and expensive school. The man's school was said to be
more strict and thorough, and much less expensive; but there was a
positive prejudice against boys and girls being taught together. I
could tell from the chatter of the girl in the kitchen, that it was
looked down upon, and considered vulgar by the best people. I was
anxious about the result. Jane and I whispered our fears to each
other, but we did not dare to express any opinion to our parents. At
last I talked feelingly to Ann Oddy about the situation, and was glad
to find her most decidedly on our side.
"I am for the woman," she said straight out, "and I shall tell the
Master so plainly. What does that man know about trembling shy little
girls?" she asked indignantly, "and I've heard," she continued, "that
he uses the leather strap on their little hands--even when they are
trying to do the best they know how. His own children look as if they
got plenty of 'strap.' I've told your mother what I think of him."
"What did Mother say, Ann?" we eagerly asked.
"She said such a man as that would never do. So I went on--'Mrs.
Huddleston, our society wouldn't like it. He teaches girls to write a
big, round man's hand. You may see it yourself, Mrs. Huddleston, if
you'll lift his letter to you--good enough for keeping count of what
money is owing you, but for young ladies, I say it isn't right--and
his manners! if he has any, won't be fit to be seen, and you know,
Mrs. Huddleston, how men talk, he won't be fit to be heard at times;
at any rate that is the case with most men--except Mr. Huddleston.'"
With such words Ann reasoned, and if I remembered the very words
used it would be only natural, for I heard them morning, noon and
night, until Mother went to see Miss Pearson, and came home charmed
with her fine manners and method of teaching. Then our dress had to
be prepared, and I shall never forget it; for girls did not get so
many dresses then as they do now, and I was delighted with the
blue Saxony cloth that was my first school dress. Dresses were all
of one piece then, and were made low with short baby sleeves, but
a pelerine was made with the dress, which was really an over-waist
with two little capes over the shoulders. My shoes were low and
black, and had very pretty steel buckles; my bonnet, a cottage one of
coarse Dunstable straw. It had a dark blue ribbon crossed over it,
and a blue silk curtain behind, and some blue silk ribbon plaited just
within the brim, a _Red Riding Hood_ cloak and French pattens for
wet weather completed my school costume, and I was very proud of it.
Yet it is a miracle to me at this day, how the children of that time
lived through the desperate weather, deep snows and bitter cold, in
such insufficient clothing. I suppose it was the survival of the
fittest.
My first school day was one of the greatest importance to me. I have
not forgotten one incident in all its happy hours. I fell in love with
Miss Pearson as soon as I saw her; yes, I really loved the woman, and
I love her yet. She was tall and handsome, and had her abundant black
hair dressed in a real bow knot on the top of her head; and falling in
thick soft curls on her temples, and partly down her cheeks. An
exceedingly large shell comb kept it in place. Her dress was dark, and
she wore a large falling collar finely embroidered and trimmed with
deep lace, and round her neck a long gold chain. She came smiling to
meet us, and as soon as the whole school was gathered in front of the
large table at which she sat, she rose and said,
"Young ladies, you have two new companions. I ask for them your
kindness--Jane and Amelia Huddleston. Rise."
Then the whole school rose and curtsied to us, and as well as we were
able, we returned the compliment. As soon as we were seated again,
Miss Pearson produced a large book, and as she unclasped it, said,
"Miss Huddleston will come here."
Every eye was turned on Jane, who, however, rose at once and went to
Miss Pearson's table. Then Miss Pearson read aloud something like the
following words, for I have forgotten the exact form, though the
promises contained in it have never been forgotten.
"I promise to be kind and helpful to all my schoolmates.
"I promise to speak the truth always.
"I promise to be honorable about the learning and repeating of my
lessons.
"I promise to tell no malicious tales of any one.
"I promise to be ladylike in my speech and manners.
"I promise to treat all my teachers with respect and obedience."
These obligations were read aloud to Jane and she was asked if she
agreed to keep them. Jane said she would keep them all, and she was
then required to sign her name to the formula in the book, which she
did very badly. When my turn came, I asked Miss Pearson to sign it for
me. She did so, and then called up two girls as witnesses. This
formality made a great impression on me, the more so, as Miss Pearson
in a steady positive voice said, as she emphatically closed the book,
"The first breaking of any of these promises may perhaps be forgiven,
for the second fault there is no excuse--the girl will be dismissed
from the school."
I was in this school three years and never saw one dismissed. The
promise with the little formalities attending it had a powerful effect
on my mind, and doubtless it influenced every girl in the same way.
After my examination it was decided that writing was the study to be
first attended to. I was glad of this decision, for I longed to write,
but I was a little dashed when I was taken to a long table running
across the whole width of the room. This table was covered with the
finest sea sand, there was a roller at one end, and the teacher ran
it down the whole length of the table. It left behind it beautifully
straight lines, between which were straight strokes, pothooks, and the
letter _o_. Then a brass stylus was given me, and I was told to copy
what I saw, and it was on this table of sand, with a pencil of brass,
I took my first lessons in writing. When I could make all my letters,
simple and capital, and knew how to join, dot, and cross them
properly, I was promoted to a slate and slate pencil. In about half a
year I was permitted to use paper and a wad pencil, but as wad, or
lead, was then scarce and dear, we were taught at once how to sharpen
and use them in the most economical manner. While I was using a wad
pencil I was practicing the art of making a pen out of a goose quill.
Some children learned the lesson easily. I found it difficult, and
spoiled many a bunch of quills in acquiring it.
I remember a clumsy pen in my father's desk almost as early as I
remember anything. It was a metal tube, fastened to an ivory handle,
and originated just before I was born. I never saw my father use it;
he wrote with a quill all his life. In 1832, the year after my birth,
thirty-three million, one hundred thousand quills were imported into
England, and I am sure that at the present date, not all the geese in
all the world would meet the demand for pens in the United States
alone. Penny postage produced the steel pen. It belonged to an age of
machinery, and could have belonged to no other age; for the great
problem to be solved in the steel pen, was to convert iron into a
substance as thin as the quill of a dove's wing, yet as strong as the
strongest quill of an eagle's wing. When I was a girl not much over
seven years old, children made their own pens; the steam engine now
makes them.
A short time before Christmas my mother received the letter from Uncle
Will Singleton she had been expecting. It came one Saturday morning
when the snow lay deep, and the cold was intense. Jane and I were in
the living-room with Mother. She had just cut a sheet down the middle,
where it was turning thin, and I had to seam the two selvedge edges
together, thus turning the strong parts of the sheet into the center.
This seam required to be very neatly made, and the sides were to be
hemmed just as neatly. I disliked this piece of work with all my
heart, but with the help of pins I divided it into different places,
for the pins represented the cities, and I made up the adventures to
them as I sewed. Jane, who was a better needlewoman than I, had some
cambric to hem for ruffling, but the hem was not laid, it had to be
rolled as it was sewn between the thumb and first finger of the left
hand. Jane was always conceited about her skill in this kind of
hemming, and as I write I can see her fair, still face with its smile
of self-satisfaction, as her small fingers deftly and rapidly made the
tiny roll, she was to sew with almost invisible needle and thread.
Mother was singing a song by Felicia Hemans, and Father was in the
little parlor across the hall reading a book called "Elijah, the
Tishbite;" for he had just been in the room to point out to Mother how
grandly it opened. "Now Elijah the Tishbite," without any weakening
explanations of who or what _Elijah_ was, and Mother had said in a
disconcerting voice, "Isn't that the way it opens in the Bible,
William?" There was a blazing fire above the snow-white hearth, and
shining brass fender, and a pleasant smell of turpentine and beeswax,
for Ann Oddy was giving the furniture a little rubbing. Suddenly there
was a knock at the door, and Ann rose from her knees and went to open
it. The next moment there was evident disputing, and Ann Oddy called
sharply, "Mr. Huddleston, please to come here, sir."
When Father appeared, Mother also went to the door, and Jane and I
stopped sewing in order to watch and to listen. It was the postman and
he had charged a shilling for a letter, that only ought to be eight
pence and while Ann was pointing out this mistake, my mother took the
letter from her hand and looked at it.
"William," she said, "it is a death message, do not dispute about that
toll." So Father gave the postman the shilling, and the door was shut,
and Mother went to the fireside and stood there. Father quickly joined
her. "Well, Mary," he said, "is it from your brother? What does he
say?"
"Only eight words, William," Mother answered; and she read them aloud,
"Come to me, Mary. The end is near."
Father was almost angry. He said she could not go over Shap Fells in
such weather, and that snow was lying deep all the way to Kendal. He
talked as though he was preaching. I thought Mother would not dare to
speak any more about going to Kendal. But when Father stopped talking,
Mother said in a strange, strong way,
"I shall certainly go to my brother. I shall try to get a seat in the
coach that passes through here at ten o'clock to-night." I had never
seen Mother look and talk as she did then, and I was astonished. So
was Father. He watched her leave the room in silence, and for a few
minutes seemed irresolute. Then Ann came in and lifted the beeswax,
and was going away when Father said,
"Where is your mistress, Ann?"
"In her room, Mr. Huddleston."
"What is she doing?"
"Packing her little trunk. She says she is going to Kendal."
"She ought not to go to Kendal. She must not go."
"She's right enough in going, Mr. Huddleston, and she is sure to go."
"I never heard anything like this!" cried Father. He really was
amazed. It was household rebellion. "Ann," he continued, "go upstairs
and remind your mistress that John Henry has been sickly for two
weeks. I have myself noticed the child looking far from well."
"Yes, sir, the child is sickly, but her brother is dying."
"Do you think the child should be left?"
"It would be worse if the brother died alone. I will look after John,
Mr. Huddleston."
Then Father went upstairs, and Mother went by the night mail, and we
did not see her again for nearly three weeks.
I do not apologize for relating a scene so common, for these simple
intimacies and daily events, these meetings and partings, these
sorrows and joys of the hearth and the family, are really the great
events of our life. They are our personal sacred history. When we have
forgotten all our labors, and even all our successes, we shall
remember them.
Mother was the heart and hinge of all our home and happiness, and
while she was away, I used to lie awake at nights in my dark, cold
room and think of death entering our family. In his strange language
he whispered many things to my soul that I have forgotten, but one
thing I am sure of--I had no fear of death. My earliest consciousness
had been a strong and sure persuasion of God's goodness to men. And I
had no enmity towards God; though a dozen catechisms told me so, I
would not admit the statement. I loved God with all my child heart. He
was truly to me "my Father who art in heaven." Well then, death whom
He sent to every one, even to little babies, must be something good
and not evil. Also, I thought, if the dead are unhappy, their faces
would show it, and I had never seen a dead face without being struck
by its strange quiet. The easiest way to my school lay through the
graveyard, and though it was in the midst of the town, I knew no quiet
like the quiet of the dead men in that churchyard. I have felt it like
an actual pressure on my ear drum.
In the day I talked to my sister of the changes Uncle's death would
make in our lives. When Christmas came, father would not permit us to
go to any parties, and Jane was sure we would have to wear mourning, a
kind of clothing I hated, I reminded her that the Pennants had not
worn black when Mary Pennant died, and Jane reminded me that the
Pennants were Quakers, and that when Frances and Eliza Pennant came
back to school wearing their brown dresses, it was all the girls could
manage, not to scorn them.
Of course we talked at school of our uncle, Dr. Singleton, and his
expected death, and I do not understand how this circumstance imparted
to us a kind of superiority, but it did. Jane put on airs, and was
always on the point of crying, and I heard Laura Patterson correct the
biggest pupil in the school for "speaking cross to a girl whose uncle
was dying." I dare say I had my own plan for collecting sympathy, for
some of my classmates asked to walk home with me, others offered to
help me with my grammer, and Adelaide Bond gave me the half of her
weekly allowance of Everton toffy.
At last Mother returned home and, oh, how glad we were to see her! She
came into the lighted room just as we were sitting down to supper,
and an angel from heaven would not have been as welcome. My father was
somewhere in the Patterdale country, where he went for a week or two
at regular intervals; and, oh, how good, how glorious a thing it was,
to have Mother home again!
The first thing Mother did the following day was to send for black
stuff and the dressmaker. I pleaded in vain, though Mother, being of
Quaker descent, was as averse to mourning dresses as I was, but she
was sure Father would insist on them, because of what the Society, and
people in general would say. Jane made no objections. She was very
fair, and had that soft pearly complexion which is rendered more
lovely by black. As for Ann, she could only look at the wastefulness
of putting new dresses away in camphor for a year. She said, "Girls
will grow long and lanky, and in a year the skirts will be short and
narrow, and the waists too small, and the armholes too tight, and the
whole business out of fashion and likelihood."
In a few days Father came home. The girl was pipeclaying the hearth
and building up the fire for the evening, and Ann laying the table for
Mother's tea as he entered. He was so delighted to find Mother at home
that he said to her, "Let the girls stay and have a cup of tea with us
tonight." Then when he had set down by the fire, Jane drew her stool
close to him, and I slipped on to his knee, and whispered something in
his ear I shall never tell to any one. Such a happy meal followed, but
little was said about Uncle Singleton. Father asked if all was well
with him? Mother answered almost joyfully, "All is well!"
"Poor fellow," continued Father. "His life was defeat from its
beginning to its end."
"No, William," cried Mother, "at the end it was victory!" and she
lifted her radiant face, and her eyes rained gladness, as she said the
word "victory" with that telling upward inflection on the last
syllable, common in the North Country. I can never forget either the
words or the look with which they were uttered. I thought to myself,
"How beautiful she is!"
I waited after tea, hoping that Mother would tell us more about
Uncle's death, but she talked of our black dresses and the bad
weather, and then some neighbors came in, and I went upstairs to Ann.
She had one of those high peaked sugar loaves before her, and was
removing the thick dark purple paper in which they were always
wrapped. The big sugar nippers were at her side, and I knew she was
going to nip sugar for the next day's use. It was, however, a kind of
work it was pleasant to loiter over, and after talking awhile Ann
said, "What did Mrs. Huddleston say about her brother?" Then I
repeated what Mother said, and involuntarily tried to imitate her look
and the tones of her voice. Ann asked if that was all, and I answered,
"Yes." Then I said, "Was he a bad man, Ann, or a good man, tell me;"
and she said, "He was bad and good, like the rest of men. Don't ask me
any questions. Your mother will tell you all about him when the right
time comes."
And the right time did not come until eleven years afterwards.
In a week our dresses were ready, and we went back to school. We met
with great sympathy. Jane looked beautiful, and received the
attentions shown her with graceful resignation. I looked unlike
myself, and felt as if I had somebody's else frock on. But I had a
happy heart, ready to make the best of any trouble, beside I knew I
was unreasonable, since Ann, who was generally on my side, told me
that I ought to be thankful I had any dress at all to wear, and so
many nicer little girls than myself without one to put on their backs.
