AS I had now
only one regular pupil - though
she contrived
to give me as much trouble as
three or four ordinary ones,
and though her sister still took
lessons in German and drawing
- I had considerably more time
at my own disposal than I had
ever been blessed with before,
since I had taken upon me the
governess's yoke; which time
I devoted partly to correspondence
with my friends, partly to reading,
study, and the practice of music,
singing, &c., partly to wandering
in the grounds or adjacent fields,
with my pupils if they wanted
me, alone if they did not.
Often, when they had no more
agreeable occupation at hand,
the Misses Murray would amuse
themselves with visiting the
poor cottagers on their father's
estate, to receive their flattering
homage, or to hear the old stories
or gossiping news of the garrulous
old women; or, perhaps, to enjoy
the purer pleasure of making
the poor people happy with their
cheering presence and their occasional
gifts, so easily bestowed, so
thankfully received. Sometimes,
I was called upon to accompany
one or both of the sisters in
these visits; and sometimes I
was desired to go alone, to fulfil
some promise which they had been
more ready to make than to perform;
to carry some small donation,
or read to one who was sick or
seriously disposed: and thus
I made a few acquaintances among
the cottagers; and, occasionally,
I went to see them on my own
account.
I generally had more satisfaction
in going alone than with either
of the young ladies; for they,
chiefly owing to their defective
education, comported themselves
towards their inferiors in a
manner that was highly disagreeable
for me to witness. They never,
in thought, exchanged places
with them; and, consequently,
had no consideration for their
feelings, regarding them as an
order of beings entirely different
from themselves. They would watch
the poor creatures at their meals,
making uncivil remarks about
their food, and their manner
of eating; they would laugh at
their simple notions and provincial
expressions, till some of them
scarcely durst venture to speak;
they would call the grave elderly
men and women old fools and silly
old blockheads to their faces:
and all this without meaning
to offend. I could see that the
people were often hurt and annoyed
by such conduct, though their
fear of the 'grand ladies' prevented
them from testifying any resentment;
but THEY never perceived it.
They thought that, as these cottagers
were poor and untaught, they
must be stupid and brutish; and
as long as they, their superiors,
condescended to talk to them,
and to give them shillings and
half-crowns, or articles of clothing,
they had a right to amuse themselves,
even at their expense; and the
people must adore them as angels
of light, condescending to minister
to their necessities, and enlighten
their humble dwellings.
I made many and various attempts
to deliver my pupils from these
delusive notions without alarming
their pride - which was easily
offended, and not soon appeased
- but with little apparent result;
and I know not which was the
more reprehensible of the two:
Matilda was more rude and boisterous;
but from Rosalie's womanly age
and lady-like exterior better
things were expected: yet she
was as provokingly careless and
inconsiderate as a giddy child
of twelve.
One bright day in the last
week of February, I was walking
in the park, enjoying the threefold
luxury of solitude, a book, and
pleasant weather; for Miss Matilda
had set out on her daily ride,
and Miss Murray was gone in the
carriage with her mamma to pay
some morning calls. But it struck
me that I ought to leave these
selfish pleasures, and the park
with its glorious canopy of bright
blue sky, the west wind sounding
through its yet leafless branches,
the snow-wreaths still lingering
in its hollows, but melting fast
beneath the sun, and the graceful
deer browsing on its moist herbage
already assuming the freshness
and verdure of spring - and go
to the cottage of one Nancy Brown,
a widow, whose son was at work
all day in the fields, and who
was afflicted with an inflammation
in the eyes; which had for some
time incapacitated her from reading:
to her own great grief, for she
was a woman of a serious, thoughtful
turn of mind. I accordingly went,
and found her alone, as usual,
in her little, close, dark cottage,
redolent of smoke and confined
air, but as tidy and clean as
she could make it. She was seated
beside her little fire (consisting
of a few red cinders and a bit
of stick), busily knitting, with
a small sackcloth cushion at
her feet, placed for the accommodation
of her gentle friend the cat,
who was seated thereon, with
her long tail half encircling
her velvet paws, and her half-closed
eyes dreamily gazing on the low,
crooked fender.
