Two Schoolgirl Diarists of the Eighteenth Century
I.—HÉLÈNE MASSALSKI
(Paris 1771—1778)
In the rather demure little company of girls—Irish, German, Italian, English, and French—whom it has been my pleasant task to gather together, what on earth has naughty Hélène Massalski to do? And what good purpose could one hope to serve by reviving, for twentieth century Irish girls, and their mothers and teachers, the mischievous pranks and schoolgirl frolics of a little Polish maiden in her eighteenth century French convent? All I can say now is that Hélène Massalski will not be kept away. “Here she comes,” with her scribbled diary, like Galuppi, “with his old music,” and here’s all the good it brings:—
“What they lived once thus at Venice, where the merchants were the kings,”
or at least so they lived in a fashionable Parisian convent of the eighteenth century. Here we have (presented from a perfectly different point of view from that from which we studied our other little girls’ school lives) a picture of the education, which produced the exquisite and distinguished type of womanhood, represented by the “Grandes Dames” and great Salon-holders of the ancient régime. Poor little girls! Not a few of those who played “hunt the stag” through the spacious gardens of l’Abbaye-aux-Bois, or were formed to “le bon ton et le bel usage” in the society of Madame de Rochechouart, were to hold their last “Salon” soon enough in the filthy prisons of the Revolution. But gracious, high-hearted, and spirited to the end, one sees them do honour to something in their convent training, which makes it seem to us a thing very noble and fine indeed.
It is not in a schoolgirl’s diary—commenced when Hélène was ten years old—that one can expect to find a philosophical presentation of the aims and ideals of the education offered to the daughters of the noblest families of France by the Bernardines of the Abbaye-aux-Bois. When the little Polish Princess was scribbling her notes (and spoiling her hand, as she naïvely confesses) she had no other idea than to copy the big girls who had all succumbed to the fashionable craze for writing “Mémoires.” But she has managed to give us a very real and convincing picture of her school, and of her mistresses, and there is not a little educational wisdom to be garnered from her shrewd comments on her experiences.
I imagine my readers would not be particularly interested in the sequence of events in Polish politics—feuds between the two great rival Polish houses of Radiwill and Massalski; the election to the Throne of Poland of the Massalski candidate, Stanislaus Augustus, with Russian help; the sudden volte-face of the Massalski’s towards nationalism; the Confederation of Bar, and its éclatant defeat under Count Oginski—which sent into exile in Paris, in the year of grace 1771, the Prince-Bishop (Massalski) of Wilna. For us the Prince-Bishop is merely of importance as the uncle of Hélène, and the date of his exile is only of note as that of the year our little friend first went to school. She herself will tell us her first day’s experiences:—
“I first came to the Abbaye-aux-Bois on a Thursday. My uncle’s friend, Madame Geoffrin, brought me to the Abbess’s parlour, a beautiful room all in white and gold. Madame de Rochechouart came to the parlour with Mère Quatre-Temps, the latter being mistress of the Lower Division where I was to be.
“They told me I was very pretty, and had pretty hair; but I made no answer, because I had forgotten all the French I knew on the journey ... though I understood everything that was said to me. They said they were going to take me inside to dress me in the school uniform, and show me to Madame Geoffrin afterwards. They opened the wicket of the Grille, and passed me through it, for I was very small. They brought me to the Abbess’s room then, and Soeur Crinoire put the uniform on me; but when I saw it was black I began to cry bitterly; however, when they fastened the blue ribbons on me, I was somewhat consoled. Then they gave me sweets, and told me I should have some every day.
“The big girls who were on duty in the Abbess’s apartments came to have a look at me, and I could hear them say: ‘Poor youngster; she cannot speak any French; we must get her to talk Polish to see what sort of a language it is.’ But I knew they would only make fun of me, so I wouldn’t say a word. Then they said that I came from a country very far away called Poland, and somebody said, ‘Oh! how funny it must feel to be a Pole!’”
Hélène was not long until she made a friend. Mademoiselle de Montmorency, the daughter of one of the noblest houses of France, took the little stranger on her knee, and asked her wouldn’t she like to have her for her “little mother.” “I made signs that I should,” says Hélène, “for I made up my mind not to speak until I should be able to talk like everybody else.” The other girls wanted to know did Hélène think Mlle de Montmorency pretty, and the little Pole put her hand to her eyes, “as much as to say that she had lovely eyes.”
After being brought to the parlour to have her uniform inspected by her uncle and Madame Geoffrin, Hélène was sent off by Madame de Rochechouart, the mistress of schools, in care of Mademoiselle de Montmorency, to make the acquaintance of her future companions. She gives a spirited description of her reception at recreation, when the girls crowded round her, anxious to see what sort of a strange being the little foreigner was who could not speak French. At supper she made up with another little girl called Mademoiselle de Choiseul, and even ventured on a word or two in reply to something the latter said. At that, little Choiseul clapped her hands and shouted: “Oh! the little Polish girl can speak French!” Mlle de Choiseul told her that at roll-call she would have to ask for recreation for all the Pensionnaires and give a party. Hélène religiously complied with these recommendations, and her inauguration at l’Abbaye-aux-Bois was complete.
