The Vicar's Daughter, George MacDonald [important books to read .txt] 📗

I have followed has been to try from the first to put as much value, that is, as much truth, as I could, into my story. Perhaps, instead of those maxims of my father’s for the education of children, you would have preferred such specimens of your own children’s sermons as you made me read to you for the twentieth time yesterday?”

Instead of smiling with his own quiet kind smile, as he worked on at his picture of St. Athanasius with “no friend but God and Death,” he burst into a merry laugh, and said,—

“A capital idea! If you give those, word for word, I shall yield the precepts.”

“Are you out of your five wits, husband?” I exclaimed. “Would you have everybody take me for the latest incarnation of the oldest insanity in the world,—that of maternity? But I am really an idiot, for you could never have meant it!”

“I do most soberly and distinctly mean it. They would amuse your readers very much, and, without offending those who may prefer your father’s maxims to your children’s sermons, would incline those who might otherwise vote the former a bore, to regard them with the clemency resulting from amusement.”

“But I desire no such exercise of clemency. The precepts are admirable; and those need not take them who do not like them.”

“So the others can skip the sermons; but I am sure they will give a few mothers, at least, a little amusement. They will prove besides, that you follow your own rule of putting a very small quantity of sage into the stuffing of your goslings; as also that you have succeeded in making them capable of manifesting what nonsense is indigenous in them. I think them very funny; that may be paternal prejudice: you think them very silly as well; that may be maternal solicitude. I suspect, that, the more of a philosopher any one of your readers is, the more suggestive will he find these genuine utterances of an age at which the means of expression so much exceed the matter to be expressed.”

The idea began to look not altogether so absurd as at first; and a little more argument sufficed to make me resolve to put the absurdities themselves to the test of passing leisurely through my brain while I copied them out, possibly for the press.

The result is, that I am going to risk printing them, determined, should I find afterwards that I have made a blunder, to throw the whole blame upon my husband.

What still makes me shrink the most is the recollection of how often I have condemned, as too silly to repeat, things which reporting mothers evidently regarded as proofs of a stupendous intellect. But the folly of these constitutes the chief part of their merit; and I do not see how I can be mistaken for supposing them clever, except it be in regard of a glimmer of purpose now and then, and the occasional manifestation of the cunning of the stump orator, with his subterfuges to conceal his embarrassment when he finds his oil failing him, and his lamp burning low.

 

CHAPTER XL.

CHILD NONSENSE.

 

One word of introductory explanation.

During my husband’s illness, Marion came often, but, until he began to recover, would generally spend with the children the whole of the time she had to spare, not even permitting me to know that she was in the house. It was a great thing for them; for, although they were well enough cared for, they were necessarily left to themselves a good deal more than hitherto. Hence, perhaps, it came that they betook themselves to an amusement not uncommon with children, of which I had as yet seen nothing amongst them.

One evening, when my husband had made a little progress towards recovery, Marion came to sit with me in his room for an hour.

“I’ve brought you something I want to read to you,” she said, “if you think Mr. Percivale can bear it.”

I told her I believed he could, and she proceeded to explain what it was.

“One morning, when I went into the nursery, I found the children playing at church, or rather at preaching; for, except a few minutes of singing, the preaching occupied the whole time. There were two clergymen, Ernest and Charles, alternately incumbent and curate. The chief duty of the curate for the time being was to lend his aid to the rescue of his incumbent from any difficulty in which the extemporaneous character of his discourse might land him.”

I interrupt Marion to mention that the respective ages of Ernest and Charles were then eight and six.

“The pulpit,” she continued, “was on the top of the cupboard under the cuckoo-clock, and consisted of a chair and a cushion. There were prayer-books in abundance; of which neither of them, I am happy to say, made other than a pretended use for reference. Charles, indeed, who was preaching when I entered, can’t read; but both have far too much reverence to use sacred words in their games, as the sermons themselves will instance. I took down almost every word they said, frequent embarrassments and interruptions enabling me to do so. Ernest was acting as clerk, and occasionally prompted the speaker when his eloquence failed him, or reproved members of the congregation, which consisted of the two nurses and the other children, who were inattentive. Charles spoke with a good deal of unction, and had quite a professional air when he looked down on the big open book, referred to one or other of the smaller ones at his side, or directed looks of reprehension at this or that hearer. You would have thought he had cultivated the imitation of popular preachers, whereas he tells me he has been to church only three times. I am sorry I cannot give the opening remarks, for I lost them by being late; but what I did hear was this.”