'Well, Nancy, how are you to-day?'
'Why, middling, Miss, i' myseln
- my eyes is no better, but I'm
a deal easier i' my mind nor
I have been,' replied she, rising
to welcome me with a contented
smile; which I was glad to see,
for Nancy had been somewhat afflicted
with religious melancholy. I
congratulated her upon the change.
She agreed that it was a great
blessing, and expressed herself
'right down thankful for it';
adding, 'If it please God to
spare my sight, and make me so
as I can read my Bible again,
I think I shall be as happy as
a queen.'
'I hope He will, Nancy,' replied
I; 'and, meantime, I'll come
and read to you now and then,
when I have a little time to
spare.'
With expressions of grateful
pleasure, the poor woman moved
to get me a chair; but, as I
saved her the trouble, she busied
herself with stirring the fire,
and adding a few more sticks
to the decaying embers; and then,
taking her well-used Bible from
the shelf, dusted it carefully,
and gave it me. On my asking
if there was any particular part
she should like me to read, she
answered -
'Well, Miss
Grey, if it's all the same
to you, I should like
to hear that chapter in the First
Epistle of St. John, that says, "God
is love, and he that dwelleth
in love dwelleth in God, and
God in him."'
With a little searching, I
found these words in the fourth
chapter. When I came to the seventh
verse she interrupted me, and,
with needless apologies for such
a liberty, desired me to read
it very slowly, that she might
take it all in, and dwell on
every word; hoping I would excuse
her, as she was but a 'simple
body.'
'The wisest person,' I replied,
'might think over each of these
verses for an hour, and be all
the better for it; and I would
rather read them slowly than
not.'
Accordingly, I finished the
chapter as slowly as need be,
and at the same time as impressively
as I could; my auditor listened
most attentively all the while,
and sincerely thanked me when
I had done. I sat still about
half a minute to give her time
to reflect upon it; when, somewhat
to my surprise, she broke the
pause by asking me how I liked
Mr. Weston?
'I don't know,' I replied,
a little startled by the suddenness
of the question; 'I think he
preaches very well.'
'Ay, he does so; and talks
well too.'
'Does he?'
'He does. Maybe, you haven't
seen him - not to talk to him
much, yet?'
'No, I never see any one to
talk to - except the young ladies
of the Hall.'
'Ah; they're nice, kind young
ladies; but they can't talk as
he does.'
'Then he comes to see you,
Nancy?'
'He does, Miss;
and I'se thankful for it. He
comes to see all us
poor bodies a deal ofter nor
Maister Bligh, or th' Rector
ever did; an' it's well he does,
for he's always welcome: we can't
say as much for th' Rector -
there is 'at says they're fair
feared on him. When he comes
into a house, they say he's sure
to find summut wrong, and begin
a-calling 'em as soon as he crosses
th' doorstuns: but maybe he thinks
it his duty like to tell 'em
what's wrong. And very oft he
comes o' purpose to reprove folk
for not coming to church, or
not kneeling an' standing when
other folk does, or going to
the Methody chapel, or summut
o' that sort: but I can't say
'at he ever fund much fault wi'
me. He came to see me once or
twice, afore Maister Weston come,
when I was so ill troubled in
my mind; and as I had only very
poor health besides, I made bold
to send for him - and he came
right enough. I was sore distressed,
Miss Grey - thank God, it's owered
now - but when I took my Bible,
I could get no comfort of it
at all. That very chapter 'at
you've just been reading troubled
me as much as aught - "He that
loveth not, knoweth not God." It
seemed fearsome to me; for I
felt that I loved neither God
nor man as I should do, and could
not, if I tried ever so. And
th' chapter afore, where it says,
- "He that is born of God cannot
commit sin." And another place
where it says, - "Love is the
fulfilling of the Law." And many,
many others, Miss: I should fair
weary you out, if I was to tell
them all. But all seemed to condemn
me, and to show me 'at I was
not in the right way; and as
I knew not how to get into it,
I sent our Bill to beg Maister
Hatfield to be as kind as look
in on me some day and when he
came, I telled him all my troubles.'