And as for color, one color was just as good as another.
That was not true in my case, but I knew that it was no use telling
Ann that story. Yet it is a fact, that I am, and have always been
powerfully affected both by color and smell--the latter's influence
having a psychical or spiritual tendency. But how could I explain so
complex a feeling to Ann, when I could not even understand it myself?
Queen Victoria ascended the throne of England a few weeks before I
went to Penrith, but she was not crowned until a year afterwards. I
remember the very June day so bright and exquisite it was! The royal
and loyal town of Penrith was garlanded with roses, flags were waving
from every vantage point, and the musical bells of the ancient church
rang without ceasing from dawn until the long summer gloaming was
lost in the mid-summer night. Yet child as I was, I noticed and partly
understood, the gloom and care on the faces of so many who had no
heart to rejoice, and no reason to do so.
Without much explanation the story of ordinary English life at this
period would be incredible to us, and I shall only revert to it at
points where it touched my own life and character. Is it not all
written in Knight's and many other histories at every one's hand? But
I _saw_ the slough of despair, of poverty and ignorance, in which the
working class struggled for their morsel of bread. And the root of all
their trouble was ignorance. For instance, the wealthy town of Penrith
had not, when I first saw it, one National or Lancastrian school, nor
yet one free school of any kind, but the little Sunday school held in
the Methodist chapel two hours on Sunday afternoons. Fortunately it
was the kind of Sunday school Raikes intended. There were no daintily
dressed children, and fashionably attired teachers in it--not one. The
pupils were semi-starved, semi-clothed, hopeless, joyless little
creatures; their teachers were hard working men and women, who took
from their Sabbath rest a few hours for Christ's sake. For how could
such little ones come unto Him, if there were none to show the way?
There was even at this date, 1838, villages in England without either
church or school, though Methodism had swept through the land like a
Pentecostal fire half a century before; and at this same time, the big
cities of London, Liverpool, Manchester, Birmingham, Bristol had not
one ragged school in them. A parliamentary investigation two years
afterward found plenty of villages such as Dunkirk with one hundred
and thirteen children, of whom only ten could read and write; and
Boughton with one hundred and nineteen children, where only seven went
to a school that taught writing, and thirty-two to a Sunday school.
Learning and literature were not in fashion then, especially for
women. Yes, indeed, it is true that I knew in my youth, many women of
wealth, beautiful women who managed their large houses with splendid
hospitality and were keenly alive to public affairs, who looked on
books as something rather demoralizing, and likely to encroach in some
way upon works more in the way of their duty. I was very often
reproved for "wasting my time over a book" so that my reading had a
good deal of that charm which makes forbidden fruit "so good for food,
so pleasant to the eyes, so much to be desired to make one wise."
And in Penrith I began a new set of books which charmed me quite as
much as "Robinson Crusoe" and the "Arabian Nights" had done. On my
seventh birthday my father gave me Cook's "Voyages Round the World,"
and this volume was followed by Anson's "Voyage," by Mungo Park's
"Travels in Africa," and Bruce's "Travels in Abyssinia." Twenty-two
years ago I stood one afternoon at the grave of Bruce in a lonely kirk
yard a few miles outside Glasgow. It was a neglected mound with the
stone slanting down above it. I remembered then, as I do now, how
severely his book had been criticized and even discredited. But later
travellers substantiated all that Bruce had said and added to his
recital still more unlikely stories.
There was also another book which at this time thrilled and charmed me
beyond expression. I doubt if there is a single copy of it in America,
and not many in England, such as remain I dare say being hid away in
the old libraries of ancient farm or manor houses. It was called "News
From the Invisible World," by John Wesley. It was really a book of
ghostly visitations and wonderful visions. My father took it out of my
hands twice and then put it, as he supposed, out of my reach; but by
putting a stool upon a chair, and climbing upon the chair and then
upon the stool I managed to reach it. I can see myself today in a
little gingham frock, and a white pinafore performing this rather
dangerous feat. We were dressed very early in the morning, but never
so early as not to find a good fire in the study; and the coal used in
the north of England, is that blessed soft material, which gives in
its bright manifold blazes, the light of half a dozen candles. Lying
face downward upon the hearthrug, I could read with the greatest ease,
and often spent an hour in "the invisible world" very much to my
liking before the day really began.
One morning while thus engaged, Ann Oddy came in and I asked her to
put the book back in its place. She looked at me suspiciously, and
said, "Who put it up there?"
"My father," I answered.
"What for?" she continued.
"Because it is about ghosts, Ann, and such stories as you often tell
me. Put it up or Father will be cross with me."
"Well, Amelia," she said in a kind of dreamy way, "your father ought
to know, but he isn't a bit well lately, so I won't bother him at this
time."
Then I promised to tell her the stories, and added, "They are all
true, Ann, for John Wesley wrote them."
"True!" she ejaculated. "Well, well, I _am_ astonished at Mr.
Huddleston's putting anything John Wesley wrote out of the way. I am
that." About A.D. 1890 I asked a learned doctor connected with the
Methodist Book Concern, if they had a copy of it, and he answered very
sharply, "I never heard of the book." Yet I know it existed in my
childhood, and that during my seventh and eighth years, I read it
frequently.
The first year of my life in Penrith went happily onward in the
regularity of its duties and pleasures. At home I remember but few
changes. Soon after the Queen's coronation, I had another brother, who
was called William Henry, and when he was about two months old, my
father went to Manchester, and brought back with him the greatest of
household comforts of that day--a dozen boxes of Congreve or Lucifer
matches. Only those who have stood shivering over the old tinder box
on a bitter winter night, trying to get a spark while the baby
screamed in the darkness, can form any estimate of the pleasure which
these few boxes of matches made in our house. My father took us all
into a dark room, and then permitted each person to strike a light.
Laughter and exclamations of wonder and pleasure greeted every fresh
match as it burst into instantaneous flame, even Ann was enthusiastic.
"This time," she admitted, "Mr. Huddleston has brought home something
sensible and good for everybody"--a covert slur upon Father's gifts,
which usually took the form of books, or a bit of spar for the parlor
chimney piece, or perhaps a likeness of Mr. Wordsworth, or a view of
Derwentwater. We had both read and heard wonderful things of these
matches for nearly three years, but the first put upon the market were
intended only for the rich; for they were in more or less costly
caskets, the cheapest of which was sold for a guinea. In a short time
a phial full of matches were sold for five shillings, and when my
father bought our first "light boxes" they were a shilling each. Then
came the practical chemist and the factory system, and the penny box
of matches was in every home. Yet I have no doubt that in many a home
in England the empty five shilling box is affectionately preserved;
for during their vogue, they were sensible and highly prized wedding
gifts, among a large class of respectable people of limited means.
At the beginning of my second school year, I was promoted to a copy
book. I could write pretty well with wad, and did not very often spoil
a goose quill. That first copy book! Never shall I forget it. Its
cover was canary color, and on the front was a picture of a negro. He
was loaded with chains and hoeing cotton, while a white man stood over
him using an impossible whip, and there were four lines by Cowper
underneath the two figures:
"I would not have a slave to till my ground,
To carry me, to fan me while I sleep,
And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth
That sinews bought and sold, have ever earned."
At that time I had never seen a negro, and my sense of amazement,
fright and repugnance was so great, that I feel sure I had not even
seen the picture of one. The tremendous excitement attending the
enfranchisement of the slaves belonging to England was over before I
was two years old, and after it, I think the nation must have repented
their extravagant sympathy, for I am sure that at this time I had
never heard either my father or any one else allude to the event.
Miss Pearson laid the book on my desk with evident pleasure, and I
looked at the picture, covered my eyes with my hands, and burst into
tears. I was never a crying child, and my teacher was astonished, and
asked me rather sternly, "What is the matter with you, Amelia? Are you
sick?"
"No," I whispered. "I am afraid. Take it away."
"Afraid?"
"I have not been bad," I continued. "I do not like that picture.
Please take it away."
Then she sat down by my side and told me a story about the black man,
and what England had just done for him. I hardly heard or understood
her, until she said, "I shall leave the book with you. You must look
at the picture every day until you at least feel pity for the slave.
See, this is your copy for today. Let me see how cleanly, and well you
can do it."
I had ceased crying. I was ashamed of my own emotion, and I went
courageously to work with a quill pen of my own cutting; but as soon
as I returned home, I went to my mother and told her all. She soothed
and petted me, but advised me to make no remarks about the picture.
"There has been a deal of hard feeling about the negro, Milly, and we
find it best to let that subject alone. No one talks of it now. Lucy
Lowthian was here this morning. She is going to have a party on
Saturday afternoon."
"Are we going to it, Mother?"
"Yes," she answered cheerily. "Look at this lace and white satin
ribbon. I am going to trim your dresses with it."
I instantly turned to the more personal and interesting subject, but I
could not forget, nor yet have I ever forgotten that picture on my
first copy book. Undoubtedly it was an exaggeration of even the Congo
type, but why did I cry at the sight of it? I was neither a fearful
nor a crying child. Why did I cry? It puzzled me then, but I know now,
that there was undoubtedly some sudden soul shock, some prophetic
apprehension, which my inner woman trembled before, and which my
physical woman could only interpret by tears.
In my studies I was progressing well, even my musical efforts were
beginning to make a little show. I had distinctly told my teacher that
I wished to learn "tunes" and "songs" and without regarding my wishes,
she had compelled me to make an astonishing study of what she called
_the gamut_. To the study of the gamut was added an hour's practice of
the scales daily, and as the necessary noise would have been
distracting to my father, I went to my teacher's home to make it. This
practicing often stood in the way of pleasures, and Jane, who had
urgently entreated _not_ to learn music, had many self-complacent
little observations to make on her own prudence. For while I was
studying scales, major and minor, she went with Mother to shop, or to
make calls. And she had a nice ladylike way of comparing things, that
was very discouraging. Yet I had not the slightest intention of
stopping my music lessons, and indeed I feel sure Father would not
have permitted me to do so, except for some good reason. Once only I
made a remark tending in that direction, and he answered,
"I allowed you to learn music, Milly, at your own eager request. Are
you going to give it up because it is difficult? I should feel ashamed
of you!" and he spoke with such scorn that I hastened to assure him,
"I would not give up music for anything."
My third year in Penrith remains very clearly in my memory. It was an
anxious year to all, for Chartism was keeping the country in constant
rioting and turmoil. I can remember well, the terror and hatred which
the very name "Chartist" called forth; for the scenes of the French
Revolution were yet red and flaming in the memories of men and women.
The very day Victoria was crowned, the military were compelled to put
down the rebellion led by John Thom, who claimed to be the Messiah,
and if the numbers who followed him had been larger and better
educated, the worst scenes of the French Days of Terror might have
been repeated.[2]
For ten years after the coronation Chartism was a living, constant
anxiety to the government and the people. Yet in the midst of this
general fear, and the decay of business which it entailed, there
occurred a serious quarrel agitating the whole country, about the
Ladies of the Queen's Bedchamber. The Melbourne government having lost
the confidence of both Houses, a new Administration was to be formed,
and Sir Robert Peel was entrusted with the duty. In performing it, Sir
Robert removed the Ladies who had been long in attendance on Her
Majesty, and gave their high positions, with the large emoluments
accruing therefrom, to the wives of the nobles who had assisted him in
forming the new government. The Queen was indignant and refused to
part with her old friends. Sir Robert visited her, and declared a
government could not be formed unless the high offices in her
household were filled by ladies of the ruling party. Her Majesty in a
firm, but polite letter told Sir Robert she could not agree to a
course so repugnant to her feelings.
The discussions in and out of Parliament on this question, were long
and violent. Every man and woman, every boy and girl in England, took
part in them. The women were largely in favor of the Queen, and a
great number of men, remembering her youth, thought she ought to be
humored in a matter so personal. But in political and administrative
circles, she was severely blamed, and that very often in unkind and
even disrespectful and disloyal terms.
For some reason my father strongly disapproved her conduct. He said
she was a child, and ought to be obedient to the advice given her by
the active heads of the government; and over and over he declared
there were far more important things to be attended to than the Ladies
of her Bedchamber. I heard him telling my mother that the planters in
the West Indies were ruined and asking relief from Parliament, the
freed negroes having absolutely refused to work; and then in a voice
full of anger he demanded why twenty millions of pounds had been spent
to give the negro a complete life of laziness, while clever English
mechanics were working twelve hours every day for a mouthful of
bread--starving as they worked. And Mother would shake her head and
answer, "It does seem hard, William."
"Mary," he would continue, almost in a whisper, "Mary! Mary! only
think of what twenty millions of pounds could have done for our own
poor men, and their starving, ignorant children! We had no right to
give it. It was not our duty, until we had done our duty to the needy
and oppressed of our own people."
And I wonder today, if Father knew that he was talking Chartism. At
any rate, it was the only time, and only way, I ever heard him name
the Great Emancipation of 1833.
None of these arguments moved my mother's loyalty; she was a warm--my
father called her a most unreasonable--advocate for the Queen's
rights. Ann was equally loyal, and greatly elated when Mother ranged
herself on the Queen's side.
"It is more than I expected," she said, "for Missis do always say
'Amen' to whatever Mr. Huddleston says. But the Queen is right!" she
added. "That I will declare and maintain;" and Ann, who was rolling
pastry struck the table a mighty blow with the rolling pin, which if
it intimated her way of "maintaining" would certainly be effective.
In our school the quarrel was a very simple one. There were only three
girls in it who were for Sir Robert Peel, and the father of one was in
the post office, the father of the other a supervisor in the excise,
and the third girl was called "Peel," and was, or thought she was, a
connection of the Peel family. Miss Pearson expressed no opinion on
the subject, except, that it was not to be named in school hours; but
as we walked to-and-from school, we talked only of the Queen, and of
any fresh news that might have come to us. By "news" I mean solely the
effects of this quarrel in the schools of Penrith, for in the man's
school, it had full swing. The boys had constant fisticuff fights, and
the master enjoyed and encouraged them. He said they were making good
soldiers for Her Majesty and that they ought to be proud of their
swollen eyes, and bruises.
So the quarrel went on, making a grim sort of amusement in days of
great public anxiety and alarm; until finally a specially called
meeting of the Cabinet, decided in a kind of half-and-half way, in
favor of the Queen retaining the Ladies of her Bedchamber, there
being a precedent in the case of Queen Anne, who retained the Ladies
of her Bedchamber a year and a half after their husbands had been
dismissed from office. Father was then satisfied. _There was a
precedent._ It was then and there I learned the word "precedent,"
and its meaning. I wondered then, and I wonder yet at the power vested
in these three syllables. It seems to settle constantly and
satisfactorily difficult questions in law, and other departments
of social affairs. In some way probably, every generation has
associated it with,
"A land of settled government,
A land of just and old renown,
Where freedom broadens slowly down
From precedent to precedent."
