True to his Colours. Theodore P. Wilson
spoke out his mind plainly and faithfully.
“Well, Thomas,” said Mr. Maltby, “you see a little how I am situated. My dear child is, I trust and believe, a true Christian; but I am free to confess that I am sadly disappointed at the turn which things have taken about her studies.”
“I can well believe it, sir,” was Bradly’s reply, “and I feel for you with all my heart. And I’m disappointed myself about Miss Clara, and so’s scores more in the parish. The Sunday-school ain’t the same as it was—no, nor the parish neither, now that she don’t come among us as she used to do. But there’s a twist somewheres in people’s views about the education of young ladies in our day. ’Tain’t so much in my way, sir, it’s true, as it is in yours, to notice these things; but sometimes them as is standing a little way off gets a better view of how things really are than them as is quite close by.”
“Quite so, Thomas,” said the other. “Tell me, then, candidly what you think about this matter.”
“I’ll do so, sir, as I know you’ll not misunderstand me; and you know that I love you and yours with all my heart. Well, sir, it seems to me as they’re beginning at the wrong place altogether, in filling young ladies’ heads, as they do, with all sorts and sizes of knowledge.”
“How do you mean, Thomas?”
“Just this way, sir. I were in Sheffield for a day or two last June, and as I were a-staring in at one of the cutlers’ shops, I caught sight of a strange-looking article stuck upon a stand right in the middle of the window. It were all blades and points, like the porcupine as I used to read about at the national school when I were a boy. It was evidently meant for a knife; but who would ever think of buying such a thing as that, except merely as a curiosity? There must have been some fifty or sixty blades, and these were all sorts of shapes and sizes, just, I suppose, to show the skill of the workman as contrived to fasten such a lot of them together; but they would have been no earthly use to a man as wanted a real working article. Now, as far as I can see and hear, the young ladies in these days is being got up something like one of ’em fancy knives. It seems to be the great wish of these young ladies’ parents or friends to put into their heads a lot of learning of all sorts—so many languages, so many sciences, so many accomplishments, as they calls ’em, as thick as they can stand together. And what’s the end of it all? Why, folks wonder at ’em, no doubt, and say a great many fine things to ’em and about ’em; but they’re not turned out a real serviceable article, either for their homes or for the great Master’s work as he’d have them to do it.”
“It is too true, dear friend,” said the vicar with a sigh.
“Ay! And if I’m not too bold in speaking my mind,” proceeded the other, “that ain’t the worst of it. You’ll excuse my homely way of talking, sir, but I can’t help thinking of Timothy Pinches’ donkey-cart when I reads or hears of these young ladies with their science classes, and their Oxford and Cambridge local examinations, and their colleges, and what not. Timothy Pinches were an old neighbour of mine when I didn’t live in these parts—that were several years ago as I’m talking of. Now Timothy had a donkey, a quiet and serviceable animal enough, and he’d got a cart too, which would carry a tidy lot of things, yet at the same time it weren’t none of the strongest. He used to cart my coals for me, and do an odd job for me here and there. Well, one day I met Timothy with a strange load in his cart; there was a lot of iron nails and bars for the blacksmith, two or three bags of potatoes, a sack of flour, a bottle or two of vinegar, a great jar of treacle, a bale of calico for one of the shops, a cask of porter, and a sight of odds and ends besides. And they was packed and jammed so tight together, I could see as they were like to burst the sides of the cart through. ‘Timothy,’ says I, ‘you’ll never get on with that load; it’s too much for the donkey, and it’s too much for the cart.’ ‘All right,’ says he, ‘we’ll manage.’ ‘Nay,’ says I, ‘it’s too much for the poor beast; make two journeys of it, and you’ll do it comfortably.’ ‘Can’t afford the time,’ says he. But he could afford the time to keep the poor donkey often standing before the door of the public for an hour and more together. But just then he’d had an extra glass, and he wasn’t in a mood to be spoken with. So he gives the poor beast a fierce kick, and a pull at his jaw, by way of freshening him up, and the cart goes creaking on up a hill by a winding road. I could hear it as I went on by a footpath as took me a short cut into the road again. Then the noise stopped all of a sudden; and when I’d got to the end of the path, there was Timothy Pinches looking anything but wise or pleasant, and cart and donkey had both come to grief. The side of the cart was burst right out; the donkey had fallen down and cut his knees badly; the potatoes was rolling down the hill; the flour had some of it come out of the sack in a great heap, and the vinegar and treacle was running slowly through it. When I looked at poor Timothy’s face, and then at the break-down, I couldn’t help laughing at him; but I gave him a helping hand, and I hope he learnt a useful lesson. You see, sir, it don’t do to overtask a willing beast, nor to load a cart with more goods than it’s meant to carry, specially if it ain’t over strong. But they’re making this very mistake with many of the young ladies just now—I don’t mean anything disrespectful to them in likening them to a donkey-cart, but it’s true. These young ladies themselves are overtasking their constitutions which God gave them, and they’re loading their brains with more than them brains was designed to carry. The Lord hasn’t given them, as a rule, heads fit to bear the strain as men’s heads were made to stand. I’m sure of it; it’s the opinion, too, of Dr. Richardson, who has the best right of any man, perhaps, to speak on this subject, as he’s studied it, I should think, as much or more than any man living. Now, sir, just look at your own dear child, Miss Clara—why, it makes my heart sore every time I look at her; she ain’t got the right healthy look in her face; her mind has got more to bear than ever her Maker meant it to have; and there’s no reason, surely, why she shouldn’t be as cheerful as a lark and as bright as the flowers in May.”
“Most true! Most true!” said the vicar sorrowfully. “I only wish Mrs. Maltby and my daughter could see things in this light; but when I express my fears and misgivings on this subject, they tell me that I must not take a gloomy view of things, nor alarm myself needlessly. But perhaps, dear friend, you may be able to put in a word, I know your plain, homely good sense and observation will have weight with both mother and daughter.”
“I’ll make bold to say a word or two to them on the subject,” replied Thomas Bradly, “when next I get an opportunity.”
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