Works of Ellen Wood, page 1309
Impress all this upon him, morning by morning, day after day, week following week; until he can (however imperfectly) realize to himself somewhat of Heaven. Realize that there, in that shining Eden of promise, will be his permanent home; not in this poor world with its many pains, and drawbacks, and weariness. There will be no night there; no sickness, or gloom, or sorrow; only love, and rest, and joy. Remind him of those who are already there, and of whom he has liked to hear and read. Abraham, the faithful servant of God; Moses, who lifted up the typical serpent in the wilderness, that they who were bitten and in danger of death might look upon it, and live; Hezekiah, who prayed unto the Lord in his sickness that his life might be prolonged, and it was so; David, who was beloved by God; Job, so patient under affliction; Isaiah, who prophesied of the Mighty Counsellor, the Prince of Peace; Daniel, who escaped the lions’ den; down to Christ’s own disciples, and to Stephen the Martyr, who fell asleep in Jesus, calling for forgiveness on his destroyers; and to St. Paul, who fought unweariedly the good fight of faith, and for whom was laid up the crown of righteousness. All these he will meet hereafter, amid the many others. Recal to him the personal friends he has known and loved in his as yet short life, who have departed within his own recollection. Grandpapa or grandmamma; or, maybe, a little brother or sister:
“There is no flock, however watched and tended,
But one dead lamb is there:
There is no fireside, howe’er defended,
But has one vacant chair.”
Show him that they have but gone on before; that he will go to them in his turn, and dwell with them for ever and ever. In short, bring him up to be acquainted with Heaven, to look to it as his certain home, and to long for it.
Do this always. Do not weary in it. It will make your own journey in life pleasant, whatever may be that life’s vicissitudes; it will soothe its cares: for while you are striving untiringly to bring your children to God, God will not forget you. For your own sake and your children’s sake, I pray you, neglect it not.
And whenever you, yourself, may be called away, be it sooner or later, you will have the unspeakable comfort of knowing that you may with confidence leave your children in Heaven’s hands. For you have given unto their hearts a safeguard; you have taught them to love and fear God, to rely upon their Saviour; and you know that “He who has begun a good work in them shall assuredly make it complete.”
Farewell. With the words that I began, so would I end.
“Train up a child in the way he should go: and when he is old, he will not depart from it.”
THE END
The Biography
Ellen Wood by Joseph Sydney Willis Hodges, 1875
MEMORIALS OF MRS. HENRY WOOD by Charles W. Wood
CONTENTS
PREFACE
PART I
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
PART II
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII
CHAPTER XXIV
CHAPTER XXV
CHAPTER XXVI
CHAPTER XXVII
The original title page
“Dear friend, far off, my lost desire,
So far, so near in woe and weal;
O loved the most, when most I feel
There is a lower and a higher;
“Known and unknown; human, divine;
Sweet human hand and lips and eye;
Dear heavenly friend that canst not die,
Mine, mine, for ever, ever mine;
“Dear friend, past, present, and to be;
Loved deeplier, darklier understood;
Behold, I dream a dream of good,
And mingle all the world with thee.”
“IN MEMORIAM.”
PREFACE
THE following Memoirs of Mrs. Henry Wood have been compiled from notes, from fragments of diaries, from memory. They are the result of many a conversation, many a story, many a reminiscence, never to be forgotten whilst life remains. Above all, they are the fruit of a life-long companionship; a similarity of tastes, a closeness and unity of occupation; an intimacy between mother and son perhaps never exceeded.
This companionship was constant; until, when childhood and youth passed into manhood, it was only broken by the occasional absences which belong to the changes and chances of life. Sweet was the converse, charmed the hours, perfect the union, where all thoughts were outspoken, and no shadow came between: a delight and an influence nothing else has approached. Through those long years she loved to dwell upon her earlier life. Hours of conversation, oft repeated, made that past, in which the writer had no part or lot, familiar as though he had been ever present, and all had been a personal experience.
A lengthier record might have been given of the deeds and words of a strangely beautiful life; but length would avail nothing. The records in their brevity are but a faint reflection of Mrs. Henry Wood; multiplied, the reflection would still be faint.
In one respect some of the finest traits of her character are revealed in the very absence of such materials as the biographer finds most available and most effective. It never struck her to accumulate records, deeming that some day the world would wish to hear about her life. She did not with this view systematically keep journals, nor did she preserve the letters of others or retain copies of her own letters. So far as such elements are concerned, these Memorials may be found wanting: but the writer has named his work Memorials rather than a Life or a Biography; and he has aimed rather at giving some suggestion of the spirit in which she lived and worked than at presenting a formal and detailed memoir.