She was not long making herself at home—even too much at home, if one may judge from some of her escapades.
There were three divisions in the school—the “Blues,” the “Whites,” and the “Reds.” The “Blues” were the little girls from seven to ten; the “Whites” were the First Communion Class; and the “Reds” were the big girls who were finishing their education. As these young girls all belonged to the highest classes of society, and were destined to be mistresses of great establishments, and to play a great and important part in the social life of the time, their education had a very definite objective, and one cannot but be impressed with the perfection with which it was adapted to it. It was extremely practical on the one hand, and on the other, laid great stress on the accomplishments most valued in the circles in which the girls were to move. Extreme care was taken with their dancing, their music, their drawing, and perhaps most of all with their conversation, the art which the eighteenth century placed above all others. They were early accustomed to good society, being often let out to visit at great houses. We find Hélène out “three or four times a week,” one carnival, at children’s balls given by Madame de la Vaupalière and the Marquise du Châtelet, at another, out three times a week for a whole month, to rehearse for the part of Joas in Athalie at the Duchess of Mortemart’s. Royalty came to the school fêtes and school balls, and the greatest ladies in Paris strove for invitations. Madame de Rochechouart, the mistress of schools, had the habit of gathering some of the girls, in whom she was most interested, into her room every evening. “There,” says Hélène, “we read the newest books which could be fittingly read by us—we talked of everything that interested Paris, for the nuns spent so much of their time in the parlour, and we girls went out so much, that we knew everything.... It seems to me that Madame de Rochechouart and her sister had a distinction of manner all their own, and a “tone” which we all caught—I mean those of us who visited them much. Society ladies were astonished at the way we expressed ourselves, Mademoiselle de Conflans in particular. There was a distinction about her slightest remark.”
So much for their social training. For their domestic training there was the admirable system of “Obédiences,” that is, a system by which the principal duties of the great establishment were distributed among the elder girls under the expert supervision of the choir nuns, and with proper help from the lay-sisters. Future Duchesses and Countesses were to be found in the “Lingerie” folding sheets and serviettes; in the “Réfectoire” laying the cloth and setting the tables; in the “Sacristie” mending altar-cloths and vestments; in the “Apothicairerie” making poultices and mixing potions; in the “Cuisine” cooking or adding up household accounts. And when these young girls became mistresses of great houses themselves, their intimate knowledge of the practical working of them thus acquired must have been of immense service to them.
It was to the “Blues” that Hélène first belonged, and she has been thoughtful enough to copy out for us their “Timetable.” From which it appears that they rose at seven in summer, and 7.30 in winter, and went to bed all the year round at 9.30. They were in their places in the class-room at 8, to be inspected by the mistress of the school, Madame de Rochechouart, and studied and repeated their catechism until nine, when they had breakfast. Mass was after breakfast, and they studied from 10 to 11. At 11 they had a music lesson, and at half-past a dancing lesson. From 12 to 1 they had history and geography. At 1 they dined, and recreation continued after dinner until 3 o’clock, when they went back to the class-room for writing and arithmetic. From four to five they had a dancing lesson (where they learned to dance those “farlanes” and “montférines” in which Hélène was so proficient.) At five “goûter” and recreation until six. At six they practised the harp or clavecin, and at seven they had supper. On Sundays and fêtes they came to the schoolroom at 8 and studied the Gospel until 9. At 11 they had a sermon from one of the chaplains, and at 4 o’clock vespers.
The best masters in Paris were engaged for these young girls. Molé and Larive, the “Stars” of the Comédie-Française, taught them declamation and reading aloud; Philippe, Noverre, and Dauberval, “premier danseurs” at the “Opéra” taught them dancing. When they were ill, they had the King’s own doctor called in to prescribe for them, and expense was never considered in the question of their education.
Hélène sketches in a most comic way the three mistresses of the “Blues” in her time: Madame de Montluc (in religion Mère Quatre-Temps), “good-natured, quiet, careful, but far too fussy”; Madame de Montbourcher (Mère Sainte Macaire), “good-natured, stupid, very ugly, and dreadfully afraid of ghosts”; Madame de Fresnes (Mère Sainte Bathilde), “ugly, good-natured, great at telling stories.”
The “Blues” were usually promoted to the “White” or First Communion Class at ten, but Hélène’s tendency to get into scrapes kept her back a whole year, even after her companion in mischief, Mlle de Choiseul, had been promoted. Probably the nuns thought it better to separate these two choice spirits for a while, even though Hélène knew at her finger tips everything that was to be known of the Blues’ programme.
