The Fairchild Family Read online

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  THE FAIRCHILD FAMILY

  BY Mrs. SHERWOOD

  "_Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild had three children, Lucy, Emilyand Henry._"--Page 1.]

  THE FAIRCHILD FAMILY

  BY Mrs. SHERWOOD

  EDITED WITH INTRODUCTION BY MARY E. PALGRAVE

  WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY FLORENCE M. RUDLAND

  NEW YORK FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY PUBLISHERS

  Introduction

  The History of Lucy, Emily, and Henry Fairchild was begun in 1818,nearly a century ago. The two little misses and their brother playedand did lessons, were naughty and good, happy and sorrowful, whenGeorge III. was still on the throne; when gentlemen wore blue coatswith brass buttons, knee-breeches, and woollen stockings; and ladieswere attired in short waists, low necks, and long ringlets. The Battleof Waterloo was quite a recent event; and the terror of "Boney" wasstill used by nursery maids to frighten their charges into goodbehaviour.

  Perhaps some of those who take up this book and glance at itstitle-page are saying to themselves. We have plenty of stories aboutthe children of to-day--the children of the twentieth century, not ofthe early nineteenth. How should it interest us to read of these littleones of the time of our great-grandparents, whose lives were so dulland ideas so old-fashioned; who never played cricket or tennis, or wentto London or to the seaside, or rode bicycles, or did any of the thingswe do?

  To anyone who is debating whether or no he will read the _FairchildFamily_, I would say, Try a chapter or two before you make up yourmind. It is not what people _do_, but what they _are_ that makes theminteresting. True enough, Lucy, Emily and Henry led what we should callnowadays very dull lives; but they were by no means dull little peoplefor all that. We shall find them very living and real when we makeacquaintance with them. They tore their clothes, and lost their pets,and wanted the best things, and slapped each other when they disagreed.They had their good times and their bad times, their fun and frolic andtheir scrapes and naughtiness, just as children had long before theywere born and are having now, long, long after they are dead.

  In fact, as we get to know them--and, I hope, to love them--we shallrealize, perhaps with wonder, how very like they are to the children ofto-day. If they took us by the hand and led us to their playroom, orinto "Henry's arbour" under the great trees, we should make friendswith them in five minutes, even though they wear long straight skirtsdown to their ankles and straw bonnets burying their little faces, andHenry is attired in a frock and pinafore, albeit he is eight years old.We should have glorious games with them, following the fleet Lucyrunning like a hare; we should kiss them when we went away, and reckonthem ever after among our friends.

  And so, as we follow the _History of the Fairchild Family_ we shallunderstand, better than we have yet done, how children are childreneverywhere, and very much the same from generation to generation.Knowing Lucy and Emily and Henry will help us to feel more sympathywith other children of bygone days, the children of our historybooks--with pretty Princess Amelia, and the little Dauphin in theBastille, with sweet Elizabeth Stuart, the "rose-bud born in snow" ofCarisbrook Castle, and a host of others. They were _real_ children too,who had real treats and real punishments, real happy days and sad ones.They felt and thought and liked and disliked much the same things as wedo now. We stretch out our hands to them across the misty centuries,and hail them our companions and playmates.

  * * * * *

  Few people nowadays, even among those who know the _Fairchild Family_,know anything of its writer, Mrs. Sherwood. Yet her life, as told byherself, is as amusing as a story, and as full of incidents as a lifecould well be. When she was a very old woman she wrote herautobiography, helped by her daughter; and from this book, which hasbeen long out of print, I will put together a short sketch which willgive you some idea of what an interesting and attractive person shewas.

  The father of Mrs. Sherwood--or, to give her her maiden name, MaryButt--was a clergyman. He had a beautiful country living calledStanford, in Worcestershire, not far from Malvern, where Mary was bornon May 6, 1775. She had one brother, a year older than herself, and asister several years younger, whose name was Lucy.

  Mary Butt's childhood, in her beautiful country home, was very happy.She was extremely tall for her age, strong and vigorous, with glowingcheeks and dark eyes and "very long hair of a bright auburn," which shetells us her mother had great pleasure in arranging. She and herbrother Marten were both beautiful children; but no one thought Mary atall clever, or fancied what a mark she would make in the world by herwritings.

  Mary was a dreamy, thoughtful child, full of fancies and imaginings.She loved to sit on the stairs, listening to her mother's voice singingsweetly in her dressing-room to her guitar. She had wonderful fanciesabout an echo which the children discovered in the hilly grounds roundthe rectory. Echo she believed to be a beautiful winged boy; "and Ilonged to see him, though I knew it was in vain to attempt to pursuehim to his haunts; neither was Echo the only unseen being who filled myimagination." Her mother used to tell her and Marten stories in thedusk of winter evenings; one of those stories she tells again for otherchildren in the _Fairchild Family_. It is the tale of the old lady whowas so fond of inviting children to spend a day with her.

  The first grand event of Mary's life was a journey taken to Lichfield,to stay with her grandfather, old Dr. Butt, at his house called PipeGrange. She was then not quite four years old. Dr. Butt had been afriend, in former days, of Maria Edgeworth, who wrote the _Parents'Assistant_ and other delightful stories; of Mr. Day, author of_Sandford and Merton_; and other clever people then living atLichfield. He knew the great actor, David Garrick, too, who used tocome there to see his brother; and the famous Dr. Samuel Johnson, whohad been born and brought up at Lichfield. But to little Mary, scarcelymore than a baby, these things were not of much interest. What sherecollected of her grandfather was his present to her, on her fourthbirthday, of "a doll with a paper hoop and wig of real flax." And hermemories of Pipe Grange were of walks with her brother and nurse ingreen lanes; of lovely commons and old farmhouses, with walls coveredwith ivy and yew-trees cut in grotesque forms; of "feeding some littlebirds in a hedge, and coming one day and finding the nest and birdsgone, which was a great grief to me."

