CONTENTS
|
Autobiography
and Other Memorials of Mrs Gilbert,
(Formerly Ann Taylor)
With
Portraits and Illustrations
Edited by Josiah
Gilbert
Author of Cadore; Or
Titian’s Country,
etc, and joint author of The
Dolomite Mountains
Life, I
repeat, is energy of Love,
Divine or human; exercised in pain,
In strife, and tribulation, and ordained
If so approved and
sanctified, to pass,
Through shades and silent rest, to endless
joy.
Wordsworth
Based
on the edition of
HENRY S. KING &
CO
65 CORNHILL AND 12
PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON
1874
Preface
Lord,
what is Life? — if spent with Thee
In duty, praise, and
prayer,
However short, or long it be
We need but little
care,
Because Eternity will last
When Life, and death itself
are past.
Hymns for
Infant Minds
ANN TAYLOR was
young when she penned the above stanza. She little thought that she
was writing her epitaph. It was not a short, but a long life that was
destined for her; and when at the age of eighty-five she was laid in
her grave, they who knew her best, thought no words could be more
fitting for a final memorial than those in which she had summed up
life as “duty, praise, and prayer”.
To present a true
picture of such a life to the reader is the object of the following
pages. It was duty as she believed, though of an ordinary sort, that
withdrew Ann Taylor from the literary career that brought others of
her family into note; and while it will be due to her memory to point
out the large share she had in works long before the public, and to
rescue wise and thoughtful words upon many topics from the oblivion
of manuscript, the chief justification of this memoir is sought in
the life it portrays — a life very active, very useful, and,
despite inevitable sorrows, very happy.
The Autobiography with
which the work opens, passes to some extent over the same ground as
the memoir of Jane Taylor by her brother; but as
a personal narrative of an almost unique family life, it is
told very differently, and with large additions. It was addressed, it
will be seen, to her children, and some discursiveness has been
corrected, but its character of “Domestic Recollections”
should be borne in mind. Yet the quaint personages, with their no
less quaint surroundings, which appear in its pages — the quiet
English places, half town, half village, where they lived, reproduce
the old Puritan life — homely, frugal, studious, which is
perhaps only known to most of us through the art of the novelist; and
it may be interesting to compare the real with the ideal picture. A
later phase of Nonconformity, also, is
displayed in the other portion of the work.
The Autobiography ceases
early, but it is believed that the loss will be compensated by the
brightness and freshness of the extracts from correspondence, of
which the rest is mainly composed. A few selections, poetical and
other, taken from a mass of material, as illustrative of character or
circumstance, complete the portrait of a clear and active mind, and
show the outlook of their author upon great questions, both of this
day and of every day.
, Marden Ash, May 1, 1874
Introductory note
TO enable the reader to
follow with more advantage the “Domestic Recollections”
of my mother, I will extract from some notes upon the family history,
drawn up by my mother's father, a few particulars, of which, had they
been at hand, she would probably have availed herself. They
illustrate the formation of hereditary tastes, and account for the
adoption of certain family names.
Her grandfather, the first Isaac
Taylor, was the son of a brassfounder at Worcester, and while
learning his father's business, early showed a talent for Engraving.
Upon the death of his father, who in some way had fallen into
poverty the young Isaac came to London, giving
half-a-crown for leave to walk
by the side of the stage waggon. In London he first entered the
cutlery works of Josiah Jefferys, then employing sixty or seventy men
in his business, and who afterwards retired to Shenfield, in Essex,
where he died. A Nathaniel Jefferys, his
brother, was at the same time Goldsmith and Cutler to the King
and Thomas, another brother, who became
Geographer to the King,
married a sister of the Mr Raikes
of Gloucester, well known as the founder of Sunday Schools.
Josiah Jefferys had, at the age
of
eighteen, married a Miss Hackshaw, aged
sixteen, as she was on her
way to market. Her father, then a man of substance, with a rent roll
from an estate near Raleigh of £1000 per annum, was extremely
angry, and told her that, being his child, he would not turn her out
of doors, but that if she ever went beyond them she should never
return. Upon these strange terms she remained two years under his
roof, when her brother interceded, and persuaded her father to set
the young husband up in business as a cutler, in
which, as appears
above, he prospered.
Her father, on the contrary — Robert Hackshaw — after mortgaging his
estate, fell further
into misfortune, and died of grief. The marriage was twice
celebrated, the first having taken place before registers were kept.
This young wife, when a child, sitting upon the knee of Dr Watts, received from him a copy of his Divine Songs for Children,
which eventually came into the possession of the Taylor family; for
the Isaac Taylor who had walked from Worcester in due time married
her daughter, Sarah Hackshaw Jefferys, but not till after the family
had retired into Essex, for it took place at Shenfield Church, May 9,
1754.
The Hackshaws (or Hawkshaws) were
either of Dutch extraction, or belonged to the
Puritan emigration in
Holland, for the father of the above-named Robert Hackshaw, was
purveyor to
King William III, and came over with him to England. He was called
the “Orange Skipper”, from having been employed, before
the Revolution, to carry despatches
backwards and forwards, concealed in his
walking-cane.
Isaac Taylor had engraved crests
and
other devices at Worcester, and so distinguished himself in that
department in Josiah Jeffery's works, that it led to his adopting art
engraving, then recently introduced, as a profession, to which he
added presently the business of an art publisher. His house became in
this way the resort of several personages of note in art and
literature. Goldsmith, the illustrations to
whose works are often signed Isaac Taylor, was
frequently there, and upon one occasion, when consulted upon the
title of a book with an apology for troubling him upon so trifling a
matter, replied, “the title, sir! why the title is everything”. Bartolozzi, Fuseli,
and Smirke, were among his friends, and he was
one of the original founders of
the Royal Incorporated Society of Artists of Great Britain, from
which sprang the Royal Academy. The celebrated Woollett
was for many years secretary to the Society, and Isaac Taylor
eventually succeeded him in that office. Thomas
Bewick
was his valued pupil, who in his turn speaks of him in his autobiography, as “my warm friend and
patron Isaac Taylor”.
And again, “he was in his day accounted the best engraver of
embellishments for books, most of which he designed himself. The
frontispiece to the first edition of Cunningham's
poems was one of his early productions, and at that time my friend Pollard
and myself thought it was the best thing ever
done”. The most important work executed by this Isaac Taylor
was a large plate, the Flemish Collation, after Ostade.
Howard the philanthropist
took such notice of one of his daughters,
when a child, that in later years she named a
son after him — Howard Hinton, an eminent Baptist minister
lately deceased. Of the three sons of Isaac Taylor, Charles, Isaac,
and Josiah, the second was the father of the subject of these
Memorials.
The long association with metal
working, of both the Jefferys and the Taylor families, throws an
interesting light upon the engraving talent which both the first, and
the second Isaac Taylor, my mother's father, developed, and the
connection with Holland and the Revolution suggests early preferences
for Nonconformity.
Josiah
Gilbert
Note to this edition
MRS Gilbert’s memoir, published
in 1874,
has long been out of print. I have added notes and appendices
on
historical events and individuals to make the text more accessible to
the modern reader. Initials after
each note indicate whether it is one of Josiah Gilbert's or Mrs
Gilbert's original notes or one of my later additions.
Where confusion may arise between
the four Isaac Taylors, their birth and death dates are given, or they
are referred to as the elder Isaac Taylor (1730-1807), Rev Isaac Taylor
(1759-1829), Isaac Taylor of Stanford Rivers (1787-1865) or Canon Isaac
Taylor (1829-1901).
Steve
Painter, Sydney, August 2005
CONTENTS
Chapter I. LONDON AND
LAVENHAM
The
Review of Life — Her Father's Character — Her Mother's
History — The Old House at Lavenham — The Meeting-house
and its Congregation — Home Ways and Home Education —
Early Scribbling 8-27
Chapter II. LAVENHAM
Rural
Holidays — Castle Building — First Visit to London —
Artistic Work at Home — Her Father's Dangerous Illness —
The New House — Youthful Gaieties and Nervous Fears —
Political Disturbances — State of Religion — Her Father
enters the Nonconformist Ministry — Removal from Lavenham.
28-46
Chapter III.
COLCHESTER
The
Colchester House — Colchester Town — Colchester People —
The Work Room, and Engraving Mysteries — Youthful Friends —
First Appearance in Print — Domestic Economy — A
Minister's Wife — Umbelliferous Society. 47-57
Chapter IV. COLCHESTER
Her Father's
Scientific Lectures — Constable's Country — The Minor's
Pocket Book — Lawful Amusements — The Forbeses and
Conders — the Stapletons — Sudbury Visits — The
Strutt Family — Scarlet Fever in the House — Religious
Conviction — The Editor of Calmet
— Family Festivals —
Jane Taylor's Jeu d'esprit. 58-74
Chapter V. COLCHESTER
AND ONGAR
Application
from Darton and Harvey — Isaac's First Piece — Active
Literary Work — Terror of Invasion, and Flight to Lavenham —
Private Theatricals — Mournful Deaths — Interview with
Joanna Baillie — Evils of Diary-Making — The Brothers
Remove to London — Approaching Change — Removal to Ongar — Review
Writing — Ilfracombe. 75-94
Chapter VI. LITERARY
CHARACTER
Ann and Jane
compared — The domestic character of Ann's Poetry —
Specimens of its Arch Drollery — The Tragic Element and Sara
Coleridge's Criticism — Observations upon Ann's Hymns —
The Poem My Mother and its
history — Scott, Southey, and
Edgeworth — Ann Taylor's Prose. 95-114
Chapter VII.
ILFRACOMBE AND ONGAR
Ongar
Scenery — The Winter at Ilfracombe — A Visitor and an
offer of Marriage — Mr Gunn and his Sailors — Return to
Ongar — Engagement to Mr Gilbert — Marriage; and Letter
from her Mother. 115-127
Chapter VIII.
ROTHERHAM
Yorkshire Life — Salome
— The Cookery Book — The Allied Sovereigns
in London — Visit to the New Home at Ongar — Eclectic
Articles — Her Mother's Authorship — Prospect for the
Autumn — Birth of a Son — Illness of her Father —
Nursery Delights. 128-139
Chapter IX. ROTHERHAM
Another Ongar
visit — Her Little Boy's Accomplishments — Criticism upon
her Sister's Poems — Change of Residence — A Welcome to a
Birthday — Visit from Jane and Isaac — Excursions to
York and Stockport — The Break up from Rotherham and Removal to
Hull. 140-152
Appendix I.
NONCONFORMISTS, DISSENTERS AND THE INDEPENDENT CHURCH
Appendix II. FROM A MEMOIR
OF THOMAS BEWICK
Appendix III. LETTER FROM
ANN HINTON TO HER COUSIN ANN TAYLOR
Chapter
I: London and Lavenham,1782-1789
The
Review
of Life — Her Father's Character — Her Mother's History — The Old House
at Lavenham — The Meetinghouse and its
Congregation — Home Ways and Home Education — Early
Scribbling
My father!
Well the name he bore,
For never man
was father more.
Ann
Gilbert
And found
myself in full conventicle.
To wit, in
Zion Chapel meeting.
Robert
Browning
AND now, my dear
children, I
am not about to enter the confessional. Such of my faults as you may
not have discovered, may as well remain in what obscurity they can,
and I feel that I do not here afford you, in these respects, the full
benefit of my experience. Many you know, I wish you did not; forgive
and forget them as soon as you are able, though doubtless your
training has suffered more or less from some. The faults of a parent
can seldom be so dammed up as to leave no taint in the stream, or
feculence on the shores.
It is my heartfelt conviction, on
the
closest inspection of my circumstances and character, that, excepting
a few, very few, external trials, my unhappiness, whenever I have not
been happy, has arisen solely from myself, or, at least, that it
might have been corrected by a better state of things within. A
pervading influential Christianity would, I am persuaded, have
rendered my life one of the happiest possible, for I have ever been
surrounded with the materials for happiness, many and abundant.
The lines have fallen to me in
pleasant places; I have had, almost to my heart's desire, a goodly
heritage; and as at present most of you enjoy similar advantages, I
would press it upon you, with maternal earnestness, more fully to
improve them than I have done, and not to suffer impatience, pride,
self-will, indolence, or any other of our bosom enemies, to slip in
between you and the cheerful enjoyment of the blessings surrounding
you. Make the most of what God has given you, and you may be happy if
you will.
You have often appeared
interested
when I have related particulars of my early history, and it seems but
right that you, who (as I have said) are almost certainly either
better or worse for my habits and tendencies, should know something
of the circumstances amongst which they were formed, if only as
finger-posts on your own road.
It has sometimes surprised me to
perceive to how great a degree you were ignorant of things and events
so long familiar to my own recollections, but of course you can know
on these subjects only what you are told, and presuming that to know
more may be either amusing or useful, I have long entertained a wish
to leave for you a brief outline of what I have been, or felt, with
the various turns and interferences of Providence by which I have
become what you find me.
To review my life will not in all
respects be a pleasant occupation, for it presents much that I would
fain erase. The close inspection of my character which it calls for
gives me anything but satisfaction; but when I refer to the course
through which I have been conducted, and the flowery fences by which
I have at all times been hedged in, my causes for gratitude are more
than I can enumerate, and greater than I can express.
Few, perhaps owe so much,
certainly
few more, to Providential arrangements than I do; my intimate
associates have always been, in one respect or another, better than
myself; not all in everything, but each in some things; so that there
has been a continually ascending influence acting upon me, and
counteracting, in some degree, less favourable circumstances or
tendencies.
Among these, the mercies of my
position, I must place first the personal history and singular
characters of my dear parents, of whom it would delight me to present
you with a graphic portraiture. What little you know of them was not
sufficient to furnish you with a correct idea, nor could you form one
without knowing also the disadvantages with which severally they had
to contend.
Your dear grandfather was an
unusually single-hearted man and Christian. His life till nearly
thirty was spent in London, but he caught not a taint from its
atmosphere. So long as he remained at home his father, a man of sense
and ability, and a well-known artist of the time, was not, it seemed,
under the influence of Christian principle, though a strictly moral
man; and he exhibited towards his family an austere reserve which was
little calculated to awaken the domestic affections to genial life.
His mother, possessing no small
share
of practical good sense, and real concern for the interests of her
children, was yet so more than occupied in the labours of rearing
them, and withal of a temper so heedless of the graces of life, that
it seemed scarcely possible for kind and tender dispositions to
expand under her influence; but my father not only revered, but as
his nature could not help, loved her also. Her will was law, and in
many respects her family reaped the advantage of such a parent, but
it is perhaps surprising that a heart so warm as his, should have
been trained under her hand. His willingness, docility, and obedience
were a little “put upon” while a youth; he was made
something like the “fag” of the family; but so great was
his pleasure in serving at all times, and in all ways, those by whom
he was surrounded, that it was less irksome to him than it would be
to many.
At thirteen he commenced a life
which
became one of diffusive piety. At sixteen he joined the church under
the Rev. Mr Webb of Fetter Lane, and from those early years, till he
went down to the grave, at seventy-one, his character was one
beautiful progress through the benignant graces of Christianity.
His love of knowledge was early,
strong, and universal. Nothing was uninteresting to him that he had
opportunity to acquire, and when acquired his delight was to
communicate. Apt to teach he certainly was, and ingenious as apt; all
his methods were self-devised, and the life of few men devoted to
teaching as a profession, would have accomplished more than he
attained by husbanding the half hours of his own. Early hours and
elastic industry were the “natural magic” by which his
multitudinous objects were pursued, and labours performed.
Whatever I possess of knowledge
came
from his treasury, and far more than is now mine, for many
engagements, and a memory never good, and perhaps in childhood too
little cultivated, have deprived me of much. Too little cultivated, I
say, because my dear mother having suffered from injudicious
exactions upon memory when a child, erred perhaps in training her
children in the other extreme. As far as I recollect, we were never
required to learn anything by heart!
It was my father's habit,
whenever a
question arose in conversation on points of science or history which
we could not accurately determine, to refer at the moment to some
authority the lexicon, the gazetteer, the encyclopædia, or
anything from which the facts could be gained; so that much was in
this way imbibed by his children without labour of any kind, and at
the expense only of some little impatience at a digression with
which they would at the time have been willing to dispense. “Line
upon line”, was, however, in this way gradually traced and
deepened. Method, arrangement, regularity in everything, were
the characteristics of his mind; as were a tranquil hoping for, and
believing in the best, those of his heart.
The future he could at all times
cheerfully commit to his heavenly Father, the present had ever some
bright spot for which to be thankful, and on this his eye, as by a
natural attraction, fixed itself, while his wit or humour could
strike a spark out of the dullest circumstances.
The two words which he adopted as
his
daily guide in education, were mild, but firm; and he was fitted by
natural disposition for both mildness and firmness. He was not easily
moved from an opinion once formed, but the kindness of his heart, and
the sobriety of his judgment, habitually prevented him from forming
hard or unsound ones.
Few, perhaps, have ever moved in
active life for seventy years, retaining a tendency to judge so
favourably of all he met with. Hope and cheerfulness were as the air
he breathed, and these were confirmed and rendered habitual
principles, by a faith in the providence and the promises of God,
often tried, but never observed to fail. His activity was untiring,
and stimulated by a glowing kindliness it enabled him to do with his
might for all whom he could benefit, whatsoever his hand found to do.
He was never a clog on plans of
usefulness, or even of pleasure. His heart was love, and his life a
holiday. For nearly half a century he was the lover as well as the
husband, alive to all the impressions of tenderness, and constantly
devising with considerate affection pleasant little surprises for my
dear mother. Her forty years of incessant bodily suffering afforded
ample field for such a heart to adorn with the flowers and evergreens
of love, and with ingenious tenderness he did so to the last.
As a youth, he had accustomed
himself
to rise early, but the habit declined through disturbed nights during
the infancy of his children. After a few years, it was renewed and
never abandoned, and, if I am not mistaken, it was by the following
incident that he was induced to return to six o'clock as the
commencement of his day. He had received a call from some poor
minister, with a request that he would purchase from him a small
hymn-book, beautifully bound in morocco; the price was half a guinea,
a larger sum than he could prudently afford, but his open heart could
not refuse the aid that was asked for in this form, and the little
volume proved, in the end, of incalculable value to him, for,
sensible of his indiscretion, he resolved to cover the loss by making
a longer day for labour. This, though constitutionally disposed to
sleep, he resolutely accomplished, starting from his bed at a quarter
before six every morning, till within a short period of his death. It
was not managed without difficulty. At first, an alarum
clock at the
head of his bed was sufficient, but becoming accustomed to the
monotony, he placed a pair of tongs across the weight of the alarum,
so disposed, that when it began to move, the sudden fall of the tongs
would surely move him also.
My father's habits of devotion
formed
a valuable part of his example. Rising thus early, the time from six
to seven o'clock was always spent in his closet enclosed by double
doors. But though thus secluded, and in a remote part of the house,
we were, at times, near enough, in a room below, to be aware of the
earnestness of his prayers, which were uttered aloud. He always
preferred articulate prayer, and when retirement
can really be
secured, it is a habit I should warmly recommend.
It prevents, in some degree, the vagrancy of thought which so often
interferes with mental prayer, and it reacts upon the mind, deepening
the impressions from which it springs. I would also, and with more
solicitude, urge the habit of stated prayer. The heart is so apt to
slide from under its intentions, if not compacted by the regularity
of habit, that it is rarely safe to trust them; every hour brings its
hindrance, and so often in the shape of all but needful business that
“the path to the bush” will, in most cases, be overgrown,
if not trodden at the stated period.
We may deceive ourselves with the
belief that we do pray regularly, because we wish and intend to do
so, but on many a day, I fear we should search in vain for the act,
unless reminded of it by the hour. It is true that a perfunctory
formality may be thus induced, but the benefits, as far as my own
experience or observation extends, exceed greatly the disadvantages.
It is “a world of compromise”, and for this reason, we are
exhorted to watch as well as to pray.
After a day of continued labour,
such
as my father's always was, he was again in his closet from eight till
nine; occasionally when work had to be sent off by the night mail for
London (he then living in the country), he might be prevented from
devoting the full hour, but I do not remember the time when the
season of retirement was wholly omitted.
How much of the excellence of his
own
character, of the providential mercy that so often appeared for him,
and may I not add, how many of the blessings enjoyed by his children
and by theirs, may not have been the gracious answer to this life of
supplication?
It was not likely that a youth,
warm
with so many affections, should be long content with domestic
solitude. He was, indeed, but a youth, and his prospects were not
such as in these days of aim and show would have admitted the thought
of a wife, as prudent, or even possible. His early wish to devote
himself to the ministry, had been frustrated by an illness of such
severity and continuance, as to destroy his hopes of study, and to
unfit him for its labours.
Lodgings which had been taken for
him
by his mother at Islington then quite a country place and horse
exercise, contributed to his recovery; and he then reverted to his
profession, that of an engraver, for which he had been educated under
his father, who was among the first to execute book
plates
respectably.
At twenty-two, my father married,
and
the income on which he calculated that he could live with comfort,
consisted of a half a guinea certain for three days' work in each
week, supplied to him by his elder brother, Charles, afterwards known
as the “learned editor of Calmet's
Dictionary of the Bible,”
who was, at the time, in business for himself as an engraver and
publisher, and so much as he could earn during the remaining three
days, when he was at liberty to work on his own account. This, with
thirty pounds in hand, was his independency; my mother's dowry being
one hundred pounds stock, bequeathed to her by her grandfather, with
furniture supplied by her mother, sufficient for the pleasant first
floor at Islington they were to occupy.
It delights me to revert to this
day
of small things, and to trace the goodness and mercy which did follow
these dear, simple-hearted parents of mine all the days of their
life, till they were called to dwell in the house of the Lord for
ever.
My dear mother was a character
more
peculiar, and her disadvantages had been greater than those of my
father. The sensibility of her frame, both mental and bodily, was
extreme; her affections were strong and lively, and her sufferings
(irrespective of bodily pain) from the sorrows and bereavements of
her seventy-two years, proportionably intense. Her mother's father,
the son of a clergyman at Beverley, had been ruined in some building
speculation at York, and her mother, a beautiful girl of sixteen, was
sent off alone on the top of the York coach for London, with, I know
not, what prospect of result, except that she resided for a time with
a family in Kensington Square.
By some accident, her favourite
brother had been prevented from seeing her off, but ran after the
coach, and was just able to wave his hand to her as it turned a
corner. It was the last she ever saw of him, or of any of her family;
separation then was separation indeed! She married early a Mr Martin,
the son of an estate agent at Kensington.
My mother was the eldest of two
children, and at six years old lost her father, who died of fever at
twenty-nine. Of him I know little except that he was one of Mr
Whitfield's early converts, and thus happily prepared for early
death. But he was probably alone in his religious preferences, for
upon one occasion having taken his little girl to hear Mr Whitfield,
she suddenly stood up in the pew and exclaimed, “what have you
brought me here for, among a pack of Whitfieldites?”
His anxiety for my mother was
more
lively than discreet. He thought it wise to exercise her infant
patience by inflictions which she recollected as producing paroxysms
of anguish. He once called her to see a new and favourite toy thrown
on the fire, hoping in this way to induce a salutary self-control!
Such measures could not but exasperate instead of soothe the
excitability of her temperament; but nevertheless, the sensitive
child entertained for him a strength of attachment much above her
years. On the night of his death she dreamed that she was in a
desolate and shattered dwelling, through the rents of which she could
see the stars; suddenly among them her father's form appeared,
departing upward in a chariot, by gestures taking leave of her, and
encouraging her to follow. On waking, she was told that he was dead,
and to the excess of her grief her life was nearly sacrificed; nor
did she through her more than threescore years and ten fail to
commemorate the 13th of February, the anniversary of her loss.
On this first sorrow she was
removed
from her mother's house near Gray's Inn, to that of her paternal
grandfather at Kensington, for change of air. There her health was
soon renovated, but she fell under injudicious training, a mixture of
weak indulgence with uninviting instruction. Yet her
attachment to
Kensington was extreme, and she regarded it as an Elysium to her
life's end.
Home had, indeed, become no longer home. Her mother, a very beautiful
woman, married again, but not long afterwards lost her second
husband, and married a third. The result was an increasing family,
and the solitary little girl was made to suffer in their bitterness
most of the sorrows of such a situation. Even her mother did not
defend her from the selfishness of a stepfather, and the oppression
of his children. She was the slave of all; she seemed abandoned, with
scarcely an eye to watch, or a hand to guide yet, who that should
trace that young life to its close but would thankfully acknowledge
an Eye that did watch, a Hand that did guide!
A day-school — a good one, as
day-schools were a hundred years ago — afforded all the
education that as such she enjoyed, but her character was too
original and interesting to escape attention, and she attracted the
notice and kind regard of several intelligent persons, who perceived
her ability and aptitude to learn, and by the loan of books, and
other means, awakened the dormant energies of her spirit, excited a
thirst for knowledge, and raised her by imperceptible degrees above
the brothers and sisters who were allowed to tyrannise over her; and
on whom, nevertheless, she lavished a warm affection, afterwards
repaid by the honest love of some of them.
She very early discovered
expertness
at her pen, and its poetic and often satirical effusions soon gained
her a local celebrity. My father was one of a group of young men
occasionally visiting at her mother's house, but their first approach
to each other, if such it might be called, was when at some breaking
up of the school he attended, she was the admiring spectator of his
receiving a silver pen (a rarer thing then than now) after reciting,
with applause, a piece from Shakespeare.
They were only children then, and
a
more important incident was the exercise of his skill in engraving
her initials upon the silver shield in front of the beautiful little
teapot, still in our possession, and in which he deposited a copy of
verses upon returning it to her. These led to a smart rejoinder, and
that to a paper war which, for a time, made the gossip of the little
circle, till it was terminated by a treaty of peace, never afterwards
infringed.
But interesting as was my
mother's
character, and attractive to many, some of them literary men, who
would fain have rivalled my father in her affections, she was but
ill-furnished with that practical knowledge of the details of
housekeeping, without which marriage involves a girl, not in a rank
above domestic management, in the deepest anxiety. When she married,
at the age of twenty-three, she had everything to learn, and most
sedulously, with the resolve of a sensible woman, and the diligence
of a conscientious one, did she set herself to learn. She became an
excellent housekeeper, for with a humily that often surprised me, she
would accept the smallest particulars of information from the
youngest or the humblest. To the latest hour of my observation at
home she had always the rare wisdom to acknowledge ignorance.
On their wedding day, April 18,
1781,
my parents entered their first home, in a house standing back from
the street, and exactly opposite Islington Church. It was a first
floor only, but from the back room, the best one, there was a view
over an extent of country, including the Highgate Hills, and on the
day of their marriage, though so early in the year, a vine was in
full leaf over their windows. There, on the 30th of January 1782, on
which day my youthful father reached his twenty-third year, I was
born; and on the 23d of September the year following, their second
daughter, Jane Taylor, known, perhaps, I might say, on the four
continents, and known only for good, came into the world; but at this
time they had removed for the convenience of business to Red Lion
Street, Holborn, then a sufficiently quiet place.
Here their first son, and third
child, was born; and here, scarcely allowing herself an hour of
recreation either for body or mind, practising the utmost economy,
and with her children filling every thought of her heart, my poor
mother broke down in health, and might have surrendered herself to be
the mere drudge of her family, had not a wise friend suggested to her
that it would be well if her husband found in her a companion, as
well as a housekeeper and nurse. She took the hint immediately, and
resolved to secure the higher happiness that had nearly escaped her.
For this purpose she commenced the practice of reading aloud at
meals, the only time she could afford for mental improvement, and for
nearly half-a-century it supplied her daily pleasure, while it
sustained the native power of her mind.
But now the rapidly increasing
family, and its consequent expenses, suggested the desirableness of
removing to the country, and my dear parents, young, poor, loving,
simple-minded, with nothing to call experience, resolved to
transplant their household to what then appeared a remote and dreary
distance from every relative or friend. They had neither of them been
more than twenty miles from London in their lives, and my father,
always methodical, obtained a list from Homerton
College
of all the ministers supplied from that Institution to within a
hundred miles from the metropolis, and wrote, I believe, to all of
them as to the cheapness of rent and of provisions in each locality,
with some other domestic items. One of these applications reached a
minister at Baddow when a cousin of his, the Rev. W. Hickman, of
Lavenham in Suffolk, happened to be visiting him. They laughed over
the questions propounded, which they attributed to some antiquated
bachelor, but Mr Hickman remembered a house at Lavenham, which he
thought he could recommend, and, writing to that effect, with other
suitable inducements, my father undertook the formidable journey of
sixty-three miles to reconnoitre.
He decided upon the venture, but
the
trial to the feelings of my dear mother was extreme. The removal to
such a distance from all she loved was an anguish almost as much as
she could endure. Owing to great susceptibility of nature, nervous,
anxious, and foreboding, and with these tendencies during the greater
part of her life aggravated by incessant pain, yet there was in her
character a steady strength at hand for emergencies, which sometimes
carried her through difficulties under which it might have been
supposed a mind like hers would reel.
It was in June 1786, the fine
old-fashioned weather of the eighteenth century, as my memory
pictures it, that the little colony set forth. I well remember the
freshness of that six o'clock on a summer's morning in a hackney
coach for the stage. My father had gone before to Lavenham to receive
and arrange the furniture, and never was “Queen's Decorator”
more busy, more anxious, (in some respects more capable), than he
that everything should appear in tempting order, and in the best
style of which it was susceptible. His materials, indeed, were few,
but his taste and contrivance inexhaustible. The house, which a
cottager described as “the first grand house in Shilling
Street”, was indeed so, compared with former residences.
It was the property of, and had
been
inhabited by, a clergyman. On the ground floor were three parlours,
two kitchens, and a dairy, together with three other rooms never
inhabited; and above them were six large bedrooms. An extensive
garden, well planted, lay behind. A straight broad walk through the
middle was fifty-two yards in length, with an open summer-house on
rising ground at one end, and ha-ha fence separating it from a
meadow, of which we had the use, at the other. There was also a large
yard, with a pig-stye, uninhabited, till my sister Jane and I cleared
it out for the purpose of dwelling in it ourselves. It was a
substantial little building of brick, but, having no windows, and the
door swinging from the top, it was somewhat incommodious, yet there,
after lessons, we passed many a delightful hour.
For this spacious domain, (house
and
garden I mean, not the pig-stye), it will scarcely be credited that
my father paid a rent of only six pounds a-year, but by such a
circumstance the perfect out-of-the-wayness of the situation may be
conceived. Neither coach road nor canal approached it, though I
remember that the advantage the latter would be to the little town
was often discussed. The postman's cart, a vehicle covered in for
passengers, made its enlivening entrée every day from Sudbury,
seven miles distant, about noon; and the London waggon nodded and
grated in, I forget how often, or rather how seldom, I believe about
once a week.
In a neighbour's large old
fashioned
kitchen I remember a painting representing the church standing in the
middle of the town, and it must have been a place of some importance
when that was the case; but, when we knew it, the church was quite at
the extremity to the north, where the Sudbury road entered the High
Street, which long street, at the further end, issued upon the road
to Bury St Edmunds, ten miles off. The church was a noble Gothic
edifice, built by the Earls of Oxford. Many of the details were drawn
and engraved by my father, and published in one volume by his
brother, then an architectural publisher in London. One of my brothers and two little sisters
lie in the churchyard near
one of the doors. The rector and curate of our day were of the old
school,
free livers, yet religiously hostile to the little band of dissenters
who occupied a small “meeting-house” that nestled under
the shade of some fine walnut trees, standing back from the street.
In this reviled conventicle (for the spirit of “Church and
King” was the demon of the neighborhood, or rather of the
times), there assembled a friendly and intelligent congregation. It
was generally well filled, and for my own pleasure, more than for
yours, shall I record the names, still familiar to me, of those who
chiefly composed it?
Well then, first, were Mr and Mrs
Perry Branwhite, with their daughter Sally, one of my first
playfellows, and their sons Nathan and Peregrine. Mr Branwhite was a
quaint, upright, stiff, but somewhat poetic schoolmaster, having
charge of a branch of St Ann's Charity School, located at that
distance from London for the advantage of cheap provisions. I say
poetic, because he had done the Copernican system into rhyme, printed
on a large sheet and framed. By him and his, four or five seats were
occupied.
Next to them sat Mr Stribbling,
the
blacksmith, and family, plain respectable people, though he, to my
youthful eyes, was very ugly. He was certainly stone deaf,
notwithstanding which latter disadvantage he attended very regularly,
troubling his minister occasionally by complaining of him as a “legal
preacher”, on the ground that he selected “Arminian
texts.” These at every service were looked out for him by his
children, and upon them alone he founded his suspicions of Mr
Hickman's orthodoxy. “Ann and Jane” sat vis-à-vis
upon little cross seats at the ends of the next pew, and had ample
opportunity thereby of forming an opinion upon Mr Stribbling's
personal attractions.
Beyond our's was the seat of Mr
Meeking, the baker, a personage who occupies a grateful niche in the
recollections of my childhood. He was a good-natured, fresh-coloured,
somewhat rotund old man, with blue eyes, a light flaxen wig curled
all round in double rows, and a beard duly shaven once a week. He
kept a bakehouse of local celebrity, and with it a small
shop, amply
provided with that nondescript variety of grocery, drapery, and
haberdashery, farthing cakes, and penny bindings, suitable for humble
customers, or needed at a pinch.
Three sons and two daughters, all grown up, at least so they appeared
to us little people, composed his family, and the old-fashioned
kitchen, or house-place, in which they lived, is fresh in my memory
as the scene of warm and bountiful hospitality to all, and of
indulgence to us little girls, who frequently found our way there at
times of any domestic discomfort. The floor of this kitchen was of
brick, uncarpeted, one small window (of course you do not care about
it, but please let me tell you) looked into the street, and a very
large one opposite, with diamond panes and brick mullions, into the
garden. There was a door from the shop, another towards the parlour,
and a third large heavy square one, studded with iron-headed nails,
leading to the garden and orchard. But, notwithstanding, this various
provision for the admission of fresh air, nothing could exceed the
comfort and glow of the chimney-corner, large enough to admit the
bulky arm-chair of the master on one side, and a seat for small folk
on the other; the whole hedged in by an ample screen.
And, O, the piles of hot toast,
thick, heaped, and sodden with butter, that used morning and evening
to crown the iron footman in front of the fire! — toast not cut
from a modern neat tin-baked loaf, but from such a loaf — a
rugged mountain! Here “Nancy and Jenny”, as we were
called, were always, and heartily welcome, or indeed to anything we
could contrive to wish for; and in this friendly circle my sister was
fairly released from the timidity that concealed the rich store of
humour in her arch little nature, and became the centre
of fun and
frolic.
To the wise restraint and plain fare, and limited indulgences of
home, Mr Meeking's chimney corner afforded the widest contrast; and
the good-natured kindness, less judicious than generous, which always
greeted us there, placed our occasional visits among the red-letter
days of our calendar.
Once a year, somewhere about
Christmas, the “best parlour” was duly warmed and
inhabited. The young men were musical, there were several in the
congregation who could either sing or play, or liked to hear others
who could, and on these occasions they would get up something like a
concert, where a bassoon, played by the eldest son, with sundry
flutes and clarionets, afforded pleasant amusement to as many of the
“friends” as could be crowded in. A piano was at that
time quite beyond the Lavenham style, though I remember a spinnet or
harpsichord in the best parlour of some other friends, presently to
be mentioned.
My dear mother had always the
strongest objection to leaving her little girls to the care of
servants, and seldom visited where we were not invited, we
were but two, not troublesome, perhaps something of favourites, so
that completely social as these and similar parties were, we were
often admitted to them at an age when now we should scarcely have
emerged from the nursery. But nurseries at Lavenham, and at that time
of day, I do not remember. The parlour and the best parlour were all
that was known beside the kitchens, and thus parents and children
formed happily but one circle.
Of course it was necessary under
the
circumstances that the latter should be submissive to good
regulation, or domestic comfort must have been sacrificed; but my
father and mother were soon noted as good managers of their children;
for little as either of them had experienced a wise education
themselves, they had formed a singularly strong resolve to train
their young ones with the best judgement they could exercise, and not
to suffer humoured children to disturb either themselves or
their friends. There is scarcely an expression so fraught to my
earliest recollection with ideas of disgrace and misery as that of a
“humoured child”, and I should have felt truly ashamed to
exhibit one of my own at my father's table.
Yet, I can only say that it has
been
my endeavour to steer clear of this evil. It is inexpressibly
difficult, pressed by daily business and perpetual interruption, to
judge correctly of the course we are pursuing, or to retrace it if in
error. On this account I should recommend every burdened mother to
allow herself an occasional visit away from home without her
children. She will then be much better able to review her habits and
plans, and, if needful, to reform them, than while surrounded by the
din, and borne down by the pressure of daily employments.
She will look at herself and her
proceedings, as from a distance, and sometimes in the solitude of the
chamber, or the garden, will find it no unhealthy exercise to
describe herself aloud. Many things look unexpectedly ugly when put
into words; and in order to derive unadulterated benefit, so far as
may be, she will take care at such times to keep aloof from the
excellences. In other families also she may silently observe what is
right or what is wrong, and amend her own doings accordingly. A
degree of freshness is imparted to both body and mind during such a
process, and probably she will go in the strength of that meat many
days.
In rearing a family it is
scarcely
till the youngest has been educated, and often not then, that we come
to a satisfactory conclusion respecting the course most desirable to
pursue. The elder ones may have been sacrificed in part to
inexperience, and the younger to burden and pressure.
Happy the mother who can hold
an
even
balance between the strict and the lenient, for, perhaps, on this
ability depends the characters of her children more than on any other
part of her conduct. The aim is all I can boast of; to inspire the
confidence of love by kindness, and to secure obedience by adhering
steadily to principles, or regulations once laid down. But if, on
reviewing the sins of our youth, we feel it often necessary to ask
forgiveness from dear departed parents, equally imperative shall we
find it, as we reflect on the failures of after-life, to make the
same request to our children; and thus, dear children, do I with love
and sorrow ask pardon of you.
But to return from this long
digression. Mrs Snelling, the old pew opener, will wonder what I am
doing if I do not pass along the aisle more briskly. We are come now
to the “table pew”; William Meeking has the bassoon to
his lips, and some dozen of country beaux, each with a leaf from the
walnut trees in his button-hole, with perhaps a pink, a stock, or
sprig of sweetbriar, are raising the Psalm. In yonder square pew,
entered only from the vestry, sits Mrs Hickman, the wife of the
minister, amongst whose family a little boy, rather younger than
myself, lived to become the highly respected minister of a
congregation at Denton in Suffolk; but passing on to the furthest of
four square seats under the line of windows in front of the pulpit, I
must introduce a family of singular excellence, and high esteem in
the neighbourhood.
The staple trade of the town was
wool, and Mr Watkinson was one of the master woolcombers,
wealthy for
such a locality, for he was reckoned to be worth £30,000. He
owned one of the best houses in the town, built by himself with every
accommodation for a family of twelve children.
Beyond the extensive yards and warehouses were a bowling-green and
pleasure garden, with a shrubbery enclosing a swimming bath, and a
large kitchen garden with orchard adjoining. With Anne and Jane
Watkinson, the two youngest daughters, it was the priviledge of Ann
and Jane Taylor to be intimate. The family were well ordered almost
to a proverb, and well educated too. Mr Watkinson had been a member
of the Society of Friends, and never relaxed, so far as my
observation went, in the formality and reserve formerly
distinguishing that community. His wife was a plain, sensible,
domestic woman, of perhaps the fewest words that in such a family
could be done with. Of the host of sons and daughters I can
distinctly call to mind the features of each, but I could have had
but slight knowledge of their characters. Of Anne, however, my own
companion, though she left England with her family for America at
fourteen, I have heard Mr Hickman say that he always felt something
like respectful awe in her presence! Such was the mental provision
for my earliest friendship.
The Lungleys, shopkeepers of
repute
and means, as most of those good folks were, occupied one of that set
of pews. Mr Lungley was a singularly simplehearted, and free spirited
man; Mrs Lungley, a clever, active, managing woman, as much at home
with the young as the young themselves. Their house was always open,
the rendezvous of as many as could anyhow reckon themselves friends
or cousins.
Their one child, a daughter,
spent
the closing year of her education under the care of my father and
mother, after they left Lavenham, and years later, when at the head
of a large family of her own, she told me that her first permanent
religious impressions were made by my dear father's conversations,
and that important arrangements in her family were founded on a
recollection of his plans. One of these, the assignment of a separate
“study” for each of the children when old enough to use
it, the wealth of her husband enabled him to carry out to the fullest
extent in building a new residence.
Mr Buck, a stiff, old-fashioned
linen-draper, is waiting for notice in the adjoining pew; what I
chiefly remember about him is, that in his best parlour there hung a
large frame, containing what I never saw anywhere else, varieties in
“darning”, all sorts of fabrics being admirably imitated,
from plain muslin to various damask patterns, the performances of
Betsy Buck his daughter. I have sometimes wished for a leaf out of
her book.
Mrs Sherrar and two maiden
daughters
occupied one of the upper seats in the synagogue; and her son-in-law,
Mr Hillier, the “squire's pew”, carefully screened at
both ends from the vulgar gaze. These ranked among the small gentry
of the neighbourhood; the Sherrars keeping what was no mean
establishment for the little country place, two maids and a man; the
Hilliers living in a handsome house with grounds at the lower end of
the town. He was in the main a worthy man, and though a regular
attendant upon Mr Hickman's ministry, might be called the squire, not
only of the humble Meeting-house, but of Lavenham itself.
His wife was a clever, showy
woman,
reckless of such graces as are deemed specially feminine, and able to
utter speeches not so easy to repeat as to remember. The infirmity of
both, if my recollections may be trusted, was pride, Mr Hillier's a
quiet reserved pride, his wife's a bold and open pride; and a
circumstance occurred that sufficiently stirred the pride of both,
proved disastrous to the interests of the small community, and though
little suspected then, affected greatly our own future destiny in
life.
This brings me to the pulpit,
which
has been almost forgotten in the pews. Mr Hickman, the minister, was
a plain sensible man, of no aim, in manner or anything, but with a
fund of natural humour in conversation. He was, perhaps, as little
likely to make the venture that he did as any one we could think of;
yet, having become a widower in process of time he thought of, and
singular presumption addressed, prevailed with, and married Mrs
Hillier's sister, Fanny Sherrar! She was neither young nor handsome;
neither rich enough to render it a tempting speculation, nor, as was
supposed, specially qualified to become an intelligent companion.
The gentry of a small country
town
could then afford to do with humble attainments in that line, and I
am inclined to think the tradespeople were as a rule better informed.
Upon one occasion, at a party in honour of a bride who had belonged
to this higher grade, the lady addressed my father across the room
with, “Mr Taylor, who wrote Shakespeare?” The husband,
feigning an amused laugh, could only say, “Just hear my wife!”
It was a question none of the humbler folk there needed to ask. With
Fanny Sherrar, however, Mr Hickman was somewhat captivated, and he
proceeded to the offensive extremity of making her his wife. Nothing
could exceed the righteous indignation of the Hilliers on this
occasion. He, worthy man, actually made a church question of it, on
what possible grounds it is difficult to conceive. There was for a
long time a scene of grievous contention, convocations of
neighbouring ministers were called in to arbitrate, and it ended in
the Hilliers leaving both the Meeting and the town. I should add that
Mrs Hickman's conduct as a wife, and especially as a step-mother,
went far to redeem the credit of her husband's discernment.
The poor of the congregation sat
in
the galleries, the men occupying the one, the women the other; the
girls and boys of the small Sunday School being similarly apportioned
in one or the other gallery.
This could not be long subsequent to the reputed origin of Sunday
Schools in the benevolent heart of Mr Raikes. That at Lavenham was
collected, I have reason to believe, greatly through my father's
personal exertions. He was active in everything, regular, I may
venture to affirm, and never weary in well doing.
A small volume, entitled Twelve
Addresses to a Sunday School, contains the substance of some
words spoken to this very early congregated
little band.
He did not take a class, but acted rather as superintending visitor.
And when, after an interval of more than sixty years, I visited
Lavenham, I found, among surviving members of this school, proofs
that “the memory of the just is blessed”. Wherever he
moved his name is still fragrant.
Mr Hubbard, a basket-maker, a
young
man of very peculiar character, part simple, part conceited, part
worthy yes, a good part worthy part thinking, and very theological,
was engaged, as the paid teacher of the boys, sitting with them in
the gallery and supplying the want of gratuitous teachers. Teachers
of this sort were indeed, at that time, as little known as schools.
There was scarcely one department of Christian usefulness, as it is
now understood, at that time, occupied or even thought of by our
churches as necessarily belonging to church work.
I must not, in my present review,
forget “Old Orford.” But where shall we find him?
Not in
a pew, it may have been half a century since he sat in one, but high
up on the pulpit stairs, for he is very deaf, and does not, I fear,
contrive to hear much even with his conspicuous trumpet; but he
tries. His aged features, surmounted by a red night-cap, are among a
set of pencil studies, still extant, by my father. How old he really
was, I cannot say, but so long as I remember him, “Old Orford”
was popularly reputed to be a hundred years old, though, I suppose,
he moved among the figures at about the same rate as most of us.
And, certainly, Peter Hitchcock,
the
clerk in the “table pew,” ought to have been named
earlier as much a character as could be found in the congregation. A
stout, thickset little man, of, as one might say, the “cock
robin” build was he, with the peculiarities of the bachelor,
and betraying some of its least offensive propensities in his queer
physiognomy.
As a retired flour dealer, he
possessed a snug independency, and had fitted up, for himself, a
small house, for the garden of which my father, early in repute as a
landscape gardener, kindly drew a variety of plans. Yet it was but a
slip, and the economic Peter saved the expense of a man, by clipping
the grass-plots himself with a pair of scissors.
Two maiden sisters, Miss Sally
and
Miss Betsy, never otherwise called, lived with him, each a perfect
specimen of an “old maid.” Miss Betsy, the youngest, had,
perhaps, the most fretful, unhappy expression of countenance that
could well be conceived. Verily, she looked as if it had been half a
century, at least, since the world had smiled upon her, if, indeed,
it had not been ill-using her for quite that period.
No doubt, she was unhappy, and
benevolence, even Christian benevolence, does not seem to extend to
this description of sufferer. Fathers and mothers, and young people
of both sexes, appear to have received dispensation for heartlessly
adding to the sorrows of that solitary condition. In parents, nothing
can be more indiscreet; in young women, less indelicate; in
young men, nothing more ungenerous.
What can that father expect from
his
daughters, who allows himself to taunt, with “cruel mocking,”
the unmarried women of their society? What but the conviction that to
marry is indispensable, and therefore, at whatever risk? Yet is it
always the least excellent, the least valuable of a family who is
left to fill the withering ranks at which the young and the
thoughtless the old and the thoughtless, I may safely add, point the
finger? If constrained to guess at histories, I should be disposed to
affirm that, more frequently than otherwise, the useful retiring,
affectionate daughter, is left to expend her womanly love on the
declining years, and trying infirmities of her parents, while the
colder heart plays a successful game, and sports the honours of the
wedding ring.
Perhaps there would be more of
romantic history in the biographies of the old maid of society than
in those of twice the number of flourishing wives, history that would
excite, if known, the tenderest sympathy, the truest respect. Many
might be the causes enumerated that have led virtuous women to refuse
marriage — women among whom might be found some of that almost
extinct class, whose New Testament includes that awkward text “only
in the Lord”.
What, however, may have been Miss
Betsy's history, I know nothing, beyond the obvious discontent of her
countenance; but of Miss Sally, there were traditions of some
interest, how far correct, I cannot say. She was, I think, the senior
by several years, and must have been pretty in her time, while her
now aged quiet face had none of that expression which made her sister
so conspicuous. But she was admitted to be “not quite right,
you know”, for, as the mood came over her, she would retire to
the corner of the room (I have seen her do so when it was filled with
company), and stand there, for a length of time, straight upright,
with her face to the wall, and occasionally whispering a little to
herself.
It was something of a trial to
“Ann
and Jane” to see Miss Sally making so queer an exhibition of
herself, but I do not remember having our gravity upset by it; it was
only Miss Sally in one of her freaks, and we were too young to
understand the mysterious hints occasionally floating, “that,
many years ago, she had a disappointment, and had not been quite
right ever since”. I think, also, that one of her arms was
paralysed, and hung useless at her side. Such were the hieroglyphics
of one mournful, yet not uncommon history.
In a circle, such as I have now
described, we children, of five and six years old, were placed on our
parents' removal from London. It was a happy seclusion. Yet my mother
had gone down to it with an almost breaking heart, bringing, to this
circle of strangers, a recent grief in the loss of one lovely child,
and before the year was out, losing another; so that all the
assiduities of my father, and the novel charm of a summer in the
country, failed to reconcile her to the banishment, till the first
dreary winter had passed away, and then a heart, sensitive as was my
dear mother's, could not remain long untouched by natural scenes and
pleasures.
But the winter was dreary. In the
course of it, my father was called (as, indeed, he frequently was)
for a month, to London, in prosecution of his profession as an
engraver; and with her two little girls, her young half-sister, and a
single servant, with the recollection of her lost
children bleeding
in her bosom, and in a house large enough to have accommodated
half-a-dozen such families, my mother dragged wearily through the
dismal evenings of this, to her, forlorn exile. One of them is still
fresh in my memory, as I have heard her describe it.
It
was a dark and stormy winter's night, the wind roared down the huge
kitchen chimney, and screamed in the trees across the road. “Ann
and Jane” had gone early to bed, the last dear babe had
recently found its resting-place in the churchyard, and my poor
mother sat in her grief beside the parlour fire. Suddenly a dreadful
crash was heard; the kitchen chimney was exactly over the room in
which we slept, and her instant thought was that it had fallen,
burying us in its ruins.
She ran to the foot of the wide
staircase and called, I was always a wakeful sleeper, but now there
was no answer, and she felt no doubt of the terrible meaning of the
silence. Her sister jumped out of the parlour window, and, my mother
and servant following, fled up the dark street to Mr Meeking's, the
nearest friend in need. She fell on the high steps leading up to his
shop-door, and his little dog, rushing out, tore off her cap before
she could regain her feet. “Oh! Mr Meeking, Mr Meeking, my
children are both killed!” “Let's hope not, madam, let's
hope not,” and the worthy old man, with sons, staves, and
lanterns, hastened back with her to the scene of disaster, first, of
course, visiting our bedroom, where, holding a lantern at the foot of
the bed, “Nancy and Jenny” were seen sound asleep.
That was enough; and when they
had
searched in vain through all the upper rooms of the large house, they
began to smile at the alarm as one of imagination only, till entering
the kitchen a mound of bricks upon the floor, that had fallen down
the ample chimney, explained what had happened. The cracked grate
long remained to attest the peril.
