A New England Tale/Chapter VI
CHAPTER VI.
These are fine feathers, but what bird were they plucked from?
Esop.
There is nothing in New-England so eagerly sought for, or so highly prized by all classes of people, as the advantages of education. A farmer and his wife will deny themselves all other benefits that might result from the gains that have accrued to them from a summer of self-denial and toil, to give their children the privilege of a grammar-school during the winter. The public, or as they are called the town-schools, are open to the child of the poorest labourer. As knowledge is one of the best helps and most certain securities to virtue, we doubtless owe a great portion of the morality of this blessed region, where there are no dark corners of ignorance, to these wise institutions of our pious ancestors.
In the fall subsequent to the events we have recorded, a school had been opened in the village of , of a higher and more expensive order, than is common in a country town. Every mouth was filled with praises of the new teacher, and with promises and expectations of the knowledge to be derived from this newly opened fountain; all was bustle and preparation among the young companions of Martha and Elvira for the school; for Martha, though beyond the usual school-going age, was to complete her education at the new seminary.
The dancing school had passed without a sigh of regret from Jane; but now she felt severely her privation. Her watchful friend, Mary Hull, remarked the melancholy look that was unheeded at her aunt's; and she inquired of Jane, "Why she was so downcast?"
"Ah, Mary!" she replied, "it is a long time since I have felt the merry spirit which the wise man says, is 'medicine to the heart.'"
"That's true, Jane; but then there's nobody, that is, there's nobody that has so little reason for it as you have, that has a more cheerful look."
"I have great reason to be cheerful, Mary, in token of gratitude for my kind friends here; and," added she, taking Mr. Lloyd's infant, who playfully extended her arms to her, "you and I are too young, Rebecca, to be very sad." The child felt the tear that dewed the cheek to which she was pressed, and looking into Jane's face, with instinctive sympathy, burst into tears. Mr. Lloyd entered at this moment, and Jane hastily replacing the child in Mary Hull's lap, and tying on her hat, bade them farewell.
Mr. Lloyd asked for some explanation. Mary believed nothing particular had happened. "But," she said, "the poor girl's spirit wearies with the life she leads, and its no wonder; it is a great change from a home and mother, to such a workhouse and such a task-woman."
Mr. Lloyd had often regretted, that it was so little in his power to benefit Jane. The school occurred to him, and as nothing was more improbable than that Mrs. Wilson would, herself, incur the expense of Jane's attendance, he consulted with Mary as to the best mode of doing it himself, without provoking Mrs. Wilson's opposition, or offending her pride. A few days after, when the agent for the school presented the subscription list to Mrs. Wilson for her signature, she saw there, to her utter astonishment, Jane Elton's name. The agent handed her an explanatory note from Mr. Lloyd, in which he said, "that as it had been customary to send one person from the house he now occupied to the 'subscription school,' he had taken the liberty to continue the custom. He hoped the measure would meet with Mrs. Wilson's approbation, without which it could not go into effect."
Mrs. Wilson, at first, said, it was impossible; she could not spare Jane; but afterwards, she consented to take it into consideration. The moment the man had shut the door, she turned to Jane, and misunderstanding the flush of pleasure that brightened her usually pale face, she exclaimed, "And so, Miss, this is one of your plans to slip your neck out of the yoke of duty."
Jane said, she had nothing to do with the plan, but she trusted her aunt would not oblige her to lose such a golden opportunity of advantage. Mrs. Wilson made various objections, and Jane skilfully obviated them all. At last she said, "There would be a piece of linen to make up for David, and that put it quite out of the question, for," said she, "I shall not take the girls from their studies; and even you, Miss Jane, will probably have the grace to think my time more precious than yours."
"Well, aunt," said Jane, with a smile so sweet that even Mrs. Wilson could not entirely resist its influence, "if I will get the linen made by witch or fairy, may I go?"
"Why, yes," replied her aunt; "as you cannot get it made without witches or fairies, I may safely say you may."
Jane's reliance was on kindness more potent than any modern magic; and that very evening, with the light-bounding step of hope, she went to her friend Mary's, where, after having made her acknowledgments to Mr. Lloyd with the grace of earnestness and sincerity, she revealed to Mary the only obstacle that now opposed her wishes. Mary at once, as Jane expected, offered to make the linen for her; and Jane, affectionately thanking her, said, she was sure her aunt would be satisfied, for she had often heard her say, "Mary Hull was the best needle woman in the county."
