"Blest be the day Christ was born!
We've gotten in the Squire's corn, Well bound, and better shorn.
Hip! Hip! Hurrah!"
But as they sang the dispute between the drivers was growing less and less friendly, and the driver of the coach whipped up his horses, and took all the road he wanted, and went onward at such a rattling pace as soon left Shipley forever behind me.
CHAPTER III
WHERE DRUIDS AND GIANTS DWELT
"... upon the silent shore Of memory, we find images and precious thoughts, That shall not die, and cannot be destroyed."
I was greatly delighted with Penrith. It was such a complete change from Shipley, and youth is always sure that change must mean something better. In the first place the town was beautiful, and generally built of the new red sandstone on which it stands; but our house was white, being I think of a rough stucco, and it stood on one of the pleasantest streets in the town, the one leading up to the Beacon. Its rooms appeared very large to me then; perhaps I might not think so highly of them now. Its door opened directly into the living-room, and it was always such a joy to open it, and step out of the snow or rain into a room full of love and comfort. Since those days I have liked well the old English houses where the front door opens directly into the living-room. Ten or twelve years ago a lady built in Cornwall-on-Hudson a handsome house having this peculiarity, and I often went to see her, enjoying every time that one step from all out doors, into the sweet home influence beyond it.
The sound of the loom and the shuttle were never heard in the broad still streets of Penrith. Business was a thing rather pushed into a corner, for Penrith was aristocratic, and always had been. The great earls of Lonsdale lent it their prestige, and circling it were some of the castles and seats of the most famous nobility. It had been often sacked, and had many royal associations. Richard the Third had dwelt in its castle when the Duke of Gloucester, and Henry the Eighth's last wife, Catherine Parr, came from Kendal. The castle itself had been built by Edward the Third, and destroyed by Cromwell. All these and many more such incidents I heard the first day of my residence in the town from a young girl we had hired for the kitchen, and she mingled with these facts the Fairy Cup of Eden Hall, and the great Lord Brougham, Long Meg and her daughters, and the giant's grave in Penrith churchyard; and I felt as if I had stepped into some enchanted city.
Up to this time I had never been to what I called a proper school. The dame's school at Shipley I had far outstepped, and I was so eager to learn, that I wished to begin every study at once. There were two good schools in Penrith, one kept by a Miss Pearson, and the other by a man whose name I have forgotten. I wanted to go to Miss Pearson. She had the most select and expensive school. The man's school was said to be more strict and thorough, and much less expensive; but there was a positive prejudice against boys and girls being taught together. I could tell from the chatter of the girl in the kitchen, that it was looked down upon, and considered vulgar by the best people. I was anxious about the result. Jane and I whispered our fears to each other, but we did not dare to express any opinion to our parents. At last I talked feelingly to Ann Oddy about the situation, and was glad to find her most decidedly on our side.
"I am for the woman," she said straight out, "and I shall tell the Master so plainly. What does that man know about trembling shy little girls?" she asked indignantly, "and I've heard," she continued, "that he uses the leather strap on their little hands--even when they are trying to do the best they know how. His own children look as if they got plenty of 'strap.' I've told your mother what I think of him."
"What did Mother say, Ann?" we eagerly asked.
"She said such a man as that would never do. So I went on--'Mrs.
Huddleston, our society wouldn't like it. He teaches girls to write a big, round man's hand. You may see it yourself, Mrs. Huddleston, if you'll lift his letter to you--good enough for keeping count of what money is owing you, but for young ladies, I say it isn't right--and his manners! if he has any, won't be fit to be seen, and you know, Mrs. Huddleston, how men talk, he won't be fit to be heard at times; at any rate that is the case with most men--except Mr. Huddleston.'"