'And what did he say, Nancy?'
'Why, Miss,
he seemed to scorn me. I might
be mista'en - but
he like gave a sort of a whistle,
and I saw a bit of a smile on
his face; and he said, "Oh, it's
all stuff! You've been among
the Methodists, my good woman." But
I telled him I'd never been near
the Methodies. And then he said,
- "Well," says he, "you must
come to church, where you'll
hear the Scriptures properly
explained, instead of sitting
poring over your Bible at home."
'But I telled him I always
used coming to church when I
had my health; but this very
cold winter weather I hardly
durst venture so far - and me
so bad wi' th' rheumatic and
all.
'But he says, "It'll do your
rheumatiz good to hobble to church:
there's nothing like exercise
for the rheumatiz. You can walk
about the house well enough;
why can't you walk to church?
The fact is," says he, "you're
getting too fond of your ease.
It's always easy to find excuses
for shirking one's duty."
'But then,
you know, Miss Grey, it wasn't
so. However, I telled
him I'd try. "But please, sir," says
I, "if I do go to church, what
the better shall I be? I want
to have my sins blotted out,
and to feel that they are remembered
no more against me, and that
the love of God is shed abroad
in my heart; and if I can get
no good by reading my Bible an'
saying my prayers at home, what
good shall I get by going to
church?'
'"The church," says he, "is
the place appointed by God for
His worship. It's your duty to
go there as often as you can.
If you want comfort, you must
seek it in the path of duty," -
an' a deal more he said, but
I cannot remember all his fine
words. However, it all came to
this, that I was to come to church
as oft as ever I could, and bring
my prayer-book with me, an' read
up all the sponsers after the
clerk, an' stand, an' kneel,
an' sit, an' do all as I should,
and take the Lord's Supper at
every opportunity, an' hearken
his sermons, and Maister Bligh's,
an' it 'ud be all right: if I
went on doing my duty, I should
get a blessing at last.
'"But if you get no comfort
that way," says he, "it's all
up."
'"Then, sir," says I, "should
you think I'm a reprobate?"
'"Why," says he - he says, "if
you do your best to get to heaven
and can't manage it, you must
be one of those that seek to
enter in at the strait gate and
shall not be able."
'An' then he asked me if I'd
seen any of the ladies o' th'
Hall about that mornin'; so I
telled him where I had seen the
young misses go on th' Moss Lane;
- an' he kicked my poor cat right
across th' floor, an' went after
'em as gay as a lark: but I was
very sad. That last word o' his
fair sunk into my heart, an'
lay there like a lump o' lead,
till I was weary to bear it.
'Howsever, I follered his advice:
I thought he meant it all for
th' best, though he HAD a queer
way with him. But you know, Miss,
he's rich an' young, and such
like cannot right understand
the thoughts of a poor old woman
such as me. But, howsever, I
did my best to do all as he bade
me - but maybe I'm plaguing you,
Miss, wi' my chatter.'
'Oh, no, Nancy! Go on, and
tell me all.'
'Well, my rheumatiz
got better - I know not whether
wi' going
to church or not, but one frosty
Sunday I got this cold i' my
eyes. Th' inflammation didn't
come on all at once like, but
bit by bit - but I wasn't going
to tell you about my eyes, I
was talking about my trouble
o' mind; - and to tell the truth,
Miss Grey, I don't think it was
anyways eased by coming to church
- nought to speak on, at least:
I like got my health better;
but that didn't mend my soul.
