that what philosophy was for. Her cousins said Miss Young was philosophical, and she had nothing to do with phosphorus or electrical machines.
Mr. Enderby explained to Mr. Hope that he had said what he was ready to maintain; that it was a happy thing for any one who, like Miss Young, was not so prosperous as she had been, to be supported by philosophy.
“And, granting this,” said Margaret, “it was next inquired whether this same philosophy would have been considered equally admirable, equally a matter of congratulation, if Miss Young had not wanted it for solace.”
“A question as old as the brigg at Stirling,” replied Mr. Hope; “older, older than any bridges of man’s making.”
“Why Stirling brigg? What do you mean?”
“I mean—do not you know the story?—that an old woman wanted to cross the Forth, and some ferrymen would have persuaded her to go in their boat when she was confident that a tempest was coming on, which would have made the ferry unsafe. They told her at last that she must trust to Providence. ‘Na, na,’ said she, ‘I will ne’er trust to Providence while there is a brigg at Stirling.’ The common practice is, you know, with the old woman.—We will not trust to the highest support we profess to have, till nothing else is left us. We worship philosophy, but never think of making use of it while we have prosperity as well.”
“The question is whether such practice is wise,” said Margaret: “we all know it is common.”
“For my part,” said Mr. Enderby, “I think the old Scotchwoman was right; Providence helps those that help themselves, and takes care of those who take care of themselves.”
“Just so,” said Hope. “Her error was in supposing that the one course was an alternative from the other—that she would not be trusting in Providence as much in going by the bridge as in braving the tempest. I think we are in the same error when we set up philosophy and prosperity in opposition to each other, taking up with the one when we cannot get the other, as if philosophy were not over all, compassing our life as the blue sky overarches the earth, brightening, vivifying, harmonising all, whether we look up to see whence the light comes or not.”
“You think it a mistake, then,” said Margaret, “not to look up to it till all is night below, and there is no light to be seen but by gazing overhead?”
“I do not see why we should miss seeing the white clouds and blue depths at noon because we may reckon upon moon and stars at midnight. Then again, what is life at its best without philosophy?”
“I can tell you, as well as anybody,” said Mr. Enderby, “for I never had any philosophy—no, neither wisdom, nor the love of wisdom, nor patience, nor any of the things that philosophy is understood to mean.”
“Oh, Mr. Enderby!” cried Sydney, “what pains you took to teach me to fish, and to make me wait patiently for a bite! You say you are not patient!”
“My account of life without philosophy,” said Mr. Enderby, proceeding as if he did not hear the children testifying to his patience with them—“my account of life without philosophy is, that it slips away mighty easily, till it is gone, you scarcely know where or how.”
“And when you call upon philosophy at last to give an account of it, what does she say?” asked Margaret.
“I do not understand how life can slip away so,” said Hester. “Is there ever a day without its sting?—without doubt of somebody, disappointment in oneself or another, dread of some evil, or weariness of spirit? Prosperity is no more of a cure for these than for sickness and death. If philosophy is—”
“Well!” exclaimed Mr. Hope, with strong interest, “if philosophy is—”
“Happy they that have her, for all need her.”
“Hear a testimony at least as candid as your own, Enderby. If you really find life steal away as easily as you now fancy, depend upon it you are more of a philosopher than you are aware of.”
“What is philosophy?” asked Matilda of Sydney in a loud whisper, which the boy was not in any hurry to take notice of, so little was there in the conversation which seemed to bear upon phosphorus and electricity.
“A good question,” observed Mr. Enderby. “Hope, will you tell us children what we are talking about—what philosophy is all this while?”
“You gave us a few meanings just now, which I should put into one. Call it enlargement of views, and you have wisdom, and the love of wisdom, and patience, all at once: ay, Sydney, and your kind of philosophy too:—It was by looking far and deep into nature that men found electricity.”
“Did Dr. Levitt find it out?” asked Matilda: “he is so very short-sighted! I don’t believe he would see those fish snapping up the flies, if he sat where I do. What was that that fell on my bonnet? Is it raining?”
Sydney, tired of fishing, had climbed into the oak, and was sending down twigs and leaves upon the heads of the party. Sophia desired him to come down, and even assured him that if he did not, she should be angry. He replied, that he would only stay to see whether she would be angry or not. The experiment was cut short by the whole party rising, and moving homewards. The sun was setting, and the picked cowslips must not have any dew upon them.
As the group passed up the street, Sydney in advance, with his rod and basket, on Mr. Hope’s horse, Mr. Hope himself following with Hester, and the tall Mr. Enderby, with Sophia and Margaret on either arm, all, like the little girls, laden with cowslips, the gossips of Deerbrook were satisfied that the stranger ladies must have enjoyed their walk in the meadows.
Chapter Five.
The School-Room.
Mrs. Rowland was mortified that the Greys had been beforehand with her in the idea of a cowslip-gathering. From the moment of Matilda’s asking leave to accompany them, she resolved to have such an expedition from her house as her neighbours should not be able to eclipse. Like Lear, she did not yet know what her deed was to be; but it should be the wonder and terror of the place: she would do such things as should strike the strangers with admiration. When she heard an account of it from her little daughter, she found this had been a very poor beginning—a mere walk in the meadows, and home again to tea;—no boiling the kettle in the woods—not even a surprise of early strawberries. She could not call this being forestalled; it could not give the young ladies any idea of a proper country excursion, with four or five carriages, or a boat with an awning. As soon as Mr. Rowland came home in the evening, she consulted him about the day, the place, the mode, and the numbers to be invited. Mr. Rowland was so well pleased to find his lady in the mood to be civil to her neighbours, that he started no difficulties, and exerted himself to overcome such as could not be overlooked. All the planning prospered so well, that notes to the Grey family and to the Miss Ibbotsons lay on Mr. Grey’s breakfast-table the next morning, inviting the whole party to dine with Mrs. Rowland in Dingleford woods, that day week—the carriages to be at the door at ten o’clock.
The whole village rang with the preparations for this excursion; and the village was destined to ring with other tidings before it took place. Mrs. Rowland often said that she had the worst luck in the world; and it seemed as if all small events fell out so as to plague her. She had an unusual fertility in such sensible suppositions and reasonable complaints; and her whole diversity of expressions of this kind was called into play about this expedition to Dingleford woods. The hams were actually boiled, and the chicken-pies baked, when clouds began to gather in the sky; and on the appointed morning, pattens clinked in the village street, Miss Young’s umbrella was wet through in the mere transit from the farrier’s gate to the schoolroom; the gravel-walk before Mr. Grey’s house was full of yellow pools, and the gurgling of spouts or drips from the trees was heard on every side. The worst of it was, this rain came after a drought of many weeks, which had perilled the young crops, and almost destroyed the