A Simple Story ... With illustrations, etc

Front matter

A SIMPLE STORY DEAR ME," RETURNED LADY EVANS, " I AM SURE I NEVER MEANT TO HINT AT ANYTHING EVIL!" — PAGE 10. A SIMPLE STORY BV MRS. INCHBALD WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY MIRIAM KERNS LONDON GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS BROADWAY, LUDGATE HILL NEW YORK: 9 LAFAYETTE PLACE THE YOUNG LADIES' LIBRARY. In crown Zvo, cloth gilt, with Illustrations. DINGLEFIELD. By Mrs. O'Reilly. OLD WIVES' FABLES. By Edouard Laboulaye. With 225 Illustrations. SCHOOLGIRLS ALL THE WORLD OVER. TEMPEST-TOSSED. By the Author of " Mademoiselle Mori." THE ASHELDON SCHOOLROOM. By the Author of " The Ross Garden." JEANNETTE: A STORY OF THE HUGUENOTS. By the Author of " The Rose Garden." HERMY: THE STORY OF A LITTLE GIRL. By Mrs. Molbsworth, Authorof "The Cuckoo Clock." THE OLD HOUSE IN THE SQUARE. By Alice Webbr. THE WOMAN WITH TWO WORDS.

By Sarah Tytler. MORE OLD WIVES' FABLES. By Edouard Laboulaye. With 75 Illustrations. OUR HERO. By Mrs. O'Rbilly. As an authentic memoir of Mrs. Inchbald, composed from documents in her own handwriting, is shortly to be published, we shall confine ourselves, on the present occasion of the admission of her Tales in " The Standard Novels," to a detail of the leading facts of her life, which have never yet been given with even tolerable accuracy. Elizabeth Inchbald was the last child but one of the numerous family of John and Mary Simpson, of Stan din gfield, in Suffolk, and born on the 15 th of October, 1753. Her father died when she was but eight years old, and her mother was left to struggle, deeply encumbered, with the concerns of a farm which, we believe, was the sole source of profit, and indeed maintenance, to the family.

Mrs. Inchbald has told us that she never was sent to school, and never had any governess or preceptor. MEMOIR OF MRS. INCHBALD. In that particular she resembled Miss Burney, another writer of novels, and her equal in the delineation of character and passion. But the latter lady lived at least in the atmosphere of letters, and her father was a man of science and refinement. The family of the Simpsons was Catholic ; and the neighbourhood abounded in respectable persons of that communion, who willingly extended their friendship to the interesting farm-house at Standingfield, where the daughters were spoken of as amiable and handsome girls ; Elizabeth was particularly admired, though she has candidly admitted that her sister Deborah was handsomer than herself. Elizabeth had a defect to surmount which caused her infinite vexation — she, from her infancy, stammered; and yet the early passion of her mind was to be an actress.

Preface

TO THE FIRST EDITION OF "A SIMPLE STORY." IT is said, st book shoidd be read with the same spirit with lohich it has been written. In that case, fatal must be the reception of this ; for the writer frankly avows that during the time she has been writing it she has suffered every quality and degree of weariness and lassitude into which no other employment could have betrayed her. It has been the destiny of the writer of this story to be occupied throughout her life in what has the least suited either her inclination or capacity. With an invincible impediment in her speech, it was her lot, for thirteen years, to gain a subsistence by public speaking ; and, with the utmost detestation to the fatigue of inventing, a constitution suffering under a sedentary life, and an education confined to the narrow boundaries prescribed her sex, it has been her fate to devote a tedious seven years to the unremitting labour of literary productions ; whilst a taste for authors of the first rank has been an additional punishment, forbidding her one moment of those self-approving reflections which are assuredly due to tho industrious.