“I knew my Ancient History, the History of France, and my Mythology very well; I knew by heart the whole poem of ‘La Religion’ and ‘La Fontaine’s Fables,’ two cantos of ‘La Henriade,’ and the whole of the Tragedy of Athalie, in which I had played Joas” (at private theatricals, given by the young Duchess of Mortemart, one carnival). “I danced very well, I could sing at sight, and played the harp and the clavecin a little. But,” she continues plaintively, “the continual scrapes I got into, owing in a good deal to my friendship for Mlle de Choiseul, kept me back. I was so fond of her, that I would rather be in penance with her than see her punished alone; it was the same with her, and whenever she saw me punished, she would go away and do something, so as to get into penance too. The day was not long enough for us to say to each other all we had to say; and at night, as her room opened into mine, she would come to me, or I would steal into her.” And nice pranks they planned in these nocturnal visits! They found out that by putting a little oil on the hinges they could open a door without making any noise. Having opportunely unearthed a bottle of oil, they proceeded to make use of their discovery to make a round of the house in their dressing-gowns, and see what mischief they could do.
“Once we took a bottle of ink and poured it into the holy water font, which is just inside the choir door. The nuns say matins at two o’clock every morning, and as they know them off by heart, there is no light but that of the sanctuary lamp which barely lights the holy water font. They took the holy water, and never noticed what they were doing to themselves. But daylight came before matins were ended, and when they saw each other all daubed with ink, they took a fit of laughing, and the office was interrupted. They suspected that this was a trick of some of the girls, and they set up an inquiry the next day, but it was never discovered who did it.”
The two young ladies were less fortunate on another occasion.
“The ropes of the bells, called the ‘Gondi,’ because they were blessed by the Archbishop of Paris of the name, pass through a tribune behind the Abbess’s Throne. We climbed up one night, and tied our handkerchiefs as tightly as ever we could round the ropes. The novice whose duty it was to ring for matins, began to pull, but the knots on the ropes stopped them, and the bells did not move. She pulled and pulled, but it was all no use. Some of the nuns, noticing that it was after matins time, and hearing no bell, came down to see what was the matter. They saw the novice killing herself pulling away at the ropes. Then they came to the conclusion that there must be something the matter with the bells, and climbing the tribune, they found the handkerchiefs. Unfortunately, our initials were on them, H.M. and J.C.!”
I imagine it did not require these initials for the mistress of schools, Madame de Rochechouart, to know who the culprits were. She was a woman of great wisdom and discernment, full of tact and knowledge of human nature, and exercised the happiest influence on her wild young charges. A look from her was enough for Hélène, who was quite beyond the control of her other mistresses, and she tells a funny story of herself running back to the class-room on occasions, all in tears, “because Madame de Rochechouart looked at me with her big eyes.” “You silly child,” the others would say, “do you want her to make her eyes small on your account?”
The little Princess, who has a very sure hand for “portraits,” has left us one of “Madame de Rochechouart, sister of the late Duke of Mortemart, now twenty-seven years of age. Tall, beautifully made, a pretty foot, a delicate white hand, superb teeth and great dark eyes, grave and rather proud-looking, but with an enchanting smile.” The little girl lost her heart completely to this nun, and her name occurs on every page of these childish mémoires—until the last pathetic page, all stained with tears for the death of Madame de Rochechouart, so wonderfully told on it. “She possesses the love and respect of all the pensionnaires; she is rather severe, but perfectly just; we all adore her, and fear her; she is not demonstrative, but a word from her has an incredible effect; she is taxed with being proud and somewhat caustic towards her equals, but she is full of humanity and kindness for her inferiors. She is very clever and extremely well informed.”
Her method of dealing with her girls proves her qualities. She knew how to appeal to the sentiment strongest in them, “Noblesse Oblige,” and made them fear, above all things, to tarnish the lustre of their name by a low or unworthy action. Two of her girls, whose acquaintance we made in Hélène’s pages, show the effect of this teaching of hers in a remarkable manner. One was little Choiseul, Hélène’s particular friend, who on the occasion of a family scandal, acted with a strength and nobility of character, of which one could hardly believe a girl of fourteen capable. The other was Mlle de Montmorency, Hélène’s “petite maman,” whose death at the age of fifteen is one of the most moving episodes in Hélène’s journal.
Madame de Rochechouart knew how to discriminate between faults that were the effects of girlish giddiness, mere ebullitions of youth, and those that arose from, or were likely to end in permanent defects of character. Thus the episodes of the ink and the bells were not very severely punished by her; and the adventure with the scullery boy from the Conte de Beaumanoir’s kitchen, which Hélène relates with much zest, was touched off in such a way as to make the girls feel the ridicule of it. But when she found out her girls in anything low, or underhand, or dishonourable, she made them feel the full weight of her displeasure.
