FORGOTTEN TALES OF LONG AGO. 

SELECTED BY E. V. LUCAS

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY F. D. BEDFORD

3 PATERNOSTER BUILDINGS. LONDON 44 VICTORIA STREET

E. C. WELLS, GARDNER, DARTON & CO. LTD. S. W. 

C & D Co. 

_Fourth Impression, July, 1931. _

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN

WELLS GARDNER, DARTON AND CO. , LTD. 

[Illustration:

 For me the backward glance; for me The tales of old simplicity. And this would be my dearest choice: To hear them in the mother's voice. ]

INTRODUCTION

In the present volume will be found twenty stories from early writersfor children, the period being roughly 1790 to 1830, with three laterand more sophisticated efforts added. Having so recently made remarks onthe character of these old books--in the preface last year to_Old-Fashioned Tales_, a companion volume to this--I have very little tosay now, except that I hope the selection will be found to beinteresting. If it is not, it is less my fault than that of the authors, who preferred teaching to entertaining, moral improvement to drama. Thependulum has now perhaps swung almost too far the other way; but suchthings come right. 

My first story, 'Dicky Random, ' is from a little book published in 1805, entitled _The Satchel; or, Amusing Tales for Correcting Rising Errors inEarly Youth, addressed to all who wish to grow in Grace and Favour_. Onthe title-page is this motto:

 'Put on the cap, if it will fit, And wiser grow by wearing it. '

There is no author's name. I do not consider the story of Dicky a verybrilliant piece of work, but it has some pleasing incidents, not theleast of which is the irreproachable behaviour of the gentlemen atdinner. Dicky's father comes out as hardly less foolish than his son, which is not common in these books. To call a doctor Hardheart seems tome to have been a courageous thing. The sentence, 'The boy's father, though a labouring man, had a generous mind, ' would help us to date thestory, even without the evidence of the title-page. It is astonishingfor how long the poor had to play a degraded part in minor Englishliterature. 

In another story in the book, called 'Good Manners their own Reward, ' Ifind this sentence, which contains an idea for a children's manual thatcertainly ought to be written, under the same title too: 'Master Goodlynot long after this had the pleasure of seeing a small book printed andcirculated among his juvenile acquaintance, called "The Way to beInvited a Second Time. "'

We pass next to a little work of pretty fancy, 'The Months, ' which byits ingenuity I hope makes up for want of drama. I have included it onthat ground, and also because if the descriptions were read aloud inirregular order to small children, it might be an agreeable means ofencouraging thought and observation if the listeners were asked to put aname to each month. 'The Months' comes from a book published in 1814entitled _Tales from the Mountains_, the mountains being those dividingEngland from Wales. A story in the same volume which I nearly includedhas the promising style 'The Spotted Cow and the Pianoforte, ' but itsmatter is not equal to its title. It is, indeed, a variation upon a veryold theme, being the narrative of two girls of equal age who, cominginto a little prosperity, at once gratify old desires: one, theexemplary one, wishing a useful cow, and the other, the frivolous one, apiano. The author, in the old remorseless way, contrasts theirsubsequent careers, nothing but happiness and worth falling to thesensible girl who chose the cow, and nothing but disaster dogging thesteps of the foolish desirer of the musical instrument. I do not thinkthis to be good working morality, since proficiency on the piano canalso be a step towards a livelihood and independence, and even MadameSchumann, one supposes, had to make a start somehow. The name of theauthor is not known. 

Probably no story in this collection had more popularity in its day than'Jemima Placid, ' of which I use only a portion. And I think it deservedit, for it is very pleasantly and sympathetically written, and a betterunderstanding of home prevails than in so many of these old books. Jemima's brothers seem to me very well drawn, and certain minor toucheslend an agreeable air of reality to the book. The author's name is, Ibelieve, not known. His preface, which I quote here, is very sensible. Considering the date, say about 1785, it is curiously sensible anddiscerning:--

 'It has been often said that infancy is the happiest state of human life, as being exempted from those serious cares and that anxiety which must ever in some degree be an attendant on a more advanced age; but the author of the following little performance is of a different opinion, and has ever considered the troubles of children as a severe exercise to their patience when it is recollected that the vexations which they meet with are suited to the weakness of their understanding, and though trifling, perhaps, in themselves, acquire importance from their connection with the puerile inclinations and bounded views of an infant mind, where present gratification is the whole they can comprehend, and therefore suffer in proportion when their wishes are obstructed. 

 'The main design of this publication is to prove from example that the pain of disappointment will be much increased by ill-temper, and that to yield to the force of necessity will be found wiser than vainly to oppose it. The contrast between the principal character with the peevishness of her cousins' temper is intended as an incitement to that placid disposition which will form the happiness of social life in every stage, and which, therefore, should not be thought beneath anyone's attention or undeserving of their cultivation. '

'Jemima Placid' is one of the many stories in which the names aresymbolical. We have another example in 'Dicky Random, ' and, I suppose, in 'Captain Murderer' too, while in 'Prince Life, ' to which we sooncome, which is frankly an allegory, the habit is carried beyond Bunyan, who made his attributes very like men and called them Mr. Or Lord toincrease the illusion or diminish the cheat. The drawback to this kindof nomenclature is that it weakens the realism of the story. It alsoperplexes one a little when one thinks of later generations. Jemima'stwo brothers, for example, would marry one day, and their children wouldnecessarily be called Placid too. But would they be placid? And was Mr. Piner's father a piner? It is even more perplexing when the name carriesa calling as well, as in Farmer Wheatear, and Giles Joltem, the carter, and Mr. Coverup, the sexton, in the old story of _Dame Partlet's Farm_. Suppose Mr. Joltem's son had become a chauffeur, with rubber tyres? Orcould he? If not, these names must have immensely have simplified thequestion 'What to do with our boys?'

It is hardly necessary to say that the books which Jemima took back withher from London (on page 46), and which gave such pleasure, were allpublished by the same firm that issued her own history. This was asystem of advertisement brought to perfection by Newbery of St. Paul'sChurchyard. It is so very artless and amusing that one is sorry it hasdied out. 

For the 'Two Trials' I have gone to a little work entitled _JuvenileTrials for telling Fibs, robbing Orchards, and Other Offences_, 1816, from which, viâ _Evenings at Home_, I borrowed a story for _OldFashioned Tales_. The book is anonymous. Surely such schoolboys andschoolgirls never were on sea or shore; but that does not matter. In theold books one did not look for reality. 

I have included 'Prince Life' for two reasons. Partly because it seemsto me not bad of its kind, although far from being as good as 'UncleDavid's Nonsensical Story' in the _Old-Fashioned Tales_, and partlybecause I thought it interesting to show what kind of stories historicalnovelists write for their own families--for 'Prince Life' was written in1855 for his little boy by G. P. R. James, the author of _The Smuggler_, _Richelieu_, _Darnley_, and scores of other romances. Allegories, Imust confess, are not much to my taste; but I have so frequently foundthat what I like others dislike, and what I dislike others like, that Iinclude 'Prince Life' here quite confidently. It has given Mr. Bedfordmaterial for a good picture, anyway. 

'The Farmyard Journal, ' which follows, is not dramatic, but it hasplenty of incident, and is included here to foster the gift ofobservation. I found it in a favourite and very excellent and wise oldbook, _Evenings at Home_, by the strong-minded Aikins--a kind of workwhich it grieves one to think is outgrown not only by the readers ofchildren's books, but by their writers too. 

'The Fruits of Disobedience, ' which comes next, follows ordinary lines, and is chiefly remarkable for its busy clergy. I included it because thetopic of kidnapping is one of which I think every collection of oldstories for children should take notice. In every book of this nature atleast one child's face must be stained with walnut juice. The story isfrom the anonymous _Tales of the Hermitage, written for the Instructionand Amusement of the Rising Generation_, 1778. 

'The Rose's Breakfast, ' also anonymous, is one of the many imitations ofRoscoe's _Butterfly's Ball_, about which the English reading public sostrangely lost its head in 1808. I never considered this a good story, but now that I see it in its new type on the fair page of the presentvolume, I am amazed to think I ever marked it for inclusion at all. Itseems to me poverty-stricken in fancy and very paltry in tone, the ideaof making beautiful flowers as mean-spirited as trumpery men and womencan be being wholly undesirable. It is too late to take it out, especially as Mr. Bedford has drawn a very charming picture for it, butI hope it will remain only as an object-lesson. Possibly its badness mayincite someone to write a better, and that would be my justification. One interesting thing about it is the light it throws on the change offashion in garden flowers. 

'The Three Cakes' is from an English translation of the great MonsieurBerquin's _L'Ami des Enfants_--the most famous children's book inFrance. Armand Berquin, who, in addition to his own stories, translated_Sandford and Merton_ into French, was born in 1750 and died in 1791. His _L'Ami des Enfants_, 1784, was in twelve small volumes, and itcovered most of the ground that a moralist for the young could cover inthose days. It is more like Priscilla Wakefield's _Juvenile Anecdotes_, to which we are coming, on a larger scale, than anything I can name; butno imitation, for M. Berquin came first. The idea of 'The Three Cakes'was borrowed from M. Berquin by the Taylors for their _Original Poems_, and Mary Howitt borrowed it too, also for rhyming purposes. Frenchwriters when they have tried seriously to interest children, have beenvery successful. I know of few better stories than that which in itsEnglish translation is called _Little Robinson of Paris_; but it is along book in itself, and could not be condensed for our purposes. Whileon the subject of French stories I may refer to 'The Bunch of Cherries, 'on page 242 of this volume, which is also French, and comes from a workcalled in the English translation _Tales to My Daughter_. I include itfor its quaint _naïveté_, and also for its lesson of gratitude andminute thoughtfulness. But it was a sad oversight (not too explicable ina French romance) not to make Augustus marry the Green Hat. 

I included 'Amendment, ' from _The Little Prisoners; or, Passion andPatience_, 1828, because its idea is an attractive one. There is alwayssomething engaging, not by any means only to the youthful mind, in theidea of a complete change in the conditions and surroundings of one'slife. That is why so many of us want to be gipsies. The book isanonymous. 

'Scourhill's Adventure' is from an amusing book called _The Academy_, which, for all I know, is the first real boy's school-book ever written. Its companion is _The Rector_, and together they describe, with nolittle spirit and reasonableness, a school a hundred years ago, with allthe escapades and errors of the boys and all the homilies of theschoolmaster. I like the episode of Scourhill as well as any because ofthe pleasant interior which it contains--Scourhill's home, with thenoisy old gentlemen, a little like a scene in Marryat. The books are notworth reprinting, in the way that _Lady Anne_ (to which we draw near) isworth reprinting; but they are worth looking at if they ever chance tofall one's way. 

We come next to 'The Journal' from _Juvenile Anecdotes founded on Facts;Collected for the Amusement of Children_, 1803, by Priscilla Wakefield. A hundred years ago Mrs. Wakefield's books for the nursery (which, ifits literature is a guide, was in those days less of a nursery than aconventicle) were in every shop. She poured them forth--little rushingstreams of didacticism. The present work, from which, for itsquaintness, I have chosen 'The Journal, ' is a kind of Ann and JaneTaylor in very obvious prose. Little girls having spent theirhalf-crowns on themselves, at once meet members of the destitute class, and, having nothing to give them, are plunged into remorse; little boyscreeping into the larder to steal jam, eat soft soap by mistake andnever are greedy again; and so forth. All the conventional images andmorals are employed. The whole book is one long and emphatic division ofsheep from goats. 'The Journal' is not perhaps exciting, but it reflectsthe quieter family life of a century ago, and incidentally portrays thethorough governess of that day. 

Priscilla Wakefield was a Quaker, the great-granddaughter on hermother's side of Barclay of Ury, who wrote the _Apology_. She had afamous niece, Elizabeth Fry, and a famous grandson, Edward GibbonWakefield, the colonist. She was born in 1751 and died in 1832; wrote, as I have said, many instructive books for the young; and was one of theoriginal promoters of savings banks for the people. 

'Ellen and George; or, The Game at Cricket' is from an old friend, _Tales for Ellen_, by Alicia Catherine Mant, from which I took, for _OldFashioned Tales_, the very pretty history of 'The Little Blue Bag. ' Ido not consider 'Ellen and George' as good as the 'Little Blue Bag, ' andI should not be surprised if I discovered on a severe analysis of motivethat it was included here more for its cricket than its human interest. But it has a certain sweetness and naturalness too. Ellen's verysensible question (as it really was) on page 184, 'Then why don't yousend the cat away?' is one of the first examples of independent--almostrevolutionary--thought in a child recorded by a writer for children inthe early days. To say such a thing to a mother eighty years ago wasindeed a feat. For the most part children then were to accept all thatwas said to them by their elders as fact, and neither meditate nor uttercriticism. The principal difference between the children of those daysand the children of these is their present liberty of criticism. To-dayevery child has his own opinion; a hundred years ago none had. 

Some of the remarks on page 186 will divert the young readers of to-day, when girls know as much about cricket (and sometimes play as well) asboys do. I must confess to much perplexity as to what part could beplayed in the manufacture of wickets by George's hammer and nails. Runswere called notches at that time because the scorer cut notches on astick. Wilson's good nature has, I fear, found its way more than onceinto the first-class game--at least, I remember that a full toss on theleg side went to Mr. W. G. Grace when he had made ninety-six towards hishundredth hundred; and quite right too. When it comes, however, tothrowing down one's bat and flinging the ball at a batsman (as Georgedid), there is no excuse to be offered. I have omitted the end of thestory, in which Mr. Danvers condescends to take a hand at the game, in amatch against George and Tom Fletcher (who made it up), and beats themby a narrow margin of notches. According to the author he had been inhis youth a fine bat, but this statement has been cruelly discredited bythe artist who illustrated the book, and who placed the gentleman in anattitude (or 'stance, ' as they say now), and gave him a grip on thehandle, from which nothing but ridicule and disaster could result. Mr. Bedford is not like this. Mr. Bedford is one of those rare artists whoread a story first. 

Of 'Waste Not, Want Not' it is unnecessary to speak. It is one of thebest of the stories in Miss Edgeworth's _Parent's Assistant_, mostentertaining of books with dull names. I have my doubts as to whetherBenjamin was not too much encouraged above Hal, but that has nothing todo with the story. 

We come now to comedy and to farce. 'The Fugitive' I found in an oddlittle book by a Miss Pearson called _A Few Weeks at Clairmont Castle_, 1828; while 'The Butcher's Tournament' is from Peter Parley. I read thisstory when I was quite a child, and it always remained in my memory, andfor several years of late I have kept up a desultory search for it. Icould not, therefore, having chanced upon it in _Peter Parley's Annual_for 1843, omit it from this volume. The author's name is not given, butI suppose that William Martin wrote it--under the influence of DouglasJerrold, I should say. 

For 'Malleville's Night of Adventure' I have gone again to Jacob Abbott, from whom last year I took 'Embellishment. ' The story is a chapter ortwo of _Beechnut_, best of the Franconia books. Later the author changedthe name Malleville, which certainly is not beautiful, to Madeline; butI have left it here as in the original edition. There seems to be nomiddle way with Jacob Abbott: you must either think him the flattest ofwriters for children, or the most interesting. So many of my earliestrecollections are bound up with Phonny and Beechnut that I shall alwaysthink of Jacob Abbott with enthusiasm. But the heretics in this matter Ican understand, although pitying them too. 

For looking through the scores and scores--I might, I believe, sayhundreds--of books from which to select the twenty stories within thesecovers, I should consider myself amply rewarded by the discovery of_Lady Anne_. This story--I might almost say this novel--which is atonce the longest and, to my mind, the best thing in the present volume, is anonymous. All that I know of the author is that she--I take it to bea woman's work--wrote also _The Blue Silk Hand-bag_, but of that book Ihave been able to catch no glimpse. In order to bring _Lady Anne_ intothis collection I have had here and there to condense a few pages, but Ihave touched nothing essential: the sweet little narrative is onlyshortened, never altered. _Lady Anne_ was first published in 1823. 

With 'Captain Murderer, ' which ends the book, we come to another storyby a novelist, this time a man of genius, Charles Dickens. The agreeablygruesome trifle occurs in the essay in _The Uncommercial Traveller_ on'Nurses' Stories, ' and it was told to the little Dickens by a dreadfulgirl named Sarah, who chilled him also with the dark history of Chips, the ship's carpenter, and the rat of the Devil. The story of Chips isbetter than the story of Captain Murderer, but I do not care for theresponsibility of laying it before you. The Captain may be held to beforbidding enough, but he is, all the same, well within the nursery'straditions of acceptable villainy, being only a variant upon Bluebeardand the giant who fed upon bread made with the bone-flour of Englishmen;whereas the story of Chips introduces infernal elements and makes ratstoo horrible to be thought about. So I feel; but if anyone complains ofthe grimness of the Captain I shall have, I fear, only a very poordefence. 

 E. V. L. 

CONTENTS

 PAGE

Dicky Random; or, Good-Nature is nothing without GoodConduct; Anon. 1

The Months; Anon. 15

Jemima Placid; or, The Advantage of Good-Nature; Anon. 23

Two Trials: I. Sally Delia; Anon. 48 II. Harry Lenox; Anon. 58

Prince Life; by G. P. R. James 72

The Farm-Yard Journal; by the Aikins 90

The Fruits of Disobedience; or, The Kidnapped Child; Anon. 98

The Rose's Breakfast; Anon. 114

The Three Cakes; by Armand Berquin 128

Amendment; Anon. 136

Scourhill's Adventures; Anon. 162

The Journal; by Priscilla Wakefield 172

Ellen and George; or, The Game at Cricket; by A. C. Mant 181

Waste Not, Want Not; or, Two Strings to Your Bow; by MariaEdgeworth 204

The Bunch of Cherries; Anon. 242

The Fugitive; by Miss Pearson 256

The Butcher's Tournament; by Peter Parley 275

Malleville's Night of Adventure; by Jacob Abbott 297

The Life and Adventures of Lady Anne; Anon. 320

Captain Murderer; by Charles Dickens 422

ILLUSTRATIONS

 PAGE

Off it went, knocked him backwards, and shivered a beautifulmirror 7

The lambs frisk about her 17

Ellen went a dozen times in the day to look at her new cap 37

'I was reading, and was interrupted by Henry Lenox andthree others talking over a secret' 65

The Prince slays the monster with a hundred horrible heads 87

She kicked up her hind legs and threw down the milk-pail 91

Cut her beautiful hair close to her head 103

The sweet Misses Lilies of the Valley could not be temptedfrom their retreat 121

'I will play you all the pretty tunes that I know, if youwill give me leave' 133

Had not the gardener, who then came up, taken him in hisarms, and carried him into the house, in spite of hiskicking and screaming 143

Every boy . .. Joined in the pursuit, and every cottagepoured out its matrons and children and dogs 165

George was despatched to desire one of the servants tobring a basket, in which we carried the poor sufferer 177

Hither Ellen accompanied him to see the wickets completed 187

'Oh, what an excellent motto!' exclaimed Ben 207

'The everlasting whipcord, I declare' 239

'The happiness of sharing with others that which we possessenhances the value of its enjoyment' 245

'There he goes!' 263

Knights in armour tumbled over their own steeds, donkeysran snorting about, ladies shrieked 293

Wherever the feather passed it changed the surface of thewater into ice 303

The arrival at the inn 325

The Flight over London Bridge 351

Lady Anne finds her father 407

Forgotten Tales of Long Ago

Dicky Random

or

Good-nature is nothing without Good Conduct

 'In festive play this maxim prize-- Be always merry--always WISE!'

'Do you know what hour it is when you see a clock?' said Mr. Random tohis little son Richard. 

'Yes, father, ' said Richard; 'for I can count it all round. When bothhands are at the top of the clock, then I know it is time to leaveschool. '

'Then go and see what time it is, ' said his father. 

Away ran Richard, and brought back word in a moment that it was exactlysix o'clock. 

In a few minutes after came in a friend with a young lady, the former ofwhom asked Mr. Random why he was not ready to go with them to theconcert that evening, as he had promised. Mr. Random replied that itwas but six o'clock, which, however, he was soon convinced was a mistakeof Richard's, who, on being asked what he saw when he looked on theclock, replied, 'I saw the two hands together close to the six, and thatmade me say it was six, for I always call it twelve when they are rightopposite. '

'Remember, my dear, ' said his father, 'that the long hand never tellsthe hour, except on the stroke of twelve. You ought to know that theminute hand overtakes its fellow somewhat later every hour, till at noonand midnight they again start exactly even; and when a bigger boy Ishall expect you to tell me how much difference is increased every timethey come into conjunction. You now see, Dicky, that through such amistake I must make my friends wait; pray, therefore, mind betteranother time. '

In a few minutes after his father bid him go into the dining-room, andbring down a bottle of wine, which stood in the _hither_ corner of thecellaret, that he might help the gentleman and lady to a glass. 

'Yes, father, ' said little Dick, and up he went. On the stairs he metpuss, and stopped to play with her, during which he forgot what had beentold him. Having gotten a bottle, downstairs he came, and, pouring out acouple of glasses, he returned with it. But, when on the landing-place, he naughtily drew out the cork to have a taste himself. It was not onlyvery vulgar to drink out of the neck of a bottle, but wrong to make freeslily with that which he was merely entrusted to serve out. However, itrushed so fast into his mouth, and was so hot, that he was afraid ofbeing strangled. It happened that he had bitten his cheek that morning, and the liquor bathing the sore place made it smart so that he put downthe bottle on the floor, when, in stamping about, it rolled downstairsand made a fine clatter. His father ran out on hearing the noise, butwas stopped in the way by seeing the young lady almost gasping forbreath, and it was some minutes before she could say that he had givenher brandy instead of wine. 

Mr. Random next proceeded upstairs, where little Dick was picking up thepieces of broken glass, in doing which he cut a deep gash in his hand. 

'Where did you take the bottle from?'

'Out of the _farther_ side of the cellaret, ' said Dicky. 

'I told you to take it from the _hither_ side, ' replied Mr. Random. 'But, however, you shall smart for your neglect: what remains of thebrandy will serve to bathe your hand, and I hope the pain will make youreflect that the loss is the same to me, whether you spilt it fromdesign or inattention. '

He one day made his mother look very simple at table, for which hedeserved to have suffered much more than her good nature required. YoungRandom was to have a grand rout in the evening with some of his littlefavourites. A few nice tarts, custards, etc. , had been made in themorning for the occasion, and had been most temptingly baked in theforenoon. 

It happened that two gentlemen called on Mr. Random about two o'clock, and he insisted upon their staying to dinner; in consequence of whichhis lady had the pastry removed from the sideboard to the china-closet. 

All children must frequently have heard their mothers say, when theywish to have anything saved for another occasion, 'My friends, you seeyour dinner before you; I hope you will consider yourselves at home andnot spare. ' This is always thought to be a sufficient excuse for notbringing anything of another sort to table. 

When the meat was nearly done with, Mrs. Random made the above remarkto her visitors, who declared that nothing more was requisite. She thenbid the servant put the cheese on the table. 

'What, mother, ' said Richard, 'is there nothing else?'

'No, my love, ' said his mother; 'I am sure you want nothing more. '

'Why, yes, mother. Where are the tarts and custards you put into thecloset?'

'Surely you dream?' said his mother. 

'No, I don't, indeed, ' replied Dicky. 'You put them away directly thegentlemen said they would stay to dine, and observed what a deal oftrouble visitors do give. '

Anyone will easily believe that this made Mrs. Random look veryconfused. She hardly knew what to reply, but she turned it off in thebest manner she could, and said:

'It is you, Richard, who trouble me more than the visits of my friends. I am happy to see them always, but on some days more than others. To-day, you know, we have been preparing for _your_ company, andtherefore the reserve I have kept would not have been made but on youraccount. The pastry was intended for _your_ visitors, and not yourfather's. However, if you are such a child that you cannot wait tillnight, they shall be brought to table now; but, remember, I will notorder any more to be made, and you shall provide for your playmates outof the money put by to purchase the magic-lantern and the books. '

Richard looked quite down when he heard this sentence, and more so whenhe saw the pastry placed on the table. 

Dear me, how soon had the tarts and custards disappeared, if one of eachhad been served round to the company! But the gentlemen were too politeeven to taste them, and father and mother declined eating any. Richard's sister said she could very well wait till supper; hence theywere all saved. But Dicky was afterwards very severely taken to task forspeaking out of time, when he was not spoken to. 

When evening came, and the little visitors were assembled, Richard, whohad seen some of the sports at a country fair, would show his dexterityto amuse his young party. He took up the poker, and, supposing it to bea pole, performed some imitations. But, unable long to preserve itupright from its weight, the sooty end fell on Master Snapper's book, who was reading a little work upon 'Affability. ' The blow fairly knockedit out of his hand, and made a great smear on his frilled shirt, atwhich a loud laugh ensued. Now Master Snapper could not bear to belaughed at, and was so much out of humour all the evening that he wouldnot play. 

Little Dick never once, all this time, thought that if it had fallen onhis playfellow's toe, it might have lamed him, and he would at leasthave had to carry him a pick-a-back home; nor did he think who was tohave paid the doctor; but, pleased with the mirth he had made, he wentupstairs and fetched down one of the pistols which his father kept in aprivate drawer. Then, pulling in his rocking-horse, he fancied he wasone of the Light Horse, and mounted it to show the sword exercise, andhow he could shoot a Frenchman or a Turk at full gallop. He had nobusiness with a rocking-horse or a pistol among young ladies, but henever thought if it were proper or not, and much less if the pistol wereloaded. 

While he was going on a full canter, he gave the words, 'Present! fire!'and off it went, knocked him backwards, and shivered a beautiful mirrorinto a thousand pieces. Oh, what a sad scene of confusion ensued! Someof the young ladies screamed out with fright. Miss Timid, knocked downby Dicky in falling backwards, lay on the ground bleeding at the nose. Some were employed in picking up the pieces of glass, or pinning theirhandkerchiefs over the fracture, to prevent its being seen while theystayed; but such a hope was vain. 

The noise brought Mr. And Mrs. Random and all the servants upstairs, whotoo soon found out the havoc that had been made, and demanded how ithappened. All the children would willingly have screened Dicky, becausethey knew he had not done it to frighten, but to amuse them. MasterSnapper, however, now thinking it was his turn, in a very ill-naturedspeech made the worst of the story. But the spiteful way in which hespoke did little Dick no harm, as he seemed more rejoiced at hismisfortune than sorry for Mr. Random's loss; hence it had the effect notto increase the latter's anger. 

'Playing with balancing poles and pistols, ' said Mr. Random in a sternaccent to his son, 'is very well in a proper place, but quiteinadmissible in a room full of company. Now, sir, what business had youto take this pistol out of my room?'

'Indeed, father, ' said Dicky, crying, 'I did not know it was loaded. '

'It is but last week, ' continued his father, 'that you were told neverto take such a thing without asking, and not even then till someone hadtried if it were loaded. So many accidents have happened with firearmswhich have been supposed not to be loaded, that he who unguardedlyshoots another ought to take a similar chance for his own life; for youknow the Scripture says: "An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth. "Think, Richard, that if I had been standing before the mirror, whatwould have been the consequence. You would have shot your father! Yourmother would have died of grief, and you and Letitia have beenorphans!'

[Illustration: _Off it went, knocked him backwards, and shivered abeautiful mirror. --Page 5. _]

'Ah, then I should have died too!' said Dicky, wiping the tears from hiseyes with the back of his hand. 'But how came you to load the pistollast night, father?'

'Because, ' replied his father, 'I thought I heard something fall in theparlour, and the passage-door being directly after shut to in a stillmanner. I loaded the pistols, thinking that thieves had broken into thehouse, and pushed up the sash to shoot the first that came out. '

'Then it was lucky, ' said Richard, 'I did not come out again, or youmight have killed me; for I got up in the night to let Juno out of theshed, where I had tied her up, and she was making a sad howling. Indeed, before I was aware, she ran into the parlour, and, as it was quite dark, I tumbled over her. '

'And broke the geranium-tree, ' added his father. 

'Yes, I did indeed, ' said Dicky, 'but I did not go to do it. After thatI turned Juno into the yard, and this I dare say is all the noise youheard. '

'There is an old saying, my dear little friends, ' said Mr. Random, 'which I wish you to attend to, because it has a great deal of truth init: "_The pitcher that goes often safe to the well may come home brokenat last. _" And so, though the thoughtless and giddy may go on for a longwhile without danger, it will overtake them sooner or later. Here is astrong instance of escape from the consequences which might haveattended Richard's thoughtlessness; besides which, his mother could getno more sleep all night, and I, after running the risk of catching coldin searching over the house, have this morning been at the expense ofnew fastenings to the doors and windows. The next time, however, yourise, Richard, to alarm the family, you shall in future roost with thehens or bed in the stable. '

Dicky now thought that his parent's resentment had subsided, and, uponthe latter's calling to him to come, he sprang across the room with thegreatest alertness; but how suddenly was his smile cast down when Mr. Random, taking his hand, ordered him to wish his young friends muchmirth and a good appetite, while he was going to be punished for hismisconduct. At once were all their little hands put out to prevent Mr. Random's resolution of taking him away, but all their petitions were invain. Richard was forced into an empty cellar, and left with no othercompanion than a glimmering rush-light. Here he was told he might do asmuch mischief as he pleased. The iron bars kept him from getting out onone side, and the door was padlocked on the other. In this dilemma hemarched round and round, crying, with his little candle, and saw stuckon the walls the following lines:

 '_Empty caves and commons wild Best befit a thoughtless child, A solid wall, an earthen floor, Prison lights, a padlock'd door, Where's no plaything which he may Turn to harm by random play, For in such sport too oft is found A penny-toy will cost a pound. Be wise and merry;--play, but think; For danger stands on folly's brink. _'

After having been kept in confinement nearly half an hour, Mr. Randomcould no longer resist the pressing solicitations of his son's guests, who declined partaking of the supper till Richard was returned to them. 

Having learned the above lines by heart, he repeated them to his youngcompany, and, on his promising to remember their contents, he waspermitted to sit down to table. 

The rest of the evening was spent in innocent cheerfulness, and for sometime after little Random played with more caution. 

We must omit many of the less important neglects of young Random, suchas letting the toast fall in handling it, shooting his arrow through thewindow, riding a long stick where it might throw persons down, leavingthings in the way at dark, etc. , and proceed to relate a good-naturedfancy of his which tended, more than any of the preceding events, toshow him the folly of taking any step without first looking to what itmight lead. 

In Mr. Random's garden was a fine tall pear tree, and that year a veryfine pear grew on the topmost twig. His mother and sister had severaltimes wished for the luscious fruit, but it seemed to bid defiance toevery attack that was not aided by a tall ladder. 'Oh!' thought Dicky, 'if I can get it down and present it to my mother, how pleased she willbe!' So, when he was alone, he picked out some large stones and threw atit, but without any success. The next day he renewed his attack in theevening, and to insure a better chance employed several large pieces ofbrick and tile. 

Now all these dangerous weapons went over into a poor man's garden, where his son and some other boys were weeding it. One of them fell uponthe little fellow's leg, and cut it in so desperate a manner that hecried out, quite terrified at the blow and sight of the blood. The otherboys directly took the alarm, and picking up some stones as large asthat which had done the mischief, they mounted on a high bench, anddischarged such a well-directed volley at the person of Master Randomthat he was most violently struck upon the nose, and knocked backwardsinto a glass cucumber-frame. 

Here he lay in a most pitiable condition, calling upon his mother, whilethe wounded boy on the other side joined in the concert of woe. 

'Oh, it served you rightly!' exclaimed the young assailants, who werelooking over the wall, and ran away as soon as they saw Mr. Random comeinto the garden to inquire the cause of the uproar. 

His first concern was to carry Dicky indoors, and then, having wipedaway the blood and tears, he asked him how it happened. 

'I was only trying to get a pear for my mother, ' said Richard, 'whenthese boys threw stones at me, and hit me!'

'That was very cruel, ' said his father, 'to meddle with you when youwere doing nothing to them, and if I can find them out they shall bepunished for it. '

Mr. Random immediately set off to the next house, but was met at his owndoor by the father of the wounded boy, who was coming with him in hisarms to demand satisfaction. This brought the whole truth out, and theartful little fellow was found to have concealed a part of the realcase. Instead of saying 'he was only getting a pear, ' he should havesaid that he was throwing large stones at the topmost pear on the tree, and that every stone went over the wall, he could not tell where. 

'Ah, Richard, ' said his father, 'it is little better than story-tellingto conceal a part of the truth. The affair now wears quite a new face. It was you that gave the first assault, and will have to answer for allthe bad consequences. It is my duty to see that this unoffending boy istaken care of; but if his leg be so cut or bruised that he cannot get sogood a living when he comes to be a man as he might otherwise havedone, how would you like to make up the deficiency? You cannot doubtthat he has a demand upon you equal to the damage you may have done tohim. He is poor, and his father must send him to the hospital, but itwould be unjust of me to suffer it. No, on the contrary, I shall preventthis by taking him home and sending you there, where Dr. Hardheart makeshis patients smart before he cures them. Come, get ready to go, fordelays in wounds of the head are not to be trifled with. '

Mr. Random then ordered the servant to go for a coach, in which Dickymost certainly would have been sent off had not word been brought backthat there was not a coach on the stand. During this time Dicky hadfallen on his knees, entreating that he might remain at home, andoffering promises to be less heedless in future; nay, he was willing toyield up all his toys to the maimed little gardener. 

The boy's father, though but a labouring man, had a generous mind; hewanted nothing of this kind, but only wished him to be more cautious infuture, as the same stones, thrown at random, might have either blindedhis son or fractured his skull, instead of merely hurting his leg. Mr. Random then insisted on Richard's giving him half-a-crown, and askingpardon for the misfortune occasioned by his carelessness. 

This heavy sum was directly taken out of the hoard which had been laidby for the purchase of a set of drawing instruments, but he had a yetheavier account to settle with his father for damaging thecucumber-frame. He had broken as much of it as would come to fifteenshillings to mend, and as payment was insisted on, or close confinementuntil the whole was settled, he was compelled to transfer to his fatherall his receipts for the ensuing five months before he could againresume his scheme of laying by an adequate sum to purchase the drawingutensils. Independently of which he always carried a strong memorial ofhis folly on his nose, which was so scarred that he endured many a joke, as it were, to keep alive in his memory the effect of his folly. Indeed, he never looked in the glass without seeing his reproach in his face, and thus at length learned never to play without first thinking if itwere at a proper time and in a proper place. 

The Months

Who is this, clad in russet-brown? His distant step sounds hollow on thefrozen ground; no beam of beauty is on his face, but his look ishealthy, and his step is firm. As he approaches the peasant bars hisdoor and renews his fire. The sparkling home-brewed goes round andmantles in the foaming jug, the oft-repeated tale is told, the rainpatters against the casement, but the night passes away, and the stormis no longer heard. 

Bright in his career the sun arises. Millions of gems seem suspendedfrom the leafless branches. The familiar robin and the bolder sparrowseek the abode of man. Swift fly the balls of snow; the ruddy youthbinds on his skates and gracefully flies over the frozen pool. 

Who is this stranger? He is the first-born of his family, and his nameis JANUARY. 

 * * * * *

A grave and placid maiden now advances. The crocus and the snow-dropadorn her brown garments, a wreath of primroses binds her brows, therobin, perched on the leafless branch, welcomes her approach, and thelovely green of the young wheat is spread over the lately barrenfields. The lambs frisk about her, they nibble the grass of the valley, then suddenly start and bound up the shelving mountain. But their infantcoats are now wet with rain, and their sports are over. Shivering, theyfollow the shepherd with their bleating dams. And now, adorned withrustic lays and bleeding hearts, the swain sends to his favourite maidthe mysterious valentine. The birds choose their mates; it is the seasonof connubial joys. Mild then be thy reign, gentle FEBRUARY. 

 * * * * *

Who is this froward youth, with his loud and boisterous voice? He comesfrom the east; limping rheumatism and shivering ague are in his train;but his face is now dressed in smiles. The birds begin their lays, thelambs again frolic around. The daisy and the violet grow beneath hisfeet; he dresses himself with the buds of the spring. Vegetationdisplays her lovely green, and holds out the promise of future riches. Again the tempest of his passions arise; he tears the chaplet from hisbrows, and scatters it in the wind. Oh! hasten far away from us, variable and boisterous MARCH. 

 * * * * *

Clad in a robe of light green, and decorated with lilies of the valley, a lovely maid advances. She breathes on the opening flowers, and theirbeauty is expanded. The leaves of the grove burst forth, and the hedgesexhibit their partial verdure. Nature, invigorated, smiles around her;but she weeps, and her flowerets bend, drooping, to the earth. Mild isher mien, and the tint of modesty is on her cheek. She smiles, whilstthe tear still trembles in her eye, like placid resignation bending overthe tomb of a departed friend. She is a pensive maiden, and her name isAPRIL. 

[Illustration: '_The lambs frisk about her. '--Page 16. _]

 * * * * *

Hark to the sound of rustic mirth, which precede a cheerful youth! Hisstep is light and airy, his robe is of many colours, roses adorn hisflowing ringlets, health and pleasure float on the freshening gale, exercise and mirth gambol before him, age forgets his troubles, quitshis arm-chair, and welcomes his approach. The maids of the hamletassemble and dance round the pole, decked with many a flower and many astreaming pendant. The village lovers loiter at the stile, or wanderdown the retired lane, where the hedges are covered with their whiteblossoms, and the modest wild rose, emblem of the blushing maid, peepsfrom the sheltering thorn. Season of love and delight! long may thyreign be protracted, young and beauteous MAY!

 * * * * *

Who is the maid now approaching? She arises when the lark first pourshis melody in air. Her dress is of a darker green, her head is adornedwith full-blown flowers, her face is tanned by labour. The bleating andaffrighted sheep are plunged, unwillingly, into the pool, and now by thesturdy hand stripped of their fleecy coats. The bottle quickly passes, the simple tale goes round, the ballad purchased at the fair is sung;the mower whets his scythe, and the grass and the wild-flowers fallbefore it; the waggon, heavily laden, removes the odoriferous hay; andthe neat-mown fields display a brighter green. The cuckoo, with hisnever-varying note is heard; but let us, when the day is over, placed insome secluded nook, listen to the sweeter nightingale, who, as poetsfeign, was once a hapless female. Industry now toils through thelengthened day, and the name of this sun-burnt maiden is JUNE. 

 * * * * *

Who is the youth that now advances in his robe of gauze? He comes whenthe rosy morn first trembles in the east. Slow and languid is his step;he seeks the damp cavern and the impervious shade. It is the heat ofnoon, and the kine no longer low. Not a breeze stirs: the foliage of thegroves, all--is still, except the insect world, who dimple the stream, or, buzzing round the head of the sleeping youth, rouses the panting dogthat lies at his side. 

Now the terrified birds dart swiftly through the air; a solemn andportentous stillness reigns; the thunder mutters, the lightnings flash, and the pouring storm approaches; the traveller seeks the shelteringcottage. But when the sun again returns in his glory, the birds plumetheir dripping feathers; the gardener ties up his fallen roses, andtrails anew the gadding woodbine. How sweetly refreshing is the air; wewill wander over the breezy hill; we will pluck the summer fruits; andstill welcome shalt thou be to us, sultry JULY. 

 * * * * *

Who is she, who, with the first blush of Aurora, brushes the pearly dewfrom the grass? Her robe is thin and airy, and on her head is a garlandof wheat-ears and poppies. How busy is the scene around her! The shiningscythe cuts down the bearded barley and the quivering oat; the reaperbends over the golden wheat, and fills the plenteous sheaf. 

All are employed: even old age and childhood bend, with prying eyes, toglean the scattered ears. The master looks on his riches, and swellswith satisfaction; the busy housewife loads the hospitable board, andhands the mantling ale around; age tells the tale of past times; and theloud laugh and rustic song burst from the lips of jocund youth. Oh! everthus return to us, with plenty in thy train, mirth-inspiring AUGUST. 

 * * * * *

Who is the youth that, at early dawn, brushes the stubble with his feet?His gun is on his arm. His well-taught dogs are with him. The harmony ofthe groves is destroyed, and the feathered race fall before his cruelhand. The timid hare, starting at the sound of early feet, flies fromthe furzy brake, and she returns to her shelter no more. Contentthyself, youth, with the various fruits which Nature now bestows. Thegolden apricot, the downy peach, and the blooming plum, peep frombeneath their green foliage. Feast on these gifts, but spare thefeathered race, sanguinary SEPTEMBER. 

 * * * * *

Who now comes, with the steady air of a matron? Her robe is of yellow, tinged with brown; and a wreath of berries encircles her head. She fillsher barns; and the flail, with monotonous sound, is heard. Labourblesses her as he turns the earth with his plough, and scatters, with aseemingly careless hand, the seeds of future harvests. She shakes theclustering nuts from the trees, and gathers the rosy produce of theorchard, where the apple and the mellow pear yield their refreshingjuice. 

The poet wanders through the silent grove; the mournful breeze wafts thewithered leaves around him; the huntsman winds his horn; exercise boundsover the plain; the sportsman rejoices in the barren fields. Season thatI love, ever welcome shalt thou be to me, mild and pensive OCTOBER. 

 * * * * *

What terrific form is this? Sullen and haggard is his face; his raggedgarments float in the blast; a wreath of yew binds his head; thick fogsarise around him; he tears from the groves the last leaves of autumn;disease attends his baneful steps; he drinks at the stagnant pool; hethrows himself on the beetling rock; he courts the foaming billows; helistens to the last groans of the shipwrecked mariner; he wandersthrough the churchyard; he seeks the abode of the raven, and horror isin all his thoughts. Oh, hasten far away from us, gloomy NOVEMBER. 

 * * * * *

Who is this clad in flannel and warm furs? He wraps his garments closeabout him; a wreath of holly binds his bald head; he seeks the warmhearth and the blazing fire; he expands his hands: they are thin andshrivelled with age. The snow fast descends; the sweeping blast howlsover the dreary heath, and shakes the cottage of the aged man--he is thefather of the year, and his name is DECEMBER. 

Jemima Placid

or

The Advantage of Good Nature

Mr. Placid was a clergyman of distinguished merit, and had been for manyyears the vicar of Smiledale. The situation of the parsonage was trulybeautiful, but the income of the living was not very considerable; so, as the old gentleman had two sons with the young Jemima to provide for, it was necessary to be rather frugal in his expenses. Mrs. Placid wasremarkably handsome in her youth, but the beauty of her person was muchimpaired by a continued state of ill-health, which she supported withsuch a degree of cheerful fortitude as did honour to human nature. Asshe had had the advantage of a liberal education, and had been alwaysaccustomed to genteel company, her conversation was uncommonlyagreeable; and her daughter derived from her instructions those engagingqualities which are the most valuable endowments a parent can bestow. The eldest son, whose name was Charles, was about three years, andWilliam, the youngest, near a year and a half older than his sister. Their dispositions were not in all respects so gentle as hers; yet, onthe whole, they formed the most agreeable family. 

When Jemima was about six years old, her mother's health rendered itnecessary that she should take a journey to Bristol; and it being out ofher power to have Jemima with her, she left her with an aunt, whose namewas Finer, and who had two daughters a few years older than theircousin. Miss Placid, who had never before been separated from hermother, was severely hurt at the thought of leaving home; but as she wastold it was absolutely necessary, she restrained her tears, from fear ofincreasing the uneasiness which her mother experienced. 

At last the day arrived when her uncle (whom I before forgot to mention)and his wife came to dinner at Smiledale, with an intention ofconducting Jemima back with them. She was in her father's study at thetime they alighted, and could not help weeping at the idea of quittingher friends; and throwing her arms around her brother William's neck, silently sobbed forth that grief she wanted power to restrain. The poorboy, who loved his sister with great tenderness, was nearly as muchagitated as herself, and could only, with affectionate kisses, every nowand then exclaim:

'Do not cry so, Jemima. Pray, do not! We shall soon meet again, my love. Pray, do not cry!'

When she had relieved her little heart with this indulgence of hersorrow, she wiped her eyes, and walked slowly upstairs to have her frockput on. 

'So your aunt is come, miss?' said Peggy, as she put down the basin onthe table to wash her hands. 

Poor Jemima was silent. 

'I am sorry we are going to lose you, my dear, ' added she, as she wipedthe towel over her forehead. 

Peggy's hand held back her head, and at the same time supported herchin, so that her face was confined and exposed to observation. Shewanted to hide her tears, but she could not; so at last, hastilycovering herself with the maid's apron, and putting her two hands roundher waist, she renewed the sorrow which she had so lately suppressed. 

Peggy was very fond of her young lady, as indeed was every servant inthe house; but there was a good woman, who went in the family by thename of Nurse, for whom Jemima had a still greater attachment. She hadattended Mrs. Placid before her marriage, had nursed all her childrenfrom their births, and Jemima was the darling of her heart. As sheentered the room at this time, she took the weeping girl into her lap, and wept herself at the reflection that it was the first time in herlife she had slept without her. 

'And so pray, my dear, ' said she, 'take care of yourself; and when yougo to bed, mind that they pin your night-cap close at the top, otherwiseyou will get cold; and do not forget to have your linen well aired; forotherwise it is very dangerous, love; and many a person, by suchneglect, has caught a cold which has terminated in a fever. Sweet child!I do not like to trust it from me, ' added she, hugging her still closer, and smothering her face in a check cotton handkerchief which she wore onher neck. 

