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OR, THE SCOTS TUTOR.
"Sweet, tender sex! with
snares encompassed round.
On others hang thy comforts and thy rest."—Hogg.
Nature has made woman weak,
that she might receive with gratitude the protection of man. Yet how often
is this appointment perverted! How often does her protector become her
oppressor ! Even custom seems leagued against her. Born with the tenderest
feelings, her whole life is commonly a struggle to suppress them. Placed
in the most favourable circumstances, her choice is confined to a few
objects; and unless where singularly fortunate, her fondest partialities
are only a modification of gratitude. She may reject, but cannot invite :
may tell what would make her wretched, but dare not even whisper what
would make her happy; and, in a word, exercises merely a negative
influence upon the most important event of her life. Man has leisure to
look around him, and may marry at any age, with almost equal advantage ;
but woman must improve the fleeting moment, and determine quickly, at the
hazard of determining rashly. The spring-time of her beauty will not last;
its wane will be the signal for the flight of her lovers ; and if the
present opportunity is neglected, she may be left to experience the only
species of misfortune for which the world evinces no sympathy. How cruel,
then, to increase the misery of her natural dependence! How ungenerous to
add treachery to strength, and deceive or disappoint those whose highest
ambition is our favour, and whose only safety is our honesty!
William Arbuthnot was born
in a remote county of Scotland, where his father rented a few acres of
land, which his own industry had reclaimed from the greatest wildness to a
state of considerable fertility. Having given, even in his first attempts
at learning, those indications of a retentive memory, which the partiality
of a parent easily construes into a proof of genius, he was early destined
for the Scottish Church, and regarded as a philosopher before he had
emerged from the nursery. While his father pleased himself with the
prospect of seeing his name associated with the future greatness of his
son, his mother, whose ambition took a narrower range, thought she could
die contented if she should see him seated in the pulpit of his native
church; and perhaps, from a pardonable piece of vanity, speculated as
frequently upon the effect his appearance would have upon the hearts of
the neighbouring daughters, as his discourses upon the minds of their
mothers. This practice, so common among the poorer classes in Scotland, of
making one of their children a scholar, to the prejudice, as is alleged,
of the rest, has been often remarked, and sometimes severely censured. But
probably the objections that have been urged against it, derive their
chief force from the exaggerations upon which they are commonly founded.
It is not in general true that parents, by bestowing the rudiments of a
liberal education upon one of the family, materially injure the condition
or prospects of the rest. For it must be remembered that the plebeian
student is soon left to trust to his own exertions for support, and, like
the monitor of a Lancastrian seminary, unites the characters of pupil and
master, and teaches and is taught by turns.
But to proceed with our
little narrative. The parish schoolmaster having intimated to the parents
of his pupil, that the period was at hand when he should be sent to
prosecute his studies at the university, the usual preparations were made
for his journey, and his departure was fixed for the following day, when
he was to proceed to Edinburgh under escort of the village carrier and his
black dog Caesar, two of the eldest and most intimate of his acquaintance.
Goldsmith's poetical maxim, that little things are great to little men, is
universally true; and this was an eventful day for the family of Belhervie,
for that was the name of the residence of Mr Arbuthnot. The father was as
profuse of his admonitions as the mother was of her tears, and had a
stranger beheld the afflicted group, he would have naturally imagined that
they were bewailing some signal calamity, in place of welcoming an event
to which they had long looked forward with pleasure. But the feelings of
affectionate regret, occasioned by this separation, were most seasonably
suspended by the receipt of a letter from Mr Coventry, a respectable
fanner in the neighbourhood, in which that gentleman offered to engage
their son for a few years, as a companion and tutor to his children. This
was an offer which his parents were too prudent to reject, particularly as
it might prove the means of future patronage as well as of present
emolument. It was therefore immediately agreed upon, that William should
himself be the bearer of their letter of acceptance, and proceed forthwith
to his new residence. On this occasion he was admonished anew; but the
advices were different from those formerly given, and were delivered by a
different person. His mother was now the principal speaker; and, instead
of warning him against the snares that are laid for youth in a great city,
she furnished him with some rude lessons on the principles of
good-breeding, descending to a number of particulars too minute to be
enumerated here. William listened to her harangue with becoming reverence
and attention, and on the following morning, for the first time, bade
farewell to his affectionate parents.