But, alas ! in the exercise of the arts industry scarce bears the name of merit. What, then, is to be substituted in the place of genius ? Good Fortune. And if these volumes should be attended by the good fortune that has accompanied her other writings, to that divinity, and that alone, she shall attribute their success. PREFA CE. II Yet, there is a first cause, still, to whom I cannot here forbear to mention my obligations. The Muses, I trust, will pardon me, that to them I do not feel myself obliged ; for, in justice to their heavenly inspirations, I believe they have never yet favoured me with one visitation, but sent in their disguise Necessity, who, being the mother of In vention, gave me all mine, while Fortune kindly smiled, and was accessory to the cheat. But this important secret I long wished and endeavoured to conceal ; yet one unlucky moment, candidly, though unwittingly, divulged it.

I frankly owned "that Fortune having chased away Necessity, there remained no other incitement to stimulate me to a labour I abhorred." It happened to be in the power of the person to whom I confided this secret to send Necessity once more. Once more, then, bowing to its empire, I submit to the task it enjoins. This case has something similar to a theatrical anecdote told, I think, by Colley Cibber. "A performer, of a very mean salary, played the apothecary in Romeo and Juliet so exactly to the satisfaction of the audience, that this little part, independent of the other characters, drew immense houses whenever the play was performed. The manager, in consequence, thought it but justice to advance the actor's salary ; on which, the poor man (who, like the character he represented, had been half starved before) began to live so com fortably, he became too plump for the part, and being of no importance in anything else, the manager of course now wholly discharged him ; and thus, actually reducing him to the want of a piece of bread, in a short time he became a proper figure for the part again."

Welcome, then, thou all-powerful principle, Necessity ! — thou, who art the instigator of so many bad authors and actors : but, to their shame, not of all ; — thou, who from my infancy seldom hast forsaken me, still abide with me. I will not complain of any hardship thy commands require, so thou dost not urge my pen to prostitution. In all thy rigour, oh, do not force my toil to libel, or, what is equally pernicious, panegyric on the unworthy ! MISS MILNER. A SIMPLE STORY.

Chapter I. Dorriforth

bred at St. Omer's, in all the scholastic rigour of that college, was, by education and the solemn vows of his order, a Roman Catholic priest ; but, nicely discriminating between the philosophical and the superstitious part of that character, he adopted the former only, and possessed qualities not unworthy of the first professors of Christianity. Every virtue which it was his vocation to preach, it was his care I — to practise; nor was he in the class of those of the religious who, by secluding themselves from the world, fly from the merit they might acquire in reforming mankind. He refused to shelter him self from the temptations of the layman by the walls of a cloister; but sought for and found that shelter within the centre of London where he dwelt, in his own prudence, justice, fortitude, and temperance.

He was about thirty, and had lived in the metropolis near five years, when a gentleman, above his own age, but with whom he had in his youth contracted a sincere friendship, died, and left him the sole guardian of his daughter, who was then eighteen. The deceased Mr. Milner, on his approaching dissolution, per fectly sensible of his state, thus reasoned with himself before he made the nomination : — "I have formed no intimate friendship during my own life, except one : I can be said to know the heart of no man, except the heart of Dorriforth. After knowing his, I never sought acquaintance with another ; I did not wish to lessen the exalted estimation of human nature which he had inspired. In this moment of trembling apprehension for every thought which darts across my mind, and more for every action whicli soon I must be called to answer for : all worldly views here thrown aside, I act as if that tribunal, before which I every moment expect to appear, were now sitting in judgment upon my purpose.

The care of an only child is the great charge which, in this tremendous crisis, I have to execute. These earthly affections that bind me to her by custom, sympathy, or what I fondly call parental love, would direct me to consult her present happiness, and leave her to the care of those whom she thinks her dearest friends ; but they are friends only in the sunshine of fortune. In the cold nipping frost of disappointment, sickness, or connu bial strife, they will forsake the house of care, although the very fabric which they may have themselves erected." Here the excruciating anguish of the father overcame that of the dying man. " In the moment of desertion," continued he, " which I now picture to myself, where will my child find comfort? That heavenly aid which religion provides, and wliich now, amidst these agonizing tortures, cheers with humble hope my afflicted soul, — that she will be denied."