But my father returned returned
with
sufficient employment in his art for months to come. Spring returned
also, the winter had passed, the rain was over and gone, the time of
the singing of birds was come, and my dear mother awoke to the
beauties that surrounded her. Not that the style of country was
particularly attractive. Suffolk, or at least that part of it, swells
into shoulders of heavy corn land, with little wood, and these
undulations shut out extensive prospects; a small river creeps dully
through a succession of quiet meadows, and I think it must be partly
owing to this tameness that a real taste for the country was not
sensibly awakened in me till ten or twelve years later in my history.
I can hardly otherwise account
for an
impression of gloom which, though it was seen under the sunlight of
childhood, still hangs over that Lavenham scenery. Enthusiasm
must have been enthusiastic to be kindled among those flat meadows
and cold slopes, with their drowsy river; but there might be other
causes that make me feel even now that to walk in broad daylight, but
alone, by that river's brink, or up the rugged “Clay Hill”
beyond, would try my nerves. I came to love the real country
afterwards, have long loved it, and have craved, perhaps, no earthly
blessing more than a home and a garden in the country, and happy
am I to say now, at sixty-two, that the delight derived from such
pleasures is still healthily vivid within me.
And, whatever the surrounding
country
might be, there was at Lavenham a large and beautiful garden. We
lived not in either of the big front parlours, but in a small
pleasant room opening into it. There my father's high desk, at which,
during his whole life, he stood, as the most healthy position, to
engrave, occupied the corner between the fire and a large
window; my mother sat on the opposite site, and we had our little
table and chairs between them. One wing of the premises seen from
this window was covered with a luxuriant tea tree,
drooping in long
branches, with its small purple flowers;
on a bed just opposite was a great cinnamon rose bush, covered with
bloom; a small grass plot lay immediately under the window, and
beyond were labyrinths of flowering shrubs, with such a bush of
honeysuckle as I scarcely remember to have seen anywhere. Then there
were beds of raspberries, gooseberries, and currants, espalier'd
walks, ample kitchen garden, walls and palings laden with fruit,
grass and gravel walks, a honeysuckle arbour, and an open seated
summer-house; flourishing standard fruit trees, and no end of flowers
and rustic garden seats all this world of vernal beauty, all to be
enjoyed only by stepping into it, won my mother's heart in this first
springtide out of London, and the country retained its hold on her
affections to the last. She never loved the town again, and entered
fully and for ever into the truth of those lines written long
afterwards by her little Jane,
Happy the
mother who her train can rear
Far 'mid its
breezy hills from year to year!
Here our habits and, to some
degree,
our tastes were formed, and here began our education. In that little
back parlour we were taught the formal rudiments, and in the garden
and elsewhere, constantly under the eye of our parents, we fell in
with more than is always included in the catalogue of school learning
at so much per quarter. Books were a staple commodity in the house.
From my mother's habit of reading aloud at breakfast and at tea, we
were always picking up something; to every conversation we were
auditors, and, I think, quiet ones, for, having no nursery, the
parlour would have been intolerable otherwise.
There was a large room adjoining,
having a glass door into it, and there, or in the garden, we were at
liberty to romp. A closet in this room was allowed us as a
baby-house, round the walls of which we arranged our toys, but I must
acknowledge that here we were not the aborigines, an interminable
race of black ants had taken previous possession, and we could only
share and share alike with them.
I do not know how far children so
completely invent little histories for ourselves as we did. We most
frequently personated two poor women making a hard shift to live; or
we were “aunt and niece”, Jane the latter and I the
former; or we acted a fiction entitled “the twin sisters”,
or another, the “two Miss Parks”. And we had, too, a
great taste for royalty, and were not a little intimate with various
members of the royal family. Even the two poor women, “Moll and
Bet”, were so exemplary in their management and industry as to
attract the notice of their Royal Highnesses the Princesses (“when
George the Third was King”.) When these two estimable cottagers
were the subject of our personation, we occupied (weather permitting)
either the summer-house or the ci-devant pig-sty. On the grassy
ascent upon which the summer-house stood, terminating the long walk,
the grass was mixed with a small plant, I fancy trefoil, but I have
never been botanist enough to know; however, its name to us was Bob,
why, I cannot imagine, unless from the supposed similarity of the
three letters to its three small leaves. This we used to gather for
winter food, (so hard bestead were we) and the seeds of the mallow we
called cheeses, and laid them up in store also. These were simple,
healthy, inexpensive toys and pleasures, and, having such resources
always at hand at home, and without excitements from abroad, we were
never burdensome with the teazing enquiry, “What shall we play
at? What shall we do?” Yet we had always assistance at hand if
needed. Both father and mother were accessible, and many a choice
entertainment did we owe to their patient contrivances. My father,
especially, was never weary of inventing, for our amusement or
instruction. I have still a little glass case containing a cottage
cut in cork, a few trees of moss, a piece of looking-glass for a
pond, a cork haystack, and so forth (a Suffolk idyll) which was one
of these productions. Another was a small grotto fitted up with spars
and minerals. But there was one of these home-made toys
which I can
hardly think of now without pleasure; it was a landscape painted on
cardboard, cut out and placed at different distances, through the
lanes of which, by means of a wire turning underneath, there slowly
wound a loaded waggon and other carriages; it was contained in a box
about seven inches by twelve, and two in depth, with a glass in
front. What became of this masterpiece of mechanism I do not know,
but it greatly delighted me, and I sometimes think that I owe to it
the pleasure I have felt up to this day at the sight of a tilted
waggon winding along a country road.
Of course my dear mother, with
health
never strong, and all the needlework of the household on her hands,
could not undertake our entire instruction. Reading, the Needle, and
the Catechism, we were taught by her, and as my father was constantly
engraving at the high desk in the same room, it was easy for him to
superintend the rest. We were never severely treated, though both my
parents were systematic disciplinarians. But I record one instance of
mistaken punishment only to show how possible it is, when a child is
confused or alarmed, for parents to fall into that error. It must
have been when I was very young, for it was owing to a supposed
obstinacy in not spelling the word thy. I had been told it
repeatedly, t-h-y, in the same lesson, still at the moment it every
time unaccountably slipped from the memory. My mother could only
attribute it to wilful perverseness, though I believe that was a
disposition I could not be charged with. She felt, however, so fully
persuaded that I knew, and would not say, that she proceeded to
corporal punishment, very rarely administered, but not so entirely
abandoned as is the fashion now; a fashion, as I conceive, not
countenanced either by reason or scripture, so long as the child is
so young as to be sensible to little beyond bodily pleasure and pain.
“He that spareth the rod hateth his child,” but the
proper season must be borne in mind. Wholly to withhold it in early
childhood, and to continue it when higher feelings might be appealed
to, are errors perhaps equally mischievous. Happy are they (and happy
theirs) who with a nice discernment pause at the moment when
affections and principles may be brought to bear.
The precise hours allotted to our
instruction I now forget, but they were regular, and regularly kept.
I remember pleading once in vain for some temporary deviation. We
breakfasted at eight, dined at half-past one, took tea at five; then
at eight we went to bed, and my father and mother supped at nine. On
Sundays, however, we were indulged to sit up to supper, a treat
indeed.
Of our Sunday habits I am
thankful to
remember that, though never gloomy, they were after the olden fashion
strict. It was a day unlike to other days, a feeling I should wish to
preserve as a perpetual safeguard. I will not say how much I was
profited by accompanying my father at seven o'clock on a winter's
morning, to the early prayer meeting, as I conclude, to be out of the
way during early duties at home. The only vivid recollection now in
my memory is of the astonishing noise made by the blower in raising
the vestry fire. This, with the assiduities of Mrs Snelling, the
pew-opener, had survived the friction of much more than
half-a-century. As Lavenham lies embedded in clay, and there was
neither paving nor lighting, Water Street, which frequently well
deserved its name, offered sometimes difficulties to Sunday
chapel-goers, and not a few of the gentlemen wore pattens. A massive
pair, belonging to our friend, Mr Watkinson, the tall, sedate,
immoveable man, never guilty, if he knew it, of saying or doing a
droll thing, was, when with his family he removed to America, given
by him to my father.
Occasionally, when my mother was
not
well enough to go from home on the Sunday, I have been left to stay
with her, and one of our quiet Sundays was signalized by an incident
that shook my nerves. She had fallen asleep in the little back
parlour, leaving me sole guardian of the premises. Suddenly I heard a
tremendous noise somewhere in the kitchen, a knocking and a battering
so long and loud, that nothing less than determined burglars could
account for. My mother was so poorly that I dared not wake her, and
even then so deaf that she did not hear the noise. With inexpressible
terror I listened and watched to see the ruffians either enter the
room or emerge from the back door into the garden, and, only eight or
nine years old as I might be, armed myself with the poker for the
worst. If I had not happened to catch sight of the culprit at the
precise moment of escape, the mystery might have remained to this day
unaccounted for. But I did; an immense dog issued suddenly with
prodigious speed from the back door with the remains of a large,
deep, stone milk-jar about his neck! Doubtless
a small quantity of
milk had been left at the bottom, the poor fellow had unwittingly
thrust in his nose, the neck was narrow, the milk beyond his
tongue-tip, he thrust, and thrust, till he found himself in dreadful
custody. Then began the sound that chilled my blood as he banged his
portable prison about the kitchen floor, till the bottom giving way,
he made use of recovered daylight, though still with a good portion
of the pot about his neck, and decamped through the garden, wearing,
to my astonished eyes, something like a close cottage bonnet. Whither
his terror carried him I never heard, though if he scampered through
the town in such a guise I think it would have made some stir.
And another Sunday afternoon had
its
terror. From my earliest childhood I had a nervous apprehension of
the sudden death of those about me, so that any inequality in the
breathing, if asleep, or anything unusual in appearance, excited my
alarm. This time, my father being slightly unwell, I was left at home
alone with him. For our mutual edification he read aloud Wilcox's
Sermons, not the liveliest volume in the world, and after a time I
perceived something very singular in his pronunciation and tone, a
confusion of syllables, a lengthening and a pause! I thought he was
going to die! He did not die, but soon safely recovered; yet it was
years afterwards that, recalling the symptoms of this appalling
seizure, the true character of it occurred to me, my good father had
been almost asleep!
I had always a conscience,
whether or
not enlightened, yet always a conscience, and especially with regard
to the Sabbath. One Sunday I was myself alone at home, from some
trifling ailment, and employed the morning in reading a little book
by the Rev. George Burder, containing the History of Master
Goodchild, and various other strictly Sunday readings. Towards
the end is the fable of the kite and the string, but this stopped me —
a fable might not belong to Sunday reading? and I left the
book open at the place, till my father returned from Meeting, to know
whether I might proceed. He silenced my apprehensions, while
approving the hesitation. I should prefer so to educate a child as
that his errors should always lean to the safer side. If
misconceptions cannot always be avoided, those which shall early
imbue his feelings with a reverence for the Sabbath are at least less
perilous in their tendencies than an over liberal view in the
opposite direction. I have, as before stated, no gloomy associations
with the Sundays of my childhood, but habits were then formed such as
afford a safe ground-work on which principle may build with
advantage.
The time at which I began to
string
my thoughts (if thoughts) into measure I cannot correctly ascertain.
It could not be after I was ten years old, and I think when only
seven or eight, and arising from a feeling of anxiety respecting my
mother's safety during illness. Not wishing (I conclude) to betray
myself by asking for paper at home, I purchased a sheet of foolscape
from my friend, Mr Meeking, and filled it with verses in metre
imitated from Dr Watts, at that time the only poet on my shelves.
What became of this effusion I do not know, but I should be glad to
exchange for it, if I could, any of my later ones:
Not
for its worth, we all agree,
But merely for its oddity,
as Swift says of learning in
ladies.
The earliest stanza that dwells
in my
memory, whether belonging to this production or not I cannot tell, is
the following:
Dark
and dismal was the weather,
Winter into horror grew;
Rain and snow came down together,
Everything was lost to view.
Certain it is, anyway, that from
about this date it became my perpetual amusement to scribble, and
some large literary projects occupied my reveries. A poetic rendering
of the fine moral history of Master Headstrong; a poem intended as
antecedent to the Illiad; a
new version of the Psalms; and an
argumentative reply to Winchester on Future Punishment, were
among these early projects, and more or less executed.
Though
from the result in
substantial
pecuniary benefit to ourselves (as much needed as unexpected),
together with, I venture to hope, some good to others, I have great
reason to be thankful for the habit thus contracted, yet I have
certainly suffered by allowing the small disposable time of my youth
to expend itself in writing rather than in reading. My mind was in
this way stinted by scanty food. Of that I am fully sensible, and
leave it as a warning to whomsoever it may concern. If I had not
breathed a tolerably healthy atmosphere it would have been lean
indeed. But there was always something to be imbibed; either from my
mother's reading at meals, or that in which we afterwards all took
turn in the workroom; from my father's untiring aptness to teach, his
regular habit of settling all questions by reference to authorities,
and the books that were always passing through the family. Wherever
my father moved there soon arose a book society, if there had not
been one before. One word, however, about the reading aloud at meals.
I believe my mother fostered thereby a habit of despatching hers too
quickly, by which her digestion was permanently injured; and, again,
it hindered our acquiring readiness in conversation. To listen, not
to talk, became so much a habit with us, as rather to impair fluency
of expression at least in speech.
Chapter
II. Domestic
Recollections. Lavenham, 1789-1795
Rural
Holidays — Castle Building — First Visit to London —
Artistic Work at Home —
Her Father's Dangerous Illness —
The New House — Youthful Gaities and Nervous Fears —
Political Disturbances — State of Religion — Her Father
enters the Nonconformist Ministry — Removal from Lavenham
The
simple ways in which my childhood walked.
. . . . . .
Fair
seed-time had my soul, and I grew up,
Fostered alike by beauty and
by fear.
Wordsworth
QUIET, and destitute of
amusement as Lavenham was, we yet had our holiday seasons and
pleasures, all in keeping with life in the country. In very fine
weather, the tea, or even dinner, in the garden, for which there was
a choice of spots whether in sunshine or in shade, was an occasion to
the children. But the great thing was a whole day's ramble, on what
would now be called a pic-nic excursion — father, mother,
children, and servants — my father with his pencil, my mother
with a book, the servant with provisions. And wherever there was a
cottage, a stump, or a tree, worth sketching, there we gathered round
him (those of us who did not prefer to hunt for violets), and my
mother read till the sketch was finished. Well I remember my father's
signal, for attracting our notice to any slip of the “picturesque”
that might catch his eye. “Lookye, lookye there?” It was
certainly not his fault if my love for it was not kindled so early as
might have been. Several drawings and small cards are still in my
possession, the result of these happy excursions.
But of all our rural holidays the
most exciting was an annual visit to Melford fair. Melford was,
perhaps is, a very pretty town of a single street, terminating at the
upper end in a large, open, and extremely pleasant green, with
respectable houses on one side, a fine old church at the top, and
fringed on the other by the park of Sir Harry Parker. On this green
was spread the fair, not, as my recollection serves, rude and
riotous, but attracting an assemblage of respectable country people
from several miles round. Yet the fair made but a part of the
pleasure, for on the return walk of about four miles was there not
tea at Mr and Mrs Blackadder's, a worthy couple, the perfect
personification of farmer and wife far up in Suffolk, say a hundred
years ago, for they were still quite of the olden times. Their little
homestead was the very centre of old-fashioned hospitality, and tea
from the best china in the best parlour was no small delight. Best
parlour, however, I should not call it, for the “House, or
houseplace” as it is called in Lincolnshire, on the other side
of the entrance, could not aspire to anything like so genteel a name.
There the “min” were admitted to regale themselves —
master and men together after their daily labour, unless there was
“company”. But of the parlour the great attraction for us
little girls was the mysterious weather-house on the mantlepiece,
from which, if fine weather was to be expected there turned out “a
full-dress” lady, or when storms, a gentleman. Home again, it
was a pleasant three miles summer evening walk, perhaps with
moonlight, all of the olden time! Once, Jane was retained for a few
days, a great treat for her, in the midst of farm occupations; but it
was with a dash of terror in the enjoyment, that she used to
accompany Johnny Underwood to collect the cows for milking.
Sometimes, but this was later, when my father's circumstances were
becoming easy, there was tea at the “Bull” at Melford,
and a drive home in a post-chaise, with its bob-up-and-down
postilion, the invariable vehicle for a party in those days. For the
clay-roads, however, and among the foot-deep ruts of Suffolk, a
lighter vehicle was in use called a “whiskey” or a
“quarter-cart”. This was constructed to run beside the
ruts, and the horse did not occupy the middle of either the carriage
or the road, but ran in shafts on one side, so as just to escape the
heavy dragging fissure made by the waggon-wheels. Now, so long as the
animal kept the track, and especially so long as the side on which he
ran did not suddenly sink, all was safe, the weight of the horse
counterbalancing the sway, but if suddenly raised on the opposite
side, horse and chaise would go over together. To drive a
“quarter-cart”, therefore, along a Suffolk road required
some skill, yet, my father, who had a regular engagement to supply
the drawings and engravings of the gentlemen's seats of the county,
for Gedge's Pocket-Book, published at Bury, drove continually in a
“quarter-cart” and never met with an accident.
On the 9th or 10th of October
(perhaps both), Lavenham Fair was held in the “market place,”
though it boasted no market. And on the 5th of November, Guy Fawkes
came out in all his glory. That night (if one may speak for another)
the excitement was intense. Exactly opposite our house was the
playground of Mr Blower's school, and it was a matter of moment to
ascertain whether the young gentlemen intended to make their annual
display of fireworks on the premises or in the market place. If the
former, we had an excellent view from our upper windows, alloyed by
only two circumstances; the one, that the principal front of all the
fireworks was directed towards a bevy of ladies assembled, for the
evening, in the gardens of the bachelor clergyman; we little people,
therefore, could only rejoice in the happy freedom of squibs,
sky-rockets, and Roman candles, which confessed neither law, limit,
nor politeness in their eccentricities. The other detraction from the
pleasures of the evening, consisted in the dark uninhabited
remoteness of the large chamber, from which we witnessed the
exhibition; a flight of dark stairs led up to it; a few pieces of
ambiguous lumber were its only furniture, and even by daylight, I did
not pass the foot of that flight without a response from my nerves.
But at night! It was only the fireworks in front, and papa and mamma
behind, that rendered it tenantable.
If, however, Mr Blower's young
gentlemen “let off” in the market place, the interest and
anxiety were greater still. We had then to be conveyed through
innumerable perils by our dear, careful father, to “Bob
Watson's”, a fat, good-natured hairdresser, from whose large
upper window the view was excellent — except, that again, as
fate would have it, the most brilliant Catherine wheels and every
determinable article were always set, would you believe it? —
opposite the house of Mr Brook Branwhite, who possessed a numerous
family of unmarried daughters! Nay, the two young doctors, brothers,
usually known as Dr Tom and Dr John, displayed exactly the same
perversenesss, calculating all their effects for the same
bay-windows! very provoking, but historians must be faithful.
These brothers, Dr Tom and Dr
John,
carried on the various departments of the medical profession for
miles round Lavenham, and lived together in the same house, but,
according to popular report, without ever speaking to each other! The
patients, however, were never interchangeable. We belonged to Dr Tom,
the youngest, a handsome man, who, as surgeon in the militia,
sometimes quickened the pulses of little patients by appearing in the
uniform of his regiment. For myself, he won my heart by the gift, one
day, of a most diminutive pill box, a real original Dutch-made wooden
pill box — not one of the paper substitutes to which we were
condemned when the trade with Holland was broken up by the French
war, and with which the country has remained apparently satisfied
ever since — cured or killed, as before!
I have hesitated whether to give
the
local colloquial appellation of “Bob Watson” and others,
but I am amused (as, perhaps, you may be) at the extent to which this
homeliness of style was then and there carried. Whether from the
seclusion of the place or the distance of the period, most of our
poorer neighbours were always so spoken of: taking the cottages, as
they stood nearest to us, there was Poll Porter, and Bet Carter, and
Bob Nunn, Billy Joslin, and Sam Snell. Wishing, as far as I can, to
photograph both place and period, this homeliness cannot be excluded.
Be it remembered that it was as far back as 1786 that the sun first
shone on Lavenham for me. Such as it was then, I give it you, and
pleasant it was on a summer's afternoon to see the street lined with
spinning wheels (not spinning-jennies, but Jennies spinning);
everywhere without, the whiz of the wheels, and within, the scrape of
the shuttle, the clatter and thump of the loom at which the men were
at work. Picturesqueness was got out of it
all, if not gold.
Upon “Bob Nunn”, a
journeyman carpenter, I remember to have expended much compassion and
worlds of contrivance, by which he was never benefited. Very early, I
took to castle building, and the desolate condition of this poor man
laid the first stone, as far as I can remember, of these aerial
edifices. He was one of the ugliest, dirtiest, and most forlorn
looking persons I can call to mind; but withal, reputed industrious
and honest, so that his misery must have sprung from an indolent,
ragged, offensive, dawdle of a wife. His mud cottage, with its mud
floor, and wretched destitution, were the pity of the neighbourhood.
It was, therefore, a favourite speculation of mine to take him in
hand, and, in some way, ridding him of his female incumbrance, I
conferred upon him the advantages which industry and honesty ought to
secure; in fact, I made a new man of him. This was one of my castles,
and for years, I can assure you, they were of the most benevolent and
even patriotic character. I had another protégé. Billy
Joslin was, by trade, a hand weaver, with a wife, a clever
char-woman, perhaps of doubtful integrity, but occasionally employed
in our service. He was a member of our church, had a large family,
and was worthy enough, and poor enough, to become a recipient of my
bounties. For this family, I did wonders. There was a house on the
common, shaded by two fine trees, which, repaired and white-washed,
would be very pretty; this, therefore, I mentally repaired and
white-washed accordingly, and next, provided the family with suitable
clothing, determining the number and patterns of every article, being
greatly indebted for the colours of the little frocks required, to
the diligent study of the patchwork quilt under which I slept —
or should have slept, when these perplexing cares sometimes engaged
me. Having thus made full preparation, I enjoyed the satisfaction of
breaking to them the singular secret; when, having them all clean and
dressed, I took them in procession, two and two, to their new
habitation, where, I have no doubt, that I supplied any deficiency in
their means of subsistence.
I believe that all this good was
done
before I was twelve years old — perhaps I should rather say all
this evil! For what a ruinous pre-occupation of mind does it imply?
The habit itself, whatever be its object, is so grievously injurious,
that I would leave it, stamped with double earnestness, as a charge
to my children and to theirs, never to indulge in it; the best way
being never to begin. How must they be characterised, who, passing
like shadows only, among the realities of living duty, inhabit
hourly, daily, and for years, a world of imagined interests, wasting
mental vigour upon exertions never made, and dimming common comforts
by an ever-hovering mist of vain imaginings!
When, during my youth, something
like
religious impression was made upon my mind, I felt the disadvantage,
was convinced of the sin, and made severe struggles to disentangle
myself from the snare in which for so many years I had been a
prisoner. And for a time, I think a considerable time, I sustained
the resolve; but at length a small circumstance, nothing more than
having to copy a beautiful landscape, carried me over again into
fairy land, and led my musings into the seductive regions from which,
as I thought, I had escaped. It had its day — a
day too long —
but eventually the realities of life made forcible entrance; though
duty itself has sometimes had to pioneer its way over the rough roots
and broken stems of an imperfectly cleared wilderness. Oh, my foolish
heart, what hast thou to say to such a retrospect!
We had been in the country about
three years, when my mother's yearnings to see her family and friends
in London were brought to a point by the expected visit of the king
(George III) to St Paul's, to return thanks for his recovery from
mental illness; a scene of excitement little calculated to continue a
sane condition, but there was probably some unacknowledged political
reason for amusing the public by the fearful venture. Among the
thousands who on that occasion flocked to the metropolis were my
mother and her two little girls. I was then, June 1789, somewhat more
than seven, and Jane not quite six years old. We were to travel by
the Bury coach, which passed through Sudbury, seven miles distant, as
early as seven in the morning on its road to London. Between one and
two, therefore, that summer morning we left our beds in order to
start by “Billy East”, by which must be understood the
postman's cart. Loaded, and covered in as we were, behind our single
Rosinante, I soon began to feel very sick; and being asked how I was,
replied, “I am inclined for what I have no inclination to.”
That I should have borne this early sprout of the pun in mind for
much more than half a century, seems something like a waste of
memory, does it not? Yet, if in my wisdom I were to try and forget it
now, I daresay I should not be able. My father accompanied us to
Sudbury, then returning to his high desk, and the sole companionship
of his promising little boy, Isaac, third of his name, my still
living and well-known brother. He was at his birth (1787) a
remarkably fine child, as is fully attested by a sketch taken of him
when less than twenty-four hours old, by my father; but he began
immediately to pine, his death at one time was hourly expected, and a
glass held over his mouth alone detected his breathing. In this state
Mrs Perry Branwhite insisted upon taking him to a wet-nurse, a young
woman of nineteen, and the change for life was almost instantaneous.
He was thenceforward carried daily to “Nanny Keble”,
of
whom there is a small portrait, painted as a gleaner, at Stanford
Rivers.
For size and beauty as a child he became after
this almost proverbial. Martin, born fourteen months afterwards, was
also placed out with her, and Isaac, therefore, was the only one left
at home when we set out for London.
Of London, and its brilliant
doings,
I can recall but here and there a shred. We had friends in Fleet
Street, on the left hand side, looking up to St Paul's, and there we
were to take our stations. A better position could scarcely have been
selected from which to witness the cavalcade. We went to the house at
five in the morning of the 25th of June, the room, a first floor,
being fitted up with seats rising from the windows a considerable
height behind, but we as little folks were happily placed in front.
There we waited, oh, so long! There was amusement, however, in
watching the throngs below less fortunate than ourselves, and the
ladies in the room, many in full dress with their hair curled and
powdered, and head-dresses adorned with white ribbons carrying in
gold letters the words, “God save the king.” At length,
towards noon, the splendid pageant arrived, and fortunately for us a
carriage with several of the princesses was detained a considerable
time under our windows. They were dressed in white, and some sort of
golden ornament lay in the lap of one of them. Poor things! I have
thought since, for the lot of English princesses has not always been
enviable. So the cavalcade passes into the mists of memory, which
refuses to produce more of that long forgotten day.
The evening of the following day
London was splendidly illuminated. We children saw a little of it in
Holborn, but my poor mother was induced reluctantly to accompany a
party to the India House, which was reported particularly brilliant,
and from that night dated much of her after life of suffering Whether
from fear of fire, or some local accident, the plugs in that
neighbourhood were up and the streets under water, while, to make
matters worse, in the midst of the overwhelming crowd both my
mother's shoes were trodden off. Many others it seems were equally
unfortunate, for in the course of the night, she met a woman with a
barrowful of lost shoes, amongst which she had the strange luck to
pick out first one, and then the other of her own! The cold thus
taken, however, became so threatening that my father was summoned to
town, and though she recovered the immediate effects, her health was
never sound afterwards.
Among the few additional
circumstances which I retain of this excursion is a visit to
Kensington, to see that James Martin (my mother's uncle), of whose
conduct to his aged father you have heard me speak.
Yes, and my terror at passing a door in my uncle
Charles Taylor's house, leading to a room, as I was told, full of
“dead men's arms and legs”, a terror which scarcely
yielded to the information, afterwards obtained, that it was only a
depositary for plaster casts. The “dead men's legs”
continued to speed after me, notwithstanding.
My mother having sufficiently
recovered, we again left London for our pleasant country home, to her
with feelings how different from those under which she first entered
it! It was now a home, and with the prospect of more than comfort.
The work, to complete which in cheap retirement my father had quitted
London, was a set of plates to an edition of Shakespeare, published
by his brother Charles. These had been so well executed as to
establish his reputation as an artist. about this time projected
what was to be a great national work,
calculated to give employment for many years to the first talent in
the country, both in painting and engraving. All the artists of note
were engaged to furnish pictures in oil, most of them illustrative of
Shakespeare, and all the engravers followed in their wake. Upon my
father showing to Mr Boydell some specimen plates
of his small
Shakespeare,
he was immediately entrusted with a large plate (measuring about 24
inches by 18), the subject being the death of David Rizzio by Opie. For this engraving, an immense advance upon
anything he had done
before, my father was to receive 250 guineas. I have heard it said
that the painter having some cause of pique against Dr Walcot, the
notorious Peter
Pindar of the day, introduced his portrait as the
principal assassin. It is possible that Peter in some of his satires
may have justly incurred the rebuke.
I have heard my dear father say
with
what a pang of depression and anxiety he contemplated so large an
undertaking, which must be carried through with his own solitary
hand, and upon which so much of the well-being of his family was
suspended. But his was not the heart to cower before difficulties.
Hope, faith, activity, patience, cheerfulness — what a train of
angel helpers! — were at his side, and to it he went. The work
was admirably executed, though not without difficulties. It was
necessary to send the plate frequently to London for proofs, and at
every such time the painter revised it, suggesting alterations of
effect by black and white chalk. Who but an engraver knows the
doleful meaning of a “touched proof”? An alteration
freely made while the painter could count ten, might cost the
engraver more, probably, than as many days, or even weeks to that
effect. However, the plate was entirely successful, and being exhibited at the Society of Arts in the
Adelphi, obtained the gold
medal, and a premium of ten guineas, as the best engraving of the
year.
My father was now loaded with
commissions, and the large parlour which, unoccupied, had been our
play-room, became the centre of attraction to the neighbourhood. “The
Pictures at Mr Taylor's” became the lions of Lavenham. One of
them, a noble picture by Stothard — the first interview between
Henry the VIII and Ann Boleyn — contained sixteen figures,
rather larger than life, so that it filled the side of the room. A
beautiful one by Hamilton, about eight feet by six, represented the
separation of Edwy and Elgiva. That of Jacques and the wounded deer
was of the same size, with many others. For engraving the Ann Boleyn
the price was 500 guineas. It was now necessary to take apprentices,
and two were engaged, one of whom, Nathan Branwhite, the eldest son
of the schoolmaster, afterwards became an artist of repute. Both
lived in the town, and did not, therefore, intrude on the comfort of
the fireside, to which my father and mother would not willingly have
submitted. Another room, however, was fitted up as a workroom, to
which my father's high desk was removed; and, as various smaller
works were in hand at the time, a printing press was procured for
“proving”, and a young woman, glad to earn a few
shillings apart from the spinning wheel, was instructed to work it;
the building intended for a brewhouse being converted into a printing
office for the purpose.
A course of easy prosperity
appeared
likely now to reward my father's industry; but an immediate
difficulty arose from the fact that our pleasant house was required
by its owner, the Rev. William Cooke, and enquiry in every
direction
for another was made without success. After much anxiety it was found
necessary to purchase one close by, having ground sufficient for a
garden, and with three cottages adjoining. It was in ruinous
condition. For the entire property the purchase-money was £250,
and it was to cost £250 more to render it habitable.
This work, now commenced,
therefore,
and with all the pleasure that a thorough contriver, architect, and
gardener, such as my father by nature was, could not but feel in the
seducing business of brick and mortar, paint and paper, grass and
gravel. Time, thought, ingenuity, and hope were occupied to his
heart's content. Here, in a home of his own, contrived in every
particular on his own ideas of convenience and comfort, and with a
large garden laid out to his own taste, he hoped to rear his family,
and spend his life. But a cloud the size of a man's hand was in the
sky.
On the 30th of October in this
year,
1792, your Uncle Jefferys was born. Nanny
Keble was then out of date,
and the infant was consigned to the care of nurse Hunt, a very clean
cottager living up an entry in the High Street, but open to the
country behind. He was about six weeks old, when my father started on
one of his annual journeys for the Pocket-Book. As usual it
was in a “quarter-cart”, and this time as far as Thetford
in Norfolk. The season was advanced, it came on continued rain, and
having no shelter, he returned with a severe cold, and
rheumatic-fever ensued. It was the commencement of a time of trial,
not perhaps exceeded by any of the subsequent afflictions of my
mother's life. For three months he was confined helpless, and almost
hopeless, to his bed. Very soon it was requisite to stop the workmen
at the other house, which, close in view of the room in which my
father lay, was a sight of agony to my poor mother; it stood
dismantled and desolate, and with every probability that it would
never be inhabited by him.
On my father's personal
exertions
depended our entire provision. Nothing had as yet been realised
beyond what was required for the purchase of the house. Two
apprentices, not sufficiently advanced to do anything but of the
humblest order, were left unemployed. The four children at home, the
eldest not eleven, the youngest only four years old, were left to the
tender mercies of a kitchen, full of the helps and sitters-up that
disorganise a house on such occasions; while my mother, weak from her
recent confinement, stricken in her tenderest affections, giving up
in one desperate abandonment every care of which her husband was not
the object, confined herself night and day with little sleep or food
to his bedside. What it cost her to give up her children none can
estimate who did not know the depth of tenderness with which, till
then, she had devoted herself to our interests. It was sorrow indeed!
I have wondered since that I was
not
admitted to render more assistance than I recollect was the case, but
I suspect the typhoid form, which I believe the disease assumed,
prevented this. I remember well the forlorn foreboding that was
continually upon me, for, though I was not told my papa was dying,
yet the daily visits of the Lavenham doctor, then those of Dr Drake
of Hadleigh, and at last the summons of Dr Norford from Bury, told me
of the danger; and when on the Christmas morning I awoke and heard
the bells, my first fear was that they were tolling for his death.
But on Christmas-eve a special prayer-meeting was held in behalf of
him of whose recovery little hope was left, and he was restored, as
it seemed, at the supplication of the sympathizing Christian friends
who then assembled. On the same dreary evening, Dr Norford at his
bedside, after fixing his eyes upon him, and apparently with deep
attention watching his pulse for a long time, my mother
breathless on his eyes and lips, said cheerfully: “Well,
sir, you are not a dying man to-night.” Oh! the moments of
intense joy that sometimes sparkle like stars in the midst of
trouble! No seasons of what is called happiness are half so
delightful. It was a mournful circumstance that within a month of
this visit when Dr Norford's words brought life to the household, he
was himself removed by sudden death.
It was at the most alarming
period of
my father's terrible illness that the mind of my dear mother seemed
on a sudden to give way. She had done and borne everything with
indefatigable patience and energy; a single egg in the day was for a
length of time all the sustenance she could take; she never left the
room, and committed the personal attendance requisite to no other
hand; but on one of those gloomy winter days she was suddenly
missing. The alarm of the whole house was very great. Mr Hickman was
sent for, and at length she was found alone in the solitary meadows,
walking on the brink of that dull river. He soothed and brought her
home, but for an hour or two she did not seem aware of the
circumstances. She presently entirely recovered, and never sank
afterwards.
So at last the winter of sorrow,
deeper and more gloomy than that of the season, began to break up.
Relapse, it is true, came upon relapse, and I well remember the
undefined terror with which, from time to time, I heard that word,
but still our dear father was evidently recovering. With spring came
hope and glimpses of happiness, and at last the workmen were summoned
to the abandoned house again. After five month's confinement, my
father once more appeared amongst us. There were large bills to pay —
besides physician's fees, £30 to the surgeon, the cost of a
bushel of phials left as perquisites on our hands — innumerable
derangements to rectify, anxious work to resume, and strength wasted
all but to the grave to recover; but, nothing dismayed, he took his
place among various and pressing duties, with thankfulness, faith,
and hope.
At the mid-summer of 1793 our new
house was deemed habitable, and thither, as to a new life, we were
delighted to remove. By his unfailing contrivance, the house was made
to suit us exactly, and the garden, beautiful and pleasant, to our
heart's desire. The best parlour (a “drawing-room” was
not then known in Lavenham), till a little of the pecuniary pressure
was worked down, was left unfurnished at the disposal of “Ann
and Jane” to whip their tops in, but the common parlour was as
pretty and comfortable as it could be, with a door and a large bay
window into the garden, and a sliding panel for convenient
communication with the kitchen. China closets and store closets
were large and commodious; all was so convenient, so contrived for
the comfort of every day, that to live and die there was the
reasonable hope, as it was the highest ambition, of my parents. The
garden, too, was an especially nice one. Happily there were several
well-grown trees already on the ground, and a trellis arbour covered
with honeysuckle, stood on a rising ground underneath a picturesque
old pear tree. Then there was a long shrubbery walk, and an exit by a
white gate and rails to the common. A poultry yard, containing
sometimes seventy fowls of different sorts was on the premises
behind, and an excavated and paved pond for ducks.
To this agreeable residence,
however,
my mother carried a state of health, which effectually prevented her
from enjoying it. Doubtless the demands made on both mind and body
during my father's illness conduced to this result. But so it is,
that in various ways it almost uniformly happens that the entrance
upon any scene from which much has been anticipated is spoiled. The
thorns and briars threatened as the spontaneous growth of a
sin-smitten world seem here to be planted thickly, and with clear
design to obstruct the path. Yet, though assisted by these constantly
recurring intimations, how long it is before we learn effectually, if
ever, that the next projected change — the home we have selected
and furnished for ourselves — does not contain a single element of
substantial happiness; that it is not fitted to be our rest;
that it might be a greater curse than any other if we could
contentedly feel it to be such! Perhaps in time, after numerous
disappointments, we begin to spell out the meaning, to regard the
future with chastened expectation, and to enjoy with more sobriety
the comforts that are vouchsafed to us. Happy if such is the result
rather than a dull unthankful impatience.
But even if no obvious
interference
occurs with our designs, yet to every spot whither we go we carry
ourselves, and with ourselves the root of evil. An
ill-governed mind, and may we not say that every mind is more or less
so? cannot be entirely happy anywhere, and blessed is he who can
honestly say, “I have learned in whatsoever state I am to be
therewith content.” Till then,
Tis but a
poor relief we gain,
To change the place and keep the pain.
But even the Christian heart,
controlled and regulated as in some degree it is, needs the constant
memento. Some bitter must needs be infused into every cup of
enjoyment in order to sustain in the spirit the recollection of its
true character. There is but one remove respecting which a hope
without alloy may be safely indulged, if even this always safely.
The scene of comfort with the
prospect of temporal prosperity now before us, was such as fully to
meet the quiet ambition of my parents. I sometimes heard their
speculations for the future, but a change of style was not
among them. Would that such were now the spirit of the times! To live
as they were, but without anxiety, and to command all that was needed
for the education of their children, formed the limit of their
wishes. Yet, even in such a secluded sphere, we were not quite secure
from moral hazards.
Our nearest neighbour was the
Rev. W.
Cooke, whose tenants we had recently been, and with his daughter, a
sweet and beautiful girl of our own age, we became acquainted at the
dancing school, the pupils of which consisted, besides ourselves, of
the younger Watkinsons, and a selection from the young gentlemen of
the school opposite. Our fat dancing-master — for light as
might be his professional step, his reputed weight was eighteen stone —
came over weekly from Bury to a room at the Swan Inn, and it
has been no small pleasure to me to meet in after years with one of
my dancing partners of those days, in General Addison, belonging to a
Sudbury family of Nonconformists, and who showed himself to the last
not ashamed of his colours. With the Cooke's we were soon at home. He
was quite a clergyman of the old style, — slender in make,
courtly in manners, his wife something between a fashionable and a
motherly woman. The Favells, mother and daughter, generally resided
with them, and during vacations young Favell, a gay good-natured
Cambridge-man, fuller of amusing tricks than of qualifications for
the clerical profession, for which he was training. In this family,
while the elders took their evening game at cards, the children
amused themselves with an old pack in the corner, and I became
exceedingly fond of the diversion. About the same time an elderly
lady, a relative of my mother, whose sources of amusement lay in
narrow compass, visited us, and we were allowed to borrow a pack of
cards for her entertainment. They were returned as soon as she left,
not without urgent entreaty on our part that we might have a pack of
our own. My wise father firmly refused. He believed in the “stitch
in time”.
Bury St. Edmunds fair, was a mart
for
all the surrounding country. There, not “dresses” but
“gowns” were bought, destined not for the dressmaker, but
the “mantua-maker.” Prints of 3s 6d per yard, calendered,
as we now do our chintzes and curtains, made handsome “gowns”
for a married lady, a square neck-handkerchief of book muslin, duly
clear-starched, being pinned over the dress. It was one of our Autumn
holidays to drive over in a post-chaise and spend a day at Bury fair,
making necessary purchases. There our winter clothing, as well as my
first wax doll, were bought. On one occasion when, after dining at an
inn, our chaise was ordered for the return, troops of enviable
holiday-makers were flocking into the theatre opposite. We were
urgent again, “just for once”, but again my father
refused. In these cases the narrow end of the wedge may have been in
his mind, and the remembrance may be worth preserving.
At the Watkinsons', grave people
as
they were, there were Christmas dances, and of course at the Cookes',
but to these we were too young to be invited.
On one occasion, however, we were
allowed, under my mother's wing, to go to what was called a dance. It
was at a farm house, to the family of which we had been introduced
under circumstances illustrating the habits of the place and time.
The small-pox was not allowed to make its appearance within an
inhabited district. A singularly deplorable building, at a short
distance on the road to Bury, was appropriated to the reception of
cases occurring among the poor of Lavenham; nor shall I forget the
feeling of mingled terror and mystery with which we regarded it, if
ever we passed within sight of this forlorn receptacle of disease and
misery. But from the same rule, when respectable families had
resolved on innoculation, it was necessary to take lodgings for the
purpose at a distance from the town. Mr Coe, of the farm house
referred to, was about to innoculate his own family, and it was
decided that my mother and I should remove thither, in charge of my
three young brothers, that they might submit to the anxious process.
(My sister and I had passed favourably through it in London.) As none
throughout the household were seriously ill, the sojourn amongst them
was more of a holiday than anything else; and now at Christmas we
were invited to the dance, where no less than sixty rural belles and
beaux assembled. The chamber of arrival was thickly strewn with curl
papers, my own hair was dressed as a wig two or three inches deep,
hanging far down the back, and covering the shoulders from side to
side, a singular fashion which I have lived to see re-appear among my
grandchildren. Perhaps I had better confess that, though having
learned to dance, an advantage not general to the company, I might
have expected some appreciation as a partner, the full-formed easy
figures, glowing complexions, and merry eyes of the farmer's
daughters, were undeniably more in request. There was one among them
that, if my impressions are correct, was in all respects the most
beautiful young woman I have ever seen. I am now in my eightieth
year, where is she? Her history, whatever it has been, we may be
almost sure is closed. To me it is very impressive to review the
associates of my childhood with the thought — still existing,
gone somewhere, but whither?
I have frequently adverted to a
nervousness of imagination, from which, indeed, I have suffered
through life. The mention of Hadleigh, the residence of Dr Drake, of
literary celebrity, recalls to my mind a torment of my childhood,
with which one of the martyr-worthies of the reign of Queen Mary, Dr
Rowland Taylor, who was rector of that place, had some connection.
Low, sloping hills rise on almost every side of Hadleigh, and from
their summits may be seen the winding river, the green meadows, the
substantial bridge, and the ancient houses of the town; a steep lane,
between banks, leads up to Oldham Common, where an old rude stone
bears this inscription:
1555
DR.
TAYLOR,
Defending that was goode,
At this place left his Blode.
He had been taken to London and
imprisoned in the Compter. After degradation by Bishop
Bonner, and an
affecting interview that evening with his wife and children, the
sheriff and his officers led him forth in total darkness, for it was
two o'clock on the morning of the 6th of February, to the Woolsack
Inn in Aldgate, “but” — here I quote from a brief
biography — “as he passes through St. Botolph's
Churchyard, his wife and two little girls are waiting, shivering with
cold. They spring out to meet him, and they four kneel down to pray
for the last time. He gives them parting counsel and his blessing,
kisses his children and his wife, and the brave woman says, ‘God
be with thee, dear husband, I will, by God's grace, meet thee at
Hadleigh’. At this spectacle the sheriff weeps, and the
officers, strong men as they are, are bowed down. And now, committed
to the custody of the sheriff of Essex, and guarded by yeomen and
officers, the prisoner is placed on horseback, and the cavalcade
moves on to Brentwood, to Chelmsford, and so to Lavenham. Two days
are spent at Lavenham, the last halting-place. Many gentlemen
assemble there and try to turn him to Popery. Pardon, preferment,
even a bishopric are offered him, but all in vain.” And so he
passes on to Oldham Common, but a few miles off, is chained to the
stake, and breathes out his last words amidst the flames, ‘Father,
for Jesus’ sake, receive my soul’.”
Familiar with this mournful
narrative, a nervous terror fell upon me whenever I had to pass the
old brick building in which Dr Taylor was said to have been confined.
It stood at some distance behind a wall, so that I could see little
of it except the upper storey — in my time, I fancy, a hay
loft. In this was an opening, not exactly a window, but an orifice
closed by shutters of time — blackened boards, sometimes left
open, and disclosing a dark unknown — the very chamber,
as I either heard or supposed, in which the martyr had been immured!
Whenever I had to pass this haunted spot alone, I well remember that
I always ran. You will wonder that I have not been frightened
to death long ago. You will understand, at least, why I so regularly
refuse to listen to a ghost story.
We had, in our new house, a large
room, running the entire length of one part of the building, this was
appropriated to business. My father's high desk was placed at the
upper end; a row of windows facing the yard, was occupied by the
apprentices, and another, overlooking the garden, was filled by the
children pursuing their education, with whom, two or three times a
week, were associated some of the juniors of the Watkinson family, to
share advantages which were now well understood by our neighbours.
One young lady became an inmate for a time, who was endeavouring to
learn the art of Engraving, to which, however, neither her taste nor
her health proved equal. Another addition, too, was made about this
time, in a Mrs Salmon, a sister of the Dr Norford who has been
mentioned, Her history was singular and mournful. Early in life, she
had been on the stage, had married an officer, and accompanied him to
America during the war there; she was now a widow, in nearly
destitute circumstances, and having been brought through accumulated
trials to her “right mind”, had fallen, in some way,
among the Christian people at Lavenham. My father and mother, much
interested in her condition, offered her a temporary home under their
roof, and her lively manners and variety of anecdote, rendered her a
not undesirable guest. Our house was thus a scene of active and
intelligent industry, and our circle not wanting in diversity of
interest, yet notwithstanding our numerous household (to which Nathan
Branwhite was now added), we never kept more than one servant!
Incredible, and therefore impossible it would be thought now, yet the
home of my childhood was not disorderly. We were always punctual as
to time as well as early, in part, perhaps, the secret of this
creditable state of things; and though, during the ten years at
Lavenham, we had our share of indifferent or unworthy servants, we
had the good fortune to have, at least, two who deserved the
favourable mention of them by my mother, in her Present to a Young
Servant, under the names of Susan Gardener and Sarah Leven; both
remained with us till they married, and the latter came occasionally
afterwards. Needlework was never put out, but the abundant ornament
now thought necessary for children, was happily not thought so then.
My mother used to say that “a child is pretty enough without
trimmings”.
Yet, with all this activity, my
mother suffered constant pain, and at this time, though drives two or
three times a week were recommended, the jolt over a small stone in
the road was almost more than she could bear. It was determined,
therefore, that leaving Mrs Salmon to act as housekeeper, she should
visit London, and take the best advice there. My father, mother, and
I, then twelve years old, made up the party, and remained in lodgings
at Islington about a month. She derived, however, little benefit from
the treatment prescribed. But it was at this time that I was first
introduced to the valued friends of my youth, Susan and Luck Conder,
the only surviving children of Mr S. Conder of Clapton. A distance of
more than half a century, and half the globe, has not yet severed
associations then formed. Their father and mother, even before their
marriage, had been the friends of both my parents, and it gives me
pleasure to feel that the entail has not yet been cut off. The
changes of situation, and too often of feeling which frequently
terminate early friendships, are, to me, peculiarly painful to
contemplate. It is true that, in many instances, the local
associations of childhood and youth are better dropped than
continued; moral differences may widen, and tastes so opposite may
develope themselves, that continued intimacy might be as burdensome
as dangerous. But where it is only that one party has been fortunate,
the other unfortunate, the separation is mournful indeed. How much
more so when the inequality divides the brothers and sisters of the
same nursery!
I please myself in the belief
that,
among you, dear children, there is a feeling too deeply fraternal and
sisterly to fear much from the blights of time or circumstance.
Still, who shall predict the irritations, supposed or actual wrongs,
which, as life sweeps roughly over you, may interrupt the harmony!
“The mother of mischief is no bigger than a midge's wing,”
and, as in a sea bank, you would dread a fissure, however small, rid
yourselves with loving ingenuity, speed, or sacrifice, of the first
feeling of suspicion, of jealousy, or any of the thousand wedges, hot
from a forge below, by which hearts and families are sundered —
above all, dreading the “wedge of gold”. Ah, I cannot
help pausing over the bitter possibility, and by all the tenderness
that consecrates a voice from the grave, would entreat you not to
allow a breach to commence. Will circumstances never arise to try the
elasticity of affection? strange if they do not! But are you obliged
to succumb to them? No, you were born probationers. Life is but one
advancing trial; the best of its possessions have to be paid for —
some by industry, privation, suffering; others, and the best of all,
by forbearance, self-control, self-denial; by the reflections and
resolves of a rational and Christian mind. Habituate yourselves to
realise the feelings natural to those around you, and deal as
tenderly with them as with your own. Above all, and may that be the
master key to all your hearts, “Be tender, be pitiful,
forgiving one another, even as God for Christ's sake has forgiven
you.” So prays your mother, living and amongst you, so, with
intensity of emphasis, would she pray, if allowed to address you from
her final resting-place.
But to return to Lavenham. A
change
of weather was in the sky, and it blew from different quarters. The
Revolution in France had produced, in England, universal ferment, and
with it, fear. Parties in every nook and corner of the country
bristled into enmity, and the dissenters, always regarded as the
friends of liberty, fell under the fury of toryism, exploding from
the corrupt under-masses of what, in many places, was an all but
heathen population. “No Press, no Press,” meaning no
Presbyterians, was the watchword of even our quiet town. Troops of
ill-disposed, disorderly people often paraded the streets with this
hue-and-cry, halting, especially, at the houses of known and leading
dissenters. On one occasion, as has been related, both in my sister's
Life and in my brother's Recollections, our house was
only saved from wreck by the appearance of our clerical neighbour, Mr
Cooke, at his door, with a request to the vagabond concourse to pass
on, but the credit of which interference he entirely disclaimed to my
father when he went to thank him the next day, coolly giving as his
reason that Mrs Cooke's sister was unwell at the time, and the
disturbance might have been injurious to her.
And it was not from an ignorant
populace only that danger was to be apprehended. A system of
oppression and espionage was adopted, which threatened to violate the
free privacies of life. No one felt safe in expressing a political
opinion, even at his own table, if a servant stood behind his chair.