Her wisdom was shown in her conduct on the occasion of a “Revolution” in which the girls indulged, with the object of getting a very unpopular mistress removed from the “White” Class. This mistress, Madame de Saint Jérôme, had been appointed by the Abbess, contrary to the advice of Madame de Rochechouart, who knew how unsuitable she was for her charge, and told the Abbess plainly that she could not be responsible for the consequences if Madame de Saint Jérôme were confirmed in it. In spite of these representations, Madame de Saint Jérôme was retained. Then the hotheads, de Choiseul, de Mortemart, de Chauvigny, and, of course, Hélène, formed a conspiracy to bring about Madame de Saint Jérôme’s removal. “The wearing of the green” (whether in the shape of leaf, or blade of grass, or ribbon) was to be the badge of the conspirators—and the pass-word and answer thereto was to be, “I take you without green,” and the showing of it. In fine, as Hélène would say herself, it was all very well arranged.
The occasion for the outbreak was furnished by Madame de Saint Jérôme. One recreation day two little girls began to squabble, and, I am sorry to say, in spite of their aristocratic names, they even came to blows. Madame de Saint Jérôme, without inquiring into the rights of the matter, put all the blame on one of them, Mlle de Lastic, and on her expostulating, got into a frightful temper, caught Mlle de Lastic by the back of the neck, and threw her down so violently that her nose began to bleed. Then there was a dreadful to-do among all the girls, and their attitude was so threatening that Madame de Saint Jérôme left the school in terror of her life. Then Mlle de Mortemart got up on a table and asked all those who had the green to show it, and there was a universal show of it. A council of war was then called, and it was decided to leave the schoolroom in a body, seize the kitchen and store-rooms,[15] and starve the nuns into submission.
They put this fine project into execution, after chasing the nuns they met in the kitchen and cellars. But they took the precaution to keep a lay-sister, and a young nun as hostages, the former with the view to having somebody to cook their supper for them.
After a little it was determined to send two of their number (Hélène and de Choiseul were subsequently chosen) with terms of peace to Madame de Rochechouart. These were drawn up in a very formal document, and embraced the following demands: (1), a general amnesty; (2), the withdrawal of Madame de Saint Jérôme; (3), eight days’ recreation.
Hélène and her fellow ambassador met a group of very anxious nuns on their way to Madame de Rochechouart. “They asked us: ‘Well, what are the rebels doing?’ We told them that we were carrying their proposals to Madame de Rochechouart.
“We went into her room, but she looked at us with so severe an air that I got pale, and Choiseul, bold as she is, trembled. However, she handed her the request. Madame de Rochechouart asked if the girls were in the schoolroom. We said ‘No.’ ‘Then,’ said she, ‘I can listen to nothing from them. You may go and bring your complaints to the Abbess, or anybody you like, for I won’t have anything to do with it. You have taken the best possible means of disgusting me for ever with such pupils, who are far more suited to enlist in some army or other, than to acquire the modesty and gentleness which are a woman’s greatest charm.’ We were in a dreadful state; Mademoiselle de Choiseul, who had more courage than I, threw herself at her feet and said that a word from Madame de Rochechouart would always have for her the force of a sovereign command, and that she had no doubt but that all the others felt the same in this matter; but that, in an affair of honour one would rather die than seem to betray or abandon one’s companions.’ ‘Well, then,’ said Madame de Rochechouart, ‘you may speak to whoever you like, for, for my part, I am no longer your mistress.’”
They went thereupon to the Abbess, but with not much better result. The Abbess, indeed, promised a general amnesty if the rebels should return, but insisted on the retention of Madame de Saint Jérôme, a condition which the “peace delegates” felt they could not accept.
They returned therefore to the rebels’ quarters with no very encouraging news. But, for the present, what these warriors were thinking of most was their supper. This, it seems, was a very gay affair, and was followed by games until what should have been bed-time—but wasn’t on this occasion for the good reason that there were no beds. It is true they gathered some straw from the poultry yard, and offered to make a bed from it for Madame Saint Sulplice, the young nun they held as a hostage, but she refused it, and said they should put the little ones in it, as being the more delicate. “We wrapped their heads round with napkins and clean dusters and dish-cloths,” says Hélène, “for fear they might catch cold.” The others spent the night as best they could, “partly in talking, and partly in sleeping.”
The next day ended it. The nuns, as the girls learned afterwards, were very much embarrassed, and to put an end to this intolerable state of things, some of them even advocated calling in the watch. But Madame de Rochechouart, with her usual good sense, pointed out that this would be the very means of creating a scandal—the thing which it was their best policy to avoid. She advocated sending for the mothers of the ringleaders, and accordingly the Duchesses de Chatellon and de Mortemart arrived on the scene, together with the Marquise du Châtelet and some other ladies. They carried off their own daughters and nieces from the rebels’ citadel, and the rest of the troop being thus left without leaders, soon capitulated on the terms of peace brought them presently by a lay sister. The message was: “The classes are open, it is ten o’clock, and those who shall be back in their places before twelve shall have a general amnesty for the past.”
They kept Madame de Saint Jérôme in her post a month longer, for the sake of the principle of the thing, and then quietly removed her.