On the afternoon of the
same day, he arrived at Daisybank, where he was welcomed with the greatest
cordiality. His appearance was genteel and prepossessing, and it was not
long before his new friends discovered, that the slight degree of
awkwardness which at first clung to his manners, proceeded more from
bashfulness and embarrassment than natural rusticity. But as he began to
feel himself at home, this embarrassment of manner gradually gave place to
an easy but unobtrusive politeness. Indeed it would not have been easy for
a youth of similar views, at his first outset in life, to have fallen into
more desirable company. Mr and Mrs Coventry were proverbial among then
neighbours for the simplicity and purity of their manners, and they had
laboured, not unsuccessfully, to stamp a similar character upon the minds
of their children. Their family consisted of two sons and two daughters,
the former of whom were confided to the care of William.
Mary, the eldest of the
four, now in her sixteenth or seventeenth year, was in every respect the
most interesting object at Daisybank. To a mind highly cultivated for her
years, she united many of those personal graces and attractions which
command little homage in the crowd, but open upon us in the shade of
retirement, and lend to the domestic circle its most irresistible charms.
In stature she scarcely reached the middle size. To the beauty derived
from form and colour she had few pretensions; yet when her fine blue eyes
moistened with a tear at a tale of distress, or beamed an unaffected
welcome to the stranger or the friend, he must have been more or less than
man who felt not for her a sentiment superior to admiration. Hers, in a
word, was the beauty of expression— the beauty of a mind reflected, in
which the dullest disciple of Lavater could not for a moment have mistaken
her real character. Her education had been principally conducted under the
eye of her parents, and might be termed domestic rather than fashionable.
Not that she was entirely a stranger to those acquirements which are
deemed indispensable in modern education. She had visited occasionally the
great metropolis, though, owing to the prudent solicitude of her parents,
her residence there had been comparatively short, yet probably long enough
to acquire all its useful or elegant accomplishments, without any
admixture of its fashionable frivolities.
From this hasty portraiture
of Miss Coventry, it will be easily believed that it was next to
impossible for a youth nearly of the same age, and not dissimilar in his
dispositions, to remain long insensible to charms that were gradually
maturing before his eyes, and becoming every day more remarkable.
Fortunately, however, the idea of dependence attached to his situation,
and a temper naturally diffident determined him to renounce for ever a
hope which he feared in his present circumstances would be deemed
ungrateful and even presumptuous. But this was waging war with nature, a
task which he soon found to be above his strength. He had now, therefore,
to abandon the hope of victory for the safety of retreat, and content
himself with concealing those sentiments he found it impossible to subdue.
Yet so deceitful is love, that even this modest hope was followed with
disappointment. One fine evening in June, when he was about to unbend from
the duties of the day, and retire to muse on the amiable Mary, he
encountered the fair wanderer herself, who was probably returning from a
similar errand. He accosted her in evident confusion; and, without being
conscious of what he said, invited her to join him in a walk to a
neighbouring height. His request was complied with in the same spirit it
had been made in, for embarrassment is often contagious, particularly the
embarrassment arising from love. On this occasion he intended to summon up
all his powers of conversation, and yet his companion had never found him
so silent. Some commonplace compliments to the beauty of the evening were
almost the only observations which escaped his lips, and these he uttered
more in the manner of a sleep-walker than a lover. They soon reached the
limit of their walk, and rested upon an eminence that commanded the
prospect of an extensive valley below. Bay was fast declining to that
point which is termed twilight, when the whole irrational creation seem
preparing for rest, and only man dares to intrude upon the silence of
nature. Miss Coventry beheld the approach of night with some uneasiness,
and dreading to be seen with William alone, she began to rally him upon
his apparent absence and confusion, and proposed that they should
immediately return to the house At mention of this, William started as
from a dream, and being unable longer to command his feelings, he candidly
confessed to her the cause of his absence and dejection. He dwelt with
much emotion upon his own demerit, and voluntarily accused himself for the
presumption of a hope which he never meant to have revealed until the
nearer accomplishment of his views had rendered it less imprudent and
romantic, He declared that he would sooner submit to any hardship that
incur the displeasure of her excellent parents, and entreated that,
whatever were her sentiments with regard to the suit he was so
presumptuous as to prefer, she might assist him in concealing from them a
circumstance which he feared would be attended with that consequence. To
this tender and affectionate appeal, the gentle Mary could only answer
with her sighs and blushes. She often indeed attempted to speak, but the
words as often died upon her lips, and they had nearly reached home
be-fore she could even whisper an answer to the reiterated question of her
lover. But she did answer at last; and never was a monarch more proud of
his conquest, or the homage of tributary princes, than William was of the
simple fealty of the heart of Mary.