I hearkened and hearkened the
ministers, and read an' read
at my prayer-book; but it was
all like sounding brass and a
tinkling cymbal: the sermons
I couldn't understand, an' th'
prayer-book only served to show
me how wicked I was, that I could
read such good words an' never
be no better for it, and oftens
feel it a sore labour an' a heavy
task beside, instead of a blessing
and a privilege as all good Christians
does. It seemed like as all were
barren an' dark to me. And then,
them dreadful words, "Many shall
seek to enter in, and shall not
be able." They like as they fair
dried up my sperrit.
'But one Sunday,
when Maister Hatfield gave
out about the sacrament,
I noticed where he said, "If
there be any of you that cannot
quiet his own conscience, but
requireth further comfort or
counsel, let him come to me,
or some other discreet and learned
minister of God's word, and open
his grief!" So next Sunday morning,
afore service, I just looked
into the vestry, an' began a-
talking to th' Rector again.
I hardly could fashion to take
such a liberty, but I thought
when my soul was at stake I shouldn't
stick at a trifle. But he said
he hadn't time to attend to me
then.
'"And, indeed," says he, "I've
nothing to say to you but what
I've said before. Take the sacrament,
of course, and go on doing your
duty; and if that won't serve
you, nothing will. So don't bother
me any more."
'So then, I went away. But
I heard Maister Weston - Maister
Weston was there, Miss - this
was his first Sunday at Horton,
you know, an' he was i' th' vestry
in his surplice, helping th'
Rector on with his gown - '
'Yes, Nancy.'
'And I heard
him ask Maister Hatfield who
I was, an' he says, "Oh,
she's a canting old fool."
'And I was very ill grieved,
Miss Grey; but I went to my seat,
and I tried to do my duty as
aforetime: but I like got no
peace. An' I even took the sacrament;
but I felt as though I were eating
and drinking to my own damnation
all th' time. So I went home,
sorely troubled.
'But next day,
afore I'd gotten fettled up
- for indeed, Miss,
I'd no heart to sweeping an'
fettling, an' washing pots; so
I sat me down i' th' muck - who
should come in but Maister Weston!
I started siding stuff then,
an' sweeping an' doing; and I
expected he'd begin a-calling
me for my idle ways, as Maister
Hatfield would a' done; but I
was mista'en: he only bid me
good-mornin' like, in a quiet
dacent way. So I dusted him a
chair, an' fettled up th' fireplace
a bit; but I hadn't forgotten
th' Rector's words, so says I, "I
wonder, sir, you should give
yourself that trouble, to come
so far to see a 'canting old
fool,' such as me."
'He seemed
taken aback at that; but he
would fain persuade me
'at the Rector was only in jest;
and when that wouldn't do, he
says, "Well, Nancy, you shouldn't
think so much about it: Mr. Hatfield
was a little out of humour just
then: you know we're none of
us perfect - even Moses spoke
unadvisedly with his lips. But
now sit down a minute, if you
can spare the time, and tell
me all your doubts and fears;
and I'll try to remove them."
'So I sat me down anent him.
He was quite a stranger, you
know, Miss Grey, and even YOUNGER
nor Maister Hatfield, I believe;
and I had thought him not so
pleasant-looking as him, and
rather a bit crossish, at first,
to look at; but he spake so civil
like - and when th' cat, poor
thing, jumped on to his knee,
he only stroked her, and gave
a bit of a smile: so I thought
that was a good sign; for once,
when she did so to th' Rector,
he knocked her off, like as it
might be in scorn and anger,
poor thing. But you can't expect
a cat to know manners like a
Christian, you know, Miss Grey.'
'No; of course not, Nancy.
But what did Mr. Weston say then?'
'He said nought; but he listened
to me as steady an' patient as
could be, an' never a bit o'
scorn about him; so I went on,
an' telled him all, just as I've
telled you - an' more too.
'"Well," says he, "Mr.