In spite of all the trouble Hélène gave Mère Quatre-Temps, one is glad to find that they parted good friends when the time came for Hélène to be promoted to the “Whites.” “I went and asked pardon of Mère Quatre-Temps,” she says prettily, “for all the trouble I had caused her, and thanked her for her kindness. She told me she was really sorry not to have such intimate relations with me in future. She said, too, that although I had often driven her nearly wild, I had moments when I made up to her for all that. I kissed her.”
In effect, Hélène had her moments of goodness, and in order that we may part with her on as good terms as Mère Quatre-Temps, I am going to show her in one of them.
It was the night of her First Confession. “Sœur Bichon[16] had come to see my nurse, and while Mademoiselle Gioul, my maid, was undressing me, Sœur Bichon said to me that she recommended herself to my prayers (for although I said them in common with the class downstairs, they made me say them again before putting me to bed). I said to Sœur Bichon: ‘What do you want me to ask God for you?’ She said: ‘Pray to Him to make my soul as pure as yours is at this moment.’ I said then, aloud, at the end of my prayers: ‘Oh! my God, grant to Sœur Bichon that her soul may be as white as mine ought to be at my age, if I had profited by all the good lessons that have been given me.’ My nurse was delighted with the way I had arranged this prayer, and hugged me, as did Sœur Bichon and Mademoiselle Gioul. When I was in bed, I asked was it a sin to pray for la grise (a gray cat which, like Mère Quatre-Temps, sometimes suffered from the attentions of Hélène and little Choiseul, if one had only space to tell the tale). My nurse and Sœur Bichon said it would be, and that I should not talk of la grise to the good God.
“Afterwards as I was not sleepy, Sœur Bichon came to my bed, and said that if I died that night, I should go straight to Paradise. I asked her what I should see in Paradise. And she said to me, ‘Picture to yourself, dearie, that Paradise is a great big hall, all made of diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and other precious stones. Le bon Dieu is sitting on a throne. Jesus Christ is on His right hand, and the Blessed Virgin on His left, the Holy Ghost is leaning over His shoulder, and all the Saints are passing up and down before Him.’ While she was telling me this, I fell asleep.”
And so we leave her, dreaming of Heaven, in her little white convent bed, poor little Hélène Massalski.
II.—ANNA GREEN WINSLOW
(Boston 1771—1773)
In 1771, the very year little Hélène Massalski was passed through the wicket of the grill of the Abbaye-aux-Bois, and dressed in her pensionnaire’s uniform to begin her adventurous school career, a demure little maiden in far off America sat her down to write her diary too. It is impossible to imagine a greater or more piquant contrast than that between the little Catholic girl in her French convent, and the little Puritan who was sent to her “Aunt Deming” in Boston by her parents in Nova Scotia to be “finished” by Boston teachers. While Hélène was “spoiling her hand” scribbling memoirs which nobody could read but herself, and getting Mlle. de Choiseul to write her “copy-book” for her so as to avoid trouble with M. Charme, her writing-master, little Anna Green Winslow was recording in careful penmanship the events of her Puritan day “for the edification of her ‘Hond. Mamma’” and her own practice in “making letters even.” Poor little girl! one feels that something more than the chill of the Boston winter has got into her frail little body; and one wishes for something better than the warmth of “Unkle Joshua’s” fire to cheer her on bitter days on her way from school. For in truth she is a very likeable little person, this “Pilgrim’s daughter,” and one feels that in a kindlier atmosphere she would have blossomed into something very dear and sweet. Sometimes in the midst of her notes of “Mr. Hunt’s” and “Mr. Beacon’s” sermons, one comes across the most naïve confession of personal vanity, and one cannot help loving her for it. It was all very well for Mr. Beacon to tell her that “true beauty consisted in holiness”; and to show her “Hond. Mamma” that she had been paying attention she even took the pains to copy his very words—his “lastly” to his dear young friends: “Let me tell you, you’l never be truly beautiful till you’re like the king’s daughter, all glorious within, all the ornimints you can put on while your souls are unholy make you the more like white sepulchres garnished without, but full of deformyty within. You think me very unpolite, no doubt, to address you in this manner, but I must go a little further and tell you, how cource soever it may sound to your delicacy, that while you are without holiness, your beauty is deformyty—you are all over black and defiled, ugly and loathsome to all holy beings, the wrath of the great God lies upon you, and if you die in this condition, you will be turned into hell, with ugly devils, to eternity.” That might be so; but it did not deter a certain little girl from “dressing all (even to loading) of her best” for “Miss Soley’s constitation” (“a very genteel, well-regulated assembly,” she informs her mamma). “I was dressed in my yellow coat, black bib and apron, black feathers on my head, my past (i.e., paste) comb, and all my past garnet marquesett and jet pins, together with my silver plume—my loket, rings, black collar round my neck, black mitts, and two or three yards of blue ribbon (black and blue is high taste), stripped tucker and ruffels (not my best) and my silk shoes compleated my dress.” Nor was there much consolation in the thought of “interior whiteness” on occasions when there seemed danger of Aunt Deming making her wear “‘the black hatt with the red Dominie.’ For the people will ask me what I have got to sell as I go along the street if I do, or how the folk at New Guinie do? Dear Mamma, you don’t know the fation here—I beg to look like other folk. You don’t know what a stir would be made in Sudbury-street, were I to make my appearance there in my red Dominie and black Hatt.”