  Soon afterwards the nursery party at Stanford was increased by twolittle cousins, Henry and Margaret Sherwood. They had lost theirmother, and were sent to be for a time under the care of their aunt,Mrs. Butt. They joined in the romps of Marten and Mary, and very livelyromps they seem to have been. Mary describes how her brother used toput her in a drawer and kick it down the nursery stairs; how he heapedchairs and tables one on the other, set her at the top of them, andthen threw them all down; how he put a bridle round her neck and droveher about with a whip. "But," she says, "being a very hardy child, andnot easily hurt, I suppose I had myself to blame for some of hisexcesses; for with all this he was the kindest of brothers to me, and Iloved him very, very much."

  When Mary was six years old she began to make stories, but she tells usshe had not the least recollection of what they were about. She was notyet able to write, so whenever she had thought out a story, she had tofollow her mother about with a slate and pencil and get her to write ather dictation. The talk Mary and Marten heard while sitting at mealswith their parents was clever and interesting. Many visitors came tothe house, and after a while there were several young men living there,pupils of Mr. Butt, so that there was often a large party. The twolittle children were never allowed to interrupt, but had to sit andlisten, "whether
willing or not"; and in this way the shrewd andobservant Mary picked up endless scraps of knowledge while still veryyoung. She tells us a good deal about her education in these earlydays. "It was the fashion then for children to wear iron collars roundthe neck, with a backboard strapped over the shoulders; to one of theseI was subjected from my sixth to my thirteenth year. It was put on inthe morning, and seldom taken off till late in the evening, and Igenerally did all my lessons standing in stocks, with this stiff collarround my neck. At the same time I had the plainest possible food, suchas dry bread and cold milk. I never sat on a chair in my mother'spresence. Yet I was a very happy child, and when relieved from mycollar I not unseldom manifested my delight by starting from ourhall-door and taking a run for at least half a mile through the woodswhich adjoined our pleasure grounds."

  Marten, meanwhile, was having a much less strict and severe time of it.Mr. Butt was an easy-going man, who liked everything about him to becomfortable and pretty, and was not inclined to take much troubleeither with himself or others. While Mary was with her mother in herdressing-room, working away at her books, Marten was supposed to belearning Latin in his father's study. But as Mr. Butt had no idea ofauthority, Marten made no progress whatever, and the end of it was thatgood Mrs. Butt had to teach herself Latin, in order to become her boy'stutor; and Mary was made to take it up as well, in order to incite himto learn.

  The children were great readers, though their books were few. _RobinsonCrusoe_; two sets of fairy tales; _The Little Female Academy_; and_AEsop's Fables_ made up their whole library. _Robinson Crusoe_ wasMarten's favourite book; his wont, when a reading fit was on, was toplace himself on the bottom step of the stairs and to mount one stepevery time he turned over a page. Mary, of course, copied him exactly.Another funny custom with the pair was, on the first day of everymonth, to take two sticks, with certain notches cut in them, and hidethem in a hollow tree in the woods. There was a grand mystery aboutthis, though Mary does not tell us in what it consisted. "No person,"she says, "was to see us do this, and no one was to know we did it."

  In the summer that Mary was eight years old, a quaint visitor came toStanford Rectory. This was a distant relative who had married aFrenchman and lived at Paris through the gay and wicked period whichushered in the French Revolution. Mary's description of this lady andher coming to the rectory is very amusing: "Never shall I forget thearrival of Mme. de Peleve at Stanford. She arrived in a post-chaisewith a maid, a lap-dog, a canary-bird, an organ, and boxes heaped uponboxes till it was impossible to see the persons within. I was, ofcourse, at the door to watch her alight. She was a large woman,elaborately dressed, highly rouged, carrying an umbrella, the first Ihad seen. She was dark, I remember, and had most brilliant eyes. Thestyle of dress at that period was perhaps more preposterous andtroublesome than any which has prevailed within the memory of those nowliving. This style had been introduced by the ill-fated MarieAntoinette, and Mme. de Peleve had come straight from the veryfountain-head of these absurdities. The hair was worn crisped orviolently frizzed about the face in the shape of a horse-shoe; longstiff curls, fastened with pins, hung on the neck; and the whole waswell pomatumed and powdered with different coloured powders. A highcushion was fastened at the top of the hair, and over that either a capadorned with artificial flowers and feathers to such a height assometimes rendered it somewhat difficult to preserve its equilibrium,or a balloon hat, a fabric of wire and tiffany, of immensecircumference. The hat would require to be fixed on the head with longpins, and standing, trencherwise, quite flat and unbending in its fullproportions. The crown was low, and, like the cap, richly set off withfeathers and flowers. The lower part of the dress consisted of a fullpetticoat generally flounced, short sleeves, and a very long train; butinstead of a hoop there was a vast pad at the bottom of the waistbehind, and a frame of wire in front to throw out the neckerchief, soas much as possible to resemble the craw of a pigeon.