With such words Ann reasoned, and if I remembered the very words used it would be only natural, for I heard them morning, noon and night, until Mother went to see Miss Pearson, and came home charmed with her fine manners and method of teaching. Then our dress had to be prepared, and I shall never forget it; for girls did not get so many dresses then as they do now, and I was delighted with the blue Saxony cloth that was my first school dress. Dresses were all of one piece then, and were made low with short baby sleeves, but a pelerine was made with the dress, which was really an over-waist with two little capes over the shoulders. My shoes were low and black, and had very pretty steel buckles; my bonnet, a cottage one of coarse Dunstable straw. It had a dark blue ribbon crossed over it, and a blue silk curtain behind, and some blue silk ribbon plaited just within the brim, a _Red Riding Hood_ cloak and French pattens for wet weather completed my school costume, and I was very proud of it.
Yet it is a miracle to me at this day, how the children of that time lived through the desperate weather, deep snows and bitter cold, in such insufficient clothing. I suppose it was the survival of the fittest.
My first school day was one of the greatest importance to me. I have not forgotten one incident in all its happy hours. I fell in love with Miss Pearson as soon as I saw her; yes, I really loved the woman, and I love her yet. She was tall and handsome, and had her abundant black hair dressed in a real bow knot on the top of her head; and falling in thick soft curls on her temples, and partly down her cheeks. An exceedingly large shell comb kept it in place. Her dress was dark, and she wore a large falling collar finely embroidered and trimmed with deep lace, and round her neck a long gold chain. She came smiling to meet us, and as soon as the whole school was gathered in front of the large table at which she sat, she rose and said,
"Young ladies, you have two new companions. I ask for them your kindness--Jane and Amelia Huddleston. Rise."
Then the whole school rose and curtsied to us, and as well as we were able, we returned the compliment. As soon as we were seated again, Miss Pearson produced a large book, and as she unclasped it, said,
"Miss Huddleston will come here."
Every eye was turned on Jane, who, however, rose at once and went to Miss Pearson's table. Then Miss Pearson read aloud something like the following words, for I have forgotten the exact form, though the promises contained in it have never been forgotten.
"I promise to be kind and helpful to all my schoolmates.
"I promise to speak the truth always.
"I promise to be honorable about the learning and repeating of my lessons.
"I promise to tell no malicious tales of any one.
"I promise to be ladylike in my speech and manners.
"I promise to treat all my teachers with respect and obedience."
These obligations were read aloud to Jane and she was asked if she agreed to keep them. Jane said she would keep them all, and she was then required to sign her name to the formula in the book, which she did very badly. When my turn came, I asked Miss Pearson to sign it for me. She did so, and then called up two girls as witnesses. This formality made a great impression on me, the more so, as Miss Pearson in a steady positive voice said, as she emphatically closed the book, "The first breaking of any of these promises may perhaps be forgiven, for the second fault there is no excuse--the girl will be dismissed from the school."
I was in this school three years and never saw one dismissed. The promise with the little formalities attending it had a powerful effect on my mind, and doubtless it influenced every girl in the same way.
After my examination it was decided that writing was the study to be first attended to. I was glad of this decision, for I longed to write, but I was a little dashed when I was taken to a long table running across the whole width of the room. This table was covered with the finest sea sand, there was a roller at one end, and the teacher ran it down the whole length of the table. It left behind it beautifully straight lines, between which were straight strokes, pothooks, and the letter _o_. Then a brass stylus was given me, and I was told to copy what I saw, and it was on this table of sand, with a pencil of brass, I took my first lessons in writing. When I could make all my letters, simple and capital, and knew how to join, dot, and cross them properly, I was promoted to a slate and slate pencil. In about half a year I was permitted to use paper and a wad pencil, but as wad, or lead, was then scarce and dear, we were taught at once how to sharpen and use them in the most economical manner. While I was using a wad pencil I was practicing the art of making a pen out of a goose quill.
Some children learned the lesson easily. I found it difficult, and spoiled many a bunch of quills in acquiring it.
I remember a clumsy pen in my father's desk almost as early as I remember anything. It was a metal tube, fastened to an ivory handle, and originated just before I was born. I never saw my father use it; he wrote with a quill all his life. In 1832, the year after my birth, thirty-three million, one hundred thousand quills were imported into England, and I am sure that at the present date, not all the geese in all the world would meet the demand for pens in the United States alone. Penny postage produced the steel pen. It belonged to an age of machinery, and could have belonged to no other age; for the great problem to be solved in the steel pen, was to convert iron into a substance as thin as the quill of a dove's wing, yet as strong as the strongest quill of an eagle's wing. When I was a girl not much over seven years old, children made their own pens; the steam engine now makes them.