After the Cabinet decided the Bedchamber question, a dull quiet
settled over Penrith, and I suppose also over the whole country; for
even a little domestic dispute has usually this convalescent period of
silence. And as the holidays were on, and we were leaving Penrith in
August, Jane and I were set free from school for a short time. There
was some talk of a visit to Ambleside and Ulverston, but my brother
William was ill and suddenly became alarmingly worse, and after an
interval of great suffering he went away from us forever.
The child had died at midnight, but when I awoke in the morning I was
quite sensible of the change that had taken place. The presence of
death was felt all through the house, and not only in that dim chamber
veiled in white, where the dead boy lay. As I went down stairs, I
opened very softly the door of this room. My father was kneeling by
the little crib praying. His words fell wet with tears at God's feet,
as in low agonizing tones, he poured out his love and his grief. I
stole noiselessly away, feeling shocked and unhappy, lest I had
unlawfully witnessed a soul pleading with God. A little later, I went
with Mother to look at my dead brother. In a simple little night gown
he lay in his usual crib but, oh, how grandly tranquil, how distant,
how far, far different, he was!
He was buried in Penrith churchyard, and his funeral was after the
manner then prevalent in the North Country. A little table covered
with a white cloth, and holding salt, and sprigs of boxwood was placed
just within the open door. This was to notify all passers-by of the
presence of death in the house, and also to assure them, of the faith
of the living in the resurrection, and in eternal life. On the third
day after his death, the funeral took place, the coffin being carried
by six boys of about ten years of age, by means of white linen scarfs
passed through brass rings on the sides of the coffin, which was
uncovered, but strewn with pansies. As they went through the town, the
child-bearers sang a hymn very sweetly. Father and Mother, Jane and I,
and a large company of friends walked behind. Willie's small grave was
not far from the famous Grant's grave, and I think I could find my way
there without hesitation. A little grave was all the child of ten
months old asked, a little grave that we could step across, but it
separated him from us, further than all the starry space.
After this event I knew that I had done with Penrith. School opened in
July, but I did not go back to it, and I had a childish feeling of
offence because Miss Pearson did not ask me to do so. I thought it was
because she had many new pupils, and I had a heartache about it. Yes,
there are plenty of school girls who will understand me. A child's
love for a teacher is a very strong and pure love, and even a fancied
slight can hurt like a wound. Only two months since, I had a letter
from a little girl whom I taught fifty-six years ago. She was then
about nine or ten years old, she is now a very handsome woman,
white-haired but full of hope and pleasure, and large social interests
in the beautiful city of Los Angeles. And she loves me still, and has
never forgotten me. I think such a love as that is well worth the
winning.
I spent the next few weeks in wandering about the adjacent country,
with Father. We went first to Eden Hall, and got a sight of its
wonderful fairy cup, which carries the luck of the Musgraves; for if
it
"breek or fall,
Farewell to the luck of Eden Hall."
One never to be forgotten day I spent at Lowther Castle. The
magnificence of its furnishings amazed me, but after all I was more
interested in the three large caves near the castle, cut out of the
red sandstone, and said to have been the residence of Owen Caesarius,
the giant whose grave is in Penrith churchyard. He was according to
tradition a man of colossal size, who ruled Cumberland before Saxon
times, when "there were giants in the land," and no giant killer had
appeared.
I had seen Long Meg and her daughters twice, but I begged Father to
take me once more to Little Salkeld near which she keeps her long,
long vigil. I cannot tell why these old Druid temples fascinate me,
why I both fear and like them, nor yet say to what feeling their charm
finds response in me. Long Meg is, however, one of the most important
Druid temples in England. Meg is a square column of red sandstone
eighteen feet high and fifteen feet in circumference, with no sign of
a tool having been used on it. Her daughters are sixty-seven in
number, some of them ten feet high, and they stand in a circle three
hundred and fifty yards in circumference. Wordsworth wrote a poem
about these stones, and Father taught me a few lines of it, all of
which I have long forgotten, except his questioning,
"At whose behest arose on British ground
That sisterhood in hieroglyphic round;
Forth-shadowing the infinite, the inviolable God?"
Long and earnestly I looked at these,
"stones of power,
By Druids raised in magic hour,"
for I knew I should never see them again. Will any one tell me what is
the influence they exert over many and widely different personalities?
No, it is a thing to be felt, and not explained.
Two days after the visit to Long Meg we left Penrith for Ripon, one of
the three great religious centres of Yorkshire, the other two being
York and Beverly. I was glad to leave Penrith, and yet no town in
which I have ever sojourned, has left on my memory such a clear and
beautiful picture. In its calm retirement all the charm of its storied
past, and its picturesque present were so appealing, for any day and
every day its streets were made notable by the people likely to be met
on them--the Earl of Lonsdale, the great Chancellor, Lord Brougham,
the fortunate Musgrave of Eden Hall, or the lordly Howards from their
Castle of Greystoke standing in a park of five thousand acres. Other
famous men of a different kind were also to be met there. Wordsworth
was frequently in Penrith, for he married his cousin a Miss Hutchinson
of Penrith. So were Coleridge, Southey, and other writers of that
period. Wordsworth in my time was a very old man, and I thought also a
very disagreeable one.
Young as I was, I noticed also the difference with which the two sets
of notables were regarded by the public. If the Earl, or Lord Brougham
appeared, every hat was lifted, every face was full of interest, and
many women curtsied if they had to pass them. For the men of the land
were easily recognized by their splendid equipages, and other insignia
of their rank. The men of the pen walked without notice, along the
streets until they settled in some book store.
And entirely apart from this living and present source of interest,
there was that sense of the occult world brooding over the town, which
I feel sure, few people staying long there, could escape. The old
Druid priests were not dead; unseen and afar, they could still
influence, and they who doubted this, had only to go and sit silent
and attent in one of their deserted temples. I know, that while I was
certainly impressed by Lonsdale and Brougham, I was far more so by the
"stones of power" in old sacrificial, holy places, and by the three
giant caves, close to Lowther Castle, wherein the giant Owen Caesarius
had dwelt. He represented to me the mighty men of Old Britain, for
there _were_ "giants" in the land in his day. Mythical! No, he is no
more mythical than Julius Caesarius. Have I not sat, and talked, and
played around his grave in Penrith churchyard?
CHAPTER IV
AT RIPON AND THE ISLE OF MAN
"My Memory is the frame of a thousand pictures."
* * * * *
"The blithe April weather of a child's life."
As soon as I saw Ripon, I disliked the place. There were no hills to
which I could lift up my eyes, it was a little town squatting among
fat green meadows, and by the still waters of three rivers, the Laver,
the Ure, and the Skell. The houses were generally small, and roofed
with red tiles, and the atmosphere of the place self-satisfied, and
decently prosperous. The theological element was distinctly ascendent
and I, though a daughter of Levi, did not like it. There were also at
that time many ancient customs prevailing, and the queer little place
only wanted a few monks strolling about the quiet streets, to make one
wonder if they had stepped back into the twelfth century. The modern
spirit touching so vividly the West Riding and other parts of England,
had not reached Ripon. It retained a monastic air, though there was
neither a monastery nor a monk in it. Still the people looked as if
they were always going to church, and indeed they did go to church a
great deal. I found out later that the whole history of Ripon was
blended with churchism, though its one famous manufacture was spurs.
"As true steel as Ripon rowels," is a proverb still applied to men of
mettle, trusty and faithful. When I was there it appeared to me that
all the craftsmen were saddle-makers.
The dominant power in Ripon was not, however, the bishop; it was the
Earl of Grey and Ripon, a man of immense wealth and of great political
influence. I saw him frequently, but somehow he lacked the romance
that fixed Lonsdale in my memory. I forgot him for nearly fifty years,
and then this thing happened. In 1891 I wrote to London for a full
set of the _Saturday Review_, stipulating that it should be
second-hand and in good condition. When it arrived at Cherry Croft, I
opened the boxes that contained the books eagerly, and lifted one out
to examine it. The set was fine and perfect, and contained a most
elaborate and beautiful book plate of the Earl of Grey and Ripon.
Nearly the whole sixty volumes were ornamented with the Earl's plate,
though in some it was more ornate, than in others. But by what chance
these volumes had been cast out of the magnificent library of Studley
Royal, the grandest residence in England, and found their way to my
little cottage on Storm King, New York, I do not know. Their once
lordly owner I had forgotten for fifty years, but now I often remember
the handsome, aristocratic George, Frederick, Samuel, Earl of Grey and
Ripon.
But withal it was a comfortable well-to-do place and Mother put away
cheerfully all fault-finding. Yet our house was not well situated and
was much too small. My father looked around dubiously. Ann Oddy
wondered if Ripon chapel people knew that Mr. Huddleston had three
children, and Jane cast her eyes down on the tesselated brick floor of
the living-room, and remarked in a general manner, "The floor is made
of brick."
"This will never do, Mary," Father said.
"Oh, yes, William!" Mother answered. "I will carpet the floor, and the
woman who was here waiting to receive us, pointed out the brick floor
and called it 'beautiful.' She said they are favorite floors in Ripon.
I shall make all pretty and comfortable in a few days."
Mother kept her promise. In a few days the little house was a pretty
place, and even Ann could find nothing against it, but its small size.
"There are three children," she said, "and God willing there may be
four, and where are we to sleep them all?"
"Plenty of room, Ann," answered Mother. "Mr. Huddleston is going to
make the parlor his study. His books will furnish the four bare walls
handsomely."
"And what about company, ma'am?" asked Ann. "There will be lots of
trouble, if they are put in the parlor, and the Master writing his
sermon."
"When Mr. Huddleston is writing a sermon, we will bring them in here,
Ann."
"And suppose we are just ready for dinner or tea? What then, ma'am?"
"Then Ann, we will ask them to join us," and Mother laughed
pleasantly, and added, "Your cooking, Ann, would be a great treat to
them."
In a fortnight the house being settled, the question was schools.
There was no choice on this subject, there being only one ladies'
school. It was kept by the Misses Johnston, three very handsome women
who were daughters of one of the old hunting, racing, drinking
squires, called "fine old English gentlemen." At his death, there was
nothing left for his daughters, and they opened a school. Jane and I
were entered as pupils there, but I did not find in any of the three,
another Miss Pearson. They were unfitted for teachers and appeared to
dislike the office, and though I learned the lessons set me, I made no
particular progress in anything but music. In this study my teacher
was a French emigrant, and I learned rapidly under his tuition.
We had not been half a year in this school, when a momentous question
arose. A girl called Mary Levine came one day, and she was entered for
all the senior classes, as well as for music, dancing, drawing and
French. We all concluded that her father must be very rich, but Miss
Grey, the daughter of one of the Canons of the Cathedral, said she had
never heard of the Levines, and she did not believe they were anybody
at all. For a few days suppositions as to Miss Levine's social
standing were rife. Then it was discovered that she was the daughter
of Daniel Levine, a Jewish jeweler and money lender. Instantly every
one drew away from the girl, and she was shocked and amazed at the
scorn and animosity shown towards her. I saw her tearfully talking to
Miss Johnston one evening as the dismissed school was leaving the
room, and when I reached home I told Mother what I had heard and
seen.
Mother advised us not to name the subject in my father's presence,
but this advice was rendered nugatory by events which had to be met
and decided on; for Mr. Downes, the banker, the Reverend Mr. Eamont,
Canon Grey and several others removed their daughters the next day
from school, pending Miss Johnston's decision as to opening her school
to Jewish children. Every day there were more defections, and the
distracted ladies sent a messenger to each patron of the school,
asking them to answer by "yes" or "no" the following question:
"Do you object to your daughters associating with the Jewess, Mary
Levine, in the classes of our school?
"The Misses Johnston."
The long roll of patron's names came to Father among the last, and
Mother noticed that the answer in every case had been a positive
"yes." Father took the roll, and without consulting any one, wrote
hurriedly but decidedly, "Yes, I object."
I do not believe there was one reply favorable to the Jewish girl, and
yet I could see no fault in her, nor any reason for her dismissal; and
the school was much thinned by the circumstances, and I disliked it
more than ever. Nor did her ejection from the school restore
confidence. Several of the older pupils went to a celebrated boarding
school at York, and others to Harrogate, and an air of dissatisfaction
pervaded the class rooms.
As the spring opened I was sick. Father said, "No wonder!" He himself
felt the change "from the clear, mountain air of Penrith, to the damp
heavy atmosphere of Ripon." The doctor said I had some kind of an
ague, and gave me Jesuit's bark. I had never been sick in all my life,
and the feeling of inertia, and the abominable Jesuit's bark, made me
miserable. I was taken from school, and told to "amuse myself." But
books had become uninteresting. I had a headache, and it hurt me to
read, and the Jesuit's bark made every day a sickening terror. We call
Jesuit's bark quinine now, and have it in little white capsules, and
are not conscious of its taste; but any one needing quinine in those
days had to take a decoction of the bark of the tree--a whole tumbler
full of the black, nauseous liquid three times a day. Jane had no
ague, and was quite happy at school; for she was fond of embroidery,
and was working a petticoat for Mother in a new kind of that art--the
same kind that has been fashionable for the last three or four years,
which is accomplished by cutting holes in the cloth and then seaming
them around.
One day in early June, I was lying on a sofa which stood in the
parlor-study, and Father was writing. I can listen now as I write, and
hear the scratching of his quill pen upon the paper. Suddenly a
gentleman came riding rapidly to our door, and asked for Mr.
Huddleston. My father lifted his head at the sound of the voice,
listened a moment, threw down his pen and rose to go out of the room,
but before he could do so the stranger entered, and then it was
"William!" "Thomas!" and they clasped hands and sat down together. I
had no mind to go away, unless sent, and I closed my eyes and lay
still as if asleep.
Their conversation soon became animated and argumentative, though it
was about people and places I had no knowledge of; but finally reached
a subject then interesting all clever and thoughtful minds--the
Tractarian or High Church Movement. As I had read to Father several
small pamphlets "Tracts for the Times" I was familiar with the names
they constantly quoted--Newman, Keble, Froude, et cetera, but it was
Newman they disputed over. The stranger seemed to dislike Newman. He
said he was no better than a Calvinist, and had been brought up by his
Calvinistic mother on Watts and Romaine and such teachers, that he was
pale and thin, had a poor presence, and was more like a Wesleyan
preacher than a pillar of the Church. Father spoke hotly, and said he
never thought of Newman's appearance, his influence was something like
magic, and that you could not be fifteen minutes in his company, and
not feel yourself invited to take an onward step. I liked the stranger
for not liking Newman, for Newman's writing was the hardest and least
interesting reading I did for Father.