  "Such were the leading articles of this style of dress, and so arrangedwas the figure which stepped forth from the chaise at the door of thelovely and simple parsonage of Stanford. My father was ready to handher out, my mother to welcome her. The band-boxes were all conveyedinto our best bedroom, while Madame had her place allotted to her inour drawing-room, where she sat like a queen, and really, by themultitudes of anecdotes she had to tell, rendered herself veryagreeable. Whilst she was with us she never had concluded her toiletbefore one or two in the day, and she always appeared either in newdresses or new adjustments. I have often wished that I could recallsome of the anecdotes she used to tell of the Court of Versailles, butone only can I remember; it referred to the then popular song of'Marlbrook,' which she used to sing. 'When the Dauphin,' she said, 'wasborn, a nurse was procured for him from the country, and there was nosong with which she could soothe the babe but 'Marlbrook,' an oldballad, sung till then only in the provinces. The poor Queen heard theair, admired, and brought it forward, making it the fashion.' This isthe only one of Mme. de Peleve's stories which I remember, although Iwas very greatly amused by them, and could have listened to her forhours together. My admiration was also strongly excited by thesplendour and varieties of her dresses, her superb trimmings, hersleeves tied with knots of coloured ribbon, her trains of silk, herbeautiful hats, and I could not understand the purpose for which shetook so much pains to array herself."

  I think when we read of Miss Crosbie's arrival at Mr. Fairchild's, andthe time she kept them all waiting for supper while she changed hergown, we shall be reminded of these early recollections of Mrs.Sherwood's. A year or two later this quaint Madame came again on avisit to Stanford; and on this occasion, as Mary tells us, she put itinto the little girl's head, for the first time, to wonder whether shewere pretty or no. "No sooner was dinner over," she says, "than I ranupstairs to a large mirror to make the important inquiry, and at thismirror I stood a long time, turning round and examining myself with nosmall interest." Madame de Peleve further encouraged her vanity bymaking her a present of "a gauze cap of a very gay description." Itmust have looked odd and out of place perched on the top of the littlegirl's "very long hair and very rosy cheeks." Another of Mme. dePeleve's not very judicious presents was "a shepherdess hat of paleblue silver tiffany." But as this hat had to be fastened on with"large, long corking-pins," it proved "a terrible evil" to its wearer;which, perhaps, was just as well!

  By this time dear brother Marten had been sent away to school atReading; but little Lucy was growing old enough to be something of aplaymate; and Margaret, the motherless cousin, had been brought againto Stanford on a long visit. We can fancy what a delightful companionto these two small ones Mary must have been. She had left off, for thetime, writing stories, but she was never tired of telling them. Incompany she was, in those days, very silent and shy, and much at a lossfor words; but they never failed her when telling her stories to herlittle companions. Her head, she says, was full of "fairies, wizards,enchanters, and all the imagery of heathen gods and goddesses which Icould get out of any book in my father's study," and with these shewove the most wonderful tales, one story often going on, at everypossible interval, for months together. Her lively imagination "filledevery region of the wild woods at Stanford with imaginary people.Wherever I saw a few ashes in a glade, left by those who burnt sticksto sell the ashes to assist in the coarse washings in farmhouses, Ifixed a hoard of gipsies and made long stories. If I could discernfairy rings, which abounded in those woods, they gave me another set ofimages; and I had imaginary hermits in every hollow of the rocky sidesof the dingle, and imaginary castles on every height; whilst the churchand churchyard supplied me with more ghosts and apparitions than Idared to tell of." Mary and her stories must have been better worthhaving than a whole library of "fairy-books."

  One source from which Mary drew her tales was a collection of oldvolumes which her father had bought at a sale and to which her motherhad given up a room over the pantry and storeroom. Mr. Butt made Maryhis librarian; and she revelled in old romances, such as Sir PhilipSydney's _Arca
dia_, and in illustrated books of travel; spending manyhours on a high stool in the bookroom, among "moths, dust, and blackcalf-skin," studying these treasures.

  One more glimpse must be given of those happy child-days, and we willhave it in Mary's own words: "I grew so rapidly in my childhood, thatat thirteen I had obtained my full height, which is considered abovethe usual standard of women. I stooped very much when thus growing. Asmy mother always dressed me like a child in a pinafore, I mustcertainly have been a very extraordinary sort of personage, andeveryone cried out on seeing me as one that was to be a giantess. As myonly little friend of about my own age was small and delicate, I wasvery often thoroughly abashed at my appearance; and therefore never wasI so happy as when I was out of sight of visitors in my own belovedwoods of Stanford. In those sweet woods I had many little emboweredcorners, which no one knew but myself; and there, when my daily taskswere done, I used to fly with a book and enjoy myself in places where Icould hear the cooing of doves, the note of the blackbird, and the rushof two waterfalls coming from two sides of the valley and meetingwithin the range where I might stroll undisturbed by anyone. It must benoticed that I never made these excursions without carrying a hugewooden doll with me, which I generally slung with a string round mywaist under my pinafore, as I was thought by the neighbours too big tolike a doll. My sister, as a child, had not good health, and thereforeshe could bear neither the exposure nor fatigue I did; hence the reasonwherefore I was so much alone. From this cause, too, she was neversubmitted to the same discipline that I was; she was never made sofamiliar with the stocks and iron collar, nor the heavy tasks; forafter my brother was gone to school I still was carried on in my Latinstudies, and even before I was twelve I was obliged to translate fiftylines of Virgil every morning, standing in these same stocks, with theiron collar pressing on my throat."

  When Mary was between twelve and thirteen a great change came in herlife. Her father was presented to the vicarage of Kidderminster inStaffordshire, where the carpets are made. It was then a very richliving. It was settled that they should go to Kidderminster to live,while a curate was to do duty at Stanford and occupy the rectory. Inthose days clergymen often held two or even three livings at once indifferent parts of the country, taking the stipends themselves, andputting a curate in charge of whichever parishes they did not choose toreside in.