Hatfield was quite right in
telling you
to persevere in doing your duty;
but in advising you to go to
church and attend to the service,
and so on, he didn't mean that
was the whole of a Christian's
duty: he only thought you might
there learn what more was to
be done, and be led to take delight
in those exercises, instead of
finding them a task and a burden.
And if you had asked him to explain
those words that trouble you
so much, I think he would have
told you, that if many shall
seek to enter in at the strait
gate and shall not be able, it
is their own sins that hinder
them; just as a man with a large
sack on his back might wish to
pass through a narrow doorway,
and find it impossible to do
so unless he would leave his
sack behind him. But you, Nancy,
I dare say, have no sins that
you would not gladly throw aside,
if you knew how?"
'"Indeed, sir, you speak truth," said
I.
'"Well," says he, "you
know the first and great commandment
- and the second, which is like
unto it - on which two commandments
hang all the law and the prophets?
You say you cannot love God;
but it strikes me that if you
rightly consider who and what
He is, you cannot help it. He
is your father, your best friend:
every blessing, everything good,
pleasant, or useful, comes from
Him; and everything evil, everything
you have reason to hate, to shun,
or to fear, comes from Satan
- HIS enemy as well as ours.
And for THIS cause was God manifest
in the flesh, that He might destroy
the works of the Devil: in one
word, God is LOVE; and the more
of love we have within us, the
nearer we are to Him and the
more of His spirit we possess."
'"Well, sir," I said, "if
I can always think on these
things,
I think I might well love God:
but how can I love my neighbours,
when they vex me, and be so contrary
and sinful as some on 'em is?"
'"It may seem a hard matter," says
he, "to love our neighbours,
who have so much of what is evil
about them, and whose faults
so often awaken the evil that
lingers within ourselves; but
remember that HE made them, and
HE loves them; and whosoever
loveth him that begat, loveth
him that is begotten also. And
if God so loveth us, that He
gave His only begotten Son to
die for us, we ought also to
love one another. But if you
cannot feel positive affection
for those who do not care for
you, you can at least try to
do to them as you would they
should do unto you: you can endeavour
to pity their failings and excuse
their offences, and to do all
the good you can to those about
you. And if you accustom yourself
to this, Nancy, the very effort
itself will make you love them
in some degree - to say nothing
of the goodwill your kindness
would beget in them, though they
might have little else that is
good about them. If we love God
and wish to serve Him, let us
try to be like Him, to do His
work, to labour for His glory
- which is the good of man -
to hasten the coming of His kingdom,
which is the peace and happiness
of all the world: however powerless
we may seem to be, in doing all
the good we can through life,
the humblest of us may do much
towards it: and let us dwell
in love, that He may dwell in
us and we in Him. The more happiness
we bestow, the more we shall
receive, even here; and the greater
will be our reward in heaven
when we rest from our labours." I
believe, Miss, them is his very
words, for I've thought 'em ower
many a time. An' then he took
that Bible, an' read bits here
and there, an' explained 'em
as clear as the day: and it seemed
like as a new light broke in
on my soul; an' I felt fair aglow
about my heart, an' only wished
poor Bill an' all the world could
ha' been there, an' heard it
all, and rejoiced wi' me.
'After he was
gone, Hannah Rogers, one o'
th' neighbours,
came in and wanted me to help
her to wash. I telled her I couldn't
just then, for I hadn't set on
th' potaties for th' dinner,
nor washed up th' breakfast stuff
yet. So then she began a-calling
me for my nasty idle ways. I
was a little bit vexed at first,
but I never said nothing wrong
to her: I only telled her like
all in a quiet way, 'at I'd had
th' new parson to see me; but
I'd get done as quick as ever
I could, an' then come an' help
her. So then she softened down;
and my heart like as it warmed
towards her, an' in a bit we
was very good friends. An' so
it is, Miss Grey, "a soft answer
turneth away wrath; but grievous
words stir up anger." It isn't
only in them you speak to, but
in yourself.'
'Very true, Nancy, if we could
always remember it.'