I was enjoying the dispute, when Ann Oddy tapped at the door, and told
father he was wanted a few minutes. Then I stepped off the sofa, and
went to the stranger.
"Well now!" he cried, "who are you, my little maid?"
I said I was Mr. Huddleston's daughter, and my name was Amelia.
"And you were on the sofa all the time?" he continued.
"Yes," I replied, "I am sick."
"Nonsense!" he ejaculated, but I assured him the doctor said I had an
ague, and I had been obliged to take Jesuit's bark.
"Jesuit's bark! That is enough to make any one sick. Come with me to
Richmond farm, and I will give you new milk in place of it. You can
get up early, and go with the dawn maids and see the big Durhams
milked. I will have a pony saddled for you, and you can ride all over
the farm at my side. And the red Morella cherries are just ripe, and
the strawberries coming on, and the raspberries not a month behind.
And there are hundreds of hens, and you could go with Tabitha, the
hen-wife, and see her clear the nests, and feed the chickens--such a
lot of them! And I have the prettiest and kindest of house-keepers;
she is called Mary, and she will be good and kind to you. Will you
come to Richmond farm with me?"
I told him that I would like it better than anything else in the
world, and then I asked, "Would you like me to come?"
"That I would!" he answered heartily, and as he did so, my father
re-entered the room with Mother on his arm. Mother had put on her new
muslin gown; it was a white muslin, with a tiny pink rosebud in it,
and her black hair was beautifully dressed in that Madonna style
introduced by Queen Victoria. "I have the prettiest mother in all the
world," I thought, and I went to her side, and clasped her hand.
So the stranger, whom I heard introduced to my mother as Mr. Thomas
Richmond ate dinner with us, and this proposal to take me for a few
weeks to Richmond farm, was gladly accepted.
[Illustration: REV. WILLIAM HENRY HUDDLESTON]
I was to stay a few weeks, but I stayed most of my time at this farm
for two years and a half, and if to be innocently joyful and busy and
perfectly free from all care and anxiety is to be happy, then surely
these years were the happiest years of my life. A child in Paradise
may be as happy, but no earth child could have been more fortunate
than I was. Everything was so much better than I expected; yes, I can
see the widespreading house amid its trees and gardens as I write, and
when I go to Heaven, I would like my angel to pass it on the road, and
let me look once more into its sunny rooms.
I soon learned to manage my pony, and I usually rode into Ripon with
Mr. Richmond on market days, took my music lesson, and then went home
until I was called for. The housekeeper Mary taught me all about milk,
cream and butter. I pulled cherries, ate cherries, and made cherry
pies, and I knew every hen and chicken on the place. I was very
friendly with the gardener, and from him I learned all about
vegetables, fruits and flowers. If there was a superstition or story
about any flower, he knew it; and he told it to me, generally with the
flower in my hand. Thus a lady to whose house I often went to practice
my music, gave me one day a pot of myrtle, and I took it at once to
the old man. I said, "I want it planted."
"Well then, Missie, you must plant it yourself," he replied; "for when
myrtle is planted, you must spread out your skirt, and look as proud
as you can. I say put it in your window, for myrtle is the luckiest
plant for the window, and water it morning and night, looking as proud
as you can while doing so. Myrtle is a proud plant, and it loves proud
people." On another day, I was going into the house with a branch of
flowering white hawthorn.
"Nay! nay!" he cried to me, "you mustn't carry white hawthorn into the
house. You might go to sleep where it is, and then would come great
misfortune." He looked very differently on a handful of rosemary.
"That is all right, is all right," he said. "Rosemary stands for
success in everything." In the very centre of the garden he had a
little bed of grass, and he would not suffer tool of any kind to touch
it. He called it "good man's croft," and told me that in order "to
bring luck, we must always leave a bit of land unplanted for the
fairies."
After I had been about a month at the farm, Mr. Richmond said to me
one wet day, "Milly, I have had all my grandfather's books taken into
the library. I want you to sort and shelve them for me. Would you like
to do that?"
I knew of nothing I would like half as much, for, as soon as I was
well, the thought of books was again a joy to me. We went to the
library together, and men were unpacking large boxes of books, and
bringing a long table on which to sort them, and a set of library
steps, pens, ink, pencils, paper, and so forth. I promised only to
sort the books in the afternoon, or when too wet to take my usual
morning ride with him about the farm. Then he gave me the key of the
room, and left me among a thousand books.
I was so happy! I was so happy! So peacefully, innocently happy! I
read more than I sorted; I found so many wonderful books, that it was
impossible to pass over. I met _Ivanhoe_ first in that room, and
_Little Nell_, and _Pamela_, and the _Scottish Chiefs_, and in a pile
of unbound _Family Heralds_ I made acquaintance with the short love
story. Never shall I forget what thrilling hours I spent in that room
with the "Children of the Abbey." A year or two ago a lady to whom I
named this book, said she had a copy, and would send it to me. I sat
down, full of expectation, but alas! though the book was there, I
could not summon back the child heart to read it. The tale that stole
my heart away when I was eleven years old had nothing to say to me
when I was seventy-seven. Yet I touched it tenderly as I whispered,
"It charmed me once--I will not spoil that memory," and so closed it
forever.
I thank God that ere any change came over days so beautiful and
blessed, they ceased. The library was scarce finished, when I had to
leave it; the farm life was just as happy and desirable, when I
tearfully bade it good-bye forever. The pretty, clever Mary loved me
well, and I had become a real companion to my affectionate friend, who
liked me to call him "Uncle Thomas." It was well to part ere any
desire for parting came. Mr. Richmond said he would come for me the
following summer, but I knew he would not. I felt sure he would marry
Mary, and other interests would occupy him. I said good-bye to
Richmond Farm in a fortunate hour. Its memory has sweetened my long,
long life, and what I learned in its pleasant rooms, its hay fields,
and wheat fields, and cool, sweet dairy, has helped me in many a
stress of life, that I then never dreamed of.
The inevitable has always found me ready and hopeful, and I was glad
we were going to the Isle of Man. I had never consciously seen the
sea, but its tides were surely in my blood. I was much excited at the
prospect, and Father was as eager and restless as a boy. It called him
now, as it had called his fathers before him, and he was impatient of
delay. We went in a little steamer called _The King Orry_, sailing
from Liverpool. And, as I walked with him about the deck, we were both
silent with emotion. But I felt quite at home. The motion of the boat
was natural, and, when I walked to the wheel, I could scarcely keep my
hands off it. I knew I could manage it. The salt breeze, and the smell
of the sea, went to my head like wine.
"Oh, Father!" I cried. "I wish that I might live always on the
tide-top."
"The tide-top!" he echoed. "Who taught you those words, Milly?"
"Nobody," I answered. "They just came to me. Are they not right words,
Father?"
"Yes," he answered slowly. "Your grandfather used them frequently. The
last words he said to my mother were, 'Fear not, Milly! I shall try to
keep my ship on the tide-top.'"
"But he did not, Father."
"No--no! He found a sailor's grave. I will go and bring John here."
In a few minutes he returned with an armful of pillows, and then he
carried my brother in his arms to the deck. I have never seen since
such a transfiguration of Joy. The boy clapped his thin, white hands,
and cried out, "_The Sea! The Sea! The Sea!_" His face glowed and
shone, and he took deep breaths of the salt air. So he sat all day,
feeding his heart on the sight of the blue, tossing waves, and some
wild pageant of memories far far off, and hardly to be caught, as they
threw the accumulated past upon his consciousness, very much as that
last vision clangs and flashes for a drowning man.
A never-to-be-forgotten, quiet, thoughtful day, and in the autumn
gloaming we landed at Douglas, and the next morning took a carriage
for the ten-mile ride, which would take us to Castletown, then the
capital of Man, and the place of our destination. With a lavish hand
Nature has beautified this wonderful little island, thirty-three miles
long, by thirteen miles wide, with the most exquisite scenes of sylvan
loveliness, while the Gulf Stream laves all its rocky shores, giving
it a climate such as we may have in Paradise. In the hottest month of
the year the temperature is a little below sixty degrees, in the
coldest month it is a little above forty-one.
Our ride to Castletown was an enchanting one. It was on a day at the
end of August, sunny and pleasantly warm. Such wealth of flowers! such
multitudes of singing birds! I had never before seen or heard. And the
sea was on every side of us! As we approached the capital we saw first
the noble old fortress of the Lords of Man, lifting its huge bulk in
the very centre of the town. It was but a small place, built of gray
stone, in narrow winding streets, and so old that its very origin is
lost in the mists of antiquity. Certainly it is one of the oldest, if
not the oldest, town in Great Britain. It looked to me as if it had
_always_ existed.
As we passed through the square of which the castle forms one side, we
saw a fine regiment of Highlanders, in their picturesque costume,
drilling, and a few ladies and some old gentlemen were sauntering
along, stopping occasionally to watch some manoeuver that interested
them. An air of the utmost serenity pervaded the place, as we turned
into a long crooked street called Malew Street, and stopped finally at
a house whose door stood open to receive us. It was a large-roomed,
sunny house, of three stories, and had a fine garden at the back,
stretching almost to the river side. The rooms were comfortably
furnished, and full of peace, and I caught and answered my mother's
look of pleasure and satisfaction. In a few days all was in order, and
we settled down to what promised to be three years of delightful
life.
For two years all our hopes were amply satisfied. I was at a good
school: I was in the fishers' cottages. I was in a boat with John and
my father, or I was off with Father to the preachings at Ballasalla,
or Ballabeg. I had many friends, and among them was Chrisna, the
daughter of the master of Rushen Castle. With her I wandered about the
wonderful old palace, learning its history in the very rooms wherein
that history was made. The whole huge fabric was an historical romance
written in stone. Chrisna was a Manx girl, of long Manx descent, and
she knew all the traditions and superstitions of her people. She
believed in fairies as firmly as she believed in the Gospels, and
indeed I never met either a Manx man or a Manx woman who did not
believe in fairies. Chrisna told me with perfect honesty that she had
seen them often, and heard their music, and she quite convinced me
that she had.
Seventy years ago the Isle of Man was little more than a name to the
average Briton. It had its own government, its own laws, and its own
House of Parliament, which was called the "House of Keys." There were
no Custom Houses, and no duties. There were no Poor Laws. When I was
there those in need were empowered to knock at the door of every
householder, once a week, and receive what could be given. There was
no stipulated sum, but a penny and a few groceries, or a little
clothing, was cheerfully spared. The number of such callers were few,
and they were kindly treated.
The small sum it cost then to live in the Isle of Man was a great
temptation to retired army and naval officers, and Castletown was full
of these interesting gentry. They gave to the place an air of
refinement, which was still further increased by the professors and
students of King William's College. I saw this college burned to the
ground on the second of January, A.D. 1844, and I remember well that I
had no wrap on, and the night was so warm I did not miss it. Yet
January is the coldest month in the mild Manx winter.
We went to Castletown in the autumn, and the following spring two
events happened affecting our household. My mother had another
daughter, whom Father christened Alethia Mona. Alethia being, with
Jane or Joan, and Isabel, the three prominent names of the Huddleston
women, just as William, John, Thomas, and Henry are the family names
of the men. Mona was added, because it was the ancient name of the
island of her birth.
Soon after this event Ann Oddy left us. I am rather ashamed to say
that we were all privately very glad. She had become a kind of
household tyrant, whom we had to constantly conciliate, and we had
long ago discovered that the old family servant was just as serious a
problem as the modern monthly one. Our emancipation from Ann's rule
came very unexpectedly. She entered the parlor one afternoon, with a
letter in her hand, and, with great excitement, said: "Mrs.
Huddleston, I am sorry, but I must go back to England at once."
Mother told her she was not out of England, and asked why she must go
in such a hurry, and Ann answered:
"You see, ma'am, Adam Bradley wants me. We were to have been wed ten
years ago, but one night Adam he walked home from chapel with Sarah
Sykes, and I had words with him about Sarah, so he married Sarah to
spite me. But she's dead now, and Adam wants me. I think it is best to
go to him, Mrs. Huddleston."
So Ann went. We hardly said to each other how glad we were, and we all
pressed any gift we could spare on her. Mother even gave her one of
her silk gowns, which I am pretty sure she missed a little later. But,
until we knew Ann was safely away in the Douglas coach, we did not
talk about her; then I shall never forget Mother's smile, and sigh of
relief, and Jane's neatly expressed opinion, that "the Irish Sea was
always rough with the wind in the present direction." Jane had never
liked Ann; and she knew Ann was both sick and terrified, when at the
mercy of wind and waves. A middle-aged Manx woman was easily found to
take Ann's place, and Jane, who was now well grown and womanly, took
charge of many things relating to the household.
It was about this time I began to seriously try to write. I commenced
a tragedy which I called "Seneca." I do not remember anything about
the work, except that it was laid in ancient Rome, and that Seneca was
a philosopher and a senator. I showed the first act to Father, and he
gave it back to me with a smile, and the opinion that "it might have
been worse." I used to take pencil and paper and go out to Scarlet
Stack, and there alone, with the sun and the wind and the sea and the
sky, try to reconstruct the men and women and life of ancient Rome.
It was a presumptuous effort, but perhaps the gain to myself was in
the effort; for I had become very ambitious. I had abandoned the
missionary idea, and longed to write books, and to travel and to see
the great cities and the strange peoples I had read about.
We had fully expected to remain at Castletown for three years, but, at
the end of the second year, my Father was removed to the Whitehaven
Circuit. I shall never forget the morning the news came to us. Mother
was making sandwiches for Father, John and I were going to row as far
as Ballasalla, then land, and go to the Silverburn River for trout.
But Father was so shocked, he put off the trip. I wondered that he
should do so, and said:
"Whitehaven is your birthplace, Father; it will surely please you to
go there."
"I would rather go to the most desolate spot on the earth," he
answered with a passion that silenced me.
"It is a much larger circuit, William," said Mother, "and your income
will be larger, and you will have an assistant--a very popular young
man, your letter says."
"I have heard of him, Mary. Popular young men are not always nice
young men. He is a nephew of Sir William Morley, and his name is
William Morley Punshon."
Then I took an instant dislike to the popular young man called
Punshon. "Such a name!" I ejaculated.
That afternoon Father called Mother in a strange, thick voice of
alarm, and she found him looking ill and terrified. "I have had a
singular sensation all down my right side, Mary," he said. "It
frightens me." And my brave little mother said, "Nonsense, William! As
we grow old, we have such sensations. I have them myself now and then;
my father had them often. Come down and talk with me and the girls,"
and she laughed softly and took his arm. But I am sure she knew that
this "sensation" was the first touch of a hand that would finally
prevail.
As for me, I threw off the thought of trouble by a conscious effort,
just as I would throw off my clothes; for I was yet an easy-hearted
child, who could say to sorrow, "Let it go."