It is in this place proper to remark that Mr. Milner was a member of the Church of Rome ; but on his marriage with a lady of Protestant tenets, they mutually agreed their sons should be educated in the leligious opinion of their father, and their daughters in that of their mother. One child only was the result of their union ; the child whose future welfare now occupied tho anxious thoughts of her expiring father. From him the care of her education had been withheld, as he kept inviolate his promise to her departed mother on the article of religion, and therefore consigned his daughter to a boarding-school for Protestants, whence she returned with merely such ideas of piety as ladies of fashion, at her age, mostly imbibe. Her little heart, employed in all the endless pursuits of personal accomplishments, had left her mind without one ornament, except such as nature gave; and even they were not wholly preserved from the ravages made by its rival, art.

While her father was hi health, he beheld, with extreme de light, his accomplished daughter, without one fault which taste or elegance could have imputed to her, nor even inquired what might be her other failings. But, cast on a bed of sickness, and upon the point of leaving her to her fate, those failings at once rushed on his thought; and all the pride, the fond enjoyment he had taken hi beholding her open the ball, or dehght her hearers with her wit or song, escaped his remembrance, or, not escaping it, were lamented with a sigh of compassion, or a contemptuous frown at such frivolous qualifications. "Something essential," said he to himself, "must be considered — something to prepare her for an hour like this. Can I then leave her to the charge of those who themselves never remember such an hour will come 1 Dorriforth is the only person I know who, uniting the moral virtues to those of religion, and pious faith to native honour, will protect without controlling, instruct without tyrannizing, comfort without flattering; and, perhaps, in time, make good by choice, rather than by constraint, the tender object of his dying friend's sole care."

Dorriforth, who came post from London to visit Mr. Milner in his illness, received, a few moments before his death, all his injunctions, and promised to fulfil them. But, in this last token of his friend's perfect esteem, he still was restrained from all authority to direct his ward in one religious opinion, contrary to those her mother had professed, and in which she herself had been educated. " Never perplex her mind with any opinions that may disturb but cannot reform," were his latest words ; and Dorriforth's reply gave him entire satisfaction. Miss Milner was not with her father at this affecting period. Some delicately nervous friend, with whom she was on a visit at Bath, thought proper to conceal from her not only the danger of his death, but even his indisposition, lest it might alarm a mind she thought too susceptible.

This refined tenderness gave poor Miss Milner the almost insupj"iortable agony of hearing that her father was no more, even before she was told he was not in health. In the bitterest anguish she flew to pay her last duty to his remains, and performed it with the truest filial love, while Dorriforth, upon important business, was obliged to return to town.

Chapter II

Dorriforth returned to London heavily afflicted for the loss of his friend ; and yet, perhaps, with his thoughts more engaged upon the trust which that friend had reposed in him. He knew the life Miss Mihier had been accustomed to lead; he dreaded the repulses his admonitions might possibly meet, and feared he had undertaken a task he was too weak to execute — the protection of a young woman of fashion. Mr. Dorriforth was nearly related to one of our first Catholic peers. His income was by no means confined, but approaching to affluence; yet such was his attention to those in poverty, and the moderation of his own desires, that he lived in all the care ful plainness of economy. His habitation was in the house of a Mrs. Horton, an elderly gentlewoman, who had a maiden niece residing with her, not many years younger than herself.

But, although Miss Woodley was thirty-five, and in person exceedingly plain, yet she possessed such cheerfulness of temper, and such an inexhaustible fund of good-nature, that she escaped not only the ridicule, but even the appellation of an old maid. In this house Dorriforth had lived before the death of Mr. Horton ; nor upon that event had he thought it necessary, not withstanding his religious vow of celibacy, to fly the roof of two such innocent females as Mrs. Horton and her niece. On their part, they regarded him with all that respect and reverence which the most religious flock shows to its pastor; and his friendly society they not only esteemed a spiritual, but a temporal advan tage, as the liberal stipend he allowed for his apartments and board enabled them to continue in the large and commodious house which they had occupied during the life of Mr. Horton. „ simple story: Here, upon Mr. Dorriforth's return from his journey, preparations were commenced for the reception of his ward, her father having made it his request that she might, for a time at least, reside in the same house with her guardian, receive the same visits, and cultivate the acquaintance of his companions and^ friends.