In contrast with Hélène’s exciting experiences, little Anna Green’s sedate goings to and fro to writing school to Master Holbrook, or “dansing-school” to Master Turner, or sewing school to Madam Smith seem very tame indeed. It is quite an adventure for her “to be overtaken by a lady who was quite a stranger to her,” and to be accosted by her with “how do you do, Miss?” “I answered her, but told her I had not the pleasure of knowing her.” She then asked, “What is your name, Miss? I believe you think it is a very strange question to ask, but have a mind to know.” It turns out that the lady is an old friend of Nanny’s mother, and sends her all kinds of affectionate messages, including one “to come up and live on Jamaîcaplain,” the attraction being “a nice meeting-house, and a charming minister, and all so cleaver.” Sometimes when there is absolutely nothing to tell, Nanny copies out, “with her Aunt’s leave,” something which pleased that good lady very much, “and which I hope will please you, my Papa and Mamma.” It turns out to be a rather dull joke wherein Mr. W., “who don’t set up for an Expositor of Scripture, yet ventures to send Dr. Byles a short comment on 1 Cor. ix. 11[17] in the shape of a dozen pounds of chocolate.” To which the Dr. returned the following very pretty answer: “Dr. Byles returns respects to Mr. W. and most heartily thanks him for his judicious practical Familie Expositor, which is in Tast.” To do Nanny justice, this “joke” is more in the “tast” of Aunt Doming than her own, for the little lady has a charming sense of humour, and sometimes employs it very prettily even against herself. She was subject on occasions to “egregious fits of laughterre,” and can give the drollest description of some things that tickle her fancy. For instance, a “heddus roll” which Mr. D., the barber, made for her. “This famous roll is not made wholly of a red cow tail, but is a mixture of that and horsehair (very coarse) and a little human hair of yellow hue, that I suppose was taken out of the back part of an old wig. But D. made it all carded together and twisted up. When it first came home, aunt put it on, and my new cap on it; she then took up her apron and measured me, and from the roots of my hair on my forehead to the top of my notions, I measured above an inch longer than I did downward from the roots of my hair to the end of my chin. Nothing renders a young person more amiable than virtue and modesty without the help of fals hair, red cow tail, or Mr. D.”
Poor “Mr. D.” He does not seem to have been the beau idéal of barbers. Here is a picture of him at work. “In the course of my peregrination, as Aunt calls it, I happened into a house where D. was attending the lady of the family. How long she was at his opperation I know not. I saw him twist, and tug, and pick, and cut off whole locks of grey hair at a slice (the lady telling him she would have no hair to dress the next time) for the space of an hour and a half, when I left them, he seeming not to be near done.”
She certainly needed her sense of humour, for nothing could be more depressing than the company she was forced to keep. If she wasn’t ill herself, “with a whitloe on my fourth finger, and something like one on my middle finger,” and being ‘seasoned’ by Aunt Deming with Globe Salts, she was visiting sick relations and neighbours. She goes to see Aunt Storer, and “finds Unkle Storer so ill that he keeps chamber. As I went down I call’d at Mrs. Whitwell’s and must tell you Mr. and Mrs. Whitwell are both ill, Mrs. Whitwell with rheumatism.” Later on: “It has been a very sickly time here, not one person that I know of but has been under heavy colds (all laid up at Unkle Storer’s).” The climate seems to have been abominable. Almost every entry deals with the weather, and it is only well on in May that there is any mention of warmth. Even in June we read: “All last week till Saterday very cold and rainy.” A snowstorm keeps her from dining with “Unkle Joshua” on 6th December, and another from Mrs. Whitwell’s on the 14th. Christmas Eve, 1771, was “the coldest day we have had since I have been in New England,” and all folk abroad “have to run to keep themselves warm.” The rain of Sunday froze on Monday, so that “walking was so slippery and the air so cold that Aunt choses to have me for her scoller these days.” February 13th was “a bitter cold day.” February 18th, “bitter cold” again. On February 22nd the weather entry reads: “Since about the middle of December ult. we have had till this week a series of cold and stormy weather—every snowstorm (of which we have had abundance) except the first ended with rain, by which means the snow was so hardened that strong gales at N.W. soon turned it and all above ground to ice, which this day seven-night was from one to three, four, and, they say, in some places five feet thick, in the streets of this town. Last Saturday morning we had a snowstorm come on, which continued till 4 o’clock, p.m., when it turned to rain, since which we have had a warm air with many showers of rain, one this morning a little before day, attended with thunder. The streets have been very wet, the water running like rivers all this week, so that I could not possibly go to school.”