Jemima promised an observance of her injunctions, and being now dressed, attended a summons from her mother, who was alone in her chamber, thecompany having left her to walk in the garden, whither she was unable toaccompany them. 

'I see, my dear girl, ' said she, holding out her hand as she sat in aneasy-chair by the window--'I see that you are sorry to leave me; and, indeed, Jemima, I am much grieved that such a separation is necessary;but I hope I shall be better when I return, and I am sure you would wishme to be quite well. I hope, therefore, that you will be a good childwhile you stay with your uncle and aunt, and not give more trouble thanyou cannot avoid. '

Miss Placid assured her mother of her obedience, and her firm resolutionto mind all her admonitions. Mr. Finer returning at this period, interrupted any further discourse, only Mrs. Placid affectionatelypressed her hand, and, after giving her a kiss, Jemima sat down on alittle stool by her side. 

When the hour of her departure was nearly arrived, she retired into thegarden to take leave of her brothers, and went round with them to allthe different places she had been accustomed to play in. They visitedtogether the poultry-yard, and Jemima fed her bantams before she leftthem, bidding them all adieu, and looking behind her for the last timeas she shut the gate. They then walked round by some walnut-trees, wherea seat had been put up for them to sit in the shade. 

'I wish you were not going, ' said Charles; 'for I put this box and drovein these nails on purpose for you to hang up your doll's clothes, andnow they will be of no farther use to us. '

'I wish so too, ' replied his sister; 'but I cannot help it. '

'Well, do not cry, ' added William; 'but come this way by the brewhouse, and bid my rabbits good-bye, and take this piece of lettuce in your handto feed the old doe, and here is some parsley for the young ones. Weshall have some more before you come back, and I will send you word if Ican how many there be. '

'And, Jemima, ' said Charles, 'I wish I were going with you to London, for I should like to see it; it is such a large place, a great dealbigger than any villages which we have seen, and they say, the housesstand close together for a great way, and there are no fields or trees, and the houses have no gardens to them. But then there is a great numberof shops, and you might perhaps get a collar for Hector. Do pray try, Jemima, and buy him one, and have his name put upon it, and that hebelongs to the Rev. Mr. Placid of Smiledale, for then, in case we shouldlose him, folk would know where to return him. '

'And would it not be better to have a bell, ' said William, 'as the sheephave? I like a bell very much; it would make such a nice noise about thehouse; and then we should always know where he was when we were reading, as my father will not let us look after him. What else do we want her tobuy, Charles? Cannot you write a list?'

'That will be the best way, ' replied he, taking out his pencil, and, very ungracefully, to be sure, he put the point of it to his mouth twoor three times before it would write. And then, having but a small scrapof paper, he despatched his brother, as the shortest way, to fetch aslate, and he would transcribe it afterwards with a pen and ink, for hehad, in endeavouring to cut a new point to his pencil, broken it off sofrequently that the lead was all wasted, and nothing remained except thewood. William soon returned with the slate under his arm. Charles tookit from him, and then went to work to prepare a bill of necessarythings, which his sister was to purchase in London. He leaned so hard, and scratched in such a manner as, had any grown people been of theparty, would have set their teeth on edge (a sensation, I believe, withwhich children are unacquainted, for they never seem to notice it atall). 

'First then, ' said he, 'I am to mention a collar for Hector, with hisname and place of abode; and I should like very much to have some Indianglue to mend our playthings, such as father uses, and which we cannotget here, you know. '

William assented, and Jemima was as attentive as if she had to rememberall the things he was writing without the assistance of his list. Theysat some time in silence to recollect the other necessary commissionswhen she reminded them that a new pencil would be a useful article, butCharles said his father would supply that want, and there was no need tospend his own money for things he could have without any expense, but ifanyhow he could get a gun with a touch-hole he should be quite happy. 

'No, you would not, ' returned William, 'for then, Charles, you wouldwant gunpowder, which you never could have, and if you had, might neveruse it. '

'To be sure, that is true. I have long wished for it; but, as you say, Iwill be contented without it, so do not concern yourself about that, andI need not set it down. '

I shall not trouble you with the rest of the consultation on thisimportant subject, but transcribe the list itself, which, with theaccount of the preceding conversation, I received from a young lady whofrequently spent some months with Mrs. Placid, and to whose kindness Iam indebted for many of the various incidents which compose thishistory. 

 A LIST OF THINGS JEMIMA IS TO BRING FROM LONDON. 

 _A collar for Hector; Indian glue; some little pictures to make a show; a pair of skates, as we shall like skating better than sliding; a large coach-whip for Charles, because John will not lend us his; and some little books which we can understand, and which mother told Mrs. West may be bought somewhere in London, but Jemima must inquire about it. _

Such were the orders which Miss Placid received from her brothers on herfirst journey to the Metropolis. They then attended her to bid adieu toher canary-bird, which she very tenderly committed to their care, anddesired they would feed it every day, and give it water in her absence, and mind to turn the glass the right way, otherwise the poor thing mightbe starved. While she was taking her leave of little Dick, who hung inthe hall by the window, her cat came purring to her and rubbed its headagainst her frock and pushed against her feet, then lay down on oneside, and while Jemima stroked it with her hand, she licked her fingers, and at last jumped up into the window-seat to be still nearer to itsmistress, who, taking it into her arms, particularly desired herbrothers to give puss some of their milk every morning, and to save somebits of meat at dinner to carry to it. 'For, my pussy, ' added she, 'I amquite sorry to leave you. '

Another affair remained, which was to put away all her playthings; butthis she had deferred so long that the carriage was ready before she hadconcluded, so with that, likewise, she was obliged to entrust herbrothers. And, looking round her with a heavy heart upon every objectshe had been accustomed to, she quitted the room with regret, and afterreceiving the affectionate kisses of the whole family her father liftedher into the carriage, and, the tears running down her cheeks, shelooked out of the window as long as the house was in sight and herbrothers continued to stand at the gate, till the road to London turninginto a contrary direction they could no longer see each other. Shethen, with a melancholy countenance, watched the fields and lanes shepassed by, till at last, quite fatigued, she sat down, and soon afterfell asleep. 

When they stopped at the inn where they intended to rest that night, shewas so much fatigued, having been up very early, that she did not waketill she was nearly undressed, when, finding herself in a house whereshe had never before been, she looked about, but was too good to fret atsuch a circumstance, though she wished to be at home again. The nextmorning they renewed their journey, and in two days arrived at Mr. Piner's house about eight o'clock in the evening. 

Jemima, who had not seen her cousins since she was two years old, hadentirely forgotten them, and, as they expected to find her as much ababy as at their last interview, they appeared like entire strangers toeach other. They welcomed their father and mother, and looked at MissPlacid with silent amazement; both parties, indeed, said the civilthings they were desired, such as 'How do you do, cousin?' rather in alow and drawling tone of voice; and Miss Sally, who was eight years old, turned her head on one side and hung on her father's arm, though hetried to shake her off, and desired her to welcome Miss Placid toLondon, and to say she was glad to see her, to inquire after her father, mother, and brothers, and, in short, to behave politely, and receive herin a becoming manner. To do this, however, Mr. Piner found wasimpossible, as his daughters were not at any time distinguished by thegraces, and were always particularly awkward from their shyness at afirst introduction. 

Our young traveller became by the next morning very sociable with hercousins, and complied with their customs with that cheerful obligingnesswhich has always so much distinguished her character. She was muchsurprised at the bustle which she saw in the street, and the number ofcarriages so agreeably engaged her attention that it was with reluctanceshe quitted her seat on a red trunk by the window to enjoy the plays inwhich her cousins were solicitous to engage her. Mrs. Finer had been forsome time engaged to dine with a lady of her acquaintance, where shecould not conveniently take either of her children, and they bothfretted and pined at the disappointment so as to render themselvesuncomfortable and lose the pleasure of a holiday, which their mother hadallowed them in consequence of their cousin's arrival. Miss Ellen, theeldest, was continually teasing to know the reason why she might not go, though she had repeatedly been told it was inconvenient; and Jemimabeheld with astonishment two girls, so much older than herself, presumeto argue with their mother about the propriety of her commands, whentheir duty should have been quiet submission. When her aunt was gone shetook all the pains in her power to engage them to be good-humoured, presented them with their toys, and carried to them their dolls; butthey sullenly replied to all her endeavours they did not want them, andtold her not to plague them so, for they had seen them all a hundredtimes. At last Sally, taking up a little tin fireplace which belonged toher sister, Miss Ellen snatched it from her, and said she should nothave it. Sally caught it back again, and they struggled for it with suchpassion as to be entirely careless of the mischief they might do eachother. 

Poor Jemima, who had never disagreed with her brothers nor been witnessto such a scene in her life, was terrified to see them engage with adegree of violence which threatened them with essential hurt. Sheendeavoured to appease their fury, and ventured, after she had stoodstill for some time between two chairs, to try if, by catching hold ofone of their hands, she could be able to part them, but they only gaveher some blows, and said she had no business in their quarrel. She thenretired to the farther part of the room, and ardently wished herself athome. When spying another fireplace under the table, she took it up withgood-natured transport, and running to Miss Finer, told her there wasone for her, which she hoped would put an end to the dispute. This, however, proved to be the property of Miss Sally, who declared, in herturn, that her sister should not touch any of her playthings; andfinding she was not strong enough to retain it, she threw it with allher force to the other end of the room, and unfortunately hit MissPlacid a blow with one of the sharp corners, just above her temple. Thisat once put an end to the battle, for the blood immediately trickleddown her cheek, and alarmed the two sisters, who, forgetting the subjectof the debate, began to be uneasy at the effects of it; only Ellen, whoconsidered herself as more innocent (merely because she had not been theimmediate cause of the accident), with a recriminating air, said:

'There, miss, you have done it now! You have killed your cousin, Ibelieve!'

Jemima, though in a great deal of pain, and much frightened, did notcry; as she seldom shed tears, unless from sensibility, or at partingwith her friends. She held her handkerchief to the place, and becamemore alarmed in proportion as she saw it covered with blood, till atlast, finding it was beyond their art to stop the effusion, Ellen, withtrembling steps, went upstairs to tell the servant of their misfortune. Dinah, which was the maid's name, had been so often accustomed to findher young ladies in mischief, that she did not descend in very goodhumour, and upon her entrance exclaimed that they were all thenaughtiest girls in the world, without inquiring how the accidenthappened, or making any exception to the innocence of Jemima, who couldonly again most sincerely wish to be once more at Smiledale with hermother. Dinah, after washing her temple with vinegar, which made itsmart very much (though she did not complain), told them they had beenso naughty that they should not go to play any more, nor would she hearMiss Placid's justification, but crossly interrupted her by saying:

'Hold your tongue, child! and do not want to get into mischief again;for my mistress will make a fine piece of work, I suppose, about whatyou have done already. '

Jemima was too much awed by the ill-nature of her looks and the anger ofher expressions to vindicate her conduct any further, but quietlysitting down, she comforted herself with the reflection that herdispleasure was undeserved, and that to fret at what she could not avoidwould not make her more happy, and therefore, with great good humour, took up a bit of paper which contained the rough drawing of a littlehorse which Charles had given her on the day of her departure, and whichshe had since carefully preserved. 

In justice to Mrs. Dinah I must here observe that she was not naturallyill-natured, but the Misses Piner were so frequently naughty as to giveher a great deal of trouble, and tire out her patience; and theirmother, by not taking the proper methods to subdue the errors of theirdispositions, had made them so refractory that it soured her own temper, and occasioned her to blame her servants for the consequence of thosefaults which it was her duty to have prevented. So you see, my dearEliza, from such instances, how mistaken is that indulgence which, bygratifying the humours of children, will make them impatient andvindictive, unhappy in themselves, and a trouble to everyone with whomthey are connected. The amiable Jemima was always contented andgood-humoured, even when she was not in a state agreeable to her wishes, and, by learning to submit to what she did not like, when it could notbe altered, she obtained the love of everybody who knew her, and passedthrough life with less trouble than people usually experience; for, bymaking it a rule to comply with her situation, she always enjoyed thecomforts it afforded, and suffered as little as possible from itsinconvenience In the present case her cousins, by their ill-temper andfretfulness, had quarrelled with each other; and when Dinah would notlet them play--as, indeed, they justly deserved to be punished--they didnothing but grumble and cry the whole day, and were so conscious oftheir bad behaviour as to be afraid of seeing their mother; while MissPlacid, serene in her own innocence, entertained herself for some timewith looking at the horse above mentioned, and afterwards with prickingit, till Dinah set her at liberty, which, seeing her good temper, shesoon did, and gave her besides some pretty pictures to look at and somefruit to eat, of all which her cousins were deprived. By the nextmorning Jemima's temple had turned black, and Mrs. Piner inquired howshe had hurt herself. She coloured at the question with some confusion, not willing to inform her aunt of anything to Miss Sally's disadvantage, but, as she was too honest to say anything but the truth, she beggedMrs. Finer would not be angry if she informed her, which she, havingpromised, Jemima told her, adding that her cousin had no intention tohurt her. 

Mrs. Piner kissed and commended Jemima very much, and Dinah havinglikewise given a high account of her goodness, she told her daughtersshe was much displeased with them, but in consequence of their cousin'sintercession would not punish them that time, and desired them for thefuture to imitate her example. 

As soon as breakfast was over they were dismissed to school, whileJemima remained with her aunt, who, after having heard her read, gaveher a handkerchief to hem, which she sat down by her to do, and when shehad done work very prettily, entered into conversation. 

'I should be much obliged to you, madam, ' said she, 'as I do not know myway about London, if you would go with me to buy some things for mybrothers, which I promised to carry back when I return. I have got somemoney to pay for them, for Charles gave me a sixpence, and threehalfpence, and a farthing; and William gave me threepence; and I havegot a silver penny and a twopence of my own, all screwed safely in alittle red box. '

Mrs. Piner inquired what the articles were which she wished to purchase, and smiled on perusing the list which Charles had written. 

'And pray, my dear, ' said she, 'how do you intend to carry thecoach-whip, for you will not be able conveniently to pack it up? And asto the skates, I do not think your father would choose your brothersshould make use of them till they are much older, as they are verydangerous, and particularly so to little boys. The other things I willendeavour to procure, and you shall take a walk with me to buy the booksand choose them yourself, and I will pay for them; so you may save yourmoney in the little box, for you are a very good girl, and thereforedeserve to be encouraged. '

Jemima thanked her aunt for her kind intentions, and said if she couldget a coach-whip, she thought she could carry it to Smiledale in herhand; and as her brothers were always kind to her, she wished to doeverything in her power to oblige them. 

The next day was to be a holiday at her cousins' school, on account oftheir dancing-master's ball, to which the Misses Piner were invited; andMrs. Piner had promised Jemima she should be of the party. They rose inthe morning with the pleasing hopes of enjoying a dance in the evening;and Ellen went a dozen times in the day to look at her new cap, wishingit was time to put it on (for she was a silly, vain girl), and was sofoolish as to imagine herself of more consequence, because she wasbetter dressed than other children. 

'Oh, Miss Placid, ' said she, 'you will look so dowdy to-night in yourplain muslin frock, while all the rest of the ladies will wear eithergauze frocks or silk coats full trimmed. Have you seen how handsome ourdresses will be? Do, pray, look at them, ' added she, opening the drawerand extending the silk, and then, glad of an excuse to survey it, shewent to a box, and, taking out her cap, held it on her hand, turning itround and round with a degree of pride and pleasure which was verysilly. 

Jemima good-naturedly admired her cousin's finery without wishing forany addition to her own. 

'I am sure, ' replied she, 'my mother has provided what is proper for me, and is so kind as to afford me everything necessary; and my frocks arealways clean, and will do extremely well for the present occasion, orelse my aunt would have bought me another. '

'But should not you like such a cap?' said Miss Ellen, putting it onJemima's head. 'You look very pretty in it indeed. '

[Illustration: _Ellen went a dozen times in the day to look at hey newcap. --Page 36. _]

'No; I think it is too large for me, ' returned Miss Placid; 'and thereis a piece of wire in it which scratches when you press it down. Youshould alter that, or it will be very uncomfortable. '

In short, the ball was the only subject of conversation during the wholeday; and although Miss Piner felt an uncommon headache and sickness, yetshe would not complain, for fear her mother should think proper to leaveher at home. The pain, however, increased greatly, and she frequentlyleft the parlour to give vent to her complaints and avoid her mother'snotice. The heaviness of her eyes and alternate change of countenancefrom pale to red, at last took Mrs. Piner's attention, and she tenderlyinquired after her health; but Ellen affected to treat her indispositionas a trifle, though, as she was by no means patient in general, shewould at any other time have made incessant complaints. She attempted tolaugh and play, but to no purpose, for her illness became too violent tobe suppressed. However, upon her father's hinting at dinner that sheseemed to have no appetite, and had better, if not well, go to bed, sheforced herself, against her inclination, to eat some meat and pudding, and went up afterwards to conceal her uneasiness, and put on herclothes, thinking that if she was in readiness it would be an additionalreason for her going. But, alas! so foolish is vanity, and soinsignificant are outward ornaments, that when Miss Ellen was decked outin the gauze frock which had so long engaged her thoughts, she felt sucha degree of uneasiness from her sickness as to make her disregard whatshe had before wished for with such ill-placed ardour. 

Having eaten more than was proper for her stomach in such a disorderedstate, it increased her illness very much; but being determined to go, though her mother advised her to the contrary, and pretending she wassomewhat better, she stepped into the coach, the motion of which soonproduced a most terrible catastrophe; and before she could speak forassistance, occasioned such a violent sickness as totally spoiled herown and her cousin's clothes, who sat opposite to her; nor did Sally'squite escape the disaster, for as she had spread them over Jemima, withan intent to display their beauties, they shared in part that calamitywhich had so unfortunately overtaken the others. 

Mrs. Piner, though she was grieved at her daughter's indisposition, waslikewise extremely angry at the consequence of her obstinacy. 

'If you had stayed at home, as I bade you, ' said she, somewhat angrily, 'nothing of this would have happened, ' and, pulling the check-string, added, 'we must turn about, coachman, for we cannot proceed in thiscondition. '

Sally, notwithstanding her sister's illness, continually teased hermother to know whether they should go when Ellen was set down and herown dress wiped, without attending to her sister's complaints. When thecarriage reached Mr. Piner's, he came himself hastily to the door toknow what accident had occasioned their unexpected return, and uponbeing informed, lifted poor Ellen into the house, while her sisterdeclared she would not walk indoors, as she wanted to go to the ball. Dinah was, however, called down, and with much resistance conveyed theyoung lady crying and kicking upstairs. 

Jemima stood by unnoticed in the general confusion, and Miss Piner wasundressed with the utmost expedition, and sincerely rejoiced to be ridof the encumbrance of that finery which in another situation would haveexcited her envy. Our little heroine, whose sense as well as serenitywas uncommon, reflected that gay clothes must, certainly in themselvesbe of little value, since they could not prevent the approach ofdisease, or suspend for a moment the attacks of pain; that the pleasurethey bestowed, as it was ill-founded, was likewise extremely transient, as Sally's passion on her disappointment was sufficient to prove, sinceshe was now mortified in proportion as she had before been elated. Andthough her sister's reflections were for the present suspended by theviolence of pain, yet her vexation, when she was restored to the abilityof contemplating the state of her clothes, would be equally poignant andwithout remedy. 

While Miss Placid, in obedience to her aunt, took off the frock whichhad suffered so much in its short journey, Sally sat screaming andcrying in an easy-chair, into which she had thrown herself, declaringshe would go, and pushed Dinah away as often as she attempted to takeout a pin. Nor would she be pacified by any endeavours which were usedto please and amuse her, till her mother, quite tired with her noise andill-humour, declared she would send word to her governess the nextmorning if she did not do what she was desired; upon which threat shesubmitted to be undressed, but petulantly threw every article of herattire upon the ground, and afterwards sat down in one of the windows insullen silence, without deigning an answer to any question that wasproposed to her. Jemima was as much disappointed as her cousin could be, and had formed very high expectations of the pleasure she should receiveat the ball; but she had been always accustomed to submit to unavoidableaccidents without repining, and to make herself happy with thoseamusements in her power when she was deprived of what she might wish forbut could not procure. 

Some time after this Mr. Steward, a gentleman who lived at Smiledale, came up to town about business, and called upon Mr. Piner with anintention of seeing Miss Jemima, who was much distressed that shehappened to be absent, as she wished to hear some news of her father andbrothers. However, he returned again the next day, and Miss Placid verygracefully paid her respects to him, and inquired after the friends shehad left. He satisfied her as to their health, and presented her with aletter from her brother Charles, which, as soon as she could find anopportunity, she retired to read. The contents were as follow:

 _To Miss Placid. _

 'MY DEAR SISTER, 'As William writes so very slowly, and as father does not think heshould scribble at all, he has desired me to inform you of everythingthat has passed since you left us. And first I must acquaint you with asad accident which will render one of your commissions useless. PoorHector, the day after you went away, was lost for several hours. We wentto every house in the village, and hunted behind every tomb in thechurchyard; called Hector! Hector! through all the fields, and thenreturned and sought him in our own garden again; looked under the benchin the poultry-yard, nay, even in the cellar and coal hole; but noHector returned. We sat down together on the bottom stair in the hall, and William cried ready to break his heart. Father said he was sorry, but told us our tears would not bring him back, and advised us to bearthe loss of him with more fortitude, took William on his lap, and read astory to divert him. We got tolerably cheerful and went down to tea; butas soon as my brother took up his bread and butter, the thoughts ofHector always jumping up to him for a bit, and how he would bark andsnap in play at his fingers, quite overcame his firmness, and he couldnot touch a morsel. Well, to make short of the story, the next morningJohn came in and told father that Squire Sutton's gamekeeper, notknowing to whom he belonged, had shot him for running after the deer. "Why now, " said I, "if he had but stayed away from the park till Jemimahad brought him a collar he would not have been killed. Poor Hector! Ishall hate Ben Hunt as long as I live for it. " "Fie, Charles, " said myfather. "Hector is dead, sir, " said I; and I did not then stay to hearany further. But since that we have talked a great deal about love andforgiveness; and I find I must love Ben Hunt, even though I now see poorHector's tomb in the garden. For John went to fetch him, and we buriedhim under the lilac-tree, on the right hand side, just by the largesun-flower. And we cried a great deal, and made a card tomb-stone overhis grave; and father gave us an old hatband and we cut it into piecesand we went as mourners. His coffin was carried by Tom Wood, thecarpenter's son, whose father was so kind as to make it for us, whileJames Stavely (the clerk's nephew), my brother, and I, followed as chiefmourners, and old nurse and Peggy put on their black hoods which theyhad when Jane Thompson died, and went with us, and we had the kitchentable-cloth for a pall, with the old black wrapper put over it whichused to cover the parrot's cage; but we did not read anything, for thatwould not have been right, as you know. After all, he was but a dog. Father, however, to please us, wrote the following epitaph, which I verycarefully transcribed and affixed over his grave:

 '"Here Hector lies, more bless'd by far Than he who drove the victor's car; Who once Patroclus did subdue, And suffer'd for the conquest too. Like him, o'ercome by cruel fate, Stern fortune's unrelenting hate; An equal doom severe he found, And Hunt inflicts the deadly wound. Less cruel than Pelides, he His manes were pursuits to be; And satisfied to see him fall, Ne'er dragg'd him round the Trojan wall. "

'I am very sorry for the poor fellow's untimely end, and so, I daresay, you will be. Our rabbit has kindled, and we have one in particular theskin of which is white with black spots, the prettiest I ever saw, andwhich we have called Jemima, and will give to you when you return. Peggyhas sprained her ankle by a fall downstairs. I forgot my wooden horseand left it in the way, and she came down in the dark and stumbled overit. I was very sorry, and my father was much displeased, as it is whathe has so often cautioned us against. Jack Dough, the baker's boy, brought me a linnet yesterday, which I have placed in a cage near yourcanary-bird, who is very well. I do not think I have much more to say, for writing is such tedious work that I am quite tired, though what Ihave done has been a fortnight in hand. I have a great many things whichI want to tell you if we could meet, and I should wish to know how youlike London. Good-bye! William desires his love to you, and bids me saythat he, as well as myself, will ever be

 'Your affectionate brother, 'CHARLES PLACID. '

You may be sure that the intelligence of Hector's death gave Jemima someuneasiness; more especially as, at the first time Mr. Steward hadcalled, she was out with her aunt and actually purchased a collar forhim, which, before the receipt of her letter, she had contemplated withgreat satisfaction, in the idea of having so well executed her brothers'commission, and the pleasure it would afford them. 

When Miss Placid had been in town about four months, and her mother wasreturned from Bristol, Mr. Placid came up to fetch her home, and invitedher cousins to accompany her to Smiledale, promising to take great careof them and to teach them to read and write, and that Mrs. Placid wouldinstruct them in every other part of their learning. To which Mr. AndMrs. Piner consented. The pleasure which Jemima felt at seeing herfather after so long an absence can be better imagined than described. She looked at him with such transport that the tears started to hereyes, and, wanting words to declare the feelings of her heart, couldonly express her joy by stroking and kissing his hand as she sat on astool by his side, and pressing it with fervour between both hers, sheexclaimed that she was glad to see him. Her uncle and aunt gave her thehighest praise for her good behaviour, and assured her father that theyhad never during the whole time of her visit seen her once out ofhumour, or at all fretful upon any occasion. Mr. Placid said he wasextremely happy to hear so good an account of his little girl, but thathe had expected everything amiable from the sweetness of herdisposition, adding, 'It would be very strange if she had behavedotherwise with you as, I assure you, she is at all times equallytractable and engaging. '

The evening before her departure her aunt was so obliging as to presenther with a new doll, which she had taken great pains to dress, and hadmade for it two dimity petticoats, with a nice pair of stays, a pinksatin coat, and a muslin frock. She had likewise purchased some cottonstockings and a pair of red shoes with white roses, white gloves tiedwith pink strings, and a gauze cap with pink satin ribbons. Jemima, with a graceful courtesy, paid her acknowledgments to Mrs. Piner forthat favour, and all the kind attentions she had received since she hadbeen in town, and saw it packed up with great care in a box by itself, pleasing herself with the joy it would afford her to show it to hermother. She then busied herself in putting up the Indian glue, and agreat quantity of pictures which had been given her, poor Hector'scollar, and several books which she had bought and had already perusedwith much delight, particularly 'A Course of Lectures for SundayEvenings, ' 'The Village School, ' and 'Perambulation of a Mouse, ' 2 vols. Each, together with the 'First Principles of Religion, ' and the'Adventures of a Pincushion. ' All these mighty volumes she took with herto Smiledale, and Mr. Placid was so much pleased with them as to sendfor an additional supply to present to his friends. As to the skates, hehad desired her not to think about them, as he should by no meansapprove of her brothers using them; nor would they have occasion for acoach-whip, but as he knew Charles had broken his bat she might carryhim one instead. Jemima entreated permission to convey to them a drum, as she thought it would be a plaything they would much enjoy. To this heimmediately consented, and went himself to procure one. 

The Misses Piner, who were in as great a hurry with their preparationsas Jemima, behaved with less composure on the occasion. They tossedeverything out of their drawers in search of such toys as they couldpossibly take with them, and wanted to pack up their whole stock ofplaythings (which, indeed, was a very large one), and then, as fast asDinah put what they desired into their trunk, Ellen snatched it out ifit belonged to her sister, and Sally did the same unless it happened tobe her own. So that, quite tired with their teasing, naughty behaviour, she turned it topsy-turvy, and declared she would not put up any onething except their clothes, and added she wished they were gone with allher heart. 

I shall not take up your time with any account of their journey, norendeavour to describe the places which they passed through on their wayto Smiledale, whither they arrived about five o'clock in the afternoon. Jemima ran to her mother with a degree of rapture which evinced thesincerity of her joy in returning to her embraces as soon as herbrothers would permit her to disengage herself from their caresses, for, as they knew the day which was fixed for their return, and could nearlyguess at the time she would arrive, they had taken their stand at thevery place where they had parted with her, and, as soon as the carriagecame in sight, they ran with their utmost speed to meet it, and cameback again, jumping by the side, and when the coach stopped, were soeager to welcome their sister that they would scarcely leave room forher to get out, and they were in such a hurry to show her every newacquisition they had made since her departure that they would not allowher time to speak to anybody but themselves. 

Two Trials

I

Sally Delia

Silence being demanded, the secretary opened the trial. 

_Secretary. _ Lucy Sterling against Sally Delia, for raising contentionamong her schoolfellows, and disturbing the general peace. 

_Judge. _ If I was unhappy in being appointed to sit in judgment on BillyPrattle, how much more so must I now be when I am bound to inquire withimpartiality into every particular which may tend to convict Sally Deliaof the charge laid against her. I would, however, recommend you to gothrough this business with the utmost candour, to advance nothingthrough prejudice, to conceal nothing through a mistaken tenderness; andto you, ladies of the jury, to divest yourselves of everything buttruth, to weigh nicely the force of the evidence, that, in giving yourverdict, you may convince everyone present you have acted upon uprightprinciples. 

_Secretary. _ Lucy Sterling, please to support the charge. 

_Judge. _ I would beg leave, Lucy Sterling, before you proceed to giveyour evidence, to ask you whether either of the ladies on the jury wereanyways concerned in this quarrel. 

_Lucy Sterling. _ Sally Delia left the choice of her jury to me. Ittherefore became my business, though a principal evidence against her, to choose such young ladies as were absent at the time of the fray. 

_Judge. _ Happy, indeed, is that young lady in whom friends and enemiesconfide!

_Lucy Sterling. _ A few evenings ago, when all the young ladies hadfinished their labours for that day, they were allowed to amusethemselves in what innocent manner they pleased in our garden. Ourgoverness, solicitous for our felicity, thought to add to our pleasuresby sending us a basket of sweetmeats, which she intended to be equallydivided; but an unlucky accident turned this kind intention into a sceneof sorrow, and raised in their hearts nothing but strife. There happenedto be a piece of candied angelica, which seemed very beautiful. On thisthey all placed their attention, and all begged for that. Every oneendeavoured to show her superior right. Sally Delia urged her superiorstrength. But as they were all speaking together it was almostimpossible to distinguish what one said from the other. 

_Judge. _ Was Sally Delia the first who talked of committing violence?

_Lucy Sterling. _ I heard nobody else mention any such thing. Iendeavoured to quiet them, but they would not listen to me. Their mindswere so bent upon this piece of sweetmeat that all the rest weredisregarded. I offered to divide it amongst them to pacify them; butthey all talked together, and had no time to listen to what I said. Then, as the only method to quiet the disturbance, I threw the bone ofcontention into a ditch, from whence it was impossible for either ofthem to get it. A profound silence ensued, and I took that opportunityto reason with them on the folly of quarrelling about such trifles. Myadmonitions were in vain, for the contention broke out more violently, and the dispute now was, not who should have it, but who ought to havehad it. Sally Delia was the first who renewed the strife, and not beingable to give vent to her passion in words alone, gave Nancy Graceful aslap on the face. The other returned the blow, and the scuffle becamegeneral. Many blows, indeed, did not pass between them, for they aimedonly at tearing each others' clothes. One had her cap torn to pieces, and her hair pulled all about her shoulders; a second had her frock torndown the middle; and, in short, there was hardly one among them who hadnot some mark to show of having been concerned in this unfortunateaffair. 

_Judge. _ What part did you act in this fray, and how did it end?

_Lucy Sterling. _ I endeavoured to part them, and in endeavouring so todo, received several scratches on the hands and arms. I know not whereall this would have ended had not our governess come to my assistance. After hearing her voice, everything was quiet, excepting with SallyDelia, who, in the presence of her governess, tore two handkerchiefs andan apron. The fear of punishment now began to take place of anger, andeach, ashamed of the trophies of victory she held in her hands, let themfall to the ground. Our governess for some time stood astonished, littlethinking that what she had given them to increase their felicity shouldbe the cause of so much animosity. Madame inquired of me the cause ofthis disaster, which I explained as well as I was able. They were allexamined separately, their tears pleaded their pardon; but Sally Deliaremained obdurate and inflexible. 

_Secretary. _ Polly Artless, please to come and give evidence. 

_Judge. _ What do you know, Polly, of this quarrel?

_Polly Artless. _ I was not present when it happened; but the nextmorning I attended Sally Delia's examination before Lucy Sterling. Hergoverness had ordered Lucy Sterling to examine her, and in case shecould not bring her to repentance, then to confine her, and order her tobe brought to trial. 

_Judge. _ Relate what passed at this examination. 

_Polly Artless. _ Lucy Sterling asked her in the most kind manner whatshe could think to get by her contention about a piece of sweetmeat. Sally Delia replied that she should not answer her question; that shedid not like to have more than one governess, and if she obeyed her shethought she did enough. 

_Judge. _ What reply did Lucy Sterling make to this?

_Polly Artless. _ Lucy Sterling reminded her of the authority with whichshe herself had contributed to invest her; that she did not set up togovern others, or to prove herself wiser than they; that she only wantedto persuade her to learn to be peaceable and happy. She therefore beggedleave to repeat the question whether she got anything by this lastquarrel?

_Judge. _ Did Sally Delia make any answer?

_Polly Artless. _ She replied that she could not say she did get anythingby it but the displeasure of her governess and having her clothes torn;that she did not value the sweetmeat, but that she had too much spiritto be imposed on, and that she was sure she had as much right to it asany of them. 

_Judge. _ Did Lucy Sterling endeavour any further to convince her of herfault?

_Polly Artless. _ Yes. Lucy Sterling told her that she would have shown agreater spirit in giving up the matter of contention than in fightingfor it; that then she would have proved herself a young lady ofmoderation and sense, nor would she have incurred the high displeasureof her governess. Sally Delia was at a loss for an answer, but she wasso obstinate that she did not care to own herself in the wrong. At lastshe replied: 'I think I am as capable of judging what is right as youare of teaching me. ' Then, finding herself overpowered by reason, sheburst into tears. Lucy Sterling did everything in her power to bring herto confess her fault, but all was to no purpose. She therefore left herin custody till her trial. 

_Judge. _ What is the character of Sally Delia among her schoolfellows?

_Polly Artless. _ She is too apt to be quarrelsome, too full of her highbirth, and dissatisfied with everything. 

_Secretary. _ Betsy Friendly, please to come and give evidence. 

_Judge. _ What do you know, Betsy Friendly, concerning this quarrel?

_Betsy Friendly. _ I accompanied Polly Artless on the examination of theaccused before Lucy Sterling, and, to the best of my remembrance, PollyArtless has told the truth. 

_Judge. _ Do you know anything further?

_Betsy Friendly. _ I called this morning on Sally Delia, before she cameon her trial. I found her divided between obstinacy and contrition, butI thought more inclinable to the latter. 

_Judge. _ Relate what passed at this visit?

_Betsy Friendly. _ As soon as I entered the chamber, I saw her sittingon a sofa in a pensive posture, and tears in her eyes. I asked her whatshe thought of Lucy Sterling's advice, and whether it would not havebeen better to have followed it than suffer her conduct to be exposed ina public manner?

_Judge. _ What reply did she make?

_Betsy Friendly. _ Sally Delia said that she began to see a good deal oftruth in Lucy Sterling's observations, and she seemed to fear that herreason would at last oblige her to own it. This last thought seemed tofill her with the most painful reflections. 

_Judge. _ Did you not endeavour to convince her of the folly of herobstinacy?

_Betsy Friendly. _ I said all I could think of to persuade her to conquerher spirit. She would not, at last, give me a word of answer to anythingI said. I then turned from her and left her. 

_Judge. _ What have you observed with respect to her general behaviour?

_Betsy Friendly. _ She is too often obstinate and quarrelsome, but atother times free, easy, and good-natured. 

_Secretary. _ Susan Lenox, please to give evidence. 

_Judge. _ What do you know in respect to this fray?

_Susan Lenox. _ I have too much reason to remember it, for my cambricapron, which had cost me three months' working, was torn to rags. 

_Judge. _ What is your opinion of the general behaviour of Sally Delia?

_Susan Lenox. _ She is sometimes well enough--at least, so long as youwill listen to her tales about her illustrious family. 

_Secretary. _ Anne Graceful, please to give evidence. 

_Judge. _ Please to inform the court, Anne Graceful, of what you knowconcerning this affair. 

_Anne Graceful. _ I have reason to complain of my loss; my muslin frockwas entirely destroyed. 

_Judge. _ Please to inform the court who gave the first blow?

_Anne Graceful. _ Though I did not see Delia give the first blow, I haveno reason to doubt she was the person from whom I received it. When wewere disputing who ought to have had the favourite sweetmeat, SallyDelia urged her high birth and fortune, and concluded that if reasoncould not strength should have obtained it. Hearing this, I turned myback on her as a mark of contempt, when I instantly received a violentslap on the head. 

_Judge. _ How did you act on that occasion. 

_Anne Graceful. _ I instantly turned about, and in my anger, mistakingSusan Lenox for Sally Delia, I treated her very rudely. 

_Judge. _ This ought to teach us that passion is not only ill-becoming ayoung lady, but that it may lead into such mistakes as may be attendedwith serious consequences. But when you found your mistake, how did youbehave towards Susan Lenox?

_Anne Graceful. _ As soon as peace was restored, I begged pardon, andoffered to repair all injuries. The former was granted, but the lattershe would not accept. 

_Judge. _ I have only one more question to ask, which you will please toanswer me on your word. Was there not some old grudge subsisting betweenyou and Sally Delia?

_Anne Graceful. _ I must own that I never liked her; there was somethingin her so proud and overbearing as gave me a disgust. 

_Judge. _ But were Delia to alter her conduct, should you forget what ispast?

_Anne Graceful. _ When she begins to act like a reasonable girl, shewill become dear to me and the rest of her schoolfellows. 

_Secretary. _ Henry Lenox, come forward and give evidence. 

_Judge. _ What do you know, Henry Lenox, of this fray?

_Henry Lenox. _ I saw all the finest part of it. I happened to be lookingafter a bird's nest in a field next to the garden: I heard the youngladies in high chat: but, as the sound did not seem to be veryharmonious, curiosity led me to see what they were at. I instantlyclimbed up into a tree, and scarce had I taken my seat, when theengagement began. I saw Sally Delia strike Anne Graceful in the face;that young lady turned about and pulled off my sister's cap, and part ofher hair with it. The battle soon became general, and it was impossiblefor me to distinguish friends from foes. Such a havoc ensued among caps, gowns, and frocks, as I never before beheld. This is the truth of what Iknow of this terrible disaster. 

_Judge. _ Do you, on your word, declare that Sally Delia gave the firstblow?

_Henry Lenox. _ I am certain she did. 

_Judge. _ Sally Delia, what have you to say in your defence?

_Sally Delia. _ I am now brought to a public trial, as though I were somemean-born wretch; but out of conformity to your customs I submit to it. I deny the whole of the charge, and will wait for the verdict. 

_Judge. _ Young ladies of the jury, Sally Delia now stands before you, accused of raising strife and contention among her schoolfellows, anddisturbing the general peace. Lucy Sterling affirms that the governesshaving presented the young ladies with a basket of sweetmeats to regalethem, a quarrel arose among them with respect to the preference ofchoice of one part of it. Disputes ran high, and at last Sally Deliawas so imprudent as to lift up her hand against one of herschoolfellows, which created a general confusion. The part Lucy Sterlingacted in endeavouring to pacify them is no small addition to thatcharacter for which she is so justly admired. This young lady sayspositively that she saw Sally Delia give the first blow; that thecontention was no sooner over than all of them were sorry for what theyhad done, except Sally Delia, who persisted in her fault, and was to beprevailed on by no entreaties or arguments. Polly Artless says that shewas not present at the fray, but attended Sally Delia on her examinationbefore Lucy Sterling, and corroborates everything which that young ladyhad advanced, but more particularly points out the care Lucy Sterlingtook to bring her to reason. I may add, the character this evidencegives Sally Delia is not at all to her reputation. Betsy Friendly, whovisited the accused before her trial, seems to speak something in herfavour by saying she showed some marks of contrition, but at last lefther in an obstinate condition. Susan Lenox stood next to the accused atthe time she struck Anne Graceful, and became herself a suffererthereby. Anne Graceful cannot take upon herself positively that SallyDelia was the person that struck her, though circumstances are strongagainst her; but Henry Lenox declares he saw Sally Delia give the blow. Sally Delia, in her defence, contents herself with denying the whole ofthe charge, and rests on her innocence. I will only observe that Icannot see how you can acquit her when there are so many convincingproofs of her guilt. The principal point to be considered is whatpunishment you will inflict: it ought not to be so slight a one that theremembrance of it may leave no impression behind, nor so heavy that itmay anyways be deemed insupportable. After all, I only give my opinionfreely, which, above all, is to do justice and love mercy. 

(The jury went out, and returned again in about half an hour. )

_Judge. _ Are you all agreed in your verdict?

_Jury. _ Yes. 

_Judge. _ Is Sally Delia guilty or not guilty?

_Jury. _ Guilty. 

_Judge. _ What punishment do you inflict?

_Jury. _ To be confined one month to her chamber; to be allowed neithersweetmeats nor fruit, nor to receive any visits; but, that her healthmay not be impaired, that she be allowed to walk twice a day in thegarden, at those times when none of the scholars are there; that, afterthat time is expired, she be brought into the large hall, and there beobliged to ask a general pardon of all her schoolfellows; and that, incase she refuses to comply with these injunctions, that her parents bethen prayed to take her home. 

Sally Delia, who had made no doubt that she should be acquitted, nosooner heard this hard judgment given against her than she burst intotears. The judge seeing it, thus spoke to her: 'I should be glad, SallyDelia, if you would inform me and the whole court from what source thosetears flow: whether from a just sense of your crimes, or only from theapprehensions of your punishment? Why should you delay to humble thathaughty spirit, to acknowledge your error, and beg for a mitigation ofyour punishments? I will myself then plead for you. But remember, if youcontinue obstinate till the court is broken up, your repentanceafterwards will come too late. '

Sally Delia then fell upon her knees, acknowledged her fault, and beggeda mitigation of her punishment. The judge recommended her to the jury, who left the matter entirely to him. He ordered her to be confined onlythree days, and even during that time to have the liberty of receivingvisits from the rest of the scholars. 

The trial being now ended, Sally Delia's schoolfellows, who just beforehad been evidences against her, ran to her and tenderly embraced her. 

She promised to lay aside all her haughty actions, and, instead of beinghated by her companions, to obtain the love of them all. She kept herword, and is now become one of the most amiable young ladies in theschool. 

The whole court was extremely well satisfied with the candid manner inwhich every part of the trial was supported. 

II

Harry Lenox

Harry Lenox little thought, when he was giving evidence against SallyDelia, that he should himself be soon brought to public trial. He was inmany respects of a good disposition; he loved his books, was affable andobliging to his schoolfellows, and subservient to his tutor; but then hewas fond of getting into mischief, such as breaking church-windows, laying traps to throw people down, and was very ingenious at inventionsof this kind. Whenever he was accused of anything of this sort, he wouldnot only deny it, but stoutly stand to it; and this, at last, broughthim to a trial. 

The young gentlemen in general were very much vexed at Harry's disgrace, and would have bought off the complaint but that this would have beendeemed bribery and corruption. The ladies were, most of them, wellpleased that he was himself now brought into the same dilemma. In themeantime the judge took his seat, the jury assembled, and the prisonerwas brought to the bar. 

_Secretary. _ Sammy Halifax against Harry Lenox, for a robbery andtelling a fib. 

_Judge. _ Call up the evidence. 

_Secretary. _ Sammy Halifax, support the charge. 

_Judge. _ What have you to say, Sammy Halifax, against the prisoner?

_Sammy Halifax. _ A few days ago, having given my tutor satisfaction inthe performance of my exercises, he ordered me a plum-tart as a reward. It was baked in a tin pan, which I was ordered to bring back as soon asI had eat the tart. Henry Lenox was remarkably taken with the look ofthis tart, and offered to keep it for me till I wanted it, alleging thathis room, which was a north light, would keep it much better than mine, on which the sun shone the hottest part of the day. I accepted theoffer, and saw him put it into his cupboard. I went immediately toinvite two or three of my intimates to partake of it in the evening inmy own room, and thought I could do no less than ask Harry Lenox to makeone of the party, in consideration of his kindness; but he excusedhimself. In the evening we all met, and Harry Lenox brought the tart andset it down, and begged leave to be excused, as he had promised to takea walk with his sister. It was a long time, so charming did it look, before we could persuade ourselves to spoil the sight of it. At last Istuck my knife into it; but how shall I express our disappointment when, instead of fine plums and rich juice, we found only pebbles and water!We all vowed revenge for this piece of treachery, and would have beathim soundly could we have then found him; but he had taken care to getout of the way. When our first warmth was over, we concluded it would bebetter to treat him in a judicial manner; and he is now before thiscourt for that purpose. 

_Judge. _ You have said that you saw him put the tart into the cupboard;can you take upon you to say whether or not there was any lock to it?

_Sammy Halifax. _ I am certain there was no lock on the cupboard; for hesaid to me when he put the tart into it that he had no lock, and hehoped nobody would get at it. 

_Judge. _ By what reason do you then conclude that he was the thief?

_Sammy Halifax. _ Because he had the care of it, and refused to come andpartake of it. 

_Secretary. _ George Bobadil, come and give evidence. 

_Judge. _ What do you know of this matter, George Bobadil?

_George Bobadil. _ I was one invited by Sammy Halifax to eat part of thistart; but on cutting it up, instead of plums, we found only stones. Itwas instantly concluded that Henry Lenox was the traitor. 

