The Old Looking-Glass; or, Mrs Dorothy Cope's recollections of service

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am keeping my seventy to-day.' THE OLD LOOKING-GLASS OR MRS. DOROTHY COPE'S RECOLLECTIONS OF SERVICE I'.Y MAEIA LOUISA CHARLESWORTH AUTHOK OF " MIN1STEEINCJ CHILDREN," "OLIVER OE THE MILL," etc., etc. SEELEY, JACKSON, & HALLIDAY, FLEET STREET, LONDON. MDCCCLXXVIII. I am old Dorothy Cope, and if I knew who you were I would put down your name, as is the proper way in an introduction. I want to say that if you will look in my old looking-glass and see what I saw, which I have now written down, it may be for your good. I don't mean to say but you may have many good things that I did not know of, or some few bad ones, perhaps, other than I have written here. But I just say to you, with an old heart that is warm still — if you will but go where I went, with all that you are, and all that you have, to the feet of the Saviour, you will find what I found — that He takes the bad things away, and covers you over with a goodness all His own, having washed you whiter than snow ; yes, whiter than snow ! Which is the prayer for you, of your faithful well wisher, DOROTHY COPE.

Chapter I

I AM keeping my seventy to-day. And yesterday my lady came from the Hall, and the sweet children with her. They all came on foot, for I am not far from the house-lodge, and the pretty children each brought a parcel, and made me sit down, and laid them all on my lap. They said, " Here, Dodo, to-morrow is your birthday, and we wish you many happy returns; and we shall come to fetch you up to dinner and tea, and have a cake like what you always made to keep our birthdays. And here are all your birthday presents ; but, Dodo, you must be sure and not open one of them until to-morrow. Now promise, and then we shall know you will keep it." Pretty dears ! they always thought so much of a promise. We never knew one of them break it. When they had done with their charges, my lady had a little band-bos in her hand ; she said it was a new cap to keep my seventieth birthday in — a very becoming one, and I must be sure to put it on right.

So I promised. I don't know how I feel when I see them coming in, they are just like the sunshine of heaven. So after breakfast next day, when all things were tidy, I went up to my room. I put on my best gown, — it was a black silk, a parting present from master the day I left the Hall. Then I sat down at the glass to fit on my cap. It was a handsome cap, to be sure ! I scarce knew myself. I could not tell that I had ever sat down in the front of the looking-glass before; but I was sitting there now. The glass was rather dim ; it had been mother's grandmother's, and had an oaken frame. Mother's grandmother worked a small farm in her time, and furniture, like clothing, was made good in those days. The silver is off from the back now, in some places, and I could hardly be sure if my lady would think my cap right.

" There should be light in a looking-glass," I said. And as I sat there, the thought came to my mind of the first day that ever I put on a cap . I was sixteen years old, and going to service. I stood at that very same glass, and how particular I was, to be sure ! It took me a long while to settle. To my mind, it was my cap that made me a servant. For caps were caps in those days, and I thought it a grand thing to wear one. All this came over my mind as if it were yesterday. There was light in the looking-glass then, but, like me, it had had its day. It was there and then the thought came to my mind — What if I could make my long life a looking-glass to the young? If I could show them how I failed, and how I learned, aud right things from wrong. There are many that have none to teach them, and if there was one thing I took delight in more than another, it was training the girls when they had a good will to learn.

The dear children came for me next day. What questions I had as to when I opened the parcels ! for they said, " You know you promised \" and as to which I opened first, and which next, until my memory got almost out of book ; for I can remember the years that are gone better by far than the things of to-day. But to see them gathered round my knee, it was a sight, like a wreath of blessed flowers round a withered old tree. But I told my lady what I had been thinking of, and you cannot believe how pleased she was. She said if I did that, she should give over vexing that I had left them, seeing I had recovered so well. My lady held me to it, as you would hold a child to its duty ; and the very next morning there came down a parcel of proper paper, for my lady always knew what was the right thing — and pens, and ink, and blotting-paper too, which was needed, for my hand is not all so steady as it was.