The shades of Muir and Palmer
raised a warning finger in even the least
suspecting companies. The safeguards of Habeas Corpus were removed,
and the counsel once given, “let them that are in Judea flee
unto the mountains”, seemed fearfully appropriate to the day.
America was the home of safety to which all who could emigrate began
to cast a longing eye, and under the conviction that England would
become less and less of a mother country to her children, our friend,
Mr Watkinson, to the inexpressible regret and loss of the circle with
which he was connected, announced his intention of transplanting his
family to that land of liberty. Of Mr Watkinson's twelve children,
one daughter had married a gentleman holding a farm not far from
Lavenham, and not only did they consent to share the removal, but
others, to the number of sixty in the neighbourhood, took advantage
of the convoy, and left at the same time.
It was the first serious breach
upon
the prosperity of our little church, and it was speedily followed by
another. This was in 1794, when “Ann and Jane” were
respectively twelve and eleven years of age; yet the correspondence
was kept up with their friends across the water, till the death of
Jane Taylor in 1824, broke one link of the friendship, and that of
Ann Watkinson in 1835, the other.
Though Mr Watkinson was eminently
the
wealthy man of the congregation, my father was the friend from whom,
when quarter day did not come quite soon enough, the minister was
accustomed to borrow. If in need of temporary assistance in this way,
Mr Hickman would come into the workroom, and exhibit five or ten
fingers on the edge of my father's desk, when the dumb show would be
adroitly responded to without exposing the business to children,
apprentices, or standers by. My father and mother made early
confidants of us in their own affairs, but they held it to be
neither kind nor wise to be equally frank with the affairs of others.
Our children they thought are not their children, and
this to them makes all the difference. My mother had a truly
Christian delicacy in these respects, and used frequently to say,
“People excuse themselves by saying, it was only my husband,
only my child, to whom I told it; but unless it were your
husband, or your child, this renders it not a whit more
agreeable to the confiding friend.” My mother, who was anything
but reserved, made a strong distinction between concerns simply her
own, and those with which she might be entrusted.
Let me add a word upon this.
There
are two things in our intercourse with society which it behoves us to
keep in mind: one is, that a burdened spirit in the relief afforded
by communication and sympathy is sometimes led into disclosures which
may afterwards be sorely regretted. It should be felt binding,
therefore, on the honour of the receiver to hold sacred even an
implied confidence. Many little occasions may arise trying to this
integrity of friendship; but they are moments of temptation. Remember
that for the short-lived pleasure of telling, you barter the
approval of your own heart, and forfeit, it if come to light, the
confiding esteem of your friend. Remember, too, that once told,
neither skill nor regret can recall the wrong. The thing is known,
will always be known, and unless others have more delicacy than
yourself, it will also spread. The other point refers to such a case
as this: you have come into possession of some scandal, by which the
standing of persons within your circle is irrecoverably lowered,
though it may have occurred early in life, or been followed by a
complete change of character, or years of consistent usefulness; and
then some stranger has scarcely set foot in the locality when you are
impelled to dole out to him all the grievous history! A mischief this
as irreparable, as it was needless, has been committed; the disgrace
of the unconscious victim is handed on, and no length of blameless
conduct can avail to deliver him from the grip his sin has got upon
his name. No doubt there are cases in which it becomes a painful duty
to instruct a stranger in the real character of persons to whom he
may be unsuspectingly introduced, but let it be seen to, that such is
the necessity, before the wrong be done.
It was at this juncture, when
infidelity and crime seemed to have come forth with shameless
ferocity, that the Missionary Society
(not to mention the Bible Society) took its rise. Its history you
will better learn elsewhere, but it is curious to recollect the
hesitancy with which it was met. Mr, afterwards Dr
Bogue,
was among the first actual movers in this great Christian enterprise.
If only permission from government could be secured he wished to
transport himself as a missionary to India, but great objection was
in the way, and application was made, I conclude, to the churches
generally, to unite in petitions to Government to that effect. The
strange proposal was discussed in our parlour between Mr Hickman and
my father; and forward as he was in every good word and work, I
remember the doubt with which he entertained it. Could it be a duty?
was it not running before Providence? and so forth. Where could the
antiquated christian be now unearthed, whom we could find harbouring
such suspicions? What hath God wrought!
From such a state of feeling
generally towards the great missionary work, it might be supposed
that vital religion did not exist in the country. But the suspicion
would be as unjust as it may appear natural. The religion of the
State — that by law established — was indeed snoring in
its sleep, or if a little more awake, was speaking only in the great
swelling words of vanity, which the pet of kings and statesmen is
sure to utter. It is true there were Scotts and Newtons
to be found weeping for the evils by which they were surrounded, and
diffusing a clear light within limited spheres; but as far as, either
at Lavenham, or afterwards at Colchester, my own knowledge extended,
it might be charitable not to depict the character of our authorized
teachers generally.
It was more than half a century
earlier than the period to which I refer, that Wesley
and Whitfield
darted, as by electric flash, the light of heaven through the
stagnant masses of a church-going population, and from that time
vital religion found new homes. Brutal, senseless opposition could
not extinguish a work that was of God, and the good of Methodism will
survive whatever may become of it as a system. But it was of the
Independent Churches that I knew the most, and many were the
excellent of the earth who found a shelter among them. They had,
however, been hemmed in by early persecution, they were isolated in
narrow localities, and had yet to learn, among other things, the
practical meaning of those words, “Go ye into all the world.”
The command had been addressed to the earliest church, but seemed now
quietly consigned to the churches of times yet long to come. But day
was dawning, and the injunction was at length spelt out and obeyed.
But I shall finish my life before
my
memoir if I indulge in these perpetual digressions. The sore feeling
which had been excited in the church at Lavenham by Mr Hickman's
marriage, and the removal about the same time of so many from the
congregation by the Watkinson exodus to America, decided him shortly
after, to surrender his little charge under the walnut trees, and to
accept an invitation from another church. There was still a nucleus
of intelligent hearers, but little prospect of sufficient support for
a respectable minister; and under these circumstances a suggestion
was made which it might have been wise to adopt. My father had been
for several years a deacon in much esteem, and during the occasional
absences of Mr Hickman had been accustomed to conduct a service in
the hall of our house, which, on such occasions, was generally well
filled. His early aspirations had been directed to the ministry; his
qualifications both as a christian, and a man of thought and
knowledge were probably superior to what the church as now situated
would be likely to secure, and he had, moreover, the opportune
advantage of an income which would relieve its now crippled
resources. It occurred, therefore, to Mr Hickman to propose him as a successor.
But it was not to be. The ministers and churches of the neighbourhood
did what they could by opening their pulpits to my father to sanction
the proceeding, but the majority of the Lavenham church apparently
could not brook that a fellow-member should thus become their
minister.
Yet by this means, a door was
opened
to ministerial labour elsewhere. In the course of his above-mentioned
services in the neighbourhood my father preached on Sunday at
Nayland, a small place within six miles of Colchester, and on Monday
walked over to look at the interesting old town. There he met with a
Lavenham friend, who, hearing how matters stood, immediately formed
the design of transplanting him into his own locality. There was at
the time (besides the influential “Round Meeting” as it
was called) a small congregation of Presbyterian origin, which had
degenerated into a condition, not so intellectual, but as cold as
Unitarianism. There was a good building, some small endowment, and
two or three substantial families; while a return to something like
evangelical sentiments seemed the only chance of revival. It happened
that a Monday evening lecture was held at the Methodist Chapel, and
the Lavenham friend arranged that my father should be invited to
officiate, while some of the principal members of the vacant church
were apprized that a stranger would preach that night, who might be
available if they wished. It illustrates the state of feeling with
regard to Methodism, that one of them confessed to having hidden
himself behind a pillar to hear the sermon, from shame of being seen
at a Methodist Chapel! So, however, it came about that my father was
scarcely at home again before the friend who had been so active in
the matter appeared, commissioned, if practicable, to secure his
services.
My mother foresaw at a glance the
speedy termination of all her hopes and plans for Lavenham, and her
heart sank at the prospect that was opened. She disliked both change
and publicity. To the country she had now become deeply attached, and
to exchange the domestic privacy which her deafness and constant
suffering rendered additionally grateful, for a conspicuous station
in a large town was a grievous trial. But she was not the woman to
suffer tastes and feelings to interfere with duty. My father preached
his first Sunday sermon at Colchester on the 1st of November 1795;
and on the 20th of January, 1796, Jane and I took leave of the
pleasant home of our childhood at Lavenham, commencing with the new
era, the perils, the follies, the enjoyments, the vanities of youth!
“Oh Lord, remember not against me the sins of my youth nor my
transgressions!”
ED.
Seventy-five years, and
more, after the last-mentioned date, two grandsons of Mr Taylor set
off one afternoon from Hadleigh, to walk to Lavenham. They took the
ten miles by pleasant footpaths, that wandered up and down from
village to village, noticing among the cheerful Suffolk cottages, the
gable ends, and projecting storeys, and thatched roofs, and embowered
porches, familiar to them in their grandfather's sketch-books.
Towards evening, a lofty tower
rose
in the distance, and marked where Lavenham stood. But the way soon
sank into a wooded hollow, where uncared-for timber, avenues all
overgrown with weeds and bushes, and a deserted mansion — it
had been years in Chancery — seemed to burden the air with
memories. A footpath traversed meadows where lavish herbage concealed
a silent stream, and suddenly the dun roofs of a small town, with
almost as many trees as houses came into view — the lordly
tower retreating to the left. They then recognised in the “solitary
meadows, and the dull stream”, the scene of the wife's anguish
during the supposed death-illness of her husband.
A street of low nodding houses
strayed upwards from a small common. Upon the gable fronts, elaborate
devices in plaster work, bulging with age, justified the dates they
carried — 1690-1695, and so on; while some black carved
doorposts, or cornices thick with whitewash, indicated dates still
earlier. No spinning-wheels encumbered the pavement, but the sound of
the handloom and the song of the girl weaver were heard from several
open windows; the fabric, however, was only horse-hair.
A succession of lanes branching
off,
and all climbing upwards, were bordered as much by old gardens and
orchards as by houses; while these, again, were sometimes cottages,
and sometimes many-peaked mansions. At the foot of one such lane the
travellers stopped and gazed with curious interest, puzzled by
alterations, and, yet, with a dreamlike consciousness of identity.
“Is this Shilling Street?” they asked. “Yes, sure,”
replied an ancient; but he was not quite ancient enough to tell what
they wanted, and further on, a lean old man, resting upon the
dilapidated steps of a doorway was referred to as a better authority.
“Yes, yonder was Cooke's house, and he had heard say that a Mr
Taylor once lived there, and in the one next below too.” “And
which was Mr Meeking's?” “Why, here to be sure, this very
door, but it's not as it used to be, you see; it was all one then
from end to end.”
It was somewhat difficult to
choose
quarters for the night; one or two antiquated inns, of which the
“Swan” was one, showed gaping gateways, where the London
waggon might erst have rumbled in, but bed-rooms looked fusty and
forlorn. They found accommodation at last, where the ceiling of one
large chamber was richly decorated, and a recurring device showed
that the house must have had something to do with the “Springes”,
a name older than the fifteenth century in Lavenham, and of great
note in woolens — now perpetuated as “Spring Rice”.
Morning, in the market place,
showed
it crowning a knoll, from which lanes of old houses dropped down on
every side, an old-world town. At one corner a very picturesque
half-timbered house, quaintly carved, went by the various names of
the “Guild Hall”, its first designation, the “Poor-house”, and Mr
__'s wool store. Connected
with its premises at the back was a weird old building, abutting on a
wall, and answering to the description of Dr Rowland Taylor's last
resting-place on his way to the stake at Hadleigh. But the two houses
that had belonged to their grandparents were of course the chief
attraction to the visitors. One of them, “Cooke's House”,
the earliest and the longest occupied, was in all the antiquated
condition that could be desired, though showing a decent front to the
lane. The large parlour, where Stothard's and Opie's great gallery
pictures used to rest against the wall, lacked only them. The little
work-room where Ann and Jane sat at their lessons, while the father
handled his graver and the mother sped her needle, was, like all the
rest, intact. The house gables towards the garden were a tangled mass
of luxuriance — vine, and pear, and jasmine, and many coloured
creepers, and the garden itself, abundant in careless flower and
fruit, stretched away into an orchard of grey-stemmed trees and cool
grass. Upstairs they explored rambling ghostly rooms, one of them
that in which the Isaac Taylor, most known of the name, was born. It
looked over to the second house inhabited by his father. This was too
modernized to retain much interest, though work-room and
printing-room and the place of the charming old “bay window”
could still be recognized. The Branwhites, and Watkinsons, and
Meekings were remembered names in the place; an honoured
representative of the latter occupying the Watkinson's house. The
venerable depopulated grammar school, slumbered among its walnut
trees. In Water Street, the water course was now controlled or
hidden, and pattens would no longer be needed to reach the
Meeting-house, lying back from the street, but now replaced by a
carpenter's yard.
In the evening, the church, a
grand
edifice standing on a hill apart, was visited. The tower, lofty and
massive as a castle keep, shewed, on nearer view, that it was
intended to carry pinnacles, of which the bases only remained. The
explanation lay in a half-demolished tomb before the church door,
described as that of the architect, killed by falling from the
tower's “dreadful height”, upon which, in consequence, not
another stone was laid. Notes of an organ, and of choristers, drew
the visitors within, where a few lights mingled with the yellow dusk.
The chanting ceased, and a voice was heard reciting. “And he
gave some apostles, and some prophets, and some evangelists, and some
pastors and teachers, for the perfecting of the saints, for the work
of the ministry, for the edifying of the body of Christ,” and
the listeners thought that among the ancestry they had come to honour
were some who had worthily filled more than one of those noble
offices.
Chapter
III. Domestic
Recollections. Colchester, 1795-1798
The Colchester House — Colchester Town — Colchester
People — The Work Room, and Engraving Mysteries —
Youthful Friends — First Appearance in Print
— Domestic Economy — A Minister's Wife — Umbelliferous
Society.
Not wholly in
the busy world, nor quite
Beyond it.
Tennyson,
The Gardener's Daughter
And I must
work thro' months of toil,
And years
of cultivation.
Tennyson,
Amphion
TO remove from a
country
seclusion like that of Lavenham to a gay and busy garrison town such
as Colchester, was to a girl of fourteen a move of some peril. My
father, as before, had been our pioneer, and he had succeeded in
obtaining a house with a garden, almost the only advantage for which
my mother and he were disposed to stipulate. But it was nearly in the
centre of the town, in a street which, though narrow and disagreeable
at one end, became wider, and owned several excellent houses at the
other. Ours was among the excellent houses, but it was not one of
them. It was just respectable, and would just hold us; and the
garden, not a small one, contained some well-grown trees. Speedily,
under my father's hand, it showed grass plots, and winding walks of
good Essex gravel, a white seat, a vine-covered arbour, and so forth,
besides laburnums and lilacs that warm my heart to think of even now.
Our travelling party consisted of
my
mother, Ann, Jane, Isaac, Martin, Jefferys, and our favourite cat. Of
myself I cannot think as other than stiff and awkward, as I was
certainly thin and pale, though enjoying good health, and a strength
beyond that of my companions generally. Jefferys was a delicate child
of three, for he had suffered from measles, whooping cough, and fever
successively. The beauty of the party was the cat, as “Beauty”
was her name, but she became so unwell a few weeks after our arrival
that it was deemed best to consign her to a watery grave. She was
taken down two or three lanes to the river, a brick was tied round
her neck, and she was thrown into the stream. The next morning,
however, she appeared at our back door in excellent health (perhaps
the earliest “water cure” on record). Not the least
puzzling circumstance was her scenting out the new dwelling in the
midst of the strange town. Yet a far more extraordinary instance of
sagacity was related of a cat belonging to a lady of Lexden, two
miles from Colchester. This lady also possessed a house in Bedford
Row, London, to which she was in the habit of removing for the
season. The cat always travelled with her, but on one occasion was
forgotten and left behind in London; yet within a fortnight she made
her appearance at the country-house in Lexden. By what means had she
steered her way over the sea of roofs and hedges intervening between
one home and the other? Many similar exploits, however, are related
of dogs, and I do not know — does anybody? — why cats
should not be as clever.
On arriving at Colchester we were
located for a few days under the hospitable roof of a Mr Mansfield,
one of the deacons, a worthy man of some property, a manufacturer of
“says” and baize, the former a sort of poor
flannel, then
the lingering staple of the town.
Here we were struck with the singular concatenation
of relationship among those
who assembled to greet the
new minister's family — it was my “Cousin Dolly” and my
“Cousin Jerry,” etc., without end.
Mr and Mrs Mansfield completed their wedding jubilee soon afterwards,
when house and garden were thrown open to all comers, and they were
filled with children, grandchildren, great grandchildren, and
relations in every degree.
With as much speed as possible
our
new residence was got into order, and only a month after we
had entered it, my brother Decimus, the tenth child of my parents,
was born. He was a dear quiet little fellow, and, though dying from
scarlet fever when little more than five years old, he lived long
enough to leave a trace, and his loss a thorn in my memory, up to the
present time.
It surprises me to remember that,
although now at the womanly age of fourteen, one of my first cares,
in conjunction with Jane, was to fit up a closet in our bed-room as a
doll's house. That this was a pleasure shortly to wane we did not
foresee. The closet was duly furnished, but it did not do; and I
remember the pang of regret and disappointment with which the
discovery broke upon me that dolls and doll's houses did not maintain
their interest for ever. The closet was arranged, but, that done, we
could never enjoy it afterwards. The new interests of Colchester
consigned the doll regime to oblivion. Yet I never could sympathize
with the philosophy which proscribes the doll. What harm does it do?
Certainly in our own case it did
not
interfere with or curtail the processes of an assiduous education.
No more time was expended in the doll house than formed a reasonable
relaxation, and many were the good results, with, as far as my
convictions reach, no bad ones. A cheerful use of the needle is
acquired in dressing these innocents; much thought, contrivance,
arrangement, and prelusive affection are brought into play; and the
natural avidity with which a little girl, left to her own choice,
seizes, caresses, loves a doll, seems to indicate the suitableness of
the amusement. Yes, do let the little girl alone, she knows about it
better than you do. For my part, I like the old-fashioned
arrangement; that children precede adults — girls women. It is
prettier, at any rate.
I have already remarked that,
from
whatever cause, my local recollections of Lavenham appear always as
if under a cloudy day; though certainly not because I was unhappy
there. Those of Colchester, however, never present themselves but as
bright and warm with a summer's sun. I do not use the terms
figuratively, they express the real colouring with which the two
scenes are suffused whenever they appear to my mind's eye. It is a
nice old town, and the country has just that cheerful pleasantness
about it which is inviting to the evening walk or the social ramble.
The town, clean, open, and agreeable, is situated on a healthful
gravelly hill, descending towards the north and east, commanding from
many points a view of the Colne, the meadows through which it winds,
and the horizon fringed with, wood — “the High Woods”,
which formed the most delightful portion of our longer evening
excursions. But in this direction I am told that the engineer has
been defacing with his iron lines, and brick station houses, one of
the. prettiest spots, and, to our memories, one of the dearest in the
whole vicinity. Yet I must not be unjust to the beautiful village of
Lexden, terminating a pleasant walk west of the town, or the ornate
path through Lexden springs. Innumerable happy associations place
them among the brightest of our mental pictures. Large barracks
adjoined the town on its southern side, and an air of business and
activity was given to the place as a great military station, while
the High Street was quite a gay promenade. The music of the evening
bugle is still a pleasant note in my ears, as well as that of the
eight o'clock curfew bell, from the tower of Old St Nicholas.
The castle, which, in one shape
or
another, has braved the storms of a thousand winters, forms the
conspicuous feature from the northern meadows, as well as a giant
poplar towering above the broken ivied tower of St Martin's Church,
and denoting, within a few yards, the house in which we resided.
Colchester was quite remarkable for its churches. Though containing
not more than 14,000 inhabitants, the town was divided into fourteen
parishes, and there were still twelve churches, more or less
dismantled, and with dilapidations dating from the rough work of the
civil wars, especially of the siege by Fairfax.
Large portions of the town walls
remained entire; and the fine ruins of St Botolph's Priory and St
John's Gate, added to the picturesque and historical interest of a
place which was full of interest for both antiquary and artist. The
number of chapels, at the time we knew Colchester, was small. Dissent
there was not many-headed, but neither was it intelligent, nor of a
sort to promise increase. There was a tendency to “high
doctrine”, (leaving a low sediment,) in most of the
congregations. In the large old “Round Meeting”, holding
about a thousand people, and generally well filled, there was an
elderly, heavy, unattractive minister, under the singular chant of
whose slow, monotonous delivery the young people of his charge just
thought their own thoughts, and considered they had paid sufficient
respect to Sunday. Indeed, so sad was the state of things when we
entered Colchester, that no young person of good education, position,
and intelligence, was associated in the membership of any
Nonconformist church in the town. In our own congregation there were
a few substantial families, and two or three wealthy individuals, but
these were the only present materials. The dissenters of the town
were men of habit more than men of piety, and few knew or thought why
they dissented. This condition, however, did not continue; many felt
there was a reason before they saw it, and the consciousness of a
principle came at last. Among the twelve churches in the town the
ministrations at one only were accounted evangelical, at that time
the sole form of life in the Establishment, and the abilities of the
clergyman officiating there, excellent man as he was, were about as
commonplace as were likely to obtain holy orders. Of the clergyman of
our own parish, the Rev. Yorick S, I can only record the
sacerdotal-looking but very portly figure, the rotundity of which was
the more striking, from his habit of walking with his hands behind
him, and which occasioned at last his melancholy end; for not
observing thereby an open cellar, he fell into it, and was killed!
“Alas, poor Yorick!”
In those early days my father, in
such an atmosphere, had certainly much to struggle with, and the
decay of religious sentiment in the place that had chosen him for its
minister might afford ground for suspicion that he could scarcely be
quite sound himself. At his ordination, however, which took place
April 21, 1796, his orthodoxy was sufficiently attested by the
presence and assistance of many known ministers, and thenceforward no
apprehension of the sort could be honestly entertained. My father's
manner, though always methodical, still had more of animation and
extempore freedom than was then known in the town; so that, though
the place was somewhat large, his Sunday evening lectures were
crowded, and at last it was arranged that they should circulate among
the three congregations, the other ministers taking their turn. The
intervening evenings thus left at liberty my father employed in
village preaching, these evening services being in addition to the
regular morning and afternoon ones at home.
There were, however, no
societies, no
committees, no public meetings on the week days to divide his
attention or expend his strength; but the labours requisite for the
maintenance of his family, along with the necessary ministerial
preparation, more than fully occupied his time.
We were many to provide for; the
two
apprentices still formed part of the family, and at this time a
change was passing over the country — over Europe, I should say — which
blighted the prospects of almost all the artists, young
and old. Engraving had offered so fair an opening just previous to
the French war, that almost every family having a son who could draw,
hastened to place him with an engraver, as in later times, every
likely lad has been for trying his skill as an engineer. But the
foreign market being suddenly closed by the war, a fearful stagnation
in art employment was the consequence. The larger works were at once
discontinued, and book engraving was carried on in a very small way,
while troops of young men, just entering their profession, and sorely
needing bread and cheese, were glad to engage in it at almost any
prices. My father, at fifty miles distance from London, was naturally
at a great disadvantage in the struggle, and a grievous
reverse of
fortune thus fell upon him. All prospect of making money passed
away,
and to feed his large family and keep out of debt was the utmost he
could hope for.
Had we remained at Lavenham, where there were no other resources, we
must have suffered indeed, but just in time we were providentially
removed, and so enabled to retain a loaf and a little more on the
pantry shelves.
The two apprentices, when they
left
us, shared common misfortune; one soon died, and the other turned his
ability into another walk of art. It pleases me sometimes to
recollect that it occurred to him, some three or four years later, to make me an offer; because perhaps it is not
in every instance that an
offer would be made after so much probationary acquaintance as living
so long under the same roof implies.
Again, it was speedily discovered
(for he never made application) that Mr Taylor's modes of education
were worth participating in, and several families requested that
their young people might share in them. This was another signal
mercy, for by the addition thus made to his income, he was able to
withstand the pressure of many trying years. We had, as before, a
large room designated the “Workroom”. It was not
originally part of the house, but a door was broken into it, while
there was also a general entrance from without. A large diamond-paned
window occupied the middle of one side, and sash windows were put in
to light the entire length. Here, at his high desk at one end, stood
my father, and long tables ran from thence the length of the room,
where the eldest of us were soon practising the engraver's art.
Nearest to him sat my brother Isaac, then Martin, then myself, and
next to me Jane. Behind us a second range of tables was occupied, two
or three days a-week, by pupils. Happy days, mornings, evenings,
Happy years! have I spent in that shabby old room! From the windows
we could just see over the garden, and beyond the roofs, Mile End
church and parsonage in the pretty distance, reminding us of the
evening walk by which the day's business was so often closed.
Our many callers in after years
never
thought of finding us “in the parlour”, like other young
ladies, but regularly turned into a back yard from the street,
ascended the short flight of brick stairs, and placed themselves each
on some wooden stool beside Jane and myself, watching what they were
sometimes pleased to call our “elegant art”. I must say
we were never ashamed of it, and why need we have been? We had, I
might almost say, the honour of stepping first on a line now regarded
as nearly the one thing to be accomplished, the respectable,
remunerative, appropriate employment of young women. It was not the
prevision of such a course by which we were led, but happy domestic
circumstances brought us into it, and thankful should I be if
opportunities such as we enjoyed were more generally available.
A paragraph has fallen under my
eye
which induces me to add a few words to my honest outburst of happy
recollection. In the April No. for 1859 of the Edinburgh Review,
under the head of Female Industry,
it is said — “It
seems not very long ago that the occupation of the Taylor family was
regarded as very strange. The delightful Jane Taylor of Ongar, and
her sisters (N.B. Sister), paid their share of the family expenses
by engraving. Steel engravings were not in very good demand, yet the
young women were incessantly at work, so as to be abundantly weary of
it, as Jane's letters plainly show.” Now, notwithstanding the
first rate literary authority of this passage, I must challenge its
correctness. Doubtless, we were sometimes weary (I have heard of
people weary of doing nothing), and sometimes should have preferred a
favourite employment of our own just then in hand; or, with a zest
the unemployed cannot feel, should have enjoyed a holiday; but,
nevertheless, the life in that “shabby old room”
was a
happy one; and if Jane did at times dislike the monotony, it never
reached habitual weariness.
For myself, what I have said, I have said, and that most truly. Nay,
the time has been, when I have risen in the morning with exhilaration
to put on the brown-holland bib and apron, with sleeves to match, in
preparation for two or three days of “biting”, this not
very charming employment frequently falling to my lot.
But you will hardly know what
“biting” is, and I will endeavour to explain it, as I
have often done to interested and interesting visitors. Singularly
ignorant about it people often are! I remember once after my father
had spent much time in explaining the various processes of engraving
to a lady, she exclaimed with sudden perception — “O then
you only prepare for the printer!” while, not long ago, on my
showing a gentleman the engraving of the Ann Boleyn, and saying that
my father received 500 guineas for it, he remarked — “I
think neither you nor I would have cared to give that”,
supposing that the print alone cost that sum! Well, then, as to
“biting”. A plate of polished copper (not steel at that
time), of the size intended for the print, having been thickly
covered with a sort of waxy ground, the subject to be engraved is
etched upon it with a steel point, as you might say drawn with a
strong needle, much as you might with a pencil or pen, but cutting
through the ground to the surface of the copper.
The lines, however, are of no depth, and of
course all alike, and to increase and vary both depth and width, the
work must be “bit”. To effect this a wall of wax is
raised round the plate, with a spout, moulded at one corner, by which
to pour off the liquid, and a dilute preparation of aquafortis
(nitric acid) is poured on, which eats away the copper in the exposed
lines. It is now a delicate matter to watch the operation,
ascertaining when the needful depth of the lightest portion is
attained; at the moment, the acid is poured off, water plentifully
applied, and then dried out of the lines. A thin coat of varnish is
now painted over the parts that are sufficiently deepened,
technically speaking they are “stopped out,” and the
process of biting is recommenced. But all this is subject to
accidents; and one trying misfortune is, when the ground, from some
defect in its composition, or from being laid on under too great a
heat, “blows up”, as it is called, and the acid
penetrates to the copper where it is not wanted, causing innumerable
specks which must be immediately stopped out, and requiring a
grievous amount of labour afterwards with the “graver”
to
repair.
An engraving after Ostade, the interior of a Dutch kitchen, was
etched by me, and covered almost entirely with work, but in biting,
the ground blew up largely, and it was my business for three months
afterwards to sit at the patient repair of it, speck by speck. I
should not wonder if during this time I did feel “abundantly
weary”. So much for weariness, and for “biting”, a
part of the process for which it will be seen there was good reason
to be armed with bib, apron, and sleeves.
One further remark I am bound
in
honesty to oppose to the reviewer's assertion. I cannot please myself
with the thought that we contributed much towards “the family
expenses” by our daily toil. Our dear father, always liberal to
the extent of his ability, gave us not only board and lodging, but
also wages, so that in keeping us at home I am sure he did not
consult his own advantage. He thought he was fitting us for
self-support in after life, not otherwise than feminine; and in
keeping us around him at home he retained a domestic feeling, strong
in every one of us. Providence, as it proved, had different designs
for us, but little at that time could they have been predicted. But
these work-a-day times do not belong to our first years at
Colchester; I am forestalling our engagements by two or three years.
At Lavenham I had but one quiet story to tell, but I find myself now
surrounded by so many scenes, circumstances, people, and interests,
that I fear to become sadly prolix. If among the points I select some
should appear to me more worthy of note, than to you, forgive me. The
nearness of my point of sight may prevent a correct vision —
yet not near either, when much more than half-a-century is interposed
between the facts narrated and the narration. Who shall say how they
have been stored? Surely there is nothing about us more wonderful —
wonderful as is every thread of our frame — than memory! For
what purpose is this great deposit, the wealth of which only appears
by glimpses? Is it some day to form the ground of amazing
thankfulness when we review the course through which we have been
led? Or, fearful alternative, the vitality of that worm, which is to
be fed by unquenchable recollections?
Let me introduce you to the
society
now surrounding us. In our own congregation there were no young
people of similar age and education with ourselves, but we were soon
introduced to others, with whom we formed lasting intimacies. The
plain respectable household of the Keeps, was almost within call of
us. There were ten children, but Mary Keep was the only one near
enough to our own age to become our associate. With her we soon
reached blood-heat, fever-heat on the thermometer of friendship. And
through the Keeps we were next introduced to the Stapletons — a
name interwoven with our history for many years. Dr Stapleton was a
physician, a dissenter, a plain good man; Mrs Stapleton was every way
a superior woman, the backbone of the family, and maintaining in it a
calm and wise authority. She had been married, I suppose, not twenty
years before we knew them; but I have been told that on the Sunday of
her bridal appearance, the party being discomfited by a heavy shower,
it was opportunely recollected that an elegant convenience called an umbrella had been seen in one of the
shops, which was sent for and
borrowed for the occasion. It was, however, deemed an ill-omened
assumption of style on the part of the bride. At Lavenham, even in my
time, it was considered a mark of luxurious refinement for a man to
carry one.
Four very interesting, and, in
different ways, lovely girls, and one son, composed their family
circle. Mira, the eldest, seventeen, when we arrived in Colchester,
was too much our senior at first to become a familiar associate. Her
face was beautiful with intelligence, and the intellectual pride,
which was perhaps her tendency, was scarcely indicated beneath the
mild and lovely expression of her features. Bithia was a strong
contrast to her sister; animated to enthusiasm, daring, spirited,
affectionate, and very near my own age, a sort of spontaneous
combustion, and interfusion speedily ensued. Eliza was a fine showy
girl, with less of mind, and perhaps of heart, than her sisters.
Letitia, similar in age to my sister Jane, became by instantaneous
attraction her bosom friend. She was very pretty, but her tastes,
pleasures, and pride were all intellectual, and certainly at that
time not far from romantic. To read by moonlight some favourite poet,
among the picturesque fragments of the old town wall on the Balkerne
Hill, was sufficient happiness for them both.
The Stapletons were among the
first
to become my father's pupils, so that we had almost daily
opportunities of intercourse; nay, it was so incessant, that my
mother used to remind us of the ancient counsel, “keep thy foot
from the house of thy friend, lest he be weary of thee.” Our
acquaintance had subsisted for little more than a year when Dr
Stapleton died. He had been seized with apoplexy early in the
morning, and with the strong affection of her nature, Bithia, who was
not quite dressed, ran without shoes or stockings along the very
rough pavement of one of the principal streets to obtain medical
assistance. He rallied slightly, but only for a short time.
Considerable changes necessarily took place in his family. Mira had,
during the life of her father, occupied herself as a teacher in a
boarding-school in Colchester; it was at that time a new thing for a
young lady, under no pecuniary necessity, so to employ herself, and
it was as usual wondered at by the wonderers, a class existing in
most communities; the wisdom of such a step has been since better
appreciated. Mira occupied a separate room, and it was there that I
learnt from her, going for an hour daily, what little French I once
knew, and also the practice of ornamental needlework. It was the only
sight I ever had of the interior of a school. I have sometimes been
surprised that my father thought needlework an accomplishment worth
the time we bestowed upon it; but Miss Linwood’s pictures in
wool work were just then talked about, and it might be this, together
with an unappeasable disgust at the bad in any production, whether of
art or mechanism, which suggested an attempt to improve the raw taste
of the times in this matter. A girl and doves in tambour, a cat and
mouse in marking stitch, a small oval imitation in “print-work,”
as it was called of a painter's etching, a landscape in coloured
worsteds from a good drawing, and a small group of flowers in
embroidery, remain to attest my industry in this line; but it was one
of the very few points — I do not recollect another — in
which it has struck me that labour was ill bestowed in our
education.
Yet a lady of not less than fifty years of age, placed herself at the
same time under his instruction, and executed a large piece of
worsted from a good mezzotinto print — a cupid and lion. There
was a mournful tearfulness in her face to which I have often since
thought there must have been a history attached, but we knew only
that she was a lady residing in the neighbourhood.
We were perhaps rather sought
after
as “clever girls” at this time, and of the two,
Jane
always conceding a large share of birthright to me, I seemed to be
generally accepted as the cleverest.
The mistake has been rectified by the public since, and indeed so as
to swing a little beyond the mark, attributing to her many
productions that are really mine. Publishers have frequently given a
convenient wink, and announced “by Jane Taylor,” when
“Ann Taylor” was the guilty person. Dear Jane never
needed to steal, while I could not afford to lose. But what signifies
it? When you read this, what will remain to me save the moral results
of my life, and of the “talent”, the one, or more than
one?
I must have scribbled a good
deal,
but about this time, being accused of literary vanity, perhaps
justly, or the suffering would have been less, I made a magnanimous
conflagration of all my MSS., and resolved to go humbly all my days.
For a time, my favourite amusement was laid aside, but it could not
be for long.
Writing, as a mere manual
exercise,
was always agreeable to me, independently of the pleasing necessity
of giving expression to the emotions, new and innumerable, of the
young bosom, though in truth as old, and as often repeated as the
moonlights and spring days, the hopes and affections by which, in
every age, they have been elicited. It was, I think, in 1797 that I
made my first poetical appearance in print on the occasion of a
contested election, when Robert Thornton being the Tory candidate,
and a Mr Shipley the Whig, I ventured an election song for
home-reading solely. But it happened to be seen, and was speedily
printed, a distinction that no doubt I felt as somewhat dazzling. The
production, I am constrained to say, exhibits sadly little wit, and
much more than was appropriate of the moral lecture. I knew, by
report, the excellence of the Thornton family, and felt aggrieved by
his taking, as it appeared to me, the wrong side!
While our intimacy with the
Stapletons was at its height, our circle was enlarged by two
interesting girls, somewhat older than ourselves, Cecilia and Fanny
Hills, orphan sisters, each attractive in her way, but of characters
wholly different. They resided with an aged grandmother, and on
coming of age, were to possess a pleasant independency of about
£400
a year each. They belonged to the Church of England, and were
educated for the “world”. Cecilia was of a quickly
impressible, enthusiastic character, exposed to powerful impulses,
and with courage, perhaps eccentricity, sufficient to carry them out.
Through the Stapleton's, she became a pupil of my father's; was
pleased with his ministry, and from something like a fashionable
church-goer, became subject to religious impressions, proved to be
genuine, by a long Christian life afterwards. But she was not formed
for a medium in anything. Having once broken loose from the society
and habits to which she had been accustomed she was prepared for any
lengths; and being seized upon, while young and unfixed in her new
principles, by some religionists, certainly not attractive in
themselves, plain good people, but of low manners, narrow
views, and, with a tendency to what was then the bane of Colchester,
high (antinomian) doctrine, she was readily
drawn aside, assumed a peculiar style of
dress, would walk arm in arm with some of their leaders of a low
grade in life, presently joined their persuasion, and in the presence
of a crowd of her former fashionable associates, was publicly baptised.
Her attendance upon my father's ministry ceased,
but our intimacy did not; yet it was between her and the Stapleton's
that the attachment was extreme, and from this time, I was sensible
of some decline in that of Bithia to me, a change which I felt
bitterly. But, little as I then could have borne the thought, these
first friends of my youth were to yield, before long, to a new
circle, in the midst of which I have found my liveliest interests,
not only during the period of my youth, but up to the present late
autumn of my life.
Fanny Hills, the youngest
sister,
was
altogether a different character. Lovely, not so much from direct
beauty as from the frank sweetness of her countenance, pretending to
nothing but to please and be pleased (which was no pretence), still
retaining her intimacy with gayer companions, together with the
Stapleton's and ourselves, I can give to any of her admirers the
credit of loving her, if capable of love at all, notwithstanding the
attractions of her fortune. A young clergyman of the town was one,
but she did not like him, or thought, at least, that she liked some
one else better. I happened to be at her house, when a call was made
by the less fortunate lover, and heard the well-trained servant,
notwithstanding many questions, continue to aver, with ingenious
variations, that her mistress was “not at home”, poor
Fanny listening with tremor for the result. I was shocked then, and
am not less so now. In what way are we to secure the honesty of
servants towards ourselves if, for our own purposes, we inure them to
complicated falsehoods?
It was not long before Fanny
passed
out of our connection. A captain of artillery, then stationed in the
town, of interesting appearance and manners, shortly won the
open-hearted girl; and the last recollection I have of her, is as a
recent bride driven past in the elegant phaeton of her husband. Many
years passed away; we were, by time, distance, habits, everything,
widely separated, and we knew nothing of her history. Long after my
own marriage, I heard a melancholy fragment of it. My mother, then
residing at Ongar, was one day visited by a shabby, sickly stranger.
Whether she recognised the once attractive features, I now forget;
but the outburst of feeling was strong and mutual, when it was found
that Fanny Hills had come to seek her former friends. She told her
story with frank simplicity. Captain M had not long remained the
enamoured husband; her property had been wasted, and they were now
living at a lone house in the neighbourhood, where a person, thought
by the wretched man, more attractive than his wife, was mistress.
Fanny herself, broken-hearted and broken down, was little better than
a servant. Beyond that sad point in her history, I know nothing more.
It was in the year ’98, and
again by Mary Keep, that we were introduced to a young friend of hers
from Camberwell, who had been visiting in the neighbourhood. We had
heard much of this young lady, and were in high expectation. She was
within a year of my own age, of appearance, disposition, and manners,
not a little interesting, and possessing an intense vitality, that
left me far in the rear. A few among my associates, and she was one,
have so far exceeded me in speed of wing, elegance of plumage, in, if
I may so say, etherial buoyancy, that I have always felt in their
society, less like a bird of kindred feather than a lame chicken,
expected to accompany a lark in its flight. Yet, notwithstanding this
discrepancy, my intimacy with Anna Forbes, not only commenced
quickly, but without one interval of estrangement, has grown, and
strengthened, and matured, till our respective families have risen to
enjoy, and perpetuate the friendship. Begun in
the glow of young
extravagance more than sixty years ago, it has been at last rivetted
by the endearing connection which linked a daughter of hers with a
son of mine.
It had been on the 12th of July
1797,
when I was in my sixteenth year, that the design always kept in view
of educating Jane and me to engraving as a profession, was first put
in practice; but in order that my mother might enjoy the assistance
she needed, as well as that we might become sufficiently domestic in
our acquirements, we took our places at the work-table only in
alternate weeks; the one employed in the workroom being known as
“Supra”, and the other as “Infra”, the latter
a slight improvement upon the humble title of “Betty”,
which had been previously bestowed on the housekeeping sister. To
“Infra”, below stairs, belonged pro tem numerous
domestic duties, from essays in cookery, to washing and getting up
the fine linens; so that the assistance we could render in needlework
was really very small, and a heavy burden was still left on my dear
industrious mother. But this the kindness of a thoughtful young
friend frequently lightened for her — a kindness of which none
can fully estimate the value, excepting those who have experienced
it. I trust, any to whom these lines may come, who are able thus to
assist their minister by assisting his wife and family, will not be
backward to render this labour of love.
From the minister's wife, often a
woman with small resources, a large family, and little assistance,
more is frequently required in the way of public activity than from
any other — unjustly as I have always thought, and possibly the
occasion of irregularities sometimes complained of in ministers'
families. If she have no children, or is so assisted as to be able to
leave them without injury, let her stand foremost in every good work
committed in these busy times to female hands: but if the little
band, entrusted by special seal from heaven to her vigilance, must
suffer while she labours abroad, would she not do well to heed the
touching lament: “They have made me keeper of the
vineyards, but my own vineyard have I not kept?” Would that
there were something like parish boundaries clearly defining the
limits of contiguous duties! Opposing duties, though sometimes talked
about, do not, as I conceive, exist. That which God does not require
is not duty, and he never requires exertions inconsistent with each
other. What we need is wisdom to draw correct lines, and then vigour
to fill them up with our might. The minister's wife has, at least,
the warrant of Paul to be “a keeper at home”. To her own
master she ultimately stands or falls, though the “many
masters” to whom, as the wife of a minister, she may be
supposed amenable, may possibly come to a verdict less gracious on
her conduct. Happy is she who “condemneth not herself in that
thing that she alloweth”.
Another kindness shown to my
mother,
not in its nature inimitable, was by an excellent lady, a widow,
residing alone with two servants of truly primitive style and
character. They were Betty and Polly Tillett, and deserve a place in
the list of our friends. Many years afterwards, when my brother Isaac
visited Colchester, he found out Polly, the then survivor, whom he
described to me as resembling a “faded primrose, stiff and
dry”. And such I can easily conceive her to have become. She
was much attached to her minister, and most cheerfully seconded the
considerate kindness shown by her mistress to his family. Almost
every Saturday evening she came down with her pleased prim look, as
the bearer of some little nicety under a white napkin for his
Sunday's supper. Or, whenever a party had been entertained at the
house, some of the remaining delicacies were sure to find their way
in the same direction under the modest care of Polly. But the greater
kindness referred to above, was when these willing and assiduous
sisters would come with their “mistress's kind respects” — to fetch the
fine linen of the family to be “got up” — and how beautifully! in their
ample leisure.
Pleasant is the memory of such a
friend, and of servants such as these. I must say, to the credit of
our small congregation at Colchester, that they were not forgetful in
this matter of their minister. He claimed no tithe, but in many a
shape it came, freewill offerings whenever the opportunity occurred.
Ah! I have felt a little, and seen more, of the difficulties under
which many an excellent man has to labour, and appear cheerful. Do
not fail, I beseech you, to the best of your ability, to think kindly
for him who thinks, how responsibly, for you!
I have already hinted that the
renunciation of my beloved pen did not last very long, and in April
of 1798, I entered with great zeal into the formation of a society
suggested, I think, by my father, intended to improve the talent for
composition, and let us hope, the ability to think also. The title, I
am sure, was suggested by him — “The Umbelliferous
Society”, designed, of course, to indicate many buds, blossoms,
flowers — whatever we might consider ourselves most to resemble — on
one stem. The original members were, Mira, Bithia, Eliza,
and Letitia Stapleton, Mary and Betsy Keep, Jane and myself, to whom
some others were afterwards added. We were to meet once in every
month, rules were drawn up, officers duly appointed, and each member
was expected to furnish some original production in either prose or
verse, as well as written answers to questions proposed at the
preceding meeting. Besides this we had readings in useful authors.
Whether or not we derived benefit from these early exercises I can
scarcely say, but pleasure we certainly did, and as all we wrote was
in over-hours, either before or after the business of the day, we
were excited to habits of industry at least.
We always breakfasted at eight
o'clock, were allowed an hour's interval for dinner, half-an-hour for
tea, and closed the daily routine in “that dear old workroom”
(as more than one of our friends called it) at eight in the evening.
It was chiefly, therefore, or
according to the letter of the law, only by rising early and supping
as late as half-past nine, that we could effect anything. But I must
confess to having had pencil and paper generally so near at hand,
that a flying thought could be caught by a feather, even when
engraving or biting was going on; or, in cases of extremity, when it
was to be feared that all would escape me before eight o'clock came,
I have made a sudden exit, and in honest haste and unintelligible
scribble, pinioned the fancy or the lines to the first slip of waste
paper I could find, there to abide till happy evening. Instead of
engraving, I was going to say etching, but this would be scarcely
correct, for while etching it was generally desirable to keep the
“point” unchanged in the fingers from meal to meal. Only
a very beautiful point indeed would be so exquisitely true, that no
inequality of stroke would result from changing it. To render the
point perfect by grinding all the angles, was often not a little
difficult, and would cost much time; as a hone for this purpose, a
fragment of Roman brick, picked up among the ruins in the town,
proved the finest and hardest substance we could meet with. And if I
have said “bitings” it must be understood to mean, at
times when the water was off, and the plate safely dry.
It had always previously been the
custom to sup at nine; but when writing became most unexpectedly a
business, as well as a pleasure, we petitioned for an additional
half-hour, and considering the perfect regularity of my father's
habits, I feel that we owed much to his good nature in granting it.
Nor should I, perhaps, refrain from mentioning that of this precious
hour and a half, part was occupied by a short devotional retirement,
which, won by the example of our parent, we rarely omitted. My
father's plan of providing, as far as possible, separate small rooms
as “studies” for his children, has been already
mentioned; he carried it out as far as our confined space at
Colchester would admit. What, either of mental improvement or of
personal piety, can be expected to flourish where numbers are crowded
into one room? How much may not be expected from those happy ones who
enjoy the luxury of a chamber, or a closet to call their own? How
delightful and salutary is the morning hour under such an
advantage? Let those who possess it remember that it is a
talent for the use of which they are accountable. Isaac and Martin
here contrived, each for himself, a small “sanctum”,
composed chiefly of pasteboard, and secluded by a humble
door. It was in an unoccupied room, through which we had to pass
continually. Of this, Isaac enclosed for himself the small
window, and Martin secured sufficient light by removing
a few bricks, and inserting a pane or two of glass. Contrivance,
might have been our family motto. It was longer before Jane and I
succeeded in making a similar arrangement. We had hitherto occupied
the same room, in which was a small dark closet (the workroom being
also at liberty, except during working hours) but there was a not
very desirable attic, used as a lumber-room, on
which she cast a
thoughtful contriving gaze, and by vigorous measures she managed to
fit it up as a bedroom sufficiently comfortable. From its window it
had a peep of landscape over the roofs, of which, before we left
Colchester, she took a view, still in my
possession. The
lower-room of the
house opposite, shown in this drawing, was
used as a dame school of not very high pretensions, and there Isaac,
the future author, learned to read, my mother having found his
initiation into that distinguished art a matter of quite unusual
difficulty.
I believe the Umbelliferous
Society continued about two years, for changes soon came over
this second circle of my friendships. Those of my childhood had
passed out of sight before we left Lavenham, and nearly all of this
my early youth long before we left Colchester. So far as they are
concerned, here I stand alone among the dead!
Yes,
Memory! gaze the vista through,
On scenes
of love that once we knew,
That
cheerful home, in which we spent
So many a
year of young content.
Chapter IV. Domestic
Recollections. Colchester, 1798-1802
Her
Father's
Scientific Lectures — Constable's Country — The Minor's
Pocket Book — Lawful Amusements — Forbeses and Conders —
The Stapletons — Sudbury Visits — The Strutt Family —
Scarlet Fever in the House — Religious Conviction — The
Editor of Calmet — Family
Festivals — Jane Taylor's Jeu
d'esprit
When each by
turns was guide to each,
And Fancy, light from Fancy caught,
.
. . . .
And all we met was fair and good,
And all was good
that Time could bring,
And all the secret of the Spring
Moved
in the chambers of the blood.
Tennyson
Christiana
did also begin to consider with herself.
Bunyan
SO far had I written
years
ago; and now in my eightieth year shall I live to complete the
narrative? O Lord, Thou knowest! Ah, my children, would that you
could realise, while much of life may yet be before you, the sad
reflections of a spirit sensible of many practical errors and neglect
of opportunities, and of attainments wholly inconsistent with long
continued advantages. Would that it might be your daily habitual
request, “so teach me to number my days, that I may apply my
heart unto wisdom”. Yet, what empty words, what a thrice-told
tale, till the mind awakes to all the realities of existence!
Towards the end of the year 1798
an
astronomical lecturer of repute delivered a course of lectures at the
Old Moot Hall at Colchester. To such advantages my father was always
anxious to introduce us, and the young people who had become his
pupils; but in order that the lectures should be fully understood, he
thought it desirable to give an introductory one at home. This he
illustrated by familiar diagrams, drawn either by himself, or by us
under his direction. A considerable number of our young friends
availed themselves of the opportunity, and so much were all
interested, that a strong desire was felt to extend the benefit
beyond the immediate occasion. From this time, therefore, he
continued to deliver rudimental lectures once a month, to as many as
chose to come; and it became a day of much interest to us, and to
many more. They were delivered in our own parlour, and as many as
sixty or seventy young people, and their friends, were glad to
attend. The subjects, admirably simplified and illustrated, were, as
far as I now recollect them — astronomy, geography, geometry,
mechanics, general history, and anatomy; the diagrams, rough, but
vigorous and picturesque, when that was appropriate, being executed
on large sheets of cartridge paper. I have sometimes been occupied
for three days in preparing them. My father's aim in teaching was,
wherever practicable, to address the eye, as being much more
retentive than the ear. I especially remember the course on anatomy;
representations of arteries, veins, bones, muscles, detached or
combined, accompanied each lecture, of which there were several in
every course, and we could not fail to learn a great deal which it
was well to know. These lectures were continued for three or four
years; they were gratuitous, but the time occupied, labour bestowed,
and trouble occasioned, were most cheerfully submitted to; for he was
willing to communicate in all good things. How many now survive to
whom the recollection of those happy evenings would bring a glow of
pleasure? The bright eyes have most of them long ceased to sparkle,
and none could be found but shaded by the white locks of age or
sorrow!