_Judge. _ Had you any other reason to suppose that Henry Lenox was such?

_George Bobadil. _ There was reason to think so; besides, I met him as Iwas going to the feast, stopped him, and told him where I was hastening;when he replied, as I thought, with a sneer, 'You will have a delicaterepast!' I did not then know that he was entrusted with the care of it, and concluded that this manner of answering me arose from mysupposition of his not being invited; but the tart was no sooner cut upthan his reason for answering me thus was evidently apparent. 

_Judge. _ You cannot take upon you to say that you positively know him tobe guilty of the charge?

_George Bobadil. _ I cannot, but there is the strongest presumption ofit. 

_Secretary. _ Samuel Evelyn, come and give evidence. 

_Judge. _ What have you to say, Samuel Evelyn, to this matter?

_Samuel Evelyn. _ I was one invited by Sammy Halifax to partake of thistart, which, when cut up, produced nothing but stones. I had beenwalking after dinner in the garden before I went into the school; andwhen I got to the bottom of it I saw Henry Lenox and three or four moresitting on the grass under a rose-bush. As soon as I came within sightof them, I saw them all in a bustle; and when I came up to them, thoughI did not see them eating anything, yet their mouths were so clammy thatit was with difficulty they could answer me. As I had then no reason tosuspect anything, and finding myself an unwelcome guest, I left them andwent into the school. 

_Judge. _ You do not, then, pretend to say what they had been eating. 

_Samuel Evelyn. _ I cannot take upon me positively to say what they hadbeen eating, but I afterwards made no doubt of its being Sammy Halifax'start. 

_Secretary. _ Come, Edward Harris, and give evidence. 

_Judge. _ What have you to say, Edward, with respect to this tart?

_Edward Harris. _ I was invited to partake of it, and was, like the rest, disappointed; for there was nothing left but the top crust, the side andbottom crust, all the plums being taken away, and stones and water putin their place. 

_Judge. _ Who do you suppose did it?

_Edward Harris. _ I make no doubt that it was Henry Lenox. It being leftin his custody, and his refusing to come and partake of it, seem tocorroborate the guilt of Henry Lenox. 

_Judge. _ Have you any other circumstance to allege against him?

_Edward Harris. _ Yes; after he came out of the garden, and had been sometime in the school, he was called out to construe. Before he left hisform, he pulled out his handkerchief to blow his nose, when three orfour plumstones fell on the ground. After he was gone I picked them up, for I love the bitter of the kernel. 

_Judge. _ Did you observe these plumstones, whether they were of a paleor a red colour?

_Edward Harris. _ I had put them into my pocket, and forgotten them; but, on meeting with my disappointment in the tart, and finding there was somuch room to suspect that Henry Lenox was the culprit, I pulled out thestones, and found by their colour they had been baked, for they were ofa deep red. We concluded likewise that they must that day have beentaken out of some tart, as they were still clammy. 

_Judge. _ Did you ask Henry Lenox how he came by those stones?

_Edward Harris. _ I did not, for I well knew, if I had, he would not haveanswered me. 

_Judge. _ Did you take any method to discover who was the person thatrobbed Sammy Halifax?

_Edward Harris. _ Yes; we agreed among ourselves, with our tutor's leave, to stick up a paper in the school, offering one shilling reward to anyof the party who would turn evidence, and give information of the personwho committed the fact. As we had great reason to suppose several wereconcerned in the eating of it, we were in hopes by this means to make adiscovery; but we were disappointed, for not any spoke a word about it, and all in general pleaded ignorance. 

_Secretary. _ Hannah Careful, please give evidence. 

_Judge. _ Pray, what have you to say to this matter?

_Hannah Careful. _ I am a half-boarder, and was ordered by my governessto attend here, in order to prove that the tart I delivered to SammyHalifax was filled with plums, and not stones. 

_Judge. _ That is a material point; pray proceed. 

_Hannah Careful. _ My governess instructs me in the art of pastry andconfectionery; I that day made all the tarts myself, and was ordered togive Sammy Halifax one of the best. Before I gave it him, I raised oneside of the crust, to see if the syrup might not have boiled out, when Ifound it had not; and I am certain it was filled with plums when Idelivered it to Sammy Halifax. 

_Secretary. _ Sally Delia, please to give evidence. 

_Judge. _ What do you know of this affair?

_Sally Delia. _ Your lordship cannot have yet forgotten that I was myselfso unfortunate as to fall under the censure of this court. I am sorryfor the crime which then brought me before you, but I shall everconsider that day as the happiest period of my life--a day in which Iwas convinced of my folly, obstinacy, and self-conceit; a day to which Iowe all the happiness of a calm and peaceful life, free from thepassions of thoughtless girls who place enjoyments in the gratificationof unreasonable desires. 

_Judge. _ Pray, Sally, proceed, and do not imagine you will betroublesome to the court; there is nothing we can listen to with so muchpleasure as the language of reformation. 

_Sally Delia. _ I do not mention this out of vanity; only to induce thecourt to believe that I do not this day appear here against Henry Lenoxout of any grudge whatever to his having been a witness against me. Sofar from it, I consider him as my benefactor; I consider him as one ofthose to whom I am indebted for my reformation. Happy shall I thinkmyself if I shall in any way contribute to his. 

_Judge. _ Your evidence cannot be disputed, and I doubt not the jury willlay much stress on what you shall advance. 

_Sally Delia. _ It has lately been my custom in the evening to retire toa little arbour behind the summer-house in the bottom of the garden. Ihad this evening been so intent on what I was reading that I had stayedlonger than usual. In the midst of my thoughts I was interrupted by thenoise of somebody breaking through the bushes. I soon heard HenryLenox's voice, and that of some others whom I well knew. I soon foundthe cause of their thus breaking out of their own bounds. They had somesecret to talk of. I sat as still as possible, fearing I might bediscovered, and heard Henry Lenox say, 'If you blow me, I never willforgive you; besides, you will come in for a flogging as well as me. 'They all promised they never would puff; one said he never ate anythingsweeter in his life; another said it was sweeter because it was stolen;and a fourth laughed heartily on thinking, when it was opened, howfoolish they must all look; it was, says the fifth, one of thebest----Here he stopped, for the foot of a person was heard coming downthe garden, when they all flew away, and got off unperceived by anyonebut myself. It was one of the maids, who was coming to look after me;and my governess chid me for staying beyond the time allowed me. Myacknowledging my fault and asking pardon was thought a sufficientatonement. 

[Illustration: _'I was reading, and was interrupted by Henry Lenox andthree others talking over a secret. '--Page 64. _]

_Judge. _ Can you, from what you heard in the garden, take upon you tosay that Henry Lenox is certainly guilty of what is laid to his charge?

_Sally Delia. _ Had not the maid disturbed them by coming to call me, Idoubt not but I should have been able to answer in the affirmative; atthe present, I only say that I believe so, and that upon the strongestpresumption. 

_Henry Lenox. _ I am happy in being tried by a judge and jury who havetoo much sense to convict me on mere conjecture, and there is far fromany positive proof. To give a verdict against me in this case would beopening a way to the greatest errors. How many, through the hastydetermination of a jury, on mere conjecture, have suffered unjustly! Butshould I meet with that fate, I will never find fault or repine, since Iam sensible I shall not be the first, and I trust that my innocence willsupport me under the unmerited disgrace. Sammy Halifax came to me, brought a tart in his hand, and for safety, to oblige him, I put it intomy cupboard. I brought it from thence, and gave it him. If anyone got toit, and treated it in the manner he describes, I am sorry for it; but itcannot be imputed to my fault. My reason for declining taking part of itis well known to my sister, whom I had promised to take a walk with inthe evening. She is now in court, and I apprehend her word will not bedoubted. As for the sneering words I made use of to George Bobadil (forthat was the term he gave them), if they had any particular meaning atall, it could only serve to show what little consideration I made ofmere matters for the tooth. As for the evidence which Samuel Evelyn hasgiven against me, it can be of no weight, since it is well known thateach has his confidant, and that each has some mighty secret to revealto another. As to what Edward Harris advances with respect to theplumstones, they might as easily have fallen from the pocket of anotheras from mine, and there is even a possibility that these very plumstonesmay have come out of the tart after they themselves had eat it. Upon thewhole, I leave it to your lordship and this honourable court whetherthere be any other view in this trial than that my accusers may obtainanother tart at the expense of my credit. 

_Secretary. _ Susan Lenox, please give evidence. 

_Susan Lenox. _ My brother came to me in the evening in which the tartwas eat, agreeable to my invitation; and I did not hear him mention theleast syllable that could indicate his guilt in this matter. Hementioned the tart, indeed, by saying he was invited to eat part of it, but added that his appetite was the least of his concern. 

_Judge. _ Did he appear more cheerful or dejected than usual?

_Susan Lenox. _ I perceived no change in him; he had nothing more or lessof his natural gaiety and cheerfulness. 

_Stephen Brooks. _ I have known the prisoner a long time, and have alwaysfound him more ready to give than receive, and far from taking anythingfrom anyone. 

_Richard Richards. _ The prisoner has been my intimate playmate for fouryears, and I never once quarrelled with him in my life. 

_Benjamin Blunt. _ The whole is a contrivance to bring Henry Lenox intodisgrace, and to make you believe they have been ill used. 

_Judge. _ You have said, Sally Delia, that there were some voices youheard in the summer-house besides that of Henry Lenox. Do you imaginethat either of these last young gentlemen were there?

_Sally Delia. _ I am certain they were all three there. 

_Judge. _ Young gentlemen of the jury, I will not take up your time inrecapitulating the evidence given; every part of it seems to agree sowell that you cannot mistake it. The two principal points to beconsidered are these: If you are determined to find him guilty only onpositive proofs, then you must acquit him, for there does not appear tobe any throughout the whole trial; but if you will be contented withcircumstances, supported by the strongest evidence that can be given, then you must find him guilty. It is, indeed, a just observation of theprisoner, in his defence, that many have suffered innocently, though onthe strongest presumptions, and I must add that the character of a younggentleman is too tender a thing to be sported with. After all, I do notpresume to direct you. I would only advise you to think of the matterimpartially; a verdict given from such principles of action, though itmay tend to lead to a mistake, can never be attended with reproach. 

(The jury then went out of court, and returned in about an hour and aquarter. )

_Judge. _ Gentlemen of the jury, are you agreed in your verdict?

_Jury. _ We cannot determine, and therefore beg to leave it special. 

The judge immediately quitted the chair, which was soon after filled bythe tutor, and the judge took the place of the secretary. Henry Lenox, who had not doubted, as there was no positive proof against him, butthat he should be acquitted, as soon as he found the jury left itspecial, and that his tutor had taken the chair against him, his heartinstantly failed him, and everyone took notice of the alteration of hiscountenance. Judge Meanwell then went all through the evidence, which, being finished, the tutor thus addressed Henry Lenox:

'Henry Lenox, I am unhappy for you in finding that to the crime of theftyou have added the grievous guilt of a lie. By your artful defence, youhave so far baffled the jury as to make them doubtful of the clearestthing in the world. Do not foolishly imagine that you have anycompliment to pay yourself on this score; the most shining abilities, when used to deceive and mislead, to trick and cozen mankind, and topersuade them out of their lawful property, become the most dangerouspossessions, and are as mischievous as plagues, pestilence, and famine. How can you dare to arrogate to yourself that part of philosophy whichteaches you to look upon the luxuries of life with indifference, whileyour heart must tell you that you have not the least claim to it, andthat you sacrifice your character and reputation to obtain luxurioustrifles? They who are capable of deceiving in small concerns will notscruple to be guilty of injustice in matters of the highest moment. Noone is wicked all at once; they harden their hearts by degrees againstthe truth, and at last are totally blind to it. Such conduct as yourspromises nothing but the most fatal events; but it is my place todestroy it in its bud; and be assured that, though the jury could notsee into your guilt, I can most clearly; and I do further tell you thatunless you confess your fault, ask pardon, promise to do so no more, andmake it your study to keep your word, I will treat you with the utmostseverity. I will abridge you of every kind of amusement, and willconfine you from the rest of your schoolfellows, that you may notcorrupt them. On the other hand, if you confess your crime, I willlessen your punishment, and may, perhaps, restore you to my favour. '

Henry Lenox then fell on his knees, and, with tears in his eyes, confessed he was guilty, but mentioned nothing of those that ate part ofit. His master then forgave him, on his most faithful promises of futureamendment; and those who had been evidences against him shook hands withhim, and they were all friends immediately. 

Prince Life

Chapter I

Once upon a time there was a young Prince who met with a very curiouskind of misfortune. Most people want something which they cannot get;and because they cannot get it, they generally desire it more thananything else, which is very foolish, for it would be much better to becontented with what they have. 

He was a wise fox, my dear Charlie, who thought the grapes were sourwhen he could not reach them. Now the Prince's misfortune consisted inthis, that he had everything on earth he could want or desire, and alittle more. He had a fine palace and a fine country, obedient subjectsand servants, and true friends. When he got up in the morning, there wassomeone ready to put on his clothes for him; when he went to bed atnight, someone to take them off again. A fairy called Prosperity gavehim everything he desired as soon as he desired it. If he wanted peachesat Christmas, or cool air at mid-summer, the first came instantly fromhis hothouses, and the second was produced by an enormous fan, whichhung from the top of the room, and was moved by two servants. 

But strange to say, the Prince got weary of all this; he was tired ofwanting nothing. When he sat down to dinner he had but little appetite, because he had had such a good breakfast; he hardly knew which coat toput on, they were all so beautiful; and when he went to bed at night, though the bed was as soft as a white cloud, he could not sleep, for hewas not tired. 

There was only one ugly thing in the whole palace, which was a little, drowsy, grey dwarf, left there by the fairy Prosperity. He kept yawningall day, and very often set the Prince yawning, too, only to look athim. This dwarf they called Satiety, and he followed the Prince aboutwherever he went. 

One day the Prince asked him what he was yawning for, and Satietyanswered:

'Because I have nothing to do, and nothing to wish for, my Prince. '

'I suppose that is the reason why I yawn, too, ' replied the Prince. 

'Rather is it having me always with you, ' answered Satiety. 

'Then get away and leave me, ' said the Prince. 

'I cannot do that, ' answered Satiety. 'You can go from me, but I cannotgo from you; I can never leave you as long as you remain in the palaceof Prosperity. '

'Then I will have you turned out, ' said the Prince. 

'No one can do that, ' said Satiety, 'but Misfortune, and he is a verycapricious person. Though he is a very disagreeable monster, some peopleseem to court him, but cannot get him to come near them; while to agreat many he comes unawares, and catches them, though they fly fromhim eagerly. I tell you, Prince, you can go from me, but I cannot gofrom you as long as you remain in the palace of Prosperity. '

That night, when he went to his soft bed, the Prince thought very muchas to the conversation he had held with Satiety, and he resolved to goout of the palace for a time, just to get rid of the ugly little grey, yawning dwarf. 

The very resolution seemed to do him good, and he slept better thatnight after he had made it than he had done for many a night before. 

Chapter II

The next morning when he rose he felt quite refreshed, and he said to agroom: 'Bring me my stout horse, Expedition; I am going out to take aride all alone. '

The groom answered not a word, for in that palace everyone obeyed thePrince at once, and nobody troubled him but the ugly little dwarf, Satiety. As he went away, however, the groom said to himself with asigh: 'It is a sad thing to be in the wide world all alone. My Princedoes not know what it is. But let him try; it may be better for him. '

He accordingly brought the horse to the palace-door. But when the Princecame down he felt quite well, and, looking about amongst all hisattendants, he could only catch a distant glimpse of Satiety standingyawning behind. For a minute he was half-inclined not to go, for he didnot mind seeing Satiety at a distance if he did not come near. But thegroom, whose name was Resolution, seeing him hesitate, said: 'You hadbetter go, my Prince, as you determined; it may do you good. ' And achamberlain called Effort helped him on his horse. 

At first, as the Prince rode along, everything was quite delightful tohim. He seemed to breathe more freely now that he was no more troubledwith Satiety. The flowers looked bright, and the sky beautiful, for acloud or two here and there only gave variety. The very air seemedfresher than it had been in the sheltered gardens of the palace, and thePrince said to himself: 'What a delightful country this is, just on theverge of the land of Prosperity. '

Just then he saw a countryman gathering grapes in a vineyard, and everynow and then putting some into his mouth, and the Prince asked him whosefine estate it was that he was passing through. 

'It belongs to a gentleman and lady equally, sir, ' replied the good man;'they are called Activity and Ease. They are the happiest couple everseen. When Activity is tired, Ease takes his head upon her lap; and soonas she is weary of her burden, Activity jumps up and relieves her fromit. '

'But to whom does that more barren country just beyond belong?' askedthe Prince. 'And what is that great thick wood I see farther on still?'

'That is the land of Labour and the Forest of Adversity, ' said the man. 'I would advise you to get through them as soon as possible, for thefirst you will find very wearisome, and the second exceedinglyunpleasant, although people do say that there is a great deal of verygood fruit in the forest; only one gets well-nigh torn to pieces withthe thorns before one can reach it. '

The Prince determined to follow his advice, and rode on. There was notanything very tempting to him as he passed through the land of Labour, and it seemed a long and weary way from the beginning to the end of it. But the forest, even at its entrance, was very dark and gloomy indeed. Thick trees crossed each other overhead, and shut out the bright, cheerful daylight. He could hardly see his way along the narrow, tortuous paths, and the thorns which the peasant had spoken of ran intohim continually, for they grew high as well as thick, and crossed thepath in every direction. He began heartily to repent that he had quittedthe palace of Prosperity, and wished himself back again with all hisheart, thinking that he should care little about yawning Satiety if hecould but get out of the thorns of Adversity. Indeed, he tried to turnhis horse back; but he found it more difficult than he imagined, for, asI have told you, the road was very narrow and those thorns hedged it onevery side. There was nothing for it, in short, but to try and force hisway on through the wood, in the hope of finding something better beyond. 

The Prince did not know which way to take, indeed, and he tried a greatnumber of paths, but in vain. Still there were the same thorns and thesame gloomy darkness. He was hungry and thirsty, and he looked round forthose fruits he had heard of; but he could see none of them at the time, and the more he sought his way out, the deeper he seemed to get into theforest. The air was very sultry and oppressive, too; he grew weary andfaint, quite sick at heart, and even the limbs of his good horse seemedto be failing him, and hardly able to carry him on. 

Dark as it all was, it at length begin to grow darker, and he perceivedthat night was coming, so that the poor Prince began to give up allhope, and to think that there would be nothing for him but to lie downand die in despair, when suddenly he caught a sort of twinkling lightthrough the thick bushes, which seemed to lie in the way he was going, and on he went, slowly enough, poor man! But still the light was beforehim, till suddenly he came to a great rock, overgrown in many placeswith briars and brambles. In the midst of it, however, was the mouth ofa large cave, with great masses of stone hanging over, as if ready tofall on a traveller's head. It was a very stern and gloomy-looking placeindeed, with clefts and crevices and ragged crags all around. But a fewsteps in the cave someone seemed to have built themselves a house; forit was blocked up with large, unhewn boards of wood, and in thispartition there was a door and a window, through which came the light hehad seen. The Prince dismounted from his horse, and though he did notknow who might be within, he thought it best to knock at the door, andask for food and shelter. 

The moment he knocked a loud, hoarse voice cried:

'Come in!' and tying his horse to a tree, he opened the door. 

Chapter III

Now, whatever the poor Prince had expected to find, he was certainlydisappointed; for that thicket of Adversity is full of disappointments, as everyone knows who has travelled through it. He had thought he shouldsee some poor woodman or honest peasant, who would welcome him to hishomely hut in the rock with kindness and benevolence; but instead ofthat he beheld, seated at the table, carving away at a piece of stick bythe light of a very small twinkling candle, one of the most tremendousmonsters ever man's eyes lighted upon. In shape he was like a man, buthe was a great deal stronger than any man. His face looked as if it werecast in iron, so hard and rigid were all the features; and there was aneverlasting frown planted on his brow. His hands were long and sinewy, with terrible sharp claws upon them; and his feet were so large andheavy that they seemed as if they would crush anything they would setupon to pieces. 

The poor Prince, though he was a very brave young man, stopped andhesitated at the sight of this giant; but the monster, without everturning his head, cried out again: 'Come in! Why do you pause? All menmust obey me, and I am the only one that all men do obey. '

'You must be a mighty monarch, then, ' said the young Prince, takingcourage. 'Pray, what is your name?'

'My name is Necessity, ' answered the other in his thundering voice; 'andsome people give me bad names, and call me "Hard Necessity" and "DireNecessity"; but, nevertheless, I often lead men to great things andteach them useful arts if they do but struggle with me valiantly. '

'Then I wish you would lead me to where I can get some rest, ' said thePrince, 'and teach me how I can procure food for myself and my poorfamishing horse. '

The monster rose up almost as tall as a steeple and suddenly laid hisgreat clutches upon the Prince's shoulders, saying: 'I will do both, ifyou do but wrestle with me courageously. You must do it, for there is noother way of escaping from my hands. '

The Prince had never been handled so roughly before, and as he wasbrave, strong, and active, he made a great effort to free himself, andtried a thousand ways, but to no purpose. The giant did not hurt him, however, though he pressed him very hard, and at length he cried out:'Ho, ho! you are a brave young man! Leave off struggling, and you shallhave some food and drink, such as you would never have tasted had younot come to me. '

Thereupon he led him to his own coarse wooden table, and set before himhalf of a hard brown loaf and a pitcher of water; but so hungry andthirsty was the Prince that the bread seemed to him the best he had evereaten, and the water sweeter than any in the world. 

'Unfasten your horse's bridle, ' said Necessity, when the Prince haddone, 'and I will soon teach him where to find something to feed upon. '

The Prince did as the giant told him at once, and then his stern-lookingcompanion pointed to a wooden bedstead in a dark corner of the cave, which looked as hard as his own face, saying: 'There, lie down andsleep. '

'I can never sleep on that thing, ' said the Prince. 

'Ho, ho!' cried the other; 'Necessity can make any bed soft, ' and takinga bundle of straw, he threw it down on the bedstead. 

Chapter IV

Sleep was sweeter to the Prince that night than it had ever been upon abed of down, and when he rose the next morning the monster's featuresdid not seem half so stern and forbidding as they had done at first. Theinside of the cave, too, looked much more light and blithesome, thoughit was a dark and frowning place enough still, with hard rock all round, and nothing but one window to let in a little sunshine. 

Necessity, however, did not intend to keep the Prince there, and assoon as he was up the giant said to him: 'Come, trudge; you must quit mycave, and go on. '

'You must open the door for me, then, ' said the Prince; 'for the bolt isso high up I cannot reach it. '

'You cannot get out by the door through which you came in, ' said thegiant, 'for it is the door of Idleness. There is but one way for you toget out, and that I will show you. '

So, taking him by the hand, he led him on into a very dark part of thecave, which went a long way under ground, and then said to him: 'Youmust now go on until you come to a great house, where you will find anold woman, who will give you your meals at least. '

'But I want to return to my own palace of Prosperity, ' replied thePrince. 

'She will show you the way, ' replied the monster, 'and without her youwill never find it. Go on at once, and don't stand talking. '

'But I cannot see the path, ' said the Prince. 

'You must find it, ' said Necessity, and gave him a great push, whichsent him on at a very rapid rate. 

For some time he continued to grope his way almost in darkness, but soona light began to shine before him, which grew bigger and bigger as headvanced, and he perceived that he was coming to another mouth of thecave, leading to an open, but very rough country. The Prince was veryglad indeed to issue forth and breathe the fresh air, and he looked atthe clear sky with great satisfaction. Just before him, however, therewas a large house, with a great number of doors and windows; and as hefelt very hungry, he determined to knock, and see if he could get anybreakfast. 

Almost as soon as he had touched the knocker the door was opened by alittle old woman, plainly dressed, but neat and tidy; and when thePrince told her who he was, and what he wanted, she answered him with agood-humoured smile, very different from the frown of stern Necessity:'Everyone can have food in my house who chooses to work for it; nobodywithout. I can help you on your way, too; and as for your poor horse youtalk about, he shall be provided for. My name is Industry, and Industryalways takes care of her beasts. Come in, young man; come in. '

The Prince went in with a glad step, and found the house quite full ofpeople, all as busy as bees in a field of clover, and all looking asbright and cheerful as if they had washed their faces in sunshine. 

It would take me an hour to tell you all the different things they wereemployed in, everyone working by himself on his separate task, althoughtwo or three were often seen doing different pieces of the same work. But there were two very nice, pretty girls there whom I must speak of, who seemed to be handmaidens to the mistress of the house. One was athoughtful-looking, careful girl, who was busy in every part of the roomalternately, picking up all the little odds and ends which were leftafter any piece of work was completed--little bits of string, ends oftape or thread, stray nails, chips of wood, or pieces of paper. These, as soon as she had gathered them up, she put safely by, where she couldfind them again; and it is wonderful how often she was called upon bythe workmen for some little scrap or another, just sufficient tocomplete what they were about. Her name was Economy. 

The other was a brighter, quicker-looking person, with very clear eyes, like two stars, who went continually through the room, puttingeverything to rights. If a chair was out of its place, or a table turnedawry, or a tool put down where it should not be she could not bear tosee it for a minute, but put all things straight again, so that nobodywas at a loss where to find anything. She was called Order. 

The hungry Prince was somewhat mortified to find a good, large piece ofwork assigned him to do before he could get his breakfast, and at firsthe was exceedingly awkward, and did not know how to set about it; butIndustry showed him the way, Order helped him a good deal, and Economysupplied him with the materials. 

Chapter V

At the end of an hour he had completed his task, and the old lady pattedhim on the shoulder, saying, 'Well done; you are a very good young man. Now Industry will give you your breakfast, and help you on the way to avery nice place, where you will get all you desire. '

Thus saying, she led him into a great hall, where there was a vastnumber of people, all eating rich fruits, with a somewhat hard-favoureddame, whom they called Labour, scattering sugar on the different dishes. 

When the Prince heard her name, he asked one of the people near if thatwas really Labour, saying, 'I passed through her land not long ago, andit seemed so poor and hard a country that I should have thought itproduced nothing good. '

'That is a mistake, ' said the other. 'That is the land where grows thesugar-cane, and Labour always sweetens the food of Industry. '

As soon as his breakfast was over, the Prince was taken to another door, and shown a road which was very narrow at first, but seemed to growwider and wider as it went on. 

'You have nothing to do but to walk straight forward, ' said Industry, 'neither to turn to the right nor to the left. Keep yourself upright, sothat you may have that distant mountain peak before your eyes, and don'tsuffer yourself to grow faint or get tired. If you should have any doubtor difficulty, you will find someone on the road who will show you theway. But only remember always to keep straight forward, and don't betempted to turn aside. '

'What is the name of this road?' asked the Prince. 

'It is called the "Right Path, "' was the reply; and on he set upon hisway with a stout heart. Nevertheless, he began to get somewhat tiredbefore an hour was over, although the road was pleasant enough to walkin. There were beautiful green meadows on every side, andrichly-coloured flowers, and what seemed very delicious fruit; and hereand there, at a little distance, were pleasant groves, with a number ofgay birds, singing very sweetly. 

At the end of an hour and a half the Prince became hungry and thirstyagain, as well as tired, and he said to himself, 'There could be nogreat harm surely in going across that meadow and gathering some of thatfruit, to eat under the shade of the trees, while the birds sing over myhead. I do not know how far I have to go. I see no end to this long, straight road. I think I will try and rest for a little under thosetrees. I can easily find my way back again. '

But just at that moment, luckily for himself, the Prince spied a mantrudging on before him, and he hurried after, saying to himself, 'I willask him how far I have to go, and whether I have time to stop. '

Chapter VI

The man did not walk very fast, but he kept steadily on, with a greatpike-staff in his hand; and though the Prince called after him as soonas he was within hearing, he did not halt for a moment, or even turn hishead, but trudged onward, saying, 'Come along, come along; one nevergets to the end of one's journey if one stops to chatter by the way. '

At length the Prince came up with him, and said in a civil tone, 'Praycan you tell me whither this road leads, and if it will be very longbefore I get to some house where I can find rest and food. '

'It leads to a very fine and beautiful castle, ' replied the othersomewhat doggedly, and still walking on. 'I think, if you come alongwith me, you will get there in time. I am generally well received there, and in some sort may call myself the master of the house, so that thosewho go with me are generally made welcome by my lady, who, though she issometimes a little whimsical, is the most charming person in the worldwhen she smiles upon me. But you must keep on steadily with me; for ifyou stop or turn aside, a thousand to one you will be lost. '

When the Prince found him so communicative, he asked him if they couldnot cross one of the meadows to refresh themselves a little, and toldhim how he had been tempted to do so just before he saw him. 

'Lucky you did not, ' answered the other; 'for those meadows are full ofswamps and quagmires, the groves filled with snakes, and many of thefruits poisonous. You might have got yourself into such troubles thatnot even I could have helped you out of them. '

'If it is not improper, may I ask your name?' said the Prince. 

'Come along, ' answered the other. 'Names matter little; but if you wantto know mine, it is Perseverance. '

Not long after the Prince began to think he saw several tall towersglittering before him in the distance, with some misty clouds roundabout them, which only seemed to make them look the more beautiful. 

'What a fine castle!' he exclaimed. 

'That is where I am leading you, ' answered the other; and the firstprospect is always very charming. But we have some way to go yet, I cantell you, and not a little to overcome. You would never get therewithout me; so come on, and do not be daunted at anything you see. '

The Prince soon found that his companion's warning was just. The way didseem very long; and sometimes, as they went over hill and dale, thesight of the beautiful castle, which cheered him so much, was quite shutout from his eyes, and at length, when they were coming very near it, with nothing but one valley between them and the building, he perceivedthat the road went over a narrow drawbridge, and saw two terriblemonsters lying close beside the way. Their bodies were like those oflions, very large and very strong, but they had necks like that of asnake, and from each neck issued a hundred horrible heads, all differingin kind from one another. 

The poor Prince was alarmed, and said to his companion: 'Do you seethose horrible brutes? Is there no other way into the castle but betweenthem?'

'There are a thousand ways into the castle, ' replied his companion, 'butevery way is guarded by monsters just like those. But do not be alarmed. Go on with me, and I will help you. Besides, someone will come out ofthe castle, most likely, to give us assistance. '

Chapter VII

Upon these words, the Prince went on more cheerfully, especially when hesaw a man come running down from the gate of the castle as theyapproached the drawbridge. 

'Ay, ' said his companion, stepping on without stopping a moment, 'therecomes my friend Courage to help us. He is a good, serviceable fellow. '

Just as he spoke, the two monsters sprang forward, and the one which wasnearest to Perseverance growled terribly at him; but he struck him ablow with his pike-staff, which knocked him down and cowed him entirely;and there he lay, with all his hundred heads prostrated in a mannerwhich the Prince could hardly have thought possible. The other brutesprang right at the Prince himself, as if to destroy him, so that he wasinclined to draw back; but the man Courage, who had run down from thecastle, put his foot upon the creature's snaky neck, and crushed it intothe earth. 

'Go on, go on, young man!' he cried. 'These are terrible monsters truly, but you see our friend Perseverance has vanquished Difficulty, and Ihave trampled upon Danger. '

As he spoke, the Prince passed on rapidly over the drawbridge; and whenhe stood under the gate of the castle, Perseverance took him by the handwith a smiling air, and led him in, saying: 'Now I will conduct you tomy lady, Success. '

[Illustration: _The Prince slays the monster with a hundred horribleheads. --Page 86. _]

At the very sound the poor Prince seemed quite refreshed, forgot all theweary way he had travelled, the dark forest of Adversity, the grim frownof Necessity, the faintness and the weariness, and hundred-headedDifficulty and Danger. But he was more rejoiced still when, on enteringthe building, he found himself suddenly, all at once, in the great hallof his own palace of Prosperity, with a beautiful lady, all smiles, standing ready to receive him with a crown in her hand. 

'Come hither, Prince, ' she said, 'and receive this crown, which I neverbestow on any but my greatest favourites. It is called the crown ofContentment. I reserve it for those who, led on by Perseverance, come tome by the Right Path, in spite of Difficulty and Danger. Those whoarrive at my presence by any of the many other roads that are open tomankind I give over to the charge of some of my inferior attendants, such as Pride, Vanity, or Ambition, who amuse themselves by making themplay all manner of strange tricks. '

Thus saying, she put the crown upon his head, and the Prince found themost delightful tranquil feeling spread through his whole body. Nevertheless, he could not help looking about almost instantly for thefigure of the ugly little grey dwarf; and, as he could not see himanywhere, he said to the beautiful lady: 'Where is that hideous, yawningSatiety? I hope he has left the palace. '

'He may be hanging about in some dark corners of the palace, ' answeredthe lady, 'or hiding amongst the roses in your garden of Pleasure; buthe will never appear in your presence again, so long as you wear thatcrown upon your head; for there is a rich jewel called Moderation in thecrown of Contentment which is too bright and pure to be looked upon bySatiety. '

The Farm-Yard Journal

 Dear Tom, 'Since we parted at the breaking-up, I have been for most of the time ata pleasant farm in Hertfordshire, where I have employed myself inrambling about the country, and assisting, as well as I could, at thework going on at home and in the fields. On wet days, and in theevenings, I have amused myself with keeping a journal of all the greatevents that have happened among us; and hoping that when you are tiredof the bustle of your busy town you may receive some entertainment fromcomparing our transactions with yours, I have copied out for yourperusal one of the days in my memorandum-book. 

'Pray let me know in return what you are doing, and believe me, 'Your very affectionate friend, 'RICHARD MARKWELL. '

[Illustration: _She kicked up her hind legs, and threw down themilk-pail. --Page 93. _]

'_June 10. _--Last night we had a dreadful alarm. A violent scream washeard from the hen-roost; the geese all set up a cackle, and the dogsbarked. Ned, the boy who lies over the stable, jumped up and ran intothe yard, when he observed a fox galloping away with a chicken in hismouth, and the dogs on full chase after him. They could not overtakehim, and soon returned. Upon further examination, the large white cockwas found lying on the ground all bloody, with his comb torn almost off, and his feathers all ruffled; and the speckled hen and three chickenslay dead beside him. The cock recovered, but appeared terriblyfrightened. It seems that the fox had jumped over the garden hedge, andthen, crossing part of the yard behind the straw, had crept into thehen-roost through a broken pale. John, the carpenter, was sent for tomake all fast, and prevent the like mischief again. 

'Early this morning the brindled cow was delivered of a fine bull-calf. Both are likely to do well. The calf is to be fattened for the butcher. 

'The duck-eggs that were sitten upon by the old black hen were hatchedthis day, and the ducklings all directly ran into the pond, to the greatterror of the hen, who went round and round, clucking with all hermight, in order to call them out, but they did not regard her. An olddrake took the little ones under his care, and they swam about verymerrily. 

'As Dolly this morning was milking the new cow that was bought at thefair she kicked with her hind legs, and threw down the milk-pail, at thesame time knocking Dolly off her stool into the dirt. For this offencethe cow was sentenced to have her head fastened to the rack, and herlegs tied together. 

'A kite was observed to hover a long while over the yard with anintention of carrying off some of the young chickens; but the henscalled their broods together under their wings, and the cocks putthemselves in order of battle, so that the kite was disappointed. Atlength one chicken, not minding its mother, but straggling heedlessly toa distance, was descried by the kite, who made a sudden swoop, andseized it in his talons. The chicken cried out, and the cocks and hensall screamed, when Ralph, the farmer's son, who saw the attack, snatchedup a loaded gun, and just as the kite was flying off with his prey, fired and brought him dead to the ground, along with the poor chicken, who was killed in the fall. The dead body of the kite was nailed upagainst the wall, by way of warning to his wicked comrades. 

'In the forenoon we were alarmed with strange noises approaching us, andlooking out we saw a number of people with frying pans, warming pans, tongs and pokers, beating, ringing, and making all possible din. We soondiscovered them to be our neighbours of the next farm in pursuit of aswarm of bees which was hovering in the air over their heads. The beesat length alighted on the tall pear tree in our orchard, and hung in abunch from one of the boughs. A ladder was got, and a man ascending withgloves on his hands, and an apron tied over his head, swept them into ahive, which was rubbed on the inside with honey and sweet herbs. But ashe was descending, some bees which had got under his gloves stung him insuch a manner that he hastily threw down the hive, upon which thegreater part of the bees fell out, and began in a rage to fly among thecrowd, and sting all whom they lit upon. Away scampered the people, thewomen shrieking, the children roaring; and poor Adam, who had held thehive, was assailed so furiously that he was obliged to throw himself onthe ground, and creep under the gooseberry bushes. At length the beesbegan to return to the hive, in which the queen bee had remained; andafter a while, all being quietly settled, a cloth was thrown over it, and the swarm was carried home. 

'About noon three pigs broke into the garden, where they were riotingupon the carrots and turnips, and doing a great deal of mischief bytrampling the beds and rooting up the plants with their snouts, whenthey were spied by old Towzer, the mastiff, who ran among them, andlaying hold of their long ears with his teeth, made them squeal mostdismally, and get out of the garden as fast as they could. 

'Roger, the ploughman, when he came for his dinner, brought word that hehad discovered a partridge's nest with sixteen eggs in the home field, upon which the farmer went out and broke them all, saying that he didnot choose to rear birds upon his corn which he was not allowed toscratch, but must leave to some qualified sportsman, who would besidesbreak down his fences in the pursuit. 

'A sheep washing was held this day at the mill-pool, when seven scorewere well washed, and then penned in the high meadow to dry. Many ofthem made great resistance at being thrown into the water, and the oldram, being dragged to the brink by a boy at each horn, and a thirdpushing behind, by a sudden spring threw two of them into the water, tothe great diversion of the spectators. 

'Towards the dusk of the evening the Squire's mongrel greyhound, whichhad been long suspected of worrying sheep, was caught in the fact. Hehad killed two lambs, and was making a hearty meal upon one of them, when he was disturbed by the approach of the shepherd's boy, anddirectly leaped the hedge and made off. The dead bodies were taken tothe Squire's, with an indictment of wilful murder against the dog. Butwhen they came to look for the culprit, he was not to be found in anypart of the premises, and is supposed to have fled his country throughconsciousness of his heinous offence. 

'Joseph, who sleeps in the garret at the old end of the house, afterhaving been some time in bed, came downstairs in his shirt, as pale asashes, and frightened the maids, who were going up. It was some timebefore he could tell what was the matter. At length he said he had heardsome dreadful noises overhead, which he was sure must be made by someghost or evil spirit. Nay, he thought he had seen something moving, though he owned he durst hardly lift up his eyes. He concluded withdeclaring that he would rather sit up all night in the kitchen than goto his room again. The maids were almost as much alarmed as he, and didnot know what to do; but the master, overhearing their talk, came outand insisted upon their accompanying him to the spot, in order to searchinto the affair. They all went into the garret, and for a while heardnothing, when the master ordered the candle to be taken away, andeveryone to keep quite still. Joseph and the maids stuck close to eachother, and trembled in every limb. At length a kind of groaning orsnoring began to be heard, which grew louder and louder, with intervalsof a strange sort of hissing. "That's it!" whispered Joseph, drawingback towards the door. The maids were ready to sink, and even the farmerhimself was a little disconcerted. The noise seemed to come from therafters near the thatch. In a while, a glimpse of moonlight shiningthrough a hole at the place plainly discovered the shadow of somethingstirring, and on looking intently somewhat like feathers were perceived. The farmer now began to suspect what the case was, and ordering up ashort ladder, bid Joseph climb to the spot, and thrust his hand intothe hole. This he did rather unwillingly, and soon drew it back, cryingloudly that he was bit. However, gathering courage, he put it in again, and pulled out a large white owl, another at the same time being heardto fly away. The cause of the alarm was now made clear enough, and poorJoseph, after being heartily jeered by the maids, though they had beenas much frightened as he, sneaked into bed again, and the house soonbecame quiet. '

The Fruits of Disobedience

or

The Kidnapped Child

In a beautiful villa, on the banks of the Medway resided a gentlemanwhose name was Darnley, who had, during the early part of life, filled apost of some importance about the Court, and even in its declinepreserved that elegance of manners which so peculiarly marks a finishedgentleman. 

The loss of a beloved wife had given a pensive cast to his features, anda seriousness to his deportment, which many people imagined proceededfrom haughtiness of disposition, yet nothing could be further from Mr. Darnley's character, for he was affable, gentle, benevolent, and humane. 

His family consisted of an only sister, who, like himself, had lost theobject of her tenderest affection, but who, in dividing her attentionbetween her brother and his amiable children, endeavoured to forget herown misfortunes. 

Mr. Darnley's fortune was sufficiently great to enable him to place hisdaughters in the first school in London, but he preferred having themunder his immediate instruction, and as Mrs. Collier offered to assisthim in their education he resolved for some years not to engage agoverness, as Nurse Chapman was one of those worthy creatures to whosecare he could securely trust them. 

An old friend of Mr. Darnley's had recently bought a house at Rochester, and that gentleman and his sister were invited to pass a few days there, and as Emily grew rather too big for the nurse's management Mrs. Collierresolved to make her of the party, leaving Sophia, Amanda, and Elizaunder that good woman's protection. 

It was Mr. Darnley's wish that the young folks should rise early andtake a long walk every morning before breakfast, but they were strictlyordered never to go beyond their own grounds unless their aunt or fatheraccompanied them. This order they had frequently endeavoured to persuadeNurse Chapman to disregard, but, faithful to the trust reposed in her, she always resisted their urgent entreaties. 

The morning after Mr. Darnley went to Rochester the poor woman foundherself thoroughly indisposed, and wholly incapable of rising at theaccustomed hour. The children, however, were dressed for walking, andthe nursemaid charged not to go beyond the shrubbery, and they allsallied out in high good humour. 

'Now, Susan, ' said Sophia, as soon as they entered the garden, 'this isthe only opportunity you may ever have of obliging us. Do let us walk tothe village, and then you know you can see your father and mother. '

'La, missy!' replied the girl, 'why, you know 'tis as much as my placeis worth if Nurse Chapman should find out. '

'Find it out indeed, ' said Amanda; 'how do you think she is to find itout? Come, do let us go, there's a dear good creature. '

'Yes, dear, dear Susan, do let us go, ' said Eliza, skipping on beforethem, 'and I'll show you the way, for I walked there last summer withfather. '

Whether it was the wish of obliging the young ladies, or the desire ofseeing her parents, I cannot pretend to say, but in a luckless hourSusan yielded, and the party soon reached the village. 

Susan's mother was delighted at seeing her, and highly honoured by theyoung ladies' presence. 

'Oh, sweet, dear creatures!' said the old woman, 'I must get somethingfor them to eat after their long walk, and my oven's quite hot, and Ican bake them a little cake in a quarter of an hour, and I'll milk Jennyin ten minutes. '

The temptation of her hot cake and new milk was not to be withstood, andSusan began taking down some smart china cups, which were arranged inform upon the mantelpiece, and carefully dusted them for the youngladies' use. 

Eliza followed the old woman into the cowhouse, and began asking athousand questions, when her attention was suddenly attracted by theappearance of a tame lamb, who went up bleating to its mistress with aview of asking its accustomed breakfast. 

'You must wait a little, Billy, ' said the woman, 'and let your bettersbe served before you. Don't you see that we have got gentlefolks tobreakfast with us this morning?'

Eliza was so delighted with the beauty of the little animal that shewanted to kiss it, and attempted to restrain it for that purpose, whilstBilly, ungrateful for her intended kindness, gave a sudden spring andfrisked away. 

Eliza followed in hopes of being able to catch him, but he ran baaingalong into the high road. 

A woman whose appearance was descriptive of poverty but whose smilingcountenance indicated good nature, at that moment happened to pass, and, accosting Eliza in a tone of familiarity, said: 'That's not half such apretty lamb, miss, as I have got at home, and not a quarter so tame, forif you did but say, Bob, he'd follow you from one end of the town to theother, and then he'll fetch and carry like a dog, stand up on his hindlegs, when my husband says "Up" for the thing, and play more tricks thana young kitten. '

'Oh, the pretty creature, ' replied Eliza, 'how I should like to see it!'

'Well, come along with me, miss, ' said the woman, 'for I only lives justacross the next field, but you must run as hard as you can, because myhusband is going to work, and he generally takes Bob with him. '

'Well, make haste, then, ' said Eliza. 

'Give me your hand, miss, ' replied the woman; 'for we can run fastertogether. But there goes my husband, I declare; and there's Bob, asusual, skipping on before. '

'Where? where?' exclaimed Eliza, stretching her little neck as far asshe possibly could, to see if she could discern the lamb. 

'You are not tall enough, ' said the artful creature; 'but let me liftyou up, miss, and then I dare say you will see them;' and, instantlycatching her up, she cried out: 'Look directly towards the steeple, miss; but I'll run with you in my arms, and I warrant we'll soonovertake them. '

Eliza looked, but looked in vain, and, perceiving the woman had sooncarried her out of sight of the cottage, begged she would set her down, as she dare not go any farther. 

The vile creature was absolutely incapable of replying, for her breathwas nearly exhausted by the rapidity of the motion, and Eliza continuedentreating her to stop, and struggled violently to elude her grasp. 

At length, after a quarter of an hour's exertion, the woman foundherself incapable of proceeding, and stopped suddenly, sat down on abank, keeping tight hold of Eliza's arms, who cried dreadfully, andbesought her to let her go. 