  Mary was pleased at the idea of a change, as children generally are;and so was her father, who loved society and the noise and bustle of atown. But to poor Mrs. Butt, who was a very shy, timid, retiringperson, the idea of exchanging "the glorious groves of Stanford for aresidence in a town, where nothing is seen but dusty houses and dyedworsted hanging to dry on huge frames in every open space," wasterrible. Mary could well remember how, during that summer, her motherwalked in the woods, crying bitterly and fretting over the comingchange till her health suffered.

  Life in the big manufacturing town was much less wild and free than ithad been in the Worcestershire parsonage; but the two little girlsmanaged to be very happy in their own way. For one thing, they had abedroom looking into the street, and a street was a new thing to them,and they spent every idle moment in staring out of the windows. Theyhad a cupboard in which they kept their treasures--a dolls' house whichthey had brought from Stanford, and all the books they had hoarded upfrom childhood; "these, with two white cats, which we had also broughtfrom Stanford, happily afforded us much amusement." Mary's rage fordolls was, moreover, at its height, though she more than ever tookpains to hide her darlings, under her pinafore, from the eyes ofKidderminster.

  Most of all, however, they amused themselves, when alone, by talkingtogether in characters, keeping to the same year after year, till atlength the play was played out. "We were both queens," Mary tells us,"and we were sisters, and were supposed to live near each other, and wepretended we had a great many children. In our narratives we allowedthe introduction of fairies, and I used to tell long stories of thingsand places and adventures which I feigned I had met with in this mycharacter of queen. The moment we two set out to walk, we always beganto converse in these characters. My sister used generally to beginwith, 'Well, sister, how do you do to-day? How are the children? Wherehave you been?' and before we were a yard from the house we were deepin talk. Oh, what wonderful tales was I wont to tell of things which Ipretended I had seen, and how many, many happy hours have I and mysister spent in this way, I being the chief speaker."

  Not long after their coming to Kidderminster, Mary's father took herwith him on a visit to a large country house in Shropshire. They droveall the way in a gig, a man-servant riding behind on horseback. Theyreached the house just in time to dress for dinner, at which there wasto be a large party. Mary had to put on her "very best dress, which,"she tells us, "was a blue silk slip, with a muslin frock over it, ablue sash, and, oh! sad to say, my silver tiffany hat. I did not darebut wear it, as it had been sent with me."

  A maid had been told off to dress Mary, and "great was the pains whichshe took to fix my shepherdess hat on one side, as it was intended tobe worn, and to arrange my hair, which was long and hanging in curls;but what would I not have given to have got rid of the rustlingtiffany!" Mary describes her consternation when she reached thedrawing-room in this array, and found "a number of great people" there,but no other child to consort with. When everybody went to walk in theshrubberies after dinner, and a gentleman offered her his arm, as wasthe wont in those days, she was so panic-stricken that she darted up abank, through the shrubs and away, and showed herself no more thatevening.

  The next thing that happened was that the other little cousin beforementioned, Henry Sherwood, came to live with the Butts and go to aday-school in the town. Mary recalls him as she saw him on arriving--avery small, fair-haired boy, dressed in "a full suit of what used to becalled pepper-and-salt cloth." He soon settled down in his new home, "avery quiet little personage, very good-tempered, and very much in aweof his aunt," with a fame among his cousins for his talent for makingpaper boxes one within another. His bed was in an attic, next door tohis big cousin Marten's room. Marten had a shelf full of books, whichHenry used to carry off to his own domain and read over and over again.From these books he first dated an intense love of reading which wasdestined to be his chief stand-by in old age. We shall not wonder thatMary loved to recall her early remembrances of this little school-boywhen we know that, several years later, he became her husband, withwhom she spent a long and happy married life.

  Mary has other amusing recollections of this time of her earlygirlhood, and tells them in her own charming way; but we must pass onto her school life, which is bound to interest her readers of to-day,so many of whom go to school. It was the summer of 1790. Mr. Butt hadbeen taking his turn of duty at the Chapel Royal, St. James's, being bythis time one of the chaplains to the King. On his way home he stoppedat Reading to visit his friend Dr. Valpy, in whose school Marten hadfor a time been educated.

  During this visit Dr. Valpy took him to see "a sort of exhibition" gotup by the "young ladies" of M. and Mme. de St. Quentin's school. Thisfamous school, which was afterwards removed to London, was held then inthe old Abbey at Reading. "This," thought Mr. Butt, "is the very placefor Mary"; and to the Abbey School it was decided that she should go.

  Marten was now at Westminster School. When the time came for him toreturn after the holidays, Mary had a seat in the chaise, and drovewith him and her father as far as Reading. You will be amused by herdescription of her school and schoolmistresses, and of her firstintroduction to them.

  "The house--or, rather, the Abbey itself--was exceedingly interesting;and though I know not its exact history, yet I knew every hole andcorner of what remained of the ancient building, which consisted of agateway with rooms above, and on each side of it a vast staircase, ofwhich the balustrades had originally been gilt. Then, too, there weremany little nooks and round closets, and many larger and smaller roomsand passages, which appeared to be rather more modern; whilst thegateway itself stood without the garden walls upon t
he Forbury or opengreen, which belonged to the town, and where Dr. Valpy's boys playedafter school hours. The best part of the house was encompassed by abeautiful old-fashioned garden, where the young ladies were allowed towander under tall trees in hot summer evenings."