If he has failed, despite the disadvantages he has had to contend against, the blame must lie with him and not with the subject; for it is certain that few have equalled her in high ideals and fulfilled endeavours, as few have approached her in the unobtrusiveness of her ways. The narrative is a simple statement of the quiet annals of many years, neither humorous nor pathetic, and without exciting elements. Eminently wise and great as she was, equally did she excel in directness of motive, in modesty and humility; so that only those who knew her best were aware how closely she was allied to all things lovely and of good report; how almost flawless was the jewel that threw on all around its rays of sympathy and compassion; thus unconsciously leading many to those Paths of Peace she knew so well, and in which she was ever found.
Something of this is recorded in the following pages; but the result is as imperfect as the description of a brilliant sunset falls short of the beauties of light and colouring actually seen. Yet it is a memorial wreath — a last offering — humbly and reverently placed upon the tomb of one who was, for the writer, ever without peer and without parallel, sans peur et sans reproche, from the first remembered impression until the moment when
“Her life, a white perfumed blossom,
Sprang to Heaven.”
PART I
CHAPTER I
“I sometimes hold it half a sin
To put in words the grief I feel;
For words, like Nature, half reveal
And half conceal the Soul within.”
ELLEN PRICE — afterwards Mrs. Henry Wood — was born in the city of Worcester when the century was still young. It was the year memorable for the great frost, when the Thames was frozen over and bullocks were roasted whole upon the ice-bound surface. Just before this severe cold set in, when many of the poor were frozen to death as they trudged along the country roads, and people began to wonder whether the ice age were returning, the child was ushered into the world whose name some fifty years later was to be enrolled amongst those who have earned fame and fought a good fight. She was born on the 17th January 1814; therefore at the time of her death — 10th February 1887 — was seventy-three years of age.
Yet no one thought or spoke of her as being old. Time seemed to have passed her by in his flight. She had the rare gift of perpetual youth, and was young in mind, manner and appearance to the end; her intellect as sparkling and her heart as green as they had been half a century earlier. For her the day never came when, as Wordsworth says,
“... Nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, or glory in the flower.”
She delighted in everything that was pure and lovely, all her keen and vivid impressions, all her interest in life and humanity, all her sympathy with joy and sorrow, remained undiminished to the end.
She was christened Ellen, without any second name, and was the daughter of Mr. Thomas Price, one of the largest glove manufacturers in the city of Worcester, as his father had been before him.
An only child, Mr. Thomas Price had inherited a large property from his father, who died when he was only a little turned fifty. His son had received what would have been a liberal education in these days and was a very exceptional one in those. Originally destined for the Church, when the time came for final decision he chose to follow in his father’s footsteps and became a simple manufacturer.
With all his mental gifts, there was in him a want of ambition, an indifference to the world’s honours, which kept him from all aspirations. “He cared for none of these things.” From a worldly point of view perhaps he chose wisely, but his talents ought to have been exercised in a different field. Remarkable for intellect and refinement, a gentleman and a scholar, his attributes could find little scope in the counting-house of a manufactory. True, he spent much time in his study, leaving to managers the work of directing; but this, after all, was only a compromise with what should have been. In classics he was so good an authority that some of the Church dignitaries would consult him upon abstruse or doubtful points, implicitly accepting his opinion — a great condescension in those days, when the austere Canons would hardly have claimed acquaintance with the heir to a throne if he had turned glove manufacturer — so much has the world changed since the century was young. The bent of his genius was classical rather than mathematical. Intimate with some of the Prebendaries, who condescended to make a solitary exception in his favour, he was more fitted for a cathedral stall than the calling he had adopted. He was a special favourite of Bishop Carr — of George IV. renown: who had none of the episcopal pride and unapproachableness that so often accompany the wearing of the apron; who was the first bishop to appear in Worcester Cathedral without his wig, to the horror and scandal of those who loved pomp and ceremony and the observance of ancient customs. On his deathbed the Bishop lamented that Mr. Price had not a son in the Church, whose interests he might have advanced, even at the eleventh hour.
Thomas Price was accomplished as well as learned; skilful in music, an art of which he was passionately fond; whilst his sketches in water-colour were far above the average of amateur productions. Landscapes, interiors, the human figure — he did all equally well; but in drawing animals, if we may compare small things with great, he was as unsuccessful as Turner was with his men and women. He delighted in works of the imagination, and was a great reader of novels, Scott being his favourite author, whom he read and re-read all the days of his life; but those were days when the choice of novelists was limited. He was also a great chess-player, moved rapidly, and seldom lost a game. Everything he undertook he did to the utmost of his powers, and those powers were of a very high order.