'Let you go!' she replied; 'what, after all the plague I've had to knapyou? No, no, you don't catch me at that, I promise you; but be a goodgirl, and don't cry, and then you may see Bob by-and-by, perhaps. '

'Oh, my sisters! my sisters! Let me go to my sisters!' cried the child. 

'I'll find plenty of sisters for you in a few days, ' said the vilecreature; 'but they won't know you in them there fine clothes; so let'spull them off in a minute, and then we'll have another run after Bob. '

So saying, she stripped off the white frock, hat, and tippet. The restof the things shared the same fate, and she was compelled to put on someold rags which the inhuman creature took out of a bag she carried underher petticoat; then, taking a bottle of liquid from the same place, sheinstantly began washing Eliza's face with it, and, notwithstanding allher remonstrances, cut her beautiful hair close to her head. 

Thus metamorphosed, it would have been impossible even for Mr. Darnleyto have known his child, and they proceeded onward until her little legswould carry her no farther. At this period they were overtaken by theCanterbury waggon, and for a mere trifle the driver consented to letthem ride to London. Eliza's tears continued to flow, but she dared notutter a complaint, as her inhuman companion protested she would breakevery bone in her skin if she ventured to make the least noise. 

[Illustration: _Cut her beautiful hair close to her head. --Page 102. _]

When they arrived in town, she was dragged (for to walk she was unable)to a miserable hole down several steps, where they gave her some breadand butter to eat, and then desired her to go to bed. 

The bed, if such it might be called, was little else than a bundle ofrags thrown into a corner of the room, with a dirty blanket spreadacross it; and there she was left by her inhuman kidnapper to mourn hermisfortunes and lament having disregarded her father's injunctions. 

The next morning she was forced to rise the moment it was light, and towalk as far as her little legs would carry her before they stoppedanywhere to take refreshment. The second night was passed in a barn, andabout five o'clock the third afternoon they knocked at the door of aneat-looking cottage, where nine or ten children were sitting in alittle room making lace. 

'Why, Peggy, ' said the woman, as she opened the door, 'I thought younever would have come again! However, I see you have got me a hand atlast, and God knows I'm enough in want of her; for two of my brats havethought proper to fall sick, and I have more to do than ever I had in mylife. '

On the following day Eliza's filthy rags were all taken off, and she wasdressed in a tidy, brown stuff gown, a nice clean round-eared cap, and alittle coloured bib and apron; and she was ordered, if any person askedher name, to say it was Biddy Bullen, and that she was niece to thewoman who employed her. 

The severity with which all this wretch's commands were enforced whollyprevented any of the helpless victims who were under her protectionfrom daring to disobey them; and though most of them were placed underher care by the same vile agent who had decoyed Eliza, yet they were alltutored to relate similar untruths. 

But I now think it is high time to carry my little readers back to thecottage scene, where Susan was arranging things in order for breakfast, and Sophia and her sister were anxiously watching the moment when thecake was pronounced completely ready. 

The old woman soon returned with the milk-pail on her arm, and Susaneagerly demanded: 'Where's Miss Eliza?'

'Oh, the pretty creature!' replied her mother, 'she'll be here in aminute, I warrant her; but she has gone skipping after our Billy, andthe two sweet innocents they are together. '

She then went to the oven, produced the cake, and began buttering itwith all expedition, whilst Sophia joyously ran to the door of thecowhouse, and began loudly calling her sister Eliza. 

No answer being returned, Susan began to feel alarmed, but the youngladies told her not to be frightened, as they knew it was only one ofEliza's pranks. But, alas! too soon were they convinced it was no joke, but some dreadful misfortune must have happened. 

'Miss Eliza! Miss Eliza!' was vociferated through the village, not onlyby Susan and her mother, but by all the neighbours who had heard of thecalamity, whilst her sisters ran about frantic with grief, crying, 'Eliza, my love! my darling! Oh, if you are hid, for pity's sake speak!'

Nurse Chapman got up about half-past nine, and, hearing the childrenwere not returned from their walk, sent the housemaid directly afterthem. 

The garden, the shrubbery, and the lawn were all searched withoutsuccess; and just as Betty was returning to inform the nurse they werenot to be found, she perceived Susan and the two children enter a littlegreen gate at the bottom of the shrubbery. 

'Where's Miss Eliza?' called Betty, in a voice as loud as she couldarticulate. 

'God knows! God knows!' replied the careless girl, sobbing so loud shecould scarcely speak. 

'How! where! when!' said the others. 'Why, poor nurse will go stark, staring mad!'

By that time the poor woman had quitted her room, and walked into thegarden to see what had become of her little charges; and, not directlymissing Eliza from the group, which was then fast approaching towardsthe house, she called out:

'Come, my dear children--come along! I thought you would never havereturned again. ' And, observing Eliza was not with them, she continued:'But, Susan, what's become of my sweet bird? Where's my little darling, Miss Eliza?'

'Oh, nurse! nurse!' said Sophia, 'my sister's lost! indeed she's lost!'

'Lost!' exclaimed the poor old woman--'lost! What do you tell me? Whatdo I hear? Oh, my master! my dear master! never shall I bear to see hisface again!'

Susan then repeated every circumstance just as has been related, andwith sighs and tears bewailed her own folly in suffering herself to beover-persuaded. And the children declared they dare not encounter theirfather's displeasure. 

The menservants were instantly summoned, and sent on horseback differentways. That she had been stolen admitted of no doubt, as there was nowater near the cottage; and had any accident happened, they must havefound her, as they had searched every part of the village before theyventured to return home. 

One servant was sent to Rochester, another towards London, and a thirdand fourth across the country roads; but no intelligence could beobtained, or the slightest information gathered, by which theunfortunate child could be found, or her wicked decoyer's footstepstraced. 

When Mr. Darnley was apprised of the calamitous event, the agitation ofhis mind may be easily conceived, but can never be described. 

Handbills were instantly circulated all over the country, the child'sperson described, and a reward of five hundred guineas offered for herrestoration. 

Sophia and Amanda were inconsolable, and Susan was ordered to bedischarged before Mr. Darnley returned home, which he did not for morethan a month after the melancholy circumstance happened, as he was notsatisfied with sending messengers in pursuit of his lost treasure, butwent himself to all those wretched parts of London where poverty andvice are known to dwell, in the hope of meeting the object of hissolicitude, and at length gave up the interesting pursuit, because hefound his health rendered him incapable of continuing it. 

Nine tedious months passed away without any intelligence of the lostEliza; and time, which is a general remedy for all misfortunes, had notsoftened the severity of their affliction. Mrs. Collier had engaged alady to be governess to her nieces, as her attention had been whollydevoted to her unfortunate brother, whose agitated state of mind hadproduced a bodily complaint which demanded her unremitting care andtenderness. 

Although Emily loved Eliza with the fondest affection, yet her grief wasmuch less poignant than either of her sisters', as she could not accuseherself with being accessory to her loss. 

'Never, never shall I forgive myself, ' Sophia would often say, 'forhaving deviated from my dear father's command! Oh, so good and indulgentas he is to us, how wicked it was to transgress his will! I was theeldest, and ought to have known better, and my poor Eliza is thesufferer for my crime!'

Thus would she bewail her folly and imprudence, until, agonized by thetorture of her own reflections, she would sink down in a chair quiteexhausted, and burst into a flood of tears. 

While the family at Darnley Hall were thus a prey to unavailing sorrow, the lovely little girl who had occasioned it was beginning to grow morereconciled to the cruelty of her destiny, and to support her differentmode of life with resignation and composure. She had acquired such adegree of skill in the art of lacemaking (which was the business heremployer followed) as generally to be able to perform the tasks whichwere allotted her; and if it so happened she was incapable of doing it, Sally Butchell, a child almost two years older than herself, of whom shewas very fond, was always kind enough to complete it for her. 

The cottage in which the vile Mrs. Bullen resided was situated about aquarter of a mile from High Wycombe; and whenever she was obliged to goto that place, either to purchase or to dispose of her goods, she alwayswent either before her family were up, or after they had retired torest, locking the door constantly after her, and putting the key in herpocket, so that the poor little souls had no opportunity of tellingtheir misfortunes to any human creature. 

One intense hot afternoon, in the month of August, as the children weresitting hard at work with the door open for the sake of air, an elderlylady and gentleman walked up to it, and begged to be accommodated with aseat, informing Mrs. Bullen their carriage had broke down a miledistant, and they had been obliged to walk in the heat of the sun. 

The appearance of so many children, all industriously employed, was asight particularly pleasing to the liberal-minded Mrs. Montague, and sheimmediately began asking the woman several questions about them; butthere was something of confusion in her manner of replying that calledforth Mrs. Montague's surprise and astonishment. 

'They really are lovely children, my dear, ' said she, turning to Mr. Montague, who had stood at the door watching the approach of thecarriage, which he perceived coming forward; 'and as to that littlecreature with the mole under her left eye, I declare I think it is aperfect beauty. '

Mr. Montague turned his head, and regarded Eliza with a look that atonce proved that his sentiments corresponded with those of his lady. 

'What is your name, my love?' said he, in a tone of kindness which poorEliza had long been a stranger to. 

The child coloured like scarlet, and looked immediately at her inhumanemployer, who, catching the contagion, replied with evident marks ofconfusion:

'Her name is Biddy Bullen, sir; she's my niece; but 'tis a poor timidlittle fool, and is always in a fright when gentlefolks happen to speakto her. Go, Biddy, ' she continued--'go up into my bedroom, and mind thatthread which you'll find upon the reel. '

'You should try to conquer that timidity, ' said Mr. Montague, 'by makingher answer every stranger who speaks to her; but by taking that officeupon yourself, you absolutely encourage the shyness you complain of. Come hither, my little girl, ' continued he, observing she was retiringupstairs, 'and tell the lady what your name is. '

Encouraged by the kindness of Mr. Montague's address, the agitated childobeyed the summons, although Mrs. Bullen attempted to force her intoresistance. 

'Well, ' continued the old gentleman, patting her on the cheek, 'andwhere did you get that pretty mole?'

'My mother gave it me, sir, ' replied the blushing child; 'but I did notsee her do it, because Nurse Chapman told me she went to heaven as soonas I was born. '

'Your mother! And what was your mother's name?' said Mr. Montague. 

'Darnley, sir, ' said the child, and suddenly recollecting the lessonthat had been taught her; 'but my name is Biddy Bullen, and that is myaunt. '

'Darnley!' exclaimed Mrs. Montague--'the very child that has been forthese twelve months past advertised in all the papers'--then turning toconvince herself of the fact--'and the very mole confirms it. '

Mr. Montague immediately attempted to secure the woman, but her activityeluded his grasp, and darting out at the back door she was out of sightin a few moments. 

'Is she really gone? Is she gone?' all the little voices at oncedemanded, and upon Mr. Montague's assuring them she was really gone forever, their joy broke out in a thousand different ways--some cried, somelaughed, and others jumped. In short, there never was a scene morecompletely calculated to interest the feelings of a benevolent heart. 

Mr. Montague's carriage at this period arrived, and the footman wasdesired to fetch a magistrate from Wycombe, whilst the worthy clergymanresolved to remain there until his arrival, and began questioning allthe children. Two had been there from so early a period that they couldgive no account of their name or origin, but all the rest were so clearin their description that the benevolent Mr. Montague had no doubt ofbeing able to restore them to their afflicted parents. 

The magistrate soon arrived, attended by the worthy rector of the place, who, hearing from Mr. Montague's servant that a child had been stolencame with the intent of offering his services. 

All but Eliza were immediately put under his protection, but Mrs. Montague was so anxious she should be their earliest care that shebegged her husband to order a post-chaise directly, and set offimmediately for town. This request was willingly complied with, and bythree o'clock the next afternoon the party arrived at Darnley Hall. 

Mrs. Collier was standing at the window when the carriage stopped, andlooking earnestly at her niece suddenly exclaimed in a tone of rapture:'My child! My child! My lost Eliza!'

Mr. Darnley, who was reading, sprang from his seat, and flew to the doorin an ecstasy of joy. In less than a minute he returned folding hisEliza to his throbbing heart. The joyful intelligence ran through thehouse, and the other children impatiently flew to this scene oftransport. 

To describe their feelings or express their felicity would require theaid of the most descriptive pen, and even then would be but faintlytold, and therefore had much better be passed over. 

From that moment the children all unanimously agreed strictly to attendto their father's orders, and never in the slightest instance act inopposition to his will. 

Mr. And Mrs. Montague were laden with caresses, and earnestly entreatedto remain Mr. Darnley's guests. The hospitable invitation would havebeen gladly accepted had not the thoughts of the poor children who werestill at Wycombe seemed to claim his immediate attention, and so greatwas the philanthropy of Mr. Montague's character that he could neverrest satisfied if a single duty remained unfulfilled. 

The Rose's Breakfast

The shrubs and flowers, having heard of the Peacock At Home, theButterfly's Ball, and Grasshopper's Feast, Elephant's Ball, and manyothers of equal celebrity, and having been themselves of late muchintroduced into the assemblies of _Ton_, grew so vain as to wish to havea gala of their own. They were aware of their want of the organs ofspeech, but knowing they had plenty of Ladies' Tongue among them, andthat crowded parties neither afforded gratification to the mind, orallowed opportunity for conversation, and as they could shake theirleaves at each other, as well as fine ladies could their heads, theywere perfectly satisfied with their powers to entertain. 

As all their refreshments were composed from air, earth, and water itwas determined that a fine summer's day after a reviving shower, wouldafford ample regale for a breakfast, which was to begin, like allfashionable ones, late in the afternoon, that the genteel flowers mightbe awake. Mrs. Honeysuckle first proposed giving one, but her husbandwas a Dutchman, and would not agree to the bustle and expense, and notchoosing the risk of separation she for once yielded, and Mrs. Rose, being in high beauty, determined to send out her fragrance to invite thecompany, provided she could procure the consent of Mr. Pluto Rose;indeed, he never interfered with the pursuits of his wife; he onlydeclared he should not appear, and as he was a very dark-looking rosewithout any sweet she was delighted at this declaration, but, thoughmuch admired in her own little circle, she was unknown in the greatWorld, and she was sensible that unless some of the leaders of the _Ton_were present her breakfast would be regarded with contempt; shetherefore consulted two of her friends, Lady Acacia and Mrs. Larch, andgot Mr. Plane from the east to secure the attendance of his party. 

Lady Acacia had just got her niece Robina from America, whom she wasvery solicitous to have properly introduced, having kept veryindifferent company in her own country, and being handsome, she aspiredto settling her well. She, of course, aided all in her power to promoteMrs. Rose's scheme, and, by being in a higher circle, offered to get allthe Forest Trees to attend except Lord Oak; but she knew he nevercondescended to go to such meetings. Mrs. Larch, from her connections, promised her influence with all the Cedars and Firs, though she was sureher cousin from Lebanon would not come, but all the rest yielded easilyto her entreaties. Mrs. Rose was delighted with the success of LadyAcacia and Mrs. Larch in their solicitations with the Forest and FirTrees, whose majestic appearance and respectable characters she imaginedwould dignify her fête, never considering her own littleness mightappear to them despicable; but from them she had nothing to fear, asthey were too well bred to attend any meeting to ridicule it. 'Tis truewhen they did grace a public entertainment they kept chiefly together, and never so far forgot their consequence as to oppress a humble flower, or stoop to notice a forward insignificant one even in the gayestattire. 

There was an elegant lightness of drapery in Mrs. Birch's dress, butpoor Lady Aspen had certainly a very trifling way with her in shakingcontinually her leaves, which sounded as if she was tittering ateverything around. Old Lord Elm was hurt at it, and often hinted to herladyship how improper such behaviour would have been deemed in formertimes. It was, poor thing, in her a natural weakness which she could notamend, and it had been copied by some inferior plants who had ignorantlysupposed it the height of good breeding. 

Mrs. Rose, with all her charms, could not aspire to become one of theForest set, though she had hopes she might be reckoned a descendant fromthe famous Roses so well known in the reigns of some of our Henrys, Edwards, and Richard III. , though she assuredly was of a very differentextraction; indeed, it was said that she was bred up in a cottagegarden, but had passed one winter in the hothouse, by which she wasgreatly elated, and now thought from that circumstance she was secure inhaving a large party from thence, not knowing the prejudice it was tomemory and sight to be constantly for any length of time in suchartificial air. Had it not been for this breakfast bringing Mrs. Roseinto notice she would have been totally forgotten by them, but herinvitation made them soon recollect the dear little creature, and asevery offer of accommodation was made to entice them to attend, even tothe promise of being placed near the Burning Bush: for that whatever isdifficult to obtain is always peculiarly desirable to possess was notunknown in the hothouse. Notwithstanding that most of its inhabitants, except Lady Sensitive and a few others (who were really too delicate toventure out), all anxiously wished to be at Mrs. Rose's, yet they seemedto make the waiting on her a very great favour, and their terms vexedher greatly--namely, the excluding of many of the common plants ornatives as they termed them which prevented her from asking some of herold acquaintance and near connections, with whom till now she had livedin habits of intimacy; besides she had wished to have shown her tasteand consequence to them, having thorns enough on her stem to havepleasure in exciting a little envy; but being afraid these connectionsshould be known she excluded every friend she was requested to do, andthus the Sweet Briar and many of that rank were left out, yet severalweeds had the effrontery to get in. 

As the hothouse plants always keep together when they do come out, they, as usual, did so at Mrs. Rose's, following their constant plan ofapparent dissatisfaction at everything they met with, and quizzing mostshamefully all the company. The greenhouse plants in winter follow theexample of the hothouse in living in their own circle, but at thisseason mix more generally, though, alas! they were nearly as muchinclined as the hothouse party to quizzing. Mrs. Myrtle and LadyOrange-tree promised to chaperon the Misses Heath and the MissesGeranium--that is, such as were properly accomplished by having had agreenhouse education; but the poor relations of these two families, which I am forced to confess were many, were not asked. LordHeliotropium and Mr. Monkeyplant were their welcome attendants. 

The Evergreens of rank were invited, the females of whom are chargedwith being fond of showing themselves, and are usually to be seen in thefront of plantations. Hitherto they had despised the fickleness offashion, and had never modernized their dress enough to seem thinly cladeven in the winter, and now they could not reconcile themselves to sucha change, which, in fact, did them honour, though a few of the weakestand vainest among them rather lamented it, but the wiser valued theirfoliage as a great addition to beauty and elegance, and justlyreprobated the prevailing _Ton_ of transparent clothing as verypernicious to health. Mrs. Arbutus was particularly unlucky in havingsent all her jewels away for the summer, but Lady Portugal Laurel and afew others ornamented their usual green dresses very prettily withwhite, and her ladyship was allowed to make a sweet figure, whilst thecorrectness of her appearance gained her respect and admiration. 

Many Laurels were invited, but in this country they are so numerous, andof such rapid growth, and such flourishing plants, that it wasabsolutely impossible to collect as many of them as could be desired, and some old veterans declined attending. The Cypresses in general sentexcuses, being confined by the loss of a friend, which was thoughtrather an uncommon reason for confinement. Mr. Stock was also preventedby a pre-engagement in the alley; he was a remarkably rich, showyflower, or he would not have been invited, yet he was known to possessmore intrinsic merit before he had acquired so many petals. Dr. Yewwould not leave his church, nor Dr. Palma Christi his patients; indeed, their absence was not at all regretted, it being owing to a mistake thatthey were asked. The Ladies Weeping Willow stayed away with the MissesWeeping Ash to mourn over the vanities of the world, which greatlyalarmed and distressed them. 

Mrs. Passion-Flower sent her excuses, being enraged she was notconsulted on the occasion, as she would have deferred the meeting untilshe had regained her bloom. Most of the Shrubs that were invitedattended, and the Duchess of Syringa and the Ladies Lilac lookedbeautiful. It was a disputed point whether Lady White Lilac or hersister was the handsomer, yet some of the party were so ill-humoured asto hint they were fading. Lord Laburnum came with them. Some bulbousroots were admitted, and Mrs. Lily made as engaging a figure as anyone;her headdress was simply elegant, the petals white with yellow stamensforming a very rich coral. The sweet Misses Lily of the Valley could notbe tempted from their retreat. 

Lord Tulip was particularly noticed, his coral being diversified in amost superb manner, and as dress among _Ton beaux_ now is neglected hemade a very surprising appearance, though by it he gained great respect;perhaps he carried it too far, as marked singularity is never advisable, yet a certain attention to dress, consistent with station, is requisite, and had it not been for his coral Lord Tulip would have been passed byin the crowd, or turned out as a weed. He came with the Duchess ofHyacinth, which was rather particular, but it was little regarded, andthe Duke was blamed for not properly estimating her Grace's charms. 

There were some perennials asked, but Mrs. Rose was obliged to forgetmany of them, yet Miss Scabious was there, though not yet come out, flirting shamefully with young Lychnis, who was waiting for his ensigncyto get out his scarlet coat. Mrs. Rose made a point of inviting Mr. Monkshood because she would not appear to have any prejudices, though itis well known to be a poisonous plant, but its evil properties were toher and her friends of no consequence as they had never reflected onserious subjects. She also pressed the attendance of several annuals ofshowy appearance. Intrinsic merit had no value with her, who had noguide but fashion, and was ambitious only of becoming a leader indissipation or a patroness of talent, which would be the means of makingher ridiculous, and the dupe of presuming ignorance. 

The annuals, though they flourished but for a short time, were oftenduring that period greatly caressed, yet never lamented when theydisappeared; in short, they were made subservient to the powers ofothers, which Mr. Coxcomb, the painted Lady Pea, and some more were toovain to discover, and whilst they were frequently amused in quizzing allaround never suspected they were deservedly greater objects of ridiculethemselves. Very few of the Creepers were invited except those thatbelonged to the hothouse or greenhouse, and the sharpness of Lady Cereusmade Mrs. Rose wish even to have avoided her company, but she would notbe put off. Mrs. Bramble was very sharp at not being invited, thinkingshe had as good a right as Mrs. Ivy, whom she accused as being one ofthose sycophants that push themselves into high life by clinging togreatness, and thus getting into the first circle without beingrespected in or out of it; indeed, there was amongst many of the party agood deal of satire. Mrs. Rose herself was a little formed of it, buther sweetness was allowed to blunt the force of her thorn, and made iteven regarded as pleasing, whilst Mrs. Holly was disliked for hergeneral sharpness. 

[Illustration: _The sweet Misses Lilies of the Valley could not betempted from their retreat. --Page 119. _]

All the Auriculas that had been applauded on the stage were wonderfullysought after by Mrs. Rose as being now generally in all _Ton_assemblies, and they were always ready to accept these invitations, buttheir season of exhibition was now over, and they were gone strollingabout for the remainder of the year. The Ladies Carnation were allasked, and some of their cousins, the Misses Pink, were particularlynamed (not having accommodations for all the family), and such of theMisses Pink as came were chaperoned by their near relations, Mr. AndMrs. Sweet-William; but the Ladies Carnation were obliged torefuse--they were afraid they should not be come out in time, and ifthey were must attend a county meeting with their guardian. 

There were no invitations sent into the kitchen garden or orchard, notwithstanding the elegant simplicity of many of the inhabitants, andthe general propriety of their conduct, but they were all voted quizzesfor their usefulness in society and their attention to domesticconcerns. They were vain of this neglect, regarding it as a proof oftheir merit, and as they lived comfortably together were happy andcontented, and far more easy and cheerful than the more dissipatedsocieties. Mrs. Onion, it must be allowed, took it as a slight, but shewas the only one that did, and she, presuming upon the having been muchat great dinners, imagined she must be qualified for any breakfast, notconsidering she generally was obliged to go to them disguised or hid bya veil, but she was a proof of the errors of self knowledge, as shethought her scent far preferable to Mrs. Rose's. 

The rest of the kitchen garden really wished to avoid mixing with the_Ton_, among whom they justly allowed were many very valuable plants;every class and order in this country may boast of them. The naturalsoil is good, and much pains is bestowed on proper culture, yet in thecircles of dissipation there was reason to fear their health and goodhabits might be injured, particularly as attempts had been made todisseminate baneful seeds, though hitherto they had been kept down bycare and attention. Mrs. Apple-Tree, Mr. Cherry, Miss Currant, MissGooseberry, the Beans, Peas, Potatoes, and Cabbages well knew their ownvalue, and despised the weak ambition of those who force themselves intocompany they were not designed for. 

Mrs. Rose would have liked to have got at the Mint, but it was so wellguarded by the Sages that she dared not make the attempt, knowing itwould be useless, and she could not presume to ask the Sages, or wouldhave been delighted to have had them--that is, all the family but CommonSage, well imagining how much consequence she might acquire by even theappearance of such an acquaintance, yet it was an absurd idea, as shehad not the smallest relish for their taste or anything Sage-like abouther, and the wish to be thought to possess talents she did not would, asit always does, have made her contemptible to those who really havethem. True knowledge is highly valuable and respectable, but theignorant pretenders to it only make themselves objects of ridicule. Mrs. Rose was fortunate enough to get some of the Bays brought to her, andshe thus trusted to have her breakfast properly celebrated in a poemdedicated to the Rose Unique. 

The bog plants had all contrived to be in the _Ton_, and the MissesRhododendron and the Misses Kalmia were greatly admired. 

The breakfast was given on a beautiful green lawn, tastefully decorated, in the middle of which was a fine piece of water, with a fountaincontinually playing. Around were heaps of various sorts of soils, manyprocured at great distances at an enormous expense. The Buttercups andDandelions waited on the lawn in full yellow liveries, and the Daisies, dressed neatly in a uniform of white with yellow ornaments, were asfemale servants to give the refreshments to the waiters, and theFoxgloves in red uniforms presided over the whole. The Trumpet Flowerswere numerous; indeed, there was no other music, and there was noregular dancing, though many pretty groups dispersed about. 

The crowd was very great, and the company did not leave the lawn tilllate, many of them exceedingly fatigued, and drooping with theirexertions, and poor Mrs. Poppy was so much inclined to sleep as todistress the Misses Larkspur and Lupin that came with her, and SirLaurus Tinus got much squeezed in getting the Marchioness Magnolia, amost charming creature, and the Miss Phillyreas away, and Lady Cistusleft all her petals behind her. 

Admiral Flag and Lady Peony were detained much longer than they wishedin settling a dispute that had nearly ended in a challenge betweenCaptain Waterdock and Colonel Jasmine about the antiquities of theirfamilies, which had so seriously terrified Lady Azorian Jasmine that shewould have fainted but for the tender attention of Mrs. Lavender. TheColonel was certainly wrong, as the Water-docks are well known to be avery ancient family in Great Britain. It is much to be regretted thatthere is so often such a mistaken idea of courage even amongst the mostrespectable orders, abounding with the truest honour, and noblestspirit, as to cause duels on the most trifling subjects, thus involvingtheir families in distress and themselves in the greatest misery. 

There was waiting on the outside of the lawn at Mrs. Rose's many of theUmbellate tribe, that in case sun or rain should be too powerful theirUmbels might be useful, and, indeed, many other plants were mixed amongthem. Mrs. Mignonette, the milliner, a sweet little creature, was thereto learn fashions; she had brought with her one of her favourites, Venus's Looking-glass, whom she found of great service in her shop. TheNettles, Thistles, and Furze were very troublesome. The Thrifts werealso on the outside, as Mrs. Rose and they were totally unacquainted, but she had given great offence to many whom she had neglected that shevery well knew, some even intimately, and the Misses Crocus, Violet, Jonquil, and Mrs. Almond she did not ask, because their beauty was goneby. She had also her disappointments in receiving excuses from manywhose presence she wished for. Amongst these was Mr. And Mrs. Heartsease, most valuable plants; indeed, she had thought herself sureof their company, and they had intended waiting on her. At allentertainments of every kind they are expected, and they generallyaccept the invitations they receive, but before the day of engagementarrives they are obliged to send their excuses, owing to indisposition, which keeps them confined to a small circle of friends. 

Some of the party at Mrs. Rose's were delighted; others only aimed to bethought pleased, but alas! too many were inclined to quiz the breakfast, Mrs. Rose, and everything they saw or met with, yet even these to herpretended the greatest felicity at what they partook of, and thesincerest regard and esteem for her, and were absurdly lavish in theadmiration of her taste, and after all poor Mrs. Rose was so fatiguedthat she was attended for a considerable time by Doctor Gardener, andcould associate with no other plant but her maid Valerian, having socompletely lost her bloom by her dissipation that she came out no morethis season, though she had sufficient foliage to ensure her life, andmuch more than suited her ideas of Tonish appearance, for, notwithstanding the slights she received in her confinement, when shecould be of no use to the gay world, and her own sufferings, she stillpossessed so much vanity and lightness of manner that it was with thegreatest difficulty the doctor could keep her properly clothed, thoughhe explained to her its necessity, as did Mr. Pluto Rose its propriety, but she was a slave to fashion, and nearly became one of its martyrs. 

The Three Cakes

'There was a little boy named Henry, ' said Mr. Glassington, 'about yourage. His parents had but lately fixed him at a boarding-school. '

He was a special boy, for ever at his book, and happened once to get thehighest place at exercises. His mother was told it. She could nohow keepfrom dreaming of the pleasure; and when morning came, she got up early, went to speak with the cook and said as follows:

'Cook, you are to make a cake for Henry, who yesterday was very good atschool. '

'With all my heart, ' replied the cook, and set immediately about it. Itwas as big as--let me see--as big as--as a hat when flapped. The cookhad stuffed it with nice almonds, large pistachio nuts, and candiedlemon-peel, and iced it over with a coat of sugar, so that it was verysmooth and a perfect white. The cake no sooner was come home from bakingthan the cook put on her things, and carried it to school. 

When Henry first saw it, he jumped up and down like any Merry Andrew. Hewas not so patient as to wait till they could let him have a knife, butfell upon it tooth and nail. He ate and ate till school began, and afterschool was over he ate again; at night, too, it was the same thing tillbedtime--nay, a little fellow that Henry had for a playmate told me thathe put the cake upon his bolster when he went to bed, and waked andwaked a dozen times, that he might take a bit. I cannot so easilybelieve this last particular; but, then, it is very true, at least, thaton the morrow, when the day was hardly broke, he set about his favouritebusiness once again, continuing at it all the morning, and by noon hadeaten it up. The dinner-bell now rung; but Henry, as one may fancy, hadno stomach, and was vexed to see how heartily the other children ate. Itwas, however, worse than this at five o'clock, when school was over. 

His companions asked him if he would not play at cricket, tan, or kits. Alas! he could not; so they played without him. In the meantime Henrycould hardly stand upon his legs; he went and sat down in a corner verygloomily, while the children said one to another: 'What is the matterwith poor Henry, who used to skip about and be so merry? See how paleand sorrowful he is!'

The master came himself, and, seeing him, was quite alarmed. It was alllost labour to interrogate him. Henry could not be brought to speak asingle word. 

By great good luck, a boy at length came forward in the secret; and hisinformation was that Henry's mother had sent him a great cake the daybefore, which he had swallowed in an instant, as it were, and that hispresent sickness was occasioned only by his gluttony. On this, themaster sent for an apothecary, who ordered him a quantity of physic, phial after phial. Henry, as one would fancy, found it very nauseous, but was forced to take the whole for fear of dying, which, had heomitted it, would certainly have been the case. When some few days ofphysic and strict regimen had passed, his health was re-established asbefore; but his mother protested that she would never let him haveanother cake. 

_Percival. _ He did not merit so much as the smell of such a thing. Butthis is but one cake, father; and you informed me that there were three, if you remember, in your story. 

_Mr. G. _ Patience! patience! Here is another cake in what I am now goingto tell. 

Henry's master had another scholar, whose name was Francis. He hadwritten his mother a very pretty letter, and it had not so much as ablotted stroke; in recompense for which she sent him likewise a greatcake, and Francis thus addressed himself: 'I will not, like that gluttonHenry, eat up my cake at once, and so be sick as he was; no, I will makemy pleasure last a great deal longer. ' So he took the cake, which hecould hardly lift by reason of its weight, and watched the opportunityof slipping up into his chamber with it, where his box was, and in whichhe put it under lock and key. At playtime every day he slipped away fromhis companions, went upstairs a-tiptoe, cut a tolerable slice off, swallowed it, put by the rest, and then came down and mixed again withhis companions. He continued this clandestine business all the week, andeven then the cake was hardly half consumed. But what ensued? At lastthe cake grew dry, and quickly after mouldy; nay, the very maggots gotinto it, and by that means had their share; on which account it was notthen worth eating, and our young curmudgeon was compelled to fling therest away with great reluctance. However, no one grieved for him. 

_Percival. _ No, indeed; nor I, father. What, keep a cake locked upseven days together, and not give one's friends a bit! That ismonstrous! But let us have the other now. 

_Mr. G. _ There was another little gentleman who went to school withHenry and Francis likewise, and his name was Gratian. His mother senthim a cake one day, because she loved him, and, indeed, he loved heralso very much. It was no sooner come than Gratian thus addressed hisyoung companions: 'Come and look at what mother has sent me; you mustevery one eat with me. ' They scarcely needed such a welcome piece ofinformation twice, but all got round the cake, as you have doubtlessseen the bees resorting to a flower just blown. As Gratian was providedwith a knife, he cut a great piece off, and then divided it into as manyshares as he had brought boys together by such a courteous invitation. Gratian then took up the rest, and told them that he would eat his piecenext day; on which he put it up, and went to play with his companions, who were all solicitous to have him choose whatever game he thoughtmight entertain him most. 

A quarter of an hour had scarcely passed as they were playing, when apoor old man, who had a fiddle, came into the yard. 

He had a very long white beard, and, being blind, was guided by a littledog, who went before him with a collar round his neck. To this a cordwas fastened, which the poor blind man held in his hand. 

It was noticed with how much dexterity the little dog conducted him, andhow he shook a bell, which, I forgot to say, hung underneath his collar, when he came near anyone, as if he had designed to say by such anaction, 'Do not throw down or run against my master. ' Being come intothe yard, he sat him down upon a stone, and, hearing several childrentalking round him, 'My dear little gentlemen, ' said he, 'I will play youall the pretty tunes that I know, if you will give me leave. ' Thechildren wished for nothing half so much. He put his violin in tune, andthen thrummed over several jigs and other scraps of music, which, it waseasy to conjecture, had been new in former times. 

Little Gratian saw that while he played his merriest airs, a tear wouldnow and then roll down his cheeks, on which he stopped to ask him why hewept?

'Because, ' said the musician, 'I am very hungry. I have no one in theworld that will give my dog or me a bit of anything to eat. I wish Icould but work, and get for both of us a morsel of something; but I havelost my strength and sight. Alas! I laboured hard till I was old, andnow I want bread. '

The generous Gratian, hearing this, wept too. He did not say a word, butran to fetch the cake which he had designed to eat himself. He broughtit out with joy, and, as he ran along, began: 'Here, good old man, hereis some cake for you. '

'Where?' replied the poor musician, feeling with his hands; 'where isit? For I am blind, and cannot see you. '

Gratian put the cake into his hand, when, laying down his fiddle on theground, he wiped his eyes, and then began to eat. At every piece he putinto his mouth, he gave his faithful little dog a bit, who came and ateout of his hand; and Gratian, standing by him, smiled with pleasure atthe thought of having fed the poor old man when he was hungry. 

_Percival. _ Oh, the good, good Gratian! Let me have your knife, father. 

_Mr. G. _ Here, Percival; but why my knife?

[Illustration: _'I will play you all the pretty tunes that I know, ifyou will give me leave. '--Page 132. _]

_Percival. _ I will tell you. I have only nibbled here a little of mycake, so pleased I was in listening to you! So I will cut it smooth. There, see how well I have ordered it! These scraps, together with thecurrants, will be more than I shall want for breakfast; and the firstpoor man that I meet going home shall have the rest, even though heshould not play upon the violin. 

Amendment

Charles Grant lived in a good house, and wore fine clothes, and had agreat many pretty toys to play with; yet Charles was seldom happy orpleased; for he was never good. He did not mind what his mother said tohim, and would not learn to read, though he was now seven years old. 

He called the servants names, pinched and beat his little sister Clara, and took away her playthings, and was not kind and good to her, as abrother should be. 'Oh, what a sad boy Charles is!' was his mother'sdaily bitter exclamation. 

His father was a proud, bad man, who let Charles have his own way, because he was his only son, and he thought him handsome. But how couldanyone be handsome that was so naughty? I am sure that when he wasfroward, and put out his lip, and frowned, he looked quite ugly. Mothertold him so, and said that no one was pretty that was not good; butCharles did not mind his mother, and was so vain he would stand beforethe looking-glass half the day, instead of learning his lessons; and wasso silly he would say, 'What a pretty little boy I am! I am glad I amnot a shabby boy, like Giles Bloomfield, our cowboy. ' At such times hismother would say to him: 'I wish, Charles, you were only half as good asGiles; he is not much older than you, yet he can read in the Bible quitewell; he works hard for his poor mother, and never vexes her, as you dome; and when he comes home of an evening, he nurses the baby, and iskind to all his sisters. I dare say he never pinched nor beat any ofthem in his life. '

'Oh!' said that wicked Charles, 'I hate him for all that, for he wearsragged clothes, and has no toys to play with. '

'Oh fie, Charles!' said his mother; 'you are a wicked boy: have not Ioften told you that God made the poor as well as the rich, and He willhate those who despise them? Now, Charles, if God, to punish you foryour pride, were to take away your father and me, and you had no moneyto buy food, and your clothes became old and ragged, you would then be apoor, shabby boy, and worse off than Giles; for you could not earn yourown living, as he does; and you would consequently be starved to deathif God did not take care of you. And if, while you were rich, you hatedthe poor, how could you expect God to care for you when you grew poor, like those you had scorned?'

But Charles, however, was so naughty he would not stay to hear what hismother said, but ran away into the fields. 

Then Charles's mother was so vexed that she could not help crying at hisbeing such a wicked, proud boy; and she could not sleep all that nightfor the grief his conduct had occasioned her. The next day she wasforced to take a long journey, to visit a friend who was very ill, andwho lived in London. She was very sorry to leave her children, for sheknew if Charles behaved naughty when she was with him, he would be a sadboy indeed when he was left to himself, and had none to correct him andtell him of his faults. 

When the carriage that was to take Mrs. Grant to London drove to thedoor, she kissed her children a great many times, and begged that theywould be very good while she was away from them. 

'You, my dear Clara, I know, will mind what nurse says to you, and willtry to be good while I am gone; for you know that God will seeeverything you do amiss, if I do not; and I hope you will never forgetto say your prayers to Him night and morning. '

Clara kissed her dear mother, and promised that she would attend to allshe said; and her mother was satisfied, for she knew that Clara nevertold stories, though she was but a little girl. 

Then Mrs. Grant turned to Charles, and said: 'As for you, Charles, Icannot help feeling great pain at leaving you; for you are such a bad, wilful boy that I shall not have a happy moment whilst I am away fromyou, lest you should do anything amiss. But if you love me, you will tryto be good; and whenever you are about to do anything wrong, say toyourself, "How much this would grieve my poor mother if she knew it! andhow much it will offend God, who does see, and knows, not onlyeverything I do, but even my most secret thoughts! And He will one daybring me to an account for all I do or say against His holy will and mykind parents' commands. "'

Charles, who knew he was a bad boy, hung down his head, for he did notlike to be told of his faults. 

Then his mother said: 'My dear Charles, do try and be good, and I willlove you dearly. '

'But what will you bring me from London, ' said Charles, 'if I am a goodboy? for I never will behave well for nothing. '

'Do you call the love of God and of dear mother nothing?' said Clara; 'Iwill behave well, even if mother forgets to bring me the great wax doll, and the chest of drawers to keep her clothes in, which she told me aboutyesterday. '

Mrs. Grant smiled fondly on her little girl, but made no reply toCharles; and soon the coach drove away from the door. 

Charles was very glad when his mother was gone, and he said: 'Now motheris gone to London, I will do just as I please: I will learn no uglylessons, but play all day long. How happy I shall be! I hope mother maynot come for a whole month. '

But Charles soon found he was not so happy as he thought he should havebeen; he did not know the reason, but I will tell you why he was nothappy. No one can be happy who is not good, and Charles was so naughtyas to resolve not to obey his kind mother, who loved him so much. 

Charles brought out all his toys to play with, but he soon grew weary ofthem, and he kicked them under the table, saying, 'Nasty dull toys, Ihate you, for you do not amuse me or make me happy. I will go to father, and ask him to give me something to please me that I am not used to. '

But father was busy with some friends in the study, and could not attendto his wants. Charles was a rude, tiresome boy; so he stood by hisfather, and shook his chair, and pulled his sleeve, and teazed him somuch that his father at last grew angry, and turned him out of the room. 

Then Charles stood and kicked at the door, and screamed with all hismight, when one of the gentlemen said to him: 'If you were my littleboy, I would give you something to cry for. ' So Charles's father toldhim if he did not go away, he would come out of the study and whip him. 

When Charles heard this, he ran away, for he was afraid of being beaten;but, instead of playing quietly with his toys, he went and laid underthe great table in the hall and sulked and fretted till dinner-time. 

When nurse came to call him to dinner, he said: 'I won't come. Go away, ugly nurse!'

Then said nurse: 'Master Charles, if you like to punish yourself bygoing without your dinner, no one will prevent you, I am sure. '

Then Charles began to cry aloud, and tried to tear nurse's apron; butnurse told him he was a bad boy, and left him. 

Now, when Clara sat down to dinner, she said to nurse: 'Where is brotherCharles? Why is he not here?'

'Miss Clara, he is a naughty child, ' said nurse, 'and chooses to gowithout his dinner, thinking to vex us; but he hurts no one but himselfwith his perverse temper. '

'Then, ' said Clara, 'I do not like to dine while Charles goes without;so I will try and persuade him to come and eat some pie. '

'Well, Miss Clara, ' said nurse, 'you may go, if you please; but I wouldleave the bad boy to himself. '

When Clara came to Charles, and asked him if he would come and eat hisdinner, he poked out his head, and made such an ugly face that she wasquite frightened at him, and ran away. 

Nurse did not take the trouble of calling him to tea; and, though he wasvery hungry, he was too sulky to come without being asked; so he layunder the table, and cried aloud till bedtime. But when it grew dark, hewas afraid to stay by himself, for bad children are always fearful; sohe came upstairs and said in a cross, rude tone of voice: 'Nurse, giveme something to eat. '

Nurse said: 'Master Charles, if you had been good, you would have hadsome chicken and some apple-pie for your dinner, and bread and butterand cake for your tea; but as you were such a bad boy, and would notcome to your meals, I shall only give you a piece of dry bread and a cupof milk, and you do not deserve even that. '

Then Charles made one of his very worst faces, and threw the bread onthe ground, and spilt the milk. 

Nurse told him that there were many poor children in the world who wouldbe glad of the smallest morsel of what he so much despised, and that thetime would come when he might want the very worst bit of it; and shebade him kneel down and say his prayers, and ask God to forgive him forhaving been such a wicked boy all day. 

But Charles did not mind what she said, and went crying to bed. Thusended the first day of Charles Grant's happiness. 

He awoke very early the next morning, and told nurse to get him hisbreakfast, for he was very hungry. But nurse said he must wait tilleight o'clock, which was the breakfast hour. 

He now found it was of no use sulking, as no one seemed to care for histempers; so he looked about for something to eat, but found nothing butthe piece of bread he had thrown on the ground the night before; and hewas glad to eat that, and only wished there had been more of it. 

As soon as breakfast was over, Clara brought her books, and began tolearn her lessons, and nurse asked Charles if he would do the same. ButCharles said, 'No, indeed! I do not mean to learn any lessons whilemother is away, for I mean to please myself and be happy. '

'You did as you pleased yesterday, Master Charles, ' said nurse; 'yet Ido not think you were so very happy, unless happiness consists in lyingunder a table and crying all day, and going without dinner and tea, merely to indulge a sullen, froward temper. '

Now, Charles hated to be told of his faults, so he left nurse, and wentinto the garden to try and amuse himself. When there, instead of keepingin the walks, as he ought to have done, he ran on the beds, trampleddown the flowers, and pulled the blossoms from the fruit-trees. 

The gardener's boy earnestly requested Charles not to do so muchmischief; but Charles told him he was a gentleman's son, and would do ashe pleased. So he again ran over the new-raked borders, and pulled upthe flowers; and the poor boy was sadly vexed to see his nice work allspoiled. 

Charles did not care for that, and would have behaved still worse, hadnot the gardener, who then came up, taken him in his arms, and carriedhim into the house, in spite of his kicking and screaming. He cried fora long time, and made a sad noise; but, finding that no one paid anyregard to him, he became quiet, and went into the nursery, and askedClara to come and play with him. 

'I cannot come just now, brother Charles, ' said she; 'for I want tofinish this frock that I am making for Giles Bloomfield's littlesister. '

'I am sure, ' said Charles, 'if I were you, I would much rather play thansit still and sew. '

'Not if you knew what pleasure there is in doing good, ' said Clara; 'butif you will wait till I have finished it, you shall go with me and giveit to the poor woman, and then you will see how pleased she will be, andhow nicely the baby will look when she is dressed in this pretty frock, instead of her old faded, ragged one. '

[Illustration: _Had not the gardener, who then came up, taken him in hisarms, and carried him into the house, in spite of his kicking andscreaming. --Page 142. _]

Charles did not know how to amuse himself, so he sat down on his littlestool, and watched his sister while she worked. 