CHAPTER V
SORROW AND CHANGE
"The Leaves of Memory seem to make a mournful rustling in the
dark."
* * * * *
"We try in the darkness of Sorrow the wings that shall bear us out
of it."
We took leave of the Isle of Man with heavy hearts, and sailed direct
from Douglas to Whitehaven, landing there in the evening of a wet
August day. The town was finely situated, and the wide haven filled
with ships of all kinds. There was even a man-of-war lying at the long
new pier. But the scene was not cheerful; how could it be, after a
steady, soft rain from morning to night? Two officers of the church
met us, and, in a few minutes, we were at the dwelling which was to be
our home for the next three years. It was a handsome-looking house,
and stood midway in a block of similar ones. There was a table laid
for supper in the living-room, but the room itself was a dreary one. I
do not know why, unless it was the want of fire on the hearth, and the
dark-green moreen curtaining. A gray-haired woman served tea, and said
she was ready to stay with us, if so be Mr. and Mrs. Huddleston were
agreeable.
So in a few days the house was in order, and Mother professed to be
much pleased with our new quarters. She pointed out the large size and
number of the rooms, and the quiet of the locality, and, with a
pleasant laugh, said she supposed we were among the aristocrats of
Whitehaven.
"My cousin's curate lives two doors below us," Father said, and then,
for the first time, he spoke of his cousin, Dr. Andrew Huddleston, who
was at that time rector of the parish of Whitehaven, and also had the
living of another parish a few miles distant, both being the
presentation of the Earl of Lonsdale. He said he was a bachelor, of
about fifty years of age, and was seldom in England; his curates
performed his duties for him. But he was in Whitehaven when we arrived
there, for I saw him walking up Duke Street with Father, two or three
days after our arrival. There was a singular resemblance between them,
though Dr. Andrew Huddleston was portly and robust, and dressed in
extreme clerical fashion, while my Father was tall and thin, and
ascetic in appearance, with the slight stoop forward of one used to
looking into things invisible. But the tie was felt and acknowledged;
I knew it by the way they stood with clasped hands a moment or two at
our open door.
There were many other Huddleston families in Whitehaven, all of them
sailors, excepting one fine young man whom the Earl was educating, and
who was painting a portrait of Lonsdale the first time I saw him. It
happened that my father and mother received an invitation to dine at
Captain Thomas Huddleston's. Father said the thing was impossible,
that the company and the conversation alike, would be antagonistic to
his office, and his personal feelings; and the kindness which was
intended, would be turned into offence. So I was sent with a note of
regrets, and orders to make myself as agreeable as possible.
The latter injunction was easy to obey. I found that Captain
Huddleston's family consisted of his mother, and sister, and the youth
I have mentioned, who was the grandson of Captain Huddleston. Their
house was a large one, in a queer court close to the waters of the
harbor, and the big low rooms looked like museums; for it seemed as if
every rare and lovely thing from strange lands and strange seas were
there; and the footstool of the old lady was a living tortoise of
great size, which had an inscription on its shell, showing it to be
nearly ninety years old.
The old lady was dressed in a gown of gay colors, open very low in
front, and filled in with clear-starched muslin. Her apron was of
black silk, trimmed with black Spanish lace, and she had a cap of
white Spanish lace on her plentiful white hair, and a very long gold
chain around her neck. Her knitting lay on the table beside her, but
she was adding up a bill as I entered the room, and though she looked
at me, she did not speak until the total was satisfactorily reached.
With this family I became familiar, and I wish I had space to say more
about them. I spent much time in their company, and liked nothing
better; especially when young Tom Huddleston, a midshipman on _The
Royal George_, came home. This handsome young sailor was my first
dream of a lover. I cried when he went away, and was not comforted by
his promise to bring me "lots of lace from Malta." Poor lad! He never
came home, but died in the West Indies of yellow fever.
There was really a little sailor settlement around Captain Tom's home,
and I was soon welcome in it, a strange, happy-go-lucky company, full
of sharp transitions; for in their lives they knew not what a day or
an hour might bring forth. However unexpectedly my visits were made, I
was sure to find some gathering rejoicing over the return of a husband
or son, or perhaps mourning over his detention or death. And among
people so affectionate and emotional it was easy for me to rejoice
with those who did rejoice, and to weep with those who wept. They did
not attract Jane; they were too extravagant and reckless, and Jane
liked everything done decently and in order.
Perhaps this sailor society prevented me from making as high an
estimate of the Reverend William Morley Punshon as I ought to have
done. He came a great deal to our home, and used to recite for our
entertainment fine examples of prose and poetry from the great
writers. As long as John was able to bear it, he frequently read
aloud, and I considered him an extraordinarily clever man. And, if one
looked only at his fine eyes and forehead, he was also a very handsome
man. I am sure all the religious young women in Whitehaven thought so,
and he was much praised and courted, the chapel being crowded whenever
he preached. Young ladies wore white veils then, and I used to watch
them from the organ loft coming into the chapel, and compare them to
an army with white banners; for I played the organ, which was
immediately behind the pulpit, so that everything was before my
vision.
During the Christmas holidays of this year, 1844, my brother Henry was
born. We welcomed him as a gift and a compensation, and the shadow of
suffering and death passed gradually away. After the holidays I went
to a fashionable school kept by Miss Penelope Flinders. I only
remained there three months, and, as far as study was concerned, they
were of little service to me; for Miss Flinders had a lawsuit in
progress at this time, and she made me her confidant, and discussed
endlessly the pros and cons with me. I was very sorry for her, and
feverishly anxious that she might succeed. She told me that her lover
had been prevented from marrying her by the bitter opposition of his
mother; that he had left England in consequence, and, when dying in
India had made a will, leaving every shilling of his wealth to her.
The mother was fighting the carrying out of this will, and Miss
Flinders could not sleep or eat, and how, then, could she teach
pending the court's verdict? One morning I went to school a little
late, and found the class rooms empty. The school had been dismissed
forever. She had won her case. I sat and talked with her a long time,
and she told me she would never teach another hour, for she had now
five thousand pounds a year to be happy with.
I went to no other school, but I read a great deal, and kept up the
practice of my music and drawing. There was a good public library, and
there was my father's library, and the public one suited me best now;
for I wanted Scott, Dickens and Thackeray, and I also read many novels
by Mrs. Gore, a writer nearly forgotten, but whose pictures of the
lives led by the highest society of that day were interesting and
instructive. One day Mr. Punshon was sitting in our parlor when I came
in with my hands full of books. He looked at them and asked, "Does
your father know, Amelia?" I answered, "No, but Mother does. She says
it is right. We do not trouble Father about little things. He is not
very well lately."
"Amelia," he continued, "I want some books out of the library, but I
do not like to go for them."
"Novels?" I asked.
"Yes," he answered.
"I will get them for you. I am sorry for people who want novels, and
do not feel able to ask for them."
He said something about his position, and my father not liking him to
go to a public library for novels, and I understood the situation. I
wonder now why I did not fall in love with him. He could be so
charming, and I certainly thought his recitations marvelous, and his
own poetry full of genius. But I liked Tom Huddleston in his open
collar, and sailor jacket, with a sailor's song on his lips, far
better. Once I wondered about it to Jane, and she looked at me
incredulously, if not scornfully, as she answered, "The idea of being
in love with Mr. Punshon!"
"Why not?" I demanded.
"For one thing, Milly, he does not wear straps." Gentlemen at that
time wore their trousers strapped down under their feet. "His trousers
are sloppy, and he looks quite common."
"He is handsome," I returned, "and he has fine eyes, and beautiful
brown hair; it is curly, too."
"I dare say he puts it in papers every night. Miss Annie Townley
thinks so. But if he was ten times as handsome, I would not marry him.
He is a Wesleyan preacher, and could never give his wife a home of her
own. I hate living in a Chapel House."
Under conditions and surroundings like these, our lives went on. John
was dying daily, and Mother was very anxious about Father, who seemed
possessed by a never ceasing passion for preaching. It appeared to
her, that he worked and preached as if he feared he would not have
time to say all he wanted to say. The "sensations" of which he had
complained at intervals, grew more frequent, and in the autumn of our
second year in Whitehaven, he partially lost the use of his right
hand. Then I wrote his letters and sermons as he dictated them to me.
But, oh, how it pained him! I could not bear to see the sorrow in his
eyes, and what was coming he knew not; for the doom that walks by our
side from the cradle to the grave, never warns us. At this time of my
life my thoughts turn to his memory with a great tenderness. His heart
was then given to all humanity, his soul was all God's, and his life
but a flesh and blood conductor of eternal spirit.
At the close of the second year, John died after great suffering, and
he was laid among his kindred in a small cemetery in Charles Street.
As a burial ground it was no longer used, except by the families who
had originated it more than one hundred years previously. It was a
neglected enclosure, over-grown with tall grasses and rank weeds, and
surrounded by the decaying untidy houses of poverty. A more dreary,
ghastly place I never saw, and my heart ached for the little lad laid
there. I was thankful my mother was too ill to go to the mournful
service, but Father was consoled by the fact, that he was among his
kindred; and it seemed to me, there was no one but Huddlestons buried
there. Every stone I read was in memoriam of a Huddleston, and always
that same persistence of the name "Henry."
Not more than a month afterwards, our baby Henry was laid beside his
brother in the desolate place. I have no heart to write of his death.
He was taken in the midst of health, and went laughing to seize the
bowl of boiling milk, from which he drank a cruel death. It is better
to be silent about such calamities; at the time we were all dumb with
grief. Yet it was an accident, and accident is always God's part in
any event; so to this knowledge we bowed our hearts in submission.
There is a difference, however, in silence. Mother's quiet was full of
heavenly hope and trust; Father's speechless, tearless grief, was
almost despair, and many times afterward, I heard Mother rejoice over
a trouble treading close upon Henry's death, because it roused the
physical man to wrath, and broke up the spiritual torpor into which
Father had fallen.
This trouble came in a letter, which was handed into the parlor where
we were together one afternoon three weeks after Henry's death. Mother
and Jane were sewing. I was copying music--a song of Balfe's, I
believe, and father was walking up and down--up and down the room. All
was so still I could hear the ashes dropping from the grate to the
hearth. Then came the postman's knock, and the delivery of the letter
to Father.
He read it without a word, growing every moment grayer and more angry.
As he finished, he slowly tore the paper into fragments, his passion
growing with every movement of his hands, and stamping on them, gave
way to an inconceivable rage, accompanied by words that shocked and
terrified us. It was not Father, it was some madman who had taken
possession of him. Mother went to him, put her hands on his
shoulders, and said softly, "William! William!"
"Mary! Forgive me!" he cried. "You see now, what I have to struggle
against. Every day I have this temper to fight; it will conquer me
some time, and then I shall be lost--but this trouble is my own fault.
You have warned me, and I would not listen to you. Yes, I have been
warned twice by dreams I understood, but would not obey. If I could
suffer alone! If I could suffer alone, I would not care. It is my
great punishment. You and the children must suffer with me."
"What punishment? What has happened, William?" asked Mother.
"I have lost every shilling. That scoundrel Philip Blackpool has gone
to Australia with my money, a month ago."
"My dear, we can live without it."
"We cannot live without it, Mary," he answered. "What is the good of
talking nonsense?"
Then Mother was silent. She sat down and lifted her work, Jane
followed her example, and I went on copying my song, while from the
next room came the faint sounds of Alethia and Mary playing. Before
our silence and assumed indifference his anger waned; he said again,
"Forgive me, Mary! I will go to my study now, and come down when I am
better. Disturb me for nothing."
Mother was wretched. She put down her work, and I went to her. "What
does Father mean?" I asked.
"He means that we shall now be poor, Milly. This money stolen from him
was the best part of our living. I do not know how much it was, for he
never told me the amount, and often I have advised him to put it in
some reputable bank. But Philip Blackpool was his friend, at least he
supposed so. I have always doubted it. We must send away one servant
to-morrow; we shall have to do with much less new clothing, and many
good things that we have thought necessary, we must learn to do
without. Great changes will have to be made; my dear girls, let us
make them cheerfully."
Then I spoke to Mother about turning my education into money, and she
was pleased with my readiness. "Father is ill," she said, "and I fear
he will not be able to preach much longer. I have thought of these
things often," she continued, "and wondered how we were to live, when
he had only his retiring income, and this idea has come to me--that if
we knew how to conduct a small ladies' boarding-school, it might
suffice. Jane and I could look after the house and children, and you,
Milly, could, with the help of teachers, conduct the school. Of course
you would have to be trained for such a task."
We were all pleased with this idea, and discussed it over our tea, in
which Father did not join us. Then it appeared that this school
project was an old thought with Mother. She asked us if we remembered
a certain Miss Sarah Berners who stayed a week with us when we were in
Penrith, adding, "She was my friend through all the years in which I
was at school, and we used to talk of starting a school together, and
being independent of our stepmothers; for we both had stepmothers, and
not very kind ones--but I married, you know."
"Yes," said Jane, "and what did Miss Berners do?"
"She opened a school at Downham Market, Norfolk, fifteen years ago,
and has done well. Suppose, Milly, you went to her for a year, and
learned how to manage a school."
I answered, "I would like to do so, Mother. I would like it very
much."
So Mother wrote to Miss Berners, and received a glad consent to her
wish. I was to go as second teacher, and assist in the music, drawing
and English classes; and she promised to give me twenty-five pounds a
year with my board and lodging, and the opportunity to study the
French language if I wished, as I would room with Miss Stromberg, a
Russian, who spoke it, and nearly every other European language,
perfectly.
When this news came, Father was told of our plans. There was some
opposition, but not much, and I began with a hopeful heart to prepare
for the change before me. This event appeared to break up the storm of
sorrow and ill fortune which had assailed us. We had feared Father's
next appointment lest it should be some large manufacturing city,
demanding more strength than he had to give, but when it came, it was
to Kendal. Nothing could have been better. It was my mother's
birthplace; she had many friends there, and my father was a great
favorite with Kendal Methodists; and there was a pleasant preacher's
house in a pretty garden, surrounded by poplar trees.
It was a joyful removal. We bid farewell to the little graves we
had to leave behind us, and then turned our faces, as it were,
homeward. And as I was not wanted in Norfolk, until early in
September, I went to Kendal with my family, and helped to settle them
in their new home. I was very happy in my own prospects. I had no
fears, and I had a great many hopes and pleasant expectations. My
life was yet to me like a book of uncut leaves. I had finished the
preface, and the first chapter was to open in Norfolk. I put
behind me all past sorrows, and was just an eager girl leaning
over the narrow rim of my small world, and gladly anticipating the
wide, wide world into which I was going. And I was made strangely
happy, because on the night before I left home, when I lifted the
little red Bible that lay upon my dressing-table, my eyes lighted
on this verse, "Fear not: for I have redeemed thee, I have called
thee by thy name; thou art mine." (Isaiah, 43:1.)