In spite of the weather Anna and Aunt Deming go to “meeting” with great frequency, sometimes favoured by kind neighbours like Mr. Soley and “Mr. Wales” with seats in their chaise. Anna is always supposed to write down the text and as much of the sermon as she can in her diary, and as sometimes Aunt Deming puts in her pen, the effect is slightly like that produced by the elder Mr. Weller’s letter to Sam. She likes Mr. Hunt’s sermons best, though she does not “understand all he said about the external and internal evidence” for the authenticity of the Bible. On an occasion when Mr. Hunt preached on “The Decrees of God” Anna had “set down some of his observations on a loose sheet of paper. But my Aunt says that a Miss of 12 years’ old can’t possibly do justice to the nicest subject in Divinity, and therefore had better not attempt a repetition of particulars, that she finds lie (as may be easily concluded) somewhat confused in my young mind. She also says that in her poor judgment, Mr. Hunt discoursed soundly, as well as ingeniously, upon the subject, and very much to her instruction and satisfaction.”
I am sorry to have to add that Anna was a dreadfully bigoted young person, and would not keep Christmas, “as the Pope and his associates have ordained.” Moreover, she has a horror of anything savouring of “episcopacie.” She is properly contemptuous of Dr. Pemberton’s and Dr. Cooper’s “gowns.” “In the form of episcopal cassocks we hear the Docts. design to distinguish themselves from the inferior clergy by these strange habits (at a time too when the good people of New England are threatened with and dreading the coming of an episcopal bishop).” She pokes irreverent fun at the doctors’ sleeves: “I don’t know whether one sleeve would make a full-trimmed negligee as the fashion is at present, though I can’t say but it might make one of the frugal sort, with but scant trimming ... Aunt says when she saw Dr. P. roll up the pulpit stairs, the figure of Parson Trulliber recorded by Mr. Fielding occurred to her mind, and she was really sorry a congregational divine should, by any instance, give her so unpleasing an idea.”
She had her politics, too, as well as her religious convictions, though there are only slight indications in the diary of the storm that was to burst so soon, and of which Boston was to be the centre. She speaks incidentally of the famous “Boston Massacre” (1770), when the British troops sent to Boston to enforce the Townshend Acts fired at and killed several unarmed citizens (and, as Daniel Webster said, the Revolution began,) as the “murder of the 5th March last.” She had an account of the first anniversary celebrations of the Boston Massacre, “yesterday’s publick performances and exhibitions” ready to send to her “hond. Mamma,” “but Aunt says I need not write about ’em because no doubt there will be printed accounts.” She could have wished to be there herself, but could not, her face being swollen with a heavy cold. She knew James Lovell, the famous Boston patriot, who delivered the Anniversary Address. “Master Jimmy Lovell,” she calls him in another place. A propos of a “very beautiful white feather hat,” for the purchase of which she had long been saving up “papa’s kind allowance,” we learn she is, “as we say, a daughter of liberty. I chose to wear as much of our own manufactory as possible.” In which respect she is very much in the “fation,” as she dearly loves to be. “Daughters of liberty,” we read elsewhere, “held spinning and weaving bees, and gathered in bands pledging themselves to drink no tea till the obnoxious Revenue Act was repealed.” Young unmarried girls joined in an association with the proud declaration, “We, the daughters of those Patriots who have appeared for the public interest, do now with pleasure engage with them in denying ourselves the drinking of foreign tea.” When she went “a-visiting to Colonel Gridley’s with Aunt, and had danced with Miss Polly Deming to the ‘musick of the minuet’ sung by Miss Becky Gridley, the Colonel brought in the talk of Whigs and Tories, and taught me the difference between them.”
But in reality one suspects she understood even less of Col. Gridley’s political lecture than of Mr. Beacon’s sermon—and led her quiet life from day to day without the slightest suspicion of the great events whose shadows were thus cast before. She got through her day’s work—whether it were “spinning 30 knots of linning yarn (partly), new-footing a pair of stockings for Lucinda, reading a part of the pilgrim’s progress, coppieing part of my text journal,” or, as on the 9th March, a “piece-meal” day’s work, when she “sew’d on the bosom of unkle’s shirt, mended two pair of gloves, mended for the wash two handkerchiefs (one cambrick), sewed on half a border of a lawn apron of aunt’s, read part of the xxist chapter of Exodus, and a story in the ‘Mother’s Gift,’” without suspecting that anything more exciting was in store for her than the “constitations” of which she has given us such a graphic picture.