When Clara had finished making the frock, she said: 'Thank you, dearnurse, for cutting out and fixing the frock for me. ' So she threw herarms round nurse's neck, and kissed her cheek; and nurse put on Clara'stippet and her new bonnet, and walked with Charles and her to DameBloomfield's cottage. 

The good woman took the baby out of the cradle, and laid it on Clara'slap, and Clara had the pleasure of dressing it herself in the nice newfrock; and the baby looked so neat and pretty, and the poor mother wasso pleased, that Clara was much happier than if she had spent her timein playing or working for her doll. 

While Clara was nursing and caressing the baby, Charles went into thelittle garden, where he found Giles Bloomfield, who had just returnedfrom working in the fields, with a beautiful milk-white rabbit in hisarms, which he had taken out of the hutch, and was nursing with muchaffection. 

'Oh, what a pretty rabbit!' said Charles. 'Giles, will you sell it tome?'

'No, Master Charles, ' said Giles, 'I cannot sell my pretty Snowball. '

'And why not?' asked Charles in a fretful tone. 

'Because, Master Charles, the old doe, its mother, died when Snowballwas only a week old, and I reared it by feeding it with warm milk andbran; and it is now so fond of me that I would not part with it for agreat deal. '

So saying, he stroked his pretty favourite, who licked his hand allover, and rubbed her soft white head against his fingers. 

Then Giles said: 'My dear Snowball, I would not sell you for the world. '

'But you shall sell Snowball to me, ' said Charles, making one of hisugly faces. 'I will give you a shilling for her; and if you do not letme carry her home this very day, I will tell father of you, and he willturn you out of the cottage. '

When Giles's mother heard Charles say so, she came out of the house, andsaid: 'Pray, Giles, let Master Charles have the rabbit. '

'Dear mother, ' said Giles, 'Master Charles has a pony and a dog, and agreat many fine toys to play with, and I have only my pretty Snowball;and it will break my heart to part with her. '

'Then, ' said his mother, 'would you rather see your mother and sistersturned out of doors than part with your rabbit? You know, Giles, that Ihad so many expenses with your poor father's illness and death that Ihave not paid the rent due last quarter-day; and you know it is in ourlandlord's power to turn us into the streets to-morrow. 

'Well, mother, ' cried Giles, bursting into tears, 'Master Charles musthave the rabbit. But oh!' continued he, 'he does not love you as I do, my pretty Snowball; he will not feed and take care of you as I havedone, and you will soon die, and I shall never see you again. ' And histears fell fast on the white head of his little pet as he spoke. 

Clara was quite grieved, and begged her naughty brother not to deprivepoor Giles of his rabbit; but Charles was a wicked and covetous boy; hetherefore took Snowball from Giles, and carried her home in his arms, and put her in a box. He went into the fields and gathered some greenherbs for her to eat, and said: 'I am glad I have got Snowball; now Ishall be quite happy. '

But how could Charles be happy when he had broken God's holycommandment, which says, 'Thou shalt not covet'? Nurse and Clara toldhim so, and begged him to give Snowball back again to Giles. But Charlessaid he would not, for he meant to keep her all his life; but the nextmorning, when he went into the stable to look at her, he found herstretched at the bottom of the box. He called her, but Snowball did notstir; he then took her out of the box to see what ailed her; but she wasquite cold and dead. 

Oh dear! how Charles did cry! But it was of no use. He had better nothave taken her away from Giles, for he did not know what to feed herwith, and had given her among the greens he had gathered a herb calledhemlock, which is poisonous and will kill whatever eats of it; and ithad killed poor Snowball. 

The coachman told Charles so when he saw how swollen she was, andCharles cried the more. Giles cried too when he heard what a sad deathpoor Snowball had died; but he had been a good dutiful boy in partingwith her when his mother wished it, though it had cost him much pain andmany tears. 

Well, Charles's mother was gone a long time, more than a month, and itwould quite shock you to be told how naughty Charles was all that time;at last a letter came to say she was very ill, and then another to tellthem she was dead. 

What would Charles then have given if he had not grieved her so oftenwith his perverse temper and wicked conduct? He now said when he saw heragain, he would beg her to forgive him; but when Charles did see hispoor mother again she was in her coffin and could not hear him; and hecried exceedingly, and wished he had been good. Clara, though she criedas much as Charles for her dear mother, was glad she had obeyed her, andbeen so good while she was away. 

'And I will always be as good as if dear mother could see me, and loveme for it too, ' said she to nurse the day after her mother was buried. 

'My dear young lady, ' said nurse, 'your mother _will_ see it, and loveyou for doing your duty. '

'How can dear mother see me? Her eyes are closed, and she is in the darkgrave, ' said Clara. 

'But she will see you from heaven, Miss Clara, where she is gone toreceive the reward of her good conduct in this world; for though herbody is in the earth, her spirit is in heaven. '

'And shall I never see my own dear mother again?' said Clara. 

'Yes, Miss Clara; if you are good, you will go to heaven when you die, and become an angel like her. '

'Then, ' said Clara, 'I will pray to God to make me good, and when I amgoing to do anything wrong I will say to myself, "If I do this, I shallnever go to heaven, and see my dear mother when I die. "'

'I wish, ' said nurse, 'that Master Charles was like you, and would tryto be good. '

But though Charles was sometimes sorry for his bad behaviour, he did nottry to mend, because he thought it was too much trouble to be good, andsaid he did not care, because he was the son of a gentleman. 

Charles did not know that at this very time his father had spent all hismoney, and owed a great many debts to different people; and at last heran away that he might not be put in prison; and the people to whom heowed so much money came and seized his fine house and gardens, and thecoach, and all the furniture, and sold them by auction, to raise moneyto pay the debts; so Charles found that, instead of being rich, he wasnow very, very poor. 

When the auction was over and all the things were sold, and it wasgetting quite dark (for it was in the month of November), Clara andCharles stood in one of the empty parlours, and wondered what theyshould do for supper, and where they should sleep that night; for allthe beds were sold, and they saw the servants go away one after another. 

At last nurse came in with her bonnet and cloak, and said: 'Miss Clara, I am going away to my own cottage, and as you have always been a kind, good child, you shall go with me, and I will take care of you. '

Then Clara said, 'Thank you; but will you not take Charles also?'

'No, ' said nurse; 'he has always been such a proud, bad boy that I willnot take him. I have very little to spare, for I am a poor woman, andwhat I have is not more than will keep my own children and you, MissClara. '

Saying this, she got into the cart, and took Clara on her lap, and oneof the footmen got in after her, and drove away from the door. 

Charles stood on the step of the door, and looked after them till theywere out of sight; and then he began to cry as if his heart would break. The servant of the gentleman who had purchased the house came and lockedthe door, so Charles could not get in any more, and he sat down on thestone steps, and covered his face with his hands, and cried bitterly. 

'Unhappy child that I am, ' sobbed he; 'what will become of me? Oh, if Ihad but been good like Clara, I should have found a friend, as she has;but no one cares what becomes of me, because I have been so wicked. Iused to despise the poor, and God, to punish me, has made me poorindeed. '

It was very cold, and the snow began to fall fast, and it grew quitedark. Charles rested his head on his knees, and was afraid to lookround; his clothes were almost wet through, and his limbs were benumbedwith cold; he had no place where he could ask shelter, for no one lovedhim; and he thought he should be obliged to stay there all night, andperhaps be frozen to death. 

Just then someone softly touched his hand, and said: 'Master Charles, Ihave been looking for you for more than an hour. '

Charles looked up; but when he saw it was Giles Bloomfield who had cometo seek him in his distress, he remembered how ill he had behaved tohim, so he hid his face, and began to weep afresh. 

Then Giles sat down by him on the steps, and said: 'Dear Master Charles, you must not stay here. See how fast it snows. You will catch your deathof cold. '

'Yes, I am very cold and hungry, ' sobbed Charles, 'but I have no homenow; I have nowhere else to go, and must stay here all night. '

'No, Master Charles, ' said Giles, 'you shall come home with me, andshall share my supper and my bed, though it is not such as you have beenused to; notwithstanding we are very poor, we will do our best to makeyou comfortable. '

'Oh, Giles!' said Charles, throwing his arms round Giles's neck, 'I donot deserve this kindness; I have been such a proud, wicked boy, andhave treated you so ill. I am sure you can never forgive me for havingtaken your pretty Snowball; and if _you_ forgive me, I can neverforgive myself. '

'Dear Master Charles, do not think of that now, ' said Giles, taking bothCharles's cold hands in his. 'Indeed, Master Charles, I should neverdare say my prayers if I was so wicked as to bear malice; and, now youare in distress, I would do anything in my power to serve you. So praycome home with me, and warm yourself, and get some supper. '

But Charles hid his face on Giles's bosom, and cried the more; at lasthe said:

'Giles, I am so ashamed of having behaved so cruelly to you, that I cannever go to your home, and eat the food that you are obliged to labourso hard for. '

'Master Charles, ' said Giles, 'that is because you are so proud. '

'Oh no, no!' sobbed Charles, 'I am not proud now, and I think I shallnever be proud again. ' So he kissed Giles, and they both went home toDame Bloomfield's cottage together. 

When Giles's mother saw Charles, she said: 'Why did did you bring thisproud, cross young gentleman here, Giles?'

Charles, when he heard her say so, thought he should be turned out againinto the cold, and began to cry afresh; but Giles said:

'Dear mother, Master Charles has no home to go to now; he is cold andhungry; I am sure you will let him stay here, and share my bed and mysupper. '

'He can stay here if he likes, ' said Dame Bloomfield; 'but you know, Giles, we are forced to work hard for what food we have, and I am surewe cannot afford to maintain Master Charles. '

'Then, ' said Giles, 'he shall have my supper to-night; he wants it morethan I do, for he has had no food all day. '

'You may please yourself about that, Giles; but remember, if you giveyour food to Master Charles, you must go without yourself. '

'Well, ' said Giles, 'I shall feel more pleasure in giving my supper toMaster Charles than in eating it myself. '

So he brought a stool, and, placing it in the warmest corner by thefire, made Charles sit down, and chafed his cold frozen hands, and triedto comfort him; for Charles was greatly afflicted when he saw thateveryone hated him; but he knew that it was his own fault, and a justpunishment for his pride and bad conduct. 

When Giles brought his basin of hot milk and bread for his supper, hecould not thank him for crying; and he was ashamed to eat it while Gileswent without; but he was so hungry, and the milk looked so nice, that hedid not know how to refuse it; and Giles begged him so earnestly to eatthat at last he did so, and once more felt warm and comfortable. 

Then Giles said to him: 'Now, Master Charles, will you go to bed? Mineis but a coarse, hard bed, but it is very clean. ' So he took the lamp toshow Charles the way to the chamber in which he was to sleep. 

Charles was surprised at seeing no staircase, but only a ladder. Gileslaughed when he saw how Charles stared, and he said:

'You have been used to live in a grand house, Master Charles, and knownothing of the shifts the poor are forced to make. '

Then Charles climbed up the ladder, and Giles showed him a little room, not much larger than a closet, with no furniture in it, but a stump bedwithout any hangings, and covered with a coarse, woollen rug. CharlesGrant had never even seen such a bed before, but he was thankful thathe could get any place to sleep in, out of the cold and snow. 

Giles helped Charles to undress, for Charles was so helpless he did notknow how to undress himself. When he was going to step into bed, Gilesexclaimed:

'Will you not say your prayers before you go to bed, Master Charles?'

Charles blushed and hung down his head, for he had been so naughty thathe had not said his prayers for a long time past, and had almostforgotten what his dear mother had taught him; and he told Giles so atlast. 

'Dear, dear!' said Giles, 'I never dare go to bed without saying mine. '

Then Charles said: 'I am sorry I have been so naughty as to forget myprayers; will you teach me yours, and I will never forget them again?'

Then they both knelt down by the side of the little bed, and Gilestaught Charles such prayers as he knew, and Charles went to bed muchhappier than he had been for a long time. 

Though the bed was hard, and the sheets brown and coarse, Charles was soweary that he soon fell asleep, and slept so soundly that he did notawake till it was broad day, and Giles was up and gone to work in thefields. 

When Charles looked round he thought he had never seen such a shabbyroom in his life. There was not so much as a chair or table or carpet init; he could see all the thatch and the rafters in the roof, for thechamber was not even ceiled, but showed the thatch and rafters, and, asI said before, there was not a single article of furniture in the room, except the bed. How different from the pretty little chamber in whichCharles used to sleep, with the nice white dimity window-curtains andhangings and mahogany tent-bed, with such comfortable bedding andhandsome white counterpane! However, he now thought himself veryfortunate that he had any roof to shelter him, or any bed, howeverhomely it might be, on which he could sleep. 

He thought he should like to get up and go downstairs, but he had alwaysbeen used to have a servant to dress him, and he did not know how todress himself, so while he was considering what he should do Giles cameinto the chamber. He had returned to get his breakfast, and not seeingCharles downstairs he concluded the cause of his absence, and came toassist him to dress. Charles observed how this matter was arranged, andresolved to do it for himself the next morning. 

When he was dressed they both knelt down by the bedside and said theirprayers, for though Giles had said his at the dawn of day, yet he neveromitted an opportunity of repeating his thanksgivings and praises to hisheavenly Father for the mercies and blessings which he enjoyed throughHis grace, for Giles possessed a grateful and contented heart, whichmade him look upon that state of life unto which it had pleased God tocall him, as that which was meet and fit for him, so he worked hard, andate the bread of labour with cheerfulness and satisfaction. 

When Charles and Giles joined the family below Dame Bloomfield set aporringer of milk and a piece of brown bread for everyone but Charles, who looked ready to cry, but Giles put his porringer before him, andgave him another spoon, and said: 'Master Charles, we will eat together, for there will be enough for both of us. ' The tears came into Charles'seyes, and he whispered: 'Dear Giles, you are very good. ' So these boyseat out of the same porringer, and broke of the same bread. 

After breakfast Giles went out to work, and Charles thought it very dulltill he returned to dinner. When Dame Bloomfield gave her children theirdinners there was a dumpling for everyone but Charles; then Giles cuthis dumpling in half, and gave one part to Charles, and eat the otherhalf himself. Now this was very good of Giles, for he was very hungryhimself, but he could not bear to see Charles sad and hungry while hewas eating, and Giles liked to do good because he knew it was pleasingto God. 

As soon as dinner was over Giles went out to work again, and Charles wasas dull as he had been in the morning, for all the family were at workin some way or other, and could not spare time to amuse or talk to him, and he did nothing but sigh and fret to himself till evening, when Gilescame home from work. 

Giles's eldest sister made a bright fire, and they all sat round it andtalked and told stories, and Giles nursed the baby, and played with theother little ones, and seemed quite happy, and so he was, for he haddone his duty, and everyone loved him for being so good. 

After supper Giles taught those of his sisters who were old enough toread and write, and when they had finished learning their tasks Charlestook up the book, and said: 'Giles, will you teach me to read?' andGiles said: 'Certainly, Master Charles, I will, but I am sure you mustknow how to read a great deal better than such a poor boy as I am. '

'I might have done so, ' said Charles, 'but, Giles, I was a sad, naughty, perverse boy, and hated to learn any thing that was good; but I hope Iknow better now, and if you will only take the trouble of teaching me Iwill try and make up for my lost time. '

So Giles gave Charles a lesson that very night, and every evening aftersupper he heard him read and spell what he had learned during the day, and Charles took such pains that he soon began to read so well that heused to amuse himself by reading pretty stories, and by teaching littleBetty, one of Giles's youngest sisters, to read. 

Still Charles used to be exceedingly hungry, for he had not more thanhalf the quantity of food he was used to eat, and Giles was hungry too, and grew pale and thin. 

Then Charles said to himself: 'It is not right for me to eat the breadwhich poor Giles works so hard to earn; I will try and get my ownliving, for why should I not do so, as well as Giles?' So one morning, when Giles rose, as usual, at five o'clock, Charles got up too. ThenGiles said:

'Why do you rise so early this cold morning, Master Charles?'

'Because I am going out to work with you, Giles, if you will permit me, 'answered Charles. 

'Oh, Master Charles, such work as I do is not fit for a young gentlemanlike you, ' said Giles. 

'You must not call me a young gentleman _now_, for I am only a poor boy, and poorer than other poor boys, for they can earn their own living, while I should have been starved to death had not you given me half ofthe bread you work so hard for. But I will not be a burthen to you anylonger, but learn to work and get my own living as you do. '

Charles now meant to keep his word, and they both went out into thefields, and worked together at picking stones off the young crops ofwheat and clover, and before breakfast Giles had picked up two bushelsof stones and Charles one, and the farmer gave them a penny per bushelfor gathering them up. 

Then they made haste back to the cottage, and Giles gave his mother themoney he had earned, and Charles did the same, and when the dame pouredout the milk for the family Charles saw that she filled a porringer forhim also, and they had all a good breakfast that morning, and Charlesfelt quite happy because he had not eaten the bread of idleness. So hewent out to work with Giles again, and earned twopence before dinner. 

When Dame Bloomfield took up the dumplings Charles saw there was one forhim, and he felt happy that poor Giles had not to deprive himself ofhalf his food that he might eat. 

Charles went out to work every day with Giles, and in the evening helearned to read and write. He became quite good and gentle, and enjoyedmore happiness than he had experienced in his life before. And why wasCharles happy? I will tell you, my dear children. Because he was nolonger a proud, froward boy as he had been, but was kind andsweet-tempered to everyone, and did his duty both to God and himself. 

The winter passed swiftly away, and the spring came, and the birds beganto sing, and the trees looked green and gay, and the pretty flowersbloomed in the gardens and covered the meadows all over, and scented theair with their fragrance, and Charles thought it very pleasant to workin the fields, and hear the birds sing as they tended their young, orbuilt their nests among the green boughs or in the hedges. 

One day Giles said to Charles: 'Master Charles, we cannot work togetherin the fields any more; I have got a new employment. '

'But why cannot I work with you?' asked Charles. 

'Because, sir, you will not like to work where I am going, ' answeredGiles. Charles asked where that was. 'In the garden of the great house, Master Charles, where you used to live, ' said Giles. 

Charles looked very sorrowful, and remained silent for some minutes; atlast he said: 'Well, Giles, I will go with you; my clothes are grownshabby now, and nobody will know me, and if they did I hope I am toowise to be ashamed of doing my duty, so let us go directly. '

Then Giles took Charles into the garden, and the gardener gave them eacha hoe and a rake, and told them to hoe up the weeds on the flowerborders, and then rake them neatly over, and promised if they workedwell he would give them eightpence per day. 

Now this was much pleasanter than picking stones in the field, butCharles was very sad, and could not refrain from shedding tears when hethought of the time when he used to play in that very garden, and hethought, too, of his dear mamma who was dead, and of his sister Clara, whom he had not seen for so many months, but he worked as hard as hecould, and the gardener praised them both, and he gave them a basket toput the weeds in, and showed them how to rake the borders smooth. 

Just as they had finished the job, and Charles was saying to Giles, 'Howneat our work looks!' a little boy, dressed very fine, came into thegarden, and, as he passed them, said: 'I am glad I am a gentleman's son, and not obliged to work like these dirty boys. '

When Charles thought the little boy was out of hearing, he said toGiles: 'That little boy is as wicked as I used to be, and I doubt notbut that God will punish him in the same way if he does not mend hismanners. '

The little boy, who had overheard what Charles said, was very angry, andmade ugly faces, and ran into the newly-raked beds, and covered themwith footmarks. Then Charles said: 'I am sorry for you, young gentleman, for I see you are not good. '

'How dare you say I am not good?' said this naughty child. 'I am agreat deal better than you, for I am a gentleman, and you are only apoor boy. '

'Yes, ' said Charles, his eyes filling with tears as he spoke, 'I am, indeed, only a poor boy _now_, but I was once rich like you, and livedin this very house, and wore fine clothes, and had plenty of toys andmoney, and was just as proud and naughty as you are, but God, to punishme, took away my parents and all those things that I had been so proudof, and that I had made such a bad use of, and reduced me to a poor boy, as you see. '

When the little boy heard this he looked very serious, and said: 'I havebeen very naughty, but I will do so no more, ' and he went into thehouse, and never teased Charles or Giles again. 

A few months after this, when Charles and Giles were working as usual inthe garden, they saw a gentleman come down one of the walks, leading bythe hand a little girl dressed in a black silk frock and bonnet trimmedwith crape. 

'Ah, Giles, ' said Charles, 'how like that young lady is to my sisterClara. I wonder whether I shall ever see my dear sister Clara again. '

'Brother Charles, dear brother Charles, you have not then quiteforgotten your sister Clara, ' said the little girl, throwing her armsround his neck as she spoke. 

When Charles saw that it was, indeed, his own dear sister Clara, hekissed her and cried with joy. 

Then he told Clara all that had happened to him since the day they hadparted, and how sorry he had been for all his past conduct, and he askedher who the gentleman was that had brought her into the garden. 

'It is our uncle, dear Charles. You know our dear mother had a brotherwho lived in India that she used frequently to talk about. Well, when hecame home, and heard that mother was dead, and we were in distress, hecame to nurse's cottage, and took me home to his house, and has now cometo find you, for he is very good and kind, and loves us both for ourdear mother's sake. '

'And will he take me home too?' said Charles. 

'Yes, my boy, ' said Charles's uncle, taking him by the hand, 'becauseyou are good and kind, and are no longer cross and proud, as I heard youused to be. You shall come home with me this very day, if you please, and I will teach you everything that a young gentleman should know, andyou and Clara shall be my children so long as you continue to bedeserving of my love, and are not unkind, nor despise those who arebeneath you in situation. '

'Indeed, uncle, ' said Charles, 'I can now feel for the poor, and I wouldrather remain as I am than be rich if I thought I should ever behave asI used to do. '

'My dear child, ' said his uncle, kissing him with great affection, 'continue to think so, and you will never act amiss. The first andgreatest step toward amendment is acknowledging our faults. What ispassed shall be remembered no more, and I doubt not but that we shallall be happy for the time to come. '

'But, uncle, ' said Charles, laying his hand on his uncle's arm, 'I havesomething to ask of you. '

'Well, Charles, and what would you have of me?' said his uncle. 

Then Charles led Giles to his uncle, and related all he had done forhim; how he had taken him to his own home, and given him half of hisfood and his bed, and taught him to read and to work; he, likewise, toldhis uncle how ill he had behaved to Giles in depriving him of his prettySnowball, and he said: 'Dear uncle, will you allow Giles to share mygood fortune, for I cannot be happy while he is in want, and he isbetter than me, for he returned good for evil. '

Then his uncle said: 'Charles, I should not have loved you had youforgotten your kind friend. ' And he asked Giles if he would like to goto his house and live with him, and spend his time in learning to readand write, and in improving his mind, instead of hard labour. 

'I should like it very much indeed, sir, ' said Giles, 'but I cannotaccept your kind offer. '

'And why not, my good little friend?'

'Because, sir, ' said Giles, bursting into tears, 'my poor mother andsisters must go to the workhouse or starve if I did not stay and workfor them, and I could not be happy if I lived in a fine house, and knewthey were in want of a bit of bread to eat. '

'Then, ' said the gentleman smiling, 'for your sake they shall never wantanything, for I will put them into a cottage of my own, and will takecare of them, and you shall live with me, and I will love you as if youwere my own child, and remember, Giles, I do this as a reward for yourkindness to Charles when he was unhappy and in great distress. '

Charles's uncle was as good as his word, and Giles received theblessings of a good education, while his mother and sisters weremaintained by the benevolence of his benefactor. 

Charles was so careful not to relapse into his former errors that hebecame as remarkable for his gentleness and the goodness of his heart ashe had formerly been for his pride and unkindness, and in the diligentperformance of his duty, both to God and man, he proved to his uncle thesincerity of his amendment. 

Scourhill's Adventures

There was a review of a regiment of horse at a small distance from theAcademy, and several of the boys were allowed to be present. On the roadthey fell in with a man who was walking, and leading a horse with twoempty panniers suspended on each side of it. Scourhill requested a ride;the man consented, and the youth mounted upon the horse. 

The animal had long been a dragoon horse, and when it became old it wassold to a farmer. But it had not forgot its early habits, for onarriving within sight of the cavalry the old charger pricked up itsears, and seemed to resume the fire of youth. The young men laughed, andcomplimented Scourhill on the appearance he made upon his war-horse; butwhile they were yet speaking the trumpet sounded, and the animal, rousedinto spirit, set off at a full trot, and fell into the front rank. Immediately the signal was given for a charge, and Scourhill and hishorse, with the baskets dangling by its sides, flew off at full speed, amid the shouts and huzzas of the whole crowd. The instant that theregiment halted the youth slid off the horse, which he delivered to itsowner, and, completely mortified with his military exhibition, he sunkinto the crowd, and regained his companions. 

The young men, on their return home, as they were about to enter thevillage, saw an ass feeding by the roadside. 'What a fine appearance, 'said Falsesight to Scourhill, 'you would make upon this noble animal, atthe head of the regiment!' Saying this, he attempted to leap upon itsback, but was not able. Scourhill, in order to show his agility, made aspring, and easily accomplished what his companion had tried in vain. Instantly Falsesight took off his hat, and gave the animal a few slaps, and away it cantered into the village, pursued by the young men, urgingit to full speed, while every boy whom they met joined in the pursuit, and every cottage poured out its matrons and children and dogs. 

In the midst of this uproar, the Rector entered the village, and wascoming full upon Scourhill and his retinue when the ass made a suddenhalt before the door of a tinker, its master, and threw its rider upon alarge heap of mire. The youth instantly started up, and, without everlooking behind him to thank his attendants for the procession, he ranhome to the Academy. 

He retired, and some time after his arrival he wrote a small note to theRector, expressive of sorrow for his conduct, and requesting permissionto keep his room for the evening. Mr. Macadam granted the request, andat the same time desired the servant to say that he was assured thatMaster Scourhill would find himself much fatigued after his brilliantdisplay of assmanship, which so much astonished the village. 

The errors of a boy must be corrected by corporal punishment, or by thedeprivation of something which he values, or by his own self-reproach. The whole aim of Mr. Macadam, in the education of his pupils, was toraise them to that dignity of character which renders the last mode ofpunishment efficient for right conduct. To raise youth, however, to sucha character requires knowledge, vigilance, affectionate severity, andprudent indulgence; and if few boys possess it, let us not complain ofhuman nature. Will the husbandman who in spring has neglected his fieldsmeet with commiseration when he complains that his harvest has failed?

Scourhill received no punishment, excepting what arose from his ownsense of shame; but next day the Rector spoke to his pupils, and heparticularly cautioned them against those pursuits which tend to debasethe character. 'The rich, ' said he, 'owe their virtues and talents tosociety as much as the poor man does his industry; and if the formerfall into low amusements, they do not become useless only; theyfrequently become vicious, and sometimes they make as honourable anexhibition as did Master Scourhill on the ass pursued by the boys anddogs of the village. '

The youth was advised to make some reparation or apology to the tinker, the particular nature of which was left to his own discretion; and forthis purpose he was permitted to leave the Academy for the evening. 

The tinker had a child, and Scourhill thought that an apology to thefather and a present to the son would amply atone for his imprudence. 

[Illustration: _Every boy . .. Joined in the pursuit, and every cottagepoured out its matrons and children and dogs. --Page 163. _]

Before entering the village, Scourhill had to pass a mill. A childplaying on the margin of the stream that supplied it with water fell in, and was floating toward the mill-wheel, when the youth, seeing itsdanger, rushed forward, and caught it by the clothes just as it was onthe point of destruction. Several people witnessed the event, and thereport that a child was carried into the mill-wheel flew through thevillage, and every mother came running to the place. The woman to whomthe child belonged soon heard its name, and, pushing in a frantic mannerthrough the crowd, she flew to it, and, taking it in her arms, cried, clasping it to her bosom, 'My child, my child!' She then silently gazedupon its face, apparently to see whether it was really alive, and, shedding tears, she exclaimed, 'Heaven be praised!'

After her mind became somewhat more composed, Scourhill was pointed outto her; she in a moment put the child out of her arms, and, hastilymaking up to the youth, she embraced him, and gratefully thanked him forrescuing her child. 

Scourhill, as soon as the general attention was withdrawn from him, retired from the crowd, and went to the cottage of the tinker. Heentered, and, finding the man at work, he took off his hat, and in anobliging manner apologized for his conduct. The tinker said, smiling:'To be sure, you had a grand procession, but my ass is nothing the worsefor it, and I freely forgive you. ' The youth politely thanked him, andjust as he was about to retire, he slipped a little money into the handof the tinker's son. 

The child, proud of its present, showed it to its father, who instantlythrew down his tools and ran out of the house after the youth. The crowdwere returning from the mill; Scourhill had to pass through it, and thematrons were not a little surprised to see the deliverer of the childpursued by the mender of kettles. The tinker soon overtook him, and, having thanked him for his polite and generous conduct, he turned aboutand satisfied the curiosity of those who surrounded him. Scourhillreceived much applause, and while he continued his course every eyepursued him in admiration. 

Mr. Macadam wrote an account of the preceding adventures to Scourhill'sfather, and the old gentleman returned an answer, in which he says:'Your letter rejoices my heart. Make my son Joseph a scholar, but, aboveall, make him an honest man. I know little about your Latin and Greek, as being things very much out of my way; but this I know--that a man, ifhis heart is right, can look a fellow-creature in the face; but withoutbeing an honest man, why, he had better not live. 

'When your letter came to hand, I was sitting at dinner, after a mostnoble chase, in the midst of my friends, all men of the right sort, downright hearty good fellows. The cloth was removed, and we had justsung, _Bright Phoebus had mounted his chariot of day_, when my servantJonathan came in with your letter. 

'But you must know my servant. Jonathan is none of your flighty, bowingfootmen that whip in upon you with the spring of a fox. No, Jonathan isbetter trained. He opens the door leisurely, and marches slowly towithin four yards of my chair, and there he halts, his eye resting uponme. If the conversation is general, he comes forward, and delivers hismessage; but if I am telling one of my hunting stories, he must neitherspeak nor move till he receives my orders. Well, as I said, Jonathancame in with your letter. I was in the middle of one of my best stories, and, according to custom, he took his station. I came to a pause andlooked at him. He made his bow, but I continued my story. I made asecond pause, and again turned my eye toward him. He bowed. "I see you, Jonathan, " said I, and went on with my story. At the third pause I tooka few seconds to breathe. The honest fellow made one of his lowest bows. I said to him, "Come hither. A letter you have for me? Let me see it. "(I know your handwriting. ) "Carry it, honest Jonathan, to yourmistress, " said I; "for my story is not yet finished. It is from theworthy man, the Rector; it is about Joseph; return, and let me knowwhether the youngster continues to behave well. "

'One of the company remarked the peculiar manner of Jonathan, and thisbrought on a conversation concerning servants. "I have an Irish one, "said Squire Danby, "a fellow with a sly, blunt countenance; but hisheart is honest and affectionate. Yesterday I sent him with a message;he stayed too long, and on his return I was much displeased. 'Where doyou come from?' I cried in an angry tone. 'From Belfast, ' he calmlyreplied. 'What!' exclaimed I, raising my voice, 'you are still the oldman in your answers!' 'Old man, ' replied he, with a blunt but respectfulair; 'that is just what my father used to say. "Pat, " says he, "were youto live to the age of Methuselah, you would still be Patrick O'Donnar. "'I lost all patience. 'Sirrah!' cried I, 'to whom do you speak?' 'Sir, did you not know, ' answered he, 'I would tell you. ' I was extremelyprovoked; I gave him a push from me, and he fell upon a favourite dog, which set up a loud howl. Pat leisurely arose, muttering, 'Ay, Towler, Isee you are ashamed, ' and he walked slowly away. He soon returned, and, coming up to me, said with a grave countenance that he was determined toquit my service. My anger had subsided, and I, smiling, said, 'Why, Pat, leave my service?' 'Because, sir, ' replied he, 'there is no bearing withyour anger. ' 'Tut, my anger, ' I cried, 'it is a mere blast, which isquickly over. ' 'Yes, ' said he, with one of his vacant stares, 'it is ablast; but it is the blast of a hurricane which knocks me down. ' Ieasily reconciled him to his situation. "

'In a short while Jonathan came back, and in a fluttered manner saidthat his mistress wanted to speak with me. Immediately I left the table, and went to my wife. As I entered the door of the apartment, I saw thatshe was in tears; my heart sunk; my limbs trembled, and, walking up toher, I took her hand, and kissed her cheek; for we have ever lived in aloving manner, and I cried, "My dear, be comforted. Is our son Josephdead?" She in a hurried tone talked of a dragoon horse, an ass, a child, and a tinker. "What!" cried I, "my dear, has our son Joseph to do withdragoon asses and horses?" I unwittingly put the asses first. Shelaughed. I stared at her, and, shaking my head, I said to myself, "Ah!my poor wife!" For I really thought that she was touched in the brain. 

'She then thrust the letter into my hand; I read it, and when I came tothe last part I felt that I was a father. When I saw my boy catching thechild, when I saw the mother embracing him, when I saw them all blessinghim, my heart overflowed with tenderness, and I exclaimed, "He is indeedmy son Joseph. " My wife, who saw that I was affected, wept, and, while Iwas drying my own eyes, I always cried to her, "My dear, do not weep. "

'I then descended to the company, with the letter in my hand, and toldthem that I should let them hear a story about my son. I then gave theletter to my friend, Squire Sleekface, and requested him to read it. Myfriend, who is almost as broad as long, has a jolly round countenance, and when he is merry he shakes the whole house with his laughter. TheSquire read with decent composure till he came to the old horse at fullcharge, with the paniers dancing by its sides. Here he made a full stop;the letter fell upon his knee, and his sides were convulsed withlaughter. He began again, and got tolerably well through with the assrace, till he arrived at the turning-post, where Joseph was laid in themire. At this place my friend, with his immoderate laughter, slid offhis chair, and fell with his back flat upon the floor, and there he layrolling from one side to another, while we all stood round him shakingour sides with laughter. At this moment honest Jonathan stalked in withhis solemn pace, and took his station waiting my orders. His appearanceadded still more to our mirth. 

'At length said I, "Honest Jonathan, lend us a hand. " We got the Squireplaced upon his chair; we all dried our eyes, and again took our seats. When the last part of your letter was read, all was silence andattention, and at the end of it my friend Sleekface called, "A bumper!"He then gave the toast, "May Joseph honour his father by being an honestman!" The second toast was, "May we, without being philosophers, embraceevery man as a brother; and, without being courtiers, may we ever smileupon a friend!" We then drank the land o' cakes, and we concluded thewhole with singing "Rule Britannia. "'

The Journal

It was the custom in Mr. Pemberton's family for the children and theirgoverness, Miss Lambert, to assemble in the parlour every Saturdayevening that she might read a journal of their behaviour during the pastweek in the presence of their father and mother. Those who wereconscious of having acted rightly longed for the time of examination, asthey were sure not only of receiving applause, but also of beingadmitted as guests to supper, when an agreeable entertainment wasprovided for them. 

The countenances of the guilty were easily distinguished. Gladly wouldthey have avoided the eye of their parents on these occasions, but thatwas not allowed; they were obliged to appear. Indeed, their attendanceconstituted part of their punishment. 

Mr. And Mrs. Pemberton always invited company to be present when theyhad received an intimation from Miss Lambert that no faults wereregistered in the journal, which frequently happened, as they werechildren of docile dispositions, though sometimes they acted withoutconsideration. Several ladies in the neighbourhood took particularpleasure in bringing their sons and daughters to be spectators of thosejoyful evenings. 

After the journal was read, rewards were bestowed on those who haddeserved them. Supper was then served up, which generally consisted ofdried fruits, milk, with blanc-mange, jellies, etc. , placed with greattaste by Miss Pemberton, who was always required to set out the table onthose nights. 

The repast being over, the time was spent pleasantly, either in cheerfulconversation, or some amusement suitable to the festivity of theoccasion. 

Charlotte Somenors, one of their intimate companions, was frequentlyinvited to partake of their pleasure on a happy Saturday, for so theytermed those days when none of them had reason to be oppressed by thefear of punishment. 

The last time she attended one of those meetings I requested her to giveme an account of the transactions of the evening, with which I was somuch pleased that I committed it to writing, lest the circumstancesshould escape my memory; and as I suppose it is likely to amuse my youngreaders, and at the same time to furnish them with instructive examples, I transcribe it for their use. The company being met, Miss Lambertintroduced her pupils--Caroline, Emma, Lucy, and George--after which shesat down and began to read as follows:

'It is with great pleasure I recall the events of the last few days. Although they will not present a perfect model of virtue and obedience, they at least prove that the dear children entrusted to my care arewilling to repair the faults which they have inadvertently committed. Itrust that the errors which this journal records will be considered aswholly effaced by the repentance and confessions they have occasioned. 

'_Monday. _--Morning lessons particularly well attended. George learned ahymn of Mrs. Barbauld's at his own request. A dispute arose between thetwo young ladies in the afternoon on the subject of choosing a walk. 

'Miss Pemberton was desirous of winding along the banks of the river, asfar as the church, that she might see the fine new monument raised tothe memory of Lady Modish. Her sisters insisted on going to the nextvillage, as they wanted to buy muslin for a doll's frock. After somelittle altercation on each side Caroline, with affectionatecondescension, gave way to her sisters' inclination, though, as eldest, she had the right of choice, saying she could see the monument anothertime. I thought her conduct deserved a reward; therefore, afterpurchasing the articles her sisters wanted, I indulged her by extendingour walk to the church. 

'_Tuesday. _--George came running in out of breath to show me abirds'-nest he had just taken. It belonged to the blackbirds that usedto amuse us with their song in the grove. "Alas! George, you have robbedmy favourite birds of their eggs. We shall no longer be charmed withtheir warbling; they will droop, and perhaps die of grief. "

'"The gardener told me where to find the nest. He lifted me up to takeit, and I thought there was no harm in it, as the young ones were nothatched, and intended to make my sisters a present of the eggs. "

'The young ladies cried out with one voice that they never could accepta gift procured by such cruelty, and desired him to make haste andreplace it where he found it. 

'At first he was reluctant to comply with this proposal, but after I hadconvinced him of the affection of the old ones, even towards their eggs, and the pains it had cost them to build the nest, he repented that hehad taken it, and was as desirous as any of us that it should bereturned to its former situation. He has now the satisfaction of dailywatching the solicitude and tenderness of the hen, which sits close, andwe hope will hatch in a few days. 

'_Wednesday. _--I was surprised on entering Lucy's apartment to hear hercommand Betty in a very imperious tone to wash out all her doll's linenimmediately. 

'The poor girl remonstrated that she had a great deal of business to do, and should have no time; but that she would wash it the firstopportunity with pleasure. Lucy repeated her commands, and would receiveno excuse. When she saw me she blushed, conscious that her behaviourwould not meet my approbation. I sent Betty downstairs, and explained toLucy the impropriety of such conduct. "Gentleness to inferiors, " said I, "is the mark of a good understanding, as well as of a sweet disposition. Servants are our fellow-creatures. Though situated less fortunately thanourselves, are we to increase the unhappiness of their lot by thetyranny of our treatment towards them? Circumstances may change. Yourfather may become poor, and you may be reduced to the conditions of aservant. Consider how unkind harsh words would appear to you, and neversay that to a domestic which would wound you in their situation. Meritis confined to no rank. Betty is a worthy young woman, and entitled toyour respect as well as tenderness, for the many kind offices sheperforms for you. What a helpless being would you be without herassistance! She makes your clothes, and aids you to put them on; shenurses you when you are sick, and attends you on all occasions. Can youforget the obligations you owe her, and command her with haughtiness?There is but one way to repair your fault. You have insulted her; askher forgiveness. "

'"That I will do most willingly, " replied Lucy. "I love Betty, andshould be very sorry to have said anything to vex her. I spoke withoutreflection. "

'She ran downstairs directly and made a proper apology to Betty, and Ihave the pleasure to add has since bought a pretty ribbon with herpocket-money, which she has given her as a token of her regards. 

'_Thursday. _--Emma is extremely fond of keeping animals of differentkinds in a domestic state, and I laid no restraint upon this inclinationwhilst I observed her attentive to supply the daily wants of each. OnThursday morning I had the mortification to find her bird-cages dirty, and the glasses for food and water almost empty. I made no remark, butproceeded to the room where she keeps her silk-worms. The trays werefilled with dead leaves, which the poor insects crawled over, vainlyendeavouring to find a piece sufficiently moist to satisfy their cravingappetite. From thence I went to the rabbits, and found them withoutvictuals, and so hungry that they had begun to gnaw the belts of thehutches. I inquired for Emma, but was some time before I could discoverwhere she was. At length I found her very busy in making a garden withher brother George, so much taken up with her new employment that shehad totally forgotten to clean or feed her poor prisoners. When I toldher the situation they were in she shed tears and reproached herselfwith great neglect. She did not lose a moment in making all thereparation in her power, but immediately left the garden that had somuch engrossed her thoughts and supplied her dumb family with suitablefood and attendance. This circumstance afforded me an opportunity ofexpressing my sentiments on depriving birds of their liberty, andconfining them in cages, a custom I cannot approve, as it not onlysubjects them to suffer much when they are first caught, but frequentlyexposes them to a cruel death from the negligence of those who have thecare of them. 

[Illustration: _George was despatched to desire one of the servants tobring a basket, in which we carried the poor sufferer. --Page 179. _]

'Cowper has written some pleasing lines on a goldfinch starved to deathin a cage, which Emma has learned by heart, and will repeat when I havefinished reading. Her concern was so great for her carelessness that sheoffered to let her birds fly, and turn the rabbits out on the common. Pleased with her intention to do right, I gave her high commendations;but informed her that they were rendered unable to provide forthemselves by being kept in a state of confinement, and therefore evenliberty would be a barbarous gift to them now. Punctuality in supplyingthem with everything necessary was the only kindness that can be shownto them, since they have forgotten the habits of their state of Nature. She has been very exact since this conversation in feeding and cleaningthem, and does everything in her power to make amends for their loss offreedom. 

'_Friday. _--As we were walking through the meadows Caroline observedsomething white lying near a hedge. Curiosity tempted us to approach it. As we drew near we found it was a young lamb almost dead, by someaccident abandoned by its dam. Its helpless condition called forth ourpity, and we consulted how we should contrive to carry it home. Aftermuch deliberation George was despatched to desire one of the servants tobring a basket, in which we carried the poor sufferer. Cold and hungerwere its principal disorders, which were soon relieved by the assiduityof my humane companions. We chafed it by the fire, whilst anotherprepared bread and milk, that it might suck through a quill. Carolinecould not sleep, lest the lamb should suffer for want of food, but roseseveral times in the night to give it nourishment. Such kind treatmentsoon restored it to health. It is decorated with a blue ribbon about itsneck, and is already become a general favourite. 

'_Saturday. _--George has been so much taken up in playing with the lambthis morning that he has suffered himself to be called three times toattend Mr. Spicer, his writing-master, before he made any reply, andwhen he did come, I am sorry to say that the blots in his copy-bookshowed that his attention was not fixed upon his employment. After somereproof he acknowledged his fault, and wrote another copy in his verybest manner. 

'I have now finished the account of the most remarkable transactions ofthis week, and though I am sensible that it exposes the levity andthoughtlessness of my pupils, I flatter myself that there are some marksin the disposition of each which promise improvement and more cautionfor the time to come. '

Ellen and George

or

The Game at Cricket

'Sit down, Ellen, ' said Mrs. Danvers to a lovely little girl of sevenyears of age, who was constantly jumping up to the window, instead ofcontinuing to look at the book she was holding in her hand, but Ellencontinued to look anywhere rather than at her book, and her mother beganto feel angry. 

The sun shone very brightly; it was a fine day in the month of June, andlittle Ellen thought it very hard that she was obliged to sit in thehouse instead of running about the fields with her brother George. 

George was at home for the holidays; he was a fine boy of about nineyears of age, and very fond of his sister Ellen; he would very oftenleave his companions to play with Ellen at quieter games than such as heengaged in with them, and Ellen was delighted when he would thus indulgeher; but on this morning George was with a party of young lads, somewhatolder than himself, who were engaged in a game of cricket, and poorEllen was obliged to go through her morning's task without him. 

'Should you not like to go and see George play by-and-by?' said Mrs. Danvers. 

'I should like it very much, mother, ' replied Ellen in a tone ofdelight. 

'Then mind your book now, ' said her mother, 'and we will afterwards walkdown to the cricket-field together. Father will be at home then, perhaps, and we shall have a nice walk together. '

For a few minutes Ellen looked in her book; she was very fond of herfather and of walking out with him, but not even this promised scheme ofpleasure could prevent her eyes from wandering every five minutes to thewindow, and at length a shout from the boys, who were in the fieldadjoining the house, entirely overcame her resolution, and again shemade a sudden spring to the window. 

The book was a sad drawback to Ellen's happiness, for she never lookedin it unless obliged, and her mother had always great difficulty infixing her attention on it when she wished to do so. 

Mrs. Danvers rose from her seat, and quietly lowered the venetian blind, and Ellen again stole back to her seat. She looked out of the corner ofone of her little blue eyes to see if her mother was angry, and againfor a few minutes was very assiduous. Presently the room door opened, and a servant entered to say that a poor woman wished to speak to hismistress. Mrs. Danvers desired that the woman should be shown into theroom, and she entered, leading in her hand a little girl about the ageof Ellen. Ellen's eyes were immediately diverted from her book, but hermother on this occasion said nothing. 

