THE PARSONAGE





All true histories contain instruction; though, in some, the treasure

may be hard to find, and when found, so trivial in quantity, that the

dry, shrivelled kernel scarcely compensates for the trouble of cracking

the nut. Whether this be the case with my history or not, I am hardly

competent to judge. I sometimes think it might prove useful to some,

and entertaining to others; but the world may judge for itself.

Shielded by my own obscurity, and by the lapse of years, and a few

fictitious names, I do not fear to venture; and will candidly lay

before the public what I would not disclose to the most intimate

friend.



My father was a clergyman of the north of England, who was deservedly

respected by all who knew him; and, in his younger days, lived pretty

comfortably on the joint income of a small incumbency and a snug little

property of his own. My mother, who married him against the wishes of

her friends, was a squire’s daughter, and a woman of spirit. In vain it

was represented to her, that if she became the poor parson’s wife, she

must relinquish her carriage and her lady’s-maid, and all the luxuries

and elegancies of affluence; which to her were little less than the

necessaries of life. A carriage and a lady’s-maid were great

conveniences; but, thank heaven, she had feet to carry her, and hands

to minister to her own necessities. An elegant house and spacious

grounds were not to be despised; but she would rather live in a cottage

with Richard Grey than in a palace with any other man in the world.



Finding arguments of no avail, her father, at length, told the lovers

they might marry if they pleased; but, in so doing, his daughter would

forfeit every fraction of her fortune. He expected this would cool the

ardour of both; but he was mistaken. My father knew too well my

mother’s superior worth not to be sensible that she was a valuable

fortune in herself: and if she would but consent to embellish his

humble hearth he should be happy to take her on any terms; while she,

on her part, would rather labour with her own hands than be divided

from the man she loved, whose happiness it would be her joy to make,

and who was already one with her in heart and soul. So her fortune went

to swell the purse of a wiser sister, who had married a rich nabob; and

she, to the wonder and compassionate regret of all who knew her, went

to bury herself in the homely village parsonage among the hills of ——.

And yet, in spite of all this, and in spite of my mother’s high spirit

and my father’s whims, I believe you might search all England through,

and fail to find a happier couple.



Of six children, my sister Mary and myself were the only two that

survived the perils of infancy and early childhood. I, being the

younger by five or six years, was always regarded as _the_ child, and

the pet of the family: father, mother, and sister, all combined to

spoil me—not by foolish indulgence, to render me fractious and

ungovernable, but by ceaseless kindness, to make me too helpless and

dependent—too unfit for buffeting with the cares and turmoils of life.



Mary and I were brought up in the strictest seclusion. My mother, being

at once highly accomplished, well informed, and fond of employment,

took the whole charge of our education on herself, with the exception

of Latin—which my father undertook to teach us—so that we never even

went to school; and, as there was no society in the neighbourhood, our

only intercourse with the world consisted in a stately tea-party, now

and then, with the principal farmers and tradespeople of the vicinity

(just to avoid being stigmatized as too proud to consort with our

neighbours), and an annual visit to our paternal grandfather’s; where

himself, our kind grandmamma, a maiden aunt, and two or three elderly

ladies and gentlemen, were the only persons we ever saw. Sometimes our

mother would amuse us with stories and anecdotes of her younger days,

which, while they entertained us amazingly, frequently awoke—in _me_,

at least—a secret wish to see a little more of the world.



I thought she must have been very happy: but she never seemed to regret

past times. My father, however, whose temper was neither tranquil nor

cheerful by nature, often unduly vexed himself with thinking of the

sacrifices his dear wife had made for him; and troubled his head with

revolving endless schemes for the augmentation of his little fortune,

for her sake and ours. In vain my mother assured him she was quite

satisfied; and if he would but lay by a little for the children, we

should all have plenty, both for time present and to come: but saving

was not my father’s forte. He would not run in debt (at least, my

mother took good care he should not), but while he had money he must

spend it: he liked to see his house comfortable, and his wife and

daughters well clothed, and well attended; and besides, he was

charitably disposed, and liked to give to the poor, according to his

means: or, as some might think, beyond them.