  When Mary arrived at the Abbey the holidays were not quite over, andshe was the first of the sixty pupils to present herself. The schoolwas kept by Mme. de St. Quentin and a Mrs. Latournelle, who werepartners. "Madame," as the girls always called her, was an Englishwomanby birth, but had married a French refugee whom circumstances hadobliged to become French teacher in the school. Madame was a handsomewoman, with bright eyes and a very dignified presence. Mary tells usthat she danced remarkably well, played and sang and did fineneedlework, and "spoke well and agreeably in English and in Frenchwithout fear." Mrs. Latournelle was a funny, old-fashioned body, whosechief concern was with the housekeeping, tea-making, and other domesticduties. She had a cork leg, and her dress had never been known tochange its fashion. "Her white muslin handkerchief was always pinnedwith the same number of pins; her muslin apron always hung in the sameform; she always wore the same short sleeves, cuffs, and ruffles, witha breast-bow to answer the bow on her cap, both being flat with twonotched ends."

  Mrs. Latournelle received Mary in a wainscotted parlour, hung roundwith miniatures and pieces of framed needlework done in chenille,representing tombs and weeping willows. Mary was to be what in thosedays was known as a "parlour-boarder," which meant that she was treatedin part as a grown-up young lady, had more liberty and privileges thanthe other girls, and, in fact, was allowed to do very much as sheliked. She thought herself gloriously happy, on coming down tobreakfast next day in the twilight of a winter's morning, to be allowedto eat hot buttered toast and to draw as near as she liked to the fire;neither of which things was it lawful to do at home.

  Mary was "vastly amused," during the first few days, at seeing herfuture school-fellows arrive one after another. The two first to comewere a pair of twin sisters named Martha and Mary Lee, so exactly alikethat they could only be distinguished by a mark which one had on herforehead under the hair. There were many other big girls, but nonebesides herself who were parlour-boarders during that quarter. Marysoon chose out three to be her special friends; a Miss Poultenham,Amelia Reinagle (daughter of an artist who in that day was rathercelebrated), and Mary Brown--niece of Mrs. Latournelle.

  M. and Mme. de St. Quentin presently returned, and Mary tells us howshy she felt when "Monsieur" summoned her to undergo a sort ofexamination. "Full well I remember the morning when he called me intohis study to feel the pulse of my intellect, as he said, in order thathe might know in what class to place me. All the girls whom heparticularly instructed were standing by, all of them being superior tome in the knowledge of those things usually taught in schools. Beholdme, then, in imagination, tall as I am now, standing before my master,and blushing till my blushes made me ashamed to look up. '_Eh bien_,mademoiselle,' he said, 'have you much knowledge of French?' 'No, sir,'I answered. 'Are you much acquainted with history?' And he went on fromone thing to another, asking me questions, and always receiving anegative. At length, smiling, he said: 'Tell me, mademoiselle, then,what you do know.' I stammered 'Latin--Virgil,' and finished off with aregular flood of tears. At this he laughed outright, and immediatelyset me down in his class and gave me lessons for every day."

  The discipline of the Abbey seems to have been very slack, especiallyfor the big girls. This is how Mary describes it: "The liberty whichthe first class had was so great that, if we attended our tutor in hisstudy for an hour or two every morning, no human being ever took thetrouble to enquire where we spent the rest of the day between ourmeals. Thus, whether we gossiped in one turret or another, whether welounged about the garden or out of the window above the gateway, no oneso much as said, 'Where have you been, mademoiselle?'"

  Mary Butt spent a year at Reading, where she learnt a good deal ofFrench, and not, it would seem, much of anything else. She left it thefollowing Christmas with many tears, thinking that her school-days wereover; but a few months later her parents decided to send her back tothe Abbey for another year, and that her sister Lucy should go too.That was in the autumn of 1792, when the French Revolution was justbeginning. On January 21, 1793, the terrible news came of the murder ofthe unhappy King, Louis XVI. All Europe, and England especially, werehorrified at the cruel deed; and at the Abbey, where there was a strongFrench Royalist element, feeling ran particularly high. "Monsieur andMadame went into deep mourning, as did also many of the elder girls.Multitudes of the French nobility came thronging into Reading,gathering about the Abbey, and some of them half living within itswalls." Our friend Mary, as a half-fledged young lady, saw a great dealof these poor refugees, who had lost everything but their lives. Theyseem, however, to have shown the true French courage and gaiety underevil circumstances. There was much singing and playing under the trees;and they helped the school-girls to get up some little French plays toact at their breaking-up party. Mary took a part in the character of aFrench abbess, but she tells us that "assuredly" her talents never layin the acting line, and very honestly adds: "I could never sufficientlyhave forgotten myself as to have acted well."

  Soon after Mary's finally leaving school her parents decided to put acurate in charge of the Kidderminster living, and to return to "lovelyStanford." This was a great relief to poor, shy Mrs. Butt, who had beenlike a caged bird in Kidderminster; but the young people were not quitesure if they liked the change. They had made many friends in the townand its neighbourhood; and now that Mary was, as we say nowadays, "comeout," she had been taken to various balls and other diversions. Theysoon, however, settled down again in the old home; and as there was alarge, delightful, and very friendly family at Stanford Court hard by,they found plenty of variety and amusement even in the depths of thecountry.

  The young Butts went across very often to dine at the Court; and onthese occasions their hostess, Lady Winnington, got up little impromptudances, which they greatly enjoyed. "Often," Mary writes, "when wedined at the Court she would send for the miller, who played theviolin, and set us all to dance. My brother was always the partner ofthe eldest Miss Winnington, and as neither of them could tell one tunefrom another or dance a single step, we generally marvelled how theygot on at all. The steward also, a great, big, and in our opinion mostsupremely ugly man, generally fell to my sister's lot. Thus, we didvery well, and enjoyed ourselves in our own way. Sometimes the oldWelsh harper came, and then we had a more set dance, and some of theladies'-maids, and one or two of the upper men-servants, and the millerhimself, and Mr. Taylor of the Fall, and the miller's brother Tommy,were asked, and then things were carried on in a superior style. Wewent into a larger room, and there was more change of partners; but asnothing could have induced the son and heir to ask a stranger, I alwayshad him, whilst Miss Winnington and my sister sometimes fell to theshare of the miller and his brother, the miller being himself musicaland footing it to the tune better than his partners. The miller'sbrother seemed to wheel along rather than dance, throwing himself backand looking, in his white waistcoat which was kept for these grandoccasions, not unlike a sack of meal set upright on trucks and sopushed about the room. I am ready to laugh to this hour when I think ofthese balls, and I certainly obtained very high celebrity then andthere for being something very superior in the dancing line."