The poor woman came to entreat assistance for her sick husband, who wasunable to go to his work, and for her little girl, who had cut herfinger very badly. The child's finger was covered with a piece of rag, which was soaked with blood, and tears streaming from her eyes showedthat she was in pain. 

'How was the finger cut?' said Mrs. Danvers. 

'In helping father cut a piece of wood to mend Charley's hayfork, 'replied the child. 'Father fell down in a fit, and let the knife fallupon my finger. '

'It is a bad cut, ' said Mrs. Danvers. 'Run, Ellen, and ask Sarah forsome rag, and we will tie it up for her. '

Ellen was out of the room in a minute, for she liked running about andwaiting upon anyone in distress. Indeed, Ellen was on the whole a goodlittle girl, though she could not be made to like either her book or herwork. She soon returned with the rag, and Mrs. Danvers tied up thelittle girl's finger, and gave her a nice slice of cake to divert herattention from the pain she was suffering. 

'Is it painful now?' said Mrs. Danvers. 

'No, madam, ' replied the child, but she still continued to cry. 

'Then do not cry any more, and it will be soon well. '

'Mary does not cry so much about the pain, madam, ' said the poor woman, 'as because you see it is her thimble finger;' and she held the littlegirl's hand up. 

Ellen thought this could be no very great misfortune, but Ellen was asilly little girl to think so, and so she was convinced when the poorwoman said that Mary did needlework enough to keep her in shoes, andwith the pennies she got by reading her book well at school she hadbought two nice pinafores out of her own money. 

Ellen looked a little foolish and hung her head. The poor woman and theindustrious little girl left the room after Mrs. Danvers had promisedto call on the sick man in the evening, and Ellen again took up herbook. 

'I am afraid you will never get any pennies for reading well, ' said Mrs. Danvers in a few minutes, for again Ellen's eyes were off her book. Thekitten had frisked into the room; it was playing with a cork under thesofa, and Ellen laughed aloud as she saw it turn round, and over andover. 

'If you like the kitten better than George, ' said Mrs. Danvers, 'you maycontinue looking at it, and stay at home and read when your father and Igo out into the fields by-and-by. '

'Then pray, mother, put the kitten out of the room, ' said Ellen. Mrs. Danvers did so, and again Ellen seated herself on her little stool withher book. 

Ellen now really applied to her book, for she was very much afraid ofbeing left at home when her father and mother went out for their walk. It was very little trouble to her to learn when she gave her attentionto her lessons, and at length she got over them very creditably andwithout another word of reproof from mother. 

'Now, Ellen, ' said Mrs. Danvers, when the book was closed, 'if you hadattended to your lessons at once it would have been over long since, andby this time you might have finished your work, and have been running inthe field or garden. It is twelve o'clock, but I must have thishandkerchief hemmed before you move. '

'Oh dear, ' said Ellen, with a most sorrowful look, 'I thought I shouldhave gone out now. What a happy boy George is. Oh dear, I wish I was aboy, and then I should be running about all day, and should not beobliged to work. '

'You would not be obliged to work with your needle, Ellen, ' said Mrs. Danvers, as she turned down the hem of the handkerchief, 'but you wouldhave a great many things to learn much harder than you have now, andwhich would take you a great deal of time to get by heart unless youwere more attentive than you frequently are. '

'Oh, I am sure I could learn them, mother, ' answered Ellen; 'besides, George has nothing to do--nothing but to play and amuse himself all daylong. '

'This is not the case when George is at school, I can tell you, Ellen, 'replied Mrs. Danvers, 'nor is it always the case, you know, at home, andI much question whether the days that George sits down with his fatherfor a few hours after breakfast are not happier days generally thanthose which he spends exactly in the manner he himself chooses. '

'Oh, I think he is generally laughing and merry, ' said Ellen, 'when hesets off after breakfast into the hayfield, or the cricket meadow; muchmore so than when he walks with his grave face and his book under hisarm into father's study. '

'And I very well remember, Ellen, ' replied Mrs. Danvers, 'that thismerry mood of his, which you think so delightful, has more than onceended in a flood of tears before night, while, on the contrary, I thinkthe grave study countenance is generally turned into lasting smiles bydinner-time. But if you continue chatting the work will never be done. Sit quietly, and be industrious for half an hour, and then we will gointo the garden together, and see if the gardener has any strawberriesfor us; I dare say George's companions will like some strawberries andmilk after their game. '

While Ellen is attending to her mother's directions, and industriouslyperforming the task required of her; we will take a view of George andhis young companions, and see whether or not he is likely to be tiredof his day of idleness. 

George had got up very early in the morning to prepare the wickets forthe game of cricket, which had been proposed to him by several ladsliving in the neighbourhood. If the young reader is a little girl andnot a cricket player herself, she must ask her brothers or cousins todescribe to her what are wickets, and if neither of these are near hershe must ask her father, who will no doubt be very happy to give her thedesired information. George had been awake very early indeed, but as hehad had a strict injunction never to be out of doors before the gardenerand groom were at their work, he had lain in bed till he heard thestable-door opened, and then, hastily jumping up and dressing himself, had said his prayers, and was downstairs before the clock struck five. He then went to what he called his toolhouse, which was a little shed bythe side of the greenhouse, where the gardeners kept theirwatering-pots, and where he had a box containing a hammer, a saw, and aplane adapted to the use of young hands, and a small box containingnails. He had also here a repository of pieces of wood thrown aside bythe carpenter, and old sides and covers of boxes, which were no longerof any service for the uses for which they were designed, and here itwas that George's day of pleasure commenced. He hammered and chopped andsawed like any workman toiling for his bread till eight o'clock, whichwas the hour for breakfast, when, being somewhat hot and tired, he wasnot very sorry to hear the summons to a good plateful of bread andbutter, and a fine sweet draught of new milk. Young spirits are soonrefreshed, and George did not sit long at his breakfast; the meal wassoon despatched, and George again was out of doors and in his toolhouse. Hither Ellen had accompanied him for a few minutes to see the wicketscompleted, and, when finished, she had left him, longing to make one ofthe party who were now assembling to their play, and with whom she lefthim to return into the house, and join her mother in the drawing-room. 

[Illustration: _Hither Ellen accompanied him to see the wicketscompleted. --Page 186. _]

The boys soon began to play, and for some time the game went on verywell--all was high good humour; but George was the least of the party, and not having played so frequently, and not being so strong, did notget as many notches as many of his companions. At school he had beenmore accustomed to play with less boys, and perhaps with boys even lessthan himself, where he was the best player of the set, and he could nothelp feeling mortified now that he found himself the worst player, andnot being able to keep in at all against boys who played with so muchmore skill than he did. Sometimes he would not have minded this, but theday was very hot, George had risen early, began to be tired, and, as thetruth must be told on these occasions, rather cross and pettish. Severalgames had been played, all of which had been won by the set of boys ofthe side opposite to that of George, for as four of the lads with whomhe played were good players, and the fifth, Tom Fletcher, a much betterplayer than George, the consequence was that Tom and his two companionswere always on the successful side. One of the best players, CharlesWilson, then proposed to make an alteration in the sides; he askedGeorge to come over to him and his companions, and let Tom Fletcher takehis place; 'And then we shall see, ' he added, 'which plays the best, youor Tom. '

'Oh, you think you know already, ' said George, not in the best ofhumours, and throwing down his bat. 'I don't want to play at all, and Iknow I go for nothing. '

'The young man is up, ' said Wilson's companion, Stevens. 'Never mind, let him go; we shall do very well without him, ' and he was taking up thediscarded bat; but Wilson, who was a very good-natured boy, said:

'We do not think you go for nothing, George; but it is not likely youshould play so well as we do, who are so much bigger than you, or thanTom Fletcher, who lives with a bat in his hand, and always plays amongstthe great boys. I only wanted to make the game more even, for it is verytiresome for one party always to win, and the others to lose. Come, letus play on again as we were, and perhaps you may be more lucky. Come, Tom, take up the bat. '

Stevens looked very angry, and was about to make some provoking reply;but the other boys reminded him that they were playing in Mr. Danvers'ground, and there was no ground like his in the neighbourhood, so theball was again bowled, and the bat once more sent it whirling backthrough the long field. 

'Well done, little fellow!' said Wilson, as George again took the bat, and gave a pretty good hit. 'Well done; you'll soon play very well. Tom, take care of yourself, and mind your play, or we shall lose a gameagainst them now. '

'Not if you mind your play, ' replied the sharp Tom Fletcher, who sawthat Wilson in bowling favoured George, and gave him balls that he couldhardly help hitting. George exerted himself to the uttermost, and reallydid play better than he had done before; but his party would not havegot the game but for the good-nature of Wilson, who did not put out hisbest play, and whose party for the first time were losers. Wilson wasnot right in doing this, because, even in a game of cricket, he ought tohave been true to his side, and played his best. It was practisingdeceit, and deceit is never to be practised harmlessly. Neither wasGeorge much gratified by his success, for he felt he had gained it in achildish manner, and it would have been more honest to have lost thegame. Tom Fletcher and Stevens were both extremely angry, and bothdeclared they would not be beat in that way to please the humours of anyyoung pet. Tom said he would be matched singly against George, and theother two boys agreed it would be the fairest way, and also for them tobe matched against Stevens and Wilson, and then they should see whereall the strength lay. Everybody agreed to this, and the two younger boyswere to have the first game. Tom was to give George two notches to beginwith, to which George had no objection, as Tom was allowed to be a verycapital player for his age, and the two young antagonists commencedtheir game. For some time they went on pretty evenly. Tom was very cooland cautious, and George, who put out all his strength, got severalnotches, and continued ahead of his rival. It almost seemed doubtfulwhether George was not a better player than he had been taken for, andas the lads who were looking on cried out, 'Now, George, ' 'Now, Tom, 'George seemed to have as good a chance of the game as Tom. But Tom wasnot fagged as George was, nor was he so hasty in his temper. He was notat all moved at the show of adverse fortune against him, while Georgewas in a complete agitation, and on the very first reverse so put outthat he bit his lip with anger, and flung at the bowler with greatviolence the ball which he had missed. It took the direction of TomFletcher's eyebrow, narrowly escaping his eye, and the boy put up hishand in agony to his enlarged forehead. 

'Oh, I am very sorry, Tom, ' said George, who had most unintentionallydone the mischief. 

'Oh, I don't mind a bit, ' replied Tom, who was a very hardy boy. 'Standto your bat, man. ' And with one hand held to his aching head, he bowledsharply with the other, and dashed away the wickets. 

'It is hardly fair play, for he was off his guard, ' said one of theother boys. 

'If Tom could bowl with that black eye, ' said Stevens, 'I think Georgehas no right to complain. '

'I don't complain, ' said George, throwing down his bat. 'It's my ownfault; I was in a passion. The game is yours, Tom. '

'No, the game is not mine yet, George, ' said Tom, 'even if you go outnow, for though you sent the ball in a passion, I had no right to takeyou in as I did. I was in a passion, too, or I should not have bowledupon you so sharp. Come, give me your hand, and then take up the bat, man, and we will see what we can do. '

'Then take back your two notches to set against the black eye, ' saidGeorge, giving his hand. Tom, however, would not agree to this, and itwas at length settled that they should go on as if nothing had happened. George took up the bat, and Tom returned to the bowling place. George'snotches increased rapidly, but it was evident the cause of this was inTom's eye, which by this time was almost closed, though the spirited boydid not once complain of pain. George requested him not to go on, but hepersisted in bowling till his opponent threw down the bat, declaring itwas not fair play, and he did not want to beat in that mean way. 

All the boys agreed that George was right, and it was determined thatthe two young ones should defer their trial of skill till Tom hadrecovered the use of his eye, and the bigger boys then commenced theirgame. 

It was at this period of the day that Mrs. Danvers and Ellen, afterhaving taken a walk round the garden, and collected plenty ofstrawberries and cherries from the gardener, arrived in thecricket-field to inquire if the lads wished for any refreshment. Georgefelt ashamed, as he remembered Tom Fletcher's eye, and the good-naturedboy stepped forwards to speak to Mrs. Danvers, and draw attention fromTom to himself. The accident, however, could not be concealed; andthough Tom declared that it was nothing, Mrs. Danvers was sure that hemust be suffering great pain, and begged of him to go into the house andhave his eye bathed. Fletcher replied that he had better go home, forhis mother had a lotion that cured all sorts of bruises; and saying thathe would be up in the cricket-field again before the other game wasover, he bounded over the stile that separated one field from the next, and was out of sight in a minute. The other lads, who were justbeginning their game, took some fruit of Mrs. Danvers, but declined atpresent going into the house; and after standing a few minutes withEllen to look at the players, Mrs. Danvers persuaded George to accompanyher into the house, for she saw that he was not very comfortable, andthe day was intensely hot. 

As they walked along, Mrs. Danvers said nothing about the black eye, forshe thought that it had happened through some hastiness of George. Shefound by his manner he was ashamed of himself for something, and sheknew, as he was an honest boy, that when he was in a little betterhumour than he appeared at present he would relate to her everythingthat had passed. On arriving in the house, Mr. Danvers met them, andrequested Mrs. Danvers to walk down into the village to see the poor manwho had fallen down in a fit, and inquire if he wanted any assistance. Mrs. Danvers immediately complied, and recommending George to amusehimself with his sister during the rest of the morning, she left thehouse, and took the road to the village. 

'John has not taken that donkey home, ' said Mrs. Danvers, as they passedthrough a small field where there was one picking in the hedges. 

'No, ' replied Mr. Danvers, 'but I wish he would do so, for the animalonly destroys the beauty of the hedges, and endeavours to make ugly gapsin them. It is not at all fit for the children to ride. ' And theyproceeded in their walk. 

As soon as his father and mother were gone, George threw himself uponthe carpet on his back, for he was very tired, very cross, and verystiff. 

'Oh dear, what a tiresome day this is!' said he, as he rolled over onthe carpet. 'I wish it was over and bedtime was come. '

'Why, you have done nothing but play all day, ' said Ellen. Now Ellenfelt as brisk and as merry as she had done the very earliest part of themorning, and could not help wondering what could be the matter withGeorge that he was not equally so. 

'It is so hot--so very hot, ' said George. The kind little Ellen took herstool, and, standing on tiptoe, and reaching up to the top of theblinds, at the risk of her neck, at length succeeded in pulling themdown, and prevented the sun from shining into George's eyes. 

'Oh, how dark you have made the room, child, ' said George. 

'I thought you would like to have the sun shut out, George, ' said theaffectionate little Ellen, with a tear starting into her eyes, becauseGeorge _would not_ be pleased with her. 

George saw the tear, and was vexed with himself that he had caused it;but at present he was not sufficiently subdued to say he was sorry, andhe continued to roll upon the carpet backwards and forwards, till herolled over against a small rose-wood cabinet which stood in one cornerof the apartment. The slender fabric shook, and down rolled a beautifullittle vase, which had been sent for Mrs. Danvers by a particularfriend, and on which both the children knew she set a great value. George started up, and he and Ellen looked at each other. The vase wasbroken into twenty pieces. Ellen burst into tears, and George lookedvery sorrowful; but the vase was broken, and could not be restored. Atthis moment the door was opened, and a little favourite terrier dogbounded into the room, and began to play amongst the scatteredfragments. He was followed by a servant, from whom he had made hisescape, for she had been ordered to wash the dog, and the dog hadresisted, and ran away from the bath designed for him. 

'Why, what a piece of work is here, ' said the servant. 'Pompey, youlittle tiresome thing; now to come bouncing in here, and making all thismischief. What will mistress say when she sees her china broken, and allthrough you, you little tiresome puppy?'

George and Ellen looked at each other for a moment. Had they not beenwell instructed to abhor a lie, and speak the truth, the temptation wasa strong one, and they might have yielded to it; but they knew thatalthough they might deceive the servant, there was One who could not bedeceived, and by an instantaneous movement of honesty they both at onceexclaimed:

'It was not poor Pompey, Ann; it was----' Here Ellen stopped, unwillingto accuse her brother; but George with great firmness added: 'It was I, Ann. '

'Well, it's a sad business, ' said Ann, 'but I dare say my mistress willnot be very angry. I am sure I should not have known but what it wasPompey;' and in saying this Ann, who was herself a good well-principledgirl, silently resolved that her mistress should certainly know how theyoung gentleman and lady 'scorned, ' as she said, 'to tell a lie. '

Pompey was now removed, and George and Ellen were again left together. Ellen picked up the broken pieces, and then asked George if he had notbetter go and dress himself. 'His nice clean trousers, ' she said, 'werequite green and dirty from rubbing about upon the grass, and the flue ofthe carpet was come off upon his jacket. ' George, however, was not yetquite himself, though he was very much softened by the last misfortune. Ellen then asked him if she should get some quiet play for him--maps, puzzles, or bricks? But nothing would go right with George this day; allEllen's efforts to amuse him were in vain, and at length he resolvedupon going out of doors again. Ellen reminded him that mother hadrecommended him to stay indoors. 

'Yes, but she did not order me, ' said George; 'besides, I think I oughtto go down and ask how Tom Fletcher is, for I gave him that horribleblow in his face. '

'But you could not help it, I am sure, ' said Ellen. 

'I did not do it on purpose, ' said George, 'but I did it in a passion, and that is as bad. '

'Oh, this unlucky day, ' said Ellen, 'and this morning I thought you sohappy, but I think you had better stay till evening before you go downto Mr. Fletcher's. I am sure mother thought you had better stay quietthis morning, and mother is always so kind. '

George felt all this, and went out of the room, and returned into itseveral times, from irresolution and dissatisfaction with himself. Hekissed Ellen, and told her not to mind his being cross, upon which shethrew her arm across his shoulder, and entreated him to sit quietly athome, and not to go out and heat himself and make himself uncomfortablejust as he was beginning to get cool. 

George seemed to long to stay with Ellen, and even when he got to stepswhich led from the hall into the pleasure-grounds, he went very slowlydown, dragging one leg after the other, half inclined to return, but atthis moment that frisking little Pompey came by looking very bright andclean after his washing, and he jumped upon George, and invited him toplay. George then gave him a call, and they bounded together over thefields and hedges, and were very soon lost to the sight of Ellen, whoreturned into the house, and could scarcely refrain from shedding tears. 

George passed with his frolicsome companion through the same field whereMr. And Mrs. Danvers had noticed the donkey browsing in the hedges, andthe animal was still browsing, and picking up nettles and flowers, andenjoying his freedom. George might just as well have walked quietlythrough the field, and have left the poor donkey to his repast, but hewas in a very odd sort of a humour still, and thought it would be verygood fun to have a little scamper round the field upon the donkey'sback. He had heard his father and mother say that the donkey had neverbeen properly broken in, and that he was not fit to be ridden, butGeorge thought that if he could ride a pony, which he sometimes did, hecertainly could ride a donkey, and at any rate he was determined to try. He went back to the stable therefore to ask the groom for a halter, butthe groom was not in the stable, unfortunately, or he would have knownbetter, it is to be hoped, than to have encouraged the young gentlemanin what he knew to be wrong. So George helped himself to an old piece ofrope which he found under the cartshed, and, taking a small hunting-whipof his own, returned to the field with the intention of having a goodride. He had some difficulty in catching the animal, which was betterpleased to graze at liberty than to be confined, and have a burthen putupon his back. It must be owned, nevertheless, that it was not a veryheavy burthen preparing for him, nothing compared to the great weightsmany, many poor donkeys are compelled to toil under, and never stoppingto rest, perhaps, from morning till night. Still, the donkey had ratherbeen left in the hedges, and many a race round and round the field didhe give George, and many a time did he kick up his hinder legs indefiance before George at length succeeded in throwing the halter overhis head. The mighty feat, however, was, after repeated failures, accomplished, and George felt not a little satisfied when he foundhimself safely seated on the animal. He certainly was seated, but as toriding, it was what the donkey seemed resolved he should not do, andthere he continued to sit, perfectly still and quiet, for some minutes, for although the animal had shown great fleetness and alacrity whenGeorge was attempting to stop him, it was very different now George wasendeavouring to make him go on. George kicked as hard as he could kickwith both his heels, and flogged with all his might, but the stubbornbeast would not stir an inch. He then got off his back, and led him intothe road, which he had some difficulty in accomplishing, and when therehe would not go a bit better than in the field. He had no preference tothe turnpike road, and George, after fatiguing himself, and getting intoa violent heat by beating and thumping the animal's impenetrable skin, considered that he had better get him back again into the field, andthere leave him. But here again the stubborn beast perplexed him; hewould not budge an inch, no, not even when George pulled and dragged himby the halter till his arms ached so much he was obliged to desist. Nowwhat was to be done? The donkey was not his father's; it was borrowed. If he left it on the road it would be lost or stolen, and as to ridingit or leading it away it seemed entirely impossible. He was standing innot a very happy mood, and leaning against the donkey's neck, when abutcher's boy came jogging along upon his shaggy and bareboned pony. 

'Do you want to get him on, sir?' said the boy. 

'Yes, but he won't stir, ' said George. 

'Oh, trust me to making him stir, ' replied the hatless, greasy-hairedlad. 'Get upon his back, sir, and I'll send him on for you. '

George was upon his back in a minute, but with all the famed prowess ofthe butcher's boy as a donkey driver, and with all George's renewedthumps and kicks, the animal would not move from the spot where he hadfixed himself. The butcher's boy was quite in a rage, and he was ventinghis spleen upon the stubbornness of all donkeys, and of this donkey inparticular, when the sudden sound of a horn made both the donkey and thepony prick up their ears. In a few moments a stage coach was in sight, and in a few more the horn and the rattling wheels approached with greatvelocity towards the two equestrians. George would have jumped off tosave himself from being run over, but the donkey saved him for thepresent the trouble. All his energies were suddenly roused, and hedarted forward in a pelting gallop; the butcher's pony did the same. Away they both flew before the leaders of the stage, scarcely distancingthem by a horse's length, and all the passengers thought that mischiefwas inevitable. A gentleman on the box begged the coachman to pull in, but the coachman seemed to enjoy the fun, and only whipped on hishorses. The pony and the donkey were still galloping furiously, boththeir riders keeping their seats. Butchers' boys always seem glued totheir saddles, so that there appeared nothing astonishing in JemRattle's not getting a fall; but how George, without his saddle, and notmuch accustomed to riding, sat so long was something more remarkable. Whether he might have got to the end of his race without accident if hisfather and mother had not now appeared by the side of the road it isimpossible to say; but certain it is that the sight of them diverted theattention which had before been entirely given to keeping his eyesteadily before him. At the same instant the donkey gave a little curveout of the line in which he had been going, and most providential was itthat he did so, for by this inclination George was thrown sufficientlyto the right of the road to clear the wheels of the coach. The pony hadgiven in some few minutes before, and the donkey, having once checkedhimself, stopped suddenly, and stood quietly by the roadside as ifnothing had happened. The gentleman on the box now insisted upon thecoachman's drawing up, to see if the young gentleman had sustained anyinjury; and Mr. And Mrs. Danvers, in a state of harassing alarm, alsohastened to approach the spot. 

Mr. And Mrs. Danvers were more alarmed than George was hurt; hecertainly got a few bruises, but he received no serious injury. Heimmediately jumped on his legs, and relieved the anxiety of his parents, when, after Mr. Danvers had thanked the gentleman for his kindinterference, and joined with him in condemning the coachman for nothaving before checked his horses, the coach drove on, and George joinedhis father and mother. The butcher boy was commissioned, with thepromise of a shilling, to bring back the donkey to Mr. Danvers' field, and George looked not a little foolish as he began his walk home by theside of his father. 

'I thought you had been remaining quietly at home, George, ' said Mrs. Danvers. 

'And certainly, if you had been out, ' added Mr. Danvers, 'you had nobusiness to have been riding that donkey. You must have heard me saythat it was not fit to be ridden, for it is always playing tricks ofsome sort. And you may be very thankful that you did not get either abroken limb or a severe blow on your head. '

George made no reply, but he burst into tears, for his ill-humour hadnow entirely given way to sorrow; and he continued crying as he walkedby the side of his father. 

'I am afraid you have too much indulgence, ' said Mr. Danvers, 'and toomuch liberty in disposing of your time; you are not the happier for it, you see. When left to yourself to amuse yourself as you please the wholeday, you almost constantly get into some trouble or other before the dayis over. In future I shall take care that your time is better employedthan in riding races with butchers' boys, and trying to tameincorrigible donkeys. '

Here George tried to put his father right as to his riding with thebutcher's boy being entirely accidental; but his sobs prevented hisspeaking articulately, and they had nearly arrived at home before Mr. And Mrs. Danvers could exactly understand how the accident had happened. 

'And how came Fletcher by his black eye?' said Mr. Danvers. 

'Oh, that was done in a passion, ' replied George. 'I was tired before Ibegan to play, and I did not like to be beat by a boy so near my ownsize. '

'And how would you have felt, ' said Mr. Danvers, 'had you deprived yourcompanion of the sight of his eye, which was very near being the case?Accidents of this sort have sometimes happened from cricket-balls; butthis, instead of accidental, would have been the consequence of pettishill-humour. I shall allow no more cricket for some days; indeed, I fearit will be some days before Fletcher will be well enough to play; andcertainly I shall allow no more whole days of play. '

'I wish you would not, father, ' said George, 'for they always endunhappily; and you have not heard all the unhappiness of this. '

George was endeavouring to commence his relation of the broken vase, when the lads from the cricket-field, who had just finished their game, approached to bid Mr. And Mrs. Danvers a good-morning, and inquire oftheir young companion why he and Tom Fletcher had not again joined them. In pity to the confusion visibly stamped on George's countenance, Mr. Danvers undertook to explain the cause of their absence, and begged thatthey themselves would come, whenever it was pleasant to them, to play inhis field. As to Tom, he thought he would not be able to play againwithin a week; but on that day se'nnight, if his eye was well enough toallow of his playing, Mr. Danvers would himself take a part in the game, and he invited all the party to take tea and refreshments after itsconclusion. The boys seemed delighted with this proposition, and tooktheir leave, when George accompanied his father and mother into thehouse, where they were joined by little Ellen. The accident of thebroken vase was related, at which Mrs. Danvers expressed great regret;but her vexation was accompanied with the pleasing reflection that theword of her children might be taken without scruple, for thegood-natured Ann was not easy till she had informed her mistress of allthat she knew respecting the accident. 

From this day, Ellen never wished that she was a boy to do nothing butplay from morning till night. She saw, in the example of her brotherGeorge, that idleness generally leads to mischief, and consequently tounhappiness; and she felt how necessary it was to have performed herduty well before she could enjoy her play. 

Waste Not, Want Not

or

Two Strings to Your Bow

Mr. Gresham, a Bristol merchant, who had, by honourable industry andeconomy, accumulated a considerable fortune, retired from business to anew house which he had built upon the Downs, near Clifton. Mr. Gresham, however, did not imagine that a new house alone could make him happy. Hedid not propose to live in idleness and extravagance; for such a lifewould have been equally incompatible with his habits and his principles. He was fond of children; and as he had no sons, he determined to adoptone of his relations. He had two nephews, and he invited both of them tohis house, that he might have an opportunity of judging of theirdispositions, and of the habits which they had acquired. 

Hal and Benjamin, Mr. Gresham's nephews, were about ten years old. Theyhad been educated very differently. Hal was the son of the elder branchof the family. His father was a gentleman, who spent rather more thanhe could afford; and Hal, from the example of the servants in hisfather's family, with whom he had passed the first years of hischildhood, learned to waste more of everything than he used. He had beentold that 'gentlemen should be above being careful and saving'; and hehad unfortunately imbibed a notion that extravagance was the sign of agenerous disposition, and economy of an avaricious one. 

Benjamin, on the contrary, had been taught habits of care and foresight. His father had but a very small fortune, and was anxious that his sonshould early learn that economy ensures independence, and sometimes putsit in the power of those who are not very rich to be very generous. 

The morning after these two boys arrived at their uncle's they wereeager to see all the rooms in the house. Mr. Gresham accompanied them, and attended to their remarks and exclamations. 

'Oh, what an excellent motto!' exclaimed Ben, when he read the followingwords, which were written in large characters over the chimneypiece inhis uncle's spacious kitchen--

 'WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. '

'"Waste not, want not!"' repeated his cousin Hal, in rather acontemptuous tone; 'I think it looks stingy to servants; and nogentleman's servants, cooks especially, would like to have such a meanmotto always staring them in the face. '

Ben, who was not so conversant as his cousin in the ways of cooks andgentleman's servants, made no reply to these observations. 

Mr. Gresham was called away whilst his nephews were looking at the otherrooms in the house. Some time afterwards he heard their voices in thehall. 

'Boys, ' said he, 'what are you doing there?'

'Nothing, sir, ' said Hal. 'You were called away from us, and we did notknow which way to go. '

'And have you nothing to do?' said Mr. Gresham. 

'No, sir--nothing, ' answered Hal in a careless tone, like one who waswell content with the state of habitual idleness. 

'No, sir--nothing, ' replied Ben, in a voice of lamentation. 

'Come, ' said Mr. Gresham, 'if you have nothing to do, lads, will youunpack those two parcels for me?'

The two parcels were exactly alike, both of them well tied up with goodwhipcord. Ben took his parcel to a table, and, after breaking off thesealing-wax, began carefully to examine the knot, and then to untie it. Hal stood still, exactly in the spot where the parcel was put into hishands, and tried, first at one corner and then at another, to pull thestring off by force. 

'I wish these people wouldn't tie up their parcels so tight, as if theywere never to be undone!' cried he, as he tugged at the cord; and hepulled the knot closer instead of loosening it. 'Ben! why, how did youget yours undone, man? What's in your parcel? I wonder what is in mine. I wish I could get this string off. I must cut it. '

'Oh no, ' said Ben, who now had undone the last knot of his parcel, andwho drew out the length of string with exultation, 'don't cut it, Hal. Look what a nice cord this is, and yours is the same. It's a pity to cutit. "_Waste not, want not!_" you know. '

'Pooh!' said Hal, 'what signifies a bit of packthread?'

'It is whipcord, ' said Ben. 

[Illustration: _'Oh, what an excellent motto!' exclaimed Ben. --Page205. _]

'Well, whipcord. What signifies a bit of whipcord? You can get a bit ofwhipcord twice as long as that for twopence, and who cares for twopence?Not I, for one! So here it goes, ' cried Hal, drawing out his knife; andhe cut the cord precipitately in sundry places. 

'Lads, have you undone the parcels for me?' said Mr. Gresham, openingthe parlour door as he spoke. 

'Yes, sir, ' cried Hal; and he dragged off his half-cut, half-entangledstring. 'Here's the parcel. '

'And here's my parcel, uncle; and here's the string, ' said Ben. 

'You may keep the string for your pains, ' said Mr. Gresham. 

'Thank you, sir, ' said Ben. 'What an excellent whipcord it is!'

'And you, Hal, ' continued Mr. Gresham--'you may keep your string, too, if it will be of any use to you. '

'It will be of no use to me, thank you, sir, ' said Hal. 

'No, I am afraid not, if this be it, ' said his uncle, taking up thejagged knotted remains of Hal's cord. 

A few days after this Mr. Gresham gave to each of his nephews a new top. 

'But how's this?' said Hal. 'These tops have no strings. What shall wedo for strings?'

'I have a string that will do very well for mine, ' said Ben; and hepulled out of his pocket the fine, long, smooth string which had tied upthe parcel. 

With this he soon set up his top, which spun admirably well. 

'Oh, how I wish I had but a string!' said Hal. 'What shall I do for astring? I'll tell you what: I can use the string that goes round myhat!'

'But, then, ' said Ben, 'what will you do for a hatband?'

'I'll manage to do without one, ' said Hal, and he took the string offhis hat for his top. 

It was soon worn through, and he split his top by driving the peg tootightly into it. His Cousin Ben let him set up his the next day, but Halwas not more fortunate or more careful when he meddled with otherpeople's things than when he managed his own. He had scarcely playedhalf an hour before he split it by driving the peg too violently. 

Ben bore this misfortune with good-humour. 

'Come, ' said he, 'it can't be helped; but give me the string, because_that_ may still be of use for something else. '

It happened some time afterwards that a lady, who had been intimatelyacquainted with Hal's mother at Bath--that is to say, who had frequentlymet her at the card-table during the winter--now arrived at Clifton. Shewas informed by his mother that Hal was at Mr. Gresham's, and her sons, who were _friends_ of his, came to see him, and invited him to spend thenext day with them. 

Hal joyfully accepted the invitation. He was always glad to go out todine, because it gave him something to do, something to think of, or atleast something to say. Besides this, he had been educated to think itwas a fine thing to visit fine people; and Lady Diana Sweepstakes (forthat was the name of his mother's acquaintance) was a very fine lady, and her two sons intended to be very _great_ gentlemen. He was in aprodigious hurry when these young gentlemen knocked at his uncle's doorthe next day; but just as he got to the hall door little Patty called tohim from the top of the stairs, and told him that he had dropped hispocket-handkerchief. 

'Pick it up, then, and bring it to me, quick, can't you, child?' criedHal, 'for Lady Di's sons are waiting for me. '

Little Patty did not know anything about Lady Di's sons; but as she wasvery good-natured, and saw that her cousin Hal was, for some reason orother, in a desperate hurry, she ran downstairs as fast as she possiblycould towards the landing-place, where the handkerchief lay; but, alas!before she reached the handkerchief, she fell, rolling down a wholeflight of stairs, and when her fall was at last stopped by thelanding-place, she did not cry out; she writhed, as if she was in greatpain. 

'Where are you hurt, my love?' said Mr. Gresham, who came instantly onhearing the noise of someone falling downstairs. 'Where are you hurt, mydear?'

'Here, papa, ' said the little girl, touching her ankle, which she haddecently covered with her gown. 'I believe I am hurt here, but notmuch, ' added she, trying to rise; 'only it hurts me when I move. '

'I'll carry you; don't move, then, ' said her father, and he took her upin his arms. 

'My shoe! I've lost one of my shoes, ' said she. 

Ben looked for it upon the stairs, and he found it sticking in a loop ofwhipcord, which was entangled round one of the banisters. When this cordwas drawn forth, it appeared that it was the very same jagged, entangledpiece which Hal had pulled off his parcel. He had diverted himself withrunning up and down stairs, whipping the banisters with it, as hethought he could convert it to no better use; and, with his usualcarelessness, he at last left it hanging just where he happened to throwit when the dinner-bell rang. Poor little Patty's ankle was terriblystrained, and Hal reproached himself for his folly, and would havereproached himself longer, perhaps, if Lady Di Sweepstakes' sons had nothurried him away. 

In the evening, Patty could not run about as she used to do; but she satupon the sofa, and she said that she did not feel the pain of her ankle_so much_ whilst Ben was so good as to play at _Jack Straws_ with her. 

'That's right, Ben; never be ashamed of being good-natured to those whoare younger and weaker than yourself, ' said his uncle, smiling at seeinghim produce his whipcord to indulge his little cousin with a game at herfavourite cat's-cradle. 'I shall not think you one bit less manly, because I see you playing at cat's-cradle with a little child of sixyears old. '

Hal, however, was not precisely of his uncle's opinion; for when hereturned in the evening, and saw Ben playing with his little cousin, hecould not help smiling contemptuously, and asked if he had been playingat cat's-cradle all night. In a heedless manner he made some inquiriesafter Patty's sprained ankle, and then he ran on to tell all the news hehad heard at Lady Diana Sweepstakes'--news which he thought would makehim appear a person of vast importance. 

'Do you know, uncle--do you know, Ben, ' said he, 'there's to be the most_famous_ doings that ever were heard of upon the Downs here, the firstday of next month, which will be in a fortnight, thank my stars? I wishthe fortnight was over. I shall think of nothing else, I know, till thathappy day comes. '

Mr. Gresham inquired why the first of September was to be so muchhappier than any other day in the year. 

'Why, ' replied Hal, 'Lady Diana Sweepstakes, you know, is a _famous_rider, and archer, and _all that_----'

'Very likely, ' said Mr. Gresham soberly; 'but what then?'

'Dear uncle, ' cried Hal, 'but you shall hear! There's to be a race uponthe Downs on the first of September, and after the race there's to be anarchery meeting for the ladies, and Lady Diana Sweepstakes is to be oneof _them_. And after the ladies have done shooting--now, Ben, comes thebest part of it!--we boys are to have our turn, and Lady Di is to give aprize to the best marksman amongst us of a very handsome bow and arrow. Do you know, I've been practising already, and I'll show you to-morrow, as soon as it comes home, the _famous_ bow and arrow that Lady Diana hasgiven me; but perhaps, ' added he, with a scornful laugh, 'you like acat's-cradle better than a bow and arrow. '

Ben made no reply to this taunt at the moment; but the next day, whenHal's new bow and arrow came home, he convinced him that he knew how touse it very well. 

'Ben, ' said his uncle, 'you seem to be a good marksman, though you havenot boasted of yourself. I'll give you a bow and arrow, and perhaps, ifyou practise, you may make yourself an archer before the first ofSeptember; and, in the meantime, you will not wish the fortnight to beover, for you will have something to do. '

'Oh, sir, ' interrupted Hal, 'but if you mean that Ben should put in forthe prize, he must have a uniform. '

'Why _must_ he?' said Mr. Gresham. 

'Why, sir, because everybody has--I mean everybody that's anybody; andLady Diana was talking about the uniform all dinner time, and it'ssettled, all about it, except the buttons. The young Sweepstakes are toget theirs made first for patterns. They are to be white, faced withgreen, and they'll look very handsome, I'm sure; and I shall write tomother to-night, as Lady Diana bid me, about mine, and I shall tell herto be sure to answer my letter without fail by return of post; and then, if mother makes no objection--which I know she won't, because she neverthinks much about expense, and _all that_--then I shall bespeak myuniform, and get it made by the same tailor that makes for Lady Dianaand the young Sweepstakes. '

'Mercy upon us!' said Mr. Gresham, who was almost stunned by the rapidvociferation with which this long speech about a uniform was pronounced. 'I don't pretend to understand these things, ' added he, with an air ofsimplicity, 'but we will inquire, Ben, into the necessity of the case;and if it is necessary--or if you think it necessary that you shall havea uniform--why, I'll give you one. '

'_You_, uncle? Will you, _indeed_?' exclaimed Hal, with amazementpainted in his countenance. 'Well, that's the last thing in the world Ishould have expected! You are not at all the sort of person I shouldhave thought would care about a uniform; and now I should have supposedyou'd have thought it extravagant to have a coat on purpose only for oneday. And I'm sure Lady Diana Sweepstakes thought as I do, for when Itold her of that motto over your kitchen chimney--"WASTE NOT, WANTNOT"--she laughed, and said that I had better not talk to you aboutuniforms, and that my mother was the proper person to write to about myuniform; but I'll tell Lady Diana, uncle, how good you are, and how muchshe was mistaken. '

'Take care how you do that, ' said Mr. Gresham, 'for perhaps the lady wasnot mistaken. '

'Nay, did not you say just now you would give poor Ben a uniform?'

'I said I would if he thought it necessary to have one. '

'Oh, I'll answer for it he'll think it necessary, ' said Hal, laughing, 'because it is necessary. '

'Allow him, at least, to judge for himself, ' said Mr. Gresham. 

'My dear uncle, but I assure you, ' said Hal earnestly, 'there's nojudging about the matter, because really, upon my word, Lady Diana saiddistinctly that her sons were to have uniforms--white, faced withgreen--and a green and white cockade in their hats. '

'May be so, ' said Mr. Gresham, still with the same look of calmsimplicity. 'Put on your hats, boys, and come with me. I know agentleman whose sons are to be at this archery meeting, and we willinquire into all the particulars from him. Then, after we have seenhim--it is not eleven o'clock yet--we shall have time enough to walk onto Bristol, and choose the cloth for Ben's uniform if it is necessary. '

'I cannot tell what to make of all he says, ' whispered Hal, as hereached down his hat. 'Do you think, Ben, he means to give you thisuniform or not?'

'I think, ' said Ben, 'that he means to give me one if it is necessary;or, as he said, if I think it is necessary. '

'And that to be sure you will, won't you? or else you'll be a greatfool, I know, after all I've told you. How can anyone in the world knowso much about the matter as I, who have dined with Lady DianaSweepstakes but yesterday, and heard all about it from beginning to end?And as for this gentleman that we are going to, I'm sure, if he knowsanything about the matter, he'll say exactly the same as I do. '

'We shall hear, ' said Ben, with a degree of composure which Hal could byno means comprehend when a uniform was in question. 

The gentleman upon whom Mr. Gresham called had three sons who were allto be at this archery meeting, and they unanimously assured him, in thepresence of Hal and Ben, that they had not thought of buying uniformsfor this grand occasion, and that, amongst the number of theiracquaintance, they knew of but three boys whose friends intended to beat such an _unnecessary_ expense. Hal stood amazed. 

'Such are the varieties of opinion upon all the grand affairs of life, 'said Mr. Gresham, looking at his nephews. 'What amongst one set ofpeople you hear asserted to be absolutely necessary, you will hear fromanother set of people is quite unnecessary. All that can be done, mydear boys, in these difficult cases, is to judge for yourselves whichopinions and which people are the most reasonable. '

Hal, who had been more accustomed to think of what was fashionable thanof what was reasonable, without at all considering the good sense ofwhat his uncle said to him, replied with childish petulance:

'Indeed, sir, I don't know what other people think; but I only know whatLady Diana Sweepstakes said. '

The name of Lady Diana Sweepstakes, Hal thought, must impress allpresent with respect. He was highly astonished when, as he looked round, he saw a smile of contempt upon everyone's countenance; and he was yetfurther bewildered when he heard her spoken of as a very silly, extravagant, ridiculous woman, whose opinion no prudent person would askupon any subject, and whose example was to be shunned instead of beingimitated. 

'Ay, my dear Hal, ' said his uncle, smiling at his look of amazement, 'these are some of the things that young people must learn fromexperience. All the world do not agree in opinion about characters. Youwill hear the same person admired in one company and blamed in another;so that we must still come round to the same point--_Judge foryourself_. '

Hal's thoughts were, however, at present too full of the uniform toallow his judgment to act with perfect impartiality. As soon as theirvisit was over, and all the time they walked down the hill fromPrince's Buildings towards Bristol, he continued to repeat nearly thesame arguments which he had formerly used respecting necessity, theuniform, and Lady Diana Sweepstakes. To all this Mr. Gresham made noreply, and longer had the young gentleman expatiated upon the subject, which had so strongly seized upon his imagination, had not his sensesbeen forcibly assailed at this instant by the delicious odours andtempting sight of certain cakes and jellies in a pastrycook's shop. 

'Oh, uncle, ' said he, as his uncle was going to turn the corner topursue the road to Bristol, 'look at those jellies!' pointing to aconfectioner's shop. 'I must buy some of those good things, for I havegot some halfpence in my pocket. '

'Your having halfpence in your pocket is an excellent reason foreating, ' said Mr. Gresham, smiling. 

'But I really am hungry, ' said Hal. 'You know, uncle, it is a good whilesince breakfast. '

His uncle, who was desirous to see his nephews act without restraint, that he might judge their characters, bid them do as they pleased. 

'Come, then, Ben, if you've any halfpence in your pocket. '

'I'm not hungry, ' said Ben. 

'I suppose _that_ means that you've no halfpence, ' said Hal, laughing, with the look of superiority which he had been taught to think _therich_ might assume towards those who were convicted either of poverty oreconomy. 

'Waste not, want not, ' said Ben to himself. 

Contrary to his cousin's surmise, he happened to have two pennyworth ofhalfpence actually in his pocket. 

At the very moment Hal stepped into the pastrycook's shop a poor, industrious man with a wooden leg, who usually sweeps the dirty cornerof the walk which turns at this spot to the Wells, held his hat to Ben, who, after glancing his eye at the petitioner's well-worn broom, instantly produced his twopence. 

'I wish I had more halfpence for you, my good man, ' said he; 'but I'veonly twopence. '

Hal came out of Mr. Millar's, the confectioner's shop, with a hatful ofcakes in his hand. Mr. Millar's dog was sitting on the flags before thedoor, and he looked up with a wistful, begging eye at Hal, who waseating a queen-cake. Hal, who was wasteful even in his good-nature, threw a whole queen-cake to the dog, who swallowed it at a singlemouthful. 

'There goes twopence in the form of a queen-cake, ' said Mr. Gresham. 

Hal next offered some of his cakes to his uncle and cousin; but theythanked him, and refused to eat any, because, they said, they were nothungry; so he ate and ate as he walked along, till at last he stoppedand said:

'This bun tastes so bad after the queen-cakes, I can't bear it!' and hewas going to fling it from him into the river. 

'Oh, it is a pity to waste that good bun; we may be glad of it yet, 'said Ben. 'Give it me rather than throw it away. '

'Why, I thought you said you were not hungry, ' said Hal. 

'True, I am not hungry now; but that is no reason why I should never behungry again. '

'Well, there is the cake for you. Take it, for it has made me sick, andI don't care what becomes of it. '

Ben folded the refuse bit of his cousin's bun in a piece of paper, andput it into his pocket. 

'I'm beginning to be exceeding tired or sick or something, ' said Hal;'and as there is a stand of coaches somewhere hereabouts, had we notbetter take a coach, instead of walking all the way to Bristol?'