Although at this period we had
scarcely a thought or feeling apart from the Stapletons, various
circumstances were gradually bringing our intimacy to a close. Unable
to meet with a suitable house, they were obliged at last to remove to
Dedham, a village about seven miles from Colchester. It was to all of
us a sore trial to be thus separated, and our lives assumed almost a
new character. For a time there was frequent interchange of visits,
and they generally came over on the evening of the philosophical
lecture. A van passed within a mile of Dedham, but when the weather
permitted we preferred to walk; once I remember accomplishing the
seven miles in pattens! The road was pleasant, and in the evening we
could put ourselves under the protection of old Howlett, the postman,
who for many years carried sundry small parcels, together with his
Majesty's Mail, between Dedham and Colchester. He was a picturesque
old man, and I well remember walking alone with him, in the dusk of a
summer's evening, and feeling a little nervous as the road sank into
a hollow, with a wood on each side. We could have made but humble
resistance with our united forces if attacked.
Upon the small house first
occupied
by the Stapletons we conferred the title of “Nutshell Hall”,
but they presently removed to a more commodious one, the property of
Mr Constable of East Bergholt, whose son, John Constable, R.A., the
eminent landscape painter, afterwards rendered the rural scenery
surrounding his native village classic ground. It is still known as
“Constable's country”. It was in December 1799 that I was
first introduced to his family, and I may venture now to say,
that so finished a model of what is reckoned manly beauty I never met
with as the young painter; while the report in the neighbourhood of
his taste and excellence of character rendered him interesting in no
small degree. There were, too, rumours afloat which conferred upon
him something of the character of a hero in distress, for it was
understood that his father greatly objected to his prosecution of
painting as a profession, and wished to confine him to the drudgery
of his own business — that of a miller. To us this seemed
unspeakably barbarous, though in Essex and Suffolk a miller was
commonly a man of considerable property, and lived as Mr Constable
did, in genteel style.
I have pleasure in finding that
the
opinion formed at that time of John Constable by a jury of girls
between the ages of fifteen and twenty-one, is attested to be true by
his life, now published. He lived and died, it seems, the same man of
taste, feeling, and truly domestic excellence that he appeared to us.
His sister, Mary Constable, was in person as much distinguished as
himself; but with a loveliness especially feminine. One little
incident of our introduction to the Constables I am amused to
remember. We had been invited to walk over to Bergholt
to see his
paintings, together with a portrait recently taken of him by his
friend Mr Reinagle, and availing ourselves of this, one morning, we
found his mother, Mrs Constable, a shrewd-looking, sensible woman, at
home. There we were, five girls, all “come to see Mr John
Constable's paintings”, and as we were about to be shown up
into his studio, she turned and said dryly, “Well, young
ladies, would you like to go up all together to my son, or one at a
time?” I was simpleton enough to pause for a moment, in doubt,
but we happily decided upon going en masse.
In December 1798, when our number
at
home had been supposed complete, my youngest sister
was born. This
eleventh and unexpected addition to the cares, labours, and expense
of the family occasioned to my suffering and burdened mother a degree
of anxiety which many with less cause might well understand. She was
ready to exclaim, “All these things are against me.” Yet
if she ever had occasion for thankfulness for an earthly blessing it
was for that child! She grew up in all respects the best looking of
the family, and though by far the youngest, and therefore the one
whom it is reckoned innocent to spoil, she was at six years old so
good a little girl that a friend remarked, “One would think
that child had been born before the fall.” Need I tell you
through how many years she was the comfort, the nurse, the solace,
day and night, of her aged parents, with whom she remained till the
latest look of affection had soothed them to the grave? I was the
first to whose arms she was committed as a babe, and an affection
grew up towards her which I believe was quite as vivid and anxious as
that of any mother.
She was nursed from home for
nearly
two years in a cottage on the Wivenhoe road by a Mrs Bolinbroke; and
generally after the morning service on Sunday we all walked down to
see “baby”. She was always clean and rosy, but my
mother's principle was never to “dress” babies —
pretty enough without it. I recollect that among several baptized in
public at the same time by my father, she was the only one with
simply a corded muslin cap, and no lace for a border. Happily the
dear little heads are left now without such costly and troublesome
encumbrance.
Belonging jointly to 1798 and
1799
was a small event, important as unexpected in its consequences to
Jane and me. I had made the purchase of a Minor's Pocket Book,
and on reading the solutions of enigmas, and other poetic
contributions to which prizes were adjudged, it struck me that,
without great presumption, I might aim at as much literary
distinction as these prizes conferred. With lively interest,
therefore, I possessed myself of the prescribed conditions,
unravelled enigma, charade, and rebus, and forwarded the results
under the signature of “Juvenilia”, as directed, to 55
Gracechurch Street. I little thought that it was bread I thus cast on
the waters, or rather that it would return as bread after many days.
I had, indeed, to wait long, and as the interesting season approached
for the new pocket books to make their appearance in the window of
old Mr Gibbs the bookseller, frequent and anxious were my glances in
passing by. At last they arrived, and on turning them over on his
counter with as much indifference as could be assumed, I ascertained
that the first prize — six pocket books — had been
awarded to “Juvenilia”. Besides the general poetical
solution, I find six charades with the same signature, some of which
might not be worse for a little correction, but I must regard them
gratefully, as productive of long continued advantages. From this
time I was a regular contributor for twelve or fourteen years, and
latterly became the editor, resigning only on my marriage.
From this early connection with Darton
and Harvey arose our regular, and as it proved profitable
employment as writers for children. Never doubt the gracious
direction given by our Heavenly Father to the small, no less than the
larger events of our lives. When you see a bee or a butterfly left
unfinished, as beneath the exertion of creative wisdom, indulge
your suspicions, and believe only in the obviously magnificent; but
till then hold it as not less philosophical in principle, than true
in fact, that to Him, our Creator, Provider, Governor, nothing is
either small or large, whatever the aspect it may wear to us. It was
the purchase, accidental, shall I say? of the pocket book for 1798
that gave direction, and I hope usefulness to our lives.
When I was eighteen I paid a
visit to
London. The half brothers and sisters of my mother there, whose
experiences at home had been little likely to inspire religious
habits, still less religious tastes, had surrendered themselves to
evil influences, from which a sad downward course ensued, that led
them at last, notwithstanding my mother's efforts, quite out of our
knowledge. But one of them, my uncle John, I remember with interest
and gratitude. Open, affectionate, generous, it was a pity he could
not be rescued from the fortunes — the misfortunes — of
his family. A rare chance in a lottery gave him for a time a
competence that soon escaped him, and it was during this brief
sunshine that I visited him. He was always devising something to
please me, and, as a matter of course, proposed to take me to the
theatre. No parental interdict had been laid upon me, and at that
time the line had not been drawn so strictly in the case of
amusements as it came afterwards to be in many Christian families. I
hesitated, but consented. Under the novel attractions of the scene my
scruples soon vanished, and I would have readily sacrificed many an
evening to its fascinations. Happily, as I think, I never went again.
Not long afterwards the question of such amusements was brought
before the Christian public. A sermon, preached as one of a monthly
series in London, by the Rev. George Burder, was published under the
title of Unlawful Amusements.
The subject was extensively
discussed; Mrs Hannah More threw her influence strongly into the
scale, and Christian parents felt it more a duty to withdraw their
children from indulgences of this kind.
In my belief, excitements of this
nature are not needed to the due circulation of youthful blood. The
mind is inebriated, and for a time unfitted for either religious or
intellectual occupation, the hours, the intercourse, the various
allurement of such scenes impair the healthful condition alike of
mind and body; I speak of my own sex; whether evils still more
formidable may not result to the other I do not say.
There is besides, as I think, a
beauty and a safety in preserving a well defined boundary between the
church and the world. It should be visible to which you wish to
belong. It is a fruitless attempt to blend the one with the other,
hoping yet to remain uninjured by the amalgamation. It is true that
the line between a forbidding reserve, and dangerous concession, may
require some wisdom to decide, especially in certain circumstances;
but a simple desire to do right, and to maintain a Christian
consistency of conduct with a conscience void of offence, will
generally well supply the place of laborious discussion. A delicate
mind feels in its own blush the difference between the pure and the
impure, and so it is with the simply conscientious Christian. Such
amusements as tend, unless under strong control, to excite the
dangerous tendencies of our nature, it would surely be wise to let
alone.
Yet I once wrote a prologue! My
brothers, Isaac and Martin, received part of their education under a
Mr Levett, a respectable man, who lived close by us at Colchester.
During one of his holidays a little performance was got up among his
pupils, the drama of Alfred, from Evenings
at Home, and we
took in its preparation a lively and leading interest. My father,
always ready to help, furnished the scenes, which were painted
roughly, but effectively, in body colours, and we contrived dresses
tolerably correct in costume. The Prologue, of which I was the
author, beginning, “Now when assembled round the new built
stage,” was spoken by Isaac, who sustained not inappropriately
the part of Alfred; while Martin took that of Gubba.
Well, none of the little company
became actors in earnest, or contracted even a taste for the stage,
though on the stage of life some have filled honourable parts. Three
of them, all of one family, became clergymen, and the memoir of one,
the late Rev. W. Nunn of Manchester, has been published. He was then
a rather rough, unpolished but active lad, and he and Martin, both
fond of country occupations, indulged this healthy taste by renting
between them a small field near Mile End Heath, which, by rising at
four o'clock in the morning, they contrived to cultivate themselves.
It was planted with potatoes, and, if it brought them little money,
conduced much to health and pleasure. On reading the life of this
William Nunn, I am not surprised at the lamentable want of clearness
in his views of gospel truth. His early training had been under the
ministry of the only evangelical clergyman at that time in
Colchester, to whose humble intellectual powers I have already
alluded, and who, though a man of sincere piety, adopted the “high
doctrine” so rife among the religionists of the town. Under
this superficial, hot-bed teaching it was not likely that a youth of
ardent temperament, and defective judgment, should become other than
a one-sided theologian. Such, to a grievous extent, he appears to
have been. Self-denying, laborious, economical, zealous in no common
degree, and collecting around him a circle of “God's dear
people”, he was yet, as I cannot but believe, ill-fitted to
lead the sinner to the Saviour. To leave him in the dark to his fate,
unassisted till it should please Heaven to enlighten him, seems to
have been his only thought; though when once “found of Christ”,
no one could have offered warmer congratulations. No delineation I
have ever met with of the life and character of a really good man,
has appeared to me so evil in its tendency as this memoir, aggravated
as it is by the still “higher” sentiments of the
biographer. How sorely uninviting is such a gospel ! How useless, one
might say, to preach it at all ! Better leave the whole affair to Him
who, as we all acknowledge, alone can give the increase, but who
notwithstanding commissioned his servants to go into all the world
and preach the “good news” to every creature.
The year 1800 commenced, as did I
believe the year 1700, and will, I daresay, the year 1900, with a
warm, general, still unsettled dispute as to the period at which the
old century should be understood to close, and the new one begin; and
as possibly you may not witness the arrival of the next, I give you
notice that you may amuse yourselves by deciding the question
beforehand. There was just a year's difference in the calculations of
the disputants, though to each the question appeared to admit
not a shadow of doubt. Did the eighteenth century close on the 31st
of December 1799 or of 1800? that was the point. The opinion
generally adopted I now forget. Close, however, it did, and here we
are more than half through another!
In the Minor's Pocket Book for
1800, I appeared under the signature of “Clara”, and we
were now so far known to Darton and Harvey as to be frequently
employed on small plates for their juvenile works. Writing was as yet
only the amusement of my limited leisure, and a visit to London with
my father, with which he indulged me in May of this year, greatly
stimulated my zeal as an artist, and for a time rendered art almost
the favourite pursuit. He made it his business to show me all he
could, and introduced me to several artists of note, by whom my
ambition was not a little excited. To Mr Byrne, an eminent engraver
of landscape, and his three daughters, all of whom he had educated
for the profession, I was particularly indebted. One of them etched
landscapes, another painted flowers exquisitely, and the third,
miniatures in oil. All were admirable artists in their different
lines. They kindly lent me works in different styles to copy; the
head of a Madonna slightly tinted, landscapes in Indian ink, and
studies of trees, chiefly with the pen, are amongst the copies taken
at this time, and still remaining to me. The pleasure of this
employment induced me, during the ensuing summer, to rise at
half-past five instead of six, we had the workroom then to ourselves
till eight o'clock; and even in winter mornings we felt sufficient
stimulus, from either drawing or writing, to pursue these favourite
employments during that uninterrupted, unrivalled hour, clothed, of
course, as warmly as we could be, for the fire was not
lighted till we left the room for breakfast. On many of these fine
cold, bracing mornings, too, we would sally out — Ann, Jane,
Isaac, Martin, perhaps also the children Jefferys and Jemina, to take
a breathing run from the bottom of the Balkerne hill on the backway
to Lexden. Pleasant recollections these, as will always be the
domestic enjoyments of early life. They recall the freshness,
the tenderness, the happy gaiety of youthful feelings, and by-gone
days; tainted with less to deplore and repent of, than belongs to
more exciting pleasures.
I often wonder, however, that
sitting
thus in the cold workroom, meeting in these morning walks the
sharpest air, living during the day in a room unhealthily heated by a
German stove; and then, as we often did, braving the cold again at
eight in the evening, paying our “morning calls” on our
young friends who rarely expected us earlier, and knew the reason
why, I often wonder that we sustained it all without injury,
especially under an employment entirely sedentary, and continued
during twelve or fourteen of our youthful years. Sorely, indeed, did
my mother grieve over it, predicting for us premature old age at
thirty, but so it did not prove; witness my hand copying this MS. in
1861. My father's regular health prevented him from feeling the
danger; but he yielded at last to the fears of my mother, and allowed
us to leave the workroom daily, weather permitting, at one o'clock,
to secure a walk before the two o'clock dinner.
It was during the visit to London
just mentioned, that I was first introduced to the family of Anna
Forbes — that dearest friend of my life! They were a family
bearing scarcely a trace of this world about them — a sort of
oasis of evergreen simplicity in the great desert of London. The
father, a surgeon in extensive practice, was a very child in feeling
and manners; the mother, not a child, yet not a woman, such as we
usually expect to see a woman in such a circle. She was quiet,
reserved, always and imperturbably the same; her voice, one low even
note; her person, neat and prim; her thoughts heavenly; but though
safely, as none could doubt, in the narrow way, it was especially a
narrow way for her. I do not mean that she was incommoded by its
confinement, but that her mind had naturally little compass, or
capacity for range. Her eldest son, strangely diverged from the
family ways and rose to distinction as an army
surgeon.
The second son died a few years later than the period of my
introduction, in a state of mind enviably happy; and the youngest was
that dear “Uncle William”, whom you knew so well,
inheriting largely the simplicity, kindness, and excellence of both
his parents. Eliza, the youngest daughter, an elegant and lovely
girl, became the friend and correspondent of my sister, many of whose
published letters were addressed to her.
And another intimate association
of
my life comes first into notice during this London visit. I
accompanied the Conder family to the midsummer breaking up of a
school of some repute at Hackney, where Josiah Conder was honourably
distinguished among his schoolfellows. He soon exhibited literary
taste and ability, and became in a few years almost the centre
of our poetic circle, or, as we ventured to entitle it, the
“Wreath”. Shortly after my return home his cousin “Luck”
paid her first visit to us; she was one whose friendship I tenderly
valued, and enjoyed till her death.
Thus were gradually supplied the
vacancies already making in our earlier circle; for the remove of the
Stapletons to Dedham was the precursor of further changes. Mrs
Stapleton had relatives in Dublin to whom she naturally wished to
introduce her daughters. They moved in a superior circle, and were
persons of fascinating manners, much intelligence and general
excellence. The inducements were considerable, but certain
consequences might, perhaps, have been anticipated. It was an
entirely Unitarian connection to which they were introduced, and
certainly a very gay one. Mira and Eliza commenced a long visit there
in January of this year, and late in the summer my especial friend
Bithia followed them. There had been little in the religious circles
of Colchester to attract the young towards what we regard as the
doctrines of the Gospel, little to induce the tasteful and
intelligent to join their company. In Dublin everything was
captivating, and nothing offensive. The theatre, the ball-room, and
all the warmth of Irish hospitality combined to allure; and when they
again visited England the Stapletons belonged to another sphere than
ours. Of Mira and Bithia my father had thought so favourably that
without scruple he would have received them into the Church; but they
came back with other views, had “freed themselves from
educational prejudices”, and soon indicated to their anxious
mother, that the step so worldly wise, had but commenced a course of
trial which terminated only with the life of each.
There are, it is true, few things
in
the treatment of a family requiring more of that wisdom which cometh
from above, than the decision continually to be made between exposure
and exclusiveness. To act out either principle fully would be almost
equally injurious. God has placed us in a world requiring the
discharge of active duties amid its innumerable temptations, and if
we cannot defend our children from all, the best we can do is to arm
them with principles for the unavoidable encounter — perhaps
padding the shield on the inside with habits. We cannot watch
over them till all dangers are past, but a steady eye upon the chief
good will steer us safely through many. Do you remember the enquiry
made of good old Thomas Scott on his death-bed? In his own large
family he had been greatly favoured, and they, having now children of
their own to rear, asked their dying father whether he could name any
special course or principle to which this success could be attributed?
He replied, with the humility of an aged Christian, that he was
sensible of many defects and errors, but that one thing he had aimed
at, and to that only could he refer the blessing that had
distinguished his labours, his uniform endeavour, both for
his children and himself to “seek first the kingdom of
God and his righteousness.” So much had everything else been
regarded as subordinate, that the Rev. John Scott, his eldest son,
and biographer adds, that he believes, “not one among them
would have ventured to inform his father that he was about to marry a
rich wife!” How strangely diverse from the ruling principle
now, even among those who profess to be not of this world!
Having named Thomas Scott I
cannot
resist the pleasure of expressing the veneration and love with which
I regard him. What a beautifully honest man! Truth and conscience
everywhere, the pole-star and the helm! There is to my mind in his
writings an even-handedness which guides safely among the practical
difficulties of theology. Read his volume of Theological Essays,
and you will be fenced in from error, not by dogmatism, but by the
wisdom, judgment, Christian experience, extensive knowledge of the
best kind, and fearless integrity of one of the best of men. From my
heart I admire him, and from my head, such as it is, not the less. He
was a speckled bird, however, among the Churchmen of his times.
Till near the close of this year,
though both destined for the arts, Jane and I had, as has been said,
spent only alternate weeks in the work-room; but an engagement made
by my father to supply monthly portraits to the Theological Magazine
induced him to withdraw us both from the family, and now to the end
of our residence in Colchester we continued fully employed in
engraving, with exception of one day each, in a fortnight, for our
own needlework, which was certainly most sedulously worked to that
purpose. Indeed, without a careful economy of time, we could not have
accomplished all that we contrived to accomplish during our little
leisure; a leisure which we thoroughly enjoyed, for none but the
fully occupied can appreciate the delight of suspended, or rather, I
should say, of varied labour. It is toil that creates holidays; there
is no royal road — yes, that is the royal road —
to them. Life cannot be made up of recreations, they must be garden
spots in well farmed land.
A name of enduring interest to me
occurs first in the autumn of this year, that of Dr Mackintosh, the
husband, as he now became, of our friend Miss Hills. Just sixty years
ago he was introduced to us as the elegant and accomplished young
physician, warm from the literary circles of Edinburgh. Forty-seven
years afterwards, and after twenty years of discontinued
intercourse, I was delighted by a renewed correspondence unexpectedly
commenced by his wife. How little can we surmise among associates of
early life who are to survive! who to wear well through all its
trials and dangers — who to return to us after many days! In Dr
and Mrs Mackintosh I regained truly valuable Christian friends. It
was delightful to witness in her letters the ardour and vivacity of
her youthful character, the firmness of the fine handwriting, the
same graphic archness of description, a freshness of recollection,
and a tenacity of friendship rarely preserved amidst the infirmities
of years.
About this time we were
introduced to
a new and different family circle from which it was our own fault if
we did not derive much benefit as well as pleasure. I think, indeed,
that to this day I can trace some degree of moral improvement in my
own character to intercourse with these excellent friends. Mr Holman,
of Sudbury, was a venerable Christian man of the older school; he was
the principal of a long-established firm, manufacturers of a fabric
not, I believe, now in use, a thin white glazed woollen stuff used
only for shrouds. It was then required by Act of Parliament,
as part of the protectionist system of the day, and to encourage the
wool trade, that everyone should be buried in wool.
The manufacture, therefore, was considerable; and
in Mr Holman's factory not the material only, but the shrouds also
were made. I vividly remember, on a dark winter's evening, returning
from a visit to Rodbridge Hall, the hospitable residence of an uncle
of our friends, and, stopping at a lone house between Melford and
Sudbury, in which, under the care of some female relatives of Mr
Holman, the shroud making was carried on. We were ushered into a
large and lofty room, surrounded by something like dressers or
counters, on which, at full length, were laid out the shrouds in all
their grim neatness of plaitings, stomachers, ruffles, and gimping,
while others hung above on the walls. It was about as much as nerves
could endure by candle-light. But here were residing three solitary
sisters, apparently unconscious of any speciality in their
employment.
Of one of them, dying a few years
after, I may relate a striking incident. They were all pious women,
but one had fallen into a state of religious despondency, from which
nothing availed to relieve her, and, to the distress of her family,
she gradually declined to the grave under its influence. Dying, she
made no sign, till at the last moment she suddenly exclaimed, “Glory!
oh, this is glory!” and immediately expired, permitted,
it seemed, in kindness to her sorrowing family, to antedate, but for
an instant, Heaven itself. May it prove an encouragement to some
suffering in a like darkness to hope on, “faint yet pursuing”,
till through Him in whom in life they have trusted, they are in death
made more than conquerors.
There was a very pleasant circle
at
Sudbury, sufficiently intelligent to be interesting, and quite good
enough to be very useful to us. Well do I remember the kind grave
suavity of Mr Holman's manner, and the impressions made by his mild
gentlemanly reproofs, when we chanced to take what he thought a
little licence in speaking of our neighbours, which certainly
sometimes we did. I think that almost my first real sensitiveness to
this sin of the tongue was produced under the light of his mild eye,
and under contrast with the kindliness of his amiable family. Most of
them have been long in the grave, and in thus reverting to circle
after circle I am ready to exclaim: “I only am left
alone to tell thee.”
Whether or not to continue thus
minutely to notice names and circumstances year after year, I cannot
satisfactorily determine, but there were occurrences in 1801 which
demand some speciality.
At this time a family was
introduced
to our intimacy that during the ten years following, were among our
most familiar and agreeable associates. As they had always resided in
Colchester, I do not know how it was that we came to know them then,
or did not know them before. The house and household of Mr Strutt —
or “Ben Strutt,” as he was regularly called in the town —
were altogether unique. The house was rendered as antique in
appearance as it could be. In the centre was what was used as a music
hall, occupying two stories in height, and hung round with pieces of
old armour, weapons, and similar curiosities. One of the upper
chambers opened into this hall, not by windows, but literally, the
whole side being removed. It was defended only by a low
balustrade, so that the daughter whose room it was, might, as she lay
in bed, have found her dreams disturbed by the spectral appearances
of shield, helmet, and breastplate gleaming under the moonlight
falling on them from a skylight in the roof.
Mr Strutt
himself it is not easy
to
describe. What might be his occupation, or by what means he indulged
his varied, peculiar, and sometimes expensive tastes, I never knew.
He was artist, musician, antiquary, poet, and author, an amateur in
each. His fine grey head and dark penetrating eyes made his
appearance singular and interesting, while a marked scowl and a
taciturn austerity seemed intended to express a high disregard of
society in all its forms of external elegance and conventional
politeness — intended, I fancy, to express all this, but, to my
thinking, it did its business awkwardly.
He was, I fully believe,
naturally
not only polite, but kind, so that notwithstanding the severe
exterior, we soon felt at home and comfortable in his unornamented
parlour; amused by his eccentricities, and honoured, as we could not
help feeling, by his terse original conversation. Indeed, I think I
may say he seemed to take a sort of liking to us. Of his theological
views there were various conjectures afloat. No one ever doubted his
opinions, but he was regarded as a sceptic after some school of his
own, especially as he never attended public worship anywhere. His
wife had been long dead, but his mother, an aged woman, yet younger
and more vitally alive than many in their prime, resided with him,
and an unmarried sister kept his house. With the eldest son, a dry,
stiff, pedantic oddity, inheriting his father's queerness, without
either his taste or intellect, we were but little acquainted, since
he was considerably the senior of the family. Four others, Caroline,
Jacob, Rachel, and Sarah, completed the circle, and it was with
Caroline and Jacob that we were chiefly intimate. She was a fine girl
of about our own age, peculiar as they all were, and with much talent
for both music and drawing; but beyond a sort of church-going
religion, which she shared with her aunt, she was entirely ignorant
of what we understood as evangelical piety. It became the subject of
much conversation and correspondence both with us and Anna Forbes,
who had been paying us a visit; but she resented the implication of
being “a sinner”, as a term that was unfit and untrue;
and it was impossible to say what impression was eventually made upon
her mind. She died of consumption in 1805.
Jacob Strutt was an interesting,
intelligent young man with much that was chivalrous both in
appearance and character. A little speech depicts him. We were
returning late one night from his father's house, Jacob being our
escort, when I chanced to drop a bracelet on the pavement. We looked
for it in vain; and, on giving up the search, he said, “a true
knight would remain with his lance poised beside him till daylight to
guard and recover the treasure”. And well his dark
scorn-speaking countenance would have befitted the knightly figure.
He both drew and wrote well; you will distinguish him as a
contributor to the Associate Minstrels (presently to be
mentioned), under the signature S. — a graceful specimen of his
lighter style. Being, however, a student of medicine at the time, he
could not give full scope to his tastes, which inclined much more to
art and literature than to science. He did not follow his profession,
and I last heard of him vegetating among the ruins of Rome —
himself, too, much a ruin. One can but sigh over a life that, with
character formed, and energies controlled and exercised under
Christian principles, might have shone, a light in the world. He
married a lady of various literary ability, and competent to almost
all sorts of work, including the composition of sermons for languid
divines. One of her works I have read with pleasure, The Triumphs
of Genius and Perseverance, an interesting collection of
biographies exemplifying those qualities.
It was in the social hour after
eight
that, if ever, we enjoyed ourselves from home, and it was then that
we frequently supped with the Strutts. The fare
was singular, since
one of his peculiarities was the prohibition of animal food to his
family, though he admitted of exceptions in favour of his mother and
visitors; a lamentable crotchet to which I have always believed the
lives of his two daughters, both dying of consumption, were in some
degree sacrificed. It was a strange circle — Mr Strutt, the
aged mother, the simple, kind hearted, nondescript maiden sister,
little Sally, Rachel, a girl of such secluded temper and manners that
we had scarcely a speaking acquaintance with her, occasionally the
queer Edward, or the graceful Jacob, but we were as much at home in
it as if all had been young like ourselves.
About this date, the pressure in
the
arts continuing very heavy, and my father, in these fearfully
difficult times, having a hard struggle to maintain his large family,
it was suggested by a friend that I should accept a situation as
governess in an intelligent Suffolk family. By most parents so
circumstanced this would have been regarded as a desirable relief,
but my kind father preferred for me the few grains I could pick up
under his wing, so long at least as this was practicable,
notwithstanding all its cares and privations. I can but regard this
decision with thankfulness, both to my earthly and my heavenly
Father, for notwithstanding all my home advantages, I was entirely
unfit to undertake such a charge. It is probable that of some things
I might know more than many, but I knew nothing secundum artem,
having never been taught in schools; and though now nineteen, I was a
mere child in judgment and experience. Indeed, I have often thought
that, as a family, we were (I was going to say are) younger
than our years. Even now, whether at sixty-six, as when I first began
this, or at eighty, as I am now, the feeling of being a grown woman,
to say nothing of an old woman, does not come naturally to me.
I arrive at the conclusion rather by a process of reflection than as
a felt fact. I believe, therefore, that I might have been
subjected to disgrace and disappointment had the offer been accepted,
and that I was kept in a path better suited to both my taste and
ability.
There may be some, who,
like
myself, have mournful reasons for remembering the fearfully hot and
dry summer of 1801. During many sultry weeks the sun looked out of
the clear blue sky as if he had no pity. The parched fields gaped
with thirst; the streets, even of clean Colchester, became almost
fetid from want of rain, not a cloud of promise came, and fever broke
out with us, as in most parts of the kingdom. In common with our
neighbours we dreaded the prevalent infection, and at last our dear
little brother Decimus was attacked by the disease. Not one of us was
allowed even to see him during the few days of his illness; my mother
nursed him alone, but in a week he died, having reached his sixth
year. He was a quiet little fellow, and I cannot even now think of
him without affectionate pain. Dear tranquil child, farewell to thee
once more! We all followed him to the grave, and our grief was very
real. Sympathy goes to the heart at such times. A soldier, standing
in an inn yard that we had to pass, was heard to say softly “poor
things”, as we moved along. It touched us then, and wrote
itself, as you see, on my memory.
We had been prohibited from
taking
even a last look before the coffin was closed, but a friend, more
kind than wise, “just took us in to see”, and the
consequence was, that Martin and Jefferys were immediately
seized with the disease. It proved, however, in their case, much less
virulent, and they recovered favourably. Yet I cannot describe the
nervous apprehension with which we were all affected; we lived in
hourly terror, Jane and I especially; at length our fears subsided,
the house was thoroughly cleansed, and we began to suppose ourselves
free from danger. But on a fine still Saturday evening, just before
we left the work-room, I felt a slight sting in my throat — the
fever had commenced, and it proceeded rapidly. By the Tuesday night
following, the degree of heat I experienced seemed more like that of
heated metal, than of human flesh. My parents, brothers, and sisters,
assembled in my father's study to pray for my life, and their prayers
were heard. My only nurses were my dear, weary mother, and a
tender-hearted servant, who had been already exposed to infection.
She was but a good-natured, round-faced country girl, but I shall
always gratefully remember her unselfish kindness and devotion. I
wish her as kind a hand to smooth her own sick pillow — if
pillow she still needs!
Long has been the interval since
I
wrote last, partly because it is difficult for me to command
seclusion and leisure, and partly because a more serious point was
approaching in my history than any I have previously had to touch. A
quiet Sabbath evening inclines me to proceed.
Great as had been my anxiety when
danger was only in sight, I do not recollect anything of the kind
during my illness. Though I had no such assured hope of safety as
could render the prospect of death other than alarming, the absorbing
effect of disease, as I suppose, kept me tranquil. Perhaps such
tranquillity may often be mistaken for the token of a “happy
death.” In extremity of pain or weakness the mind loses its
sensitiveness to anything beside, and, except in special cases,
becomes almost incapable of deep emotion. The sufferer appears, as it
is said, “quite resigned”, and so the weight of eternal
issues is thrown upon the peradventure “that all is right”,
or the conviction that, if not, it is too late, what must be,
must be now!
In a short time I was restored to
my
usual health, and my dear father watched for “fruit”.
What were the indications from which he judged favourably of my
Christian character I cannot say, but he did not lose the
opportunity, on my recovery, of urging the necessity of decision, and
before the end of the year I allowed myself to be proposed
to the
Church; how suitably God only knows, the day shall declare it. Oh
that I may find mercy of the Lord in that day.
I was never confident, never satisfied, and there are some, of whose
profession at the time I thought ill, whose Christianity has proved
of better stamina than mine. They have survived to evidence growth,
and reality, and leave me, I am constrained to fear, still a dark
inconsistent wanderer, vainly attempting to lay hold on the hope
set before me in the gospel. “Other refuge I have none,”
yet I fail of peace, “peace in believing”, that
blessed possession which the world can neither give nor take away.
Oh, decide
the doubtful case,
Thou who art Thy people's sun,
Shine upon
the work of grace,
If it be indeed begun.
I have just alluded to my own
life-long failure in reaching peace and joy. Yet there was a period,
long after the date of my admission to the church, when I did enjoy
what seemed a well-founded hope, and I will antedate my history by
nearly forty years to narrate the circumstances under which it
occurred. Those many years had passed over me with various
alternations of comfort and discomfort, hope and fear, when in the
summer of 1838 I was called to make a long sojourn at the sea, on a
solitary coast. Our first Sabbath on the way thither was spent in a
family where I should not have looked for religious improvement; but
I was there singularly affected. It was an ordinance Sabbath, and in
my usual state of feeling, a doleful sense of need and misery, I
joined the communion, of the small church there. During the
administration, the yearning of my heart for salvation expressed
itself in a whispered “Oh that I could!” no sooner
uttered than a response seemed to say, “And what hinders? If
you are willing, is God unwilling?” I was dumb. I could give no
reply; and went from the chapel with a new feeling of hope. At the
house I met with a book I should not have expected to find there — Newton's
Cardiphonia. I read it
eagerly, and felt its
suitableness to my condition.
Few spots in England could have
appeared less favourable for spiritual improvement than the little
sea-bathing place we were going to. At the parish church there was
service only once on the Sunday, and I think only once a fortnight,
and the sermon was an essay without an evangelical word. On the
Sunday evenings, in the kitchen of a small shopkeeper, the humble
teaching of a local brother among the Methodists was the only other
opportunity; but it was gospel, and I enjoyed it. I had brought with
me from home a volume of Scott's Essays,
and these formed my
Sunday readings, and well I remember the delight, admiration, and
gratitude with which, upon one occasion, while reading the essay on
Justification, I perceived, as by a new revelation, the glorious
wisdom, freeness, and sufficiency of the plan by which a helpless
sinner may be saved! I rose from my seat, being alone, read the words
aloud, and thanked God for them. From that time, and till long after,
I felt a degree of peace and happiness which was new to me. But it
faded.
And here I pause. Is there no
balm in
Gilead, no physician there? Why, then, is not my heart healed of its
malady? Is not the same God rich in mercy to all who call upon him?
Truly my sins have separated between me and my God; that I can see,
that I can understand; but then is it not said, “Come now, and
let us reason together, though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be
white as snow, though red like crimson, they shall be as wool?”
“Whosoever will, let him take of the water of life freely?”
Oh, Thou who art exalted to be a Prince and a Saviour, to give
repentance and remission of sins, bestow upon me, I beseech Thee,
these princely gifts, and strengthen the weak hand of
my faith to take the living draught that I thirst no more!
Among the improving influences by
which, from my youth up, I have been surrounded, some
certainly at the time less agreeable than others, but for which I am
constrained to feel not the less thankful, I may mention a
visit, paid soon after my recovery from the scarlet fever, to a good
minister at Dedham. He was, I believe, the senior minister of the
county, a plain, excellent straight-forward man, commonly spoken of
as “Father Crathern”. Happening to see me when yet
scarcely recovered, he kindly invited me for a few days to his house
for change of air. But my tongue had not yet learned aright the
lesson of Christian kindness, and I ventured at Father Crathern's
fireside to deal with some of my neighbours not exactly as I would
have been dealt with. Of all places that was not the spot where it
was prudent to indulge in this kind of sport, nor do I know any spot
in which it would be desirable. Though in most cases a simple
amusement, there are few faults into which it is easier to fall, few of
which it may be more difficult to see the unkindness, and the
sin, few, therefore, against which it behoves us to be more
prayerfully on our guard. Sitting, as we brothers and sisters did,
day after day, and year after year, side by side at the same
employment, it was an easy amusement to divert ourselves at the
expense of others, not in malice, but in thoughtlessness, and
indulging that taste for the humorous, of which we all partook less
or more. On these occasions when, perhaps, a running fire had been
kept up for some time, my father would lift up his head from the desk
at which he stood, look over his spectacles, and administer a short,
grave, or kind, interjaculatory rebuke, which might silence, more
easily than cure us.
It requires a deeper sense than
we
readily acquire of the sin and unkindness of the habit, to root it
out of the heart, and rid it from the lips; but it may be to some
extent removed by the plain dealing of those whom we cannot help
respecting, and whose good opinion we should be ashamed and grieved
to forfeit. Such on me were the effects of Mr Holman's remarks, and
the graver reproofs of Mr Crathern. They gave me at least a
sensitiveness to the offence, which I think has not left me. To the
memory of these two excellent men, I desire to express a genuine
gratitude, and perhaps I might suggest their example as a stimulus to
others to do likewise; scattering thus upon the waters, and after how
many days may not Christian counsel in its living fruit return to
them? It is now more than half a century since the kind and wise
words were dropped into my ear — and my heart.
My sister Jane and I were
indulged in
holiday visits to our now many friends in London, but we could be
seldom spared together. Our grandfather and grandmother Taylor now
resided at Edmonton, in comfortable independence. My
uncle Charles,
the eldest of their sons, and known since as the “learned
Editor of Calmet”, lived in Hatton Garden.
I wish I could paint for you his tall figure, slightly bending, or
appearing to do so, from the habit of constantly walking with his
left arm under his coat behind, his full grey hair turned loosely
back, a plain, shrewdly good-natured countenance, with always a
welcome, a queer speech or a pun, on his lips. His
wife was a kind,
precise gentlewoman of the olden school. She was of Welsh extraction,
with a small fortune of her own, and had been brought up in the Tower
of London, of which place her uncle and guardian was chaplain, and
she retained a sort of antique air, contracted, one might suppose,
within its walls. They had one son and two
daughters.
My Uncle's study! Oh such a
medley of
books, papers, desks and dust! Whether visitors were ever admitted I
cannot say, but I am pretty sure never the housemaid and broom. The
house was frequented by many literary persons, but there seemed to be
no society, or circle of friends. The son, my cousin Charles, was not
much less a character than his father, of which I may give this
proof. He had become the active superintendant of a Sunday school on
Saffron Hill, in which he was greatly interested. “Cousin,”
said he, upon one of my visits to London, “I will take you to
see the school, and you shall point out to me the Minerva of it.”
My sagacity was not sorely tried, one of the girls,
she might be
twelve or thirteen, could not be mistaken. She had a fine superior
handsome countenance, full of intelligence, with dark hair and eyes;
she well deserved the distinction, and soon after he placed her at a
boarding-school, preparatory to a future closer connection;
unfortunately, a short time previous to their marriage, she fell down
and broke her nose, effecting a considerable change for the worse in
her appearance; he was not one to recede, however, on that account,
and she lived many years a valuable wife.
Another family circle opened to
us at
this time in London, with which we have been ever since closely
connected. It resulted from circumstances entirely accidental. My
sister was taken by a friend to hear some popular preacher of the
day, and in a full place was shown into a seat next to one in which
was a gentleman known to her companion. This was Mr Cecil, nephew to
the Rev. R. Cecil of St John's, Bedford Row. He had a heart always
open to the young, and manners particularly endearing to them; and
taking a fancy to Jane, she soon became his guest, as he also was
soon ours, and after that I his, in every future visit to London.
There was no family, in which we were thenceforward more at home, or
enjoyed ourselves with greater zest. Our friends, the Forbeses and
Conders, were already intimate there, with many other young people of
about our own standing, so that there could not be a pleasanter
rendezvous. Accidental we call such meetings; but how can I doubt the
prescience and ordination of a particular providence in them? I do
not mean that God steps out of his way, or alters an original design
in favour of some individual, but that in the great chain of
providence not a link is missing or fractured; there are no small
things, except as the acorn is smaller than the oak; all are
important, the one as the other, in the great economy.
About this time Jane and I began
the
arduous experience of making our own dresses. Limited as our time for
needlework was, this was no easy matter. It would be difficult,
indeed, to say which was the scarcest article with us, money, time,
or skill, but we managed as well as we could amongst them, and cut
and contrived till a dress came out of it. It has always been a
pleasure to me to contrive, so as “to make things do,”
and I am not sure but that more is really enjoyed by those who, like
us at that time, lived in the constant exercise of contrivance, than
by those who have only to ask and have. A carelessness is generated
by the consciousness of unlimited supply – from the knowledge
that “Papa will pay,” or later in life from the dangerous
postponement to the “Christmas bill.” With the habit so
early commenced of husbanding every minute of time, it has never been
a recreation with me to sit doing nothing, and unless disabled by
illness, I cannot learn it now. My mother used to say, “your
work is worth little if it is not worth candlelight,” and,
therefore, that which is called “Blind man's holiday” is
no holiday to me.
And with all our close work we
had,
as has been seen, our holidays; exciting visits to London, and others
to Suffolk, little less delightful, and perhaps more salutary. And
there were home holidays enjoyed after a different fashion, but with
nearly as warm a zest. These were of two sorts: the “Parnassian
Evening”, as we ventured to call it for Winter; and the Gipsy
Ramble in Summer. Domestic anniversaries were especially
distinguished. For the winter celebration we surrounded the large
dining table after tea — my father with his pencil, my mother
with a book of some special interest, selected for the occasion,
sitting at the head; and each of us, brothers and sisters, with
drawing and needlework, as the case might be. Something inexpensive,
but a little out of the common way, was provided for supper. Much,
very much, did we enjoy these healthful home
festivities.
In summer there were several
birthdays among us to afford happy excursions, generally ourselves
only, but occasionally we assembled as many as twenty or thirty among
our friends; took store for a pic-nic dinner under a hedge, in a
green nook of the high woods, or on a country common, and finished
with a refreshing tea at some roadside inn — the “White
Hart” at East Bergholt, or a sequestered inn at Heckford
Bridge; whither we rambled on the day Isaac came of age, our dear
friend Luck Conder being at the time our guest. The day was passed as
happily, perhaps, as if a host of tenants had been regaled in front
of the ancestral Hall! There are not many conditions of life in which
the affections, and the country, may not provide a
sufficient feast for a red-letter day. Let those who, searching for
pleasure, cannot find happiness make the experiment.
[ED.
It was amongst the lively
circle at Colchester, who no doubt were sometimes amused with the
dullness of their neighbours that Jane Taylor one day produced the
following “Jeu d' esprit”. After all, it would seem that
the visit of the muses to the bucolic old town was not quite without
result.]
It happened
one day — but ’tis not ascertained
At what time —
that the “Nine” of low spirits complained,
And to
cheer their depression concerted a plan
Awhile to sojourn in the
dwellings of man.
The groves of Parnassus, they said, were
retired,
That Muses themselves recreation required,
And,
therefore, the scheme they determined to follow,
Without even
asking the leave of Apollo.
Their escort was Pegasus, ever
intent
To conduct his fair friends wheresoever they went.
The place
they believed would enliven them best,
Was a snug little isle that
lay far to the west;
So thither with speed they directed their
course,
Their guide, as aforesaid, the classical horse.
Their mode of
conveyance is hard to discover,
Suffice it to say, it was
something or other.
Perhaps through the ocean Old Neptune might
send them,
In some worn-out car he might offer to lend them;
Or,
with their winged friend, through the air they might sail;
Or
climb o'er a rainbow; or traverse a gale.
Perhaps by some magical
spell they were hurled;
Or they might travel post, like the
rest of the world.
’Tis certain, however, they were at no
loss,
Although for nine people there was but one horse,
For he,
more obliging than hunter or hack,
Might take three or four at a
time on his back.
And when he had landed them safely at
Dover,
Return to Parnassus to bring the rest over.
But whether
they travelled by sea, or came by land,
’Tis certain they all
arrived safe in our island,
And scarcely a town from the east to
the west
But was honoured by having a Muse for a guest.
All
paid them great homage; some came to adore them,
Pale poets by
hundreds fell prostrate before them,
And they, in return for this
politic praise,
Bestowed in profusion their laurels and bays,
A
large stock of which they invented a plan to
Transport to this
isle in a spacious portmanteau.
In the course
of this tour they arrived at a place
Whose name I conceal from a
public disgrace;
Yet own, wishing not other towns to
disparage,
'Twas on the high road between London and Harwich.
So here they
arrived, little doubting of meeting,
Like everywhere else, with a
sociable greeting,
And being fatigued with the way they had
been,
Were looking about them in search of an inn.
But how the
fair group were abashed and affrighted
To see the surprise their
appearance excited!
The gentlemen, staring through opera
glasses,
Declared they were old-fashioned odd-looking lasses;
The
ladies assented, just deigning to cast
Some looks of surprise and
contempt as they passed,
And hoped to such comical creatures as
they
Their gentlemen friends would have nothing to say.
And the
gentlemen vow’d, as they stifled their laughter,
They were
the last girls they should ever go after.
Poor Pegasus,
too! sadly treated was he,
Some outlandish beast they supposed he
must be.
All said his appearance was truly absurd;
Some thought
him a horse; others called him a bird;
The gentleman jockeys
declared 'twould be shocking
To ride him without at least nicking
and docking;
And every man
said, as they passed by his door,
They had never beheld such odd
people before;
And indeed, if they might be allowed to speak
plain,
They never desired to see such again.
By this time
the party had reached an hotel,
But began to complain that they
did not feel well,
They scarcely could breathe, and felt strangely
oppressed,
And Pegasus, too, was as bad as the rest.
So all of
them ended their plaints by insisting
That this was an air they
could never exist in.
They wished themselves fifty miles out of
the way;
Then, ladies, said Pegasus, why do we stay?
And, being
quite willing to take his advice,
They packed up their all, and
were gone in a trice,
Lamenting the place they should ever
explore,
And vowing they never would visit it more.
And all who
of this famous town may have heard
Well know that they never have
broken their word!
Chapter
V. Domestic
Recollections.
Colchester and Ongar, 1802-12
Application
from Darton and Harvey — Isaac's First Piece — Active
Literary Work — Terror of Invasion, and Flight to Lavenham —
Private Theatricals — Mournful Deaths — Interview with
Joanna Baillie — Evils of Diary-Making — The Brothers
Remove to London — Approaching Change — Removal to Ongar — Review
Writing — Ilfracombe
We said to
Time, ’twas long ago,
“Old man, thy daughters
bless;”
He did not say exactly — “No,”
Nor
yet exactly — “Yes.”
He smiled,
’'tis said to be his way
When children thus request;
He then no
promise breaks, and they,
Believe as suits them best.
Ann
Gilbert
Fraught with
invective they ne'er go
To folks at Paternoster Row.
Goldsmith
I
HAVE already adverted to the origin of our connection with Darton and
Harvey, maintained for a few years under assumed signatures. But at
length, observing that they were constantly publishing small books
with plates, I ventured from my concealment, and informed them that,
if they had engraving to dispose of, we could undertake a portion.
With this suggestion they immediately complied, and it was not long
before they made a proposition themselves. I insert a copy of the
letter from our worthy friend Darton, which resulted in that
occupation of our pens which for many years formed the delightful, as
well as profitable employment of our limited leisure, and which
placed Jane especially upon a track which through life she never
abandoned, much to the benefit, I may say, of successive generations
of the young. The admirable volumes of Q.Q. sufficiently attest this
remark. The letter of Darton, addressed to my father, was as follows:
LONDON, 1st 6 mo.
1803.
ISAAC TAYLOR
Respected Friend,
We
have received some pieces of poetry from some branches of thy family
for the Minor's Pocket Book,
and we beg that the enclosed
trifles may be divided among such as are most likely to be pleased
with them. My principle reason for writing now, is to request that
when any of their harps be tuned and their muse in good humour; if
they could give me some specimens of easy Poetry for young children,
I would endeavour to make a suitable return in cash, or in books. If
something in the way of moral songs (though not songs), or short
tales turned into verse, or, but I need not dictate. What
would be most likely to please little minds must be well known to
every one of those who have written such pieces as we have already
seen from thy family. Such pieces as are short, for little children
would be preferred.
For self and
partner, very respectfully,
DARTON AND HARVEY
The “pieces” referred to
were by Jane and me, hers a poetical solution of the Enigmas
and Charades of the year, prettily written in the character of a
little Beggar with wares to sell, beginning: “I'm a poor little
beggar, my mammy is dead,” and mine, entitled the Crippled
Child's Complaint: “Kind Christians have pity, I'm helpless
and lame,” which was suggested by the suffering and lameness of
my brother Jefferys.
I well remember the arrival of
this
letter, and can see now the flocking to papa's high desk to read,
enter fully into, comprehend, and calculate results. Various were our
speculations as to what might be implied in the sentence “a
suitable return in cash or in books”. “Books good, but
cash better,” we thought. One remark made by my father I
remember also: “I do not want my girls to be authors.”
In that wish he was not entirely gratified, and I conclude that,
before the death of his daughter Jane, he had retracted it. Little at
the time, too, could it have crossed his mind that before many years
had elapsed, his wife would become the author of numerous books as
“Mrs Taylor of Ongar”.
In the previous year I had sent
up
contributions under the signature of “Maria”, which were
thus noticed. “We are delighted with the steady and valuable
correspondence of ‘Maria’, under whatever name she
pleases to appear, and hope the time will come when we may be amused
with her productions on a more useful and extended scale.” Nor
can I forbear inserting a further extract. Along with my own
“solution” at this time, I had sent up one by my brother
Isaac, then only thirteen years old, under the signature of “Imus”;
and it is interesting to perceive the sagacity with which its early
promise was acknowledged in the following: “We have been much
divided in our opinion respecting the adjudication of the second best
answer, for the competition has been very equal. However, we are not
ashamed to announce that if the general solution signed ‘Imus’,
be the production of a boy thirteen years old, as it is professed to
be, we should not hesitate a moment to adjudge him a prize for so
wonderful a production. There are such a clearness of thought, and
conciseness of diction in the piece, that we are led to suppose it
the composition of a person far more advanced in years (though the
handwriting does not belie the assertion). However, if Maria (for we
discover a family connection) will avouch the truth of this, we are
ready to bestow on him an additional prize, in consideration of his
uncommon genius.”
This was the first appearance of
the
author of the Natural History of
Enthusiasm in print, and the
first award of literary fame, afterwards so justly earned. The
“solution” which gave this happy augury was the following — the words
in italics represent the solution of the enigmas
and charades of the previous year, all of which had to be unravelled
and included.
CONSUMPTION
With languid
ears, and lifeless eyes,
In chair of pain he
panting lies,
With fruitless medicine he's plied,
And every art
in vain is tried;
E'en
Matlock's beauties, Downham's air,
Can only
strengthen sad despair:
Rosemary's juice, in water
pure,
Serves but to make his death more sure:
The thickened
soup in saucepan made,
Untouched before him now is
laid,
And garden, sonnet, nightingale,
Unheard, unseen,
no more regale!
The flower that seemed so bright in bloom,
Droops
now in nightshade's deadly gloom.
Like some wet firework's
transient blaze,
Burns only out one half his days,
Death's
mandate clips the string, and he
Obtains the awful
passage key:
With earnest hope his soul ascends,
And
all his pain in glory ends.