In the bosom of this happy
family William now found his hours glide away so agreeably that he looked
forward with real regret to the termination of his engagement. His
condition was perhaps one of those in which the nearest approach is made
to perfect happiness; when the youthful mind, unseduced by the
blandishments of ambition, confines its regards to a few favourite
objects, and dreads a separation from them as the greatest of evils. The
contrast between the patriarchal simplicity of his father's fireside, and
the comparative elegance of Mr Coventry's parlour, for a season dazzled
him with its novelty; while the ripening graces of Mary threw around him a
fascination which older and more unsusceptible minds than his might have
found it difficult to resist. In his domestic establishment Mr Coventry
aimed at nothing beyond comfort and gentility. William was therefore
treated in every respect as an equal, and was never banished from his
patron's table to make room for a more important guest, or condemned to
hold Lent over a solitary meal, while the family were celebrating a
holiday.
All our ideas are relative,
and we estimate every thing by comparison. Upon this principle, William
thought no female so lovely or amiable as Miss Coventry, and no residence
so delightful as Daisybank. And he would not have exchanged his feelings,
while seated on a winter evening amidst his favourite circle, scanning,
for their amusement, a page of history, or the columns of a newspaper,
while the snug-ness and comfort that reigned within made him forget the
storm that pelted without, for the most delicious paradise an eastern
imagination ever painted.
It will thus readily be
imagined, that the saddest day of our tutor's life was that on which he
parted from this amiable family. He had here, he believed, spent the
happiest moments of his existence, and instead of rejoicing that he had
passed through one stage of his apprenticeship, he dwelt upon the past
with pleasure, and looked forward to the future with pain.
Fortune, however, presented
an insuperable obstacle to his spending his days in the inaction of
private study; and he knew that he could neither gain, nor deserved to
gain, the object of his affection, without establishing himself in life,
by pursuing the course which had been originally chalked out to him.
After, therefore, "pledging oft to meet again," he bade adieu to Daisybank,
loaded with the blessings of the best of parents, and followed with the
prayers of the best of daughters. He now paid a farewell visit to his own
parents; and, after remaining with them a few days, he proceeded to
Edinburgh, and for a short period felt his melancholy relieved, by the
thousand novelties that attract the notice of a stranger in a great city.
But this was only a temporary relief, and as he had no friend in whom he
could confide, he soon felt himself solitary in the midst of thousands.
Often, when the Professor was expatiating upon the force of the Greek
particles, his imagination was hovering over the abodes he had forsaken;
and frequently it would have been more difficult for him to have given an
account of the lectures he had been attending, than to have calculated the
probability of what was passing at a hundred miles' distance. But this
absence and dejection at last wore off; and as he possessed good natural
talents, and had been an industrious student formerly, he soon
distinguished himself in his classes, and before the usual period was
engaged as a tutor in one of the best families in Scotland.
This event formed another
important era in his life. His prospects were now flattering; and as
vanity did not fail to exaggerate them, he soon dropped a considerable
portion of his humility, and began to regard himself as a young man of
merit, to whom fortune was lavish of her favours. In his leisure hours he
was disposed to mingle much in society, and, as his manners and address
were easy and engaging, scarcely a week elapsed that that did not add to
the number of his friends. The affections, when divided into many
channels, cannot run deep in any, and, probably, for every new
acquaintance whom William honoured with his esteem, it required a
sacrifice of friendship at the expense of love, and produced some
abatement of that devotion of soul which accompanies every true and
permanent attachment. At Daisybank he had seen a simple favourite of the
graces, but here he beheld the daughters of wealth and of fashion,
surrounded with all the gloss of art, and soon began to waver in his
attachment, and even to regard his engagement as little more than a
youthful frolic. Still this temper of mind was not attained without many
struggles between love and ambition, honour and interest; nor could he
ever for a moment commune with himself, without feeling remorse for his
inconstancy and ingratitude. He could not annihilate the conviction, that
Miss Coventry was as faithful and worthy as ever, and had she been present
to appeal to his senses, it is probable he might have been preserved from
the crime of apostasy. But these were fits of reflection and repentance
which repetition soon deprived of their poignancy. The world, the
seductive world, returned with all its opiates and charms, to stifle in
his bosom the feelings of honour, and obliterate every trace of returning
tenderness. After this he became less punctual in his correspondence with
Miss Coventry, and in place of anticipating the arrival of her letters, as
he was wont to do, he allowed them to be sent slowly to his lodgings,
opened them without anxiety, and read them without interest. Of all this
inconstancy, ingratitude, and neglect, the simple Mary remained a silent,
though not unconcerned spectator. Kind and generous by nature, and judging
of others by herself, she framed a thousand excuses for his negligence;
and when he did condescend to write to her, answered him as though she had
been unconscious of any abatement in his attentions.