A short time before Christmas my mother received the letter from Uncle Will Singleton she had been expecting. It came one Saturday morning when the snow lay deep, and the cold was intense. Jane and I were in the living-room with Mother. She had just cut a sheet down the middle, where it was turning thin, and I had to seam the two selvedge edges together, thus turning the strong parts of the sheet into the center.
This seam required to be very neatly made, and the sides were to be hemmed just as neatly. I disliked this piece of work with all my heart, but with the help of pins I divided it into different places, for the pins represented the cities, and I made up the adventures to them as I sewed. Jane, who was a better needlewoman than I, had some cambric to hem for ruffling, but the hem was not laid, it had to be rolled as it was sewn between the thumb and first finger of the left hand. Jane was always conceited about her skill in this kind of hemming, and as I write I can see her fair, still face with its smile of self-satisfaction, as her small fingers deftly and rapidly made the tiny roll, she was to sew with almost invisible needle and thread.
Mother was singing a song by Felicia Hemans, and Father was in the little parlor across the hall reading a book called "Elijah, the Tishbite;" for he had just been in the room to point out to Mother how grandly it opened. "Now Elijah the Tishbite," without any weakening explanations of who or what _Elijah_ was, and Mother had said in a disconcerting voice, "Isn't that the way it opens in the Bible, William?" There was a blazing fire above the snow-white hearth, and shining brass fender, and a pleasant smell of turpentine and beeswax, for Ann Oddy was giving the furniture a little rubbing. Suddenly there was a knock at the door, and Ann rose from her knees and went to open it. The next moment there was evident disputing, and Ann Oddy called sharply, "Mr. Huddleston, please to come here, sir."
When Father appeared, Mother also went to the door, and Jane and I stopped sewing in order to watch and to listen. It was the postman and he had charged a shilling for a letter, that only ought to be eight pence and while Ann was pointing out this mistake, my mother took the letter from her hand and looked at it.
"William," she said, "it is a death message, do not dispute about that toll." So Father gave the postman the shilling, and the door was shut, and Mother went to the fireside and stood there. Father quickly joined her. "Well, Mary," he said, "is it from your brother? What does he say?"
"Only eight words, William," Mother answered; and she read them aloud, "Come to me, Mary. The end is near."
Father was almost angry. He said she could not go over Shap Fells in such weather, and that snow was lying deep all the way to Kendal. He talked as though he was preaching. I thought Mother would not dare to speak any more about going to Kendal. But when Father stopped talking, Mother said in a strange, strong way,
"I shall certainly go to my brother. I shall try to get a seat in the coach that passes through here at ten o'clock to-night." I had never seen Mother look and talk as she did then, and I was astonished. So was Father. He watched her leave the room in silence, and for a few minutes seemed irresolute. Then Ann came in and lifted the beeswax, and was going away when Father said,
"Where is your mistress, Ann?"
"In her room, Mr. Huddleston."
"What is she doing?"
"Packing her little trunk. She says she is going to Kendal."
"She ought not to go to Kendal. She must not go."
"She's right enough in going, Mr. Huddleston, and she is sure to go."
"I never heard anything like this!" cried Father. He really was amazed. It was household rebellion. "Ann," he continued, "go upstairs and remind your mistress that John Henry has been sickly for two weeks. I have myself noticed the child looking far from well."
"Yes, sir, the child is sickly, but her brother is dying."
"Do you think the child should be left?"
"It would be worse if the brother died alone. I will look after John, Mr. Huddleston."
Then Father went upstairs, and Mother went by the night mail, and we did not see her again for nearly three weeks.
I do not apologize for relating a scene so common, for these simple intimacies and daily events, these meetings and partings, these sorrows and joys of the hearth and the family, are really the great events of our life. They are our personal sacred history. When we have forgotten all our labors, and even all our successes, we shall remember them.