IMUS
It could have been scarcely a
year or
two later, that his own health began to fail, and he would frequently
stand during the greater part of a winter's evening leaning his head
against the mantlepiece in the parlour, where only my mother was at
work. We did not understand the meaning of it, but many years
afterwards, when his literary career had fully developed itself, I
ventured to ask him. “Do you remember that habit, and what was
the reason of it?” “Yes, Ann,” he replied; “I
was in fact meditating on the evils of society, and wondering whether
I could do anything to mitigate them.” Cogitations not
shared by many at a similar age, but in his case a pledge nobly
redeemed in the works — Enthusiasm, Fanaticism,
Spiritual Despotism, and Ancient Christianity, which
occupied his riper years.
It was now, in complying with
Darton's welcome request, that our evenings became truly valuable to
us. And the employment was so much to our taste, as well as
advantageous for our limited funds, that it was the pleasure of the
day to look forward to it, and to provide ourselves with some
thoughts suitable for the simple treatment required. Happy she who
could lay first claim to anything that admitted of consecutive
versification! This look-out for ideas was one difficult part of our
task; another, the simplification of language to suit our expected
young readers. Much easier should we have found it to cater for such
as ourselves. This probably most who have made the attempt will
understand.
However, we contrived to send up
material for the first volume of Original Poems for Infant Minds.
Exactly when it appeared, I do not remember, but it must have been
early, as a second was ordered in November, 1804. The first word that
reached us respecting its success was from our friend, Mr T. Conder
in Bucklersbury. — “Much pleased with Original
Poems, have sold forty already.” For this volume the
immediate payment was £5, but another £5 was afterwards
added. The money was welcome; but more welcome still were expressions
of pleasure like the above. Having written to order, we had no
control over the getting out of the volumes, and should have been
better pleased if contributions from other hands had been omitted.
Several of these were signed “Adelaide”, whom we
understood afterwards to have been a Miss O'Keefe, a lady whose
father had written for the stage. After the publication of these two
volumes we were allowed to stand alone. I think I am correct in
saying that for the second volume of Original
Poems we
received £15; and for the Rhymes
for the Nursery, still
more simple in style, £20; so that we felt our purses
comfortably filling, and from this time for several years were never
without commissions of some sort. Among them were the Limed Twigs
to Catch Young Birds; City
Scenes; Rural Scenes; Bible Stories, large and
small; a Child's Book, which
we
translated from the French, a revision of A Mother's Fables,
much altered, and, I must say, improved; and many others. Besides
formal remittances, our friends of 55 Gracechurch Street, sent us
occasional presents of fish, fruit, and other acceptable “oddments”;
and to the last day I have been in town I could not pass No. 55
without a look of grateful remembrance towards both God and man; and
a renewed recognition of that providential guidance, by which life is
often insensibly turned into new, pleasant or useful channels.
Among the “jobs”
entrusted to us was the revision and improvement of a queer book — The World turned Topsy-turvey.
This was sent to us by the then
large publisher, Sir Richard Philips, who paid us 24 guineas for the
operation; we added several new pieces, and certainly mended the old
ones. It was, I think, about the spring of 1808 that the Butterfly's
Ball and the Grasshopper's Feast, a jeu d'esprit by Roscoe
of Liverpool made its appearance. It became so popular as to produce
numerous imitations, much below the original, and my ambition being
stirred, I entered the field, pen in hand, with the Wedding among
the Flowers. The season and opportunity were especially
favourable from two circumstances: one, that Jane at the time was on
a visit to London, and I was left alone without companionship; and
the other, that it was the half yearly recess which we used to
denominate the Seven o'clockings. To explain: the regular hour
to leave the workroom, summer and winter, was eight, but twice in the
year, for about a fortnight each time, we could see without lighting
up till seven, and broke up then: (we had each two candles in a low
candlestick made for the purpose). Great was the boon of the
additional evening hour, and it was of this that I availed myself,
completing the little poem in the evenings of a happy fortnight. Our
good friend, Darton, rewarded the pleasant labour — pleasant
enough without reward — with the munificent gift, as I thought
it, of twelve guineas. I may remark that, for none of our productions
did we ever stipulate a price, but left it to our publishers. We have
reason to believe that for many years they enjoyed an ample return
for their liberality.
It has often surprised me, how
successful were these early efforts, but we had the advantage of
being almost first in the field. Dr. Aikin (Mrs
Barbauld)
and others, had written well for children, but mostly in prose; since
the days of Dr. Watts there had scarcely been, I will not say a Poet,
but a Rhymster on the ground, and therefore the road was open to a
humble popularity. It has long been a legend in our family, and I
have lately had it confirmed as true, that one of
our great
grandmothers was, when a child, taken on the knee of Dr. Watts and
presented with a copy of his Divine
Songs for Children. I
should be not a little pleased to possess that small volume, but I
cannot ascertain its whereabouts.
After referring to the pecuniary
advantage resulting to us from this employment of our pens, together
with the deep satisfaction of receiving frequent praise, I feel bound
to add that when thus fairly launched, we were sensible of an earnest
desire to be as useful as we could. At first no suspicion of the
extent to which we might become so entered our minds. We kept the
little one for whom we were writing, so far in view as to write
honestly for its benefit, but it was an object that had to grow with
the consciousness that the benefit was felt, and widening. I have
heard Jane say, when sitting down to our new evening's business, “I try
to conjure some child into my presence, address her
suitably, as well as I am able, and when I begin to flag, I say to
her, ‘There love, now you may go’.”
In following our humble literary
course I have made a leap forward of some years. The close of 1803
produced a temporary change in the home-circle of no small interest.
England was beginning to look thoughtful at the name of Bonaparte.
Especially towards the eastern coast, the suspicion of invasion was
spreading alarm, and once or twice I believe beacons were actually
fired to announce it. We had a large number of troops at Colchester,
and it was afterwards surmised that the officers favoured the reports
of a descent of French troops on that part of the Essex coast, in
order to lessen the rate of lodgings. A panic, sudden and general,
certainly occurred. Those of the inhabitants who could pay for
immediate flight made off in every direction. But we were not of that
fortunate number. To transport a large part of the family, with goods
and chattels at all equal to the necessity, required no small amount
of cash in hand, a position in which we rarely found ourselves. I was
myself absent in London, so that I report only from hearsay.
Conveyance of some kind had to be devised, and that without delay, so
it was resolved to make use of the heavy stage waggon — there
were no coaches on the road at all — which traversed the
eighteeen miles between Colchester and Lavenham, where, happily, my
father's house was then untenanted. My sister Jane and brother Isaac
took charge of Jefferys and Jemima, (my father and mother, with
Martin, remaining at home) and all were stuffed in along with
soldiers' wives, their children, and what not of furniture and goods,
for a slow journey, that did not come to its end till ten o'clock at
night, when the groaning vehicle slid down Water Street, and
discharged our portion of its worn and weary passengers into the warm
welcome and kind comfort of the Lungleys, whose hospitality always
kept an open door for our visits.
The next concern was to fit up
the
vacant house with the few articles of furniture that had travelled
with them. The pleasant sitting-room, looking into the garden, was
provided with a suitable table for engraving at; two bedrooms were
put into decent trim; and taking the duties most suited to their
several ability, Jane and Isaac, with little run-about helps in
Jefferys and Jemima, contrived to do the needful as master, mistress,
and servant, in the humble household — contriving, indeed, that
things should look so pleasant and feel so comfortable as to become,
in double-quick time, a very cheerful home. Besides the Lungleys,
various branches of the Meeking family, of old and hospitable memory,
remained; and a Mr Thomas Hickman, a cousin of our friend, had
succeeded him in the pastorate. Nor were new friends wanting; so that
this Lavenham episode, extending from October 1803 to February 1804,
was enjoyed by all of us; my father, mother, Martin, and I making
visits, or interchanges, to our great mutual satisfaction. It was
with regret as well as pleasure that, on the 18th of February —
this time, be it observed, in a post-chaise — our party
returned, and we were once more united as a family at Colchester.
Well do I remember the joy of the evening.
ED. The letters of
her mother to Ann in London give a lively picture of the panic, and
show how precarious were the sources of public information. She
writes, October 11, to her “sweet girl”:
On
Friday last the principal inhabitants of Colchester waited on General
Craig, the commander here, and received from him the most solemn and
decisive warning of our danger, and of the absolute necessity of the
female part of the population, with their children, and what effects
they could convey, leaving the town with all speed; and poor Mr W. has
been over in great alarm, having just opened by mistake a letter
intended for a young lady here, from her brother, an officer,
entreating her to leave the town instantly, for that the attack might
be expected any hour. Heath is commanded to bake twenty-five thousand
loaves, of six pound each, every fourth day; soldiery keep pouring in
daily; the cavalry horses have not had their saddles off for several
nights; the butter market is being walled round; and General Craig is
up early and late, indefatigable in his preparations ...
And
now you will not be surprised to hear that we are all in the utmost
distress and consternation. Every face gathers blackness, and our knees
smite together ... The Rounds are all going to Bath. Lawyer Daniel is
packing up all his writings in sacks, and, with his family, will send
them to Halstead. The East Hill people are flying thicker and
faster ... And now, in this conjuncture, what is your advice
to us? Shall we tarry or flee? and, if the latter, pray whither? Do
give us your advice by return of post. You know it is not uncommon to
ask advice, and then take our own; nor am I sure that to do it after we
have taken our own is without precedent. Know, then, that this
morning our dear Jane, Isaac, Jeff, and Jemima, with a
considerable portion of our property, set off in Filcham's waggon for
Lavenham. Oh! could you have seen us yesterday; the confusion we were
in from the top of the house to the bottom, and our feelings so
harrowed that we were actually ready to fight one another! I was up
last night till midnight, packing, etc., and this morning such a
parting! Oh, how poor Jane did cry! They are now, poor hearts, on the
road, wedged in with chairs tables, beds, soldiers' wives, etc., etc.
May the God of providence watch over them, and bring them safe to their
journey's end!
And now, lest you should think we
have taken a needless step, know that before we took it, we all united
round the throne of grace together, to beg direction, and since then
your father's mind has been made up. I confess I rather hung back, but
he says he knows the worst of this step, but he does not know the worst
that might happen should our fears be realised ... I am not a little
alarmed at hearing, that should the French land, London will be
fortified and close shut up, none coming out or going in! Pray, run no
hazard, but fly if there is the least danger.
Oct. 15. There is a Mr Candler, who has just arrived from France, where
he passed for an American. He says that the preparations are immense.
He was ten days in passing the artillery! He is not very sanguine as to
our resisting their landing; but, perhaps, he is no real judge, and is
only intimidated by appearances. They said it would be six weeks
before they were ready, and it will be a month next Sunday since they
told him so. He says the French people are much against the invasion,
but the soldiery are clamorous for it, and threaten high that they will
neither give nor receive quarter! But let not him that putteth on his
armour boast, as he that taketh it off! ...
Just received letters from Lavenham. Such a journey! Eleven hours and
a-half! Twenty passengers, mostly soldiers' wives, and every one with a
child! No air in the waggon, and our family mounted up at the very
back, and the very top, on our great red chest, which was piled on the
other goods. But what they endured from stink and oaths was nothing to
what they suffered when night came on; the horses so tired they could
hardly proceed, and the waggoners frightened, expecting the waggon to
break down!
Several letters to and from
Lavenham
at this exciting time are given in the life of Jane Taylor. Their
mother describes to her children the rigours of the fast-day —
“no cloth laid; half a round of toast at breakfast and no
dinner! She dwells, too, upon ‘the wonderful sermon’ of
her husband, of which she had chosen the text — David's words
to Goliath of Gath. “Goliath, he said, had three
significations, Revolution, Captivity, and Passing over. People came
round him afterwards begging to have it printed.” There was
plain speaking in those plain days, for he failed not to set forth,
“in most affectionate terms”, to the volunteers present
in their uniforms, that many might probably “wallow in their
blood”.
The Editor is tempted to
introduce a
further extract or two from a letter of this year, addressed by the
mother of the family, then on a visit to London, to her loved ones in
Colchester. She is so frequently alluded to in this narrative, as
suffering and anxious, that her racy humour and energetic character
might be unsuspected by the reader. The little dramatic scene it
includes, is, to those who knew them, amusingly characteristic of
each member of the family. Various domestic directions end with:
I
hope you take care of Dickey and ye trees, mind I can
tell whether they have had justice done them by their looks. I am not
sure if those two beautiful geraniums will do well where they are, if
they look less healthy than they did, by all means remove them to
their old situation in ye best parlour window, telling the
new maid to mind she don't break them when she shuts the windows; and
pray forsake not the poor rose-tree in ye pot in ye
garden; if it is too much trouble there, have it in among ye
rest. And pray tell me how you individually are in health, is your
father really better — the old man of whom ye
speak? Tell no lies. And ye dear Jemima, how does she do?
and how does she look? and where does she go? and what does she say?
And poor Jeff? And dear Jane, that will have no holiday this summer,
an't she dull? As for Nancy, I neither love nor pity her, only I
should like to hear she is well. And the boys! oh, how I long for
them here, I would most willingly surrender my excursions to them, it
would be high sport. For my part it is too much for me. Sorry am I to
say my nervous symptoms increase. I know it is a great deal in ye
imagination; but when I lie down in bed, I often think I shall not
see ye morning, and when I go out alone, tho' I do not
much fear a lyon in ye way, I often fear I shall be slain
in ye streets. I have the constant fear of palsy,
apoplexy, inflammation, mortification, and twenty other fears, all of
which my better judgment tells me are groundless ...
And now what shall I do to fill up my paper! I can say I have just been
called down to see Mr Cecil, and every little helps; but as there is no
particular news, I am still far behind. I've a great mind to try my
skill in ye drama way. A writer must be a great fool indeed that cannot
find an equal one for a reader; and so:
Scene:
Angel Lane
Dramatis
Personae: Mr Isaac Taylor, sen, Miss Ann Taylor, Mr Isaac
Taylor, jun., Miss Jane Taylor, Mr Martin Taylor, Children, Servant,
and Porter
Scene:
A ring at y' door — Servant enters.
Servant.
There's a man with two arm chairs.
All. Two arm
chairs!!!
Servant.
Yes sir; all done up in hay.
Mr
Taylor. They can't be for us.
All
(tumbling over one another). Let us see.
Ann.
They are for Taylor the dyer.
Jane.
But here is ye “Rev”.
Isaac.
Oh, pay for ’em! pay for ’em! I daresay mamma has sent
them from London.
Martin.
Yes, yes, that’s likely. I know mamma better than
that. You don’t catch her at those tricks; besides, they are all gilt
and japanned!
Father.
Do hold your tongue, boy, and somebody pay for ’em.
Who can lend me a shilling?
All.
I’ve got none.
Father.
Can you change me a __? Call again. Well they
are rare easy chairs, however, come they from whom they may.
They are such a support to one’s back when one is tired.
Jane.
But if they should not be for us after all, we should
look rare foolish.
Father.
Ah, well, let’s enjoy them while we have ’em,
and not trouble ourselves who may sit in them to-morrow.
Isaac.
Where will you set them, pa?
Father.
Why, I don't know; let them stand in the best parlour
for ye present, to be safe from mischief, and mamma shall
settle it when she comes home.
Jane.
Now, I’ll lay anything I can tell where they came from.
You know Fowler’s a chair-maker, and he’s very good natured, and
perhaps ...
[Curtain
drops.
A SHORT
EPILOGUE.
Wist ye not that such an one as I
Can
certainly divine!
Monday
— Saw Mr Clayton preach yesterday morning; Mem — No sounding board.
Heard Mr Bennett at Mr
Brooksbanks' in afternoon; Me — A sounding board.
The beloved circle in which we
had
lived during a few years of early youth at Colchester was beginning
to thin in 1804; one and another passed away, till scarcely any of
those in whom we felt an affectionate interest were left. On the 16th
of April there died of decline, in Dublin, Bithia Stapleton, for a
time my intensely attached friend. She burnt out prematurely, and we
learnt nothing of her last days. Many letters had passed between us
on the subject of her changing views, and I would fain regard it as
the lingering of a latent faith; that in one of her last to me she
said, “Do you think I can be saved by Christ without believing
on Him?” Sad to lie down and die on such a precipice! On the
19th of January, in the following year, Mira, the elder sister, died
at Exeter, whither she had removed for change of air, and where she
was most kindly nursed by an amiable and intelligent Unitarian
family. She was only twenty-six, a lovely girl, and of no common
intellect. A single sentence only reached us from her dying words,
indicating conflicting thoughts, “Lord save me in thine own
way.”
Letitia died on the 12th of
December
1806. She was on her way to Exeter with her mother, but had been
compelled to remain at the inn at Basingstoke, where she passed ten
weeks of severe pain, bodily and mental. The change in her religious
sentiments had led her to request her mother not to speak upon the
subject of religion at all, but before the close of this trying
period she had the consolation of witnessing a happy return “to
a good hope through grace”, in her daughter, who died in humble
but entire reliance upon Christ. A singularly interesting account of
her was drawn up by the Rev. Mr Jefferson of Basingstoke, and
published as a tract. In the September previous to Letitia's death it
was decided that Eliza, suffering, though less obviously, from the
same disease, should remove to Dublin, to find a home — too
soon a grave — where Bithia only two years previously had found
hers. Her mother, being unable to leave Letitia, I was requested to
take charge of Eliza as far as Birmingham, and as her illness did not
then appear so fatal as it proved to be, the prospect of the journey
was not unpleasant. Our first night was spent at the house of our
invaluable friend, Mr Cecil. The second at Oxford; whence we
travelled the next day by post-chaise to Birmingham, where she was
met by another friend. After reaching Dublin she lingered only till
the 23d of December, surviving her sister Letitia by less than a
fortnight. But, deceived, as I have said, by the little appearance of
so speedy a result, our journey had been cheerful rather than
mournful, and many many times have I reproached myself for allowing
this last opportunity to escape without one salutary word. A word
spoken in season, how good it might have been! But, as far as I was
concerned, the season was not improved, and the omission lies upon my
conscience to this day. I am not without other regrets of the kind.
How very difficult is it — so, at least, I have found it —
to speak with faithfulness as well as tenderness to the incipient
invalid? How seldom do we, in view of a near eternity, suggest the
right thought, or, honestly though not harshly, urge impending
danger? It was under a pressing sense of the difficulty of speaking
that I afterwards wrote the small volume addressed to a
“Convalescent”. Would that it may whisper what I have
wanted courage to speak! Letitia wrote to her sister from her
deathbed, but it did not reach her in time. When Mrs Hutton, the
friend at whose house Eliza died, afterwards read the letter, she
said to Mrs Stapleton, “Those were exactly Eliza's feelings;
she lamented that her mind had been so vain and trifling, and was
continually calling upon me to read to her the promises of mercy and
grace.”
It was about two years after
consigning the last of her four lovely daughters to the grave, that
Mrs Stapleton died also — solitary, at Bristol, whither she had
retired. And besides this entire family, we lost at Colchester,
within nearly the same period, four other friends, with whom we had
been intimate for several years, and whose names have appeared on
these pages — Caroline and Rachel Strutt, Mary and Betsy Keep,
the latter a beautiful girl recently married; paying one of her
wedding visits on a wintry night she took down a heavy cloth coat
that had long hung in the hall out of use, to defend herself from the
weather; it was damp, and feeling the chill, she sportively
exclaimed, “there, I have caught my death”, and so it
proved.
In this mournful way it was, that
the
path was clearing around us for those associates who have gone down
with me far into the vale of life, and with some of whom I am still
in affectionate correspondence. So three successive circles
surrounded me — those of Lavenham, of Colchester, and of
London! It is true I have since been favoured with valuable
friendships, but the friends of advancing life cannot remember what I
remember, and what a uniting charm, a natural magic, there is in
that!
Colchester, it may be remembered,
was
the residence of Joanna Baillie
and her sister, but they had left the town, where they had lived in
much seclusion, before we went to it, and there were few, if any,
within our reach to whom we could look with that idol worship, with
which, as girls, pen in hand, we were wont to regard a “live
author.” It was not till 1807 that I paid a visit to London,
which, through the kindness of various friends, gratified my intense,
but humble, yearnings to see “Poetry” in the shape of man
or woman. On this occasion I was introduced to both Dr. Aikin and Mrs
Barbauld. A call I was privileged to make at Newington upon the
latter, I cannot forget, nor the strange feeling of unearthly
expectancy with which, in a small parlour, I waited her appearance.
At length the door opened, for she did not float in on a
cloud or a zephyr, and a small plain, lively, elderly lady
made her appearance; but it was Mrs Barbauld, and that was enough!
During the same visit I was introduced to a literary nucleus of a
different but interesting description, consisting of Daniel Parken,
then editor of the Eclectic Review;
Theophilus Williams, who
succeeded him; and Ignatius Montgomery, a relative of the Poet. Of James Montgomery
himself, Kirke White,
and others, we, from time to time, heard a good deal from our now
intimate friend Josiah Conder, whose correspondence, through the
“monthly parcel”, was made intensely interesting to us by
the literary intelligence it conveyed. I was captivated by art in my
visit of 1800 but I was now wedded to literature, so far as
literature would condescend to the alliance, and a turn was given, or
rather confirmed, which influenced my course for several succeeding
years.
I have mentioned that my father
never
omitted an opportunity of giving us scientific advantages beyond his
own ability, so that whenever a lecturer of any note made his
appearance we were sure to be among his auditors. From a course of
chemical lectures delivered at the Moot Hall, my brothers, and
especially Martin, became enamoured of the science, and by rising at
four o'clock were able to conduct various experiments in the kitchen
(early rising was a gift in the family) before it was required for
domestic purposes. I suppose this got known about; and upon one
occasion an unlucky lecturer appeared at our door with a request,
which I will leave the following little note from my brother Isaac to
me, the earliest remnant of a lifelong correspondence, to explain:
You
must excuse Martin's not coming. Just after you went there came a
great rap — Jefferys went to the door. “Have you got a
brother that's a philosopher?” “I don't know, Sir. I'll
call my brother.” I went down — “Sir, are you a
philosopher ?” “I'm not so happy as to understand you,
Sir; I can't say I am?” “Well, Sir, but do you know
anything about making gases?” “Oh, Mr Drummond, I suppose?” “Yes; my
lecture begins in half-an-hour, and all my
Oxygen is gone up the chimney. Can you make me any in time?”
Martin came down; he engaged his services, and we have been hard at
work ever since. Martin is now gone up with five
bottles of gas in
the capacity of foreman to the lecturer. Therefore you see he cannot
come. — I.T. jun.
On the 17th of October 1807, my
grandfather, Isaac Taylor, died, at the age of seventy-seven. He had
been of some note not only in art but in politics, for he had taken
an active part in Wilkes's
election, and had lost considerably more than £1000 in doing
so. He was also for many years almost alone as an architectural
publisher and bookseller, and acquired a comfortable independency
upon which he retired to Edmonton, where, in the crowded burial
ground, “Isaac Taylor, gent,” may be seen upon his
tombstone. The larger share of his property went to his eldest son
Charles, but my father, along with three others, came in for a
portion which was sufficient to add very materially to our comfort,
and was the commencing step towards a much better state of things
than we had known since the sudden decline at Lavenham.
1808 was marked by the serious
illness of my brother Isaac, and by the addition to our home circle
of the daughter of our friends the Lungleys for the completion of her
education; and in this year, too, my father found a purchaser, though
at considerable loss, for his house in Lavenham. As to 1809, would
that I could well recall the events of that year! The almost daily
memoranda contained in my pocket-books from 1797 to the present time,
have only this interruption; the one for 1809 has been singularly
mislaid. It may, or may not, be at the time, felt of any importance
to make these daily entries, but in the course of years it is so
interesting to retrace them, sometimes so salutary, though often so
mournful, that I would recommend the practice to every one, for whom
memory may possess any charm. Do not grudge the few minutes of time
which you thus expend in order to preserve and enrich its stores.
In this recommendation I do not
include what is technically called a diary of religious experience.
To me it appears impossible that this should be honestly done.
Much that generally enters into it should pass under the eye of God
alone, and to the writer and the reader is almost equally injurious.
If deeply self-abasing, it may pass for humility with one, for
hypocrisy with another; or may encourage a pleasant self-complacency
in some who compare themselves with it; while, on the other hand, if
it describe a state of high religious enjoyment, it may have a slide
down into Pharisaism on one side, or it may be too much like writing
your own name in the book of Life! But the great evil is its almost
certain publicity. How many such effusions, written in all sincerity
and supposed secrecy, have been desecrated by unfitting readers, and
for a little good, have done a full counterbalance of mischief!
It is, I conclude, to the loss of
the
pocket-book for 1809 that I must attribute the absence of memoranda
respecting a volume which, under the title of The Associate
Minstrels, appeared early in 1810. However sacred may be the
inner flame of Poetry — sacred to the few — yet sooner or
later the vulgar public is sure to be admitted to gaze upon it. So at
least it was with us. Josiah Conder had been our guest. He had
relatives at Nayland, six miles from Colchester, who always opened a
most hospitable home to us, and many were the excursions in which we
availed ourselves of their kindly welcome. It was during one of those
walks with him to Nayland on a beautiful summer evening, that the
idea and the plan of the “Associate Minstrels” were
elicited. Josiah was to be editor and publisher. It was to be
inscribed to Montgomery. My brother Isaac was to furnish a design for
the title page, and so, including a few pieces from the elder Mr
Conder, from the lady afterwards Mrs Josiah Conder, from my father,
and Jacob Strutt, we contrived a volume — Jane, Josiah, and I —
which did pass into a second edition!
In turning over some old papers
of
this period I have been pleased to find several forgotten letters, in
which pleasant, and even honourable mention is made, both of the
“Associate Minstrels”, and of the humbler volumes for
children. All these distant critics were personally strangers to Jane
and me, and therefore their opinions were the more gratifying. Among
them are Walter Scott, ,
Miss Edgeworth, Hayley,
and others less known to fame. The two former spoke of their own
children as already familiar with the smaller volumes. Pleased and
thankful were we then, surprised, and as thankful am I now, at the
success and encouragement thus afforded. Mrs Smith, a sister of
H. Kirke White, dates from Nottingham, and says: “Should
you at any time visit our neighbourhood, it would be a high
satisfaction to show you under our humble roof every attention in our
power.” Nottingham! Why did not the very word thrill
through me? How little could I foresee its ultimate bearing upon my
life! All that I then knew about it was, that it was “down in
the shires”, the usual term in Colchester for the midland
counties.
One event of deep and tender
interest
to us occurred in 1809, the first breach in our home circle, by the
permanent removal of one of its members, my dear brother Martin. He
could draw prettily, but he was not fitted to become a successful
engraver, and a place was found for him in one of the large
publishing houses in Paternoster Row. The feelings of a young man
just liberated from home into the excitements and large interests of
London, are neither expected nor wished to wear the hue of melancholy
which falls on the circle he has left. He did, however, feel his
solitude, by day in one of those immense warehouses, and at night not
a smile to cheer him in his lodging; and many years afterwards, a
touching proof was given of the tenacity of his affections when the
house of business he then occupied being burnt down, his first care
was to save his little girl, his favourite cat, and the box
containing the letters from his family! The following year it
appeared desirable that dear Isaac also should set foot in the open
world, and there cater for himself. He had some ability as an
engraver, more as a designer, and, under his father, had acquired
some skill in painting miniatures; with these he was to win his way.
It was an anxious launch for both brothers, and the hearts at home
were feeling it such, more, perhaps, than they did themselves. On the
2d of January 1810 dear Isaac left us, and by monthly parcel on the
1st of May, the first copies of the “Associate Minstrels”
were received.
But with 1810 commenced a series
of
changes, dark, many of them at first, but fraught with mercy when
developed and understood. My father had now spent sixteen anxious and
laborious years as a minister at Colchester; there were tendencies
in the congregation in opposite directions on doctrinal matters,
which had never been worked off; and various circumstances inclined
him to terminate his engagement. This at length he did, and on
the 21st of June his resignation was
announced.
The move was one leaving no visible outlet, and till the following
year it remained uncertain whither it might lead. Our valued friend,
the Rev. John Saville, occupied the pulpit at the “Round
Meeting”, and thither as a family we shortly removed, my
father being often engaged in supplying distant churches. We
continued to engrave as well as to write, but for some time
were a greatly disjointed family.
We did not, however, discontinue
what
we could retain of domestic festivals, with their commemorative
rambles, if the season permitted; and even concocted a plan for
constructing a small cottage among the woods, to be ultimately
tenanted by our bachelor brothers, and called the “Old Boys'
Cot”, while another already existing nearer Colchester, by the
rural beauty of which we had long been captivated, was appropriated
to Jane and me as “The Old Girls”. How different was it
all to be! And then there came the last happy Christmas meeting in
the home of our youth, and long unbroken companionship. Isaac and
Martin came from London, the latter by the mail in the middle of the
night; we three, Jane, Isaac, and I, remained up to await the tap at
the back door, suitable caution having been sent to prevent our
father and mother, persuaded reluctantly to go to bed, from being
disturbed by a thoughtless thunder at the front. You will guess how
we listened, and greeted the quiet tap with the prompt and warm
welcome of love and gladness. Ah, you all know that the long interval
from 1810 to 1860 has deadened neither my ear nor my heart for the
sound of the Christmas wheels! On the following night, Christmas
though it was, Martin returned by mail again to the paper walls of
his London prison. So brief were the holidays of those days!
We were now regularly placing
small
sums at interest; but it was not till we began to publish for
ourselves that we felt the solid advantage that literature might
bring to us. The Hymns for Infant
Minds were the first venture
we thus made. In the first year of their publication we realized
£150. But an unlooked-for disappointment awaited us in the
failure of our publisher, an old friend, who was, I daresay, as sorry
for us as we were for him. All our little savings were now floated
off to meet expenses, and we had to make a fresh start. Valuable as
money had always been to us, and still was, we yet could not feel the
loss, as it was supposed among our friends that we must —
almost ought — to have done. The pleasures of writing, and the
credit we were gaining by it, so overbalanced the simple money
misfortune that we bore it with admired equanimity. Before the 1st of
January 1811 the third edition of Hymns
for Infant Minds had
made their appearance, and we enjoyed the entire profit.
The confinement inseparable from
years of engraving had long appeared to our friends too much to
continue; though indeed, I did not feel it. But the suggestion was
perpetually made to us, “Do take pupils; you know your father's
methods, you have now a name yourselves, and we feel sure you would
succeed.” Such was the advice continually given, and in time it
worked its way, though never into my affections. But it mingled with
the prospect now opening to us of remove and change, and tinged
everything with the feeling of an uncertain future. The lines in my
album, a Farewell to Sudbury, a place connected hitherto with
only youthful holiday feelings, were commemorative of a last visit
there. Life henceforth was to be neither youthful nor holiday, or so
we felt it, and the lines are naturally embued with melancholy.
Happily the course suggested was not pursued, but the prospect seemed
to have been set before us for the purpose of detaching us from the
groove in which, for twelve or fourteen years, we had run, and
placing us in positions which, without a loosening like this, we
should never have ventured on.
Friends from London and
elsewhere, to
whom the “High Woods”, the “Springs”, and
even the “shabby old workroom” were almost as interesting
as to ourselves, now came to pay final visits: while Jane and I went,
as we felt for the last time, to every memorable spot within reach,
sending loving looks in every direction. Colchester was very dear to
us, though even now nearly every one we had really loved there had
passed away. Colchester to me is dear still; I cannot see the name in
a newspaper without a thrill of personal interest, as if it was
something that belonged to me.
In the summer of 1810, Jane, when
visiting London, had enjoyed a pic-nic excursion in Epping Forest,
and observed on a sign post at one of the turnings, “To Ongar.”
It was the first time she had seen the name. She had presently
occasion to recollect it; but little could she imagine how deeply it
was involved with her future history! On a Sabbath in 1811, my
father, not yet having any settled charge, preached for a brother
minister at Brentwood, and on the day following walked the seven
miles thence to Ongar. On coming to an angle in the road, from which
the pretty little town is visible within the distance of a field or
two, he rested against a gate to look at it, and said to himself,
“Well, I could be content to live and die in that spot.”
And so it was to be, he lived and died there; spending more than
eighteen years as the assiduous and beloved pastor of its little
church. On the 14th of July that year he received a call to the
pastorate.
So the time for
removing really came at last, and on the
31st of August 1811, we closed, as it proved, our many years of
work-room work. The Castle House, a quaint and very pleasant country
residence, was engaged for us at Ongar, whither my father repaired to
receive the furniture, etc., and, when all was ready, to welcome us —
my mother, self, Jane, Jefferys, and Jemima — to the new home. But,
instead of detailing from memory the circumstances of this, to us
memorable transit, I will here introduce portions of a letter written,
at my first leisure, to Luck Conder.
Castle House, Ongar,
September 23, 1811
The mere date of my
letter, my very dear friend, might prove a text for many pages. Since
September 23, 1810, what great changes have occurred to both of us !
We spent that day, if you recollect, at Heckford Bridge (which we
have not since seen), and on the following Sabbath my father took
leave of his charge at Colchester. O what anxious heartaches it would
have saved us, could we have glanced but one look at the date of this
letter! We did not know, but, “fools and slow of heart,”
we might have “believed.” When providences open and
discover the kindness and care of God, surmounting our fears and
anxieties, we are apt to fancy that we have faith, because we are
constrained to acknowledge the wisdom and goodness which have
conducted us. But a poor faith is that which must thrust its hand
into the prints of the nails before it will believe; and blessed,
indeed, are those who, “though they see not, yet believe”.
I do wonder at established Christians, those who can “read
their title clear to mansions in the skies”, when they are
overwhelmed with temporal anxieties, and seem as careful, and
sorrowing, and even despairing, as if they had to choose their own
path, and be sun, and shield, and rock, and staff, and God, to
themselves ... It is a humbling proof of the weakness of faith,
even in the liveliest Christians, that they cannot composedly
trust in God for so much as a crumb of bread. If he lay but a finger
upon their earthly comforts, or hide their path for a few moments
behind a sharp turning, they begin doubting and wailing, as if He
were some God whose kindness they did not know, whose power they
dared not trust; and the poor prayers by which they think they evince
their faith, are little better than impatient sallies, half fear half
anger. As to a cheerful dependence, and humble resignation, they
seldom come till their petition is granted; and then a great deal of
gladness, and a little thankfulness, are too often mistaken for them
...
On Monday evening, August 26, we
all walked to the
“Srings” to take leave of them, of the “Wild Mount”, the “Church Lane”,
and every spot to which a single association was attached. We each
brought home a spray of ivy, as a memorial of many of our happiest,
gayest, or most agreeably melancholy hours — of sunsets, moon, and
stars, such as (in spite of the philosophers) cannot be seen from
Greenwich Observatory. On Saturday, August 31, Jane and I closed the
labours of fourteen years in the work-room. It was a fine moonlight
Saturday evening, and I have always felt something peculiarly sweet and
penetrating in such a time; but now a tide of recollections and
anticipations rendered this overwhelmingly interesting, and as we rose
from our long accustomed places for the last time, and remembered all
that had been, now past for ever, and glanced at dear Mile End through
the trees, and the twilight, we resigned ourselves to a flood of bitter
tears. Jane and I then sallied out for a lonely moonlight ramble. As it
was late we could not go far; we only went to the bridge at the
entrance of the meadows, and to a few familiar spots thereabouts,
talking of Colchester, of Ongar, of all the dear friends who had walked
with us here, and of the last moon we should see upon those woods,
those meadows, and that stream! We returned up North Hill through the
town. It was all life and bustle; the bright and busy shops on one
side, and the broad light of the moon on the other; but we felt
homeless strangers, and it seemed almost wrong for people to be so
busy. On the Monday we all began the packing, and now collect all the
ideas that make up confusion! Think of huge packing cases, hampers,
straw, ropes, nails, and shavings; of dust and litter; of piles of
china and furniture in every corner of the house; of knocking,
hammering, calling, and scolding; of a gradual diminution of the
commonest necessaries, and of the consequent shifts we had to make — an
inverted extinguisher for candlestick, a basin or a teacup for a wine
glass, one's lap for a dining table, the floor for a bedstead, think
of carpenters, brokers, and waggoners, and after all you will have but
faint idea of that memorable week!
On Sunday, our house being entirely dismantled, we were kindly
entertained at Henry Thorn's, the whole day. Such a strange Sabbath I
never passed! I thought the first singing would have overset me
entirely; and when we left the Meeting in the afternoon (it was
sacrament day) I could no longer refrain, but went home in such a
general broken-heartedness that the smallest thing was too much for
me.
On Monday was the final packing,
and as if we had not
enough to do,
an express came from H. Thorn, about three, that the Prince Regent
was expected to pass through the town every moment, and that we must
all go up immediately to see him. So all hands struck, and throwing
on our habits we sallied forth, like most loyal and loving subjects,
to catch a glimpse of him, hoping, as the poet observes, “if we
could not see the king, at least to see his coach”. And this
our loyal hope was exactly gratified, for, after waiting two hours,
watching every undulation of the crowd, the royal carriage at length
appeared, and we could just discern three plainly drest gentlemen in
it as it passed, and then went home again! You did not expect that,
even in such a general rummage, we should light upon the Prince
Regent? But if I follow him further, I shall find myself at
Aldborough instead of Ongar.
Well, then, on Tuesday morning, at
seven o'clock, came
the waggon,
which we continued packing till two. And I wish you could have seen
us, and it, as it went nodding and waving from our door! We were all
at the upper windows, and all our neighbours were in the street,
looking alternately at us and at it, as it groaned up the lane; for,
indeed, it was packed to such an unusual height that it attracted
general attention and apprehension. And during all this time how
little we felt as we expected to feel! we were too busy; but, indeed,
does one feel in any situation, however interesting, as one should
have expected? Feeling has past and future, but seldom a present
tense. She loves to ramble with Memory, or to sport with Hope, but
has comparatively little to do with the most important Now. (N.B. a
touch of the sublime!) ...
That night, after assembling at Mr
Mansfield's
to say good-bye to a number of our friends, who kissed and cried over
us, we dispersed to our several quarters. Jane and I, out of a number
of beds that were offered us, pleased ourselves by spending our last
night at Mr Strutt's, where we could feel and do just as we liked,
and be sure of kindness and sympathy. We had sometime before admired
a new room which Mr Strutt had opened at the top of the house, and he
had kindly exerted himself to erect and furnish its gothic bed that
we might be the first to sleep in it. In the morning we awoke in
lithe, though fluttered spirits; and after breakfast, in their
pleasant kitchen, with “Michael”, and “Blue-eye”,
and “White Lady”, and half-a-dozen more purring about us,
we took leave of a house where we have enjoyed many pleasant hours,
and once more assembled at our own as the final rendezvous. We walked
round the garden, stroked poor Tom (left by agreement with the new
tenant), looked once more into every room and closet, said good-bye
to Mile-end from the workroom window, and at half-past eleven,
September 11, 1811, saw the door close for the last time, and drove
slowly up Angel Lane, leaving a circle of kind neighbours to watch us
out of sight. I will not tell you how we looked first on this side,
then on that, then through the window behind, that we might lose
nothing it was possible to see — suffice it to say we were
leaving Colchester: you will imagine all the rest! ... As
soon as we had passed Lexden, we left off looking, and arranged
ourselves as comfortably as we could, but five of us, besides Nutty
and her kitten (who was named “Pack” by way of memorial),
and the fowls, ham, fruit, etc. — the kind offerings of
several friends, — made a tolerable chaise full.
And, now, follow us, dear Luck,
till we turn into the
Ongar
Road at Chelmsford. It was a fine afternoon; quite new country
opening upon us at every step, and expectation, which had begun to
doze, was all alive again. Father had directed us how to descry the
white steeple of Ongar, and the Castle house and trees, about three
miles before we reached it, and this gave us most interesting
employment, till, at length, we all exclaimed, “There it is!”
The road then turned off, and we saw it no more till — O that
pleasant moment! — after driving about halfway through the town
we turned up the lane and round a sharp corner, and the three peaks
and the castle trees appeared in view. We drove up the long
chase-way, the grass plot was strewed with packages, the hall door
open, our good deacon and Rebecca at the chaise to receive us, but no
father! We were both surprised and alarmed. He had gone to wait our
passing at the house of a friend from which he could reach ours as
soon as we by a shorter path; but, wonderful to relate, though he
saw the chaise, and we saw him standing at the door, he
neither knew us, nor we him! At length, a young man, who had seen us
in the lane, told him that his chaise had passed some time.
Fortunately, we had waited outside the doors, and would not enter
till he arrived to conduct us.
And now, how I wish I could show,
instead of describe it
to you! but,
alas! Ongar and Barnstaple! Well, then, I must e’en tell you of the
pleasant places in which our lines are fallen. The house was built
upon the site of the ancient castle, in the reign of Queen Elizabeth,
who once honoured it with a visit. The hall-door, studded with
clump-headed nails an inch in diameter, measures 6 feet, by 4 feet 7.
The front is covered with a vine; before it is a flower garden; on
the right, as pretty a village church among the trees as you ever
saw; and close on the left the castle trees rising upon a high mount,
with a moat of deep water encircling it. From every window in front
we command a rich and beautiful valley, and behind see the town just
peeping through a line of elms on a terrace beside an outer moat.
Immediately adjacent is a farm-yard, and we have not only the usual
live stock of such a scene, but a fine pair of swans, three cygnets,
moorfowl, and solan geese upon the moat; rabbits running wild upon
the mount; a rookery, wood doves, and, we are told, nightingales in
the castle trees. Now, you may fancy, perhaps, that with all this
appropriate scenery the house must be haunted, or, at least,
hauntable; that there are nooks and vaults, and niches at every turn;
and that sitting, as I now do, a broad moon shining in at my window,
and the village clock striking eleven, the next thing must be a tall
gliding figure patting down the stairs which wind from my room door,
within the northern turret. But I assure you we are the picture of
cheerfulness and comfort. The rooms are light and pleasant, not in
the least ghostly, and fitted up with every modern convenience. We
have a hall, two parlours, kitchen, store-room, etc., on the
ground floor; three chambers above; and a good workroom, study, two
bed-chambers, and a light closet on the attic floor. We had to saw
the ivy from the back parlour window before we could see it, but some
still remains to fringe the mullions; we have beautiful walks in
every direction; and we have placed our garden seat at the end of a
retired field, surrounded by the moats and the terrace elms
immediately behind the house.
Just as we sat down to breakfast
the first Sunday, who
should appear
at the garden gate but dear Martin, who came in his uncle's chaise,
and returned the next morning. He writes — “Since I took
my farewell of your fairy land, I have not passed a waking hour
without presenting my mind among you. It is the object to which my
leisure moments, and lazy thoughts are always directed — it is
my Miss Ongar.”
On Sabbath evening, September 22,
my father publicly
accepted their
invitation at a full vestry of apparently kind and worthy people; and
with mother and me was received into Church relation. It was a truly
interesting and pleasing season. The Meeting-house is very small, but
extremely neat and pleasant, and as far as we know the congregation,
they are a friendly and pious though plain people, not but that we
have some dashing silk pelisses and feathers on a fine afternoon.
Tuesday, October the 28th, is to be the public “setting apart”.
The important change had now been
effected. At last we had done with things behind, but the future was
still looming on us from an unexplored distance. We had given up
engraving, so far as it implied daily employment, though it was
arranged that if occasionally my father required assistance, I should
render it when at home. If we were to devote ourselves to education,
important preparations were requisite, and for this purpose we
accepted an invitation from our kind and valuable friends the
Conders, then living at Clapton. Alas! how little we knew our many
deficiencies; yet that I did know something of them my many
misgivings and continued reluctance testified. Jane had no fuller
confidence in her own sufficiency, but she saw some pleasant results
in the change, and perhaps might fancy that I should stand foremost
and prove a sort of shield.
It was, however, a serious thing
to
resolve on, and to arrange for the unavoidable expenditure,
especially since our own resources had just suffered such an
unexpected loss. It would be necessary to apply for assistance
somewhere, and such a prospect did not lighten the burden already on
my heart. I am thankful that no one came forward to volunteer that
assistance. I will not enter into detail, but, after much anxious
thought, and applying to our dear parents for their final sanction,
the project was abandoned. The entire history of this transition
period of our lives is to me a beautiful explanatory comment on the
ways and the goodness of Providence. The suggestion so long urged
upon us, the difficulties afterwards thrown in our path, resulted in
leaving us at liberty to pursue other and much more congenial
occupations. It would not be easy to express the relief we
experienced in turning away from an undertaking so perilous, and
retreating to hide ourselves behind the paper screen which
seemed so clearly granted to us.
We had a few light-hearted visits
to
pay in London before returning to the dear and pleasant home in the
Castle House at Ongar; but on the 18th of February 1812 we entered it
now as we hoped to remain, and I cannot describe the feelings with
which we did so. The pretty flower garden and grass plot in front had
been put into the nicest order, snow-drops were just appearing, and
if any one knew how to make an arrival look pleasant it was my dear
father and mother. My own room was one I had requested on the attic
floor commanding a beautiful country view, and having the advantage
of a closet where I could sit and write. This was to be my “sanctum”;
here a new life was to begin, and the employment more delightful to
me than any other, was henceforth to be mine without let or
hindrance. But a new turn was just now given to it.
Before we left Colchester, Mrs
More's
popular tale of Coelebs in Search of
a Wife was the book of
the day, and in the literary correspondence kept up between Josiah
Conder and me, I freely gave my thoughts upon it in a long letter
sent by parcel. He was intimate with Daniel Parken, the talented
editor of the Eclectic
Review, then in much note amongst us,
and it was enquired whether I would undertake an article.
It had not been customary in that work to review fictions, but it was
proposed to diverge a little from this rule, and a tale by Mrs West,
entitled Self Control, was
suggested to me for a beginning.
With anxiety, excitement, and delight, I undertook it. After writing
every morning till about weary, I used to take the MS. to a clump of
trees a little in the valley as seen from my window, and, sitting
beneath them, read it aloud, for until able to judge from the ear I
could never form an opinion of what I had written. It appeared in the Eclectic for June, and,
being favourably received, I was
forthwith continually employed. The next review was of Miss
Edgeworth's Tales, I forget
which series, sent up in August of
the same year.
A visit about this time from
Josiah
Conder and James Montgomery gave great pleasure to us. Few and far
between had been our glimpses into literary society, and in
Montgomery, from first admiring his poetry in the Athenaeum,
we had felt the most lively interest — yes, and notwithstanding
the remark of a young lady belonging to our higher circle in
Colchester, who, hearing from me that he was printer at Sheffield,
exclaimed, “La ! how terrible.” It was scarcely worth
while to remember it for half a century, but how can we get rid of
anything that chooses to stay? On the afternoon of their visit, our
walk with the two poets across the meadows, and up the winding lane
to Stondon Church was indeed delightful; and yet the only shred of
conversation that clings to my memory was the simple remark of
Montgomery, when I mistook distant thunder for artillery (that of
Woolwich sometimes shook our windows), “Yes, the artillery of
Heaven.” What whimsical tricks does memory play with us!
Sometimes it hangs up a piece of nonsense where we cannot help seeing
it, and at others obliterates words to be set in silver!
But shadows were rising over our
pleasant home and pleasant plans. Isaac and Martin were both in
London. The former, occupied in various artistic work, had just now
an engagement of some length for a set of anatomical drawings in the
dissecting room. Under London atmosphere, and not the best of it, and
pursuing his profession without stint of time or labour, his health
gave way, and he came down to Ongar to recruit. We were all eye and
ear, and there were in his constant cough and other symptoms, what my
dear sensitive mother regarded as unquestionable omens of decline. We
had seen so much of it! Happily the Isaac Taylor who has lived so
long in the public eye was not to fulfill these anxious auguries.
During the previous summer he had been invited to Devonshire to take
several miniatures amongst our friends who had removed thither, and
their connections, and he had, in consequence, become acquainted with
many families there. As soon, therefore, as a change to the milder
climate was recommended, it was obvious that he need not, in
undertaking it, abandon his profession; and as Jane and I could carry
our pens with us as easily as he his pencil, it was determined that
we should both accompany him. But my dear mother! Her eldest son,
whose conduct and character had never given her a pang, was to leave
his father's house, as she fully believed, never to return, to be
nursed far away from her hourly watchfulness, and to lie in a
distant grave! Those only who knew my mother, could know what all
this meant to her.
Our anxious journey commenced, as
far
as London, on Monday, September 28th, 1812, and at a quarter past two
on Wednesday, the 30th, we set out by one of the “long stages”,
from the Castle and Falcon, Aldersgate Street, under promise of
reaching Ilfracombe on the Saturday afternoon following. What a
banishment it seemed! What a tedious journey! I remember the forlorn
feelings with which, a party of nineteen altogether, we paced down
one of the long Devon hills, for everybody had left the coach in
order to relieve the descent; strangers indeed we felt, almost three
hundred miles from the “Castle House” and its dear
inmates. We got a few hours' rest on Thursday night at Taunton,
setting off at five o'clock on Friday morning, for a twelve hours'
journey to Barnstaple. Here a welcome tea at the inn, and a call from
a gentleman already known to my brother, the Rev. Mr Gardiner,
concluded the weary day. On Saturday, after breakfasting with him, we
started in a postchaise for our final destination, and final it
seemed likely to be, for on some of the round knolls of the road, we
seemed to be driving down straight into the sea. At length, under the
brow of the precipitous hill, the roofs of the houses became visible.
Yet we did not reach it without risk; at a narrow part of the road, a
wheel came off, but the narrowness served us in stead, and we only
fell against the bank. Our adroit postilion, accustomed perhaps, to
such accidents, contrived to refix the wheel and we descended to
Ilfracombe in safety:
Isaac's friend, Mr Gunn, had
engaged
apartments for us on the quay, a first floor; two windows in front
looked over the basin, so full of shipping that, on the further side
of the room, nothing but masts were visible. There, in employment, in
recreation, in society quite to our taste, and altogether
interesting, we spent the entire winter.
1866.
Long intervals have occurred in my successive
memoranda, and now, late in the day as it is, I cannot expect to
complete this Memorial. Indeed, it was never my intention to do so.
From the period of my marriage, dear children, in 1813, you are
almost as well acquainted with the important steps in my history as I
am myself, and as to minuter details, it might be scarcely so well to
speak of them as of the bygone tints of a finished century.
Chapter
VI. Memorials of Mrs
Gilbert, Literary
Character
Ann and
Jane compared — The domestic character of Ann's Poetry —
Specimens of its Arch Drollery — The Tragic Element and Sara
Coleridge's Criticism — Observations upon Ann's Hymns —
The Poem My Mother and its
history — Scott, Southey, and
Edgworth — Ann Taylor's Prose
Genius
played
With the inoffensive sword of native wit.
Wordsworth
THE Autobiography which
has
hitherto left to the editor but the easy task of selection and
condensation, closes abruptly. It now remains to supply from
correspondence, and some other sources, the records of a life
extending over more than half-a-century beyond the period reached in
the preceding pages.