'For a stout archer, ' said Mr. Gresham, 'you are more easily tired thanone might have expected. However, with all my heart, let us take acoach, for Ben asked me to show him the cathedral yesterday; and Ibelieve I should find it rather too much for me to walk so far, though Iam not sick with eating good things. '

'_The cathedral!_' said Hal, after he had been seated in the coach abouta quarter of an hour, and had somewhat recovered from his sickness--'thecathedral! Why, are we only going to Bristol to see the cathedral? Ithought we came out to see about a uniform. '

There was a dulness and melancholy kind of stupidity in Hal'scountenance as he pronounced these words, like one wakening from adream, which made both his uncle and his cousin burst out a-laughing. 

'Why, ' said Hal, who was now piqued, 'I'm sure you _did_ say, uncle, youwould go to Mr. Hall's to choose the cloth for the uniform. '

'Very true, and so I will, ' said Mr. Gresham; 'but we need not make awhole morning's work, need we, of looking at a piece of cloth? Cannot wesee a uniform and a cathedral both in one morning?'

They went first to the cathedral. Hal's head was too full of the uniformto take any notice of the painted window, which immediately caught Ben'sembarrassed attention. He looked at the large stained figures on theGothic window, and he observed their coloured shadows on the floor andwalls. 

Mr. Gresham, who perceived that he was eager on all subjects to gaininformation, took this opportunity of telling him several things aboutthe lost art of painting on glass, Gothic arches, etc. , which Halthought extremely tiresome. 

'Come, come, we shall be late indeed!' said Hal. 'Surely you've lookedlong enough, Ben, at this blue and red window. '

'I'm only thinking about these coloured shadows, ' said Ben. 

'I can show you when we go home, Ben, ' said his uncle, 'an entertainingpaper upon such shadows. '[A]

'Hark!' cried Ben; 'did you hear that noise?'

They all listened, and they heard a bird singing in the cathedral. 

'It's our old robin, sir, ' said the lad who had opened the cathedraldoor for them. 

'Yes, ' said Mr. Gresham, 'there he is, boys--look--perched upon theorgan; he often sits there, and sings whilst the organ is playing. '

'And, ' continued the lad who showed the cathedral, 'he has lived herethese many, many winters. They say he is fifteen years old; and he is sotame, poor fellow! that if I had a bit of bread he'd come down and feedin my hand. '

'I've a bit of bun here, ' cried Ben joyfully, producing the remains ofthe bun which Hal but an hour before would have thrown away. 'Pray, letus see the poor robin eat out of your hand. '

The lad crumbled the bun and called to the robin, who fluttered andchirped and seemed rejoiced at the sight of the bread; but yet he didnot come down from his pinnacle on the organ. 

'He is afraid of _us_, ' said Ben; 'he is not used to eat beforestrangers, I suppose. '

'Ah, no, sir, ' said the young man, with a deep sigh, 'that is not thething. He is used enough to eat afore company. Time was he'd have comedown for me before ever so many fine folks, and have eat his crumbs outof my hand at my first call; but, poor fellow! it's not his fault now. He does not know me now, sir, since my _accident_, because of this greatblack patch. '

The young man put his hand to his right eye, which was covered with ahuge black patch. Ben asked what _accident_ he meant; and the lad toldhim that, but a few weeks ago, he had lost the sight of his eye by thestroke of a stone, which reached him as he was passing under the rocksat Clifton, unluckily when the workmen were blasting. 

'I don't mind so much for myself, sir, ' said the lad; 'but I can't workso well now, as I used to do before my accident, for my old mother, whohas had a _stroke_ of the palsy; and I've a many little brothers andsisters not well able yet to get their own livelihood, though they be aswilling as willing can be. '

'Where does your mother live?' said Mr. Gresham. 

'Hard by, sir, just close to the church here. It was _her_ that alwayshad the showing of it to strangers, till she lost the use of her poorlimbs. '

'Shall we, may we, uncle, go that way? This is the house, is it not?'said Ben, when they went out of the cathedral. 

They went into the house. It was rather a hovel than a house; but, pooras it was, it was as neat as misery could make it. The old woman wassitting up in her wretched bed, winding worsted; four meagre, ill-clothed, pale children were all busy, some of them sticking pins inpaper for the pin-maker, and others sorting rags for the paper-maker. 

'What a horrid place it is!' said Hal, sighing; 'I did not know therewere such shocking places in the world. I've often seenterrible-looking, tumble-down places, as we drove through the town inmother's carriage; but then I did not know who lived in them, and Inever saw the inside of any of them. It is very dreadful, indeed, tothink that people are forced to live in this way. I wish mother wouldsend me some more pocket-money, that I might do something for them. Ihad half a crown; but, ' continued he, feeling in his pockets, 'I'mafraid I spent the last shilling of it this morning upon those cakesthat made me sick. I wish I had my shilling now; I'd give it to _thesepoor people_. '

Ben, though he was all this time silent, was as sorry as his talkativecousin for all these poor people. But there was some difference betweenthe sorrow of these two boys. 

Hal, after he was again seated in the hackney-coach, and had rattledthrough the busy streets of Bristol for a few minutes, quite forgot thespectacle of misery which he had seen, and the gay shops in Wine Streetand the idea of his green and white uniform wholly occupied hisimagination. 

'Now for our uniforms!' cried he, as he jumped eagerly out of the coach, when his uncle stopped at the woollen-draper's door. 

'Uncle, ' said Ben, stopping Mr. Gresham before he got out of thecarriage, 'I don't think a uniform is at all necessary for me. I'm verymuch obliged to you, but I would rather not have one. I have a very goodcoat, and I think it would be waste. '

'Well, let me get out of the carriage, and we will see about it, ' saidMr. Gresham. 'Perhaps the sight of the beautiful green and white cloth, and the epaulette--have you ever considered the epaulettes?--may temptyou to change your mind. '

'Oh, no, ' said Ben, laughing; 'I shall not change my mind. '

The green cloth and the white cloth and the epaulettes were produced, toHal's infinite satisfaction. His uncle took up a pen, and calculated fora few minutes. Then showing the back of the letter upon which he waswriting to his nephews:

'Cast up these sums, boys, ' said he, 'and tell me whether I am right. '

'Ben, do you do it, ' said Hal, a little embarrassed; 'I am not quick atfigures. '

Ben _was_, and he went over his uncle's calculation very expeditiously. 

'It is right, is it?' said Mr. Gresham. 

'Yes, sir, quite right. '

'Then, by this calculation I find I could, for less than half the moneyyour uniforms would cost, purchase for each of you boys a warmgreatcoat, which you will want, I have a notion, this winter upon thedowns. '

'Oh, sir, ' said Hal with an alarmed look, 'but it is not winter _yet_;it is not cold weather _yet_. We shan't want greatcoats _yet_. '

'Don't you remember how cold we were, Hal, the day before yesterday, inthat sharp wind, when we were flying our kite upon the downs? and winterwill come, though it is not come yet. I am sure I should like to have agood warm greatcoat very much. '

Mr. Gresham took six guineas out of his purse; and he placed three ofthem before Hal and three before Ben. 

'Young gentlemen, ' said he, 'I believe your uniforms would come to aboutthree guineas apiece. Now I will lay out this money for you just as youplease. Hal, what say you?'

'Why, sir, ' said Hal, 'a greatcoat is a good thing, to be sure; andthen, after the greatcoat, as you said it would only cost half as muchas the uniform, there would be some money to spare, would not there?'

'Yes, my dear, about five-and-twenty shillings. '

'Five-and-twenty shillings? I could buy and do a great many things, tobe sure, with five-and-twenty shillings; but then, _the thing is_, Imust go without the uniform if I have the greatcoat. '

'Certainly, ' said his uncle. 

'Ah!' said Hal, sighing, as he looked at the epaulette, 'uncle, if youwould not be displeased if I choose the uniform----'

'I shall not be displeased at your choosing whatever you like best, 'said Mr. Gresham. 

'Well, then, thank you, sir, ' said Hal, 'I think I had better have theuniform, because, if I have not the uniform now directly, it will be ofno use to me, as the archery meeting is the week after next, you know;and as to the greatcoat, perhaps between this time and the very coldweather, which perhaps won't be till Christmas, father will buy agreatcoat for me; and I'll ask mother to give me some pocket-money togive away, and she will, perhaps. '

To all this conclusive, conditional reasoning, which depended upon theword _perhaps_, three times repeated, Mr. Gresham made no reply; but heimmediately bought the uniform for Hal, and desired that it should besent to Lady Diana Sweepstakes' sons' tailor to be made up. The measureof Hal's happiness was now complete. 

'And how am I to lay out the three guineas for you, Ben?' said Mr. Gresham. 'Speak; what do you wish for first?'

'A greatcoat, uncle, if you please. '

Mr. Gresham bought the coat, and after it was paid for five-and-twentyshillings of Ben's three guineas remained. 

'What next, my boy?' said his uncle. 

'Arrows, uncle, if you please--three arrows. '

'My dear, I promised you a bow and arrows. '

'No, uncle, you only said a bow. '

'Well, I meant a bow and arrows. I'm glad you are so exact, however. Itis better to claim less than more than what is promised. The threearrows you shall have. But go on. How shall I dispose of thesefive-and-twenty shillings for you?'

'In clothes, if you will be so good, uncle, for that poor boy who hasthe great black patch on his eye. '

'I always believed, ' said Mr. Gresham, shaking hands with Ben, 'thateconomy and generosity were the best friends, instead of being enemies, as some silly, extravagant people would have us think them. Choose thepoor, blind boy's coat, my dear nephew, and pay for it. There's nooccasion for my praising you about the matter. Your best reward is inyour own mind, child; and you want no other, or I'm mistaken. Now jumpinto the coach, boys, and let's be off. We shall be late, I'm afraid, 'continued he, as the coach drove on; 'but I must let you stop, Ben, withyour goods, at the poor boy's door. '

When they came to the house, Mr. Gresham opened the coach door, and Benjumped out with his parcel under his arm. 

'Stay, stay! you must take me with you, ' said his pleased uncle; 'I liketo see people made happy as well as you do. '

'And so do I, too, ' said Hal. 'Let me come with you. I almost wish myuniform was not gone to the tailor's, so I do. ' And when he saw the lookof delight and gratitude with which the poor boy received the clotheswhich Ben gave him, and when he heard the mother and children thank him, Hal sighed, and said: 'Well, I hope mother will give me some morepocket-money soon. '

Upon his return home, however, the sight of the _famous_ bow and arrow, which Lady Diana Sweepstakes had sent him, recalled to his imaginationall the joys of his green-and-white uniform, and he no longer wishedthat it had not been sent to the tailor's. 

'But I don't understand, Cousin Hal, ' said little Patty, 'why you callthis bow a _famous_ bow. You say _famous_ very often, and I don't knowexactly what it means--a _famous_ uniform, _famous_ doings. I rememberyou said there are to be _famous_ doings, the first of September, uponthe Downs. What does _famous_ mean?'

'Oh, why _famous_ means--now, don't you know what _famous_ means? Itmeans--it is a word that people say--it is the fashion to say it--itmeans--it means _famous_. '

Patty laughed, and said:

'_This_ does not explain it to me. '

'No, ' said Hal, 'nor can it be explained. If you don't understand it, that's not my fault. Everybody but little children, I suppose, understands it; but there's no explaining _those sort_ of words, if youdon't _take them_ at once. There's to be _famous_ doings upon the Downs, the first of September--that is grand, fine. In short, what does itsignify talking any longer, Patty, about the matter? Give me my bow, forI must go out upon the Downs and practise. '

Ben accompanied him with the bow and the three arrows which his unclehad now given to him, and every day these two boys went out upon theDowns and practised shooting with indefatigable perseverance. Whereequal pains are taken, success is usually found to be pretty nearlyequal. Our two archers, by constant practice, became expert marksmen;and before the day of trial they were so exactly matched in point ofdexterity that it was scarcely possible to decide which was superior. 

The long-expected first of September at length arrived. 'What sort of aday is it?' was the first question that was asked by Hal and Ben themoment that they awakened. The sun shone bright, but there was a sharpand high wind. 

'Ha!' said Ben, 'I shall be glad of my good greatcoat to-day, for I've anotion it will be rather cold upon the Downs, especially when we arestanding still, as we must, whilst all the people are shooting. '

'Oh, never mind. I don't think I shall feel it cold at all, ' said Hal, as he dressed himself in his new green-and-white uniform; and he viewedhimself with much complacency. 'Good-morning to you, uncle. How do youdo?' said he, in a voice of exultation, when he entered thebreakfast-room. 

'How do you do?' seemed rather to mean, 'How do you like me in myuniform?' and his uncle's cool, 'Very well, I thank you, Hal, 'disappointed him, as it seemed only to say, 'Your uniform makes nodifference in my opinion of you. '

Even little Patty went on eating her breakfast much as usual, and talkedof the pleasure of walking with her father to the Downs, and of all thelittle things which interested her, so that Hal's epaulettes were notthe principal object in anyone's imagination but his own. 

'Father, ' said Patty, 'as we go up the hill where there is so much redmud I must take care to pick my way nicely, and I must hold up myfrock, as you desired me, and perhaps you will be so good, if I am nottroublesome, to lift me over the very bad place where are nostepping-stones. My ankle is entirely well, and I'm glad of that, orelse I should not be able to walk so far as the Downs. How good you wereto me, Ben, when I was in pain the day I sprained my ankle! You playedat jack straws and at cat's-cradle with me. Oh, that puts me in mind!Here are your gloves which I asked you that night to let me mend. I'vebeen a great while about them, but are not they very neatly mended, father? Look at the sewing. '

'I am not a very good judge of sewing, my dear little girl, ' said Mr. Gresham, examining the work with a close and scrupulous eye; 'but, in myopinion, here is one stitch that is rather too long. The white teeth arenot quite even. '

'Oh, father, I'll take out that long tooth in a minute, ' said Patty, laughing. 'I did not think that you would observe it so soon. '

'I would not have you trust to my blindness, ' said her father, strokingher head fondly; 'I observe everything. I observe, for instance, thatyou are a grateful little girl, and that you are glad to be of use tothose who have been kind to you, and for this I forgive you the longstitch. '

'But it's out--it's out, father, ' said Patty; 'and the next time yourgloves want mending, Ben, I'll mend them better. '

'They are very nice, I think, ' said Ben, drawing them on, 'and I am muchobliged to you. I was just wishing I had a pair of gloves to keep myfingers warm to-day, for I never can shoot well when my hands arebenumbed. Look, Hal; you know how ragged these gloves were. You saidthey were good for nothing but to throw away. Now look, there's not ahole in them, ' said he, spreading his fingers. 

'Now, is it not very extraordinary, ' said Hal to himself, 'that theyshould go on so long talking about an old pair of gloves, without sayingscarcely a word about my new uniform? Well, the young Sweepstakes andLady Diana will talk enough about it, that's one comfort. Is not it timeto think of setting out, sir?' said Hal to his uncle. 'The company, youknow, are to meet at the Ostrich at twelve, and the race to begin atone, and Lady Diana's horses, I know, were ordered to be at the door atten. '

Mr. Stephen, the butler, here interrupted the hurrying young gentlemanin his calculations. 

'There's a poor lad, sir, below, with a great black patch on his righteye, who is come from Bristol, and wants to speak a word with the young_gentlemen_, if you please. I told him they were just going out withyou, but he says he won't detain them more than half a minute. '

'Show him up--show him up, ' said Mr. Gresham. 

'But I suppose, ' said Hal, with a sigh, 'that Stephen mistook when hesaid the young _gentlemen_. He only wants to see Ben, I dare say. I'msure he has no reason to want to see me. Here he comes. Oh, Ben, he isdressed in the new coat you gave him, ' whispered Hal, who was really agood-natured boy, though extravagant. 'How much better he looks than hedid in the ragged coat! Ah, he looked at you first, Ben, and well hemay!'

The boy bowed, without any cringing civility, but with an open, decentfreedom in his manner, which expressed that he had been obliged, butthat he knew his young benefactor was not thinking of the obligation. He made as little distinction as possible between his bows to the twocousins. 

'As I was sent with a message by the clerk of our parish to RedlandChapel out on the Downs to-day, sir, ' said he to Mr. Gresham, 'knowingyour house lay in my way, my mother, sir, bid me call, and make bold tooffer the young gentlemen two little worsted balls that she has workedfor them, ' continued the lad, pulling out of his pocket two worstedballs worked in green and orange-coloured stripes. 'They are but poorthings, sir, she bid me say, to look at; but, considering she has butone hand to work with, and _that_ her left hand, you'll not despise 'em, we hopes. ' He held the balls to Ben and Hal. 'They are both alike, gentlemen, ' said he. 'If you'll be pleased to take 'em. They're betterthan they look, for they bound higher than your head. I cut the corkround for the inside myself, which was all I could do. '

'They are nice balls, indeed. We are much obliged to you, ' said the boysas they received them, and they proved them immediately. 

The balls struck the floor with a delightful sound, and rebounded higherthan Mr. Gresham's head. Little Patty clapped her hands joyfully. Butnow a thundering double rap at the door was heard. 

'The Master Sweepstakes, sir, ' said Stephen, 'are come for Master Hal. They say that all the young gentlemen who have archery uniforms are towalk together in a body, I think they say, sir; and they are to paradealong the Well Walk, they desired me to say, sir, with a drum and fife, and so up the hill by Prince's Place, and all to go upon the Downstogether to the place of meeting. I am not sure I'm right, sir, for boththe young gentlemen spoke at once, and the wind is very high at thestreet door, so that I could not well make out all they said, but Ibelieve this is the sense of it. '

'Yes, yes, ' said Hal eagerly, 'it's all right. I know that is just whatwas settled the day I dined at Lady Diana's, and Lady Diana and a greatparty of gentlemen are to ride----'

'Well, that is nothing to the purpose, ' interrupted Mr. Gresham. 'Don'tkeep these Master Sweepstakes waiting. Decide. Do you choose to go withthem or with us?'

'Sir--uncle--sir, you know, since all the _uniforms_ agreed to gotogether----'

'Off with you, then, Mr. Uniform, if you mean to go, ' said Mr. Gresham. 

Hal ran downstairs in such a hurry that he forgot his bow and arrows. Ben discovered this when he went to fetch his own, and the lad fromBristol, who had been ordered by Mr. Gresham to eat his breakfast beforehe proceeded to Redland Chapel, heard Ben talking about his cousin's bowand arrows. 

'I know, ' said Ben, 'he will be sorry not to have his bow with him, because here are the green knots tied to it to match his cockade; and hesaid that the boys were all to carry their bows as part of the show. '

'If you'll give me leave, sir, ' said the poor Bristol lad, 'I shall haveplenty of time, and I'll run down to the Well Walk after the younggentleman, and take him his bow and arrows. '

'Will you? I shall be much obliged to you, ' said Ben; and away went theboy with the bow that was ornamented with green ribands. 

The public walk leading to the Wells was full of company. The windows ofall the houses in St. Vincent's Parade were crowded with well-dressedladies, who were looking out in expectation of the archery procession. Parties of gentlemen and ladies, and a motley crowd of spectators, wereseen moving backwards and forwards under the rocks on the opposite sideof the water. A barge, with coloured streamers flying, was waiting totake up a party who were going upon the water. The bargemen rested upontheir oars, and gazed with broad faces of curiosity upon the busy scenethat appeared upon the public walk. 

The archers and archeresses were now drawn up on the flags under thesemicircular piazza just before Mrs. Yearsley's library. A little bandof children, who had been mustered by Lady Diana Sweepstakes' _spiritedexertions_, closed the procession. They were now all in readiness. Thedrummer only waited for her ladyship's signal, and the archers' corpsonly waited for her ladyship's word of command to march. 

'Where are your bow and arrows, my little man?' said her ladyship toHal, as she reviewed her Lilliputian regiment. 'You can't march, man, without your arms. '

Hal had despatched a messenger for his forgotten bow, but the messengerreturned not. He looked from side to side in great distress. 

'Oh, there's my bow coming, I declare!' cried he. 'Look, I see the bowand the ribands. Look now, between the trees, Charles Sweepstakes, onthe Hotwell Walk--it is coming!'

'But you've kept us all waiting a confounded time!' said his impatientfriend. 

'It is that good-natured poor fellow from Bristol, I protest, that hasbrought it me. I'm sure I don't deserve it from him, ' said Hal tohimself, when he saw the lad with the black patch on his eye running, quite out of breath, towards him with his bow and arrows. 

'Fall back, my good friend--fall back, ' said the military lady, as soonas he had delivered the bow to Hal; 'I mean, stand out of the way, foryour great patch cuts no figure amongst us. Don't follow so close, now, as if you belonged to us, pray. '

The poor boy had no ambition to partake the triumph; he _fell back_ assoon as he understand the meaning of the lady's words. The drum beat, the fife played, the archers marched, the spectators admired. Halstepped proudly, and felt as if the eyes of the whole universe were uponhis epaulettes, or upon the facings of his uniform; whilst all the timehe was considered only as part of a show. 

The walk appeared much shorter than usual, and he was extremely sorrythat Lady Diana, when they were half-way up the hill leading to Prince'sPlace, mounted her horse because the road was dirty, and all thegentlemen and ladies who accompanied her followed her example. 

'We can leave the children to walk, you know, ' said she to the gentlemanwho helped her to mount her horse. 'I must call to some of them, though, and leave orders where they are to _join_. '

She beckoned, and Hal, who was foremost, and proud to show his alacrity, ran on to receive her ladyship's orders. Now, as we have beforeobserved, it was a sharp and windy day; and though Lady DianaSweepstakes was actually speaking to him, and looking at him, he couldnot prevent his nose from wanting to be blowed. He pulled out hishandkerchief, and out rolled the new ball which had been given to himjust before he left home, and which, according to his usual carelesshabits, he had stuffed into his pocket in his hurry. 

'Oh, my new ball!' cried he, as he ran after it. 

As he stopped to pick it up, he let go his hat, which he had hithertoheld on with anxious care; for the hat, though it had a fine green andwhite cockade, had no band or string round it. The string, as we mayrecollect, our wasteful hero had used in spinning his top. The hat wastoo large for his head without this band; a sudden gust of wind blew itoff. Lady Diana's horse started and reared. She was a _famous_horsewoman, and sat him to the admiration of all beholders; but therewas a puddle of red clay and water in this spot, and her ladyship'suniform habit was a sufferer by the accident. 

'Careless brat!' said she; 'why can't he keep his hat upon his head?'

In the meantime, the wind blew the hat down the hill, and Hal ran afterit amidst the laughter of his kind friends, the young Sweepstakes, andthe rest of the little regiment. The hat was lodged at length upon abank. Hal pursued it; he thought this bank was hard, but, alas! themoment he set his foot upon it the foot sank. He tried to draw it back;his other foot slipped, and he fell prostrate, in his green and whiteuniform, into the treacherous bed of red mud. His companions, who hadhalted upon the top of the hill, stood laughing spectators of hismisfortune. 

It happened that the poor boy with the black patch upon his eye, who hadbeen ordered by Lady Diana to '_fall back_, ' and to '_keep at adistance_, ' was now coming up the hill, and the moment he saw our fallenhero he hastened to his assistance. He dragged poor Hal, who was adeplorable spectacle, out of the red mud. The obliging mistress of alodging-house, as soon as she understood that the young gentleman wasnephew to Mr. Gresham, to whom she had formerly let her house, receivedHal, covered as he was with dirt. 

The poor Bristol lad hastened to Mr. Gresham's for clean stockings andshoes for Hal. He was willing to give up his uniform. It was rubbed andrubbed, and a spot here and there was washed out; and he keptcontinually repeating: 'When it's dry it will all brush off; when it'sdry it will all brush off, won't it?' But soon the fear of being toolate at the archery meeting began to balance the dread of appearing inhis stained habiliments; and now he as anxiously repeated, whilst thewoman held the wet coat to the fire: 'Oh, I shall be too late! indeed, Ishall be too late! Make haste; it will never dry! Hold it nearer--nearerto the fire. I shall lose my turn to shoot. Oh, give me the coat! Idon't mind how it is, if I can but get it on. '

Holding it nearer and nearer to the fire dried it quickly, to be sure;but it shrank it also, so that it was no easy matter to get the coat onagain. However, Hal, who did not see the red splashes which, in spite ofall these operations, were too visible upon his shoulders and upon theskirts of his white coat behind, was pretty well satisfied to observethat there was not one spot upon the facings. 

'Nobody, ' said he, 'will take notice of my coat behind, I dare say. Ithink it looks as smart almost as ever!' and under this persuasion ouryoung archer resumed his bow--his bow with green ribands now nomore--and he pursued his way to the Downs. 

All his companions were far out of sight. 

'I suppose, ' said he to his friend with the black patch--'I suppose myuncle and Ben had left home before you went for the shoes and stockingsfor me?'

'Oh, yes, sir; the butler said they had been gone to the Downs thematter of a good half-hour or more. '

Hal trudged on as fast as he possibly could. When he got upon the Downs, he saw numbers of carriages and crowds of people all going towards theplace of meeting at the Ostrich. He pressed forwards. He was at first somuch afraid of being late that he did not take notice of the mirth hismotley appearance excited in all beholders. At length he reached theappointed spot. There was a great crowd of people. In the midst he heardLady Diana's loud voice betting upon some one who was just going toshoot at the mark. 

'So then the shooting is begun, is it?' said Hal. 'Oh, let me in! praylet me in to the circle! I'm one of the archers--I am indeed; don't yousee my green and white uniform?'

'Your red and white uniform, you mean, ' said the man to whom headdressed himself; and the people, as they opened a passage for him, could not refrain laughing at the mixture of dirt and finery which itexhibited. In vain, when he got into the midst of the formidable circle, he looked to his friends, the young Sweepstakes, for their countenanceand support. They were amongst the most unmerciful of the laughers. LadyDiana also seemed more to enjoy than to pity his confusion. 

'Why could you not keep your hat upon your head, man?' said she in hermasculine tone. 'You have been almost the ruin of my poor uniform habit;but I've escaped rather better than you have. Don't stand there, in themiddle of the circle, or you'll have an arrow in your eyes just now, I've a notion. '

Hal looked round in search of better friends. 

'Oh, where's my uncle? Where's Ben?' said he. 

He was in such confusion that, amongst the number of faces, he couldscarcely distinguish one from another; but he felt somebody at thismoment pull his elbow, and, to his great relief, he heard the friendlyvoice and saw the good-natured face of his cousin Ben. 

'Come back--come behind these people, ' said Ben, 'and put on mygreatcoat; here it is for you. '

Right glad was Hal to cover his disgraced uniform with the roughgreatcoat which he had formerly despised. He pulled the stained, drooping cockade out of his unfortunate hat; and he was now sufficientlyrecovered from his vexation to give an intelligible account of hisaccident to his uncle and Patty, who anxiously inquired what haddetained him so long, and what had been the matter. In the midst of thehistory of his disaster, he was just proving to Patty that his takingthe hatband to spin his top had nothing to do with his misfortune, andhe was at the same time endeavouring to refute his uncle's opinion thatthe waste of the whipcord that tied the parcel was the original cause ofall his evils, when he was summoned to try his skill with his _famous_bow. 

'My hands are benumbed; I can scarcely feel, ' said he, rubbing them andblowing upon the ends of his fingers. 

'Come, come, ' cried young Sweepstakes, 'I'm within one inch of the mark;who'll go nearer? I shall like to see. Shoot away, Hal! But firstunderstand our laws; we settled them before you came upon the green. Youare to have three shots with your own bow and your own arrows; andnobody's to borrow or lend under pretence of other's bows being betteror worse, or under under any pretence. Do you hear, Hal?'

This young gentleman had good reasons for being so strict in these laws, as he had observed that none of his companions had such an excellent bowas he had provided for himself. Some of the boys had forgotten to bringmore than one arrow with them, and by his cunning regulation that eachperson should shoot with his own arrows, many had lost one or two oftheir shots. 

'You are a lucky fellow; you have your three arrows, ' said youngSweepstakes. 'Come, we can't wait whilst you rub your fingers, man;shoot away. '

Hal was rather surprised at the asperity with which his friend spoke. Helittle knew how easily acquaintance who call themselves friends canchange when their interest comes in the slightest degree in competitionwith their friendship. Hurried by his impatient rival, and with hishands so much benumbed that he could scarcely feel how to fix the arrowin the string, he drew the bow. The arrow was within a quarter of aninch of Master Sweepstakes' mark, which was the nearest that had yetbeen hit. Hal seized his second arrow. 

'If I have any luck----' said he. 

But just as he pronounced the word _luck_, and as he bent his bow, thestring broke in two, and the bow fell from his hands. 

'There, it's all over with you!' cried Master Sweepstakes, with atriumphant laugh. 

'Here's my bow for him, and welcome, ' said Ben. 

'No, no, sir, ' said Master Sweepstakes, 'that is not fair; that'sagainst the regulations. You may shoot with your own bow, if you chooseit, or you may not, just as you think proper; but you must not lend it, sir. '

It was now Ben's turn to make his trial. His first arrow was notsuccessful. His second was exactly as near as Hal's first. 

'You have but one more, ' said Master Sweepstakes; 'now for it!'

[Illustration: _'The everlasting whipcord, I declare. '--Page 241. _]

Ben, before he ventured his last arrow, prudently examined the string ofhis bow; and, as he pulled it to try its strength, it cracked. MasterSweepstakes clapped his hands, with loud exultations and insultinglaughter. But his laughter ceased when our provident hero calmly drewfrom his pocket an excellent piece of whipcord. 

'The everlasting whipcord, I declare!' exclaimed Hal, when he saw thatit was the very same that had tied up the parcel. 

'Yes, ' said Ben, as he fastened it to his bow, 'I put it into my pocketto-day on purpose, because I thought I might happen to want it. '

He drew his bow the third and last time. 

'Oh, father, ' cried little Patty, as his arrow hit the mark, 'it's thenearest! Is it not the nearest?'

Master Sweepstakes with anxiety examined the hit. There could be nodoubt. Ben was victorious! The bow, the prize bow, was now delivered tohim; and Hal, as he looked at the whipcord, exclaimed:

'How _lucky_ this whipcord has been to you, Ben!'

'It is _lucky_, perhaps, you mean, that he took care of it, ' said Mr. Gresham. 

'Ay, ' said Hal, 'very true; he might well say, "Waste not, want not. " Itis a good thing to have two strings to one's bow. '

FOOTNOTES:

[A] _Vide_ Priestley's 'History of Vision, ' chapter on coloured shadows. 

The Bunch of Cherries

On the first day of May, Madame de Clinville, the widow of a Notary ofParis, conducted her daughter, fourteen years of age, to the delightfulgarden of the Tuileries, there to breathe the pure air of spring and thesweet perfumes from its flowers. In passing through the walks leading tothe royal palace, the young lady's attention was attracted by one of theshops, supplied with the choicest and most rare fruits; among which wasa bunch of cherries, arranged with so much taste, and so prettilyintermixed with fresh green leaves, that she could not forbearexpressing to her mother her anxious desire to have those cherries, notwithstanding she could foresee at that season they must beextravagantly dear. Madame de Clinville, who never denied her daughteranything, and who was in general very plain and moderate in herinclinations, purchased the bunch of cherries, although dear, andproceeded with her dear Emmelina--her daughter's name--to the Tuileries. 

Having surveyed the beautiful walks of this truly enchanted place, theyseated themselves on chairs under the shade of a large chestnut tree. It was scarcely ten o'clock in the morning, the hour most agreeable forwalking, and frequently the most retired, as the fashionables of Parisseldom make their appearance before three or four o'clock, and in a_déshabille_ that bespeaks them just arisen from their beds, as if tobehold the sun for the first time. As such, Madame de Clinville and herdaughter met with very little company. 

The only object that struck their attention was a lady with the remainsof beauty, whose external appearance indicated a person of quality, accompanied by a young lady, nearly Emmelina's age, dressed in white anda small green hat ornamented with a wreath of white pearls, which shadedthe most amiable countenance. They both came and seated themselves nearMadame and Miss de Clinville, when the young stranger could not keep hereyes from the bunch of cherries, and remarked to the lady who was withher: 'How fresh and beautiful they are!' Anxiety was depicted in hereyes and in every action, and at length, slowly advancing towardsEmmelina, with the most affable condescension, she said: 'What adelicious nosegay you have there, miss! The freshness of it can only becompared with your complexion. '

'It would be a better comparison with your own, ' answered Madame deClinville; 'for, with your pretty green hat, one might justly say:"Behold the cherry under the leaf. "'

'It is surprising to me, ' added the young stranger, 'that miss does noteat these fine cherries, no less gratifying to the taste than sight. '

'They are my mother's gift, ' modestly answered Emmelina, 'and, being sorare, I really cannot enjoy them alone. If you, miss, will condescend todivide them with me!--_the happiness of sharing with others that whichwe possess enhances the value of its enjoyment_. '

'These last words, which Emmelina pronounced in the most expressivemanner, made a lively impression on the young lady. 

'How can you withstand a favour said with feelings and sentiments sointeresting?' demanded the handsome lady who escorted her; at whoseadvice, attended with a sign of approbation, the young stranger acceptedthe first cherry from the delightful bunch. 

Emmelina presented the second to her mother, and the stranger offeredthe third to her charming companion; and the two young folks ate of themby turns till there remained only the leaves. They entered intoconversation, when Madame de Clinville endeavoured by several judiciousand direct questions to ascertain the name of the pretty green hat; but, perceiving the lady make a sign of caution to the unknown, she ceasedfurther interrogatories, and they mutually adhered to the customarycivilities, and separated with assurances of the pleasure so agreeablean interview had excited. 

On returning home, Madame de Clinville and her daughter observed that aservant in red livery had followed them, who appeared to examine veryminutely the number of the house in which they lived, and from thatcircumstance concluded the strange lady wished to learn their place ofresidence, notwithstanding she had taken every precaution to conceal herown, or the most distant knowledge of the young person in the green hat. 

Several months having elapsed, Madame de Clinville thought no longer ofthe Tuileries adventure, when one morning, while at breakfast withEmmelina and Gustavus, her only son--a pupil at the Imperial Academy, seventeen years of age--the porter of the lodge entered the apartment, holding in one hand a ripe pineapple, and in the other a note, directedto Mademoiselle de Clinville, the contents as follows:

[Illustration: _The happiness of sharing with others that which wepossess enhances the value of its enjoyment. --Page 244. _]

 'Having been presented with two pineapples, permit me to offer you one of them, and to recall to mind your own impressive sentiment--_The happiness of sharing with others that which we possess enhances the value of its enjoyment. _

 'THE LITTLE GREEN HAT. '

In vain did Madame de Clinville and her children question the porter toknow who brought this note. He answered:

'It was a messenger, who, upon leaving the parcel, went away withoutsaying a word. '

Emmelina at once decided upon sharing the pineapple with her mother andbrother, which they regarded but as a return for the bunch of cherries;but were still the more perplexed from a desire to know the twostrangers. In a short time the porter again entered Madame deClinville's house with a rich china vase, in which was an orange tree ofan uncommon size in full bloom, with a second letter, which was, asusual, directed to Emmelina, and contained these words:

 'I received yesterday for my birthday fête, _Ste Clotilde_, two orange trees like the one sent you; condescend to accept of one. _The happiness of sharing with others that which we possess enhances the value of its enjoyment. _'

The porter informed them it was conveyed by the same person, to whom hehad put several useless questions. 

'What!' said Emmelina, 'am I never to know who this charming Clotildeis, with the green hat?'

'Let me try, ' said Gustavus; 'I will undertake to find her out. Describeher as exactly as you can. '

'She is about my size, ' answered his sister, 'but a much better figurethan I am. Her grace displays a prepossessing _je ne sais quoi_; herregular and noble features are enlivened by an air of sweetness andgaiety that attracts and at the same time interests you; fine auburnhair flows in ringlets on her lovely neck; and the whiteness of her skinadds still greater beauty to her fine large blue eyes, the vivacity andexpression of which seem to penetrate to the bottom of your heart, andto guess every thought. '

'From this picture, ' said Gustavus, 'I foresee that, if I discover theunknown belle, I shall be repaid for my trouble on beholding her. Relyupon my wish to serve thee, no less than the person in whom I alreadysensibly feel so many charms are blended to admire. '

Gustavus exerted every effort to meet with the beauty in the green hat, the description of whom was engraven on his heart no less than on hismemory. He sought her at all the public walks, theatres, balls, concerts, and, in short, every private society in Paris, yet could notpossibly discover the slightest or most distant trace of her. 

A month had elapsed when Emmelina, on her return from taking a walk, found upon her work-table a white silk basket, ornamented withembroidery, which, she was informed by her waiting-maid, was brought bya careful person. Not doubting it came from the amiable Clotilde, sheopened the basket in her mother's presence, and found it contained everyspecies of sweetmeat accompanied by a polite note, wherein the strangermentioned having been a god-mother, and, loaded with presents, she hadadopted Emmelina's maxim, which never was obliterated from herremembrance, and which she had actually worked in golden letters infront of the basket, with a bunch of cherries, ornamented with leaves, in embroidery--viz. : '_The happiness of sharing with others that whichwe possess enhances the value of its enjoyment. _'

This tasty specimen of ingenuity created the most pleasing and gratefulsensations in the breasts of the Clinville family, who, thoughdistressed beyond measure at receiving so many anonymous gifts, by themanner in which they were offered were obliged to accept them. Emmelinaand Gustavus therefore hesitated not to partake of the various anddelicious confectionery with which the basket seemed entirely filled, but great was their surprise to discover underneath the sweetmeatshalf-a-dozen elegant fans, six dozen pairs of gloves, and, lastly, abeautiful white cashmere shawl with a broad border highly and elegantlyfinished. 

'I cannot, ' said Emmelina, 'think of wearing these rich articles withoutknowing from whom they come; simple cherries, offered with a trulyhearty welcome, do not merit such considerable presents. '

'I commend thy discretion, ' said Madame de Clinville to her; 'everyinstance denotes the rank and fortune of these charming strangers, anddenies us the power to make them amends, as an exchange of presents canonly be made with our equals; we must, therefore, take care of thehandsome shawl till we can discover the person who has sent it. ' Alsothe gloves and fans were carefully preserved in the elegant basket, andthey contented themselves with doing justice to the delicacies. 

Gustavus, although one of the first pupils at the Imperial Academy, frequently shared them with his sister, and daily repeated, while eatingthem: 'Oh, generous and charming green hat, I will find thee. Who wouldnot, even the most callous, aspire to the honour and happiness ofknowing thee? Yes, yes, I will discover thee. .. . '

But, alas, his renewed researches were as unsuccessful as the former. Invain did he pursue every green hat he perceived at a distance in Paris, but could not find that similarity of grace, youth, beauty, andexpression of which his sister had drawn so faithful and prepossessing apicture. 

Emmelina, being no less desirous than her brother to gain a knowledge ofthe person with whom she had divided her cherries, prepared a note forthe porter to deliver, at the same time giving him strict orders to sendit by the next person that came, which note was directed _To thecharming Green Hat_ . .. As follows:

 'If the sensibility of your heart correspond with the charms of your countenance, you must approve of the resolution I have taken not to make use of all the presents with which you have favoured me. I therefore assure you they are placed under my mother's care, who suffers no less than myself from the cruel secrecy in which you persist. 

 'EMMELINA DE CLINVILLE. '

The porter, faithful to the execution of his orders, was not long theholder of the note. Two days after the same messenger presented himselfat the lodge, and was preparing to go away as usual, after having leftthe parcel, when the porter, formerly a soldier, and still full ofvigour, seized him by the collar, and called loudly for Gustavus, who, followed by his mother and sister, quickly descended to know from whencehe came, but neither entreaties, threats, nor the promise of rewardcould prevail with this good man, who merely said the parcel wasdelivered to him by an old servant in red livery, who had given him acrown for his trouble, and being well recompensed he would not betraythe trust reposed in him. 

'Since you are so discreet, ' said Emmelina, 'I am sure you must beobliging. Do me the favour to deliver this note to the same servant fromwhom you received the parcel; that will not bring your discretion, forwhich I commend you, into question, and I shall be obliged by yourcompliance. '

'If you only require me to give the note, ' answered the porter, 'I willdo it willingly, and you may rely on my punctuality. You need not followme, for you will lose both your time and trouble. .. . ' At these words hespeedily departed with Emmelina's note. 

Anxious to know the contents of the newly-arrived parcel, which appearedmuch heavier than any hitherto, Gustavus was himself eager to open theenvelope, and found a handsome uniform for an artillery officer, with anelegant sabre, to which was attached a green morocco portfolio thatcontained this writing:

'My relation, the Minister at War, according to annual custom, on mybirthday presents me with an officer's commission, for those of myfamily or friends who merit it. I beg you to accept it for your brotheras a due reward for his success at the Imperial Academy. If, as I doubtnot, he should signalize himself in his military career, and become ahero, all I request of him is to follow your maxim: _The happiness ofsharing with others that which we possess enhances the value of itsenjoyment. _'

To the above was added a lieutenant's commission of artillery, withorders to join the appointed regiment in eight days. Gustavus conceivedit a dream, for that which he so ardently desired and least expected tobe provided by the generosity of a beautiful young stranger, whosedelicacy redoubled the value of the gift. 'And, ' said he, 'shall I takemy departure without knowing, seeing, or thanking her?'

'There is a mode, ' exclaimed Madame de Clinville, with her eyes beamingwith recollection and delight. 'We must introduce ourselves this day tothe Minister at War, and request an interview; we may then learn fromhim to whom we are indebted for this happy event. .. . '

'You are right, ' replied Gustavus; 'let us go to him directly. ' Hedressed himself in the regimentals, which to his great surprise exactlyfitted him. Emmelina and her mother dressed themselves elegantly, and inan hour's time all three arrived at the Minister's house, who receivedthem with most polite affability, and, conceiving they were acquaintedwith their young benefactress, said: 'In acceding to the anxioussolicitations of Miss de St. Leon I am only doing justice to herdeserving protégé as I can trace in M. De Clinville's countenance agoodness that will render him worthy all the interest I can devote tohim, and which I promise you he shall ever experience. '

'Miss de St. Leon! Miss de St. Leon!' repeated Gustavus. 

'Most likely, ' added Madame de Clinville, 'she is the daughter of thegeneral who, by his great exploits, has attained one of the highestposts under Government, and is one of the Emperor's greatest favourites. We must learn where he lives, and go to him directly. '

'Let us, ' said Emmelina, 'enter the first library and examine the Courtcalendar, and we shall find this so much desired address. ' Upon whichthey discovered the general resided at the village St. Honoré, near theElysée, and thither speedily repaired. 

Emmelina desired the porter to announce that M. De Clinville, anartillery officer, and his family requested a moment's interview withMiss de St. Leon. The porter shortly returned with a footman, who hadorders to introduce the ladies and the newly-appointed officer to thegreat hall where Miss de St. Leon delayed not to attend them. 

She was in the same dress and green hat, ornamented with white pearls, which she wore on meeting her in the Tuileries, accompanied by the samelady, whom she called her aunt. She advanced precipitately to Emmelina, and, embracing her, said: 'Forgive me for having deceived you withsecrecy, and wounded your delicacy. ' She then added, with sensibleemotion: 'I wished gradually to give you a proof of those sentiments youinspired me with on our first meeting, and convinced, by the inquiries Imade, that your greatest ambition was to obtain a commission for yourbrother, and from the high character given of him by the head masters ofthe academy my aunt and I have (in the absence of my father with thearmy), without difficulty obtained him that which will add to thecountry's service another brave soldier, and to your worthy family thecompletion of your wishes, and, lastly, to myself the happiness ofproving to you the high value I set on your delicious bunch of cherrieswhich you obliged me to partake of, and how strong an impression thesentiment which accompanied them has made upon my remembrance. ' To whichat first Emmelina made no reply, but affectionately embraced and salutedher. 

Madame de Clinville could not forbear requesting permission for the sameindulgence. 

Gustavus, with all the vivacity of a young French officer, and eager torealize the good opinion formed of him, exclaimed with an heroic accent:'How long the time seems ere I shall take my station under the ImperialEagles. If I do not in a year merit the cross of honour His Majestyshall be welcome to erase me from the list of the brave. .. . ' As soon ashe found his amiable benefactress had carried her goodness so far as tofind out his tailor, to whom she gave the order for his firstregimentals, his surprise ceased that they fitted so well. 

'To complete this day of joy, ' said Miss de St. Leon's aunt, 'I hopethese ladies and the young lieutenant will dine with us, so that we mayenjoy as long as possible the felicities they have been the means ofpromoting. '

Madame de Clinville readily accepted the invitation, but requested leaveto return home, when herself and children departed, and at thedinner-hour made their appearance dressed in the clothes they wore atthe Tuileries meeting, but in addition to Emmelina's simple dress wasdisplayed the rich cashmere shawl, one of the fans, and a pair of glovesreceived from the green hat, who sensibly felt this mark of attention. 

They seated themselves at table, when Miss de St. Leon discovered, onunfolding her napkin, a small case containing a ring set with threebrilliants. Underneath the mounting was engraved: _A token of lastinggratitude. .. . _

She immediately put the ring on her finger, and declared she never wouldpart from it. In Emmelina she found a constant and sincere friend, inGustavus an officer of exalted rank by his important services to hiscountry. Miss de St. Leon and Emmelina, in their frequent interviews andthe participations of their sweetest endearments, repeated together:'_The happiness of sharing with others that which we possess enhancesthe value of its enjoyment. _'

The Fugitive

On the evening of the day which succeeded that of the visit to the FairyIsland the baronet and his family were seated in the drawing-room, andLady Clairmont was arranging with her husband their plans for thereception of their uncle, Mr. Geoffrey Clairmont, from whom a letter hadbeen just received intimating his intention of being with them the nextday to a late dinner, but requesting they would not make any materialaddition to their table, as a white soup, a turbot, a little venison, and a pheasant would be all he should require, or if his fancy stood forany _bonnes bouches_, his factotum, Monsieur Melange (his valet, cook, and occasional secretary) would bring materials for preparing them. 