When the wiMrof her father was made known to Miss Milner, she submitted without the least reluctance to all he had required. Her mind, at that time impressed with the most poignant sorrow for his loss, made no distinction of happiness that was to come ; and the day was appointed, with her silent acquiescence, when she was to arrive in London, and there take up her abode, with all the retinue of a rich heiress. Mrs. Horton was delighted with the addition this acquisition to her family was likely to make to her annual income and style of living. The good-natured Miss Woodley was overjoyed at the expectation of their new guest, yet she herself could not tell why ; but the reason was, that her kind heart wanted a more ample field for its benevolence ; and now her thoughts were all pleasingly employed how she should render, not only the lady herself, but even all her attendants, happy hi their new situation.

The reflections of Dorriforth were less agreeably engaged. Cares, doubts, fears, possessed his mind — and so forcibly pos sessed it, that upon every occasion which offered, he would inquisitively endeavour to gam intelligence of his ward's disposition before he saw her ; for he was, as yet, a stranger not only to the real propensities of her mind, but even to her person ; a constant round of visits having prevented his meeting her at her father's, thc very few times he had been at his house, since her final return from school. The first person whose opinion he, with all proper reserve, asked concerning Miss Milner, was Lady Evans, the widow of a baronet, who frequently visited at Mrs. Horton's. But that the reader may be interested in what Dorriforth says and does, it is necessary to give some description of his person and manners.

His figure was tall and elegant ; but his face, except a pair of dark bright eyes, a set of white teeth, and a graceful arrangement in his clerical curls of brown hair, had not one feature to excite admiration; yet such a gleam of sensibility _ simple story: 9 was diffused over each, that many persons admired his visage as completely handsome, and all were more or less attracted by it. In a word, the charm that is here meant to be described is a countenance ; on his you read the feelings of his heart — saw all its inmost workings — the quick pulses that beat with hope and fear, or the gentle ones that moved in a more equal course of patience and resignation. On this countenance his thoughts were portrayed ; and as his mind was enriched with every virtue that could make it valuable, so was his face adorned with every ex pression of those virtues ; and they not only gave a lustre to his aspect, but added an harmonious sound to all he uttered.

It was persuasive — it was perfect eloquence, whilst in his looks you beheld his thoughts moving with his lips, and ever coinciding with what he said. With one of those expressions of countenance which revealed anxiety of heart, and yet with that graceful restraint of all ges ticulation for wliich he was remarkable, even in his most anxious concerns, he addressed Lady Evans, who had called on Mrs. Horton to hear and to request the news of the day. " Your ladyship was at Bath last spring. You know the young lady to whom I have the honour of being appointed guardian. Pray " He was earnestly intent upon asking a question, but was prevented by the person interrogated. "Dear Mr. Dorriforth, do not ask me anything about Miss Milner. When I saw her she was very young — though, indeed, that is but three months ago, and she can't be much older now."

" She is eighteen," answered Dorriforth, colouring with regret at the doubts which this lady had increased, but not inspired. "And she is very beautiful — that I can assure you," said Lady Evans. " Which I call no qualification," said Dorriforth, rising from his chair in evident uneasiness. " But where there is nothing else, let me tell you, beauty is something." " Much worse than nothing, iu my opinion," returned Dorri forth. "But now, Mr. Dorriforth, do not, from what I have said frighten yourself, and imagine your ward worse than she really is. All I know of her is merely that she 's young, idle, indiscreet and giddy, with half a dozen lovers in her suite ; some coxcombs others men of gallantry, some single, and others married." Dorriforth started. " For the first time of my life," cried he, with a manly sorrow, " I wish I had never known her father."