I was a good scholar in my time, and had to write a great deal one way or other, and I was pretty perfect in spelling, and if there be a word wrong here or there, my lady will put all that right, for she will be the one it will come to. There were few scholars in my day amongst boys and girls, nor yet amongst their parents. Learning was scarce. But my father knew the value, and he paid sixpence a week for each of us to learn reading, writing, and arithmetic ; and mother helped us on at home, for she had had a good education. The young folks don't listen to their teachers as they did in my day, when they got any, which was not very often. But girls and boys now are almost as smart at five as they were then at fifteen. They may not follow good advice, as they were apt to do then ; but give them writing or printing, and they will read by the hour.

I have seen my lady stitch up odd leaves that made a book in no time, and no doubt she will do so by these. To begin at the beginning. I am an old woman. I have kept my seventy. I lived housekeeper at the Hall until my sixty-eight. Then I took rheumatic fever, and lay bad for a long time. They were all as good to me as if I had been their mother. But I made up my mind, if ever I recovered, which I did, that I would never put lame legs to stand under a burden like that. It is not fair to the house, above nor below ; for if every one is running to lend you a hand they must be put out of their way, and there is none to help them. It was hard to stand firm and not be over-per suaded, but when I have seen a thing right I hold on to it, though I may shake a little sometimes. They said the place would not be itself if I were not there.

How often I have thought over that, and looked back to see what I was once, and that it should ever come to have that said of me ! It was but natural the poor maids should think so, for they had long run to me as their mother. We had changed none but the young ones for years, for the women said they did not sup pose they could better themselves, and had no mind to go. So I was forced to shove off the young ones, for I could not keep them always at the foot of the tree. But to think our lady should say so ! And she said our master had said it too — that the place would not be itself without me. Well, I do say it ought to be written and printed in a book, to encourage the poor girls when they find some things hard. To think there is not one of them but might strive on, and come at the finish to the hearing of that.

They talk of the prize at the end of a race ; such words are a prize, I am sure. And it puts me in mind of those blessed words the Master will say to those who have striven for Him, " Well done, good and faithful servant." Oh, to come to the hearing of that ! So I came to this pretty place, a cottage on the outside of the park. The forest-trees shade it, its little garden is gay enough with flowers before, and well stocked at the end with vegetables and fruit. My apple-trees are the first, for I he full to the south. I have known master ride by only to look at the blossom. The road runs in sight, and the traffic is cheerful, and I get many a kind word when I am about in my garden. The dear children at the Hall call my cottage Dodo's Nest. I dwell alone; only the poor widow, Prudence Maye, comes in to light up my fire and tight up my dwelling.

She always brings her boy with her ; he is over his first year, but weak as yet in his legs. He rollicks on the sheepskin, or sleeps tucked up in his mother's shawl. Prudence Maye mostly gets her breakfast with me, unless she is going out to work for the day. It is fortunate for her that the poor boy is weak on his feet, and that as yet he has not taken to crawling ; for where she lays him he bides, except for his voice, which seems to me to have got all the strength of his limbs ; but by the child's lying still she can get a day's work. I have two house keys, and the widow Prudence keeps one. I believe she would be looking in by night times if I would consent. She is sore against my sleeping alone. But to me it is wonderful to be shut in to the stillness. To see how many years I have carried a burden of business — the maids, and the work, and the family themselves, and their company, and all that would as easy go wrong as right.

I have lain awake and spent the night in considering the day. I blame myself for it now. Dear me ! there is One waking and watching, and is not that enough for me ? The trees grow while we are sleeping, and herbs and flowers do the same, all by His ordering ; and so it used to be with my business, for the thing that looked more than a match for me over-night lay just right to my hand in the morning. Did He not say, " Why are ye so careful ? " and we don't heed it, but go heaping up care as before. I was saying how there is nothing to lie on my mind now. I never was a great sleeper. I often see the dawn, for my chamber has two windows, and one looks to the east. So has the other chamber, but there one looks to the west. I often step up and sit by it awhile of evening times, and see the sunset.