Mrs. Wilson had seen Jane so uniformly flexible and submissive to her wilful administration, and in matters she deemed of vastly more consequence than six months schooling, that she was all astonishment to behold her now so persevering in her resolution to accomplish her purpose. But Jane's and Mrs. Wilson's estimate of the importance of any given object was very different. The same fortitude that enabled Jane to bear, silently and patiently, the "oppressor's wrong," nerved her courage in the attainment of a good end.
Mrs. Wilson had no longer any pretence to oppose Jane's wishes; and the following day she took her place, with her cousins, at Mr. Evertson's school. Her education had been very much advanced for her years; so that, though four years younger than Martha Wilson, she was, after a very careful examination by the teacher, classed with her. This was a severe mortification to Martha's pride; she seemed to feel her cousin's equality an insult to herself, and when she reported the circumstance to her mother, she said, she believed it was all owing to Jane's soft answers and pretty face; or "may be the Quaker, who takes such a mighty fancy to Jane, has bribed Mr. Evertson."
"Very likely, very likely," answered her mother. "It seems as if every body took that child's part against us."
Jane, once more placed on even ground with her companions, was like a spring relieved from a pressure. She entered on her new pursuits with a vigour that baffled the mean attempts of the family at home to impede or hinder her course. She was not a genius, but she had that eager assiduity, that "patient attention," to which the greatest of philosophers attributed the success which has been the envy and admiration of the world. There was a perpetual sunshine in her face, that delighted her patron. He had thought nothing could be more interesting than Jane's pensive dejected expression; but he now felt, that it was beautiful as well as natural for the young plant to expand its leaves to the bright rays of the sun, and to rejoice in his beams. Mary Hull was heard to say, quite as often as the beauty of the expression would justify, the Lord be thanked, our dear young lady once more wears the "cheerfulness of countenance that betokens a heart in prosperity."
Double duties were laid on Jane at home, but she won her way through them. The strict rule of her aunt's house did not allow her to "watch with the constellations," but she "made acquaintance with the gray dawn," and learnt by "employing them well," (the mode recommended by Elizabeth Smith,) the value of minutes as well as hours. The bad envied her progress, the stupid were amazed at it, and the generous delighted with it. She went, rejoicing on her way, far before her cousins, who, stung by her manifest superiority, made unwonted exertions; and Martha might have fairly competed with her for the prizes that were to be given, had she not often been confused and obstructed by the perversities of her temper.
The winter and the spring winged their rapid light. The end of the term, which was to close with an exhibition, approached. The note of busy preparation was heard in every dwelling in the village of . We doubt if the expectation of the tournament at Ashby de la Zouche excited a greater sensation among knights-templars, Norman lords, and wandering chevaliers, than the anticipation of the exhibition produced upon the young people of . Labour and skill were employed and exhausted in preparations for the event. One day was allotted for the examination of the scholars, and the distribution of prizes; and another for the exhibition, during which the young men and boys were to display those powers that were developing for the pulpit, and the bar, and the political harangue. The young ladies were with obvious and singular propriety excluded from any part in the exhibition except that on the first drawing aside, (for they did not know enough of the scenic art to draw up the curtain,) the prize composition was to be read by the writer of it.
The old and the young seemed alike interested in promoting the glories of the day. The part of a king, from one of Miss More's Sacred Dramas, was to be enacted, and there was a general assembly of the girls of the village to fit his royal trappings. A purple shawl was converted by a little girl of ready invention into a royal robe of Tyrian dye. The crown blazed with jewelry, which to too curious scrutiny appeared to be not diamonds, but paste; not gold, but gold-leaf, and gold beads; of which fashionable New-England necklace, as tradition goes, there were not less than sixty strings, lent for the occasion by the kind 'auld wives' of the village. An antiquated belle who had once flourished in the capital, completed the decoration of the crown by four nodding ostrich plumes, whose 'bend did certainly awe the world' of . There might have been some want of congruity in the regalia, but this was not marked by the critics of , as not one of the republican audience had ever seen a real crown.