'Ay, if we could!'
'And did Mr. Weston ever come
to see you again?'
'Yes, many
a time; and since my eyes has
been so bad, he's
sat an' read to me by the half-hour
together: but you know, Miss,
he has other folks to see, and
other things to do - God bless
him! An' that next Sunday he
preached SUCH a sermon! His text
was, "Come unto me all ye that
labour and are heavy laden, and
I will give you rest," and them
two blessed verses that follows.
You wasn't there, Miss, you was
with your friends then - but
it made me SO happy! And I AM
happy now, thank God! an' I take
a pleasure, now, in doing little
bits o' jobs for my neighbours
- such as a poor old body 'at's
half blind can do; and they take
it kindly of me, just as he said.
You see, Miss, I'm knitting a
pair o' stockings now; - they're
for Thomas Jackson: he's a queerish
old body, an' we've had many
a bout at threaping, one anent
t'other; an' at times we've differed
sorely. So I thought I couldn't
do better nor knit him a pair
o' warm stockings; an' I've felt
to like him a deal better, poor
old man, sin' I began. It's turned
out just as Maister Weston said.'
'Well, I'm very glad to see
you so happy, Nancy, and so wise:
but I must go now; I shall be
wanted at the Hall,' said I;
and bidding her good-bye, I departed,
promising to come again when
I had time, and feeling nearly
as happy as herself.
At another time I went to read
to a poor labourer who was in
the last stage of consumption.
The young ladies had been to
see him, and somehow a promise
of reading had been extracted
from them; but it was too much
trouble, so they begged me to
do it instead. I went, willingly
enough; and there too I was gratified
with the praises of Mr. Weston,
both from the sick man and his
wife. The former told me that
he derived great comfort and
benefit from the visits of the
new parson, who frequently came
to see him, and was 'another
guess sort of man' to Mr. Hatfield;
who, before the other's arrival
at Horton, had now and then paid
him a visit; on which occasions
he would always insist upon having
the cottage-door kept open, to
admit the fresh air for his own
convenience, without considering
how it might injure the sufferer;
and having opened his prayer-book
and hastily read over a part
of the Service for the Sick,
would hurry away again: if he
did not stay to administer some
harsh rebuke to the afflicted
wife, or to make some thoughtless,
not to say heartless, observation,
rather calculated to increase
than diminish the troubles of
the suffering pair.
'Whereas,' said the man, 'Maister
Weston 'ull pray with me quite
in a different fashion, an' talk
to me as kind as owt; an' oft
read to me too, an' sit beside
me just like a brother.'
'Just for all the world!' exclaimed
his wife; 'an' about a three
wik sin', when he seed how poor
Jem shivered wi' cold, an' what
pitiful fires we kept, he axed
if wer stock of coals was nearly
done. I telled him it was, an'
we was ill set to get more: but
you know, mum, I didn't think
o' him helping us; but, howsever,
he sent us a sack o' coals next
day; an' we've had good fires
ever sin': and a great blessing
it is, this winter time. But
that's his way, Miss Grey: when
he comes into a poor body's house
a- seein' sick folk, he like
notices what they most stand
i' need on; an' if he thinks
they can't readily get it therseln,
he never says nowt about it,
but just gets it for 'em. An'
it isn't everybody 'at 'ud do
that, 'at has as little as he
has: for you know, mum, he's
nowt at all to live on but what
he gets fra' th' Rector, an'
that's little enough they say.'
I remembered then, with a species
of exultation, that he had frequently
been styled a vulgar brute by
the amiable Miss Murray, because
he wore a silver watch, and clothes
not quite so bright and fresh
as Mr. Hatfield's.