Sometimes the glory is like to dazzle you; another while all is grey, there is no outbreak of beauty. But I have seen it set in gloom, and then rise up in the morning in a splendour I could not tell. So I have often thought to myself I have seen a Christian go like that, all quiet, and not with a brightness ; but see, this is to show us how they will rise, all purple and gold, in the morning. Father went like that grey sunset ; but I know how he would rise, for he was a true Christian. Mother's last hours were brighter. It was eight years before mother's home had a child in it ; she always said she was over-proud of her boy when he came. He was a beautiful child, she said, and so forward in nature. I think of him sometimes when I see this poor child on the sheepskin. I am glad that the widow Prudence has a son.

Mother's only lived two years, and then he was taken. He had learned in that time to run out to meet father, and would crow and chatter in his way, for joy when father took him up in his arms. I suppose boys have a way that girls hardly come at, for I never heard mother tell of our young doings ; but then she lost him, and that might be the reason. Mother has told me herself that all her comfort went with her boy. Her cup seemed to her full when he came, but when he was gone nothing on earth looked the same, aud mother said she had not seen beyond then. There was a darkness on father, he scarce seemed to smile, and the house had no cheer in it. But father was always a man for the Scriptures. It had been his way to read a chapter up at night over and above all that he studied himself. He had always done so to his aged parents before they were taken.

And he prayed a prayer. We learned to pray from father's prayer. Mother said she had not paid the attention she ought, but the chapter one night was the Shunam mite's son, in Second of Kings and fourth chapter, and it struck home to her so when the prophet's servant said, " Is it well with the child ? And she answered, It is well." Poor father ! he stopped there, he could not go on, but he was never a man for showing trouble. The next morning, when father was off, mother went to the Book, which she had not been given to do. She saw father had been at it again, for it was blotted with tears. From that time mother used to hear a voice in her heart, " Is it well with the child ? And she answered, It is well." And she took to reading to herself, and took notice of every child that she came to in the Scriptures, and turned to those parts again, till she came to the Babe of Bethlehem.

She scarce knew how to leave that, but when she read where He took the children up in His arms and blessed them, the stony trouble in her heart seemed gone ; she never fretted again as she had done. She used to plead with folks to read the Scriptures, for she said it was not that she could say it was this thing or that, but it was in those quiet readings the words alto gether gave her a new heart and made a new woman of her. This puts me in mind to tell the poor widow, Prudence Maye, of how my mother found comfort. We never saw our little brother, for we were born after him, but I never thought any other children filled mother's heart as he did. Yet she was a good mother to us.

Chapter II

I was born in July. Father has told me how he has seen me in the harvest-field laid asleep on a wheatsheaf, while mother was gleaning. When father grew an old man he reminded me of it, and said, " The poor babe has been a golden sheaf to her mother and me ! " No one who has not heard them can tell what such words are — how they lie in the bottom of your heart still and deep, where the world's hurry never comes, and all the while you are busy after this thing and that, and must keep your mind on your work ; words like those lie, showing up in the quiet, and you feel there are great things to live for. Nancy came to us on Midsummer-day. She did come with a sunbeam to be sure ! You never could see a fresher face than our Nancy, and so pleasant on all — every one shared alike. Little Jane came on May-day.

I have wondered some times whether the birth-time can tell on the nature. Father was born in the autumn, and his words always seemed ripe words. He never said many, but they dropped in your heart like good seed, and grew there. Mother's birth-time was in "winter, and the keen winds did blow about mother sometimes. I asked her once if she thought that the birth -time could tell on the nature. For I was thinking, if it did, one must strike a few cuttings of pleasant seasons, if one's birth was a rough one; but mother said it was nothing but one of my fancies, and that I might have known by that time that one season was as good as another, and all had their work to do, and, what was more, they did it; which would never be true of me if my head ran on fancies. Of course mother was right ; still, some do stand in light and others in shadows ; and winter winds are searching, and autumn for mel lowing.