A meeting was called of the trustees of the school, and the meeting-house (for thus in the land of the Puritans the churches are still named,) was assigned as the place of exhibition. In order not to invade the seriousness of the sanctuary, the pieces to be spoken were all to be of a moral or religious character. Instrumental music, notwithstanding the celebrations of Independence in the same holy place were pleaded as a precedent, was rigorously forbidden. The arrangements were made according to these decrees, from which there was no appeal, and neither, as usually happens with inevitable evils, was there much dissatisfaction. One of the boys remarked, that he wondered the deacons (three of the trustees were deacons,) did not stop the birds from singing, and the sun from shining, and all such gay sounds and sights. Oh that those, who throw a pall over the innocent pleasures of life, and give, in the eye of the young, to religion a dark and gloomy aspect, would learn some lessons of theology from the joyous light of the sun, and the merry carol of the birds!
A floor was laid over the tops of the pews, which was covered by a carpet lent by the kind Mr. Lloyd. A chair, a present from Queen Anne to the first missionary to the Housatonick Indians, and which, like some other royal gifts, had cost more than it came to, in its journey from the coast to the mountainous interior, furnished a very respectable throne, less mutable than some that have been filled by real kings, for it remained in fixture in the middle of the stage, while kings were deposed and kingdoms overthrown. Curtains, of divers colours and figures, were drawn in a cunningly devised manner, from one end of the church to the other.
The day of examination came, and our deserving young heroine was crowned with honours, which she merited so well, and bore so meekly, that she had the sympathy of the whole school—except that (for the truth must be told,) of her envious cousins. When the prizes for arithmetic, grammar, geography, history, and philosophy, were one after another, in obedience to the award of the examiners, delivered to Jane, by her gratified master, Martina Wilson burst into tears of spite and mortification, and Elvira whispered to the young lady next her, "She may have her triumph now, but I will have one worth a hundred prizes to-morrow, for, I am sure that my composition will be preferred to hers."
To add the zest of curiosity and surprise to the exhibition, it had been determined that the writer of the successful piece should not be known till the withdrawing of the curtain disclosed the secret. The long expected day arrived. One would have thought, from the waggons and chaises that poured in from the neighbouring towns, that a cattle show, or a hanging, or some such 'merry-making matter,' was going on in the village of . The church was filled at an early hour, and pews, aisles, and galleries crowded as we have seen a less holy place at the first appearance of a foreign actor. The teacher and the clergyman were in the pulpit; the scholars ranged on benches at the opposite extremities of the stage; the crowd was hushed into reverent stillness while the clergyman commenced the exercises of the day by an appropriate prayer. The curtains were hardly closed, before they were again withdrawn, and the eager eyes of the assembly fell on Elvira. A shadow of disappointment might have been seen flitting across Mr. Lloyd's face at this moment, while Mary Hull, who sat in a corner of the gallery, half rose from her seat, sat down again, tied and untied her bonnet, and, in short, manifested indubitable signs of a vexed spirit; signs, that in more charitable eyes than Mrs. Wilson's certainly would have gone against the obnoxious doctrine of 'perfection.' Elvira was seated on the throne, ambitiously arrayed in a bright scarlet Canton crape frock, a white sarsenet scarf, fantastically thrown over her shoulders. Her hair, in imitation of some favourite heroine, flowed in ringlets over her neck, excepting a single braid, with which, as she fancied, 'à la grecque,' she had encompassed her brow, and, to add to this confusion of the classical and the pastoral orders, instead of the crescent of Diana in the model, she had bound her braid with blue glass beads.
"Who is that? who is that?" was whispered from one to another.
"The rich widow Wilson's daughter," the strangers were answered.
Mrs. Wilson, whose maternal pride (for maternal tenderness she had not) was swollen by the consciousness of triumph over Jane, nodded and whispered to all within her hearing, "My daughter, sir"—"my daughter, ma'am; you see, by the bill, the prize composition is to be spoken by the writer of it."
Elvira rose and advanced. She had requested that she might speak instead of reading her piece, and she spouted it with all the airs and graces of a sentimentalist of the beau monde. When she dropped her courtesy, and returned to her companions, her usually high colour was heightened by the pride of success and the pleasure of display. Some were heard to say, "She is a beauty;" while others shook their heads, and observed, "The young lady must have great talents to write such a piece, but she looked too bold to please them."