CHAPTER VI
IN NORFOLK
"No one knows what capacities they have for doing and suffering
till the occasion comes. When water is ice, we have no idea what
latent heat is in it."
* * * * *
"Life--all things here are but beginnings."
I was sixteen years and five months old, when I left home to go to
Downham Market, and take my place among the workers of the world. The
thought pleased me. I was tired of being a mere looker-on at life's
great game, and wanted my share in it. It was on the fourth of
September, A.D. 1847, and my father was to go as far as Hull with me.
There he would see me on board a little steamer sailing down the Wash
to Lynn Regis, from which place a carriage would carry me the few
miles inland to Downham Market.
I had put on long dresses that morning, and coiled my hair in a knot
under my bonnet, and looked quite eighteen; and I think Father was
proud of me. I certainly was very proud of Father's company; not
entirely because of his beautiful countenance, I valued far more, that
air of distinction which never left him, and to which every one
deferred. We had a pleasant journey to Hull, where we arrived soon
after noon. I had wondered why this way to Downham Market had been
chosen for me, but as soon as we reached Hull, I knew why. It was a
large seaport, excepting London and Liverpool, the largest in England;
and Father wanted me to see the ancient town, and its wonderful
docks.
We went to an hotel and had lunch, and then to the Queen's and Humber
docks, and I got my first glimpse of what a great commercial city must
be on its water side. I heard all the languages of Northern Europe on
those great walls. I saw woolpacks from Germany; hides, hemp and
tallow from Russia; corn from Dantzic, and other Baltic ports; and
strange _thin_ bars of iron from Sweden. Father told me this metal
would all go to Sheffield to be made into steel. On the Humber dock I
saw great bales of cotton and woolen cloth from Manchester and the
West Riding of Yorkshire; and other bales of lace and net, from
Nottingham. They were going to France and Germany, and all over
Northern Europe.
After the docks, we went to the famous Trinity House, a very rich and
powerful guild, that supports disabled seamen of the merchant service
and their widows, and has been doing this good work for nearly five
hundred years. For it is not only wealthy in bequeathed property, but
receives a shilling a month from the wages of all seamen leaving the
port. We went through the wonderful old place, and were told there
were nearly one hundred inmates, and nearly one thousand outside
pensioners. The whole place was as clean and neat as the decks of a
man-of-war and every apartment, even the council room, was strewn with
fresh green rushes, after the fashion of the days of its erection.
I noticed in the entrance hall a Greenland kayak hung from the
ceiling. It was picked up at sea with a man in it in A.D. 1613. The
man refused to eat, and died in a few days; but the figure in the
kayak wears his clothes, et cetera. I made some remark to Father
afterwards about Hull sailors being in such a latitude at that date,
and he said "they were commonly there then, and indeed were famous
whalers as early as A.D. 1590."
"Are they whalers now?" I asked.
"They are not extinct as whalers even now, though they are fast
passing away. Why, Milly," he added, "it was the whaler _Isabella_,
Captain Humphries, from the port of Hull, that found and saved Sir
John Ross and his company of Arctic explorers, after they had been
shut up in the ice for four years. He brought them home with him to
Hull, and Hull gave them a grand triumph, opened their hearts and
homes to them, and the whole nation went into rejoicing. You were only
two years old then, Milly, and do not remember, but I do. They had
won nothing; they had lost every thing, but they had _endured
cheerfully_ till their deliverance came; and _endurance_ is _victory_.
Don't forget that, Milly."
We visited the Charter House next, and saw many curious things, but I
have forgotten them. I saw too much, and Hull remains in my memory
like an amazing dream of masts a-rake, intertangled rigging, black
barges, ponderous black hulls floating silently past, as if they had
no weight. Influences from times long past, and places far off, found
their way unerringly to me. The streets and the gray afternoon seemed
unreal--like a dream all floated away.
I have a far clearer memory of the dinner we had on our return to the
hotel. In my long life, I am sure there are not a dozen dinners I
recollect as accurately as this one. Yet it was a very simple
meal--just hare soup, and roast duck, and green peas. My father also
had celery and cheese, and a glass of port wine, and I had two small
raspberry tartlets. But I have that dinner over again today as I
write, have it in the same little dingy parlor, with its two open
windows. I hear the noise of the streets; I see the picture of
Victoria above the chimney piece, and the colored, fancifully cut
tissue papers, screening the empty grate; I am sitting at the neatly
set table, with its daisy pattern damask cloth and napkins, its
old-fashioned knives and forks, and queer-shaped drinking-glasses,
and cruet stand. I have never happened to taste hare soup since
that day, but I can taste it now. It was a well-cooked meal, eaten
with smiles and pleasant conversation and little happy glances at each
other. It is dinner number one in my book of memory, though there
were neither flowers nor finger bowls on the table. Indeed I do not
remember having ever seen a finger bowl at this time and I am not
sure, but what I should have considered them as an unpleasant,
unmannerly introduction.
Presently we heard a church clock strike, and Father took out his
watch and looked at me. "It is time we were going, Milly," he said
cheerfully and I rose and put on my bonnet and gloves. At the wharf we
found all in confusion, and _The Queen of the Wash_ ready to sail.
There was only time for Father to see me safely on board; then with a
few cheerful words and a smiling face he put me in God's care, and
bid me good-bye. I watched him as long as I could see his tall,
straight figure among the moving crowd, but he never looked back. I
should have been astonished if he had. It was always onward and upward
and forward with Father; there was no looking back in his nature, and
his physical attitude generally illustrated the feelings and desires
of the inner man.
I went at once to my cabin, and being thoroughly weary with my day's
travel and sightseeing I fell asleep, and did not awaken until a woman
roused me with the information, that we were near Lynn Regis. It was
barely light when I stepped on to the pier, and the ancient place
seemed to be fast asleep. No one was in sight, and I asked the captain
to send a boy to bring me a carriage. He did so, and I was shortly at
The Cross Keys, a hotel standing in the Tuesday Market Place; but
feeling still tired and only half-awake I asked for a bedroom, and
slept until ten o'clock. This day I had a sense of the most absolute
freedom. I could do as I liked; there was no one to obey, and no one
to please but myself, and sleep appeared to me at that hour, the most
desirable of luxuries. But when I awoke at ten, I was satisfied and
fully refreshed, and I dressed myself prettily, and went down stairs
and ordered breakfast. After it, I made inquiries about reaching
Downham Market, and found there was a kind of stage running between
Lynn Regis and Downham Market. The next would leave at noon, which
would hurry me, and the last one at three o'clock, and this I resolved
to take. For it seemed a great waste of opportunity, not to see
something of the old town, when I had the day at my disposal.
I was tired of ships and of water, and wandered up the High Street
looking at the shops, and when I came upon a church in Black Goose
Street with the door standing open, I went inside. It contained
nothing attractive and I was about to leave the building, when an old
gentleman led me back to make me notice its three aisles, and the rich
and peculiar tracery of the windows and clerestory, and many other
things of that kind. But I was not much interested, until he showed me
a slab in the pavement, "In memoriam of Thomas Hollingsworth, an
eminent bookseller, a man of strictest integrity in his dealings, and
much esteemed by gentlemen of taste, for the neatness and elegance of
his bindings."
At this point I remember asking my guide if that inscription was good
grammar, adding it does not sound right to me, but then I do not
understand grammar.
"Do you know what it means?" he asked sharply.
"Oh, yes!" I answered.
"Then it's good grammar," he said decisively.
This remark about grammar, however, brought on me a little lecture
concerning a Dominican friar called Galfridus Grammaticus, who lived
in Lynn Regis, and compiled and printed the first English and Latin
dictionary; and this learned monk introduced another, who may have a
rather general interest at this date--Nicholas of Lynn, a Carmelite
monk, who in A.D. 1330 sailed to the most northern land in the
world--the first Polar expedition on record. Friar Nicholas says, that
at the Pole he discovered four indraughts of the ocean, from the four
opposite quarters of the world; and I have had good reason during the
last three years to retell this story of the first Polar visitor, and
to point out that he discovered more than the two latest visitors, and
that his narrative is better authenticated.
After leaving St. Nicholas' Church I sauntered up a street leading me
back to the hotel and in doing so passed a jeweler's shop. My eyes
fell upon a bracelet--an old-fashioned bracelet very wide and
illuminated by a large stone. I had never possessed a piece of jewelry
in all my life, but now I had some money, and I longed for this
bracelet. Many times I left the tempting window, but always returned,
and finally I went into the shop and asked its price. It was five
shillings, and I had twenty shillings. Why not buy it? I hesitated,
but at last paid the five shillings and went proudly out of the shop,
with the bauble in my pocket. When I reached the hotel, I put it on my
arm and felt just a little disappointed at the result. However, I
fancied myself wearing it with my silk dress, and thought it would
give me an air of great gentility. Then the stage was ready, and I and
my silly bracelet went together to Downham Market.
It was perhaps well, that I saw nothing but St. Nicholas' Church for
the mental notes I made there were so few, and so individual, that
they settled themselves persistently in my memory. Also, as I had
adopted the profession of a teacher, it was creditable to know who
made our first dictionary. The Polar expedition lay dormant in my
remembrance, until the disputing of the last three years made me
recall the information given me so many years ago. Then I came to the
conclusion, that any one of the three claims would be just as good as
the other, so that if England should stand by her monk's discovery, it
would be hard to disprove her claim; but--
"The fault of the English is the fault of the Dutch,
They never know when they are claiming too much."
It was about half-past four when I reached Downham Market. The ride
was interesting, for the country was quite different from any that I
had ever seen. Such green, such deep, living green of the pastures!
Such tall strong trees, garlanded at this time of the year with hop
vines, twining from branch to branch, and dropping down from their
tips, so that the hand could reach them. I saw two fine old manor
houses and many lovely cottages. A small, sweet, purple grape climbed
over the front, and over the thatched roofs of most of them, and this
astonished me, for I had never before known that grapes would grow in
the open air in any part of England.
When we approached Miss Berners', I knew the place. I had dreamed of
it when I was a child--a large double-Georgian house, standing amid
lawns and trees, and surrounded by a hedge higher than a man. As we
came closer I saw from my point of vantage on the top of the coach,
about twenty girls of varying ages, scattered about the grounds; some
were playing battledore and shuttlecock, others reading, others
walking about in pairs, and a couple of nearly grown girls, were
taking riding lessons in a paddock, at the side of the house. It was a
pretty scene, and the whole party struck me as freely and genuinely
happy. I felt a little nervous at the prospect of walking through
this bevy of scrutinizing girls, but I saw Miss Berners come to the
front door, and I went forward with as much confidence as I could
assume; and as soon as I clasped her hand, and looked into her smiling
face, I was quite at ease.
After a cup of tea I was taken to my room. My trunk was already there,
and Miss Stromberg, my room-mate, was sitting at the open window
darning her stockings. She was an odd-looking woman, small and very
thin, with slant black eyes, and a great quantity of very coarse black
hair. Her face had a flat look, but was full of fire; and her
complexion was bad and dark beyond belief.
But if one notices the circumstances, people of nearly the same age
readily fraternize with each other. Two old men will sit down in a car
and in a few minutes open a conversation, but an old man and young man
sitting together, have no courtesies or conversation for each other.
It is much the same with women; two mothers will talk of their
children, two girls of their lovers, two old women of their past, but
an old woman and a young girl sit far apart, no matter how close they
may be together.
So when Miss Berners left Miss Stromberg and I alone, we had plenty to
say to each other. I asked her if she liked the school and she
answered, "I have been here one week, but that is long enough for an
opinion. Yes, I like it."
"What is it that you teach?" I continued.
"I teach the elegant French language to these slow, stupid English
girls. It is incredible, but it is the truth, that they can not
understand that French is to be spoken with the eyes, the shoulders,
and the hands, as well as the tongue. One impertinent little girl as
fat as an ox, told me it was not decent to talk in such a way, and
that people would call her a mountebank, if she did so. I wish to
swear a little, when I think of such stupidity."
"French!" I ejaculated. "Is that all?"
"That is all. Many other things I could teach, but I keep quiet about
them. I have seen that it is wise _to do_, but a very great folly to
_overdo_. Maria Stromberg has learned many things since she began to
teach. Will you not dress a little for the evening? Put on a white
dress if you have one. White is your color."
"Will you not dress first?" I asked. "In this small room, two cannot
dress together."
"Dress, while I finish my stockings. I wish that the Strombergs of
Riga and Uleaborg could take notice that their daughter is compelled
to darn her stockings. Is there any more plebeian occupation? And my
feet abhor a darned stocking. They will pinch me all the time I wear
them."
As I dressed we chattered, yet when I had finished my toilet, I was
rather pleased with the result. But Miss Stromberg rose impetuously,
threw down her darning, and pushing me into a chair, uncoiled the hair
I had so carefully arranged.
"_Mon Dieu!_" she cried. "It is impossible. Look here!" and in a
few minutes she had it raised in puffs, and knots, that added two
inches or more to my height, and imparted to me an air of great
intellectuality.
"How can it be?" I cried. "I do not look like the same girl."
"No, but you look as you ought to look. You were masquerading in a
madonna front, and a Grecian knot at the nape of your neck. Do you not
know that throwing back the hair from the brow, reveals whatever is
good in you?"
Then I lifted my bracelet and asked her to fasten it. An expression of
pity, or contempt, flashed over her face, but she said kindly, "Ah!
but you can not wear it here. Jewelry is forbidden. Put it at the
bottom of your trunk; it will be safe there."
She did not resume her darning, but slipped into a silver gray dress
of lustrous silk. A pair of gray slippers stood on a table, and I was
sure no full grown human foot could get its toes into them, but she
stepped into them with the greatest ease. Then we went down stairs,
and Miss Berners introduced me to the girls, and after tea we had a
pleasant evening together.
I shall not detain my readers with any account of this school. It was
the usual boarding school of its date, under very delightful
surroundings and conditions. I remained until the following June in
Downham Market, working hard, but willingly, and forming many
agreeable acquaintances, but not one among them, that had any
influence or bearing upon my future life. I remember their names, and
their personalities, and can go all through their simple or splendid
homes, but that is all. Doubtless we were merely introduced to each
other for our next reincarnation. Then we may have a more fortunate
meeting.
I liked all the people I was brought into constant contact with, but
if I had not liked them, Miss Stromberg would have been sufficient. I
really loved the clever little woman. She spoke five languages; she
played with the magical tang and touch of a gypsy with a violin; she
danced like a fairy; and when she sang her North Russian songs, you
wept with pity for the lonely souls, on the great snow plains, who out
of their own deep sadness, caused their very music to weep. She made
all her dresses, and we envied their cut and style, and she knew
perfectly all the feminine arts of the toilet.