At length, however, a kind friend suggested to him a means of doubling

his private property at one stroke; and further increasing it,

hereafter, to an untold amount. This friend was a merchant, a man of

enterprising spirit and undoubted talent, who was somewhat straitened

in his mercantile pursuits for want of capital; but generously proposed

to give my father a fair share of his profits, if he would only entrust

him with what he could spare; and he thought he might safely promise

that whatever sum the latter chose to put into his hands, it should

bring him in cent. per cent. The small patrimony was speedily sold, and

the whole of its price was deposited in the hands of the friendly

merchant; who as promptly proceeded to ship his cargo, and prepare for

his voyage.



My father was delighted, so were we all, with our brightening

prospects. For the present, it is true, we were reduced to the narrow

income of the curacy; but my father seemed to think there was no

necessity for scrupulously restricting our expenditure to that; so,

with a standing bill at Mr. Jackson’s, another at Smith’s, and a third

at Hobson’s, we got along even more comfortably than before: though my

mother affirmed we had better keep within bounds, for our prospects of

wealth were but precarious, after all; and if my father would only

trust everything to her management, he should never feel himself

stinted: but he, for once, was incorrigible.



What happy hours Mary and I have passed while sitting at our work by

the fire, or wandering on the heath-clad hills, or idling under the

weeping birch (the only considerable tree in the garden), talking of

future happiness to ourselves and our parents, of what we would do, and

see, and possess; with no firmer foundation for our goodly

superstructure than the riches that were expected to flow in upon us

from the success of the worthy merchant’s speculations. Our father was

nearly as bad as ourselves; only that he affected not to be so much in

earnest: expressing his bright hopes and sanguine expectations in jests

and playful sallies, that always struck me as being exceedingly witty

and pleasant. Our mother laughed with delight to see him so hopeful and

happy: but still she feared he was setting his heart too much upon the

matter; and once I heard her whisper as she left the room, “God grant

he be not disappointed! I know not how he would bear it.”



Disappointed he was; and bitterly, too. It came like a thunder-clap on

us all, that the vessel which contained our fortune had been wrecked,

and gone to the bottom with all its stores, together with several of

the crew, and the unfortunate merchant himself. I was grieved for him;

I was grieved for the overthrow of all our air-built castles: but, with

the elasticity of youth, I soon recovered the shock.



Though riches had charms, poverty had no terrors for an inexperienced

girl like me. Indeed, to say the truth, there was something

exhilarating in the idea of being driven to straits, and thrown upon

our own resources. I only wished papa, mamma, and Mary were all of the

same mind as myself; and then, instead of lamenting past calamities we

might all cheerfully set to work to remedy them; and the greater the

difficulties, the harder our present privations, the greater should be

our cheerfulness to endure the latter, and our vigour to contend

against the former.



Mary did not lament, but she brooded continually over the misfortune,

and sank into a state of dejection from which no effort of mine could

rouse her. I could not possibly bring her to regard the matter on its

bright side as I did: and indeed I was so fearful of being charged with

childish frivolity, or stupid insensibility, that I carefully kept most

of my bright ideas and cheering notions to myself; well knowing they

could not be appreciated.



My mother thought only of consoling my father, and paying our debts and

retrenching our expenditure by every available means; but my father was

completely overwhelmed by the calamity: health, strength, and spirits

sank beneath the blow, and he never wholly recovered them. In vain my

mother strove to cheer him, by appealing to his piety, to his courage,

to his affection for herself and us. That very affection was his

greatest torment: it was for our sakes he had so ardently longed to

increase his fortune—it was our interest that had lent such brightness

to his hopes, and that imparted such bitterness to his present

distress. He now tormented himself with remorse at having neglected my

mother’s advice; which would at least have saved him from the

additional burden of debt—he vainly reproached himself for having

brought her from the dignity, the ease, the luxury of her former

station to toil with him through the cares and toils of poverty. It was

gall and wormwood to his soul to see that splendid, highly-accomplished

woman, once so courted and admired, transformed into an active managing

housewife, with hands and head continually occupied with household

labours and household economy. The very willingness with which she

performed these duties, the cheerfulness with which she bore her

reverses, and the kindness which withheld her from imputing the

smallest blame to him, were all perverted by this ingenious

self-tormentor into further aggravations of his sufferings. And thus

the mind preyed upon the body, and disordered the system of the nerves,

and they in turn increased the troubles of the mind, till by action and

reaction his health was seriously impaired; and not one of us could

convince him that the aspect of our affairs was not half so gloomy, so

utterly hopeless, as his morbid imagination represented it to be.