But this is not taking in hand to write down my service. I must come to my story. Mother wished my name to be Dorothy, for that was the name of mother's grandmother, who brought mother up on the little farm that mother's grandfather rented. I have heard mother say that her mother was kind-hearted and easy, she ruled them by words ; if one word did not do, she put two, and so on as they seemed to be needed ; but for all that, mother said she did not take so much notice of them as she ought to have done. I have found for my part a few words are the best, it leaves time to consider the consequences. My great-grandmother's words stood for what they were worth, and they came out full value. I always did think father must be more like what mother's grandmother was, than mother herself. You do see that difference between one and another that come of one root.

It is plain there is another Hand in the making, for nature would shape them alike. The long and short of it was, that our great-grandmother meant what she said ; she knew she was set in authority, and she did rule with diligence. Mother said it had such an effect upon her, that she never went from her grandmother's word, not even in service with giddy ones about her. What a fine thing a word is when it is good enough and strong enough to stand. But, I suppose, there never were two things more alike than you and your word. What you are, is what your word will be. It is good to remember that. Father got mother to marry him when mother was only twenty-four, and father had past his thirty. But mother had had eight years of service in one family, and was greatly respected. That best tea-service on the dressershelves — it is real china — the family gave it to mother.

I still have the paper on which the family wrote, " A token of regard after eight years' faithful service." It is the best part of the china. Mother served the tea up in it on christening-days. Wo never had any marryings, for Nancy, who is now in her sixty-eight, lives nurse in the second family she ever served. She never would have left the first, only children will grow. But the family she is in now say she must never leave them. Little Jane went before father. I always think he was never quite the same again. But there, he is with her now ; and after partings come meetings, to those whose blessed Hope is the same. Eternity is a long word, and we be never asked to let them go but once. We should not be so against it, as we are, if we thought on that, " For ever and ever." But though we had no marryings, there was father's and mother's. I never heard mother tell about that until after father was gone.

One day when she and I sat alone, mother explained it to me, for father had given me a token, and mother thought I had better understand. As I have begun upon it, I will write it down here. It is worth the writing and the reading, for none could have been better set together than father and mother. Father's name was Gideon, but mother had a fancy for her boy to be Joseph, and father gave in to mother ; for though he was a firm one for right, he never valued his will. Father had shown kindness many a long year to mother, but he lived with his aged parents, very respectable people. Mother said father took no end of trouble to please her ; but she was just one to hold off when another held on. Mother said she deserved to have lost him, but that it was another way that was to bring her to a right mind.

I knew that meant the loss of little Joseph. When both father's parents were gone, mother thought father would be speaking. Mother heard how one young woman and another were walking with father, but as mother said, they might as well have kept their distance, for father would never look on one who put herself forward. I have seen misery in marriage, and most often by that. The girls take it into their heads and are forward and bold; and tho men who would make the best of husbands will not take up with such. Let the girls be true women, and there will be far more true men. They know well what this means : I have often said it before ; the woman pays her own score nine times out of ten. I have written it now, for they can't be " shame-faced " too young. It was mother's holiday time, a fortnight she had in Midsummer.

Mother had cleared away the tea when she saw father at the gate ; he had changed his working clothes, and was dressed as if it were Sunday. Something said in her heart, " He is coming for you, Jenny !" But mother turned out at the back door to the rose-arbour father had twisted for her a year before. She was busy lacing the branches, when father came and sat down there and watched her. Mother said, " Good evening ; " but father did not seem to hear her. Presently he said to her, " Jenny," he said, " I cannot winter alone. The old chairs are there, but father and mother are gone ; it breaks the man in me when I sit there alone." Mother had plucked down a rose which she held in her fingers, and presently father said, " Jenny," he said, " it must be you or another !" Mother was up in a minute and said " Take another, if you have a mind !