Before the busy hum of comment had died away, an old man, with a bald head, a keen eye, and a very good-humoured face, rose and said "he would make bold to speak a word; bashfulness was suitable to youth, but was not necessary to gray hairs: he was kinder-loath to spoil a young body's pleasure, but he must own he did not like to see so much flourish in borrowed plumes; that, if he read the notice right, the young woman was to speak a piece of her own framing; he had no fault to find with the speaking; she spoke as smart as a lawyer; but he knew them words as well as the catechism, and if the school-master or the minister would please to walk to his house, which was hard by, they might read them out of an old Boston newspaper, that his woman, who had been dead ten years come independence, had pasted up by the side of his bed, to keep off the rheumatis."
The old man sat down; and Mr. Evertson, who had all along been a little suspicious of foul play, begged the patience of the audience, while he himself could make the necessary comparison. Mrs. Wilson, conscious of the possession of a file of old Boston papers, and well knowing the artifice was but too probable, fidgetted from one side of the pew to the other; and the conscience-stricken girl, on the pretence of being seized with a violent tooth-ach, left the church.
The teacher soon returned, and was very sorry to be obliged to say, that the result of the investigation had been unfavourable to the young lady's integrity, as the piece had, undoubtedly, been copied, verbatim, from the original essay in the Boston paper.
"He hoped his school would suffer no discredit from the fault of an individual. He should now, though the young lady had remonstrated against being brought forward under such circumstances, insist on the composition being read, which had been pronounced next best to Miss Wilson's; and which, he could assure the audience, was, unquestionably, original."
The curtain was once more withdrawn, and discovered Jane seated on the throne, looking like the "meek usurper," reluctant to receive the honour that was forced upon her. She presented a striking contrast to the deposed sovereign. She was dressed in a plain black silk frock, and a neatly plaited muslin vandyke; her rich light brown hair was parted on her forehead, and put up behind in a handsome comb, around which one of her young friends had twisted an "od'rous chaplet of sweet summer buds." She advanced with so embarrassed an air, that even Mary Hull thought her triumph cost more than it was worth. As she unrolled the scroll she held in her hand, she ventured once to raise her eyes; she saw but one face among all the multitude—the approving, encouraging smile of her kind patron met her timid glance, and emboldened her to proceed, which she did, in a low and faltering voice, that certainly lent no grace, but the grace of modesty, to the composition. The subject was gratitude, and the remarks, made on the virtue, were such as could only come from one whose heart was warmed by its glow. Mr. Lloyd felt the delicate praise. Mrs. Wilson affected to appropriate it to herself. She whispered to her next neighbour, "It is easy to write about gratitude; but I am sure her conduct is evil and unthankful enough."
As Jane returned to her seat, her face brightened with the relief of having got through. Edward Erskine exclaimed to the young man next him, "By Jove, it is the most elegant composition I ever heard from a girl. Jane Elton has certainly grown very handsome."
"Yes," replied his friend; "I always thought her pretty, but you prefer her cousin."
"I did prefer her cousin," answered Erskine; "but I never noticed Jane much before; she is but a child, and she has always looked so pale and so sad since the change in her family. You know I have no fancy for solemn looks. Elvira is certainly handsome—very handsome; she is a cheating little devil; but, for all that, she is gay, and spirited, and amusing. It is enough to make any body deceitful to live with such a stern, churlish woman, as Mrs. Wilson. The girl has infinite ingenuity in cheating her mother, and her pretty face covers a multitude of faults."
"So I should think," replied his friend, "from the character you have given her. You will hardly applaud the deceits that have led to the disgrace of this morning."
"Oh, no!" answered Erskine; "but I am sorry for her mortification."
The exhibition proceeded; but as our heroine had no further concern with it, neither have we; except to say, that it was equally honourable to the preceptor and pupils. The paraphernalia of the king was exceedingly admired, and some were heard to observe, (very pertinently,) that they did not believe Solomon, in all his glory, was arrayed like him.
Jane's situation, at her aunt's, was rendered more painful than ever, from the events of the school and the exhibition. Mrs. Wilson treated her with every species of vexatious unkindness. In vain Jane tried, by her usefulness to her aunt, to win her favour, and by the most patient obedience to her unreasonable commands, by silent uncomplaining submission, to sooth her into kindness. It was all in vain; her aunt was more oppressive than ever; Martha more rude, and Elvira more tormenting. It was not hearing her called "the just," that provoked their hatred; but it was the keen and most disagreeable feeling of self-reproach that stung them, when the light of her goodness fell upon their evil deeds; it was the "daily beauty of her life that made them ugly."