  The happy life at Stanford was not destined to last long, for Mr.Butt's health began to fail, and in the autumn of 1795 he died. Mrs.Butt took a house at Bridgnorth, and settled there with her twodaughters. Mary had now begun to write in good earnest; and whileliving at Bridgnorth two of her tales were published, one called_Margarita_ and the other _Susan Grey_. Probably very few people nowliving have ever seen or read these stories; and if we did come acrossthem it is to be feared we should think them very dull and long-winded.But when new they were much admired, particularly _Susan Grey_, whichwas one of the earliest tales written to interest rich and educatedpeople in the poor and i
gnorant. It was widely read and reprinted manyand many times.

  In spite of the pleasure and excitement of authorship, life in thelittle house in the sleepy town of Bridgnorth was very dull and crampedto the two young girls; and they were made much happier, because theywere much busier, when the clergyman of one of the town churches askedthem to undertake the management of his Sunday school. This is whatSunday school teaching meant at the end of the eighteenth century: "Weattended the school so diligently on the Sunday that the parentsbrought the children in crowds, and we were obliged to stop short wheneach of us had about thirty-five girls and the old schoolmaster as manyboys. We made bonnets and tippets for our girls; we walked with them tochurch; we looked them up in the week days; we were vastly busy; wewere first amused, and next deeply interested."--"Sunday schools," shegoes on to say, "then were comparatively new things, so that ourattentions were more valued then than they would be nowadays."

  The next important event in Mary's life was her marriage with hercousin Henry, by which she became the "Mrs. Sherwood" whose name hasbeen a household word to generations of children. Henry Sherwood hadhad a curious history, and had endured many hardships and adventures inhis youthful days. As a boy of about thirteen he had made a voyage ona rotten old French coasting-vessel, which was very nearly wrecked; wasrun into in the night by an unknown ship; and all but foundered in theBay of Biscay. The French Revolution had just begun; and when the brigtouched at Marseilles this young lad saw terrible sights of men hungfrom lamp-posts; heard the grisly cry, "A la lanterne! a la lanterne!"and was even himself seized by some of the mob, though he happilycontrived, in the confusion, to slip away. In Marseilles, too, he firstsaw the guillotine; it was carried about the streets in processionwhilst the populace yelled out the "Marseillaise Hymn." Later on in theRevolution he was seized, as an Englishman, and imprisoned with anumber of others at Abbeville; but, escaping from there, he made awonderful journey through France, Switzerland, and Germany with hisfather, step-mother, and their five young children; being driven by thestate of affairs from town to town, and wandering further and furtherafield in the effort to reach England. At length, after difficultiesand hardships innumerable, they landed at Hull; and Henry made his wayto some of his relations, who took care of him and set him on his legsagain.

  Henry Sherwood soon afterwards entered the army, joining the regimentthen known as the 53rd Foot; and about the same time he began to cometo Bridgnorth, where his pretty young cousin, Mary Butt, was growingmore and more attractive. After a while he wrote her a letter, askingif she would be his wife; and on June 30, 1803, they were married atBridgnorth.

  Mary's marriage made a great change in her life. She had married intowhat used to be called a "marching regiment," which was constantly onthe move from one station to another. After being transferred fromplace to place several times within a year, with long, wearisomejourneys both by sea and land, following the regiment as it marched,the news came that the 53rd was ordered on foreign service, which meanta longer journey still. It was presently known that the regiment'sdestination was the East Indies, or, as we should now call it, India.This was a great blow to poor Mrs. Sherwood, for by this time she wasthe mother of a baby girl, whom she must leave behind in England.

  The regiment embarked at Portsmouth. Captain and Mrs. Sherwood had amiserable little cabin rigged up on deck, made only of canvas, and witha huge gun filling more than half the space. The vessel in which theysailed was called the _Devonshire_. It was quite a fleet that set sail,for besides the vessels needed to convey the troops, there had to beseveral armed cruisers in attendance. The war with France was going on,and there was continual danger of an attack by the enemy. When they hadbeen more than three months at sea, three strange vessels were sighted,two of which soon ran up the French colours and began to fire, withoutthe slightest warning, upon the English vessels. In a moment all wasbustle on board the _Devonshire_, clearing the decks for action. Thewomen and children were sent down into the hold, where they had to sitfor hours in the dark, some way below watermark, while the shotswhistled through the rigging overhead, the guns roared, the ladders hadbeen taken away, and none of them could learn a word of what was goingforward on deck, where their husbands and fathers were helping to manthe guns. The fighting continued till late at night, but no seriousdamage befell the _Devonshire_. At length the women and children werehoisted up out of the hold, and "enjoyed some negus and biscuits."

  From that time they saw no more of the French. At last the voyage, withits anxieties and discomforts, was over; the _Devonshire_ sailed intothe Hoogli and anchored in Diamond Harbour, expecting boats to comedown from Calcutta to carry the regiment up there.

  It would take too long to tell the story of the Sherwoods' life inIndia, though Mrs. Sherwood's account of it is very good reading. Twoor three scenes will give you some notion of how she spent her time.