Matters remained in this
uncertain state for the space of three long years —at least they seemed
long to Miss Coventry—when William received his licence as a preacher. He
now therefore thought of redeeming a pledge he had given to the minister
of his native parish, to make his first public appearance in his pulpit;
and after giving due intimation, he departed for the parish of-------,
with his best sermon in the pocket of his best coat. The account of his
visit spread with telegraphic despatch, long before telegraphs were
invented, and was known over half the county many days before his arrival.
This was another great and eventful day for his mother. She blessed
Providence that she had lived to see the near fulfilment of her most
anxious wish, and rising a little in her ambition, thought she could now
die contented, if she should see him settled in a living of his own, and
be greeted by her neighbours with the envied name of grandmother.—As
William was expected to dine with his parents on his way to the parsonage,
or, as it is called in Scotland, the manse, of-------, great preparations
were made for his reception, and for the appearance of the whole family at
church on the following Sunday. Mrs Arbuthnot drew from the family-chest
her wedding-gown, which had only seen the sun twice during thirty summers;
and her husband, for the first time, reluctantly applied a brush to his
holiday suit, which appeared, from the antiquity of its fashion, to have
descended, like the garments of the Swiss, through many successive
generations of the Arbuthnots.
The little church of
H---------- was crowded to the door, perhaps for the first time, long
before the bellman had given the usual signal. Mr Coventry, though
residing in a different parish, had made a journey thither with several of
his family, for the purpose of witnessing the first public appearance of
his friend. In this party was the amiable Mary, who took a greater
interest in the event than any one, save the preacher, was aware of.
William, on this occasion,
recited a well written discourse with ease and fluency, and impressed his
audience with a high opinion of his talents and piety. Some of the elder
of them, indeed, objected to his gestures and pronunciation, which they
thought "new fangled" and theatrical; but they all agreed in thinking him
a clever lad, and a great honour to his parents. His mother was now
overwhelmed with compliments and congratulations from all quarters, which
she received with visible marks of pride and emotion. Mr Coventry waited
in the churchyard till the congregation had retired, to salute his friend,
and invite him to spend a few days at Daisybank. Mary, who hung on her
father's arm, curtsied, blushed, and looked down. She had no well-turned
compliment to offer on the occasion, but her eyes expressed something at
parting, which once would have been sweeter to his soul than the applause
of all the world beside.
Ambition, from the
beginning, has been the bane of love. War and peace are not more opposite
in their nature and effects than those rival passions, and the bosom that
is agitated with the cares of the one has little relish for the gentle
joys of the other. William beheld in the person of Miss Coventry all he
had been taught to regard as amiable or estimable in woman; but the
recollection of the respect that had been shown him by females of
distinction, mixed with exaggerated notions of his own merit, made him
undervalue those simple unobtrusive graces he once valued so highly, and
think almost any conquest easy after he had been settled in the rich
living of B----------, which had been promised him by his patron.
On the following day he
paid a visit to Daisybank, and received the most cordial welcome from a
family who sympathised almost equally with his parents in his prospects
and advancement. During his stay there, he had frequent opportunities of
seeing Miss Coventry alone, but he neglected, 01 rather avoided them all;
and when rallied on the subject of marriage, declaimed on the pleasures of
celibacy, and hinted, with a good deal of insincerity, his intention of
living single. Although these speeches were Tike daggers to the mind of
her who regretted she could not rival him in inconstancy and indifference,
they produced no visible alteration in her behaviour. Hers was not one of
those minds in which vanity predominates over every other feeling, and
where disappointment is commonly relieved by the hatred or resentment
which it excites. Her soul was soft as the passion that enslaved it, and
the traces of early affection are not easily effaced from a mind into
which the darker passions have never entered.
William bade adieu to Miss
Coventry without dropping one word upon which she could rear the
superstructure of hope, and carried with him her peace of mind, as he had
formerly carried with him her affections. From that hour she became
pensive and melancholy, in spite of all her efforts to appear cheerful and
happy. She had rejected many lovers for the inconstant's sake, but that
gave her no concern. Her union with him had been long the favourite object
of her life, and she could have patiently resigned existence, now that its
object was lost. But she shuddered at the thought of the shock it would
give her affectionate parents, for the softer feelings of our nature are
all of one family. and the tenderest wives have ever been the most dutiful
daughters.