"Nay," said Mrs. Horton, who expected everything to happen just as she wished (for neither an excellent education, the best company, nor long experience, had been able to cultivate or brighten this good lady's understanding), — "Nay," said she, "I am sure, Mr. Dorriforth, you will soon convert her from all her evil ways." "Dear me," returned Lady Evans, " I am sure I never meant to hint at anything evil ; and for what I have said, I will give you up my authors, if you please ; for they were not observations of my own : all I do is to mention them again." The good-natured Miss Woodley, who sat working at the window, an humble hut an attentive listener to this discourse, ventured here to say exactly six words: "Then don't mention them any more." "Let us change the subject," said Dorriforth. "With all my heart," cried Lady Evans; "and I am sure it will be to the young lady's advantage."

" Is Miss Milner tall or short?" asked Mrs. Horton, still wishing for further information. " Oh, tall enough of all conscience," returned she. " I tell you again that no fault can be found with her person." "But if her mind is defective," exclaimed Dorriforth, with a sigh. " That may be improved as well as the person," cried Miss Woodley. " No, my dear," returned Lady Evans, " I never heard of a pad to make straight an ill-shapen disposition." "Oh, yes," answered Miss Woodley; "good company, good books, experience, and the misfortunes of others, may have more power to form the mind to virtue, than " Miss Woodley was not permitted to proceed ; for Lady Evans, rising hastily from her seat, cried, " I must be gone — I have a hundred people waiting for me at home — besides, were I inclined to hear a sermon, I should desire Mr. Dorriforth to preach, and not you."

Just then Mrs. Hillgrave was announced. " And here is Mrs. Hillgrave," continued she. " I believe, Mrs. Hillgrave, you know Miss Milner, don't you ? The young lady who has lately lost her father?" Mrs. Hillgrave was the wife of a merchant who had met with severe losses. As soon as the name of Miss Milner was uttered, she lifted up her hands, and the tears started in her eyes. "There!" cried Lady Evans, "I desire you will give your opinion of her, and I am sorry I cannot stay to hear it." Saying this, she courtesied, and took her leave. When Mrs. Hillgrave had been seated a few minutes, Mrs. Horton, who loved information equally with the most inquisitive of her sex, asked the new visitor, " If she might be permitted to know why, at the mention of Miss Milner, she had seemed so much affected ?

" This question exciting the fears of Dorriforth, he turned anxiously round, attentive to the reply. "Miss Milner," answered she, "has been my benefactress, and the best I ever had." As she spoke, she took out her handkerchief and wiped away the tears that ran down her face. " How so ? " cried Dorriforth eagerly, with his own eyes mois tened with joy, nearly as much as hers were with gratitude. " My husband, at the commencement of his distresses," replied Mrs. Hillgrave, " owed a sum of money to her father, and from repeated provocations, Mr. Milner was determined to seize upon all our effects. His daughter, however, by her intercessions, pro cured us time, in order to discharge the debt ; and when she found that time was insufficient, and her father no longer to be dissuaded from his intention, she secretly sold some of her most valuable ornaments to satisfy his demand, and screen us from its consequences."

I Dorriforth, pleased at this recital, took Mrs. Hillgrave by the hand, and told her " she should never want a friend." "Is Miss Milner tall or short?" again asked Mrs. Horton, fearing, from the sudden pause which had ensued, the subject should be dropped. "I don't know," answered Mrs. Hillgrave, " Is she handsome or ugly ? " "I really can't tell." " It is very strange you should not take notice." "I did take notice, but I cannot depend upon my own judgment. To me she appeared beautiful as an angel ; but, perhaps, I was deceived by the beauties of her disposition."

Chapter III

This gentlewoman's visit inspired Mr. Dorriforth with some confidence in the principles and character of his ward. The day arrived on which she was to leave her late father's seat, and fix her abode at Mrs. Horton's ; and her guardian, accompanied by Miss Woodley, went in his carriage to meet her, and waited at an inn on the road for her reception. After many a sigh paid to the memory of her father, Miss Milner, upon the tenth of November, arrived at the place, half way on her journey to town, where Dorriforth and Miss Woodley were expecting her. Besides attendants, she had with her a gentleman and lady, distant relations of her mother's, who thought it but a proper testimony of their civility to attend her part of the way; but who so much envied her guardian the trust Mr. Mihier had reposed in him, that as soon as they had delivered her safe into his care, they returned.