It was not her fault that I did not become a creditable French
scholar. She did her best with me but I had no aptitude for languages;
and like the other "stupid English girls" I found it silly to talk
with four of my members at once; my eyes at that time had not learned
speech, my shoulders I had been told from my childhood, to keep down
and well back, and my hands had a hundred duties of their own. But for
many, many other things, I thank her even to this day. I kissed her
good-bye in June. I was sure we would meet in September, but I never
saw her again--never, never, even heard from her. But I remember yet,
how patiently she rubbed off the crudities of my insular education,
and how day by day her kind tactful ways, led me to a far lower
estimate of my own attainments; for measuring myself by Maria
Stromberg, I could not but see how little I knew, how unpolished I
really was, and especially how far behind the mark in that control of
temper and sweetness of thought and intention, that made all Maria
Stromberg said and did, agreeable and welcome. I have never forgotten
her; I wonder if she still lives! Wherever in God's universe she now
dwells, I hope she is happy, and still remembers me.
On the last evening of my stay in Downham Market, Miss Berners asked
me to walk with her in the garden, and while doing so, she told me she
intended to remove her school to some London suburb. She thought
probably to Richmond. I was glad to hear this. The thought of London
was an enchantment, and I promised to come to her as soon as I could
in any way help the settlement of the new home. We parted mutually
pleased and hopeful, and the next morning I took a train for London,
and from thence one direct to Kendal.
I had twenty pounds in my pocket book, and I felt that my ten months'
faithful work had given me a right to turn homeward, and then as soon
as I did so, I was impatient of any delay. I found the whole family at
tea, and how happily I joined the party, any one can imagine. I had so
much to tell about the school, and was so proud that we were going to
remove it to London. Downham Market had become almost contemptible,
and I spoke of it as a dull, country village, where nothing ever
happened but a horse or a cattle fair. After tea, Father went to his
study, and I followed and laid the twenty sovereigns beside him.
"They are yours, dear Father," I said. "I do not need them, and they
will help Mary's and Alethia's school bills."
He looked at them, and at me, and his eyes filled. "Milly! Milly!" he
answered, "you are a good child, and I thank God for you, but you must
keep your money; Father does not need it. You know about your Uncle
Bell, do you not?"
"I know nothing of Uncle Bell, Father. I wrote to him once, but he
never answered my letter."
"Then I must tell you, that on the fifth of last February, your
mother's birthday, he called on Mother and gave her the row of
cottages standing on Tenter Fell. Now, Milly, the income from there,
just about balances the loss I made through that villain, Blackpool.
So, my dear, we have enough, and even a little to spare; what more
does a child of God want?" and as he spoke, he gently pushed the
sovereigns towards me.
"No one told me about Uncle Bell," I said. "I wish I had known."
"I remember, we thought it best not to name it. You would not have
saved twenty pounds if you had known of the gift, and you might have
missed some fine lessons, that only a sense of poverty teaches."
I soon went back to Mother. I found her sitting quiet in the gloaming.
I told her about the twenty pounds, and said, "Dear Mother, you and I
will divide it. Will you take half?"
"I will take it gladly," she answered. "There are so many little
things a woman wants, that I do not like to ask Father for."
"I know that, Mother," I answered. "Have I not seen you alter the
dressing of your hair, because you broke one of your side combs, and
did not wish to trouble Father about a new pair. I can recall twenty
things, that were a distress to you to want, and which you did without
rather than----"
"Milly, that ten pounds puts all right. I shall get what I want out of
it."
"Did not Uncle Bell leave you some money, Mother?"
"Did Father tell you so?"
"Yes, he said it covered the loss he made. Now you will have a small
income, Mother. Will it begin soon?"
"It began at once. The cottages were a gift. Father went the next
morning and drew February's rents."
"How much did they amount to, Mother?"
"I do not know, Milly. He never told me. He has drawn them now for
five months, but I have never seen a farthing of the money. I have
felt sometimes, as if it would be pleasant--just to see it, and have
it in my hands," and the tears welled slowly into her soft brown
eyes.
"But I do not understand," I continued. "Father would not touch my
money, yet he takes all of yours without leave or license. What does
it mean?"
"It means that I am a wife. All I had, or might have, became your
father's as soon as I was his wife. You are yet a spinster, and have
some rights in your own earnings."
"But suppose you have no legal rights, all the more Father ought to
give your every right. It is unkind, unjust, utterly contemptible!" I
cried in something of a passion. "I am ashamed of Father!"
"No! No! All men do as he does, and many do a great deal worse. Father
has never seen, or heard of wives treated any differently. If he
_knew_ better, he would do better."
"Then, Mother," I said, "he ought to know better for he will not
escape punishment on the plea of ignorance. I have often wondered why
John Bunyan makes _Ignorance_ go into hell by the back door. He is
right. Such ignorance as you make an excuse for Father is a sneaking
sin. It suits back doors. I would rather be a brazen thief, and go in
swearing by the main entrance. Father ought to be told the truth, and
you ought to ask for your money."
"It is too late, Milly. Say no more. I have got so far through life
without money. Until I was married, I had to go to my father for every
shilling--since then, I have gone to your father. But I have ten
pounds now. I never had as much money before, to spend as I liked. I
feel quite rich."
This conversation sunk into my soul. A great pity for this sweet,
patient, penniless mother, suffering so unnoticed and uncomplaining
the need of many womanly trifles, made me childishly angry. The next
day I went to Father with "Pilgrim's Progress" in my hand, and asked
him what Bunyan meant "by putting _Ignorance_ into hell in such an
ignominious manner?" I followed this question with others, which made
him look at me with a queer, thoughtful expression, and then relapse
into a silence so marked, as to be virtually a dismissal.
It is a joy to me this day to remember that on this visit, I was able
to do many little things for Mother which made life pleasanter to her;
for Father was certainly much worse, and it appeared almost wrong to
permit him to preach. Yet I could see that in the pulpit the spiritual
man had not lost control; for the same lucid, telling sentences
followed each other with a fiery eloquence, as in the past years. "Mr.
Huddleston isn't sick in the pulpit," people would say as they walked
thoughtfully home, from one of those last passionate exhortations.
CHAPTER VII
OVER THE BORDER
"The latest Gospel is, know thy work, and do it."
Late in August I had a letter from Miss Berners saying, she was now at
home in Richmond, and wished me to come to her, as soon as I could.
This summons to duty was pleasant, although I left home with a heavy
heart. A presentiment of sorrow was on me, and I could not help
following my soul back and forward, in endless ways of reminiscence
and foreboding. About my father especially, I had a sort of sacred
terror. And if any of my readers think that I was too much bound to my
family, let me remind them that _our families are the chief thing_,
except in societies like Lacedaemon, which went in for "efficiency" and
righteously perished from the face of the earth. Father! Mother!
Child! Is there any holier Trinity than this?
I arrived in Richmond after a hard day's travel, late in the evening.
It was almost dark when my cabman found the house in a rather
out-of-the-way suburb. It did not jump to my eyes pleasantly, as did
the house in Downham Market. It was a lonely place, and there was no
sign of light or habitation about it. But Miss Berners welcomed me
gladly, and as I drank a cup of tea beside her, she spoke to me of her
prospects. They were far from hopeful, for only three of her old
pupils were coming to Richmond.
"Miss Stokes has opened a school in my old home," she said mournfully,
"and the girls have just gone back there."
"She was their principal teacher when you were there," I answered.
"I know. It was very clever of her to step into my shoes, but I fear
it will ruin me."
"It is a wonder you did not anticipate this move," I ventured. "It was
so natural."
"It was very unkind and dishonorable, if that is natural," she
answered, nor was she able to see the matter in any other light.
It was an uncomfortable settling to work. The furniture of the old
home did not look as if it belonged to this mournful relic of a once
splendid mansion, and there ought to have been many things bought,
which Miss Berners would not spend money for, while the result of her
speculation was uncertain. For the new scholars came in so slowly,
that I took on myself all the teaching there was to do, excepting
French. The busy school, the public recitals and receptions, we had
been promised, were very far off; and the days were set to notes of
constant disappointment. The work was hard, for I taught individually;
the school hours were lengthened, and music lessons were to be given
when their work was over.
I was not happy, but I had a letter to deliver, which I believed would
bring me a little change and pleasure; and on the second Sunday
afternoon after the service in the Wesleyan Chapel was over, I waited
for the preacher, who was the famous Dr. Farrar, and gave him the
following note from my father:
DEAR BROTHER FARRAR,
My daughter Amelia is likely to be teaching in Richmond this
winter. I know you will give her counsel, and show her kindness,
if needed. Your brother in Christ,
WILLIAM HENRY HUDDLESTON.
Dr. Farrar read the note with a pleasant countenance, and then smiled
at me. "So you are Amelia?" he asked, and I answered, "Yes, sir." Then
he called three ladies who were standing a little apart, and said,
"Esther, this is Amelia Huddleston. You remember my correspondence
with her father, I am sure."
"Oh, yes, about that weary Tractarian Movement. I remember it very
well," she answered, and then turning to me continued, "I am glad to
see you, Amelia. Come home with us, and spend the evening with my
girls." This was the beginning of a friendship that enabled me to
endure cheerfully the weariness and monotony of my duties. For amid
many outside annoyances I built silently on my trust in God, and I did
my day's work loyally.
Richmond was then, and may be yet, the seat of a great Wesleyan
college for the preparation of young men for the ministry; and of this
college Dr. Farrar was the principal. His family consisted of his wife
and two lovely daughters, the eldest being just my own age. We were
friends at once, our mutual knowledge of Mr. Punshon, forming an
excellent basis for our intimacy. And after this introduction, I spent
all my spare hours at Dr. Farrar's, where I was always made freely
welcome.
Joyful or sorrowful the days go by, and at the end of October we had
eight pupils, but only three of these eight were boarders, and the
great empty house that should have been full of youth and happiness,
was a lonely anxious place. And it was at this time I heard that the
sorrow so long expected had arrived. My father after preaching to a
crowded chapel had hurried home, and fallen across the threshold in a
strong, and not to be disputed epileptic fit. Then with heart-breaking
reluctance, he had signed his resignation from the active ministry,
and had seen another take his place. In great anguish he had prayed
that this cup might pass from him; but, no, he had to drink it to the
very dregs. Yet Mother wrote me, that he had not missed the vision of
the comforting angel; for _vision_ is the cup of strength only given
in some great calamity.
I felt severely the grief that I knew filled every room in my home,
but God had sent it, and He knew what was best. This trust was not a
mere formula of words; it was a veritable and active faith with me. I
trusted God. I leaned my child heart upon the everlasting Love of "our
Father in heaven" and the days went on, and I did my work, and
believed that all would come right.
Miss Berners' affairs, however, grew every week worse and worse, and
just before Christmas, I went into her room one morning, and found her
lying on the bed weeping bitterly. She opened her eyes, and looked
sadly at me and I asked, "Is it worth while continuing the fight? You
are growing thin and gray, and you have not gained a step."
"O Amelia!" she answered, "I have made a great mistake."
"Every day is making it worse. Why not stop it?"
"My expenses are double my income."
"Then it is robbery to continue them."
"What would you do? Tell me truly, Amelia."
"I would close the school this very hour," I answered. "I would tell
those three Downham Market girls to pack their trunks, and send them
home by the noon train. At nine o'clock I would send those five
unhappy-looking day scholars home also. Give all you have to your
creditors, and go home yourself, and rest awhile. Then you can
doubtless retrieve this great mistake."
"And what will you do, Amelia?" she asked.
"I do not know yet," I answered. "I must think."
After the Downham Market girls had been sent home, I went to my room
and began to consider my own affairs. I remembered first, the loss in
my father's income. That was an irreparable loss. I thought of all the
expenses incident to constant sickness in a house, of the education of
Mary and Alethia, of the necessity of Jane's presence to assist Mother
and I said to myself, "You, Amelia, are the one person _not_ needful,
and you must in some way provide for yourself." I opened my purse, and
found I had fourteen shillings. How was I to provide for myself? I was
a stranger in Richmond. I knew no one but the Farrars. Perhaps Mr.
Farrar might--and then I tried to imagine what Mr. Farrar might do for
me. I thought until my head burned, but thank God! there was no fear
in my thoughts. That paltering, faltering element, was not among my
natural enemies. Far from it, I found something magnetic in
extremities. If I was ever indifferent to events, it was because they
were only moderate. To possess my soul in patience was a difficulty;
to possess it in _resistance_ and _struggle_ was more natural, and
more agreeable.
I bathed my hot head and face, and then did what I ought to have done
at first--I went to my Father in heaven, and told Him all my sorrow
and perplexity. And as I talked with Him, tears like a soft rain fell
upon my prayer, and I rose up full of strength and comfort, whispering
as I dressed myself for the street, "Why art thou cast down, O my
soul, and why art thou disquieted within me? The Lord is thy refuge,
and underneath are the everlasting arms."
I went quickly to Dr. Farrar, and I found him at home; then without
hesitation I told him all that troubled me. He answered, "You are
right, Amelia, and I can find work for you, if you are not too proud
to take it."
"Pride has nothing to do with my duty," I replied.
"Then listen," he continued. "You must have noticed that during the
last ten years there has been a tremendous output of national energy
and wealth for the education of the lower classes. National schools,
and Bell and Lancaster schools, are going up all over England; and we
Wesleyans, could not sit still when all other churches were working.
Indeed we are going to build a school in all towns where the chapel
membership is able to support one."
"I believe there is such a school in Kendal," I said.
"Our wisest men have decided, that a certain form of teaching called
the Stowe method, will be best for the class of children we wish to
reach; and this method is taught in the Normal School at Glasgow,
where we have now nearly forty young men and women studying it. Now,
Amelia, if you will go to Glasgow to learn this method, I will promise
you a good school, and a good salary, and you could bring your father
and mother to wherever you are located, and make your homes
together."
Then with the daring decision of young fresh faculties, I cried out,
"O Dr. Farrar! I should like that better than anything else."
"The children may be mostly poor children," he added.
"I used to long to be a missionary. I can call it a mission work. Oh,
I should enjoy it! But--" and I looked doubtfully at him--"but this
course of instruction, will it cost much money?" I asked.
"Our Board of Education will look after that," he answered. "They pay
the Normal School so much for every pupil, and they will also give you
one pound every week for your rooms and food. You can live on that, I
should say?"
"Very well indeed."
"The Board will also allow you five pounds for traveling expenses,
but----"
"Yes, Dr. Farrar, but what?"
"When you have won your diploma, and have been appointed to a school,
the Board will expect you to gradually pay back what it spends for
your education."