In returning to the Lodge I
felt very happy, and thanked
God that I had now something
to think about; something to
dwell on as a relief from the
weary monotony, the lonely drudgery,
of my present life: for I WAS
lonely. Never, from month to
month, from year to year, except
during my brief intervals of
rest at home, did I see one creature
to whom I could open my heart,
or freely speak my thoughts with
any hope of sympathy, or even
comprehension: never one, unless
it were poor Nancy Brown, with
whom I could enjoy a single moment
of real social intercourse, or
whose conversation was calculated
to render me better, wiser, or
happier than before; or who,
as far as I could see, could
be greatly benefited by mine.
My only companions had been unamiable
children, and ignorant, wrong-
headed girls; from whose fatiguing
folly, unbroken solitude was
often a relief most earnestly
desired and dearly prized. But
to be restricted to such associates
was a serious evil, both in its
immediate effects and the consequences
that were likely to ensue. Never
a new idea or stirring thought
came to me from without; and
such as rose within me were,
for the most part, miserably
crushed at once, or doomed to
sicken or fade away, because
they could not see the light.
Habitual associates are known
to exercise a great influence
over each other's minds and manners.
Those whose actions are for ever
before our eyes, whose words
are ever in our ears, will naturally
lead us, albeit against our will,
slowly, gradually, imperceptibly,
perhaps, to act and speak as
they do. I will not presume to
say how far this irresistible
power of assimilation extends;
but if one civilised man were
doomed to pass a dozen years
amid a race of intractable savages,
unless he had power to improve
them, I greatly question whether,
at the close of that period,
he would not have become, at
least, a barbarian himself. And
I, as I could not make my young
companions better, feared exceedingly
that they would make me worse
- would gradually bring my feelings,
habits, capacities, to the level
of their own; without, however,
imparting to me their lightheartedness
and cheerful vivacity.
Already, I
seemed to feel my intellect
deteriorating, my heart
petrifying, my soul contracting;
and I trembled lest my very moral
perceptions should become deadened,
my distinctions of right and
wrong confounded, and all my
better faculties be sunk, at
last, beneath the baneful influence
of such a mode of life. The gross
vapours of earth were gathering
around me, and closing in upon
my inward heaven; and thus it
was that Mr. Weston rose at length
upon me, appearing like the morning
star in my horizon, to save me
from the fear of utter darkness;
and I rejoiced that I had now
a subject for contemplation that
was above me, not beneath. I
was glad to see that all the
world was not made up of Bloomfields,
Murrays, Hatfields, Ashbys, &c.;
and that human excellence was
not a mere dream of the imagination.
When we hear a little good and
no harm of a person, it is easy
and pleasant to imagine more:
in short, it is needless to analyse
all my thoughts; but Sunday was
now become a day of peculiar
delight to me (I was now almost
broken-in to the back corner
in the carriage), for I liked
to hear him - and I liked to
see him, too; though I knew he
was not handsome, or even what
is called agreeable, in outward
aspect; but, certainly, he was
not ugly.
In stature he was a little,
a very little, above the middle
size; the outline of his face
would be pronounced too square
for beauty, but to me it announced
decision of character; his dark
brown hair was not carefully
curled, like Mr. Hatfield's,
but simply brushed aside over
a broad white forehead; the eyebrows,
I suppose, were too projecting,
but from under those dark brows
there gleamed an eye of singular
power, brown in colour, not large,
and somewhat deep-set, but strikingly
brilliant, and full of expression;
there was character, too, in
the mouth, something that bespoke
a man of firm purpose and an
habitual thinker; and when he
smiled - but I will not speak
of that yet, for, at the time
I mention, I had never seen him
smile: and, indeed, his general
appearance did not impress me
with the idea of a man given
to such a relaxation, nor of
such an individual as the cottagers
described him. I had early formed
my opinion of him; and, in spite
of Miss Murray's objurgations:
was fully convinced that he was
a man of strong sense, firm faith,
and ardent piety, but thoughtful
and stern: and when I found that,
to his other good qualities,
was added that of true benevolence
and gentle, considerate kindness,
the discovery, perhaps, delighted
me the more, as I had not been
prepared to expect it.
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