The writer saw him once, and once only, when as a young child he had been brought over to England on a short visit. He was then a venerable-looking gentleman, with calm and dignified manners and subdued tones; an abundance of white hair, and a face beautiful in age. Punctilious in dress, as in all matters of courtesy and everyday life, he still wore large frills to his shirt-front, though they had gone out of fashion excepting with gentlemen of the old school. Large white cuffs set off his white and delicate hands, and he leaned much, in talking, on a massive silver-headed stick. Altogether he was exactly the picture of age and dignity to strike with awe an impressionable child. On that occasion he had come up to London to visit his daughter, Mrs. Henry Wood, who was unable to go down into Worcestershire.
Up to the age of seven Ellen Price was brought up in the house of her grandmother, a lady who adorned her home, but took no part in its management. Member of a county family, in marrying the glove manufacturer — handsome, a gentleman, and wealthy though he might be — she was considered to have married beneath her. These distinctions, we repeat, have very much passed away, and will do so still more; but a century ago the old order had not changed. In Mildred Arkell we remember how Lucy Cheveley was supposed to have lost caste in marrying Peter Arkell.
In her own early home Mrs. Price, the grandmother, had never been initiated into the mysteries of housekeeping. Surrounded by luxury, this branch of a girl’s education was considered unnecessary for one who was probably destined to a distinguished marriage, but who, as we have seen, sacrificed ambition to love. She was never able to master the intricacies of domestic details, and in her new home these had to be confided to a housekeeper: a middle-aged upper servant, who had lived in the fathers house from the time of the daughter’s birth. She now had charge of everything, and the women servants were under her control. Her name was Tipton; she was a very original character, and never appeared in anything but a prim silk gown. No doubt she was the foundation of the type of old and faithful servant Mrs. Henry Wood has described in some of her novels.
The young child Ellen was Mrs. Tipton’s especial charge and favourite, though she had also her own personal attendant and separate rooms; for in spite of being the sunshine of her grandmother’s existence, she was only allowed to be with her at stated times, according to the stricter fashion of those days. The housekeeper generally accompanied the child in her morning walks, and in the afternoons, whenever she went out in the carriage with her grandmother, was always in charge. In all matters needing personal activity and command Mrs. Price was singularly useless, even in controlling children. The child’s place in the carriage was seldom allowed to be otherwise occupied, until the rule almost amounted to a superstition. If no friend were present, Tipton had to be at her post, no matter how great the inconvenience.
In their drives they often passed over the old bridge spanning the Severn, and the charming view so delighted the child that more often than not the carriage was stopped for a few moments’ enjoyment. It was a scene Mrs. Henry Wood frequently alludes to in her novels. Here the mischievous College boys flung old Ketch’s keys into the water; here poor Charley Channing disappeared in his terror. Below flowed the calm, lovely river. Upon its banks rose the grave and dignified Cathedral, surrounded by its ancient Prebendal houses, by trees that waved and rustled and whispered in the wind; whilst round the venerable tower the rooks, looking almost as old and dignified, cawed and flew and wheeled with all their solemn air and sound. Not far off, the famous spire of St. Andrew’s, rising in singular beauty towards the heavens, was clearly outlined: a contrast to the dignified square Cathedral tower. The placid water flowing to the sea reflected a thousand objects on which the child ever longed and lingered to gaze. Trees and sky and Cathedral outlines all found their duplicate in the famous stream, and to the imaginative young girl it was ever a dream of Fairyland that in after years rose up at Memory’s call. Longer drives were frequently taken to the surrounding villages, to more distant parts of the county, until the whole neighbourhood far and near became familiar and beloved; indelibly stamped upon the child’s brain. It is all this neighbourhood — the villages, lanes and ancient houses of Worcestershire — that in after years she so vividly reproduced in Johnny Ludlow; so that places and scenes not visited for half a century are as accurately described as though sketched on the spot.
Few counties possess more picturesque villages than Worcestershire, especially the neighbourhood of the Faithful City, which abounded in those days in the old timber houses — the “Worcestershire houses,” as they have been called — which add so much to the beauty of its landscape. The modern element, now only too visible, was still nonexistent; whilst all the traces of a bygone period of romance, so great a charm and feature of Worcester itself, had not begun to suffer from the inevitable effects of time and decay. All this portion of England is a sylvan dream that has occupied many an artist’s pencil and many a poet’s pen. In the accompanying illustrations we have endeavoured to reproduce some of the rural and antiquarian charm of these villages, and some of the antiquarian and historical interest of Worcester itself. The illustrations both of English and foreign scenes are all places consecrated to Mrs. Henry Wood’s earlier life; scenes amidst which she dwelt, and day by day and year by year grew familiar with and deeply loved, both at home and abroad; and in placing them in her Memoir, we enable the reader to realise more vividly the impressions that so greatly influenced her mind, and insensibly gave their colouring to her work.