Very dull, I am afraid, these gatherings would have seemed to Hélène Massalski, accustomed to her brilliant school balls during the carnival, when “they left aside their school uniforms, and the mothers vied with each other in dressing their daughters,” or to her representations of “Esther,” when their costumes were designed after those of the Comédie Française, and Hélène, as Esther, wore a gown all white and silver, sparkling with diamonds valued at over one hundred thousand crowns, lent by the Duchesses de Mortemart, de Gramont, and de Choiseul. But little Anna Green Winslow thought them perfectly delightful, and told her mamma about them very prettily:—
“I told you I was going to a constitation with Miss Soley. I have now the pleasure to give you the result, viz., a very genteel, well-regulated assembly which we had at Mr. Soley’s last evening, Miss Soley being mistress of the ceremony. Mrs. Soley desired me to assist Miss Hannah in making out a list of guests, which I did some time since. I wrote all the invitation cards. There was a large company assembled in a handsome, large, upper room in the new end of the house. We had two fiddles, and I had the honour to open the diversion of the evening in a minuet with Miss Soley.... Our treat was nuts, raisins, cakes, wine, punch hot and cold, all in great plenty. We had a very agreeable evening from five to ten o’clock. For variety we woo’d a widow, hunted the whistle, threaded the needle, and while the company was collecting, we diverted ourselves with playing of pawns, no rudeness, mamma, I assure you.”
In contrast to Madame de Rochechouart, grande dame to her exquisite finger tips, grave, gracious, beautiful and intellectual, poor Aunt Deming, with her laboured jokes about “Mr. Calf,” and her appreciation of Dr. Byles, cuts a sorry figure. We feel genuine compassion for poor Nanny, obliged to spend so much time with her. Nothing can better illuminate “Aunt Deming’s” character than a letter of hers to her “dear neice,” when her “dear neice” had left her to go home to her mother. She begins by congratulating her on having had a less “troublesome journey” than she (Aunt Deming) anticipated. “I was always unhappy in anticipating trouble—it is my constitution, I believe—and when matters have been better than my fears, I have never been so dutifully thankful as my bountiful benefactor had a right to expect. This also, I believe, is the constitution of all my fellow-race.”
After condoling with her “neice” on her indisposition as well as that of Flavia and her mamma, she goes on to her own pet theme: “I’m at too great a distance to render you the least service, and were I near, too much out of health to—some part of the time—even speak to you. I am seized with exceeding weakness at the very seat of life, and to a greater degree than I ever before knew. Could I ride, it might help me, but that is an exercise my income will not permit. I walk out whenever I can. The day will surely come when I must quit this frail tabernacle, and it may be soon—I certainly know I am not of importance enough in this world for anyone to wish my stay—rather am I, and do I consider myself a cumberground. However, I shall abide my appointed time, and I desire to be found waiting for my change.”
No wonder it was a relief for a little girl to get out even to see Madam Storer’s funeral, or to visit Elder Whitwell’s rheumatic wife, or to see “my Unkle Ned, who has had the misfortune to break his legs.” She very much enjoyed a “setting-up” visit she paid to “Aunt Suky” to see the latter’s new baby; more, one suspects, for the opportunity it gave her of “dressing up just as if I was to go to the ball,” than for the sake of Nurse Eaton’s “tow-cakes,” which cost her a “pistoreen” in good money. “I took care to eat them before I paid for them,” she remarks shrewdly. She loves babies, one can see, and sends affectionate messages to her own little baby brother. On one occasion he “has made an essay for a post script to your letter, mamma. I must get him to read it to me when he comes up, for two reasons, the one is because I may have the pleasure of hearing his voice, the other because I don’t understand his characters. I observe that he is mamma’s ‘Ducky Darling.’”
“Cousin Charles Storer” seems to have been interested in the little girl’s reading. He lends her “Gulliver’s Travels abreviated,” which “Aunt says I may read for the sake of perfecting myself in reading a variety of composures.” With her “nihil obstat” Aunt Deming slips in an incidental lesson on “literary history.” “She sais farther that the piece was desin’d as a burlesque upon the times in which it was wrote, and Martimas Scriblensis and Pope Dunciad were wrote with the same design and as parts of the same work, tho’ wrote by three several hands.” Later on, Aunt Storer lent her three of cousin Charles’ books to read, “viz., The puzzeling cap,[18] the female Oraters, and the History of Gaffer too-shoes.” She got the “History of Joseph Andrews abreviated” for a New Year’s Gift, and began “Sir Charles Grandison”—whether she ever finished it or not. The works of Fielding and Samuel Richardson “abreviated” seem to have been favourite books for children, and figure in booksellers’ lists of the period as suitable for the “Instruction and Amusement of all good Boys and Girls,” together with “The Brother Gift, or the Naughty Girl Reformed”; “The Sister Gift, or the Naughty Boy Reformed,” and “Mr. Winlove’s Moral Lectures.”
Compared with Hélène, who read the best literature of the day, under the careful eye of Madame de Rochechouart, and was saturated in the masterpieces of Corneille and Racine from her theatrical triumphs, poor Anna’s literary pabulum seems very thin stuff indeed.
In 1773, Anna’s parents came from Nova Scotia to live in Marshfield, and their little daughter left Aunt Deming’s house to return to them. At this date, the diary therefore comes to an end.
She lived to hear of some of the greatest battles of the War of the Revolution, and must have been rather puzzled which side to pray for, seeing her own family divided on the question. But soon she was beyond all earthly troubles, for she died of consumption in 1779.