It was impossible for Mary
long to conceal the sorrow which consumed her. Her fading checks and heavy
eyes gave daily indications of what her lips refused to utter. Her parents
became deeply alarmed at these symptoms of indisposition, and anxiously
and unceasingly inquired into the cause of her illness; but her only
answer was, that she felt no pain. The best physicians were immediately
consulted upon her case, who recommended change of air and company; but
all these remedies were tried without effect. The poison of disappointment
had taken deep root in her heart, and defied the power of medicine.
Her attendants, when they
found all their prescriptions ineffectual, began to ascribe her malady to
its real cause, and hinted to her parents their apprehensions that she had
been crossed in love. The good people, though greatly surprised at the
suggestion, had too much prudence to treat it with indifference, and they
left no means untried, consistent with a regard for the feelings of their
child, to wile from her the important secret. At first she endeavoured to
evade their inquiries; but fading it impossible to allay their
apprehensions without having recourse to dissimulation, she confessed to
her mother her attachment to William, concealing only the promises he had
made to her, and every circumstance that imputed to him the slightest
degree of blame. At the same time she entreated them, with the greatest
earnestness, that no use might be made of a secret which she wished to
have carried with her to the grave. This was a hard task imposed upon her
parents. They felt equally with herself the extreme delicacy of making the
disclosure; but, on the other hand, they contemplated nothing but the
probable loss of their child ; an event, the bare apprehension of which
filled their minds with the bitterest anguish. After many anxious
consultations, Mr Coventry determined, unknown to any but his wife, to pay
a visit to William, and ascertain his sentiments with regard to his
daughter.
Upon his arrival at
Edinburgh, he found that his friend had departed for the manse of
B-------, with which he had been recently presented. This event, which in
other circumstances would have given him the liveliest pleasure, awakened
on this occasion emotions of a contrary nature, as he feared it would make
his now reverend friend more elevated in his notions, and consequently
more averse to a union with his daughter. He did not, however, on that
account conceal the real object of his journey, or endeavour to accomplish
his purpose by stratagem or deceit. He candidly disclosed his daughter's
situation and sentiments, requesting of his friend that he would open to
him his mind with equal candour; and added, that although he held wealth
to be an improper motive in marriage, and hoped that his daughter did not
require such a recommendation, in the event of this union, whatever he
possessed would be liberally shared with him.
On hearing of the situation
of Miss Coventry, William became penetrated with the deepest remorse ; and
being aware that his affection for her was rather stilled than estranged,
he declared his willingness to make her his wife. These words operated
like a charm upon the drooping spirits of the father, who embraced his
friend with ardour, and besought him immediately to accompany mm home,
that they might lose no time in making a communication, which he fondly
hoped would have a similar effect upon the spirits of his daughter.
The departed accordingly
together, indulging in the pleasing hope that all would yet be well ; but
on their arrival at Daisybank, they were seriously alarmed to hear that
Miss Coventry had been considerably worse since her father eft home. She
was now entirely confined to her chamber, and Beamed to care for nothing
so much as solitude, and an exemption from the trouble of talking. As soon
as she was informed of the arrival of their visitor, she suspected he had
been sent for, and therefore refused to see him; but upon being assured by
her mother, who found deceit in this instance indispensable, that his
visit was voluntary and accidental she at last consented to give him an
interview.
On entering the room, which
had formerly been the family parlour, William was forcibly struck with the
contrast exhibited. Every object seemed to swim before his sight,
and it was some moments before he discovered Miss Coventry, who reclined
upon a sofa at the farther end of the room. He advanced with a beating
heart, and grasped the burning hand that was extended to meet him. He
pressed it to his lips and wept, and muttered something incoherent of
forgiveness and love. He looked doubtingly on Mary's face for an
answer,—but her eye darted no reproach, and her lips uttered no
reflection. A faint blush, that at this moment overspread her cheek,
seemed a token of returning strength, and inspired him With confidence and
hope. It was the last effort of nature,—and ere the blood could return to
its fountain, that fountain had closed for ever. Death approached his
victim under the disguise of sleep, and appeared divested of his usual
pains and terrors.
William retired from this
scene of unutterable anguish, and for a long period was overwhelmed with
the deepest melancholy and remorse. But time gradually softened and
subdued his sorrow, and I trust perfected his repentance. He is since
married and wealthy, and is regarded by the world as an individual
eminently respectable and happy. But, amidst all his comforts, there are
moments when he would exchange his identity with the meanest slave that
breathes, and regards himself as the murderer of Mary Coventry — J. McD.,
in Blackwood's Magazine, 1817. |