"That is right," I answered. "I should like to pay it back, but if I
should die, would my father have to pay it for me?"
"No, no, child! Death pays all debts. You are more likely to marry,
than to die."
"And what then, Doctor?"
"If you marry well, the Board will not count its loss in your gain."
We talked over this subject thoroughly, and I assured him of my
perfect satisfaction, and even pleasure, in the proposition. "If that
is so," he said, "go and pack your trunk, take it in the morning to
the Easton Square Railway Station, and leave it in the baggage room;
then come to me at this address," and he wrote a few lines for my
direction. "The Board meets there to-morrow at ten o'clock to examine
applicants, and you will be questioned a little, no doubt, but I think
they will not puzzle you."
"Not unless they are grammarians, and ask me to parse a sentence."
As I was leaving he asked, "Have you money enough to take you to
London?"
"I have fourteen shillings," I said. "Miss Berners can give me
nothing."
"Fourteen shillings is enough. The rest of your traveling expenses
will be provided."
So I went back to the defunct school, and packed my clothes, and
helped Miss Berners to pack all her personal belongings. We talked
very little. The past was done with, the future uncertain, but she
promised to send the money due me to my mother as soon as she saw her
friends in Reading.
"Will you remain in Reading?" I asked.
"No!" she answered. "I will take passage on a good ship, that intends
to be at sea for a year, or more. I wish to be where I can never get a
bill, or a dunning letter, or hear the postman's knock."
We rose early in the morning, and had a hurried cup of coffee and then
said good-bye. It was an uneasy and uncomfortable parting, and I was
astonished that I could not feel any regret in it. There was only a
sense of something finished and done with, and I believe Miss Berners
forgot me, as soon as my cab was out of sight. But within a week she
sent the money owing me, and said she was going to Louisiana. At that
time Louisiana was as little known to the average Englishman or woman,
as Timbuctoo. We asked a young man who had been shooting game in
Canada, "Where is Louisiana?" and he answered, "It is one of the West
Indian Islands, belonging to France." Then I reflected that Miss
Berners spoke French pretty well, and could probably take care of
herself.
I left my luggage as directed by Dr. Farrar, and went to the Wesleyan
Board of Education. It had begun to rain by this time, and the place
looked mean and unhappy. But there was a good fire in the small
waiting-room, and three young men, and one young woman already there.
For a moment I had a sickening terror of what I was doing, but I
quickly put my foot upon it. "Why art thou cast down, O my soul?" I
asked almost angrily, and my soul knew better than to shirk, or shrink
before that question.
All was more favorable than I expected. Dr. Farrar had evidently
spoken to the Board, which consisted of six or eight nice, clerical
old gentlemen. Probably all of them had daughters of their own, for
they were very kind, and before considering my case, spoke in the most
sympathetic manner of my father's affliction. Every one had some
pleasant memory of him, or some particular message to send. And they
were so cheerful, that I looked into the faces of my inquisitors with
confiding smiles. Upon the whole, the examination was an easy one,
and nobody named grammar. I came off with flying colors, and I really
think the Board believed themselves to have secured an unusually
bright and clever teacher. There was nothing more to do, except sign a
paper enrolling myself among the Wesleyan pupils at the Glasgow Normal
School, which paper also contained the Board's obligation to pay me
one pound weekly. My traveling expenses were given to me in hand, and
then I bid all good morning, feeling truly in my heart the sweetest
and strongest gratitude, for their kindness towards me.
I got a train for Kendal about one o'clock, but did not arrive there
until late. The door had been locked, and Mother unlocked it with such
a joyful cry of "Milly! Milly! Milly!" as brought every one to meet
me. I shall never forget that home-coming. Father came down stairs
again, the fire was rebuilt, and a nice little meal prepared, while
Jane, Mary and Alethia hung round me as if I had been lost and found
again.
The best part of that happy meeting was the pleasure it gave Father to
hear of the sympathy and praise, that had followed the mention of his
name to the Board of Education. I repeated every pleasant word twice
over. He did not ask me to do so, but I knew the friendly messages
were the sweetest music in his ears. And when I finally told them I
was going to Glasgow, Father said,
"It is a Providence, Milly! I had a letter not a month ago from my old
friend John Humphreys, who is now Collector of Excise for the port of
Glasgow. Either he, or Mrs. Humphreys, will look for proper rooms for
you. They will know just what you want."
The letter to the Humphreys asking this favor was written at once, and
in four days we received something like the following answer to it:
DEAR WILLIAM,
We have rented your daughter a parlor and bedroom with the sister
of my grocer. His shop is in Sauchiehall Street, and they live
above it. They are most respectable people, and have no other
boarders. It is also near the school. She will be very comfortable
there. Let us know exactly when she is coming, and either Mrs.
Humphreys or I will meet her train, and see her safely housed.
Your true friend,
JOHN HUMPHREYS.
Then it was decided I should go to Glasgow on the third of January,
1849, by the ten o'clock morning train, which would allow me to reach
my destination before it was dark. Until that day I rested myself body
and soul in the sweetest influences of love and home, and when the
third of January came, I was full of new strength and new hope, and
ready for whatever had been appointed to happen unto me.
My dear mother went with me as far as Penrith. She intended to visit
my brother Willie's grave, and perhaps spend a night with her friend,
Mrs. Lowther. Fortunately we had the railway carriage to ourselves
and, oh, how sweet were the confidences that made that two hours'
drive ever memorable to me! At Penrith we parted. Penrith is a mile or
more from the Caledonian Line, but there were vehicles there to meet
the train, and I watched Mother pass from my sight with smiles, and
the pleasant flutter of her handkerchief.
Then by a real physical effort I cast off the influences I had
indulged for a week, and began to allow my nature to imbibe the
strength of the hills through which I was passing--hills beyond hills,
from blue to gray--hills sweeping round the horizon like a great host
at rest. Down their sides the living waters came dancing and glancing,
and, oh, but the lift of His hills, and the waft of His wings, filled
my heart with joy and strength. Now and then we passed a small stone
house, rude and simple, with a moorland air, and I felt that the
pretty English cottages with their thatched roofs and blooming
gardens, would have been out of place in the silent spaces of these
mountain solitudes.
It grew very cold as we neared Carlisle. Every one I saw was
buttoned-up and great-coated, and I was sensible of as great a change
in humanity as in nature. I had missed all the way from Kendal the
workingman's paper cap, the distinctive badge of labor in those days.
If there were workingmen around Carlisle they did not wear it. All
the men I saw wore large caps of heavy blue flannel, sometimes
bordered with red--an ugly head-gear, but apparently just the thing
wanted by the big, bony men who had adopted it. I saw a crowd of them
at Gretna Green, where a woman got into the train, and rode with me as
far as Ecclefechan. She was not a pleasant woman, but I asked her
about this big blue cap, and with a look of contempt for my ignorance,
she answered, "They are just the lad's bonnets. Every one wears them.
Where do _you_ come from?"
"London," I replied with an "air."
"Ay, I thought so. You're a queer one, not to know a blue bonnet, when
you see it."
Then I had the clue to a dashing, stirring song which had always
puzzled me a little, "All the Blue Bonnets are over the Border." It
meant, that these blue-bonneted giants, were over the English border,
raiding and harrying the shepherds and farmers of the northern
counties. And I smiled to myself, as I remembered the kind of welcome
always waiting for them, whenever the slogan passed from fell to
fell:
"Cumberland hot,
Westmoreland hot,
Prod the Scot!
For all the blue bonnets are over the Border!"
CHAPTER VIII
LOVE IS DESTINY
"Love is the secret of life. Love redeemeth. Love lifts up. Love
enlightens. Love advances the soul. Love hath everlasting
remembrance. Love is a ransom, and the tears thereof are a prayer.
Oh, little Soul, if rich in Love thou art mighty.
"Love is Destiny. The heart is its own fate."
In the cold, hard light of the winter afternoon, we reached Glasgow;
entering the city by the Buchanan Street Station. I stepped quickly
out of the carriage, and saw Mr. Humphreys looking for me. He was
about fifty-six years old, tall, and rather stout, with a pleasant
face, and snow-white hair. I walked towards him, and the moment he saw
me, he smiled, and nodded his head.
"I was looking in the first-class carriages," he said.
"I was in the second-class," I answered. "I could not waste money on
the first, just for a short ride." Then he laughed, and, clasping my
hand, asked, "How many trunks have you?"
"One," I answered.
"Any parcels, valises, or bandboxes?"
"Nothing of the sort."
"I never heard the like. What kind of a girl are you? Stand right here
until I bring a carriage; then I will take both you, and your one
trunk, to Miss Pollock's."
In a few minutes he came with a carriage, and we were driven rapidly
up Sauchiehall Street, until we came to an Arcade. Here we stopped,
and, as there was a large grocer's shop there, I knew it was at the
end of my journey.
"Pollock," said Mr. Humphreys, "let a couple of your big lads carry
Miss Huddleston's trunk upstairs;" and then I was introduced, and told
Miss Pollock had been looking for me, and my rooms were ready and
comfortable.
I thought I would go through the shop, but no, Mr. Humphreys took me
to a stone stairway in the Arcade--a stairway pipe-clayed white as
snow--and, after climbing three flights, I saw an open front door and
a nice-looking woman, about forty years old, waiting to receive me.
Mr. Humphreys would not go into the house, but told me to be dressed
at five o'clock the next day. "Mrs. Humphreys wishes you to dine with
us," he said, "and we shall also have a few friends, so you must make
yourself smart. Five o'clock!"
Then I heard him going rapidly down the stairway, and I turned to Miss
Pollock with a smile. She took me into a little parlor, plainly
furnished, but clean and neat. There was a bright fire in the grate,
and a small, round table, set for one person, before it. She brought
me tea and lamb chops, and some orange marmalade, and delicious rolls,
and I thoroughly enjoyed myself. The next morning I unpacked my trunk,
put my clothing in convenient places, and took my books into the
parlor. I had a silver lamp that Miss Berners gave me, and many pretty
little knick-knacks, and I was delighted with my sitting-room, when I
had arranged these ornaments.
At four o'clock I had a cup of tea, and then dressed myself in
readiness for Mr. Humphreys' call. I was a little at a loss to know
how to dress, but white could not be out of place on a girl, so I put
on a white lustrous alpaca, trimmed with narrow bands of white satin.
My hair was well and becomingly arranged, and I had my satin slippers,
and long, white, lace mitts, in a bag over my arm. I thought I looked
very pretty, and Mr. Humphreys said so, as he gave me a fresh camilla
to pin in front of my dress.
As I entered the Humphreys' house Mrs. Humphreys gave me a hearty
welcome, and, as soon as I was ready, introduced me to a number of
middle-aged ladies and gentlemen, who were sitting or walking about in
the large parlors. I wondered at seeing no young people, but every one
was so kind, I never thought of disappointment. I was particularly
attracted by a Mrs. Semple, a tall, dark woman, with unmistakable
signs of having been a great beauty. The moment I was introduced to
her, she said,
"You can leave the lassie wi' me, Mistress Humphreys. I'll make her as
wise as mysel' anent the notables in the room. I'm feared there's few
to brag about, but there's nae use in letting strangers ken we're just
common folk."
In pursuance of this intention, she said, as I was seated beside her,
"Look at Peter McIntosh. Do you see the man?"
"I do not know him," I answered.
"Then I'll make you acquaint. Peter is a good man to know, and his
wife is weel worthy o' him. Peter is a notable shoemaker. He makes
shoes by the thousands, and sends them to America for sale."
"Really?"
"Yes. His factory is in the Goose Dubs. He'll take you to see it
willingly. Ship loads o' his shoes go to the Yankees, but they are
getting on to his ways, and he had better make shoes while he can, for
they'll beat him at his own game soon. The little body in violet silk
is his wife; she is aye trotting after him. How long have you known
John Humphreys?"
"A few hours, but he is an old friend of my father's."
"Weel, that's a fine beginning. John is another Glasgow notable. He's
only an exciseman, if you come dawn to facts, but they ca' him a
Supervisor. It's a grand place for John, and he fills it wi' great
credit to himsel'. The big man he is talking to is called Sage. His
wife hasna' ta'en her e'en off you since you came into the room.
She'll be telling hersel' that you will make a braw wife for her son
Alick. Alick will be here anon. Tak' care, or you'll lose your heart
to him. Thanks be! there's the dinner bell at the last, but it is
three minutes past ordered time. Annie Humphreys ought to be
reprimanded--only her husband daurna do it," and she lifted her long
velvet train, and took Mr. Sage's arm as she expressed this opinion.
I never was at such a dinner before, and I never saw such dinners
outside of Scotland. I do not remember a thing we had to eat, except
ice cream, and, as it was the first time I ever saw, or tasted ice
cream, there is no wonder it has a place in my memory. It was a
lingering pleasure of food eaten with constant merriment that charmed
me. Then, when there was nothing on the shining mahogany but the nuts
and fruits and the big toddy bowl, then, indeed, if it was not the
feast of reason, it was the flow of soul. Song followed song, and
story followed story. At first the songs were comic, such as the
"Laird o' Cockpen," or "O Johnnie Cope, Are You Waking Yet?", but, as
the music opened their hearts, these easily passed into the most
passionate national songs; and, in an hour, there were only
sentimental Scotchmen present. Every one was then tearful about Prince
Charlie. Two generations previously, the dinner would have been broken
up as a Jacobite meeting. But, oh, how I enjoyed it! A little later I
said so to Mrs. Semple, and she answered,
"Dinna delude yoursel' anent thae men wiping their eyes, as they sing,
they are only specimens of the after-dinner Scot."
"They are full of patriotic feeling," I said.
"To be sure, after dark, and over the toddy, but they have been in
Union Street, and Buchanan Street, Virginia Street, and the Cowcaddens
all day long, doing what? Getting their shilling's worth for their
shilling, ay, their farthing's worth for their farthing. Where was
their patriotism then? Wait till the Sawbath Day, and I'll show you
the Scot who is a Son of the Covenant, and who wouldn't lose his
soul--on that occasion--for the whole world."
Just as she said these words, she rose hurriedly to her feet, crying
pleasantly, "There's my Willie! We'll hae the dancing now," and
immediately a bevy of girls and young men pushed aside the portieres,
and curtsied to the company. Then the elder men and women went into
the out-of-the-way corners, and played "Catch the Ten" or "Bagatelle,"
though some men of fifty years old, or even more, danced with great
spirit in the national reels and strathspeys. I danced once with Mr.
Humphreys, and was stepping a pretty measure with Mrs. Semple's
Willie, when Mrs. Sage's son, Alick, entered. Immediately I caught his
look of pleasure and admiration, and something I knew not what, passed
between us, so that, when he was introduced to me, we both felt it to
be a supernumerary ceremony.
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