When the carriage wliich brought Miss Milner stopped at the inn gate, and her name was announced to Dorriforth, he turned pale — something like a foreboding of disaster trembled at his heart, and, consequently, spread a gloom over all his face. Miss Woodley was even obliged to rouse him from the dejection into which he was cast, or he would have sunk beneath it : she was obliged also to be the first to welcome his lovely charge — lovely beyond description. But the natural vivacity, the gaiety whicli report had given to Miss Milner, were softened by her recent sorrow to a meek sadness — and that haughty display of charms, imputed to her manners, was changed to a pensive demeanour. The instant Dorri forth was introduced to her by Miss AYoodley as her "guardian, a snip le story: and her deceased father's most beloved friend," she burst into tears, knelt down to him for a moment, and promised ever to obey him as her father.

He had his handkerchief to his face at the time, or she woidd have beheld the agitation — the rentbtest sensations of his heart. This affecting introduction being over, after some minutes passed in general conversation, the carriages were again ordered ; and, bidding farewell to the relations who had accompanied her, Miss Mihier, her guardian, and Miss Woodley departed for town ; the two ladies in Miss Milner's carriage, and Dorriforth hi that in which she came. Miss Woodley, as they rode along, made no attempts to ingra tiate herself with Miss Mihier, though, perhaps, such an honour might constitute one of her first wishes : she behaved to her but as she constantly behaved to every other human creature ; and that was sufficient to gain the esteem of a person possessed of an understanding equal to Miss Milner's. She had penetration to discover Miss Woodley's unaffected worth, and was soon induced to reward it with the warmest friendship.

Chapter IV

After a night's rest in London, — less violently impressed with the loss of her father, reconciled, if not already attached to her new acquaintance, her thoughts pleasingly occupied with the reflection that she was in that gay metropolis, a wild and rap turous picture of which her active fancy had often formed, — .Miss Mihier waked from a peaceful and refreshing sleep, with much of that vivacity, and with all those airy charms, wliich, for a while, had yielded to their transcendent power to the weaker influence of her filial sorrow. Beautiful as she had appeared to Miss Woodley and to Dorri forth on the preceding day, when she joined them this morning at breakfast, repossessed of her lively elegance and dignified simplicity, they gazed at her, and at each other alternately, with astonishment ; and Mrs. Horton, as she sat at the head of her tea-table, felt herself but as a menial servant — such command has beauty when united with sense and virtue.

In Miss Milner it was so united. Yet let not our over-scrupulous readers be misled, and extend their idea of her virtue so as to magnify it beyond that which frail mortals commonly possess ; nor must they cavil if, on a nearer view, they find it less : but let them consider, that if she had more faults than generally belong to others, she had likewise more temptations. From her infancy she had been indulged in all her wishes to the extreme of folly, and started habitually at the unpleasant voice of control. She was beautiful ; she had been too frequently told the high value of that beauty, and thought every moment passed in wasteful idleness during which she was not gaining some new conquest. She had a quick sensibility, which too fre- *5 quently discovered itself in the immediate resentment of injuries or neglect.

She had, besides, acquired the dangerous character of a wit ; but to which she had no real pretensions, although the most discerning critic, hearing her converse, might fall into this mistake. Her replies had all the effect of repartee, not because she possessed those qualities which can properly bo called wit, but that what she said was delivered with an energy, an instan taneous and powerful conception of the sentiment, joined with a real or a well-counterfeited simplicity, a quick turn of the eye, and an arch smile. Her words were but the words of others, and, like those of others, put into common sentences ; but the delivery made them pass for wit, as grace in an ill-proportioned figure will often make it pass for symmetry. And now, leaving description, the reader must form a judgment of the ward of Dorriforth by her actions — by all the round of great or trivial circumstances that shall bc related.