  A certain number of the soldiers of the regiment were allowed to bringtheir wives and children out with them. There were no Governmentschools then for the regimental children, so that these little peopleidled away their time round the barracks, and were as ignorant as theday they were born. It came into Mrs. Sherwood's head to start a schoolfor them, and this school she herself taught for four hours everymorning, except in the very hottest weather; and the only help she hadwas from a sergeant of the regiment, a kind, good man. Some of theofficers also were very thankful to send their children to school, sothat Mrs. Sherwood soon had as many as fifty boys and girls comingdaily to her bungalow. Very hard work it was teaching them to read andwrite and to be gentle, truthful, and obedient. She found the officers'children generally more troublesome than the soldiers', because theywere more spoilt, or, as she puts it, pampered and indulged. For thesechildren she wrote many of her books, especially her _Stories on theChurch Catechism_, which can still be bought, and which give a veryinteresting picture of the life of a soldier's child in India someeighty years ago.

  Besides her day-school, Mrs. Sherwood collected in her house severallittle orphans, the children of poor soldiers' wives who quickly diedin the trying climate of India. She found some of these children beingdreadfully neglected and half starved, so took them home to her andbrought them up with her own children. She gives an amusing descriptionof her home life in India during the hot season, so terribly trying toEuropeans: "The mode of existence of an English family during the hotwinds in India is so very unlike anything in Europe that I must notomit to describe it. Every outer door of the house and every window isclosed; all the interior doors and venetians are, however, open, whilstmost of the private apartments are shut in by drop-curtains or screensof grass, looking like fine wire-work, partially covered with greensilk. The hall, which never has any other than borrowed lights in anybungalow, is always in the centre of the house, and ours at Cawnporehad a large room on each side of it, with baths and sleeping-rooms. Inthe hot winds I always sat in the hall at Cawnpore. Though I was thatyear without a baby of my own, I had my orphan, my little Annie, alwaysby me, quietly occupying herself when not actually receivinginstruction from me. I had given her a good-sized box, painted green,with a lock and key; she had a little chair and table.

  "She was the neatest of all neat little people, somewhat faddy andparticular, perchance. She was the child, of all others, to live withan ancient grandmother. Annie's treasures were few, but they were allcontained in her green box. She never wanted occupation; she was eitherdressing her doll or finding pretty verses in her Bible, marking theplaces with an infinitude of minute pieces of paper. It was a greatdelight to me to have this little quiet one by my side.

  "In another part of this hall sat Mr. Sherwood during most part of themorning, either engaged with his accounts, his journal, or his books.He, of course, did not like the confinement so well as I did, and oftencontrived to get out to a neighbour's bungalow in his palanquin duringsome part of the long morning. In one of the side-rooms sat SergeantClarke, with his books and accounts. This worthy and most methodicalpersonage used to fill up his time
in copying my manuscripts in a veryneat hand, and in giving lessons in reading and spelling, etc., toAnnie. In the other room was the orphan Sally, with her toys. Besideher sat her attendant, chewing her paun[A] and enjoying a state ofperfect apathy. Thus did our mornings pass, whilst we sat in what thelovers of broad daylight would call almost darkness. During thesemornings we heard no sounds but the monotonous click, click of thepunkah,[B] or the melancholy moaning of the burning blast without, withthe splash and dripping of the water thrown over the tatties.[C] At oneo'clock, or perhaps somewhat later, the tiffin [answering to ourluncheon] was always served, a hot dinner, in fact, consisting alwaysof curry and a variety of vegetables. We often dined at this hour, thechildren at a little table in the room, after which we all lay down,the adults on sofas and the children on the floor, under the punkah inthe hall. At four, or later perhaps, we had coffee brought. We thenbathed and dressed, and at six or thereabouts, the wind generallyfalling, the tatties were removed, the doors and windows of the housewere opened, and we either took an airing in carriages or sat in theveranda; but the evenings and nights of the hot winds brought norefreshment."

  The days spent in that strange hot twilight must have seemed very longto children, even to those who had forgotten or never known the freedomof life in England; but Mrs. Sherwood had plenty of ways of filling herlong quiet hours. She wrote a number of little stories about life inIndia, which were very much liked in their day and went through manyeditions. One of these was called _The Ayah and Lady_, and told about anative servant, her ignorant notions and strange ways, and how hermistress tried to do her good. Another was _Lucy and her Dhaye_, thehistory of a little English girl and her dark-skinned nurse, who was sodevoted to her that she nearly broke her heart when Lucy went home toEngland and she was left behind. But the best of them all was _LittleHenry and his Bearer_, which is one of the most famous stories everwritten for children. The history of little Henry, the neglected orphanchild whom nobody loved save his poor faithful heathen "bearer," ornative servant, is exceedingly pretty and touching.

  Mrs. Sherwood was always thinking about children and trying to find outways of helping them to be happy and good. A page from her diary willshow how often she must have been grieved and distressed at the spoiltboys and girls she saw in the houses of the English merchants and Civilservants at Calcutta and elsewhere.