The useful pony phaeton was sold, together with the stout, well-fed

pony—the old favourite that we had fully determined should end its days

in peace, and never pass from our hands; the little coach-house and

stable were let; the servant boy, and the more efficient (being the

more expensive) of the two maid-servants, were dismissed. Our clothes

were mended, turned, and darned to the utmost verge of decency; our

food, always plain, was now simplified to an unprecedented

degree—except my father’s favourite dishes; our coals and candles were

painfully economized—the pair of candles reduced to one, and that most

sparingly used; the coals carefully husbanded in the half-empty grate:

especially when my father was out on his parish duties, or confined to

bed through illness—then we sat with our feet on the fender, scraping

the perishing embers together from time to time, and occasionally

adding a slight scattering of the dust and fragments of coal, just to

keep them alive. As for our carpets, they in time were worn threadbare,

and patched and darned even to a greater extent than our garments. To

save the expense of a gardener, Mary and I undertook to keep the garden

in order; and all the cooking and household work that could not easily

be managed by one servant-girl, was done by my mother and sister, with

a little occasional help from me: only a little, because, though a

woman in my own estimation, I was still a child in theirs; and my

mother, like most active, managing women, was not gifted with very

active daughters: for this reason—that being so clever and diligent

herself, she was never tempted to trust her affairs to a deputy, but,

on the contrary, was willing to act and think for others as well as for

number one; and whatever was the business in hand, she was apt to think

that no one could do it so well as herself: so that whenever I offered

to assist her, I received such an answer as—“No, love, you cannot

indeed—there’s nothing here you can do. Go and help your sister, or get

her to take a walk with you—tell her she must not sit so much, and stay

so constantly in the house as she does—she may well look thin and

dejected.”



“Mary, mamma says I’m to help you; or get you to take a walk with me;

she says you may well look thin and dejected, if you sit so constantly

in the house.”



“Help me you cannot, Agnes; and I cannot go out with _you_—I have far

too much to do.”



“Then let me help you.”



“You cannot, indeed, dear child. Go and practise your music, or play

with the kitten.”



There was always plenty of sewing on hand; but I had not been taught to

cut out a single garment, and except plain hemming and seaming, there

was little I could do, even in that line; for they both asserted that

it was far easier to do the work themselves than to prepare it for me:

and besides, they liked better to see me prosecuting my studies, or

amusing myself—it was time enough for me to sit bending over my work,

like a grave matron, when my favourite little pussy was become a steady

old cat. Under such circumstances, although I was not many degrees more

useful than the kitten, my idleness was not entirely without excuse.



Through all our troubles, I never but once heard my mother complain of

our want of money. As summer was coming on she observed to Mary and me,

“What a desirable thing it would be for your papa to spend a few weeks

at a watering-place. I am convinced the sea-air and the change of scene

would be of incalculable service to him. But then, you see, there’s no

money,” she added, with a sigh. We both wished exceedingly that the

thing might be done, and lamented greatly that it could not. “Well,

well!” said she, “it’s no use complaining. Possibly something might be

done to further the project after all. Mary, you are a beautiful

drawer. What do you say to doing a few more pictures in your best

style, and getting them framed, with the water-coloured drawings you

have already done, and trying to dispose of them to some liberal

picture-dealer, who has the sense to discern their merits?”



“Mamma, I should be delighted if you think they _could_ be sold; and

for anything worth while.”



“It’s worth while trying, however, my dear: do you procure the

drawings, and I’ll endeavour to find a purchaser.”



“I wish _I_ could do something,” said I.