But at this halting
place, and when the brief literary career of Ann Taylor was drawing
to a close, a few remarks may be offered upon
its
character, especially as some of her poems have more than once been
the subject of criticism.
As she has herself
intimated, her share in the early series of poems for children has
scarcely been recognised, in consequence of Jane Taylor continuing to
write and concentrating public attention upon herself, after her
sister had resigned the pen. Yet, it is remarkable that, almost
without exception, the most popular pieces in the joint works, were
by the elder sister. This may be accounted for from the circumstance
that, generally speaking, Ann Taylor dealt with the facts of life,
and Jane with those of nature, and the former was, consequently, more
dramatic in style, and more given to depict motive and character. Of
many that have become “Household Words”, two little
poems, My Mother and Twinkle Twinkle Little Star are
perhaps, more frequently quoted than any; the first, a lyric of life,
was by Ann, the second, of nature, by Jane; and they illustrate this
difference between the sisters.
The elder was eminently
practical, and always entered with keen relish into the social circle
and the business of life. A walk through a crowded market place, such
as that of Nottingham, so familiar in after years, was to her
refreshing and inspiring, as a poem to be given in its place will
show; while the Song of the
Tea-kettle exhibits her delight in
progress and invention. Her first venture in print, she tells us, was
an Election song; it may quite be doubted whether it could ever have
been Jane's; the sensitive and shy disposition of the latter (though
she could sparkle on occasion) disqualified her for society, and
nature with its peace, its pathos, and its infinite suggestiveness,
was her chosen refuge. Ann was fond of nature, but it was chiefly in
relation to domestic incidents — she dwelt upon the cottage,
the stile, the footpath, the garden and domestic animals —
while Jane looked upon the larger landscapes, and her mind floated
into dreamy reveries over the expanse of sea and sky, partaking more
of the contemplative, and curiously inquiring character of her
brother Isaac.
Yet, in some instances,
the elder sister showed a sympathy with nature, and a delicate touch
in adapting its lessons, quite equal to the younger. Two or three
verses in the Nursery Rhyme, A
Pretty Thing, may take rank
with any of the kind in poetic beauty and simple diction:
When the sun
is gone, I rise
In the very silent skies;
And a cloud
or two doth skim
Round about my silver rim.
All the little
stars do seem
Hidden by my brighter beam;
And among them I do
ride
Like a queen in all her pride.
Then the reaper goes
along,
Singing forth a merry song;
While I light the shaking
leaves,
And the yellow harvest sheaves.
Or, again, on the
Michaelmas Daisy:
I am very
pale and dim,
With my faint and bluish rim;
Standing on my
narrow stalk,
By the litter'd gravel walk,
And the wither'd
leaves, aloft,
Fall upon me very oft.
But I show my
lonely head,
When the other flowers are dead,
And you're even
glad to spy
Such a homely thing as I;
For I seem to smile and
say:
“Summer is not quite away.”
And as a fair pendant to
the “Twinkling Star” of Jane, take the following by Ann:
I saw the
glorious sun arise,
From yonder mountain grey;
And as he
travelled through the skies,
The darkness went away;
And all
around me was so bright,
I wished it would be always light.
But when his
shining course was done,
The gentle moon drew nigh,
And stars
came twinkling, one by one,
Upon the shady sky:
Who made the
sun to shine so far,
The moon, and every twinkling star?*
These instances may
suffice to show that the writer was possessed of a true poetic gift
in the observation of nature; and they illustrate, too, that rare
quality, simplicity, which, while a necessary condition for success
in the task attempted, has been seldom reached. In these poems it is
attained without feebleness, or baldness of diction, and the result,
in some instances, falls little short of the sublime, as in the
picture of the moon, rising:
In the very
silent skies
while, again, in the
simple plaint of the Michaelmas Daisy there is a touching
pathos:
And the
wither'd leaves, aloft,
Fall upon me very oft.
But, as has been said,
the popularity of Ann Taylor's poems in the collection — one
test of which is the frequency with which they have been set to music —
must be attributed less to their poetical merits, or pellucid
diction, for in these her sister equalled, if not excelled her, than
to their concernment chiefly with home life, and their lively
dialogue. It is she who takes for her subject the ...
Pretty cow
that made
Pleasant milk to soak my bread.
though she does not
forget
the more poetic aspect of the affair:
Where the
purple violet grows,
Where the bubbling water flows,
Where the
grass is fresh and fine
Pretty cow go there and dine.
Animals are almost
always introduced in this practical relation with the young folks,
and with the constant eye to rousing a kindly sympathy for them, as
in the Last Dying Speech of Poor Puss,
The True History of
a Poor Little Mouse, The
Epitaph upon a Poor Donkey, and
others, all from the pen of Ann. The poem which an eminent
writer has styled “the finest lyric of the kind in the English
language”, My Mother, has
been already referred to as a
specimen of this domestic tendency; but what is more perfectly a song
of the nursery than:
Dance, little
baby, dance up high,
Never mind, baby — mother is by;
Crow
and caper, caper and crow,
There, little baby, there you go;
Up
to the ceiling, down to the ground,
Backwards and forwards, round
and round;
Then dance, little baby, and mother shall sing,
With
the merry gay coral, ding, ding-a-ding
Or this, of graver tone:
Come, love,
sit upon my knee,
And give me kisses one, two, three,
And tell
me whether you love me
My baby !
Of
the same realistic
class are Meddlesome Matty, I do Not Like to go to Bed; and of
another sort, but vividly dramatic, Little
Ann and Her Mother,
describing an actual incident in the childhood of the writer's
mother, and which has raised a curious interest in “Cavendish
Square” in many a young breast. To Ann also was due that
touching picture of great significance at the time when the “slave”
was still a doleful fact:
Ah! the poor
little blackamore, see there he goes,
And the blood gushes out
from his half-frozen toes,
And his legs are so thin you may
almost see the bones,
As he goes shiver, shiver, all along on the
stones.
Miss Yonge,
in her papers upon Children's
Literature of the Last Century
(in which she attributes, as usual, the sole authorship to Jane),
speaks of “the astonishing simplicity without puerility, the
pathos, and arch drollery of the secular poems”. This arch
drollery was certainly a characteristic of Jane Taylor, yet the
instances adduced by Miss Yonge are all from the contributions of
Ann. Among them is the story of the Notorious
Glutton, which
readers who have forgotten their early lore may not be sorry to see
again. It illustrates the vein of sarcastic fun in which the writer
excelled, and belongs also to a class of subjects which have been
since objected to.
A duck, who
had got such a habit of stuffing,
That all the day long she was
panting and puffing,
And by every creature that did her great
crop see,
Was thought to be galloping fast for a dropsy;
One day,
after eating a plentiful dinner,
With full twice as much as there
should have been in her,
While up to her forehead still greedily
roking,
Was greatly alarmed by the symptoms of choking.
Now there was
an old fellow much famed for discerning,
(A drake, who had taken
a liking for learning),
And high in repute with his feathery
friends,
Was called Dr Drake: for this doctor she sends.
In a hole of
the dunghill was Dr Drake's shop,
Where he kept a few simples for
curing the crop,
Small pebbles, and two or three different
gravels,
With certain famed plants he had found on his travels.
So, taking a
handful of suitable things,
And brushing his topple and pluming
his wings,
And putting his feathers in apple-pie order,
He
went to prescribe for the lady's disorder.
“Dear
Sir,” said the Duck, with a delicate quack,
Just turning a
little way round on her back,
And leaning her head on a stone in
the yard,
“My case, Dr Drake, is exceedingly hard!
“I feel
so distended with wind, and opprest,
So squeamish and faint, such
a load on my chest;
And, day after day, I assure you it is
hard
To suffer with patience these pains in my gizzard.”
“Give
me leave,” said the doctor, with medical look,
As her cold
flabby paw in his fingers he took;
“By the feel of your
pulse, your complaint, I've been thinking,
Must surely be owing
to eating and drinking.”
“Oh !
no, Sir, believe me,” the lady replied,
(Alarmed for her
stomach as well as her pride),
“I'm sure it arises from
nothing I eat,
But I rather suspect I got wet in my feet.
“I've
only been raking a bit in the gutter,
Where the cook had been
pouring some cold melted butter,
And a slice of green cabbage, and
scraps of cold meat:
Just a trifle or two, that I thought I could
eat.”
The doctor
was just to his business proceeding,
By gentle emetics, — a
blister, and bleeding,
When all of a sudden, she rolled on her
side,
Gave a terrible quack, and a struggle, and died!
Her remains
were interred in a neighbouring swamp,
By her friends with a
great deal of funeral pomp;
But I've heard this inscription her
tombstone was put on
“Here lies Mrs Duck, the notorious
glutton;”
And all the young ducklings are brought by their
friends,
There to learn the disgrace in which gluttony ends.
Better still, perhaps,
for its terse simplicity, is the story of the little fish that would
not do as it was bid.
“Dear
mother,” said a little fish,
“Pray, is not that a
fly?
I'm very hungry, and I wish
You'd let me go and try.”
“Sweet
Innocent,” the mother cried,
And started from her nook
“That
horrid fly is made to hide
The sharpness of the hook!”
Now,
as I've heard, this little trout
Was young and foolish too,
And
so he thought he'd venture out,
To see if it were true.
And
round about the hook he played,
With many a longing look,
And — “Dear me,” to himself he said,
“I'm sure that's
not a hook.
“I can but give a little pluck:
Let's
see, and so I will.”
So on he went, and lo! it stuck
Quite
through his little gill !
And as he faint and fainter
grew,
With hollow voice he cried,
“Dear mother, had I
minded you,
I need not now have died!”
The reader will remember
Goldsmith's brilliant repartee to Dr Johnson — “The
skill,” said he, “consists in making little fishes talk
like little fishes.” Whereupon, observing Johnson shaking his
sides with laughter, he smartly added, “Why, Dr Johnson, this
is not so easy as you seem to think, for if you were to make little
fishes talk, they would talk like WHALES.” (Boswell's Life,
April 27, 1793).
The tragic element in
the Original Poems, instances
of which occur in those above
quoted, has of late been strongly objected to. An American writer,
who exclaims against the horrors of Little
Red Riding Hood,
and especially the dreadful scene between the wolf and the
grandmother, as “enough to make a child’s flesh creep
with terror”, holds Ann and Jane Taylor to be the “chief
sinners in that respect.” And a much higher authority, Sara
Coleridge,
speaking of Mary Howitt's charming
poems for children, while ranking them below the Original Poems
in simplicity, thinks them thus far preferable, “that they
represent scarcely anything but what is bright and joyous”.
Children, she adds, “should dwell apart from the hard and ugly
realities of life as long as possible. The Original Poems give
too many revolting pictures of mental depravity, bodily torture, and
of adult sorrow; and I think the sentiments — the tirades, for
instance, against hunting, fishing, shooting — are morbid, and
partially false.”
Now, surely the
experience of most people will incline them to think that children
get little harm from such dramatic representations, whether in the
grotesque of the older legend, or in the homely treatment of the
newer poem. If a giant cuts somebody's head off, the spectacle is
only realised as a striking and effective denouement; and the man
without his head is regarded as something funny rather than horrible.
Childhood is by its nature and unacquaintance with suffering,
sheltered from horror. Death itself is more curious than dreadful.
The child's mind demands strong lines and colours in the picture
presented to it, while its moral sense is not satisfied short of the
extremest sentence of the law. For them retribution needs to be
absolutely decisive and emphatic; and Ann and Jane Taylor, so far as
they depicted such retributions (for to their
associate in this first work, Miss O'Keefe, most of them are due),
simply acted from an intuitive perception of child-nature. Really,
according to these critics, Punch and Judy should never be permitted
to come near a nursery window!
But is it true that
“nothing but what is bright and joyous” should be
presented to children? They do not actually live in a fairy world;
they are not really little angels. It is part of their education for
the world as it is, that spectacles of all sorts should pass before
their eyes, and that thus, while to a great extent shielded by their
imaginative natures and light-heartedness, from what is hard, and
ugly, and sorrowful, they should be gradually prepared for dealing
with such things, when the inevitable time comes. And is it not well
that sympathies should be early awakened? Is a “sad story”
never to be told to a child? Is not the word, “poor man”
natural and sweet from its lips? Should the hard necessities of
poverty be hidden from it, and not rather used to awaken the
compassion which every little heart is ready to bestow? Was it not
better that the “ugly” little blackamoor
should be used to draw forth pity, instead of being allowed to
generate dislike because he was ugly and black? And who can say how
far this little rill of pity went, in swelling the great flood of
philanthropy which long afterwards swept away slavery altogether? The
mother of Ann and Jane was always very careful to prevent her
children from showing or feeling dislike towards any bodily
infirmity, and her influence upon the young authors of the Poems may
no doubt be traced in many of the subjects chosen; where, if those
miseries were vividly painted, it was that the drama of life should
really move the heart, and be used for instruction, and warning, as
well as for the delight of story. There is danger lest in the modern
ideas to which Mrs Coleridge has given expression, children should
be
brought up in a sort of fool's paradise, out of which they have to be
rudely thrust at last into a very different scene.
A letter of Mrs Gilbert to her brother Isaac, some thirty years after
the poems were written, and when they were under revision, bears upon
another part of this question:
Respecting
the objectionable words specified in your letter, I have
had some thought, both before and since, and feel a little at a loss
how to proceed. It appears to me that, so long as scolding, fighting,
pouting, quarrelling, and sulking occur in the best nurseries, more
or less, (require testimonials from your nursemaid that they never
occur in yours) — that is, so long as infant human nature
exhibits itself in this way, and requires correction, it is necessary
to advert to the things, and to call them by some name
understood by the parties. I would not willingly employ an offensive
or inelegant word, in preference to one which expressed the same idea
in a nicer manner, but in the cases above, I scarcely know what to
substitute that would not lessen the applicability to the conscience,
or appear to soften down the offence ... In the Notorious
Glutton, and perhaps in Meddlesome
Matty, the subject in
both cases is inelegant, and the former might have been expunged. I
considered it, but as it has obtained a degree of favour as it is,
and could not be altered altogether, I decided to let it stand.
That this admirable
piece of “arch drollery” should have so narrowly escaped
suppression under her brother's influence, is remarkable. The
alterations in several instances were unfortunate, they were many
years later still, pointed out in an article in the Spectator,
and attributed to the blundering of some incompetent editor. The
author of them, who had herself then forgotten the circumstances of
the revision, quite agreed with the critic, and was confounded to
discover how, and when, they had been made.
Sara Coleridge's remarks
upon “the tirades against hunting, fishing, and shooting”
are scarcely justified by the poems themselves. What they say can
hardly be termed “tirades”; and the sentiments were in
accordance with much accredited literature of that
day.
In this case the aim was evidently to check that propensity to
cruelty to animals, so common in children simply through want of
thought, by an argumentum ad puerum; and the application of
the rule, “Do unto others, as ye would they should do unto
you.” In this way not only might much unnecessary suffering be
saved to animals, but a commencement might be made of that moral
discipline in the careless little ones, which is the deepest need of
every soul.
This brings us to the
poems by the two sisters, which have a distinctly religious purpose —
the Hymns for Infant Minds, Sunday School Hymns, etc.
Miss Yonge, while naming Jane Taylor(?) as one of three who alone
have been successful hymn writers for children, yet considers her
hymns inferior to the secular poems. In this opinion we do not
concur. In these hymns, as in the other poems, it is Ann Taylor whose
contributions have secured the widest popularity, and the simplicity
without puerility, and pathos without sentimentality, which
distinguish the secular, seem to us to belong, in a still higher
degree, to the sacred poetry. So to treat the great topics of
religion must also be a more difficult task.
The estimate of two such
men as the late Dr Arnold
and Archbishop Whately, may be adduced in
support of this opinion. The former, in one of
his sermons at Rugby, says: “The knowledge and love of
Christ can nowhere be more readily gained by young children, than
from the hymns of this most admirable woman.” And the latter,
in his Essays on Christian Faith,
remarks: “A
well-known little book, entitled Hymns
for Infant Minds,
contains, Nos. 14, 15, a better practical description of Christian
humility, and its opposite, than I ever met with in so small a
compass. Though very intelligible and touching to a mere child, a man
of the most mature understanding, if not quite destitute of the
virtue in question, may be the wiser and better for it.” The
poems here referred to are those entitled How to Find Out Pride,
and How to Cure Pride, and
were written by Ann Taylor. They
exhibit a close analysis of motive, which was common to both Ann and
Jane; but which the former expressed with more homely force. The
first of these poems, after setting forth a searching catechism, ends
with:
Put all these
questions to your heart,
And make it act an honest part;
And,
when they've each been fairly tried,
I think you'll own that you
have pride.
Some one will
suit you, as you go,
And force your heart to tell you so:
But
if they all should be denied,
Then you're too proud to own your
pride.
The
second, after
enumerating various means for the cure of pride, closes with:
And, when all
other means are tried,
Be humble, that you've so much pride.
It
was Ann, too, who
wrote:
Great God,
and wilt thou condescend
To be my Father and my friend?
I a
poor child, and Thou so high,
The Lord of earth, and air, and
sky?
Art Thou my
Father? Canst Thou bear
To hear my poor imperfect prayer?
Or
wilt Thou listen to the praise
That such a little one can raise?
Art Thou my
Father? Let me be
A meek, obedient child to Thee;
And try, in
word, and deed, and thought,
To serve and please Thee as I ought.
Art Thou my
Father? I'll depend
Upon the care of such a friend;
And only
wish to do and be,
Whatever seemeth good to Thee.
Art Thou my
Father? Then at last,
When all my days on earth are past,
Send
down and take me in thy love,
To be thy better child above.
It
may not be too much
to say that the manner of the Divine Teacher has been seldom more
nearly approached. Such might have been the little child whom “he
set in the midst”. In such words might the most mature
Christian address his Father in heaven.
The
hymn beginning:
Jesus who
lived above the sky,
Came down to be a man and die,
And in the
Bible we may see
How very good he used to be.
has
been found, in
dealing with the poor, one of the best, because one of the most
simple expositions of the gospel mystery. Another of the same kind is
a sermon in itself:
Lo, at noon
'tis sudden night!
Darkness covers all the sky!
Rocks are
rending at the sight!
Children, can you tell me why?
What can
all these wonders be?
Jesus dies at Calvary!
The
moral impressiveness
of the following, may be acknowledged by others than children. It is
mentioned in one of her letters as receiving the highest praise from
Montgomery:
Among the
deepest shades of night,
Can there be one who sees my way?
Yes;
God is like a shining light,
That turns the darkness into day.
When every
eye around me sleeps,
May I not sin without control?
No; for a
constant watch he keeps
On every thought of every soul.
One of the less known
poems was added at a later period.
A captain
forth to battle went,
With soldiers brave and trim;
The captain
by a king was sent,
To take a town for him.
It returned to the
writer in bread of consolation after many days. In her old age she
learnt that one who, still young, had distinguished himself
before
the deadly earth-mounds of Sebastopol, and so won his captain's
commission, was greeted by his little sister on his return home
with this hymn, learnt for the occasion, and deftly repeated. He
listened how one had been:
Taught by his
mother to repeat
What Solomon had said,
That he who ruleth well
his heart,
And keeps his temper down,
Is greater, acts a wiser
part,
Than he who takes a town.
and
how thereafter,
From day to
day, from year to year,
He kept the watchful strife,
Till
passion seemed to disappear
From that young Christian life:
In love he
passed his pleasant days,
And dying, won a crown!
The crown of
life! O better praise
Than theirs who took the town!
He listened, and the
words sank into his heart. Not long after, from the midst of barrack
life, he wrote that he had not forgotten the little hymn, and asked
to have it sent to him. Within a month or two, fever carried him
away, when the words that seemed to have awakened spiritual life in
his soul, became messengers of peace to his sorrowing parents.
With all the
cheerfulness of Ann Taylor's nature, there was associated a strong
vein of melancholy, which led her too often into the neighbourhood of
death and the grave. The fearfulness of that under-world, the loss
from the living circle, the awful problem of the future, haunted her
imagination; while the belief that such inevitable facts in human
destiny should not be hidden from the thoughts of children, but that
they should early learn the lessons they are intended to teach,
induced her, perhaps more often than her sister, and more often than
was healthy, to turn her pen in that direction. It was she who wrote:
Yes, it must
moulder in the grave,
This moving heart, this breathing
breast,
And flowers shall grow, and grass shall wave,
Where
these cold limbs are laid to rest;
And
so it was, when she
addressed her youngest sister on her birthday she fell into this
solemn strain,
He knows the
point, the very spot,
Where each of us shall fall,
And whose
shall be the earliest lot,
And whose the last of all.
Dear
cherished child! if you should have
To travel far
alone,
And weep by turns at many a grave,
Before you reach your
own;
May He who
bade you weep, be nigh
To wipe away your tears,
And point you
to a world on high,
Beyond these mournful years!
Yet, if it be
His holy will,
I pray that hand in hand,
We all may travel many
a hill
Of this the pilgrim's land:
With Zion's
shining gate in view
Through every danger rise,
And form a
family anew,
Unbroken, in the skies.
The thought of a family
broken, and perhaps for ever, was one of the tortures of her heart,
and this prayer that hers and all dear to her should meet “unbroken
in the skies” was the oftenest upon her lips.
Her nature was
compounded of great tenderness, a strenuously realizing imagination,
and profound convictions, and these when carried to excess may have
unduly coloured her view of things. They compelled her to dwell
occasionally on subjects still darker than the grave. She believed in
sin, she believed in the future punishment of sin, and she could not
hide her belief away in the presence of little ones, in whom she saw
the germs of evil, and whose steps might be turning towards the broad
road that leads to death. Yet neither she nor her sister ever brought
the doom of the wicked into prominence. The references to it are
infrequent. It is never elaborated as a picture. No line by either
sister deals with the subject as Dr Watts, their venerated
predecessor, ventured to do.
Some sixty years after
the publication of the poems, a writer in the Athenæum
(understood to be Professor de Morgan),
ignorant that the author still survived, wrote as follows:
One
of the most beautiful lyrics in the English language, or in any
other language, is spoiled by the introduction of what was not
uncommon in the little songs formerly written for children, a bit of
religion, no matter what, thrust in, no matter how, something good
as a piece of form and propriety. After that description of a
mother's care and kindness which, as written for a child, is
absolutely unequalled, the song ends with the reason why the child is
never to despise its mother, and that reason is the fear of God's
vengeance.
The
last verse would suit admirably if those which precede had
described indifferent or harsh treatment, for the fifth commandment
makes no distinction of mothers, which is all that could be said
about the duty of attention to a bad one. But, placed as they are,
these lines spoil the whole, and are perhaps the reason why the poem
is by no means so common among the children of this day, as it
deserves to be. We propose that it should be remitted to the Laureate
in the name of all the children of England to supply a closing verse
which shall give a motive drawn from the verses which precede, and in
accordance with the one immediately preceding. It will not be easy,
even for Mr Tennyson, to satisfy reasonable expectation, but we hope
he will try.
The verse animadverted
upon is as follows:
For God, who
lives above the skies,
Would look with vengeance in his eyes,
If
ever I should dare despise
My Mother.
The succeeding number of
the Athenaeum contained this
reply:
Allow
me to thank your correspondent for both his praise and blame. I
am grateful for one, and confess to the other, in his notice of a
little poem, My Mother, of
which I was the author, it may be
something more than sixty years ago. I see now so much as he does,
though not in all its implications, that should another
edition pass through the press I will take care that the offending
verse shall be omitted; or, as I may hope (without troubling the
Laureate) replaced. I have regarded our good old theologian, Dr
Watts, as nearly our only predecessor in verses for children, and his
name, a name I revere, I may perhaps plead in part, though not so far
as to accept now what did not strike me as objectionable then. There
has been an illustrated edition of our Original Poems recently
published. I am sorry to see it retained there, but, as the still
living author, I have sufficient right to expunge it. Possibly you
may have heard the names of Ann and Jane Taylor, of whom I am the
Ann, and remain yours, etc.
She sent the following alteration
of
the verse:
For could our
Father in the skies
Look down with pleased or loving eyes,
If
ever I could dare despise
My Mother.
A correspondent of Notes
and Queries, July 14, 1866, again took up the subject, and,
after
criticising both the critic and the author, objected to the
emendation of the latter. “There is still the abrupt and
unnatural transition from the extreme of fondness to its very
opposite, and the fear of our Heavenly Father is still put forward as
the only motive to the exclusion of his love.”
Two verses were
suggested by this writer, to whom the author, within six months of
her death, rejoined.
Again
I have to thank, and in part agree with, my critics, confessing
that at my age it is a favour to have any critic at all! With some of
their views I may not fully agree, but in the concluding verses just
received, I concur so nearly, that were they simply my own I
might be glad to employ them. Yet I would rather be honestly
myself, than cleverly any one else. Excuse me, therefore, for
retaining what I have already sent, should another edition allow it.
Young
as I was when the original verse was written, I did not see, as
I do now, its incongruity in tone with those preceding it. Still, I
believe that all moral evil is sin; that all sin incurs the divine
displeasure; but “vengeance” is a word I would not
now employ.
To this curious little
discussion, so long after the publication of the poem, in which
several besides those quoted took part, the present editor would add
what he believes to have been the true explanation of the
objectionable phrase. In the earlier editions, “anger”,
not vengeance, was the word employed, the expression was intensified
at a later period; but it had a purely biographical, and not a
theological, reference. In Chapter II allusion is made to a painful
piece of far back family history, the ill treatment of her
great-grandfather on the mother's side, by a son who had been the
spoiled pet of his parents. Her mother, when a child, had been a
witness of this conduct. Perhaps her passionate affection for the
grandfather, whose house at Kensington had been the happy refuge of
her earliest years, may have coloured her recollections; but as she
used to tell of her secretly taking the old man's head upon her
bosom, and feeding him with soft biscuits, while the tears rolled
silently down his cheeks, and he indicated in dumb show what he
suffered; the indignation she expressed was deep. In the Reciprocal
Duties of Parents and Children, Mrs Taylor told the story under
feigned names; and her daughter Ann repeated it in one of the Nursery
Rhymes, beginning:
I'll tell you
a story, come sit on my knee,
A true and a pitiful one it shall
be,
About an old man, and a poor man was he.
To the end of her life
she could never refer to it without tears, and it is not surprising
that, with this story in mind, the possibility of filial ingratitude
should occur to her when writing the poem in question, and that she
should denounce upon it the severest judgment of heaven! nor that she
should even intensify the expression, when it came before her for
revision. The knowledge of an actual fact hid from her the
incongruity, both as a matter of art and morals, of such an idea with
the rest of the poem; and when it eventually became the subject of
criticism, the author, at the age of eighty-four, had forgotten the
natural history of the verse, the introduction of which she evidently
had difficulty in explaining. Any way it would be quite contrary to
her nature to insert “a bit of religion no matter what, thrust
in no matter how — something good as a piece of form and
propriety”.
One other modern
criticism may be noticed, again referring to one of Ann Taylor's
hymns:
I thank the
goodness and the grace,
That on my birth have smiled,
And made
me in these Christian days,
A happy English child.
This has been found
fault with, by an eminent preacher, as a piece of pharisaism
resembling the “I thank thee, I am not as other men,” of
the parable. It surely hardly needs to be pointed out that
thankfulness for all the blessings of this life, and sometimes for
special ones, forms part of every public prayer; and is totally
different from an expression of thankfulness for the possession of
moral excellence, in which the Pharisee's proud heart indulged. The
concluding verse shows that the moral intended is the responsibility
of privilege:
My God, I
thank Thee, who has planned
A better lot for me,
And placed me
in this happy land,
Where I may hear of Thee.
It is remarkable that
even this simple hymn should have been honoured as an instrument for
good far beyond its intention. She was told long afterwards, that a
very gay, thoughtless family ascribed to it their conversion to
spiritual religion.
That so many years after
these little poems given to the world they should receive the
commendations of such men as Arnold and Whately, is higher testimony
to their enduring merit, than any contemporary judgments; but it may
be interesting to quote a few passages from letters received at the
time from some whose names are still of note in literature.
Sir Walter Scott,
writing to Josiah Conder, says, “My young people are busy with
the Rhymes for the Nursery,
and it is perhaps the highest
proof of their being admirably adapted for their benevolent purpose,
that the little students have most of them by heart already.”
Southey, writing to the
same, on receipt of the volume entitled Associate Minstrels,
makes some general remarks, which may be worth transcribing:
There
was a time when poets of this country, like those of every
other country, trod one after another in the same sheep-tracks of
imbecility. We have got out of this, yet not so much in
reality as in appearance; for the modern art of imitation consists in
borrowing or stealing from many, instead of honestly copying one. The
first thing I look for in a volume of verses is to see whether the
author be a mocking bird, or if he has a note of his own. You
certainly have; it is a sweet one, and I have little doubt that it
may be made a powerful one, if you choose to cultivate its powers ...
The title of your book, though you have abundant precedents for it,
offends against my sense of costume. We injure and impoverish our
language when we reduce a word which has a peculiar meaning of its
own to be a mere synonym. I perceive as much impropriety in using
“Minstrel” for Poet, as there is in applying the terms of
chivalry to modern warfare.
The
Original Poems of your
friends and associates have long
been in my children's library, and equally favourites with them and
with me. There is a cast of feeling in them which made me suppose the
authors to be Quakers, a society with which I am almost, yet not
wholly in communion. Whoever these ladies are, they have well and
wisely employed their talents, and I am glad to have this opportunity
of conveying my thanks to them through you, for the good which they
are doing, and will long continue to do.
Miss Edgeworth,
acknowledging some communication from Ann Taylor, says:
Whenever
I have an opportunity of adding to Parents’
Assistant, or to Early Lessons,
I will avail myself of
your suggestions, and endeavour, as you judiciously recommend, to
ridicule the garrulity, without checking the open-heartedness of
childhood. My “Little Rosamond”, who perhaps has not the
honour of being known to you, is sufficiently garrulous, but she is
rather what the French call “une petite Raisonneuse”
than what you call a “chatterbox”. Miss Larolles in
Cecilia, is a perfect picture of a chatterbox arrived at
years of discretion. I wish I could draw Miss Larolles in her
childhood.
In
a book called Original Poems for
Children, there is a
pretty little poem, The Chatterbox,
which one of my little
sisters, on hearing your letter, recollected. It is signed Ann T.
Perhaps, madam, it may be written by you; and it will give you
pleasure to hear that it is a favourite with four good talkers of
nine, six, five, and four years old.
Coming to works of more
pretension than the Poems for
Children,
we may note that the Associate
Minstrels
contained eleven poems by Ann Taylor.
Montgomery writes of it: “A is to my mind the Queen of the
Assembly. She is a poet of a high order, the first, unquestionably,
among those who write for children, and not the last, by hundreds, of
those who write for men. The
Maniac’s Song has not only
the melancholy of madness, but the inspiration of poetry; also the
simile, p. 97, is wonderfully fine, and perfectly original. The two
stanzas that contain it are as lovely as the stars they celebrate.”
The simile referred to
is from one of the longest poems in the volume, entitled, Remonstrance, and deals
with the question, now much more
loudly propounded, of the true relations between man and woman.
Enlarging upon a motto taken from Hannah More: “Women in their
course of action describe a smaller circle than men, but the
perfection of a circle consists not in its dimensions, but in its
correctness,” she says:
Thus Venus
round a narrow sphere
Conducts her silver car,
Nor aims, nor
seems to interfere
With Jove's imperial star.
Athwart the
dark and deepening gloom
Their blending rays unite,
And with
commingled beams illume
The drear expanse of night.
It was not till mid-life
that she composed hymns to any extent, for congregational use, and
then perhaps not very successfully. They will be referred to at the
period to which they belong, but it was at the age of eighteen only,
that she wrote a hymn in three parts, which has been included in some
collections. It begins:
Thou who
didst for Peter's faith
Kindly condescend to pray.
With the removal to
Ongar, Ann Taylor's pen took a new direction, in which it seemed
likely to achieve considerable success. Her first article for the Eclectic Review led the
way for others, of which one upon Hannah
More's Christian Morals attracted
much attention. That
accomplished authoress was then at the zenith of her fame, and, quite
unused to so fearless and caustic a style of criticism, upon
discovery of the writer, expressed her displeasure in a manner
unworthy of her genius. Isaac Taylor always held that his sister's
chief talent lay in this branch of literature, and Montgomery once
referred to her as a rare instance of one whose prose style was
perspicuous and beautiful, without, as far as he knew, having had the
assistance of a classical education. Some quotations from her reviews
may be given, not only as illustrating the character of her prose,
but as expressing opinions which she held strongly through life —
the result of a homely realism, which cut through the outward seeming
of things. Mrs More's work is thus criticised.
Various
detached thoughts, in Mrs More's usual style of thinking and
writing, are thrown into chapters — some more, and some less
connected with their immediate neighbours — and look like the
gleanings of a portfolio, which are too good to be thrown away, and
too desultory to be well arranged. In many places the subjects are
too much generalised to admit of that correct touch, in which the
observation and skill of Mrs More are displayed to advantage. The
reflections are just, and precisely such as most reflecting people
have made already — such as many reflecting people could write,
and, perhaps, not sufficiently unlike what has been written.
Peculiarities of style, which, while they were new and infrequent,
might strike as beauties, adding point, force, or richness, are here
so numerous and unrestricted, that the ear anticipates and is
fatigued with their recurrence. If we may venture on such an
allusion, Mrs More, after lighting her candle, puts it under a bushel —
and, not seldom, by unmeaning tautology, under half-a-dozen
bushels successively, for many of her illustrations are so nearly
synonymous that they rather exercise the reader in discovering, or
inventing, distinctions, than assist him in attaining a complete
idea. This, instead of indicating mental exuberance, is usually the
resort of conscious failure, labouring to express what it cannot
condense; or of indecisive judgment, which is unable to select.
Genius
feels and decides with prompt correctness, places its idea in
the most striking attitude, in the broad daylight of expression, and
presents to a glance:
The fairest,
loftiest countenance of things.
Industry
walks carefully round its subject, holding a light, now on
this side, now on that, in every direction, till, notwithstanding the
general obscurity, every part has been successively discerned. This
fatiguing endeavour is perceived, upon many occasions, in the style
of Mrs More. We should call it, if allowed the expression, “much
ado about — something.”
More important, and
strongly marked by the writer's opinions, is the following:
She
frequently writes as if the two classes which divide society —
“the children of the kingdom”, and “the men of this
world” — were amalgamated in a third — natives of
some country midway of those distant regions — Christians who
are not Christian. We admit that there are many who present
such an appearance to the eye of man — many whom charity would
fain regard as brethren, although they do not “come out”
and “separate” with such entire consistency as to render
their character indubitable. But this uncertainty exists, not in the
subject, but in the observer, to whom the heart is inscrutable; and
while it suspends his judgment, it must not confuse his language.
Amidst endless diversities of situation, temper, and knowledge, every
individual is, or is not, a Christian; and he that is not must
not be flattered with the name ...
Upon
what ground, therefore, does Mrs More bestow the name of
Christians upon such as are destitute, according to her own
account, of the “vital spirit of Christianity”? “The
good sort of people” she is exhibiting are well described as
“contractors for heaven, who bring their merit as their
purchase-money, who intend to be saved at their own expense,”
and “do not always take care to be provided with a very
exorbitant sum, though they expect so large a return in exchange for
it” ...
These
characters, who have descended without interruption from a
numerous family in the days of our Saviour, are here so accurately
delineated — the very cut of the phylactery is so well observed — that
we should reckon it one of the most useful parts of the
present work, were it not for the strange concession which is made to
them in the same breath. Is it credible that persons so described
should be complimented by Mrs More with the title of “unconfirmed
Christians”, and often with that of “Christians”,
without any qualifying epithet? That such Christians are called
Christians by the world, we do not deny; but it seems to us that for
that very reason Mrs More ought not to call them so. In what respect
does the title belong to them? In what respect can it belong to them,
if they are distinct from the character? We have heard of young, of
unlearned, of weak, and even of inconsistent Christians —
persons who have much to learn and to mourn, and long to struggle —
but they are not such as could be characterized by the foregoing
marks ...
In
some writers we should either attribute this negligent bestowment
of the Christian name to a dubious view of the subject, or consider
it as a cowardly compliment to polite readers. In Mrs More we can do
neither. We regard it as an unhappy relic of the language which
becomes popular wherever religion is established and national. In the
eye of a national religion birth and baptism confer Christianity. The
“Young Christian” is an expression not uncommon among
“good sort of people”, as soon as the baptismal office
has done its wonder. Upon the uninformed, upon the majority, we may
therefore conclude, in every nation thus situated, the effect of such
a superstition is a complete mistake as to the grounds of safety; ...
Even among the more enlightened, we perceive the evil effect of
such a system in the instance before us. It is a compliment so
universal, under an established Christianity, to be called a
Christian; it is reckoned so barbarous, so uncharitable, so
heathenish a thing, to deny the title to any but the unbaptised; that
even Mrs More adopts the popular phraseology, and upon persons
addressed by the Saviour as “Pharisees, hypocrites”, (and
whom it is evident she views in the same light) bestows the
distinguishing name of his true disciples.
The following remarks
have received striking illustration in our own day when the extreme
Ritualist and the extreme Rationalist are found joining in the same
form of words.
And
here, without wishing to detract one particle from the excellence
of the liturgy, we must be allowed to express our surprise at seeing
so weak a plea, as that it “secures from the fluctuations of
human opinion”, advanced in its behalf by writers, who, if they
had thought, must have seen its fallacy; who ought not to have
written without thinking; and who if they had thought, and did see
its fallacy, should have been ashamed of employing it. It is not only
bad as a principle, but erroneous as a fact. Human opinion continues,
and it will continue to fluctuate, notwithstanding. Mrs More frankly
acknowledges the “incurable diversity” of it; and she
must know that people, as well as ministers, are liable to
“degenerate”. We are astonished, therefore, to hear her
plead for uniformity of language, while she allows that uniformity of
sentiment is unattainable. This surely, could be no other than
“bodily exercise which profiteth little”; and it
converts the forms of the Church into worse than mockery, to exact
them from men, by whom their doctrines, Scriptural as they may be,
are not embraced. “All things may be pure, but they are evil to
that man who eateth with offence.” To persevere in a form which
the mind rejects, is only adding hypocrisy to unbelief; and if in the
sight of God hypocrisy were not an abominable thing, yet, what
is gained by compelling an infidel, whether a systematic, or a
thoughtless one, to say “I believe?”
A review of Miss
Edgeworth's Tales was one of
those contributed by Ann Taylor
to the Eclectic; the last of
them, soon after she became Mrs
Gilbert, had for its subject, Miss
Hamilton's Popular Essays.
From this, a last quotation may be allowed, from its bearing upon a
question still under discussion — the true sphere of women.
But
we feel inclined to explain and to qualify, before we proceed, an
epithet which has just escaped us. It is that of inferior
duties, for we doubt whether in such a connection, it ought to be
employed. It appears, indeed, that to the term duty, the
qualifications, great, and small, can never with strict propriety be
applied. The due occupation of the passing hour is the uniform
demand which the Giver of that hour makes upon the receiver of it,
and in his sight, the nature of that occupation neither elevates nor
degrades the servant to whom it is given. To all within the sound of
his word, the injunction is addressed, “Be ye holy; for I am
holy!” but to none, not to the most intelligent of his
creatures, does he say, “Be ye great, for I am great.” In
the scale of intellect, we take the place assigned to us by presiding
Wisdom, and are only enjoined to improve the few, or the many
talents, without repining, and without sloth. In the scale of
morality we are, if the expression may be allowed, to find our own
place, and never to rest satisfied with an inferior station. The
woman, therefore, who feels herself confined, by the appointments of
Providence, to a narrow mental range, and who is permitted to
expatiate in those humble regions only, which comprise, perhaps,
little more than the nursery and the kitchen, has no need to be
ashamed of the rank she holds, or to repine at the limits by which
her walk in life is circumscribed. She is an agent in the hand of
God, and should be estimated, not according to the place she
occupies, but the skill and industry with which her particular part
is performed. In the sight of God, the moral appears to be far more
valuable than the intellectual principle. It is that mode of approach
by which finite beings are encouraged to advance towards infinite
perfection. Amazing intellect cannot elevate a Satan; and, though
gifted only with the humblest portion of mind, a Christian is not
degraded. He rises, in the dignity of the moral principle, into
esteem and consideration even with the Most High ...
It
appears, therefore, to be a false view of things — a view
taken not in the light of Scripture, but by the flashing of human
pride, that regards the performance of any duty as degrading, or even
as inferior. Ascertain only that it is duty, and it is that
the right discharge of which God will honour. The Christian woman who
can reflect upon a laborious life of domestic duty, looks back upon a
scene of true virtue; and if, in order to perform the whole of her
allotted task, she was obliged to repress a taste for pursuits more
intellectual, the character of magnanimity is inscribed upon her
conduct, however retired, or in human estimation insignificant, may
have been the daily exercises to which she was appointed.
The last paragraph may fitly
close
our consideration of that portion of the life we are delineating,
which was devoted to art and literature. After her marriage, Ann
Gilbert gave herself with all the sedulousness of her nature to the
occupations of that more contracted sphere, in which she yet
recognised a true moral greatness; striving therein, as far as in her
lay, to live a life of “duty, praise and prayer”.
Chapter
VII. Memorials of Mrs
Gilbert, Ilfracombe and Ongar, 1812-1813
Ongar
scenery — The Winter at Ilfracombe — A Visitor and an
offer of Marriage — Mr Gunn and his Sailors — Return
to Ongar — Engagement to Mr Gilbert — Marriage; and
Letter from her Mother
How
wilt thy virginhood
Conclude itself in marriage fittingly?
R.
Browning
So this match
was concluded, and in process of time they
were married, but more
of this hereafter.
Bunyan
ONGAR, a name very dear
to
my mother’s heart, had in reality little to do with her life,
except through the repeated and happy visits she paid there, so long
as her father and mother lived. These, however, were among the
brightest gifts of the years, while the impression of the first
arrival, and the first summer spent in the picturesque “Castle
House”, never wore off, and Ongar always was to her the chosen
home of rural happiness. The old house has since then been much
altered; the two turrets, in one of which was her writing closet,
have been pulled down, and the whole has been re-fronted. Yet some
vestiges of its former condition remain, as in the staples for the
chains that supported the drawbridge over the moat, for the house was
originally the gateway to the castle yard, enlarged into a mansion
about the Elizabethan era. “The Mount”, upon which stood
the ancient keep, and “the moats” are still there. The
widest and deepest of the latter was once at least navigated by
Martin, Jefferys, and Jane, in a brewing tub, when they unluckily
lost one of the fire shovels, used for oars.
Ongar
itself,
a straggling, red-roofed little town of a single street, has not
sustained much alteration or enlargement; but the changes have all
tended to diminish its picturesqueness. The most notable
disfigurement has been the cutting down of the tall poplars and other
trees around the churchyard, and the gradual obliteration of the
ancient lines of foss and earthwork covered with trees and bushes,
surrounding the town on three sides, that marked its early adoption
as a place of strength.
The country round would now
hardly
answer to the loving
eulogies of the Autobiographist. Like most English landscapes, it has
been smoothed and pared away till its peculiar charm is almost gone.
What with the removal of timber, and of thatched cottages, the
enclosure of the commons, the disappearance of the
elm-shaded strips of green along the roads, the straightening of
hedges, the pulling down, or renewal in bald ugly style, of the farm
houses that formerly boasted grey carved porches and columned
chimneys, the character of the scenery has grievously deteriorated,
in any but the farmer’s point of view. My own recollections of
it are not inconsistent with my mother’s description.
It was, however, at Ilfracombe,
far
away from this loved spot, that the Autobiography left us. The charm
of its romantic scenery, and that of other parts of Devon and
Somerset, seems to have been more appreciated by her brother and
sister than by herself, who, ever a home bird, enjoyed especially the
more simple features of a home landscape. It was the dear friends she
found or made in Devonshire that gave warmth to her recollections.
Her bosom friend, Anna Forbes, now Mrs Laurie, lived at Budleigh
Salterton; Luck Conder, as Mrs Whitty, at Axminster; the Gunns, and
others, were now for the first time amongst her intimates.
A happy six months was spent at
Ilfracombe, then a very retired village. The winter storms thundered
at their back door, and sometimes “tons of water broke against
the chamber window”. But they clambered over the rocks, and
explored the dales in almost all weathers, and within doors “a
jewel of a landlady”, and “our Peggy, the civilest,
obligingest, curtseyingest little Devonshire maid that can be”,
made them very comfortable at a fireside cheerful enough from their
own resources, but which choice friends contributed to enliven.
It was not all holiday, however,
Jane, indeed, seems to have spent her time more in gathering
impressions for after use than in actual work; but Ann and Isaac were
fully occupied. Ann was chiefly engaged upon reviews for the Eclectic, stimulated by
finding that an article by Dr Olinthus
Gregory had been displaced to make room for one of hers upon Miss
Edgeworth. It was here she wrote that pungent review of Hannah More’s Christian Morals, from
which some quotations have been given.
Isaac, besides some miniature painting, was busy with his designs for
Boydell’s Bible, the striking originality of which drew the
admiration of Haydon, and of late years have been referred to by
Gilchrist and Rosetti
as resembling those of Blake in conceptive power. But his versatile
genius was not confined to art. An invention for engraving by
mechanism was shaping itself in his mind, and here subjected to
tentative experiments; while at the same time his thoughts were
pursuing the problems of early Church History, to which the
accidental purchase of a Latin Father had given the impulse. It was a
singular illustration of this versatility also, that he should have
been offered the appointment of draughtsman to Mr Salt’s
expedition to Abyssinia, and solicited to become the pastor of the
small Dissenting Church at Ilfracombe.**
That small community had been
accustomed to the ministrations of a very able man — Mr Gunn,
afterwards of Christchurch, Hampshire, and noted for organising there
the largest and most successful Sunday school then in the kingdom. He
had just introduced the use of Ann and Jane’s Hymns in his
school at Ilfracombe, and with him the three visitors in the small
house on the Quay formed the closest intimacy. Ann’s diary
shows that scarcely an evening passed that he did not take a seat at
their tea table. All three wrote, and Isaac subsequently published,
the highest encomiums upon the charm of his manner, and the power of
his mind. Ann writes to her mother:
Mr
Gunn, the noble Highlander [he was from Caithness — JG]
“adds greatly to the pleasure we here enjoy. He spends his
evenings with us more frequently than not, and by the animation, the
philosophical cast, and perspicuous style of his conversation,
renders our fireside most delightful. His person, air, and manners
are those of a military man of rank; but the graceful ease and candid
frankness of his conversation remove any embarrassment in his
company, although Jane and I had mutually determined to say nothing
in his presence but ‘Yes, if you please, sir,’ or ‘No,
thank you, sir.’ Father will be pleased to hear he is making us
Dissenters to the backbone.”
To this, a very permanent result
with
the two sisters, the injudicious denunciations of a Cambridge
dignitary, whose sister occasionally attended upon Mr Gunn’s
ministry on week days may have contributed. Ann writes again:
Miss
W’s brother, in writing of Mr Gunn, always calls him “the
man”. I only wish he could once see and converse with him, and
he would perceive how emphatically he is “the man,” in person, in
manner, in character, and in principles.
With this opinion of him, it is
not
surprising to find that the sisters and their brother were his
hearers three times every Sunday, and that their attendance at the
lecture on Wednesday, and the prayer-meeting on Friday evening, was
unfailing. They had, however, been brought up in the strict
observance of “ordinances”.
But the chief event of the winter
at
Ilfracombe, was the arrival of a visitor on a peculiar errand. A
minister, for a short time resident in Essex, but now associated with
Dr Williams as classical tutor in Rotherham Theological College, had
been so impressed with Ann Taylor’s writings, and had heard
from those acquainted with her so much eulogium upon her personal
merits, that he took the singular step, without having seen her, of
writing to inquire, whether “any peremptory reasons existed
which might lead him to conclude that a journey, undertaken with the
purpose of soliciting her heart and hand, could not possibly be
successful”.
“To this extraordinary letter,”
as she terms it, in writing to her mother, she returned a brief and
most distant answer, but was somewhat conciliated by the reply, and
especially as inquiries instituted by her father brought forth the
warm praises of many friends. It was speedily intimated that the
writer was coming to Ilfracombe, and Ann’s letters to her one
confidante, her mother, are full of the oddity and embarrassment of
the situation.
I
can scarcely believe that such a negotiation is actually on foot,
and yet that I have not the slightest idea of the party! Whatever his
present feelings may be, and I believe them to be sincere, however
permanent might be the affection he entertains for an unknown
character, in case he were never personally introduced, that
affection will scarcely come into service when the ideal object is
displaced by the real. He will feel like a man whose love has slipped
through a trap door. Yet I think it proper to allow an interview,
because it is the only way to effect a speedy cure, if cure
is to be effected.
At the same time she combated the
hot
objections of one of her brothers, and thinks she detects in the
letters — and it was a wonderfully true prevision — “an
elevation, but simplicity of nature; that kind of manliness
which results from integrity of principle, and singleness of design ...
As to M, I cannot but recollect that tastes differ, and that
even a quick sight may sometimes be too quick to be true.”
The unknown
suitor first visited
Ongar, and the impression produced upon so keen and severe a judge of
character as the mother, fully supports that which the daughter had
gathered from his letters. It is evident that he took the further
journey with the good wishes of both parents, and a letter from her
mother is clearly intended to prepare the way to her daughter’s
heart.
We
had had the sweeps, and were in the back parlour, which was also
in the usual litter preceding Christmas. Your father was out, and we,
in great deshabille, had just sat down to tea, when Jemima
exclaimed with a look of dismay, “there’s a fourble
knock at the door!” Immediately I decamped into the storeroom,
and was speedily followed by a ludicrous procession ... However, I
determined to carry it off with address, so having slipt upstairs,
and hastily adjusted myself, I returned and I believe received him
with tolerable ease. I just said slightly that we had had the sweeps,
etc., but I soon perceived he was not the man to be impressed with
unfavourable ideas from such trifling circumstances. He was one of
the favoured few with whom I could immediately assimilate, and could
freely converse. We presently commenced an animated conversation,
chiefly on literary subjects, — Montgomery, Edinburgh
Review, etc., etc., but I could see he was constantly
verging towards the main subject, which at length we entered upon
very fully and frankly. I blamed him for the step he had taken, and
asked how it was that he did not first try to get an introduction to
you?” ... [After explanations] “He said he had acted in
the most direct opposition to his own theory. I replied he had to
mine; and that I had known many who, though appearing unexceptionable
in the eyes of the world, had to me some trait that would have
been an insuperable bar to such a union. He replied that what I saw
was, though I might not then be aware of it, a certain indication of
some defect of mind, and that he was convinced, from long
acquaintance with yours, there could be nothing of the kind in you ...