She then read from her paper as follows, and lent it me afterwards. I merely copy it.

“Once” (_Charles was proceeding when Marion entered_), “there lived an aged man, and another who was a very aged man; and the very aged man was going to die, and every one but the aged man thought the other, the very aged man, wouldn’t die. I do this to explain it to you. He, the man who was really going to die, was—I will look in the dictionary” (_He looks in the book, and gives out with much confidence_), “was two thousand and eighty-eight years old. Well, the other man was—well, then, the other man ‘at knew he was going to die, was about four thousand and two; not nearly so old, you see.” (_Here Charles whispers with Ernest, and then announces very loud_),—“This is out of St. James. The very aged man had a wife and no children; and the other had no wife, but a great many children. The fact was—this was how it was—the wife died, and so he had the children. Well, the man I spoke of first, well, he died in the middle of the night.” (_A look as much as to say, “There! what do you think of that?_”); “an’ nobody but the aged man knew he was going to die. Well, in the morning, when his wife got up, she spoke to him, and he was dead!” (_A pause._) “Perfectly, sure enough—_dead_!” (_Then, with a change of voice and manner_), “He wasn’t really dead, because you know” (_abruptly and nervously_)—“Shut the door!—you know where he went, because in the morning next day” (_He pauses and looks round. Ernest, out of a book, prompts_—“The angels take him away”), “came the angels to take him away, up to where you know.” (_All solemn. He resumes quickly, with a change of manner_), “They, all the rest, died of grief. Now, you must expect, as they all died of grief, that lots of angels must have come to take them away. Freddy will go when the sermon isn’t over! That is such a bother!”

At this point Marion paused in her reading, and resumed the narrative form.

“Freddy, however, was too much for them; so Ernest betook himself to the organ, which was a chest of drawers, the drawers doing duty as stops, while Freddy went up to the pulpit to say ‘Good-by,’ and shake hands, for which he was mildly reproved by both his brothers.”

My husband and I were so much amused, that Marion said she had another sermon, also preached by Charles, on the same day, after a short interval; and at our request she read it. Here it is.

“Once upon a time—a long while ago, in a little—Ready now?—Well, there lived in a rather big house, with quite clean windows: it was in winter, so nobody noticed them, but they were quite white, they were so clean. There lived some angels in the house: it was in the air, nobody knew why, but it did. No: I don’t think it did—I dunno, but there lived in it lots of children—two hundred and thirty-two—and they—Oh! I’m gettin’ distracted! It is too bad!” (_Quiet is restored._) “Their mother and father had died, but they were very rich. Now, you see what a heap of children,—two hundred and thirty-two! and yet it seemed like one to them, they were so rich. That was it! it seemed like one to them because they were so rich. Now, the children knew what to get, and I’ll explain to you now why they knew; and this is how they knew. The angels came down on the earth, and told them their mother had sent messages to them; and their mother and father—_Don’t_ talk! I’m gettin’ extracted!” (_Puts his hand to his head in a frenzied manner._) “Now, my brother” (_This severely to a still inattentive member_), “I’ll tell you what the angels told them—what to get. What—how—now I will tell you how,—yes, how they knew what they were to eat. Well, the fact was, that—Freddy’s just towards my face, and he’s laughing! I’m going to explain. The mother and father had the wings on, and so, of course—Ernest, I want you!” (_They whisper._)—“they were he and she angels, and they told them what to have. Well, one thing was—shall I tell you what it was? Look at two hundred and two in another book—one thing was a leg of mutton. Of course, as the mother and father were angels, they had to fly up again. Now I’m going to explain how they got it done. They had four servants and one cook, so that would be five. Well, this cook did them. The eldest girl was sixteen, and her name was Snowdrop, because she had snowy arms and cheeks, and was a very nice girl. The eldest boy was seventeen, and his name was John. He always told the cook what they’d have—no, the girl did that. And the boy was now grown up. So they would be mother and father.” (_Signs of dissent among the audience._) “Of course, when they were so old, they would be mother and father, and master of the servants. And they were very happy, but—they didn’t quite like it. And—and”—(_with a great burst_) “you wouldn’t like it if your mother were to die! And I’ll end it next Sunday. Let us sing.”

“The congregation then sung ‘Curly Locks,’” said Marion, “and dispersed; Ernest complaining that Charley gave them such large qualities of numbers, and there weren’t so many in the whole of his book. After a brief interval the sermon was resumed.”

“Text is No. 66. I’ve a good congregation! I got to where the children did not like it without their mother and