“You, Agnes! well, who knows? You draw pretty well, too: if you choose

some simple piece for your subject, I daresay you will be able to

produce something we shall all be proud to exhibit.”



“But I have another scheme in my head, mamma, and have had long, only I

did not like to mention it.”



“Indeed! pray tell us what it is.”



“I should like to be a governess.”



My mother uttered an exclamation of surprise, and laughed. My sister

dropped her work in astonishment, exclaiming, “_You_ a governess,

Agnes! What can you be dreaming of?”



“Well! I don’t see anything so _very_ extraordinary in it. I do not

pretend to be able to instruct great girls; but surely I could teach

little ones: and I should like it so much: I am so fond of children. Do

let me, mamma!”



“But, my love, you have not learned to take care of _yourself _yet: and

young children require more judgment and experience to manage than

elder ones.”



“But, mamma, I am above eighteen, and quite able to take care of

myself, and others too. You do not know half the wisdom and prudence I

possess, because I have never been tried.”



“Only think,” said Mary, “what would you do in a house full of

strangers, without me or mamma to speak and act for you—with a parcel

of children, besides yourself, to attend to; and no one to look to for

advice? You would not even know what clothes to put on.”



“You think, because I always do as you bid me, I have no judgment of my

own: but only try me—that is all I ask—and you shall see what I can

do.”



At that moment my father entered and the subject of our discussion was

explained to him.



“What, my little Agnes a governess!” cried he, and, in spite of his

dejection, he laughed at the idea.



“Yes, papa, don’t _you_ say anything against it: I should like it so

much; and I am sure I could manage delightfully.”



“But, my darling, we could not spare you.” And a tear glistened in his

eye as he added—“No, no! afflicted as we are, surely we are not brought

to that pass yet.”



“Oh, no!” said my mother. “There is no necessity whatever for such a

step; it is merely a whim of her own. So you must hold your tongue, you

naughty girl; for, though you are so ready to leave us, you know very

well we cannot part with _you_.”



I was silenced for that day, and for many succeeding ones; but still I

did not wholly relinquish my darling scheme. Mary got her drawing

materials, and steadily set to work. I got mine too; but while I drew,

I thought of other things. How delightful it would be to be a

governess! To go out into the world; to enter upon a new life; to act

for myself; to exercise my unused faculties; to try my unknown powers;

to earn my own maintenance, and something to comfort and help my

father, mother, and sister, besides exonerating them from the provision

of my food and clothing; to show papa what his little Agnes could do;

to convince mamma and Mary that I was not quite the helpless,

thoughtless being they supposed. And then, how charming to be entrusted

with the care and education of children! Whatever others said, I felt I

was fully competent to the task: the clear remembrance of my own

thoughts in early childhood would be a surer guide than the

instructions of the most mature adviser. I had but to turn from my

little pupils to myself at their age, and I should know, at once, how

to win their confidence and affections: how to waken the contrition of

the erring; how to embolden the timid and console the afflicted; how to

make Virtue practicable, Instruction desirable, and Religion lovely and

comprehensible.



—Delightful task!

To teach the young idea how to shoot!





To train the tender plants, and watch their buds unfolding day by day!



Influenced by so many inducements, I determined still to persevere;

though the fear of displeasing my mother, or distressing my father’s

feelings, prevented me from resuming the subject for several days. At

length, again, I mentioned it to my mother in private; and, with some

difficulty, got her to promise to assist me with her endeavours. My

father’s reluctant consent was next obtained, and then, though Mary

still sighed her disapproval, my dear, kind mother began to look out

for a situation for me. She wrote to my father’s relations, and

consulted the newspaper advertisements—her own relations she had long

dropped all communication with: a formal interchange of occasional

letters was all she had ever had since her marriage, and she would not

at any time have applied to them in a case of this nature. But so long

and so entire had been my parents’ seclusion from the world, that many

weeks elapsed before a suitable situation could be procured. At last,

to my great joy, it was decreed that I should take charge of the young

family of a certain Mrs. Bloomfield; whom my kind, prim aunt Grey had

known in her youth, and asserted to be a very nice woman. Her husband

was a retired tradesman, who had realized a very comfortable fortune;

but could not be prevailed upon to give a greater salary than

twenty-five pounds to the instructress of his children. I, however, was

glad to accept this, rather than refuse the situation—which my parents

were inclined to think the better plan.