But
as to the man it would be vain and fruitless for me to say — “like or
dislike him”. Your own observations,
your own eyes, your own heart, must be your directors. But I may say,
I like him, and that he grows upon me most rapidly. I soon
discovered a vivacity, a gracefulness, and even a fascination in his
manner, which I thought might in due time render him acceptable. Poor
fellow! There was no place inside, and he had to travel on the roof
this bitter weather, and was so absorbed in love and learning, that
he had left behind his warm travelling cap, and, but for your father,
would have gone away again without his overalls!
Your
father says, that had he been so fortunate as to have been one
of the workroom loungers at Colchester, he is the very man soon to
have become a high favourite. Now, my dear Ann, I have but one
request to make, which, after all, I daresay is needless. It is not
that you would marry, or even like him; but simply that, after having
travelled so far on your account, you should show every hospitality,
and he will the more deserve it if you reject him.
Her father adds his word also:
I
met him once at an association of ministers, and was so struck by
his countenance as to inquire who he was, for his look was
penetrating and superior. I received for answer that it was Gilbert
of Southend, a deep thinker, very clever, and not at all suited to
such a place. The next thing I heard of him was his being appointed
assistant tutor at Rotherham.
On the 31st of December 1812, she
describes the result of this singular visit.
The
first time he introduced the subject, which was the first
morning, I declined entering upon it entirely, as a total stranger.
The second, I settled preliminaries; that is, explained to him that
he must consider himself as under no kind of engagement to proceed a
single step, but that all he now said or did must be without any
reference to the past. And certainly my suspicions in this respect
appear to have been groundless; he does not seem to have made the
transfer with so much difficulty as I expected. In the course of his
subsequent communications, I have had the opportunity of observing
the complete furniture of his mind. He is both intellectual and
cultivated, and in conversations with Isaac and Mr Gunn, discovered
himself to be competent both as a philosopher and a scholar. In freer
conversation he appeared an agreeable, intelligent companion, and
really enlivened our fireside. But all the while I quite forgot his
errand, and only felt towards him as to any agreeable visitor. Even
his affection, which is much more than it is probable I should ever
excite in any other instance, made less impression upon me than I
could have believed possible; and to my own surprise inspired neither
like nor dislike, for either of which I should have been most equally
thankful.
A letter to Mrs Laurie explains a
little later the position of affairs:
Lest you should first hear a piece of my private history
by means of
public report, which a friend should never do, I have determined to
communicate it myself. Yet as I am informed, to my surprise and
regret, that some busy newsmongers have already put it in
circulation, I may perhaps conclude that you know to what I refer,
proposals which have lately been made to me by a gentleman of whom,
till the moment in which they were made, I scarcely knew the name —
I need not conceal it — the Rev. Joseph Gilbert, classical
tutor at Rotherham College, a widower of thirty-three, without
family, and recommended in such terms as left nothing but the
question of individual taste to be decided ... That he has strong
feelings I have sufficient evidence, but, notwithstanding all (so
wayward and uncontrollable is the heart), I have felt it utterly
impossible to give him the answer he desires. I sustained the attack
upon my affections with a degree of insensibility such as I should
not have given myself credit for before; but, in consequence of the
warmth of his attachment, and the wishes of my family, I have
consented to postpone a determination, absolutely final, till the
summer, when he will visit Essex ... You are therefore authorised
and requested, my dear Anna, to inform the world that it is mistaken
about “Miss Taylor’s being going to be married,”
for that it is no such thing. This is necessary, you will see, or
else it may have to conclude in process of time that something has
happened “to break it off”, an observation I do not covet
to have made upon me.
The enjoyment of Ilfracombe was
evidently somewhat disturbed by this state of things, and a
correspondence to which she had reluctantly consented she felt to be
“the most embarrassing part of the business.” The death
in March of his revered friend and colleague, Dr Williams, whose
mind, those who knew him and his works, regarded as of the highest
order, occasioned such acute grief to Mr Gilbert that her sympathies
could not fail to be touched; while the unanimous petition of the
students that he should succeed the Doctor as Principal and
Theological Tutor, was strong proof of the estimation in which he was
held. She writes again to her friend:
I
do not like making courtship a defensive war, or treating one whom
you are shortly to promise to love, honour, and obey, as if he
possessed none of your love, and were unworthy of your honour and
obedience. It is, indeed, so easy for the sins of love to be visited
by the vengeance of marriage that I should always tremble to lay up
for myself such a retribution. As far as possible I would wave
punctilios that have no foundation in natural feeling and delicacy,
and would endeavour in a word to show (were I, I mean, in the
circumstances which it is possible I never may be), that I respected
both him and myself.
You,
my dear Anna, have your hands and your heart full, but of this I
am persuaded, that it is more for our happiness to have them full of
anything, even of toil and sorrow, than to have them empty.
Perhaps at that moment Mr Gunn
was
too much of an ideal hero to admit easily of a competitor. This
admired friend, whose settlement at Ilfracombe had been somewhat
accidental, removed to another charge on account of his wife’s
health, shortly before the Taylor party left it. The following
portions of a letter home contain a vivid portrait of a remarkable
man, and describe the close of their Ilfracombe visit:
April
13, 1813. Mr Gunn sends word that he would rather be preaching
to his sailors at Ilfracombe, than to all the grandees of Bishops
Hull. You never saw such a scene of desolation as his going
occasioned! There were huge sailors so overwhelmed with crying, that
they could not sit upright in the pews. One says, “I quite
unmanned myself,” Another, “I love him like an only
sister.” One of the young women said, “I have seen very
few gentlemen myself, but I daresay the Miss Taylors have seen a
great many, and I will ask them whether they ever saw any one like
him?” We said no, indeed, we never did. You are perfectly right
in supposing that he has natural gifts enabling him to command. His
beauty, his gracefulness, his unfailing, never slumbering politeness,
his independence of character, and of circumstances, compel obedience
from every eye and every heart. You would be surprised to see how
entirely his politeness is his weapon of defence against the
low and ill-mannered. It preserves in all circumstances the
attraction of repulsion. He repeats a saying of Dr Bogue, when one of
his students complained that some low hearers had treated him
disrespectfully, “Indeed! that is your own fault; why do you
not fight them with your hat?” Yet, with all this command, this
independence, and depth of observation that looks fathomless, with a
dark view of human nature, and systematic study of character, motive,
and conduct, Mr Gunn is a very child in simplicity, always cheerful,
often gay and sportive. He is, in a word, such an one as we never saw
before, and do not expect ever to meet again.
They
are learning here that they must not rest in means, nor in men;
that they must not mistake the delight of hearing Mr Gunn for the
pleasures of religion. On Saturday arrived Mr Davies, his
probationary successor; but what shall he do who cometh after the
king? Poor man! we so well understand his feelings, his
anxieties, and hopes, that we sincerely sympathise with him under his
disadvantages. He is a little, mean, plain, meek-looking Welshman,
with his hair combed good on his fore head, coarse, light
worsted stockings, and the Welsh pronunciation almost to spluttering.
He preaches right down gospel, though not in a way I should ever
expect to be strikingly useful; and I believe is thoroughly worthy
and well-meaning. He has a wife and six children, and seems to feel —
exactly as we know how. We had him to tea on Saturday.
I
believe our departure is now fixed for Tuesday, the 27th. O dear! O
dear! We propose to reach Linton that day, and continue till Thursday
morning, exploring its beauties, at the pretty little inn on the
mountain top. If we have fine weather I hope we shall enjoy
ourselves; but dear Ilfracombe! it will cost us a good deal to bid it
good-bye, though the animating spirit is gone already. We shall send
the large box home by waggon. It seems but yesterday that I saw
it on a fine autumn morning trundling down the chase-way from the
Castle-house, and now it is trundling back again! So life goes on!
How
we should enjoy introducing Mr Gunn to Mr W and giving him his
cue! It would be a fine sight — the Royal Tiger and the King of
the Crocodiles! Mr Gunn insists much upon a minister being a
gentleman, as a means of usefulness. Sometime ago he gave six months’
education to a young shoemaker preparatory to his going to the Hoxton
College. And then, he said, “you might have seen us marching
backwards and forwards in my study, handing the chairs from one side
to the other, and opening the door and entering forty times in a
morning, in order to give him a little ease and propriety”. Yet
there was never anyone less finikin, or a ladies’ man. A few
years back Ilfracombe was so retired a place, and a carriage such a
rarity, that when Sir Bouchier Wray was known to be driving in, half
the town used to go three or four miles on the road to meet him, “Ah
Sir!” said an old woman to Mr Gunn when he went, “I am
sure if you ever come here again you will be like Sir Bouchier’s
coach.” You would have smiled to hear an old man, the pew
opener, talk to him, “Yes, your Reverend; no, your Reverend.”
An ordinary mortal (who, however,
by
his friends was considered by no means ordinary even in gifts of
person) would plainly be at much disadvantage beside this paragon. A
change of venue would give him a better chance. They left
Ilfracombe, April 27,1813, and spending a day or two at
Linton, went on by Minehead to Taunton, posting for the most part,
except where, from the steepness of the hills, their luggage was put
in panniers, and they climbed on foot. At Taunton a day was spent
with the Gunns; then by way of Chard they reached the Whittys at
Axminster. Budleigh Salterton, where, at “Eden Cottage”,
Mrs Laurie was living, was their next resting-place; and the
Golding’s (Eliza Forbes) at Bridport their last. From
Axminster, Ann writes to her father that the abundance of literary
work before her when she gets home, “renders the thought of the
Castle-house, and my own room, and dear little study, delightful,
without requiring any foreign aid to make it interesting; indeed,
there seems so much ‘fash’ in any arrangement which may
interrupt these quiet regular home occupations, that I look at it (if
ever I do look that way) rather with regret than anything else. But I
do not forecast in general.”
Time passed away among these dear
friends, for long distances and slow coaches implied long visits in
those days; and it was the 20th of July before they took the Cornish
mail for London. On the 23d, after ten months’ absence, they
were once more under their father’s roof at Ongar.
There, on the 2d of August, Mr
Gilbert arrived for the momentous final answer that had been promised
him; and three weeks afterwards an entry in her pocket-book records
it, — “walked in the afternoon, oui.” It was
a “yes” in which all her family and friends rejoiced, and
which brought to herself nearly forty years of happy married life.
Lest her long hesitation should suggest that the cause of it lay in
the suitor, it may be well to add to her mother’s opinion of
him the testimony of Isaac Taylor, published long afterwards: a “A man
of the warmest benevolence, of extraordinary
intelligence, extensive acquirements, excellent judgment in common
affairs, and withal, of deep and elevated piety.”
To Mrs Laurie, she writes in the
autumn:
I
am learning with tolerable facility to believe what you told me
when you said, “Oh, this delightful, mutual love.” The
day is fast approaching which is to rend me from home and parents,
and everything I have loved hitherto, but it is only to unite me to a
heart that I love, and a mind that I venerate.
To Mrs Whitty:
I
have not leisure now to say much of the progressive alteration of
my feelings, from the indifference which you witnessed at Axminster,
to the happy glow of confident affection. I can only say that I begin
to understand that sunshine of the heart of which you have told me,
and a little to excuse Rebekah for consenting to accompany a stranger
to a distant land. The distance is indeed the only circumstance
of alloy, and it renders the separation from home exceedingly
painful. Rotherham is four days’ post from Ongar.
Two extracts from the
correspondence
with her future husband are subjoined:
Nov.12,
1813
The
anxiety you express as to your ability to
render me happy is little more than a transcript of my own feelings.
The fear of disappointing you has ever hung heavily upon my mind ... I
hope I stand where the providence of God has placed me; and I
wish to cast the burden of these anxieties upon that arm which has
conducted me. You know too well the defection of the human heart to
rest your hopes of domestic happiness upon the expansion of its
meagre virtues. It is only as I may hope for assistance from above,
that I can entertain the thought of taking the precious happiness of
another into my unworthy care. The prayer of my inmost heart for this
assistance is the only light that shines upon my fears. I
cannot make you happy, but God can; and may I indulge the hope that
He will employ me as the means of blessing you? You know my fears as
to my filial interest in His favour. These are at the foundation of
every other anxiety, and chill the confidence with which otherwise I
should seek His aid, and anticipate His benediction. Could I feel
myself a child of God; I would shrink from no inferior relation. I
could do all things through Christ strengthening me. But I seem to be
cast upon my own weakness, and then do not be surprised if I tremble.
Upon these subjects I confide in you to feel and speak as a Christian
minister, and then you will not compliment. Indeed, if you knew how
painful to me is the sound of commendation which I do not deserve,
you would not distress me with it. It falls upon me like the
bitterest reproach.
Nov.
25, 1813
I
feel this evening as if I could not enter upon the
principal subject of your letter; but I cannot help saying that
while the ingenuity with which you administered reproof made me
smile, the confidence with which you ventured to console me, made me
tremble. I will give weight to your persuasions, but to your
assurances I dare not. It is not, indeed, that I wait for the whisper
of God in my heart. I could almost say that I would be content never
to hear the consolations of His voice, if I could but distinguish the
operations of His hand. It is to consistent regulation, internal
and external, that I look as an evidence of the presence, aid, and
favour of God; and it is the want of this which overwhelms me with
doubts, which, as you justly observe, weaken the moral power,
and depress my comfort. Sometimes I suspect that I do not cast myself
upon the Saviour with sufficient confidence, but then I am afraid
of becoming easy, and attaining cheerfulness under imperfections (if
they deserve so tender a name), which at present bar my approach to
Him. Progress seems to me indispensable as an evidence of
being led by the Spirit of God. I need no assurance of the certainty
of the promises. I know that a good work begun shall be carried on;
but this is no consolation till I feel that it is begun.
Perhaps
you will attribute all this to humility; it is the
construction which indulgent friends are too apt to put upon the mere
decisions of a well-educated conscience, but I dare not ascribe them
to such a principle. It is possible, I fear, to have dark views of
ourselves without humility. Among many anxieties which have harrassed
me in giving myself to you, I assure you the fear of being an
unchristian companion, a hindrance to you in your journey heavenward,
has not been the least; but I hope you will take me by the hand, and
lead me to Him in whom your own confidence is placed, from whom your
supreme happiness is derived. Should I feel myself travelling thus by
your side, I would not be solicitous for inferior sources of
enjoyment; it will be sufficient, whatever may be the path, if we
enter Heaven together.
The wedding was fixed for the
24th of
December; but, in the meantime, threatening symptoms had again
compelled her brother Isaac to proceed to Ilfracombe, and he was
accompanied by his sister Jane, a separation very painful under the
circumstances. It was then the fashion for ladies to travel in a
riding-habit; a friend had undertaken to purchase the cloth for that
required by the bride at a wholesale warehouse in London, and she was
not a little gratified to learn, that when the proprietor heard for
whom the purchase was intended, though he only knew Ann Taylor from
her works, he begged her acceptance of the four guineas worth of
cloth as a token of respect.
She signed herself “Ann Taylor”
for the last time on the morning of her marriage.
December
24, 1813.
Dear Jane and Isaac, It is just eight
o’clock, and we are about to assemble for family worship;
before I go down, I devote a minute to the recollection of you, my
dear brother and sister. Forgive every instance in which I have been
other than a sister should be, and if “hand in hand”
we travel on no longer, believe me, dear Jane and Isaac, your most
affectionate sister,
ANN TAYLOR.
Although the church was close by,
they went in two chaises to it, down the old chase-way, and all the
party accompanied the married pair the first stage on their way to
Cambridge; but from a long letter to Mrs Laurie, we may give this
close of the Ongar life, and the beginning of that at Rotherham:
The
next morning, between twelve and one, we reached the sacred banks
of the Cam, and being Christmas-day, had the advantage of hearing the
fine service in King’s College Chapel by “taper’s
light”. On the Sabbath we heard three different preachers. On
Monday, we saw as much as we could, set off at twelve, and reached
Ongar again to tea ... On Friday afternoon, it being a beautiful
day, we all took a farewell walk on one of our favourite roads, where
we all went the day before Jane and Isaac left us, and where we
had often conversed, both of Ilfracombe and Rotherham. The next
morning, Saturday, January 1, 1814, at a quarter after ten, I took
leave of my dear family. It was a bright winter’s day, and I
shall not soon forget the dearest group in all the world to me, left
at the garden gate to watch the chaise out of sight! I had a last
look as we ascended the hill. It was one of those bitter pains which
we sometimes have to pay for pleasures of an earthly kind.
On
Monday evening I waited at a friend’s warehouse in Coleman
Street, to be taken up by the Leeds mail. The horn blew, and at a
quarter to eight I was seated with my husband and off for Yorkshire.
It was moonlight, and the frost so hard that the roads were
excellent. At Kettering we breakfasted, dined at Nottingham at four,
and entered Sheffield at ten; where the approach, as far as I could
see, gave all the indications of a flourishing metropolis. We had
tea, refitted a little, and at eleven took chaise for Rotherham. It
was an interesting time and scene, and I could have felt much if I
had given way to it. As soon as we left Sheffield, two great furnaces
appeared before us, which were, Mr Gilbert said, in a line with our
house, about a mile beyond. These lighted us all the way, blazing
like volcanoes, or streaming like the northern aurora along the sky.
The country rose into fine hills on each side, and after a short
drive the old spire of Rotherham appeared under the moonlight. We
wound through the town, which is of some extent, and entered Masbro.
A great many thoughts and feelings crowded upon me as we stopped at
length at my own door. Salome came out to receive us. We entered our
house at ten minutes before twelve, it is a very pretty one, and in
everything comfortable, though small.
The young lady here mentioned was
the
niece of Mr. Gilbert’s first wife, and who, having lost her
parents, resided with him. She was just eighteen, lively, spirited,
sarcastic, and the new wife felt some anxiety as to their future
relations.
A long farewell letter from her
mother had been put into her hands on leaving home, which may be
given nearly entire. It may well conclude that portion of her life,
which was more or less an education under her parents’ eyes.
MY DEAR CHILD,
The time is now probably at hand when you and I must separate, and the
nearer its approach, ye more precious every remaining moment becomes.
My feelings would be soothed by spending the residue of it in your
society; but as that cannot be the case, I frequently indulge them by
retracing ye years that are past. Happy days, to us, were those of your
infancy! “Nancy and Jenny” beguiled many a heavy hour, and cheered our
spirits under many a severe trial. It was to the promotion of their
ultimate happiness that ye chief of our youthful exertions were
directed. In schemes to this end a great proportion of our retired
hours were spent. If those schemes were not always wisely laid, our own
disadvantages must plead our excuse, for we had little to assist us but
a very small stock of experience, and a great deal of affection ...
Now you are about to enter a state which must determine the future
happiness of your life; and I feel urged to avail myself of the
relation in which I stand, to suggest a few hints, which, by a wise
application of them, may prove of more intrinsic value than a marriage
portion, which, alas! we have not to give.
That the man on whom you are going to bestow yourself possesses all ye
amiable qualities which his friends have ascribed to him, I readily
believe; but I will never believe that he is perfect; in whatever
respect he is otherwise, must be deeply interesting to the being who is
to become a part of himself, nor ought it to be deemed an unnecessary
anticipation of evil so to expect some imperfections, as to be in a
degree prepared to meet them.
Those little eccentricities which
mark families are rarely visible to the parties themselves. This may
account for their proving so obstinate and incurable in many, who
possess good sense sufficient to put much more formidable enemies than
these to flight. Such family traits are often so undefinable that no
title or name can be applied to them but that of the family to which
they belong. Accordingly when we say Watkinsonish or Taylorish, we are
in general sufficiently understood. Now, from the little I have
observed of Mr Gilbert (and I have made the most of my opportunities),
I should imagine that his disposition would not at all assimilate with
some peculiarities of the sort to which I have alluded. That he is of a
frank and open temper little doubt can be entertained, and, if a man of
strong and ardent feelings, he will naturally demand much sympathy; and
here, my dear Ann, I think that you are sometimes under a mistake when
you maintain that it does no good to talk about certain evils. To those
who are in ye habit of talking about them, assuredly it does do good.
It is true that every day brings its troubles, but an indulgent
providence does not every day exercise us with what may be termed
calamities. It is but seldom, therefore, that ye sympathy which is such
an embellishment to human nature, and which is essential to ye
Christian as the gentleman, could be brought into action, were it not
called upon by those petty ills which annoy us every hour, and which,
if they do annoy, establish our claim upon those around us for an
attention proportioned, not, perhaps, to the circumstances, but to ye
pain which they excite. There are few who are disposed to brood over
their ills in silence. I should say it does no good so to do. The
opposite conduct is a principle so engrafted in human nature that
philosophy in vain endeavours to extinguish it, and Christianity does
not attempt it. The crew of a sinking ship could do no good by all
their clamours and vociferation, and they might just as well sit quiet
in the cabin and ride composedly to ye bottom. Yet such circumstances,
I presume, would put even the self-command of the Watkinsons to flight.
When complaint is extorted, from the scratch of a pin to ye wound of a
broadsword, it is in ye power of sympathy to mitigate ye one and make
us forget the other.
I will add another caution, which
it would be well if every couple would take into consideration. I refer
to that spirit of disputation which, for aught I see, pervades almost
every family. It is a matter of no moment what weapon they choose
whereby to put to flight their domestic peace. They will maintain
endless arguments about a pin or a straw, till they have rendered those
desperate for whom they would sacrifice their lives. My dear girl,
remember your mother’s parting injunction: Beware of the first dispute.
I will now give you my thoughts upon a subject, which perhaps there
would have been no occasion for, might we have had the ordering of your
lot — I allude to Salome. It has contributed to enhance Mr Gilbert’s
character in my estimation that he has manifested such an affection for
ye memory of his deceased wife. His fatherly care and protection to her
niece is the result of this. If he should find you co-operate with him
in his benevolent attentions towards her, I should anticipate a very
happy result to yourself. Yet, with ye best intentions on all sides, we
see daily at what minute aperatures discord will enter ... In the
present instance I cannot think of better counsel than that you
determine Salome shall love you ... It is probable that, since the
death of her aunt, some power must have been vested in her hands; let
not the transfer be abrupt, but gradual, and, as much as possible,
imperceptible. Let her rather perceive than feel that you are come to
supersede her. Make her rather approve than submit to it. All this I
say, my dear Ann, that altercation and disputation may not mar ye
happiness of your fireside. Could I know that it did, it would almost
annihilate ye felicity of my own ... Yet, while I am so anxious for
you, let me say that, as an orphan, I cannot help a certain interest in
her. Those who, like her, by repeated deaths, are transferred from one
to another, and find themselves in the wide world obliged to strangers
for protection, I have frequently contemplated with a good deal of
compassion. As I have mentioned your predecessor, I would just suggest
to you that if he is disposed to speak of her, you will avoid appearing
as though ye subject were either unpleasant or uninteresting to you,
but rather appear willing to allow her a corner in his heart to cherish
her beloved memory. But your knowledge of human nature will dictate
this.
This epistle is ye result of my anxiety, and a duty which my conscience
will not suffer me to dispense with. What benefit you may derive from
it I know not; I only know how highly prized, how very salutary such a
proof of “maternal solicitude” would have been to me. Oh, at what price
would I not have purchased some sage admonitions to guide my steps when
first I commenced my perilous journey through life with your father?
For want of such aid, I have groped my way as I could. No wonder if in
my thorny path I have stumbled, and thereby interrupted those who have
happened to stand near me. Could you know the torture which a daily
contemplation of my own imperfect character occasions me, you would be
disposed to believe that I had done all I could.
My dear, dear child! “my first-born, and ye beginning of my strength!”
may I not add, “ye excellence of dignity, and ye excellence of power!”
Never, my beloved Ann, have I willingly inflicted one pang on you.
Whatever you may have occasionally suffered from ye imperfection of my
temper, has invariably recoiled on myself, and inflicted a yet
deeper wound. And, now that we are about to part, can I utter a word
that is not fraught with maternal affection? Three times have I penned
this epistle, so careful have I been not to utter a word inadvertently,
and three times have I sprinkled the paper with my tears.
Finally, my dear child, farewell. “Be perfect, be of one mind, and the
God of peace shall be with you.” To Him you were dedicated in baptism.
To Him I make a fresh surrender of you, now you are about to leave ye
paternal roof. You will find an alter already raised to His praise
under that you are going to; there you will often be joined in spirit
by your Affectionate
Mother,
ANN TAYLOR
Dec. 12th, 1813
Chapter
VIII. Memorials of Mrs
Gilbert, Rotherham, 1814-1815
Yorkshire
Life — Salome — The Cookery Book — The
Allied Sovereigns in London — Visit to the New Home at Ongar — Eclectic Article — Her
Mother’s Authorship —
Prospect for the Autumn — Birth of a Son — Illness of
her Father — Nursery Delights
And life’s
uncertain scope
In pleasant haze before them lay,
A land of
Love and Hope
Ann
Gilbert
a babe, by
intercourse of touch,
I held mute dialogues with my mother’s
heart.
Wordsworth
THE life at Rotherham
was
novel in all respects. It was Yorkshire all over in warmth of
welcome, and warmth of fires, the banked-up mass of which mitigated
within doors the rigour of that noted winter of frost and snow. Mr
Gilbert had not succeeded Dr. Williams in his chair. He remained the
Classical professor, and worked in cordial relations with Dr. Bennett
who was appointed to the theological department, and Principle of the
college. The Essex lady, whose pen had preceded her, was eagerly
awaited by the students who, it was reported, filled all available
windows on the night of her arrival, and accustomed to the larger
Yorkshire type, exclaimed to one another, “how little she is!”
The next morning a hearty greeting from them lay on the breakfast
table.
At six every morning, except
Monday,
Mr Gilbert met his students in the library of the college, and some
who have become eminent in after life, among them one who for many
years filled a chair at the London University, have spoken of those
early prelections — the blazing fire, the surrounding tomes,
the enthusiasm of their tutor, to whom Greek was ever a passion —
as delightful memories. At eight he returned to breakfast,
and was with his classes again from half-past nine till one. After
dinner, at two, the rest of the day was given to literary work, of
which he had much in hand, and in which his wife rendered willing
aid. In these months, however, she had plenty of occupation of the
same kind. “I am now getting on,” she says, “with
Miss Hamilton’s Popular Essays,
though I cannot apply as
I used to do, and I have in the house for reviewing, Miss Edgeworth’s Patronage, and two or
three other things.”
Yet, characteristically, it was
the
special duties of her new position that began to absorb her
attention. In letters to her mother she enters into details of
household economy, requesting advice from that first-rate authority
upon “ironing and ‘getting-up’, the composition
of those mince-pies with which you have sometimes contrived to finish
a piece of boiling beef; and the history and mystery of your delicate
little bread puddings for the sick”. But to both literary and
household duties the interruptions were frequent. The abundant
hospitality accorded to her and her husband on all sides, including
stately dinners among the Iron Magnates, in a style to which the
modest circles, in which Ann Taylor had previously visited were
unaccustomed, occupied evening after evening. Her husband, too, held
at this time a pastorate at Sheffield, going thither generally on
Saturday afternoon, and remaining till Monday evening. At first she
often accompanied him, and as spring came on they not seldom walked
together on a Sunday morning, and before breakfast, the six miles
between the towns, by what were then pleasant fields and woods. This
seems to have been at her own suggestion, and however delightful in
the peace and freshness of the hour, must have been no slight tax
upon the strength of both husband and wife.
At Sheffield, another and a large
circle of friends surrounded them, amongst whom Montgomery, the poet
of her young enthusiasm, gave her the warmest welcome. Upon an early
Sunday, they stayed at his house, when she “witnessed the
phenomenon of a poet smoking two pipes after supper”. With the
strong affection that distinguished the members of the now widely
separated Taylor family, they had agreed, on the night of every full
moon at nine o’clock, weather permitting, to look at it alone,
and meet in thought. To Ann, the first occasion was on the night of
their visit to Montgomery’s, when she says she was “permitted
to retire behind the curtain to think her own thoughts, but could do
nothing else, since the moon was invisible”.
With his usual thoroughness her
Father had provided his children with a list of the full-moon nights
for the year, and, contriving time for everything, had accompanied it
with an ode to the moon, thirty-two stanzas long, and consecrating
the appointed hour. Opening with:
Empress of
the noon of night,
Pour thine urn of silver light;
it contains several
fine
lines, and closes with the solemn yet happy thought, as he surveys
the band of loving ones:
Who first
dies
Is first to live!
How faithfully he kept the tryst
himself, is shown by one of his letters from the “Moated
Grange” at Ongar:
Castle
House. It is nine o’clock, the full moon shines
delightfully into my study, and the duty (for so we have agreed, and
therefore it is a duty) the pleasing duty calls me to think of my
absent children; not that there would be any danger of my forgetting
them, but I love to look at the bright moon, and to recollect what
dear eyes are looking at the same object, what precious bosoms are
beating, at thoughts of their father, their mother, their home!
From the same strong family
feeling,
each of the absent ones had to furnish the circle at Ongar with the
most exact particulars of their different homes, even to plans of
rooms, and gardens; and in a letter to her father, Ann gives these
with such detail that everybody’s accustomed chair is
indicated, as well as the colours and pattern of carpet and wall.
There is promise, too, of a sketch from the window, when the snow is
gone.
It
has been extraordinarily cold even for Yorkshire, and the snow
which set in the day after we arrived renders many roads impassable,
yet our house is so substantial, and our fires so excellent, that I
never remember to have suffered so little winter cold in my life. I
scarcely know what it is even to feel chilly, though our situation is
high, solitary, and exposed directly to the east. No one here thinks
of putting on a shovel of coals; some thrice a day the bell is
rung, and in comes Mary with a full scuttle, hearth-broom, dust-pan,
and duster; the mass of cinders is removed, the entire contents of
the scuttle discharged, the hearth swept up, fire-irons dusted, and
the duster run over all the furniture; by this means we preserve a
fine Arabian temperature, and, as Mr Hunt
observed,
“have all that fun for ninepence!”
The fires outside struck her
still
more. To Jane she writes:
Three
times have I been with Mr Gilbert to Sheffield; the first time
struck me exceedingly; it was dark when we arrived, and we had to
climb a very high hill about a mile beyond the town. It was
moonlight, and the sky shone with polar brightness; the ground was
covered with snow, and behind the hill we were ascending were three
tremendous furnaces, which waved an irregular light over our heads,
like the aurora borealis. Indeed, I cannot describe the wonderful
effect of these furnaces in every direction. There is one about a
mile from us, which clearly illuminates our garden, and, seen through
the intervening trees, presents the finest sight imaginable.
As Mrs Gilbert’s family were
well aware of her anxiety to establish happy relations with her
husband’s niece, her letters soon make reference to this young
lady:
Salome
must certainly have exerted herself beyond what most girls of
her age would have been equal to, to get everything into perfect
order. She must have worked both hard and cleverly. She is altogether
an interesting character, and often amuses and delights me with her
gay simplicity. She is nearly eighteen, pretty, and genteel in ideas
and dress, though in the latter entirely unornamented. She has an
unceasing propensity to laugh heartily, possessing a keen taste for
the ridiculous, tempered with a good notion of propriety in conduct
and manners. Her vivacity is equally simple, and arch, if you can
understand that; and her spirits are entirely uncontrolled by sorrow
or contradiction. She does not recollect ever being punished or
checked in any way; so that she is strongly disposed to do nothing
that she does not like; it happens fortunately that in general she
does like what is proper. I might call her a little artful, but then
it is only from her own frank relations of the tricks she has played,
and the scrapes she has got out of, that I should say so. She is no
bad housekeeper, and not a little observant; so that it is not so
easy to try experiments in that line as it would be without her. But
with all her gaiety she is quite respectful and obliging, and an
enthusiast in poetry, of which she can repeat volumes, all well
selected, for her taste is good as her feelings are quick. I often
look at her with interest and admiration for the simple youthful
happiness which she displays; not that she is in the slightest degree
childish in her manners.
Later she has learnt a little
more,
and writes:
She
is full of human nature, speaking her mind without reserve on all
occasions, and often makes remarks both close and curious. She is
quite indifferent to the opinion of people in general, whose faults
and follies she is by no means dull in discovering, or scrupulous in
exposing; and her indifference will make her enemies among those she
does not care for.
It will not be surprising that
the
two thus brought into close relation, soon conquered, each the other,
with the true conquest of affection. Several years afterwards, their
mutual position was in a singular manner rendered especially
difficult; but the wisdom and love of both surmounted the difficulty.
Salome, however, will frequently cross the path of this narrative,
and we need not anticipate.
March
28, 1814
My dear Jane and Isaac,
I
have been taking such a
pleasant walk on this fine spring day, that my spirits seem in right
cheerful mood for writing to you; and yet, sit down as I will, when I
begin to read your letters, and address you in reply, I involuntarily
fall into the pensive, and could with little difficulty commence with
tears! When I am reminded of times that have been, and are not; of
successive periods over and gone; of a compact domestic circle
finally broken and scattered; and of the progress which all this
implies towards the dissolution of every earthly tie, I cannot
repress the feeling which succeeds, and do not wonder that you fancy
a strain of melancholy in my letters. Yet believe me, it is only when
thus reminded of distant things, that my mind assumes this colour. At
other times I am happy; and even this should not be considered a
defect of happiness, it only casts upon it a twilight shade.
You
wish for a more exact description of my mode of life. At present
I am hardly settled enough to tell you, but after breakfast I
generally spend a quarter of an hour in my own room, safe and sound,
over the cookery book, which is my guardian angel, oracle, and bosom
friend. The first week I came I experienced a sick qualm by a present
of a wild duck, before the cookery-book had arrived! Mary had never
dressed one, and I was looked to for the entire orders. All that I
could remember was put into requisition, and I did right in all
respects, did not stuff it, did not cook the giblets, did truss it
right, did rejoice when it was all over! I was told, too, that when
the students came to tea there must be a plum-cake —
cookery-book a month on the road! was obliged to postpone the visit
till it arrived, managed extremely well when it did.
Professedly Yorkshire customs, I do not mind learning; and Mary has
so provincial a pronunciation, that it often gives me time to frame
an answer to a question for which I was not entirely prepared.
Altogether I manage very tolerably, and what with my “bosom
friend”, some recollection, and a spice of ingenuity, can give
my directions I assure you in good style. Whenever I can, but there is
always “some bed or some border to mend, or
something to tie or to stick”, I endeavour to get to
writing about eleven, and write during the morning, more or less, as
I am able.
But of her writing she was very
jealous. She says in another letter:
I
am persuaded that many here are expecting to find me a dawdle. Mr
G. says that people have been continually fishing for information on
this head, “Is Mrs Gilbert always writing?” I wish,
therefore, to be as cautious as I can. Mr G. is very desirous that
“Mrs Gilbert” should be as well known as “Miss
Taylor”; but he has invested me with other characters, and he
does not feel, perhaps, that to be well known at the expense of
these, would be disgrace, rather than fame. I hope, by prudence and
activity, to be able in time to unite the different occupations and
characters, so as not greatly to injure any, but if one must suffer,
it should certainly be the literary.
During the spring, the family at
Ongar were obliged to leave the Castle House, which, painful enough,
would have been more so had they not succeeded in obtaining a large
old house in the neighbourhood, about a mile from Ongar, suiting
their tastes nearly as well; especially as it owned a larger garden,
which, under her father’s skilful eye and hand, soon became a
charming spot, with shrubbery walks, and terrace paths, and rustic
seats, and flint-paved grottoes. Of the house itself, more anon. In
June, the remove having been completed, and Mr Gilbert obliged to go
on an ordination tour into Cumberland and elsewhere, his delighted
wife was indulged with a visit to the new home.
On Monday afternoon, June 13,
1814,
at half-past three, her husband put her into the Highflyer,
Edinbro’ coach, at Retford. Giving him an account of her
journey she says:
Your
fears for my safety were quite groundless, and those for my
comfort were nearly so. It is true that the German passenger did not
turn out to be Count Altenberg, the English one Colonel
Hungerford,
nor the Scotchman a Wallace; but, to the best of their ability, they
all behaved very well, or intended to do so. I confess that the
German smoked his cigar during the fine warm night, and, when by far
too weary to prefer conversation, the Scotchman tormented me with
incessant enquiries, as minute as they would have been impertinent if
he had not put them, as I really believe he did, in simplicity, and
without any idea of giving offence. As there was no appearance of
intentional rudeness, I put up with it pretty well, though, “of
course, it was the first time I had ever travelled by the stage”.
At Newark a very pleasant young woman got in, and we were great
comforts to one another. She was very pretty, had never been in
London before, and wishing to surprise her friends, had not informed
them of her coming — as foolish a thing, methinks, as could
have been done. So I saw her safe to their house — a service
which I rendered most cheerfully, and she most gratefully received.
During the night I had, as the Scotchman told me, a long and
comfortable “snoozing”; but Tuesday was so intensely hot
that it required positive effort to keep myself tranquil. If I had
once begun to fidget, I should soon have been reduced to either a
calx or a gas ...
Friday
evening I spent at Miss __, and slept there. I think Miss C
is like me, as I have been told; and I soon recollected what
Salome once said of her inexhaustible “unsqueeze-in-betweenable
conversational habits”. Saturday was devoted to the only
business which is just now carried on in London — attendance
upon the noble and lovely strangers from the Continent; and verily
they are so noble and so lovely that it is no wonder all London is
sadly bad about them. On Friday I was shopping in Ludgate Hill when I
quite unexpectedly saw the Emperor
in an open barouche, and a single glance did for me. His face seems
to beam with the happiness of an empire. Believe all the papers tell
you of him and his lovely sister, the Duchess of Oldenburgh, for they
cannot exaggerate. She is twenty-eight and he thirty-seven. On
Saturday he was to dine with the Prince Regent, the
Royal Dukes, and “all the rest of the gentlemen”, at
Guildhall; and the same preparations were made as for a coronation
procession. The whole line of streets was gravelled, and filled with
company. One thousand sat down to table, and four or five thousand
ladies in full dress were there as spectators. I, and a houseful
besides, were at 18 St Paul’s Churchyard, which commands a
noble sweep of the line. Many rooms on the route were let for forty
or fifty guineas; houses, leads, and ledges were all crowded, and I
only wished for you to partake the general delight. A beautiful
sight it was. The Prince Regent, with whom the King of Prussia rode,
was received with cheers and hisses as he passed, an
insufferable mortification, surely, before his royal friends,
and in his own capital!
On
Monday, uncle offered Martin to take me to a grand review in Hyde
Park before their majesties, and, not liking to refuse, I accepted
it. It was a fine sight, and Martin was very good in keeping me out
of danger; but the crowd was immense, and once an unexpected movement
of a corps of flying artillery compelled us to a rather rapid retreat
across the enemy’s line. We did, in fact, run for it as fast as
we could, along with a great deal of good company. I reached
Holborn at two, where was your welcome letter, and, by expert
generalship among hackney coaches and porters, contrived to collect
my baggage, and reach Aldgate at three, where my place was taken for
Ongar, but as the Proclamation of Peace was taking place in the city
at the time, I thought I should never get through, the press of
carriages was so great.
Near
Ongar, at the turn of the Inglestone road, Jefferys was waiting
for me, and I got out of the coach. Father met me on the way, and
mother and Jemima were planted at their pleasant window to watch my
approach. The house, newly whitewashed, looked exceedingly pretty
among the trees, covered with vine, which clings round the porch, and
surrounded by a large countrified garden, laid out, by father’s
unconquerable contrivance, in the prettiest rural style. There is an
arched gateway of yew over the wicket entrance, a fine row of poplars
on one side, and fruit and flowers in abundance. On the ground floor
are a large parlour and a very comfortable library, also a commodious
“work-room”, and what father calls his cabinet,
containing prints, pictures, and everything of the kind; kitchen,
dairy, store-room, and out-places of all sorts. Above, are mother’s
room, large, and very pleasant, opening into a little study, which is
her delight, over the porch, furnished with all the family pictures;
the spare room, a nice green country room, with Jemima’s closet
adjoining; Jefferys’ very quaint, and several others that could
be fitted up if necessary.
An extract or two from succeeding
letters during this happy visit depict the daughter and the wife:
Ongar,
June 29, 1814
Again, my dear husband, you have been better
than my hopes. You know that I do calculate well, and I knew it was
possible for me to hear on Tuesday, but situated as you were I
would not expect you to write so soon. Yet, it is certain that I cast
many an inquisitive look from the breakfast-table this morning for
the return of our little post woman across the field; but it was with
a feeling much more like a wish than a hope; and even when a letter
was announced for me, I would not believe it was from
Rotherham. My love, it is very kind of you thus to remember me,
pressed as you are by business, but believe me the effort is
appreciated. I feel the value and enjoy to the utmost the pleasure of
it. I want to know every particular of your movements. If, on
Saturday evening, you should be walking to Sheffield remember
the full moon will have a message for you; and if you are in some
northern mail contrive to sit next her, that at nine o’clock
she may drop the wonted whisper, and make sign of love in the name of
one upon whom she will be gazing beyond many a blue hill. Your
absence is, I was going to say, the only drawback upon the happiness
of my visit to a happy home, but I must not forget the exiles of
Cornwall, and you would not wish me to forget them ...
I
am witnessing the weather-beaten happiness of my dear father and
mother. “They clamb the hill thegither; and mony a canty day,
love, have had wi’ ane anither.” Now, “though they
totter down, love, still hand in hand they go” — and
derive an endearing satisfaction from the remembrance of the toil and
the struggles of early years. Providence has abundantly smiled upon
them. It has continued them to each other in the enjoyment of
constantly increasing affection; and it is delightful (especially to
one who is entering the same path with a companion as dear and
estimable) to witness the sun of happy love that lights their
declining years. They wander together about the new house and garden,
and fancy themselves in Eden.
July
11, 1814
... Have you seen the Eclectic?
The new
editor, if I may judge from certain minute alterations, is less a wit
than a scholar. This perhaps, it will be thought is just what an
editor should be; but one does not like to see point beaten flat, and
sentences weakened down to rule, til they are ready to die. I have
not much to complain of, yet it is not gratifying to see, if it is
but a single word displaced for a worse. I am not sufficiently
acquainted with the wording of yours to discern the variations, if
any are made. It appears to me an excellent article.
I have read it
attentively as a whole, and like it exceedingly.
There is a short review of Horsley’s Speeches
in Parliament,
which also pleases me very much; it is Foster’s, and is written
with all the force of his vigorous pen. The character starts to the
eye as he proceeds, and there is that kind of fine, bold expression
in his language which makes one feel as if breathing mountain air —
“not like the balmy south upon a bank of violets — but
clear, healthful, and invigorating. It is very short, but to me
delightful. Mrs Hinton, who has just left us,
says that his mind is in a state of much and
increasing perplexity. Persons oppressed with theological
difficulties, frequently apply to a mind of such depth and compass
for assistance; but return more confused than they went, and are
rather distressed by his eccentricities both of thought and conduct,
than enlightened by his wisdom. Are we to receive another lesson,
that God seeth not as a man seeth, but chooses the weak to confound
the wise, and pours contempt upon that which we are apt to worship?
Of this first of many happy
visits to
Ongar she wrote to her parents:
It
was a six weeks of uninterrupted enjoyment; and for the
tenderness, the trouble, and solicitude which made it so, my heart
and my tears thank you — they are the first I have shed, but
sitting down to write has opened the flood-gates.
At this time her mother had
unexpectedly become an author, whose works were not only frequently
issuing from the press, but running into several editions. Of Maternal Solicitude
alone, four editions were sold almost
immediately. Mother and daughter correspond, therefore, as well upon
literary as domestic matters, though the latter far predominate. Ann
writes:
I
truly rejoice in what you are doing, and hope, my dear mother, that
you will go on with ardour while the sun shines. I would wait just
long enough to enjoy the interval as relaxation, but no longer. Your
next plan (Correspondence between a
Mother and Daughter at School)
is so good, and Jane’s name will be so advantageous an
addition, that you have no need to wait for the public opinion upon
this; even if it should prove unfavourable, it ought not to be
discouraging. Set to work, therefore, immediately, with expectation
and spirit. But do not suppose that I augur ill of this. It must not
be wondered at, or even regretted, if a work is not equally
acceptable to all. It is designed for a certain class principally,
and it is no fault if to that class it is in some degree confined. I
should like to see the preface, for if something of this kind could
be just neatly indicated, it would be an advantage, but it should be
delicately done — short, neat, terse, and explanatory; such as
I could not write, or exactly imagine, but only wish for. As to its
implying the author to be a Dissenter, I should not care for that in
the least. A writer in very few circumstances can, or should, so
completely conceal himself as to have his sentiments entirely unknown —
I mean, if the subject upon which he writes relates in any
degree to sentiment. There is a sense in which he should be content
to say, “if it is not liked, it may be lumped”, though if
this manner be adopted too indiscriminately, instead of lumping it,
the public may lump him, which is quite another thing.
This preface received its final
shape
from her ready pen.
I
shall be glad, my dear mother, if this meets with your approbation,
and can only say that at any time to render you this or any kind of
assistance in my power, is a real pleasure which much more than pays
for its board.
After a visit to Ongar in the
summer,
she writes, Sept. 15th, to her “dear family”, as her
letters home are almost always addressed:
I
do not wish anything fit only for my private eye to be in the next
letter, as I may not be in a situation, perhaps, to read it myself,
but do not write under restraint on this account; Mr G is no critic.
I have given peremptory orders for your hearing immediately and
honestly whatever may be the news. I need not say I hope it will be
good, but I wish I could think of you without pain supposing it
should be otherwise; do not, my dear family, be over anxious. I shall
think of you on the 27th, and hope the weather will be favourable. I
had a fine coze with you last full moon, it was a beautiful evening,
and being the first time since I left Ongar, I allowed myself an
extra pocket handkerchief. The next will be, I hope, the last till I
can hold up the baby to look at it too. What do people think of my
portrait? and does it hang up yet? and where?
Oh, I wish I could take a peep at the pretty study! I often think of
if, and of every cranny in the house. It is pretty. My dear
father and mother, and Jefferys, and Jemima, most affectionately
farewell; perhaps I may not write again till you and I have new
honours; but till then, believe me with affection and gratitude, your
child and sister — Ann Gilbert.
A little more than a week from
the
event she sends her final corrections for the preface of her mother’s
forthcoming work, and in reference to an evening which her mother
proposed to devote to special prayer in her behalf, she says:
I
have strong confidence in the prayer of faith, but in asking for
temporal mercies, we have no absolute promise, and can only ask with
submission. The possibility of danger just stands between me and the
thought of the future, but I do not look at it.
Thus bravely, but not blindly,
she
prepared for her trial, and on the 7th of October, became the joyful
mother of her first-born son. Her husband, sending the happy news to
Jane at Marazion, says:
She
has presented me with a boy, and the little rascal soon let us
know that he had arrived amongst us, for as usual, he came crying
into the world. They really say he is a very fine boy, and
notwithstanding I am aware that it is a common compliment of nurses,
I am much inclined to believe it. He certainly does look engaging, as
he lies in the arms of his mother, and reflects back from his lively
happy countenance the beams of her eyes, all glistening with joy. She
says it is as she had been told, a heaven upon earth to find herself
safe in bed, and a baby on the pillow.
In a week, that the sight of her
own
handwriting might give assurance of safety, she was writing to both
Ongar and Marazion, and telling her sister:
I
cannot describe to you the flood of tenderness which the dear
little boy has opened in my heart, but surely of the pleasures
attending this time of peril the one-half was not told me. As we both
for the first time looked at the child together, every one left the
room, aware that they were happy moments, and for about a minute my
husband returned our joint and fervent thanks to the kind Hand which
had dealt with us in peculiar favour. Nothing delights me more than
to witness the spring of fatherly affection, and the solicitude which
it occasions. He has discovered that it is a good thing and a
pleasant, for a man to be a father. Dear Jane and Isaac what cause
have we for gratitude! You cannot think how much I have enjoyed the
happy result on your account, and for dear Ongar.
It was, indeed, a flood of
tenderness
opened in her heart, a motherly tenderness that never ceased to flow,
and that swept away for many years all desire and opportunity for
literary work. To remonstrances about the idleness of her pen she
replied, “never mind, the dear little child is worth volumes of
fame”. As her letters are full of this one topic, the reader
must pardon its constant recurrence in the few extracts which depict
her life at this time.
On
Friday evening last I thought of you, my dear mother, and perhaps
you might think of me. It was that day of trial, of which I have
heard you speak, when nurse was to go. She had been indefatigable in
cleaning up for a day or two, and when Friday night came, she kept
pottering about as if she could hardly find it in her heart to leave
me; at last, however, after doing and saying everything she could
think of, she bade me good-bye. I went to my window and watched her
lantern down the garden, and then burst into tears. On Saturday I
dressed my dear little boy for the first time, and a fine thing I
found it for opening the pores; better than whey-wine or treacle
posset, or anything of the kind; for he is a most naughty and riotous
fellow at being washed, and used to put even nurse into a fume. I
wish you could have heard her talk to him; it amused me many an hour
in bed, for she speaks the broadest Yorkshire I have heard, except
from a coal miner. “Wale, wale, ma little lud, whad’ye
mack sic a din, an croy soa? O, for shaam! I mun whip ye, happen ye
wornt loyke that. Coom, coom, I mun hap ye oop, and lig ye int bed
for a soop a bottle. Hoosh, hoosh, thenna, an dunna croye soa ma
little piggin, and dunna foight soa, an tear ya screed.”
Two months afterwards anxious
tidings
reached her from Ongar.
Dec.
5. My dear mother. This morning came the news of my
dear father’s illness. I had greatly enjoyed the account of
your present ease and comfort, and rejoiced, when feeling myself
busy, with the idea of your being at rest after the heat and burden
of the day; but at this distance, we know not when it is safe to
rejoice; while I was thinking this my dear father was laid upon a
sick bed! It is the Lord, and our only repose is in a confiding
submission to His will. I am satisfied that you have told me the
worst, and will continue to do so; do not spare the expression of
your feelings, and the moment you have a wish intimate it. Do not
spare advice, and pray do not spare assistance; your health and
strength must not be expended, and as to other expense, neither your
mind nor my dear father’s will be disturbed on that account;
you have had experience enough of the kindness of Providence in far
greater exigencies. Your manna has always been to be gathered afresh
every morning, but there has been no day in which it has not fallen.
Tell me if you wish it, and I will come. I am much better able to
stir than Jane, for I could send my little boy to the nurse, and feel
confident of his safety.
Dec.
15. I had waited with some anxiety for your letter, for
though I depended upon you that while you were silent my dear father
was not materially worse, yet I was sure he was not much better, or
you would have had both time and spirits to tell me so. I feel,
indeed, that were you to write every day I could never know how he
is, but only how he was, and this is the great trial of
being at such a distance. The mind is left to any surmises it may
choose to indulge . . . The dear little boy thrives finely. He seems
sometimes as if he would laugh loud, he smiles so beautifully, and I
cannot describe the delight those pretty looks give me. I am
ready to think he takes more notice than ever a child did before, and
I forgive his father for laying down his learned Greek author upon
the table to chirrup to him. The indications of intelligence
interest him very much, and awaken all those feelings which, from
long disuse, it was at first difficult to bring into play. Miss
Hamilton says it is seldom that an infant interests a father
greatly, till it gives signs of intelligence.