  "I must now proceed," she writes, "to some description of Miss Louisa,the eldest daughter then in India of our friends, who at that timemight have been about six or seven. She was tall of her age, verybrown, and very pale. She had been entirely reared in India, and wasaccustomed from her earliest infancy to be attended by a multitude ofservants, whom she despised thoroughly as being black, although, nodoubt, she preferred their society to her own country-people, as theyministered with much flattery and servility to her wants. Wherever shehad moved during these first years of her life she had been followed byher ayah, and probably by one or two bearers, and she was perfectlyaware that if she got into any mischief they would be blamed and notherself. In the meantime, except in the article of food, every desireand every caprice and every want had been indulged to satiety. No onewho has not seen it could imagine the profusion of toys which arescattered about an Indian house wherever the 'babalogue' (childrenpeople) are permitted to range. There may be seen fine polished andpainted toys from Benares, in which all the household utensils of thecountry, the fruits, and even the animals, are represented, the lastmost ludicrously incorrect. Toys in painted clay from Morshedabad andCalcutta, representing figures of gods and goddesses, with horses,camels, elephants, peacocks, and parrots, and now and then a 'topewalla,' or hat wearer, as they call the English, in full regimentalsand cocked hat, seated on a clumsy, ill-formed thing meant for a horse.Then add to these English, French, and Dutch toys, which generally liepell-mell in every corner where the listless, toy-satiated child mayhave thrown or kicked them.

  "The quantity of inner and outer garments worn by a little girl inEngland would render it extremely fatiguing to change the dress sooften as our little ladies are required to do in India. Miss Louisa'sattire consisted of a single garment, a frock body without sleeves,attached to a pair of trousers, with rather a short, full skirtgathered into the body with the trousers, so as to form one whole, thewhole being ruffled with the finest jindelly, a cloth which is notunlike cambric, every ruffle being plaited in the most delicate manner.These ruffles are doubled and trebled on the top of the arm, formingthere a substitute for a sleeve; and the same is done around the ankle,answering the purpose almost of a stocking, or at least concealing itsabsence. Fine coloured kid shoes ought to have completed this attire,but it most often happened that these were kicked away among therejected toys.

  "How many times in a day the dress of Miss Louisa was renewed, whoshall say? It, however, depended much upon the accidents which mighthappen to it; but four times was the usual arrangement, which was oncebefore breakfast, once after, once again before tiffin, and once againfor the evening airing. The child, being now nearly seven years old,was permitted to move about the house independently of her ayah; thus,she was sometimes in the hall, sometimes in the veranda, sometimes inone room, sometimes in another. In an Indian house in the hot season noinner door is ever shut, and curtains only are hung in the doorways, sothat this little wild one was in and out and everywhere just as it hither fancy. She had never been taught even to know her letters; she hadnever been kept to any task; she was a complete slave of idleness,restlessness, and ennui. 'It is time for Louisa to go to England,' wasquietly remarked by the parents; and no one present controverted thepoint."

  Children like this must have made the good Mrs. Sherwood very unhappy;her own little ones--of whom she had three who lived to come home toEngland--were very differently brought up. She had also a lovely littleboy named Henry, and a little fair-haired Lucy, who both died in Indiabefore they were two years old.

  It would be impossible to end even this short sketch of Mrs. Sherwood'sIndian life without mentioning her friendship with Henry Martyn, thatsaintly soul and famous missionary in India and Persia. When theSherwoods knew him he was Government chaplain at Dinapore, a greatmilitary station, at which the 53rd Foot then was. Mrs. Sherwood nursedhim through a bad illness, and she and her husband afterwards paid hima visit in his quarters at Cawnpore, to which place he had beentransferred. He had a school at Cawnpore for little native children;and worked hard at preaching to the heathen; while all the time doinghis utmost for the soldiers of the various regiments stationed in thebarracks. The Sherwoods heard his wonderful farewell sermon beforestarting for Persia; and the news of his death in that far land reachedthem not long before they quitted India for England.

  After being about twelve years in the East, the 53rd Regiment wasordered home, and very thankful Captain and Mrs. Sherwood were to bringthe children they still had living safely back to a more healthyclimate. Two of the orphans came with them, so there was quite a partyof little people on board the ship; and when they landed at Liverpoolthey must have been a very quaint-looking group, for "we had not abonnet in the party; we all wore caps trimmed with lace, white dresses,and Indian shawls." Can we wonder if, as Mrs. Sherwood goes on to say,"we were followed wherever we went by hundreds of the residents ofLiverpool"?

  The rest of Mrs. Sherwood's long life was spent in England, save for anoccasional visit to France and Switzerland. She and her husband settledin the west, where she had been born and bred, and of which she was sofond. She had more children, most of whom died young; and she lived avery busy, active, useful life, working hard at writing stories andtracts, visiting the prison at Worcester, and doing whatever good anduseful work lay within her power.

  The first part of the _Fairchild Family_ was published in 1818. It wasso popular that, more than twenty years afterwards, she wrote a secondpart, which, as you will see, begins at p. 150. As we read we shallnotice little points of difference between it and the first part; butour friends, Lucy, Emily, and Henry are just as nice and as naughty, asgood a
nd as silly, as they were in the opening chapters of the book.

  A few years later, when a very old woman, Mrs. Sherwood wrote a thirdpart of the _Fairchild Family_, in which she was helped by herdaughter, Mrs. Kelly. But this third part is less entertaining andinteresting than the two which went before it, and is also not entirelyMrs. Sherwood's own work; so you will not find it printed here.

  In 1851 Mrs. Sherwood died at Twickenham, where she had gone to live afew years previously. In the course of her long life she had seen manytrials and sorrows, but she had had a great deal of happiness. She hadmade the very most of all the gifts given her by God. Countlesschildren have been the happier and the better for what she wrote forthem. And by means of this new edition of a dear old book, with itspleasant type and charming illustrations, I hope a new generation willspring up of lovers and admirers of Mrs. Sherwood.

  MARY E. PALGRAVE.

  FOOTNOTES:

  [A] Described in _Little Henry and his Bearer_ as "an intoxicatingmixture of opium and sugar."

  [B] The huge fan, hanging from the ceiling, by which the air of housesin India is kept moving.

  [C] The "tatta" is a blind, or screen, woven of sweet-smelling grass,which is kept constantly wet by the water-carriers.