But some weeks more were yet to be devoted to preparation. How long,

how tedious those weeks appeared to me! Yet they were happy ones in the

main—full of bright hopes and ardent expectations. With what peculiar

pleasure I assisted at the making of my new clothes, and, subsequently,

the packing of my trunks! But there was a feeling of bitterness

mingling with the latter occupation too; and when it was done—when all

was ready for my departure on the morrow, and the last night at home

approached—a sudden anguish seemed to swell my heart. My dear friends

looked so sad, and spoke so very kindly, that I could scarcely keep my

eyes from overflowing: but I still affected to be gay. I had taken my

last ramble with Mary on the moors, my last walk in the garden, and

round the house; I had fed, with her, our pet pigeons for the last

time—the pretty creatures that we had tamed to peck their food from our

hands: I had given a farewell stroke to all their silky backs as they

crowded in my lap. I had tenderly kissed my own peculiar favourites,

the pair of snow-white fantails; I had played my last tune on the old

familiar piano, and sung my last song to papa: not the last, I hoped,

but the last for what appeared to me a very long time. And, perhaps,

when I did these things again it would be with different feelings:

circumstances might be changed, and this house might never be my

settled home again. My dear little friend, the kitten, would certainly

be changed: she was already growing a fine cat; and when I returned,

even for a hasty visit at Christmas, would, most likely, have forgotten

both her playmate and her merry pranks. I had romped with her for the

last time; and when I stroked her soft bright fur, while she lay

purring herself to sleep in my lap, it was with a feeling of sadness I

could not easily disguise. Then at bed-time, when I retired with Mary

to our quiet little chamber, where already my drawers were cleared out

and my share of the bookcase was empty—and where, hereafter, she would

have to sleep alone, in dreary solitude, as she expressed it—my heart

sank more than ever: I felt as if I had been selfish and wrong to

persist in leaving her; and when I knelt once more beside our little

bed, I prayed for a blessing on her and on my parents more fervently

than ever I had done before. To conceal my emotion, I buried my face in

my hands, and they were presently bathed in tears. I perceived, on

rising, that she had been crying too: but neither of us spoke; and in

silence we betook ourselves to our repose, creeping more closely

together from the consciousness that we were to part so soon.



But the morning brought a renewal of hope and spirits. I was to depart

early; that the conveyance which took me (a gig, hired from Mr. Smith,

the draper, grocer, and tea-dealer of the village) might return the

same day. I rose, washed, dressed, swallowed a hasty breakfast,

received the fond embraces of my father, mother, and sister, kissed the

cat—to the great scandal of Sally, the maid—shook hands with her,

mounted the gig, drew my veil over my face, and then, but not till

then, burst into a flood of tears. The gig rolled on; I looked back; my

dear mother and sister were still standing at the door, looking after

me, and waving their adieux. I returned their salute, and prayed God to

bless them from my heart: we descended the hill, and I could see them

no more.



“It’s a coldish mornin’ for you, Miss Agnes,” observed Smith; “and a

darksome ’un too; but we’s happen get to yon spot afore there come much

rain to signify.”



“Yes, I hope so,” replied I, as calmly as I could.



“It’s comed a good sup last night too.”



“Yes.”



“But this cold wind will happen keep it off.”



“Perhaps it will.”



Here ended our colloquy. We crossed the valley, and began to ascend the

opposite hill. As we were toiling up, I looked back again; there was

the village spire, and the old grey parsonage beyond it, basking in a

slanting beam of sunshine—it was but a sickly ray, but the village and

surrounding hills were all in sombre shade, and I hailed the wandering

beam as a propitious omen to my home. With clasped hands I fervently

implored a blessing on its inhabitants, and hastily turned away; for I

saw the sunshine was departing; and I carefully avoided another glance,

lest I should see it in gloomy shadow, like the rest of the landscape.