Jan.
20, 1815
Your
last letter was welcome news, and I hope I
was not mistaken in following my dear father down stairs on the
Sabbath. I guessed that he would come down a little before dinner,
and sit in one of his great old arm-chairs by the fire, well
blanketted on the side next the door; and I fancied how cheerful and
happy you would all look when he was once more seated amongst
you ... It has struck us all that as soon as the weather is a
little more favourable, and it would be safe for him to travel, it
would be just the thing for him to come to Rotherham. Now, my dear
father and mother, do think seriously of it ... and I need not say
with what delight I should receive you, and present my dear little
boy to his and my parents. Mother’s dreams shall then be proved
libellous, and scandalous defamation, for certainly he could not be
accused by his worst enemy of being as “broad as he is long”,
he is a slender, delicate child; I often think we shall not rear him.
He is a pretty, pretty, olive bud, and should he be taken would leave
a sweet and long fragrance ... Lydia says we “mun baptise
him, and then he will be better happen”.
Feb.
1815. The dear child looks a poor pale little thing in
the afternoons, but in the morning he looks by no means ill, nay,
even well. Though small, his limbs are firm, and he is strong and
active; apparently all mind, just cased in delicate flesh to keep it
from sailing away. I only wish I were a less interested observer, and
then I should be able to tell whether he really is the most enquiring
and intelligent baby that ever was; but to me he seems like a very
sensible foreigner, whose only disadvantage is that he does not
understand, or rather cannot speak the English tongue. And certainly
everybody says: “Well, to be sure! well, to be sure! what
notice the child takes!” On Thursday, the 9th, we had him
baptised. The dear child was extraordinarily good, though laughing at
every word Mr Bennett said. He is a great laugher. Christiana, my
little nurse-girl, commonly called Amy, really believes that he
understood what Mr Bennett was saying, and said “aye, aye”,
to all his remarks — (but then he ought not to have laughed).
Feb.
1815. Dear Jane and Isaac ... I had, indeed, no
previous idea of either the pains or pleasures of having an infant.
The pleasures are inexpressibly great. They seem to have given me a
new sense of which infants are the objects, for I love all I see, and
feel the liveliest interest in them. And all this is necessary to
compensate for the degree of fatigue such as no one can imagine
without trying. Often at tea I can scarcely lift the teapot, my arms
ache so with several hours nursing. In the afternoon, when he is
fretful, my little nurse-girl is not competent to manage him, and I
dare not suffer him to be nursed badly. Mr G, indeed, is an excellent
nurse, often succeeding when we fail, and willing to assist at any
time, but he is so pressed with business that I don’t like to
let him. Salome often relieves me for a time, but she sustains none
of the burden. When he is cross, and requires all the strength of arm
and voice, with the assistance of poker and tongs, and every sonorous
moveable on the premises, it is I who am always leader of the band —
singer and dancing-master in general ... As to Miss Edgeworth, I
feel in despair, for I cannot seclude myself, and nurse up my mind as
I have always found necessary to composition. I devoted two or three
days to it last week, but always before I could get into it, was
called off to the child.
Mr
G is very desirous that we should produce a volume of hymns for
Sunday Schools, adapted to singing, and containing 150 or 200, which
with our names would render it superior to any other. He says, that
if you, and I, and he, and Isaac, were to write equal parts, it might
soon be done (he can write a very pretty simple hymn upon occasion,
you are to understand). What do you say to it after the child is
weaned and runs alone? Dear Jane, I do from my heart congratulate you
on having accomplished your work. From the ease
of your style I have
no doubt it will require very little correction. What is its name?
With regard to the subjunctive, the rules are so many and delicate
that it is not great disgrace occasionally to fail; but there are
many cases in which it ought not to be employed when at first sight
you would suppose it ought ... But you have Murray and gumption,
and Isaac. I do not recollect the instances in Mother to which
you refer.
March
14. In compliance with the wishes of my friends I have
consented to wean the dear child. At five yesterday morning we both,
I mean he and I, had a cry about it, but upon the whole he does very
well. I hope it will be less a trial to him than to me ... There is
one of the students very ill, and in his countenance so like
Isaac, that I can hardly bear it to look at him. I almost fancy it is
he; and yet, there is a touch of absurdity in some parts of his face
that prevents my saying much about it to others. But you cannot think
how like he is!
April
18. The dear child is much better in going to strangers
than he was, and you would have been pleased to see him last Saturday
when there was a large dinner party here; he passed from one
gentleman to another like a shuttlecock, and quite as quiet. Mr
Montgomery was of the party, and after most had taken him, I went and
requested that he would consecrate the child to Poetry by just taking
him in his arms; but he shrunk terrified from the touch of a baby as
a totally ignorant bachelor, and Mr George Bennett ran in and out
with the child, pursuing him through the whole party, to the great
amusement of us all, Montgomery scampering around the room as if from
a spectre. O, I do want you to see him, and I do wish it were
practicable to take him to Ongar! But I am afraid that, much as I
know you would enjoy gathering every spray of the family into one
nosegay, you would find it too cumbersome for your bough-pot. Do not
let feeling overcome your sober judgement, but tell me exactly what
you think. I hope dear Jane and Isaac would decide upon coming too,
and that we should once more enjoy the happiness of seeing our circle
complete.
I
have seen lately two of our manufactories at Rotherham, which
pleased me exceedingly. One was the great iron foundry belonging to
the Walkers, and they were casting pieces for the New Strand Bridge.
It was a most magnificent sight. The sheets of iron are twenty-four
feet long, six wide, and two thick. The glowing metal issued at the
same instant from three burning fiery furnaces, and travelling
through numerous channels in the floor, covered the mould in the
space of a minute, and nothing could be more beautiful. One of these
sheets is cast every day. The whole is to cost three hundred thousand
pounds, and it will take three years.
May
18, 1815. You would have enjoyed a scene we witnessed last
Monday. The Sunday schools of Sheffield, containing six thousand
children and thirteen hundred teachers, assembled in an open space in
the outskirts of the town, where they formed into a hollow square,
sang the Old Hundredth, and
then marched in procession through
the principal streets to a very large chapel, where a sermon was
preached to them. Our hymns were sung, and the
first, which was the
first in the Infant Minds,
had a beautiful effect from so many little English voices. Large
hustings were erected round the pulpit, where the principal ladies
and gentlemen of the town were placed, and in front a gentleman beat
time with one of our books. Montgomery told the committee in choosing
the hymns that the middle one — Among
the Deepest Shades of
Night — was the finest hymn of the sort in the English
language. The last in the volume concluded.
Mr Gilbert enjoys such incidents.
June
20, 1815. You see I have no room for anything but just
business, nor time either, for my journey makes me very busy. I hope,
my dear family, that nothing will happen to prevent or embitter it,
for I long for it indescribably, and can hardly bear to realise your
nursing the dear child. I am such a poor judge myself, and am so
strongly disposed to think highly of him, that I feel “I must
to the wise man go, to learn whether he’s a witch or no,”
and quite long for your unprejudiced opinion of his beauty,
sweetness, sprightliness, talents, and acquirements! I hope dear
father will furnish himself with a bib and apron, for I can promise
him as much nursing as ever he likes. The child is so exceedingly
fond of male nurses that though he goes very reluctantly to strange
ladies, he will dance and caper to go even from me to a
gentleman — man
or boy, known or unknown, clean or dirty, squire or sweep — and
he cannot even hear his father’s voice without crying to go to
him. I am almost afraid you will find the novel sound of a young
child troublesome; and though I know you agree with certain excellent
writers that they should not scramble on sofas, break crockery, and
pull work-baskets to pieces, yet I assure you we can hardly help
thinking it exceedingly interesting when he breaks a plate, pulls
over the tea cups, and drags the green cloth, with everything upon
it, off the table.
Chapter
IX. Memorials of Mrs
Gilbert, Rotherham, 1815-1817
Another
Ongar visit — Her Little Boy’s Accomplishments —
Criticism upon her Sister’s Poems — Change of
Residence — A Welcome to a
Birthday — Visit from Jane
and Isaac — Excursions to York and Stockport —
The
Break up from Rotherham and Removal to Hull
arch looks
and laughing eyes;
And feats of cunning; and the pretty round
Of
trespasses, affected to provoke
Mock chastisement and partnership
in play.
Wordsworth
ON the 4th of July, Mrs
Gilbert, with her husband and child, set off, by way of Doncaster,
for London. Stopping a day at Huntingdon and another in London, they
reached the “Peaked Farm”, at Ongar, on the 7th, when she
placed her grandchild in her parents’ arms. If the far off
brother and sister, to whom at Marazion, it took thirteen days to
send a parcel by waggon, could have joined the circle, the happiness
would have been complete. As it was, the group that strolled along
the lanes and field-paths in the evening was sufficiently happy.
During the latter part of the stay her husband left to visit
relations in Hampshire, and the absence gave occasion for a few
letters, from which some extracts follow.
Very
often since I married I have thought of an expression, which I
never entirely understood before, “Thy desire shall be unto thy
husband.” It is so expressive of that waiting, and watching and
solicitous dependence for happiness which a wife must feel towards
one who is appointed to rule both over and in her. In him, most
emphatically, her desires centre. The whole fabric of her happiness
is at his disposal, and a breath from him can either confirm or
shatter it. She cannot enjoy an independent pleasure, for the very
thought of its independence prevents it being pleasure. The curse in
this instance, as in that bestowed upon her guilty associate, “in
the sweat of thy brow shalt thou eat bread”, is indeed turned
into a blessing, for it imparts a certain refinement and tenderness
to her enjoyments, which they could not have possessed, if they had
not descended to her from a hand she loves.
Her husband had sent her some
verses
written in memory of his first wife, to which, in her next letter,
she refers:
There
is something most touchingly, solemnly beautiful in the lines,
and never need you fear, my love, your “Anna should complain”
of the pure flame of such a friendship. No:
They are holy
tears we shed
Upon the bosom of the dead.
and
it always affords me a melancholy pleasure to hear you referring
with tenderness to past times. The only painful feeling occasioned by
it, is the fear that I should deserve a lower place in your affection
and esteem.
Then let the
tears of mournful love descend,
I, too, would claim them —
were I such a friend.
I, too, my love, if parted from thy
side,
Would claim an hour to lighter thoughts denied.
Oft as
December led his revels by,
Would ask the tribute of one faithful
sigh,
And watch with fond inquiry to perceive,
If still thou
couldst remember Christmas eve?
Returning to Masbro’, she
resumed her ordinary busy and happy life there. The removal to a new
and more commodious house, then in pretty fields, now in the midst of
smoke and cinders, was accomplished just before Christmas.
October
15, 1815. To Mrs Laurie, Do you never, in the midst of
present joys and duties, revert to those ancient times? I do; and
with all its smoke, and dust, and disorder, and confinement, that old
workroom supplies one of the most agreeable and tender of the
recollections of my youth. Many a day of happiness was passed there,
many an interesting face was familiar there, and among them some who
shall be known no more for ever. How little did you think of Reading? —
or I of Rotherham? — or dear Jane of Cornwall, then? I
had a map of England pinned up against the screen at my left hand,
and often in idle moments read the uninteresting names, but never
felt one prescient thrill as these important letters caught my eye;
perhaps there are still some spots which are to become equally
interesting! how glad I am we do not know them!
The 23d of September was her
sister
Jane’s birthday.
On
the 23d four important domestic occurrences took place in our
family, exclusive of the interest which has long attached to that
day. We lighted our first fire in the parlour, added a pretty puss to
our establishment, dear little J left off his caps, and for the first
time took six or eight steps alone, for which feat you cannot think
how heartily I admired, praised, and kissed him. Ever since he has
fairly run alone without assistance, and is as busy a little body as
ever you saw, and as pretty a one. Besides all this he has the
following accomplishments: he says what the cow says, and what the
sheep says, nay, a few days since, he heard a donkey bray,
very loud and long: he listened attentively, and the next morning in
bed began a very good imitation of his own accord, from which time he
has continued to bray to the admiration of enraptured auditors,
whenever required. Besides these versatile accomplishments, his
friend Lucy Bennett has taught him to make a very funny face, and
though, as in duty bound, I never encourage this, yet, between
friends, it really is very funny, and even when in consequence of the
same tuition, he spit at Mrs X and Mrs Y (two great ladies in the
neighbourhood), I could not help thinking it very entertaining,
though certainly “terrible awful, and horrible shocking”.
Pray how long should elder wine continue to hiss, supposing you give
it no extraordinary provocation? My mind is almost hurt at the
continued insolence of mine, and I am determined not to give it a
drop of brandy till it has done.
To her sister she writes, Nov. 14:
I
have lately sent to the Eclectic
a short review of the life
of Mrs Newell, an American Missionary. I wish you could see the work,
it interested me exceedingly. The time for Patronage is gone
by, but I have partly engaged to review a new volume of Pious
Women, and to say a few words on the Legend of Stutchbury,
a little tract, but I do not know when it can be, and every hour I
devote in this way now, is almost against my conscience, as I have
not the time to spare. My mind is never in that composed careful
state which I have always found necessary for writing; my ear is
waking perpetually to the voice or cry of the dear child, and
continually I am obliged to break off at a moment’s notice to
attend to him. What I write now, therefore, is to please Mr G, who
likes to see and hear of me in that character, so that sometimes,
dear Jane, I feel almost pained at your progress, because I know he
always wishes that I could do the same; but mind you never say the
less about yourself on this account; I could not forgive you if you
withheld a single word.
Jane Taylor was at this date
preparing for the press her volume of Essays
in Rhyme, the
point and beauty of which were much appreciated in their day; and
might have secured a more permanent place in literature, had the
author lived to become more generally known. Some of the poems were
from time to time forwarded in MS. to her sister, who in reply, along
with warm admiration, sent a good deal of verbal criticism; the
result of her husband’s refined taste, of Salome’s keen
perception, of Montgomery’s experienced ear, and not least, of
her own intuitive judgement.
The
World in the House, and The World in the Heart, and a poem
entitled The Pair,
were among the first submitted to this coterie of critics; upon the
former she says:
I
think you lose a good opportunity in not describing the wife, whose
rotund self-indulgence forms almost a distinct species, and might be
well introduced. It is quite different from the father and daughters,
it is a more sensual lazy worldliness than either.***
The
apostrophe — “Hence let us rise” — is so
elevated and beautiful, that however just and expressive, I would
omit the two concluding lines; they reduce the feeling too suddenly —
a feeling which is too poetical to be sacrificed even to the point
and contrast those two lines afford.#
...
But I shall not leave room for Montgomery’s remarks. Pilgrims Sojourning, why
this accent?
In all they
do, and say, and look, and wear
Aping the rank they were not born
to bear,
put
share. This I don’t agree with, but he hates
alliteration. He thought that “bairns” means boys, and
therefore objects to it, but I do not think so, I like it. “Nay,
say they,” — Cacophony.
He
made no comments on the last poem The
Pair, but
particularly admired the sunrise at the conclusion; also:
France rages now, and Spain, and now the Turk
Now victory sounds,
but there he sits at work!
which he thought more
striking than a man’s sailing round the world and returning to:
Find him on
the same square foot of floor
On which he left him twenty years
before.
I
confess, for my own part, I thought it savoured a little of
St Serle,
The
uncle of the banished Earl.##
Mr
Gilbert and Salome made a huge outcry at the rhyming of fire
with Messiah, and say it must be altered. This is one of our most
inveterate southernisms, and I cannot yet tutor my ear to be
affronted at it, but I have endured so much the trial of “cruel
mockings”, on account of it, that I beg you will extricate
yourself at any rate.
Inheriting so much of her
mother’s
painful sensibility, a “removal” under any circumstances
was no small thing; and she describes to her sister how, on the
evening of Dec. 21, after tea at a neighbour’s:
We
all took a most melancholy turn over the dear old house, Salome
and I crying bitterly; we then locked the doors and padded through
the snow to our new habitation, crying all the way we went; but my
sorrow was turned into joy when the door opened, and we were shown
into the pleasant parlour, with a cheerful fire, and put nicely to
rights.
It was only just in time, for on
the
3rd of January her second child, a daughter, was born. “I wish,
she writes to her mother, you could see and kiss the dear little
‘Anne Taylor’, who is come to supply the place of one you
lost.”
To her friend Mrs Whitty she
writes:
Jan.
1816. This day three weeks we slept in our new habitation
for the first time, and a most agreeable and comfortable one it is. I
have, in particular, a very nice store-room fitted up under my own
direction. The view in front is extremely pleasant over gardens and
meadows, with the river winding through them to a distant wood. We
have a lease for fourteen years, but I do not like to look through that long period. O, the mournful changes,
my dear Luck, which it is
likely to produce in the beloved circles in which we are centred.
Ah! here is not our rest! We must not fancy for a moment that we have
found one. We may have a long lease of the house, but it has not a
moment’s lease of us. Should our lives be spared, my dear J
will then be just deciding his views for life — O, what will
they be? May that God who has given us children, and some sense of
the value of the trust, give us also wisdom to bring them up for Him,
and to pursue that most difficult path — the path of
unwavering, consistent, universal discipline — never relaxing,
never turning aside ... Do not fail to remember us to our
interesting friend Mr Gunn. What a pretty little bit of our history,
framed and glazed, was the year we spent at Ilfracombe! It seems
scarcely like a reality, so different was it from anything that went
before, or that has followed after it. Mr G and I, often say how much
we should like to visit Ilfracombe together, and endeavour to retrace
those strange ominous days; but while Ongar is Ongar, I feel as if
every other spot in England were under an interdict, for when I have
time to go anywhere I cannot think of going elsewhere. I have,
however, a very dim prospect of seeing dear Ongar again at present;
two children, and one so young, prevent my thinking of it this
summer, for I feel more every day, how desirable it is that mothers
should be keepers at home.
On the 20th of March, his
birthday,
her husband, on coming in from his early morning duties at the
college, was received by his little boy with the following lines:
Papa, papa,
your little boy
Is come to-day to wish you joy,
And waits to
give a pretty kiss
For little Joe and little “sis”.
There’s
nothing yet that he can do
To give you joy, but calling “Poo”,
Or hushing “sis”, or saying “pray”,
Or
telling what the donkeys say.
Or he can
shut the parlour door,
Or pick up letters from the floor,
Or
stroke poor puss and give her toast,
Or walk with letters to the
post.
But by and
bye, when he shall grow
A great and clever boy you know,
He
hopes that he and little “sis”
Will give you greater
joy than this.
Yes, and a
joyful day ’twill be
To see them what we hope to see,
And
feel our sorrows, pains, and cares,
Sustained by tenderness of
theirs.
But if God
should not please to spare
These pretty buds that look so
fair,
But rend them early from the bough
That yields them sap
and shelter now,
E’en
then, though all bereaved and torn,
We hand in hand should live to
mourn,
Still might we keep that land in view
Where blighted
buds are raised anew.
“You enquire,” she says
to her mother enclosing these verses, “if he does not begin to
talk, and here I feel a little at a loss, for Mr G fell upon a
passage in Quintillian the
other day, which says that early
speaking is not an indication of genius, so that we are rather
uncertain whether to boast of him as remarkably forward, or
remarkably backward. I will therefore give you his vocabulary, and
leave you to judge.”
For the wedding day of her
father
and
mother she writes:
April
12, 1816. I wrote so lately that you will probably
wonder at hearing from me now, unless you happen to recollect that
Thursday (the day on which I hope this will reach you) is the 18th of
April. I feel a pleasure in joining, as far as I am able, in the
festivities, or at least in the feelings of these red-letter days,
and contributing my mite towards the satisfaction they inspire. Very
little is now in my power; many, many opportunities in which I might
have contributed to the happiness of my dear parents have passed
away, misimproved; and all I can now do is to beg they will forgive
the times which will occur to their remembrance, when I have given
them pain, and ill requited their care. I am now often reminded by my
own feelings, hopes, and fears, of what theirs have been; and very
frequently, when looking forward on my children, look back upon
myself. I rejoice, my dear parents, that as years pass on you are
losing most of the toils of a family, and enjoying many of its
comforts, in the increasing sense which all your children entertain
of their obligations to your anxiety, your unremitting labour, your
much enduring affection.
This
time five and thirty years many were wishing you joy, and
notwithstanding all your trials I do think their prayers have been
heard. Whenever I read my dear father’s touching addresses to
my dear mother on these occasions, I cannot but say, “Yes, they
have been happy indeed” ... In laying out our little garden
here I am trying to make one corner like that which held the white
seat at Colchester. A man who came to work at it said he was sure he
had seen me before, and recollected at last that it was at
Colchester, where he used to garden for Mr Patmore, twelve years ago!
Giving up the prospect of a visit
to
Ongar this year, she began early to entertain the idea of seeing her
brother and sister at Rotherham in the summer. She thought of it with
unbounded delight, and several letters are filled with suggestions
and plans for the long journey from Cornwall to Yorkshire. She urges
that “travelling is now cheaper than it has been for a long
time, or than it is likely to continue to be, for if the farmers
rise, corn and horses must rise too.” The project ripened. Land
routes and sea routes were discussed, the choice lying
chiefly between sea to Milford Haven, and thence by coaches, via
Liverpool and Manchester, or by the coaches through Bristol
and Birmingham. It is curious to read, that “between Liverpool
and Manchester, the fares are extremely low, as there is much
opposition; but great attention is paid by the magistrates of these
two towns, to prevent racing, so that it is safe travelling
notwithstanding”.
The Birmingham route was
preferred,
and at length, on the evening of the 29th of June, at twenty minutes
after ten, the brother and sister arrived in a post-chaise from
Sheffield. They had not met since the autumn of 1813, when Isaac and
Jane left Ongar for Ilfracombe. A very busy six weeks succeeded.
Isaac had, as yet, made no sign in the literary world; but Jane
Taylor’s reputation, as a writer, was considerable, especially
from the recent publication of Essays
in Rhyme, and in the
large circle that surrounded her sister in Yorkshire, and where the
hearty admiration of Montgomery was well-known, she was naturally
much sought after.
Rather chary of speech, she was
not
easily drawn out in conversation. “What do you consider the
principal defect in the Quaker system,” was rather formally
demanded of her, in a large company, at Sheffield. “Expecting
women to speak in public, sir,” was the prompt reply. But she
was fluent with the pen, and had occasion to use it. In her poem,
entitled Poetry and Reality,
were these lines:
Indeed, the
Gospel would have been his scoff,
If man’s devices had not
set it off;
For that which turns poor nonconformists sick,
Touches poetic feeling to the quick.
And on her present visit to the
neighbourhood, the following comment appeared in the Sheffield Iris:
If trappings
to religion nought impart,
They’re not the things that most
defile the heart;
In Jewish temple, where they stood so thick,
The
Saviour taught, and never once was “sick”.
These outward
things can ne’er defile with sin,
The temple of the spirit
is within,
If that be simple, pure, and cleans’d by
grace,
We then may worship God in any place.
Her rejoinder came with the next
number:
The fact is
granted, courteous friend,
Nor did my playful verse intend
The
inference to bear;
That proud St Peter’s painted dome,
Nor
like devices nearer home,
Could stain a sinner’s prayer.
That Jesus
ne’er that building scorned
With goodly stones and gifts
adorned
Is true, — it was divine.
That “worldly
sanctuary” stood —
Its gold, its brass, its costly
wood —
As God’s, not man’s, design.
But Jesus
came to make it void,
And now, demolished and destroyed
The
splendid forms decay;
Then why revive, and why allow,
Those
“carnal ordinances” now,
Which He has done away?
And why
appeal to ages gone —
To Moses and to Solomon
If
Christian rules would do?
One deems all other reasons spent,
When
such a shadowy argument
Is borrowed from the Jew.
A succession of visits in the
neighbourhood of Sheffield and Rotherham, and excursions to the
beautiful scenery of that part of Yorkshire, filled up the time,
till, all too soon — one August morning, they drove away from
the door, to return, after three years absence,
to their father’s
house at Ongar.
Writing to Jane afterwards her
sister
says:
I
shall not forget watching the coach up the hill towards Doncaster.
I plunged deep into business as soon as I got home, and could not
indulge myself till Friday evening, when, the wash being done, Mr
Gilbert and I walked exactly the same walk we took the last evening,
and then he let me have my cry out, and say just what I pleased,
which was a great pleasure. You cannot think how much he felt the
loss when you went; he often complained that even his study seemed
dull to him. But I enjoyed more than I can describe your account of
your arrival at Ongar. I only wished to have known the exact time. I
always want these little points of circumstance which may enable me
to realise with all possible precision. I so enjoy your enjoyment of
the sweet spot of which I have said so often — “Oh, it is
delightful!” for now I can believe in your entire sympathy when
I say again — “Isn’t it?”
Dear
father and mother! it is a constant satisfaction to think of
them in such a retirement, so exactly all they wish and want. I hope
mother will not quite give up writing to me while you are there. What
I should like would be foolscape sheets jointly filled, and then I
should hear what each thought of the other. Little J puts his finger
to his nose when I ask what uncle used to do when J was naughty. He
still points to Salome’s room when I enquire where aunt was,
and to the study window when asked where uncle got in when J bolted
the door.
In October of this year she
relates
to her family an excursion very interesting to her. It may be
remembered that her grandmother, Mrs Martin, came from York, leaving
it, a girl of eighteen, alone on the top of the coach for London.
October
8, 1816.
I have had two extremely pleasant holidays lately,
in one of which I thought of dear mother incessantly. Mr Gilbert was
called to preach at York, and by invitation I accompanied him. We
went on Saturday, returned on Tuesday, and saw as much as possible in
the time. It is a most interesting city, and the remembrance of our
poor grandmother rendered it all the more so to me. Almost every
old-fashioned house I saw, I thought, “perhaps she was born
there”; and I looked with peculiar interest at such parts of
the buildings as had evidently undergone no repair, thinking “she
has certainly looked at this”. Our quarters were within a few
doors of Micklegate Bar, the great southern gate of the city, through
which she must have passed on her road to London; and when at seven
o’clock on a fine morning we set off to return on the top of
the coach, I thought very much of her solitary journey, and of the
way in which Providence protected and directed her till she became
two bands. Almost every old tree we passed I thought, “seventy
years ago she saw this, perhaps, and saw it flourishing in its
prime”. We went all over the Minster, which exceeds everything
of the kind I ever saw. It is undergoing complete repair, and from
one of the external ornaments, almost effaced by time, which was
taken down, I severed a fragment of decaying stone, and have this
morning made it up into a small parcel for you; when it arrives,
therefore, pray do not expect anything important, for it contains
nothing but the aforesaid stone for mother.
As
we were returning, the coachman said, “You don’t know
who it is on the coach with you. Jack Ketch of London! He went down
to Carlisle to hang a few, a week ago, and is now going back again.”
We looked at him with terrible curiosity, and surely a viler face was
never worn right-side-out — a cool, merry demon! At York Castle
the curiosities were: “Here is the pickaxe with which such a
one murdered a woman and two girls; this is the penknife with which
so-and-so cut the throat of her baby; this is the great club,” etc. —
instruments the most varied and horrible, with which,
during a number of years, most of the great murders in the county
have been committed.
The other holiday was at
Stockport in
Cheshire.
The
country is beautiful, and the friends I visited most hospitable,
but the grand inducement was to hear Angell
James preach the annual
sermon for the Stockport Sunday schools. Three thousand children are
there educated in the most noble building for the purpose. The room
for preaching is only a part of it, and on this occasion the
congregation assembled was nearly six thousand, the orchestra
containing six or seven hundred more; there was a noble organ, a full
band of instruments, together with Braham and other London singers.
The collection was nearly four hundred pounds, and the sermon the
most wonderful piece of eloquence I ever heard. Oh, how I wished for
you all!
By the end of the year, when
scarcely
a twelvemonth of “the fourteen years’ lease” had
expired, all the dreams of prolonged residence in the pretty house
were disturbed, and a time of distressing perplexity ensued. Mr
Gilbert’s health had begun to suffer under the combined strain
of his college duties and those of his ministry at Sheffield; and
just when this anxiety arose, he received from two churches of some
importance, one at Worcester and the other at Hull, almost
simultaneous invitations to their pastorates. The following extracts
explain the difficulties of decision under these circumstances. After
describing the nature of the work at Hull, where it was proposed that
he should have the assistance of an excellent young friend, who had
been one of his own students, she says:
All
this took place last week; the present week has involved us in
still greater anxiety. On Thursday we received a letter from Mr J.
Angell James, engaged, he said, as special pleader in behalf of
Worcester, “the church there being determined to think of no
other man upon earth till the last hope of having Mr Gilbert was
extinguished”. And the same afternoon arrived two gentlemen,
deputed by the Church to deliver their unanimous call, and to press
it with all possible earnestness. They stayed with us till last
night, urging their cause with great solicitude. You cannot think how
distressed we feel. My husband said he was in danger of bursting into
tears all day, he felt so much harassed, and the affection he bears
to Sheffield is so great.
To her husband, absent at Hull,
she
writes about this time:
God,
I think, seems to be trying the purity of our motives. It is
easy to speak, and even to feel, as if we were willing to follow the
guidance of Providence, when each alternative is agreeable and
profitable; the only way to be sure of a disinterested acquiescence
is that which it appears probable will be proposed to us. It seems
not unlikely that a station of usefulness may be opened to you under
some secular disadvantages. I dread nothing so much as uncertainty.
Indeed, I dread nothing but this ... I do not entirely rely upon
your own account of your services, but whether they were vigorous or
otherwise, we must regard it as one among the number of things which
are to decide for or against; and though I could not but wish you, my
love, an abundant enjoyment of Divine support, and great
acceptableness wherever you preach, yet I desire to feel a moderated
anxiety, and hope you can do the same: whatever strength is necessary
for you I know you will have.
In this perplexity they requested
Mr
James to leave the bar of the advocate, and take his seat as a judge
in the matter, when, after expressing his personal loss in the
rejection of Worcester, he gave a decided opinion in favour of Hull,
“which presents a situation of first-rate importance in the
church of God”.
Writing to her father, she says:
With
regard to leaving Rotherham, comfortable as we are, most
surely we should not have sought a removal; but now that the occasion
offers, and so pressingly, it becomes necessary to consider the
situation in all its bearings. Mr Gilbert’s strength cannot be
said to fail yet, though his exhaustion after his mornings at the
college is frequently very great, and his long walks to Sheffield
in wind, and rain, and dirt are often very trying; while, if he goes
by coach, he must really rise earlier, and has some distance to walk
to meet it. It is such an expenditure of strength as he could not
stand for any number of years. But, besides this, he feels it very
desirable now to spend his Sabbaths at home. You cannot think how
desolate I feel it for him to be always out on that day. He will soon
have children to whom the eye and instruction of a father will be
necessary, and I shrink from the prospect of bearing the weight
alone. We are now become a family, and I do not like our long Sabbath
evenings without something more of family worship than my just
reading a prayer! This is a trial I have long felt, and never see a
father taking his station on a Sabbath evening in his family without
poignant regrets. Again, he is desirous of exchanging a life of cold
classical study, which is extremely unfavourable to the growth
of personal piety, for the edifying duties of a pastor, which are
perhaps, of all others, conducive to its prosperity and increase ...
Consider
these things, my dear parents. Do not, I beseech you,
suppose we are anxious to go; on the contrary, we are torn and worn
by cutting regrets. Yesterday we received a letter signed by all the
students. They say: “We may call another ‘tutor’,
and as a tutor may value him, though surely not so highly as
yourself, but where shall we find the friend? Permit us, then, with
one pen and one heart to entreat that you will relinquish your
design, so that we may be able still to associate with the college as
one of its valuable distinctions, the name of Gilbert.” ...
I
have sometimes wondered if we are about to remove, that we were
permitted to come and fit up this house as we have done; but one
advantage has accrued from it, which, in case of removing into the
midst of a large congregation, would be worth to me all it has cost.
At the other house I had no poor neighbours, here I am placed near a
great many, and have been called to visit the sick among them very
frequently. This I have found a great benefit; it has even taught me
to pray with them when necessary, and I cannot express how much
service that is to me.
Rotherham,
Jan. 20, 1817
When I wrote last, Mr Gilbert had just
written to Hull, objecting to their exclusion of female votes. The
next day, being Sunday, we both went to Sheffield, and there met with
so many expressions of sorrow, that our hearts sank within us, and we
felt almost overwhelmed with grief and uncertainty. After the evening
service, being much depressed, we retired together, and poured out
our hearts in prayer that such direction might be afforded as would
render the path clear, whether pleasant or otherwise. I hope we
sincerely laid aside every wish but for determinate guidance, and
endeavoured to divest ourselves of every personal feeling in
submission to the will of God. At our return home we found a letter
from Hull awaiting us. It said, “I am just returned from the
fullest church-meeting I ever attended; your excellent letter was
read, and no sooner was the question put, than the whole church, male
and female, arose and held up the right hand; the spirit of love and
peace seemed eminently to be with us.” A few days afterwards
came the official reply signed by the whole church.
And so, presently, the die was
cast,
and notwithstanding the most generous offers on the part of his
people at Sheffield, and of the students, indeed for the very sake of
both students and people, Mr Gilbert was compelled to accept the call
that had been addressed to him. What this implied to the sensitive
heart of his wife can well be understood. “We hardly know how
to bear it,” she says, “and yet you will easily perceive
that with such proposals Mr Gilbert could not have complied; he would
have felt doing but half his duty.”
The indulgence of feeling,
however,
was soon checked. The children were seized with scarlet fever; and
presently the whole household, husband, niece, and a young man
recently received into the family to complete his education, all,
excepting herself and the servant, were prostrated, and passed
through more or less dangerous crises. The energy of her character,
and the innate strength of her constitution, were severely tested
during these trying weeks, but at the end she was able to write:
I
feel it an unspeakable and undeserved mercy to be resuming our
former comfort with no breach in our circle ... By-the-bye, when
you send, we should be very thankful for a few odd proofs, for J has
no greater delight than to look at “pickeys”, and the
cuts in City Scenes are
almost threadbare. I regret the many
“pretty pickeys” I have burnt, and should be very glad of
any you can scrape together, especially of small subjects he can
understand. He can tell already that Balaam beat the poor donkey;
that Samson carried the great doors; that poor little Moses cried in
the basket; and that little Samuel went to chapel to hear Eli preach,
and was very good, only from looking over our little
Bible during his
illness.
March
20, 1817.
To her sister: Almost every letter you send,
dear Jane, I cannot help saying what different lives we lead! There
are some things I regret, but I feel daily that mine is the lot for
me, and yours for you, and we must take them as they are. If your
fame, and leisure for the improvement of your mind, could be combined
with the comfort and pleasures of a larger domestic circle; and if,
with a husband and children, I could share a glimmer of your fame,
and a portion of your reading, we should both perhaps be happier than
it is the usual lot of life to be, and at least happier than it seems
good for us to be. Mr Gilbert expresses his conviction that such a
course of reading as you have lately indulged in must injure the mind
for exertion of its own. He says he feels it impossible to be at once
a reading and a writing man; and that had he read less, he should
have written with much greater facility. He does not mean to condemn
so much reading as is necessary to furnish the mind, but only to say
that habitual reading places the mind in such a different state from
that required for writing, that it must recover from one before it
will feel at ease in the other. Do not therefore feel discouraged,
dear Jane, at the natural effect of your late pursuits, and suppose a
decay of power, but wait patiently and cheerfully, and you will
gradually recover tone.
In a letter home, dated April 17,
1817, there is a glimpse of the severe distress prevailing, the
collapse after the great war which made peace for a time more trying:
The
distress at Sheffield is very great; the poor live upon little
else than oatmeal, but if the cheapest, it seems the most nourishing
of food, for it is observed that the children look healthier than
usual. Everybody is turning away servants workmen, and clerks; that
last resort, a “clerk’s place”, is hardly to be
obtained by any interest, however great, and the cases of distress we
hear of continually, are heartrending. We have a pleasing young
couple close by who have wrung our hearts by their sufferings, which,
till just now, were quite unsuspected. They have lived well; the wife
a delicate little creature only twenty, just confined with her second
child; and about six weeks ago, before he had communicated his
distress to Mr Bennett, they were literally starving; had sent out
their last penny the night before to buy a candle, thinking it would
betray their condition to their landlady if they sat in the dark.
They used to have the cloth laid as if to dine, but have nothing! You
cannot think the pleasure with which I packed a basket for her of
such things as I had in the house which I thought would be most
needed, and go fastest during her lying-in. I can think of but one
little hamper which I ever filled with so much pleasure, and that was
the one we sent to dear Martin in London when he came of age.
Have
you seen a little threepenny book by Mr Harris of Cambridge
called Conversations on Prayer,
intended to render it a
“reasonable service” for young children? I think it comes
nearer to a perfect book for children than I ever saw. It is
completely childlike, without being childish — a distinction
most difficult to preserve.
In April she paid a visit with
her
husband to Hull, and describes it to her parents:
You
will believe that I felt no little interest in taking the first
view of Hull, of our new home, and of the chapel where Mr Gilbert is
to enter upon so large a sphere of labour, as well as in the
introduction to strange faces which have taken place during the week;
and I believe I may say that in all, my expectations have been more
than fulfilled. Hull is a fine, open, lively town, with the constant
interest of a seaport, without being close and disagreeable as many
are; and even the country, though not to compare with our beautiful
Rotherham, is in many respects better than I had expected. In a house
we have been peculiarly favoured. It stands in a small, genteel row
at the extremity of the town, so that we can walk either by the
Humber, or in the country, without taking a step through the town.
Exactly opposite to our windows is an enclosure, as in the squares of
London, with a grass plot, gravel walk, and plantation, the use of
which we can have, and the view behind is extremely pleasant over a
number of gardens to the Humber, a fine river three or four miles
broad, with vessels constantly passing, and the coast of Lincolnshire
rising beyond ... The chapel is a large, good building, which now
lets eleven hundred sittings, and has not a single seat to dispose
of, so that they are obliged to refuse several applications. It is
beautiful to see merchants and men of business, young and old,
leaving their counting-houses at all hours, if any plan is to be
considered for doing good; and such a throng of respectable or
venerable heads as is seen following their minister to the vestry is
most encouraging.
In prospect of the approaching
trial
which leaving Rotherham would prove, she writes:
Tell
Jane I do not intend to take her advice; I am not subject to
dangerous excesses of such feelings, and I like, therefore to enjoy
them to the full, especially as at these times there is always sober
business enough to do and arrange, and a sufficiency of common-place
about chairs and china, and bread and beer, and cheese, and string,
and straw, to reduce the fine edge of romantic suffering to a very
endurable degree of bluntness. The very simple but supposable
circumstance of being qualmy in a coach is quite antidote sufficient
for enervating grief. The few parting looks I may be able to take
without interruption, I shall not, I think, be afraid to indulge.
On the evening of Thursday, July
3,
these “parting looks” were taken. “It was, I assure
you, a bitter ride down Masbro, and, till we lost sight of our dear
pleasant house, which we could see for a mile on the Sheffield road.”
They went to friends at Sheffield, and spent two days in farewells to
the large circle there. On the Sunday they “had a sharp trial
under the last sermon at Nether Chapel, the place as full as it could
hold, aisles and all.” On the Monday they posted forty miles to
Booth Ferry, where “at the commodious and solitary inn”,
they spent the night.
It
was an evening always memorable to him [her husband]. After tea,
he went out alone, taking his path down a secluded country road, and
there he received, as from the hand of his Master, the charge, the
true bishopric of souls, about to welcome him as their guide, or to
be allured to the fold by his ministry. His spirit bowed, almost bent
beneath the pressure, but he went to the Strong for strength. He knew
in whose service he was engaged, whose command it was, as he fully
believed, he had obeyed, and then and there consecrated his life, as
by sacramental engagement, to the solemn work.
The following day they reached
the
hospitable roof of a friend at Hull, close by their new residence.
The goods had arrived by water, unpacking began, and the true
daughter of her father writes home:
I
enjoy exceedingly every step we take towards order once more. It
will be a nice house when it is done, lightsome, agreeable,
convenient. I shall only want some of you here to give me the
complete enjoyment of it. It is in Nile Street; you could not
have made a more unfortunate mistake than to suppose it Hill
Street, there is not a hill to be seen for love or money.
Appendix
I. Protestant Dissenters,
Nonconformists and
the Independent Church
The Taylors were
members of
the Independent Church, which in 1831 became the Congregational Union
of England and Wales. It was the one of the main churches of the
Puritans during the English Civil War (1642-1651).
Oliver Cromwell, leader of the
parliamentary forces in the Civil War, was a member of this church,
as were many of his troops and supporters. Before and after the
government of Cromwell (often called the Long Parliament), the
Independents were periodically persecuted by the government and the
Established Church, or Church of England, which was the official
state church.
It seems both the
Independent and the Presbyterian churches are at least as old as the
Church of England. By the 1580s
there were independent congregations. One of the first independent
groups of which there
are records formed around Robert Browne of Corpus Christi College,
Cambridge. Brown held that a Christian had no need of a bishop’s
permission to preach the Gospel and acted on this belief. As a
result, he and his group were persecuted and he and some followers
went into exile in Holland, where other Protestant dissenters were
already living in exile.
In the
following years, in
England,
some independents were put to death for their faith and many more
were forced into exile, establishing churches at Amsterdam, Rotterdam
and Leyden in Holland. Many of the Pilgrim Fathers, early settlers in
North America after 1620, came from these exile communities, and
these communities, in both the Netherlands and America, sent
missionaries back to England during the
Commonwealth of Oliver Cromwell.
In 1593 an act of parliament was
passed against the Separatists, as the independents were often called
at that time. They were forbidden from gathering in groups and
forbidden from preaching near towns, and as a result were forced to
worship in secret.
The Separatists took the name
Independent Church around 1640, and were usually called Dissenters
rather than Separatists after that time. Discrimination against them
continued until the mid-1830s, although by then it was not as severe
as in earlier times, and it eased considerably after William of
Orange took the throne in 1689.
The Independents and the
Presbyterians were the first non-Anglican Protestant groups in the
British Isles. Later, as other groups, such as the Baptists and the
Methodists, arose, the term Dissenter was applied to all non-Anglican
groups, including Catholics, sometimes. In the 19th
century, as the Protestant dissenters became more accepted, the term
Nonconformist was more frequently used to describe them.
The Independent Church held that
every congregation of Christians, properly constituted with a pastor
and a deacon (the only officers sanctioned by the Biblical apostles),
was an independent body competent to decide its own direction and
government without any interference from higher bodies. The only
requirement to be a
pastor
or deacon of the Independent Church was to be invited by the
congregation to take up the post. The Independents opposed all state
interference in religious matters.
During the government of Oliver
Cromwell many Independent pastors, and perhaps a few Baptists and
Presbyterians, replaced parish priests in the Church of England.
After the monarchy was restored in 1660 following Cromwell's death in
1658, the
Act of Uniformity (1662) under Charles II in turn expelled about 2000
non-conforming
ministers from their places in the church, forcing them to go back to
preaching in secret in worshipers’ houses and barns.
During various waves of
persecution, Protestant Dissenters continued to take refuge in the
Protestant
Netherlands, and these exile communities formed a base of support for
Protestant efforts
to overthrow kings Charles II and his brother James II. The Duke of
Argyle’s uprising in Scotland
and the Duke of Monmouth’s uprising in England, both in 1685, involved
expeditions from Holland. Repression following the Duke of
Monmouth's
uprising, and especially Judge Jeffreys' Bloody Assizes, added to
agitation for the removal of James, and accounted for the ease with
which William of Orange and his supporters eventually ousted him.
In 1688, at the
invitation of prominent English politicians, church leaders and
landholders, William and his wife Mary Stuart, were asked to
take over the throne from Mary’s father, James II. William landed in
England with an army and quickly deposed James, who fled to France when
most of England’s prominent citizens sided with William. James, a
Catholic, was widely suspected of trying to undermine the Church of
England and trying take England back to Catholicism. These
concerns were strengthened when James began placing Catholics in
positions of power at the expense of Protestants, and made an alliance
with King Louis XIV of France.
In 1689, William and Mary’s Act
of Toleration brought
an end to the worst of the persecution of the Independents, as
William’s Protestant faith was similar to that of the
Dissenters. Even so, as Mrs Gilbert recounts
in
Chapter II, discrimination and threats of violence against Dissenters
broke out occasionally for many years, usually in times of
political disturbance.
Steve Painter
Sources:
Beeton’s Dictionary of
Religion, Philosophy, Politics and
Law, Ward, Lock & Co, London
My
Ancestors Were Congregationalists, David J.H. Clifford, Society
of Genealogists, London, 1997
Appendix
II. From A Memoir of Thomas Bewick,
Written by Himself
Chapter
VII
I remained no longer in
Newcastle than until I earned as much money as would pay my way to
London. I then took my passage on board a collier bound to the great
city; and after beating about in good weather and bad for about three
week, I arrived in London on the first October 1776.
The first Cockney I met was the
scullerman, who was engaged to land me and my luggage near Temple
Bar. I was amused at his slang and his chatter all the way to London
Bridge; and on approaching it, he asked me if I was “a-feared”;
but not knowing what I was to be afraid of, I returned the question,
at which he looked queer. We passed the gulf about which he wanted to
talk, and I again asked him if he was “a-feared”.
It was not long before I found
out my
old school-fellows, Christopher and Philip Gregson, my old companion,
William Gray, then a bookbinder in Chancery Lane, and my friend Robert Pollard. The first had provided me
with a lodging, and the
last — through the kindness and influence of his master, Isaac
Taylor — with plenty of work. Before commencing work, I thought
it best to take a ramble through the city and its environs …
having rambled about till I had seen a good deal of the exterior as
well as the interior of London — of which it would be
superfluous to give an account — I sat down closely to work
until I got through the wood cuts which, through Isaac Taylor’s
kindness, had been provided for me ...
Notwithstanding my being so
situated
amongst my friends, and being so much gratified in seeing such a
variety of excellent performances in every art and science —
painting, statuary, engraving, carving, etc — yet I did not
like London. It appeared to me to be a world of itself, where
everything in the extreme might at once be seen: extreme riches,
extreme poverty, extreme grandeur and extreme wretchedness —
all of which were such as I had not contemplated before. Perhaps I
might, indeed, take too full a view of London on its gloomy side. I
could not help it. I tired of it, and determined to return home. The
country of my old friends — the manners of the people of that
day — the scenery of Tyneside — seemed altogether to form
a paradise for me, and I longed to see it again. While I was thus
turning these matters over in my mind, my warm friend and patron
Isaac Taylor, waited upon me: and, on my telling him I was going to
Newcastle, he enquired how long it would be before I returned.
“Never,” was my reply; at which he seemed both surprised
and displeased. He then warmly remonstrated with me upon this
impropriety of my conduct, told me of the prospects before me, and,
amongst many other matters, that of his having engaged me to draw in
the Duke of Richmond’s Gallery; and he strenuously urged me to
change my mind. I told him that no temptation of gain, of honour, or
of anything else, however great, could ever have any weight with me;
and that I would even enlist for a soldier, or go and herd sheep at
five shillings per week, rather than be tied to live in London. I
told him how sensible I was of his uncommon kindness to me, and
thanked him for it. My kind friend left me in a pet, and I never saw
him more. He afterwards, when an old man, visited Newcastle, but left
it again without my knowing it till after he was gone. At this I felt
much grieved and disappointed. I do not remember how long he lived
after this; but a memoir of him was published in the Analytical
Magazine at the time, together with a letter I had written to
him
some time before his death, which he never answered. He was in his
day, accounted the best engraver of embellishments for books, most of
which he designed himself. The frontispiece to the first edition of
Cunningham’s Poems was one of his early productions; and
at that time my friend Pollard and myself thought it was the best
thing that was ever done.
The same kind persuasions were
urged
upon me by Mr Hodgson to remain in London, as had been used by Mr
Taylor, which ended in a similar way …
Having spent the evening till a
late
hour with my friends at the “George”, in Brook Street,
and in the morning taken my leave of my landlord and landlady, Mr and
Mrs Kendal, and their family in Wharton’s Court, Holborn, I
then posted off to the Pool, and got on board a collier; and after a
very short passage, arrived in sight of St Nicholas’ Church
steeple, about the 22nd June 1777.
Appendix
III. Letter from Ann Hinton, 14,
to her cousin, Ann Gilbert
From The Taylors of Ongar, by Doris Mary
Armitage, 1939,
great grand-daughter of Ann
Taylor Gilbert.
Ann
Taylor not unnaturally attracted other serious-minded little girls.
The following astonishing letter from a child of 14 is written in an
exquisite copperplate hand by Ann Hinton to her cousin, Ann Taylor:
Oxford
March
28, 1809
My
dear cousin,
The
excellence of your letter almost discourages your young correspondent
from attempting an answer, but trusting in your goodness to forgive
the defects which you must perceive, and to aid as you have often
done, the “Infant mind” , (a reference to Ann and Jane
Taylor’s first book, Original Poems
for Infant Minds —
SP) I will try to gain your approbation.
We
are all very much obliged to you for the Essay on Gumption. I wish
the quality, the talent, the — what shall I call it? …
the thing itself if not the word, were more general than what you
style our “Learned City”. I assure you it is an article
of which there is often a great scarcity even in our School, though
we are directed by a Lady of the Gumption family.
With
respect to my occupation, I am afraid a detail of the School routine
will not afford you either instruction or amusement. I attend a
French and Drawing Master each one hour three times a week. Music
twice a week. Greek usually two or three times a week. Once a week I
translate a piece of French or Latin into English. Papa delivers a
lecture (every week) on Geography, Astronomy, or Philosophy.
Afternoons are devoted to homework.
Your
kind enquiries, my dear Cousin, whether I have entered that path
which leads to supreme happiness, I am aware require serious
consideration. I hope I may say I have often thought very seriously
on this subject, and I sometimes hope that I may have set out for
Heaven, yet I often fear I have not. I wish not to deceive myself,
and mistake those impressions which the Religious Education I have
from my very infancy enjoyed would naturally make, for the work of
Divine Grace on the Heart.
Yet
I trust it is my sincere desire to be a humble follower of Jesus
Christ. Can this desire by natural? I think not. It must then be
implanted in my mind by the great Ruler of all Hearts.
You
have probably heard of the Fire at Ch. Ch. Coll.
Thro’ mercy and tho’ very near, we were not injured.
Receive,
Dear Cousin, the love of all your Oxford relatives, and especially
that of
Yr
affect. Cousin
Ann
Hinton
Notes
Preface and introduction
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