" But father answered, " It is your mind I am asking, I never had but one mind !" "I don't rightly know my own mind," said mother. But before she could turn off, father had caught her and said, " Jenny ! that's all ! if you are not against me I will answer the rest ! " and mother tucked the rose in his button-hole. I have often thought of that Midsummer evening when I have looked on a rose, and so I believe did mother, but she was never one for fancies like me. It was over fifty years after that I saw that rose. Father was a very particular man; he had a good oakchest of his own, with brass hinges and lock, and brass handles, which were always kept bright, and you might see your face in the old wood, such a polish was on it. It was in our home, and no other, that I learned to keep furniture bright.

Father could not stand spots and smears. You would never think that he looked, but he saw in a moment. " Rub up your looking glass," he would say, " or your face won't show clear.'' True enough, in those years I seldom saw my face in any other, for we had only my great-grandmother's old one — that one I use now, and mother kept it high up on the old chest of drawers, for she valued it greatly, it having been her grandmother's. The old furniture had been my father's father's, and he did like to see it kept as his mother had kept it. I often wondered if she always wore spectacles when she rubbed up furniture, but I never saw her, so I could not tell. Anyway, it did wonders for me ; I got a quick eye for a spot. And yet father never was angry. I never once heard him scold. I have often thought what a sin it would have been for any to have vexed him lightly.

It is cruel to go on at a quiet spirit until you rouse it to anger, It is not like those who are up before you know what you have done. I have tried with such, to pour oil on the waters, but sometimes for all that they would boil, and I have thought on the Scripture, " Seest thou a man that is hasty in his words ? there is more hope of a fool than of him." So it has made me wary when I felt getting hasty ; for there lay my warning in the pages of truth. I was going to say how it fell out with the rose. Father always kept the key of his chest ; he laid up his Sunday suits himself. I only rubbed up the outside. One day, near the end of father's last illness — it was the only illness he ever had, and it did not last long — he asked mother to go to a side-drawer in his chest. There were not savings-banks in country places then, and clubs and banks were not always steady ; and in that drawer father had kept all he had saved before he married.

He said, " It is all there, Jenny. We have never wanted it ; it is good honest money to nourish thee, Jenny." He told mother to lift up the paper and see, and when she did so, there lay a paper folded, and on it was written in rather large hand, for father was not much of a writer, on it was written, " Jenny's rose ; " and the money lay under it. And as mother lifted the paper, out fell the rose all weltered and dropping to pieces. Mother must have known what it was, for she said " 0, Gideon !" to father. And father said, " Let me look on it." I was glad I was there. Mother laid it on the bed, and her tears were falling, and she said, " That's like our life and our love, Gideon — just weltering away." Father scarce seemed to hear her, he picked up the rose in his poor trembling fingers and looked on it, then held it to me and said, ** Here, child, keep the rose, it made a man of me once !"

And the money seemed forgotten, father never thought of it more ; and mother shut up the drawer and put the key in her pocket. Yet I think father heard what she said, of the rose being like their weltered life ; for as he lay on his pillow, he said, as if to himself, " Shall never perish ! Shall never perish ! Himself hath said it ! Himself hath said it !" and I saw a tear fall on his cheek. Many and many's the time I have looked at that weltered rose, it is in the drawer of the old chest, it has scarce any form left ; but I think of mother, and how often I read to her, in years after, the chapter where it is written, " The wilderness and the solitary place shall be glad for them, and the desert shall rejoice and blossom as the rose." What a change it makes in many a feeling, when those who cared for you are gone !

If your heart be not hard as a stone, you will have a memory then for every slight you have spoken or done. If you let your mother live hard and sorrowful, or your father feel pinched and neglected — what memories to come back and trouble you ! And when you see it returned on you, as most likely you will, even in this world, then you will remember, " This was what I did !" I am often telling the young, " If you want to take care of your own comfort, take care of the comfort of others, for that will come back to you sevenfold ; when all your care for yourself will leave you but wretched." o