The party were amusing themselves with admiring the modest simplicity ofthe old gentleman's bill of fare when Denton, the house-steward, ran in, and, staring wildly around, exclaimed: 'Thank goodness everybody ishere!' then, darting forward to an open door which looked upon the lawn, he shut and locked it, and slammed down the sashes with the greatestprecipitation, then, turning to Sir William, said: 'Pray, sir, pleaseto come out of the room with me this moment. '

The baronet followed him outside the door, while the careful servant, still holding it ajar, added: 'Pray, ladies and gentlemen, don't stirout of this room, pray don't. ' He then shut and locked the door. 

'Why, what ails you, Denton; what is all this about?' said the baronet. 'One would think you had been bit by a mad dog. '

'Not exactly that, Sir William, ' replied the man, quivering in everylimb, 'but I fear we may all be bit, before an hour is over our heads, by something quite as bad. '

He then informed his master that the keeper of a caravan of wild beastshad just come to the castle, and stated that in going through thenearest market-town his vehicle had been upset, and the damage whichensued had given an opportunity for one of his most valuable animals, aBengal tiger, to make its escape, that he and two of the keepers hadtracked it as far as the Warren on the Clairmont estate, and he had cometo beg assistance from the castle, while the other two stood armed oneach side a gap in the Warren where they thought it was hid, and fromwhence, should it attempt to issue, they hoped, by help from SirWilliam, to intercept its free egress. 

'They want ropes and blankets and coverlets from the servants' beds, 'added Denton, 'to spread over the gap, which things they mean to fastendown on each side, and then lure the beast to the entrance by the scentof his usual food, when he will try to force himself through thecoverings; then they can lay hold of his smothered head without fear, and easily slipping a noose round his neck convey him in this mannerback to his old quarters. '

'By all means let them have what is necessary, ' said the baronet, 'andtell the grooms to keep the stable-door locked, and get in the horses. It is not likely that the creature will come near the house till he isstarved into a visitation, but let the gamekeeper and his men be ready, and muster what arms you have. '

'To be sure, Sir William, it shall be done, ' said the frightenedsteward, as he walked cautiously across the hall, looking on every sideas he advanced. 

'Well, ' said the baronet laughing, as he returned to the drawing-room, 'two such _gourmands_ in one four-and-twenty hours is one too many sureenough. Here's a tiger come amongst us to-day by way of _avant-courier_to Uncle Geoffrey. '

'A tiger!' cried both the boys. 'Oh, where, father? But you are joking?'

'No; 'tis a plain fact, according to Denton, ' said Sir William, whoseinformation he then gave, and added: 'Though I have no apprehension ofthe animal coming here I must beg you all to move upstairs, and keep inthe house till it is secured. '

'Secured; how can that be? it must be shot, ' said William, adding: 'Praydon't let Fred and me go upstairs with the misses, father. We can load agun, and take aim now as well as we shall do at five-and-twenty. '

'Pray let us go, father, ' said Frederick; 'it would be such a thing forme to say in India that I had shot a tiger in England. '

'But, ' said Mr. Stanhope, 'do you not think it would be better if thepoor creature's life could be preserved? Its death must be a great lossto its owner, and life is, no doubt, happiness to the creature itself. Why terminate the existence of any animal by which we are not annoyed, and which is not necessary to our subsistence? We certainly have noright to do so. '

'Then you would not even kill a moth, Mr. Stanhope?' said Julia. 

'No, that he would not, I dare say, ' said Agnes; 'dear littlesilver-wings. Mr. Stanhope knows that clippings of Russia leather andcedar-shavings will keep the little creatures off our shawls and muffs, and why should not the pretty things live and be happy?'

'Are you the patroness of the spiders too, little girl?' said William. 

'I would put one out of my room, ' said Agnes, 'if I found one there, butcertainly I would not kill it, for you know it does me no harm, andsurely it was intended that spiders should have some place to live in, or they would not have been made. '

'You are a very considerate miss, ' said William; 'but, at all events, wecannot afford any free place for tigers in this country. So come, dearfather, let us have guns, and go with you and Mr. Stanhope, for I amsure neither of you intend to stay cooped up here. I promise to be underorders, and not move an inch in any way without permission. '

'And I make the same promise, ' said Frederick eagerly. 

'And I can answer for both, ' said Mr. Stanhope warmly, 'that neither ofthose young gentlemen will fail to keep his word. '

'Thank you, dear sir, ' said the youths in the same breath. 

'Mother, grandmother, you don't wish us to stay here, ' said William;'you would not like to see us milk-sops?'

'Certainly not, my dears, ' said the dowager. 'While you move under yourfather's directions your mother and I can have nothing to fear. Courageis a virtue indispensible in a man and a gentleman, and like othervirtues is confirmed by exercise. You need not walk into the tiger'smouth, you know; but if you find him likely to do mischief, and you canprevent it, I hope you will retain your self-possession so as to makesure aim, and pull your trigger firmly. '

'Never fear, grandmother; never fear, dear mother, ' cried the youths. 

'Good-bye, Bill; good-bye, Freddy, ' said all the sisters. 

'Now, father, shall we go?'

'What say you, Mr. Stanhope, ' asked the baronet, 'will you make a sortiewith us. '

'Most willingly, ' replied the tutor. 'I have a brace of trusty pistolsin prime condition, and with a gun shall feel well equipped. '

'Well, then, ladies, adieu for the present, ' said Sir William; 'you hadbetter go up to the observatory; you may see all our movements fromthence. '

'An excellent thought, ' replied Lady Clairmont; and away went the femaleparty to their high station, while the gentlemen, well furnished witharms, walked out into the park, looking with keen inquiring eyes onevery side as they went on. No enemy, however, appeared, but in aboutten minutes, having taken the direction of the western lodge, they weresurprised by the sight of a coach-and-four coming rapidly along. 

'By Jove, 'tis the Clairmont livery! 'tis Uncle Geoffrey, as I amalive!' exclaimed Sir William. 'What day of the month is this?'

'The seventeenth, ' said Frederick. 

'His letter says he shall be here on the eighteenth, ' rejoined thebaronet. 'Well, he must put up with what he can get for his dinner, andthank his own want of punctuality for his bad fare. '

'Oh, poor Sheldon, what a fuss he will be in, ' said Frederick laughing. 'The turbot is taking his pastime in the waters, and the pheasant in thewoods. Unfortunate Uncle Geff!'

At this moment a tremendous shout or rather yell was heard in thedirection of the Warren on the left, and at a considerable distance, butit grew louder and approached nearer every moment. 

'There is certainly something in the wind now, ' said the gentlemen. Every eye was upon the alert, and the carriage within two hundred pacesof our party. 

'Ha, there he goes!' said William. 

'There he goes!' cried Frederick, as the tiger darted across the parktowards the carriage. 'He'll make at the horses. See! see! he hasactually fastened upon poor Culina! No, 'tis Apicius, uncle's grandfavourite. Look at the horses, how they rear and tear away!'

'Now, ' said Sir William, 'a little in this direction to be out of hisside-sight. Remember we must act in concert, and all fire at his head atthe same moment. A single bullet would but interrupt his attentions topoor Apicius, and call them to ourselves, but two brace must surelydisable him. '

'Oh, father, ' cried William, 'how terrified the horses are! See how theyplunge and rear, first on one side the road, then on the other; theywill upset poor Uncle Geff to a certainty. Look, the footman leaps offlike lightning, and now the coachman follows him. See, they are climbingup into the old oak, and leave the horses to their fate, the cowards!The poor beasts are perfectly mad. Now they have done it. The fore-wheelhas struck against the curbstone and flown off, and now the hind-wheelon the same side is off too, and down goes the carriage. I'm sure Iheard poor Uncle Geff cry out, but the tiger still keeps hold on thehorse's shoulders. '

'Now there's a moment's pause, ' said the baronet. 'Fire at his head!'They did so, and their aim was so just that the creature fell instantly, but his efforts to rise, in which he nearly succeeded two or threetimes, filled the crowd which was now assembling with dismay. 

'Mr. Stanhope will lend you his pistols, boys, ' said Sir William. 'Gonearer, if you like, and share the honour of giving the beast hisquietus. '

The youths took the arms exultingly, and advancing boldly towards theanimal, who still writhed in fearful strength, they fired again at hishead, and he then sunk to rise no more. It seems he had actually takenrefuge in a hollow of the Warren, but the keepers had secured theentrance so imperfectly that he easily effected his escape. 

A loud cry of 'Victory! victory!' was uttered by the surroundingmultitude, and the words 'Brave boys!' 'True Clairmonts!' were manytimes repeated by the crowd. 

'And now let us see after poor Mr. Clairmont, ' said Sir William, goingup to the carriage, which lay on its side. The two _stout gentlemen_ whohad clambered up into the oak, seeing the enemy breathless, had summonedcourage to descend, and were trying to pacify and unharness thetrembling horses. 

'How are you, my dear sir? how are you, Mr. Clairmont?' said thebaronet, speaking aloud, not being able to see into the carriage. 

'_What_ am I, you mean, nephew, ' roared out the old gentleman. 'Why I ama perfect mass of blanc-mange, bruised to a universal pulp. '

[Illustration: _'There he goes!'--Page 261. _]

'I hope not, ' replied the baronet; 'no bones broken, I trust?'

'Bones! I don't think I've such a thing as a bone belonging to me nomore than if I had been hermetically sealed in a register-boiler. I tellyou I'm nothing but a huge fricandeau; you may cut me in slices, andtake me out piecemeal. '

'I am happy to hear you are in a state to make merry with yourmisfortunes, my dear sir, ' rejoined Sir William; 'but, seriously, howshall we manage to get you out?'

'The tiger is dead as Napoleon, uncle, and lies at the feet of yourfavourite Apicius, ' said William. 

'And the horses are taken off, ' added the baronet; 'but I fear theraising of the carriage to assist your descending cannot be effectedwithout giving you some more severe jolting. Where is your valet?Perhaps he can help you if the coach-door be got open. Melange, ' criedMr. Clairmont, 'are you dead or stupid?'

'Ni l'un ni l'autre, monsieur, ' replied the servant doggedly. 

'Then pray bestir yourself, and get me out of this miserable ruin. Don'tyou hear them say the tiger is killed? Why do you stay sprawling herelooking as ghastly as if he were grinning at you in all his glory?'

Melange began to move. 

'There now, ' said his master, 'you have set your foot on the bottle inthe side-pocket; there it goes--a bottle of my finest claret!'

Melange popped his head over the perpendicular floor of the carriage, and seeing the tiger positively dead he sprang out with great facility, and appeared to have received no other injury than certain indicationsof culinary luxuries which besprinkled his habit so plentifully as togive his tailor (had he seen it) hopes of an ample order for a refit. 

'Well, Melange, ' said Sir William, 'what measure are you about to takefor your master's relief?'

'The carriage must be unpacked, Sir William, ' said the valetconsequentially, 'and then monsieur may be raised so gently as not tosuffer any farther inconvenience. '

He then, with the assistance of his two fellow-servants, removed all thepackages from the boot, etc. , etc. , and by the help of the numerousbystanders propped up the carriage, and assisted his master to descend, the skirts of whose coat bore evident marks of the course the claret hadtaken when it escaped from its imprisonment in the flask, while histrousers and stockings appeared to have been liberally complimented withUde's delicious _consommé_ at the moment of the grand squash. 

Lady Clairmont, having seen all from the observatory, had sent a sofaand pillows for her uncle's accommodation, which arrived at this moment, and the baronet, with Mr. Stanhope's aid, placed the old gentleman uponit in a state of comparative comfort, the boys trying to arrange thecushions and pillows for him, while an air of good-humoured contemptmingled with their assiduities. 

'Ah, my poor friend, Apicius, ' he exclaimed on seeing the dying horsepanting beside the prostrate destroyer, 'nothing can be done for you, Isee. Lead him away if possible, and put him out of his pain asmercifully as you can. Fine creature. I cannot bear to look at him; helittle thought, when he pranced off so stately yesterday morning, thathe was coming to feed the hounds at Clairmont, and a tit-bit they willfind him; he's in capital condition. Pray let him be taken away. '

'I think we had better take care of you first, dear sir, ' said hisnephew, 'but I fear you will not find a dinner to your taste thisevening. There will be two dishes minus at least, for we did not expectyou till to-morrow, the eighteenth--the day you named. '

'Ha, that was an unlucky mistake of Melange which we found out too late. He put the paper before me and dated the letter; but, however, as thingshave turned out it is of no consequence. I shall take no dinner to-day, but some pearl-sago, enriched with a good dash of old Jamaica. You mustlet me have a warm bath, nephew, and bid them put me to bed directly, and in two or three days, perhaps, all will be set to rights. Hope LadyClairmont and all your family are well. How do you do, Mr. Stanhope?Excuse me, I can't pretend to see anybody for the next eight-and-fortyhours. By this management I, perhaps, may escape a fit of the gout, which has certainly received a most pressing invitation to take intirepossession of me, even on the very heels of the dog-days. Ha, William, how are you, my boy? and dear Freddy, how are you? How wonderfully youare both grown. No need to inquire if you are well; you must have beenplaying a capital knife and fork this last year, young gentlemen, butthat's not surprising; you live in clover here at old Clairmont asusual. Fat Scotch cattle and black-faced sheep in the meadows, and acrowd of noble bucks in the park. '

'Et les poissons, ' said Melange, edging in his remark as he stood makingsome arrangement required by his master. 'Les jolis poissons quis'élèveront de temps hors l'eau, pour dire à leur façon vous êtes lesbienvenus, Messieurs, nous aurons l'honneur de vous régaler. Ah, c'etaitun coup d'oeil ravissant. '

The boys laughed aloud, and Mr. Stanhope could hardly preserve hisgravity, but Sir William gave Melange a look that seemed a deathblow tohis flippancy, for he moved off directly to the care of his jars andhampers. 

'And your pheasants, how are they? Suppose you have had grouse thisfortnight? However, for fear of the worst, I've brought a few brace. Areyour partridges lovable? But I forgot; you never disturb them till nextmonth. But I should not dare to touch them if you could set me down to acovey just now; my stomach would take it fearfully amiss if I were tocall upon it for any service at present, after all the bumpings andthumpings it has just suffered. But stay, before they carry me off Ishould like to ascertain the extent of the mischief we have sustained. Melange, get into the carriage and examine the contents of thesword-case and all the little private recesses. What a ruin it is!'

The valet skipped in. 

'Well, is the _curaçoa_ safe?'

'No, sir, the bottle is smashed to atoms. '

'Not a drop left?'

'Not a drop, monsieur. '

'Well, it was a liquor fit for the gods, and George the Fourth--madeafter old Goddard's recipe. His late Majesty used to say he never tastedany so excellent. And my "Treatise on the Wines of the Ancients, " whereis it?'

'Here, sir'--holding it up outside the coach-door. 

'Actually seasoned with sardines; not a page legible, I fear. Andthere's the "Cook's Oracle, " dumb as a fish, drowned in claret, and anew edition of "Ude" soaked, I'm aware, in one of his own delicious_consommés_. This is sad work, indeed! And the glaze?'

'Smashed, monsieur. '

'Oh, ruin upon ruin! Best portable soup in the kingdom! Only three menin England can make it. However, Melange is one of the three. Theedible nests[B] and the Strasburg livers?'

'Quite safe, sir. '

'The potted char, and the Scotch laver? The limes, and the olives, andthe dravolinas?'

'Tout est à merveille, monsieur. '

'Then how have my medicines fared?'

'They were put in the boot with the ginger, the parmesan, the Westphaliahams, and the reindeer tongues, ' said Melange. 

'Now then, come down and see if the colchicum sherry, l'eau médicinale, gout mixture, cogniac, vespetro, noyau, and old Jamaica are safe. '

Melange examined, and reported, 'Perfectly safe, sir. '

'And the lachryma christi, Hermitage hock, and tokay, with the WestIndia sweetmeats?'

'All right. '

'Well, 'tis an untoward business enough, but it might have been worse, nephew, ' said Mr. Clairmont, consoled to think all his hampers were in asound state. 

'True, sir, ' replied Sir William, 'infinitely worse. You have escapedbroken bones, and out of four horses have lost only one. '

'Then are all the rest safe and sound, coachman?' asked his master. 

'Quite well, sir, only terribly frightened, like some of us, ' repliedthe man, smiling on one side of his face, and blushing as well as hecould on the other, 'but life is sweet to us all, and who would not haverun away from that frightful beast?' looking at the tiger. 

'What a beautiful animal it was!' said Mr. Stanhope to William. 

'Very beautiful indeed, sir, ' replied William, 'and if I were rich Iwould buy its coat, and make a present of it to mother for a hearthrug. '

'A very good thought, my boy, ' said Mr. Clairmont, 'and you shall haveit, if it is to be sold. '

'Are you the proprietor of this unfortunate animal?' said the baronet. 

'I am, sir, ' said one of the three men who were standing guard over thedead tiger, and waiting for an opportunity to ask the baronet for theloan of a cart to convey it to the town where their caravan was waiting. 

'What do you ask for the skin?' demanded Mr. Clairmont. 

The man named his price, and the demand, though somewhat exorbitant, wascomplied with, greatly to the satisfaction of the two youths, who wereanxious to have it in the family as a memento of this, to them, important day. Sir William then ordered the tiger to be conveyed to thebutchery, and uncoated preparatory to the operation the currier wouldhave to perform on the skin previous to its exhibition in thedining-room. 

'Well, now, my good Melange, ' said Mr. Clairmont, beckoning him to comenear, and whispering coaxingly, 'you will see all our valuables safebefore you leave them. '

'Sans doute, monsieur, n'ayez pas peur, I have sent Foster on to thehouse for a cart, and shall have everything conveyed to that apartmentyou are accustomed to occupy. Of course we shall be there?'

'Are we to have our old lodgings, nephew?' said Mr. Clairmont. 

'If you please, sir, ' replied the baronet; 'your bedroom is as usual inthe west angle, on the ground floor, close to the bath, which is thesituation you have always preferred. '

'Ha, thank you, that is comfortable. You hear, Melange?'

'Oui, monsieur. '

'And now, nephew, if your carriers be ready say the word, and let us bemoving, for I begin to feel terribly stiff and awkward in the sinews, and shall be right glad to find myself in a steaming bath. Don'tforget, ' added he to his servant, 'the gout-stool and the moxa, and allnecessary for a good shampooing, and remember to have the sago ready forme on coming out of the bath. Now make haste, for here comes the cart. Be alive, Foster, as you were when you clambered up the oak like asquirrel. '

'My valet shall attend you till Melange has made his arrangements, ' saidSir William. 'No doubt your apartments are in perfect order by thistime; so come, chairmen, take up the sofa, and go gently. '

The men began their march, and the baronet walked on at a brisk pace toapprise Lady Clairmont that the whole family had a respite ofeight-and-forty hours. 

Mr. Stanhope and his pupils lingered behind, walking on very slowly tillthe men were out of hearing with their burden, and William thenexclaimed:

'Go, you genuine sybarite! Uncle of mine, I would not accept the gift ofall your estates if your gourmandizing be entailed on them. '

'Neither would I, ' said his brother. 'It is impossible for a man to be amore devoted slave to his appetite than our great-uncle Geff. The slaveof the ring in the Arabian Nights' Entertainments had a holiday life ofit in comparison. Perhaps it is wrong to say it, but really I feel quitedisgusted with him. As father truly says, "All his conversation hasreference to the sustenation of his insatiable maw, " and we shall all beglad when this animal infliction is over. '

'Gourmandizing, ' said Mr. Stanhope, 'is indeed a vice which fearfullydegrades a man from the rank he was born to hold as a rational being, and I trust you will never either of you be under the dominion of such atyrant. '

'We should both of us, ' said William, 'revolt at the idea of being anobject of contempt to others, such as Uncle Geff is now to us. '

'That's plain English, ' replied Frederick, 'but not the most politething to say of one's venerable great uncle, brother Bill, and who has, moreover, just now given you that superb tiger's skin. '

'The fear of the world's contempt, ' said Mr. Stanhope, 'though salutary, ought not to influence our conduct so much as the consciousness that, while excess clogs our intellects, we become incapable of the virtuousexertions we might otherwise make, and that of the talents we have thussmothered we must one day render an account. '

'And yet there are, I have heard, some men of great abilities andeminent virtue who are said to eat enormously, ' said Frederick. 

'True, ' replied the tutor, 'extreme hunger is, in some constitutions, arapid effect of intense study, and the appetite may be innocentlygratified while it rather adds to the impetus of thought than checks itsadvance. Excess begins when the perceptions become weak and indistinctby indulgence. Every person is able to judge for himself when heapproaches that point, and, if he respect himself, he will stop short ofit. Such men as those to whom you allude feel renovated by their meal, and return to their intellectual pursuits with increased alacrity, butthe _veritable gourmand_ divides his existence between the contemplationof what his dinner shall be, the pleasure of eating, and the labour ofdigesting it. '

'It is very odd in Uncle Geff to bring his eatables and his cook toClairmont. I wonder father will suffer it. What a larder this modernLucullus carries about with him!' said Frederick. 

'Why, father has indulged him in the practice so many years that Isuppose he does not think it worth his while to set his face against itnow, ' replied William. 'Besides, Melange is a superb cook. Sheldon findsit his interest to keep well with him, and gets into many of hisculinary mysteries, of which father reaps the benefit when he is obligedto give great dinners. As to the Frenchman himself, it is easy to see heis the master of his master, and holds him fast by the stomach, as itwere, by a talisman. '

'What an honourable bondage for a man who is proud of his descent frommen who were hand and glove with the conqueror, ' said Frederick, laughing. 

A servant now came out upon the lawn to say tea had been waiting sometime. The youths and their tutor hastened to the drawing-room, whenWilliam and his brother were congratulated on the fortunate issue oftheir rencounter with the tiger. Their gentle mother shed a tear of joyas she kissed the cheek of each darling child, and the dowager expressedherself happy at seeing they had proved themselves worthy descendants ofthe Clairmonts. 

'Emily, ' said she to her grand-daughter in the joy of her heart, 'whatdo you think of your brothers now? Do you not think they will indeedprove an honour to the family, and realize in their manhood all theanticipations of youth? For my part, I feel so much obliged to ourgrand-dame Cicely Dewberry at the present moment, that I can hardly findwords to express myself in due terms; that task I shall, therefore, leave to you. '

Emily coloured at this remark, but, after a pause, replied:

'I am so much pleased that my brothers have acquitted themselves withhonour that I am equally at a loss for words with your ladyship. '

The evening passed most agreeably, and the conversation was animated andinteresting from the topics the occurrences of the day gave birth to. Asfor Lady Clairmont, she was, indeed, greatly pleased with the present ofher new hearthrug, and Sir William ordered the body of the tiger to bedeposited under the oak in which the servants had found shelter, sayingthat, some time or other, he might probably put down on that spot somesolid memento of the event. 

FOOTNOTES:

[B] The nest of a bird found in the southern latitudes, considered adelicacy by the natives, particularly by European epicures. 

The Butcher's Tournament

Marmaduke Mumbles was the son of a worthy butcher in the village town ofScrambles. 

He was an only son, and as such, of course, petted by his father andspoiled by his mother. 

Mrs. Mumbles had been in early life a lady's-maid, and, while in herwaiting upon the Honourable Miss Languish, was employed not so much inmillinery as novel reading, which she used to read to her young ladyfrom morning till night, and from night till morning. 

The tales which took the fancy of the Honourable Miss Languish, andwhich were echoed from the mouth and mind of Miss Squeamish were thoseof 'high romance, ' as it is termed. Young, handsome, virtuous, andvaliant heroes going through more wonderful adventures than our poorMosette in her nine lives, and poor Neddy Bray in his, I do not know howmany. 

Then there must be, to please these novel readers, extraordinarysituations, wonderful incidents, perplexing difficulties, overwhelmingdisasters, strange providences, and miraculous escapes, together with aproper assemblage of old castles, ruined tombs, yawning cloisters, grimvaults, mouldering coffins, unearthly sounds, awful visitations, spiritual appearances; ghosts in white sheets, with bleeding bosoms:hobgoblins with saucer eyes, fierce claws, and long tails; andcatastrophes so tremendous as to set the hair on end, and convulse thewhole frame with the delight of tenor, and the tenor of delight. 

Such was the food of Miss Squeamish, afterwards Mrs. Mumbles, in herearly days. 

And she used to read and read and read till she looked upon the world inwhich she had to get her living as no world of hers, but a sort ofcommon sphere made on purpose for tradespeople, washer-women, andcart-driving. She revelled in a world of the romances, where everythingwas made as it _ought to be_, where the virtuous were always rewardedand the wicked always punished, where high and noble sentiments met withthe reception they deserved, and disinterestedness was duly appreciated, where passion and impulse, unmixed with the care of consequences, wereheld as the glory of both sexes, and everything that was fair and brightand beautiful, and free and elegant and good, shone triumphantly to theglory of the heroes and heroines who figured always so splendidly inthese romantic pages. 

But at last all these bright visions were to end. Miss Languish died ofa consumption brought on from lying in bed night and morning to readnovels. And Miss Squeamish, afterwards Mrs. Mumbles, was forced to turnout into the world to seek her living--into that very world which was soodious to her. But there was no resource, and so the lady who had beenidentified with so many heroines was obliged to set up as a milliner anddressmaker in the little town of Scrambles. 

But the poor young woman soon found out that things were carried on inthis world in a manner radically different from that in which theromances pictured. She soon found out that mutton was eightpencehalfpenny a pound, and that if she did not look well after her butchershe would find her pound and a half of mutton chops weighing not quite apound and a quarter; that bread was ten-pence a loaf, and that the bakerwas no more romantic than the butcher, and would, unless he was checkedevery day, find means to put down a 'dead one'; and that the milkman'schalk had got a notch in it, and would make two strokes instead of one. In short, that there was at the bottom of this best of all possibleworlds a vast amount of sheer roguery. 

The consequence of Miss Squeamish's want of a knowledge of all this wasthat she soon found out the impossibility of being able to make thingscome together--'to make ends meet'--as the saying is. 

She floundered about in her business for a year or two, but grew poorerand poorer, got in debt largely with her grocer, baker, and butcher, andat last was obliged to stop for want of funds. 

But it is an old proverb that 'when one door shuts another opens, ' andthis was the only part of Miss Squeamish's philosophy which had evercome true. No sooner was her shop shut up than the bills came in, andwith Mrs. Shambles' bill the copy of a writ, so that Miss Squeamish wason the high road to a prison. But fortune sometimes favours those whowill not favour themselves, and it somehow or other happened that MissSqueamish pleaded so eloquently for herself and her destitute situationwith Mr. Mumbles, the very fat butcher and her principal creditor, thathe agreed to cancel his debt and pay the others on condition that MissSqueamish would become Mrs. Mumbles. 

And Mrs. Mumbles she did become. For Mr. Mumbles was very rich, andalthough in person he was not very imposing he made up in quantity forwhat he wanted in quality, and the prospect of plenty of meat and a goodname to one destitute of either had such an effect on Miss Squeamish asto put to flight all her visionary ideas of perfection--love in acottage and platonic affection--and she settled down, in appearance atleast, as a very spruce butcher's wife, and took to caps, aprons, andblue ribands. 

Mr. Mumbles was a thrifty man, and had been so all his life. He wasabout fifty years of age, and not disposed to alter his habits, but herequired Mrs. Mumbles to alter hers. He proceeded, therefore, to givehis worthy spouse some initiatory instructions in the art of jointing ascrag of mutton, cutting out a pluck, or chinning a whole sheep upon anoccasion. This was very different from novel reading. She had, indeed, read of knights cleaving their adversaries from the 'chaps to thechine, ' and of 'sticking to the heart, ' and sometimes fancied, as shemade a blow upon some unfortunate leg of mutton, which requiredshanking, that this would she do to the Knight of the Black Visage, orthe cruel Tyrant of the Bloody Tower, or the Renegades of the Cross, orany other anti-hero, so that it might be said romance was _scotched_ inher, not killed, as we shall hear in the sequel. 

After Miss Squeamish became Mrs. Mumbles she determined to endeavour to'civilize' her husband, as she called it. It did not follow because hewas a butcher that he was to have butchering ideas for ever, or that hewas to know nothing of 'literature, ' as she termed it--that is, novels. Mr. Mumbles had read 'Puss in Boots, ' 'Jack the Giant Killer, ' 'TomThumb, ' 'Jack and the Bean Stalk, ' 'Whittington and his Cat, ' and'Mother Goose' in his childhood. In his boyhood he had gone through'Robinson Crusoe, ' 'The Pilgrim's Progress, ' and 'The Seven Champions ofChristendom, ' and therefore knew there was something in the worldbesides scrags of mutton. 

Having made these discoveries Mrs. Mumbles was determined to put herhusband under regular training, to win him, by degrees, from his boorishestate to that of poetry and refinement. She looked at his unwieldybulk--it was not exactly the size for a hero, but then she thought ofbluff Harry the Eighth, who was both stout and romantic, and the Fieldof the Cloth of Gold, and so as Mr. Mumbles became romantic she made upher mind to put up with his stoutness. 

Mr. Mumbles had no other relaxation on a summer's evening than a game ofbowls, but as his fat increased so did his difficulty of playing thisnoble game. He used to think that once down it would require somethingmore than the levers of his legs to lift him up again. So just as Mr. Mumbles had made up his mind within himself to leave off bowls did Mrs. Mumbles think of making him a hero outright. But she went cautiouslyabout her work. She knew that to change the man she must first changethe mind, and therefore she commenced her operations upon the mentalpart of Mr. Mumbles. 

Her first thought was as to the kind of hero she was to train him into. She would not like him to be a 'Jack Sheppard, ' for fear he might breakinto some lady's heart with a crowbar of his impudence. Nor would shelike him to be a 'Eugene Aram, ' for fear he should make a mistake andhang her some night instead of himself. He seemed fitter for a 'JackFalstaff' than anything else. But Falstaff was too witty for a hero, andshe thought, perhaps, that if he laughed any more he would be only somuch the fatter. 

She therefore put into his hands the most sentimental exotics of thepublishing firms. There was the 'Elegant Maniac; or, the Snuff-colouredRose and the Field of Silver, ' a beautiful romance. Then there was the'Sentimental Footpad; or, Honour among Thieves. ' And 'Syngenesia, ' thelast of the melancholies; with the 'Knight of the Snorting Palfrey; or, the Silken Fetlock. ' These works she read to Mr. Mumbles on eveningsinstead of suffering him to repair to his bowls, and after a short timehad the satisfaction to find him a ready and an eager listener. She readand read and read, and he became more and more interested, till at lasthe could scarcely find time to serve a customer if one happened to comein when the hero was in some 'interesting situation. '

And so Mr. Mumbles began to find his business decline, for at last hewould have his novel in his hand on a Saturday night, and would ask hiscustomers concerning this or that book, which he happened to have beenreading during the week. He would forget to joint the loins of mutton, to pickle the stale beef, to send out his orders; in short, hiscustomers were treated with such neglect that his trade, longvacillating between going on and going off, suddenly stopped. 

Nor did Mr. Mumbles care a whit for it, as he was rich when his fatherdied, had grown richer since, and was worth at least ten thousand poundsin houses, lands, and money. He would soon have given up his businesshad it not given up him, and therefore when somebody told him it wastime to 'shut up shop, ' he said: 'Yes, and I intend to do it. '

Suiting the action to the word he forthwith began to retire. All thebeasts and beastesses were sold off with the goodwill of the shop, theblocks, cleavers, hooks, and jemmies. And Mr. Mumbles planned out ahouse in a secluded spot about a mile from the town. It was to be calledMumbles Castle, and was to be built in the old English or baronialstyle, with turrets, low doors, battlements, arch windows, and gothicmouldings. The grand hall was twenty feet by fifteen, the armoury halfthe size, the refectory fourteen by fourteen. A long passage leading tothe adjacent pigsties was called the corridor, and the bedchambers, fourin number, were dignified with the names of the griffin room, themartlet, the rampant lion, and the wild boar, such being a part of thenewly-formed armorial bearing of the Mumbles. 

The adjacent grounds were also laid out in a style corresponding withthe castle. There was, among other arrangements for the comfort anddelight of visitors, a tournament court, an archery ground, and ahawking mound. Certainly they were not of very extraordinary dimensions, but they were rather beyond the general scale of the other parts of thebuilding. Mrs. Mumbles had in contemplation to give a grand fête of somekind or other. Mumbles talked of the house-warming, but that was vulgar. But at last, to ease all difficulties on this score, Master MarmadukeTristram St. George Mumbles was born. 

When it was ascertained that provision for a baby was necessary Mr. Mumbles determined that everything should be conducted according to theestablished laws of chivalry. But having searched in vain among romancesto find how such matters were managed, he gave up the matter in despair. He found that all romances having come to a marriage suddenly stopped. This was very perplexing, but there was no help for it, and as MasterMarmaduke was in a hurry to come into the world he was born before hisfather and mother could arrange the solemn order of the proceedings. 

But both Mr. And Mrs. Mumbles were determined that the christeningshould be conducted upon a scale of all conceivable splendour. There wasno precedent for it, but then there was less likelihood of any mistakeor more room for the fancy. But a gothic christening it was to be--agothic christening it should be--a gothic christening it must be. 

And what would redound to the glory of so mighty an event? This was theconsideration, this was the feat to be achieved. Mr. And Mrs. Mumbleshad many a discourse upon the subject at breakfast, dinner, and supper, at morning, noon, and night, but still the happy idea was too good tostrike them suddenly. 

At last Mrs. Mumbles had a dream. She dreamed of a tournament, and ofall the glory of such an event. Polished helms, furbished arms, clang oftrumpets, waving of banners and plumes, clouds of dust, clash of swords, unhorsing of knights, and outcry of heralds. When she awoke, she saidemphatically to Mr. Mumbles, as he was beginning to take his morningyawn: 'I've hit it'; and gave him a sharp stroke on his wigless pate. 

'I think you have, ' said Mr. Mumbles, 'and I would thank you not to hitquite so hard. But what do you mean, my dear Celestia?'

'Mean, ' replied the delighted spouse--'mean that I have hit upon a planfor doing honour to the birth of our son and heir, of the propagator ofthe glory of our house, and of the renowned name of Mumbles. '

'Have you, by gowls?' said Mr. Mumbles. 'What is it?'

'A tournament, ' said she, 'a tournament, that glory of the chivalricages; will it not be gloriously delightful to see once more "the lightof other days" upon us? To see those battlements decked with the bannersof the house of Mumbles, to hear the clarion ring, to listen to thestrains of martial music, to see the lounge and thrust and anvil blow, knights unhorsed, armour riven, helms cloven. '

'It would be a good go, ' said Mr. Mumbles. 

'A good go; it would be a go and three-quarters--at least, according toyour own phraseology. I think myself truly happy at having been blessedwith such a revelation, and pray that I may be strengthened to performmy part of the ceremony. '

'And what may that be?' said Mr. Mumbles. 

'Why of course I must be the queen of beauty, and you must be my kingconsort. The knights, having arranged themselves, must, first of all, pay their respects to me, and then the victor must kneel before me, andreceive from my hands the richly-embroidered scarf and the crowninggarland. '

'Well, it will be a grand day--an epoch in my existence--a sort of hera. I think they call it a _hera_. And if we could get the band of theScrambles Volunteer Company it would be excellent; if not, I think Iknow some music that would suit. '

'What is that?' inquired Mrs. Mumbles. 

'The marrow-bones and cleavers; they are very pretty music, and I shouldlike _them_, band or no band. '

'The marrow-bones and cleavers, ' said Mrs. Mumbles in astonishment. 

'Yes, ' said Mr. Mumbles, 'it was my glory when I was a boy, and we usedto have them all rung at christenings and weddings. I have heard saythat at my christening and at my mother's marriage they rang a treblebob-major. '

'And pray, what is a bob-major?' inquired Mrs. Mumbles. 'I have heard ofa serjeant-major and a drum-major, but never heard of a bob-major. '

'A bob-major, ' rejoined the elated butcher, 'is a long tune, thatpuzzles you to know when you will get to the end of it, and so you standand wait and wait, till at last, all of a sudden, it stops. '

'And how does it go, my dear? Is it a pretty tune?'

'I should think it _was_ a pretty tune--like the church bells, only morecutting, as it might be expected, from its coming from cleavers. It hasmade me cry like a child, Mrs. Mumbles. '

'I hope it won't make baby cry. '

'I hope not; but, cry or no cry, we must have it, and any other musicyou like. '

This point being settled the ardent pair began to prepare, with thegreatest alacrity, for the forthcoming fête. 

Mrs. Mumbles declared that no expense should be spared to make theproceedings go off with éclat, and Mr. Mumbles began to fidget himselfconcerning the tournament laws, rules, and regulations. 

The principal difficulty was, however, in inducing others to take a partin this strange whim. Had it been bull-baiting or badger-drawing orcock-throwing or horse and donkey racing, hundreds would have been foundready to engage in the sport. But for a tournament! Most people did noteven know the name of it, and Mr. Mumbles' description was in no waycalculated to elucidate its mysteries, so that few seemed to care aboutlending themselves to the fête. 

There was, however, in the town of Scrambles a sharp dapper lawyer'sclerk, who saw at once into the affair and what a frolic it might bemade. He therefore wrote a civil note to Mr. Mumbles, in which heexpressed his delight at the forthcoming novelty, and offered himself asa candidate for the white silken scarf which was to be the reward of thevictor in the field. 

The letter being couched in chivalric language, and ornamented witharmorial bearings, delighted Mr. And Mrs. Mumbles above all things. Theynow felt a prospect of the realization of their fondest hopes, and beganto prepare accordingly. The lawyer's clerk, whose name was Quiddity, also set about publishing the whole of the matter abroad. He soonsucceeded in inducing a number of young men and maidens to favour thejoke, and to lend themselves to it. He explained the insane folly ofthis worthy pair with such irresistible drollery that everyone was eagerto be one of the favoured company. 

On the next interview Mr. Mumbles, delighted with the report ofQuiddity, addressed him with truly dignified solemnity. 

'Sir Knight, ' said he, 'thou hast done thy spirit gently. Thy wondrousworks have found favour in mine eyes; be thou our warden from this time, and for evermore. '

'With leave to thrust or lance, ' said Quiddity; 'for I would not foregoa rencontre for the lord-wardenship of the cinque ports. '

'Sink me if you shall not tilt with me rather than that you should notdisplay your prowess. On the morning of that auspicious day will Idissolve thee from the wardenship, and give thee freedom to thyknighthood. I will, with my own hands, buckle on thy armour, with myright hand place a spear in thy grasp, and with my left salute thee. '

'And for me, ' said Mrs. Mumbles, 'I will choose thee for my own dearknight, and thou shalt fight under my banner, and be victorious; andthen, when thou resist from the field of glory, will I embrace thee, andthou shalt be the envy of all beholders. '

'We'll _stow_ that, ' said Mr. Mumbles, who did not appear to like theembracing part of the ceremony. 'But let us now form a committee of waysand means--that is to say, let us concoct the thing in a regularmanner. '

And so the three concoctors sat down to arrange the order of theproceedings. 

'And, first and foremost, ' said Mr. Mumbles, 'we must have seats raisedround the tilting coast, and a platform built at one end. Then at theother end must be a barrier for the knights to come in at; and then wemust have a long pole _straight across_ the ground, to prevent thehorses _falling foul_ of each other; and then we must have flags atdifferent stations, charged with the armorial bearings of the knights, with their crests on the top of them. '

'And then, ' said Mrs. Mumbles, taking up the same strain, 'we must beginto think of dresses. For my part, I shall wear a white satin robe, trimmed with silver lilies, and a scarf of azure blue, richlyembroidered with gold. Seven ostrich plumes shall wave from my brow; alion's skin shall be spread for my feet; all my jewels shall bedisplayed to the best advantage; and I think I shall, upon the whole, bepretty considerably imposing. As to Mr. Mumbles, I intend to have himdressed in a manner which shall be unique, imposing, and captivating. '

'We will first draw out a programme of the proceedings, ' said Quiddity, 'and then we can select the various personages who are to be honouredwith having a part in the ceremony. '

'Good, ' said Mr. Mumbles. 

'And I shall head it the "Mumblonian Tournament, " and publish achallenge to all the world to deny the peerless beauty of Mrs. Mumbles. '

'But won't that be coming it rather strong? I should like you to draw itpretty mild, ' ejaculated Mr. Mumbles. 

'Not a bit too strong, ' said Mrs. Mumbles, with a toss of her head. 'Goon, pray, Mr. Quiddity. '

So Mr. Quiddity went on:

'And then, of course, we should find persons sending in their defiance, and extolling other dames, and therefore we should have all our knights, squires, horses, armour, and so on. '

'But must we not publish regulations afterwards?' observed Mumbles. 

'Of course we must. That is to say, every knight who professes hisreadiness to break a lance must provide himself with horse, weapons, andesquire, and send in his certificate of noble blood and knightlybearing. '

'But where shall we place the proclamation?'

'On the doors of the church, certainly; upon the "cage"; upon the"pound"; and other public institutions of our country. '

'Good, ' said Mr. Mumbles; 'I like to honour the institutions of mycountry, and therefore I would not have forgotten the parish pump. '

'Certainly not, my dear sir. Well, then, we must apply to theschoolmaster to let us have, on hire, the boys and girls of the nationalschools to walk in order before the procession, with silver wands intheir hands and blue ribands in their hats, while the girls should bedressed all in white like nymphs, and strew flowers. '

'Capital, ' said Mr. Mumbles; 'and then we can give them a tuck-out withrolls and treacle; won't the boys like it--ay, and the girls too! Lawks!how I did laugh once to see girls eat rolls and treacle! They beat theboys out and out at that fun. They dabbed the treacle into each other'seyes, and roped it over each other's shoulders, and swung it into eachother's faces, like good 'uns. There is nothing like girls for a spree;when they do begin, they beat the boys hollow. '

'Well, then, ' continued Quiddity, 'I thought of hiring for a day the oldworkhouse women, to act as matrons or sibyls, as the case may be. Theywill be a pretty contrast to the "gals. " And, that they may not cry out, we will treat them all to a pound of snuff apiece, and a new dress. '

'And a red brocade petticoat each, and a Margaret of Anjou cap or hat. '

'What, one of those with a long poke behind like a rolling-pin, and aveil at the end of it?' said Mr. Mumbles. 

'Just so, my dear, ' replied the lady; 'and they must have one stockingred and the other blue. '

'Ay, ay, ' rejoined Mumbles, with an arch look, 'I know the reason ofthat; you fancy but for this expedient that in the _crowd_ the oldladies would not otherwise know one leg from the other. '

'You are quite wrong, my dear; but we must follow the ancient costume, you know, or else we shall be laughed at. '

'What shall be next?' said Mr. Quiddity. 

'Ay, what next, my dear?' said Mrs. Mumbles, who seemed herself to begot to her wits' end. 

'Why, _I_ was thinking, love, that after the old women we should have abullock, dressed with blue ribands, and garnished with flowers, roastedwhole. '

'Yes, upon the green, after the sports, ' said Mrs. Mumbles; 'and, as Ishould like the whole of the ceremony to conclude with a bonfire and adischarge of fireworks, the fire that is to roast the bullock can bekept up, which will be killing two birds with one stone, you know. '

And thus the preliminaries for the grand entertainment were settled bythe three who were to be chief actors in it. Quiddity, in the veryfrolicsomeness of his heart, now canvassed the town, and, with littledifficulty, succeeded in bringing a number of persons into the plot orjoke; and banners were prepared, armour was provided, and arms of everydescription brought into requisition. 

At last the important day arrived. It was ushered in by a discharge offirearms from the back of the butcher's premises. A squadron of horsemennext paraded the town on horses, ponies, and donkeys, with themarrow-bones and cleavers, and rung most dolorous music. Mr. Mumblesarose from his bed at earliest dawn, and, having breakfasted, set toenrobing himself as a grand grandee of the first order. His dress was ofthe time of Louis XIV. Of France, frilled and furbelowed; and, whenfully arranged, Mr. Mumbles looked like a real Prince, and Mrs. Mumblesheld up her hands in astonishment and delight. 

The back premises of Mr. Mumbles had been already prepared; a rudescaffolding, with seats, skirted three sides of a quadrangle, to whichadmission was to be obtained for the small charge of one penny, thewhole of the proceeds to go to the Institution for the Cure ofRheumatism. The people mustered in large numbers, and, although thetournament joust did not boast of many lords and ladies, or persons ofhigh ancestral lineage, yet everyone was, according to Adamic heraldry, a perfect gentleman or lady in their own right; for they all bore_arms_, with the exception of Jack Sprat, the bellman, who could onlymuster one, with which he rang his bell. 

In the centre of the platform, at the upper end, was a raised seat, anda canopy over it. The seat was covered with yellow baize, and the canopywas formed of the hangings of Mr. Mumbles' best spare bed. It was red, bordered with yellow, which hung in fanciful festoons, and arichly-carved bed-foot on each gave the whole a very imposingappearance. On this raised seat, which was made to hold two, were placedtwo armchairs, richly gilt, and around these were other chairs forpersons of distinction, who now began to arrive in pretty considerablenumbers. First, there was the Grand Master of the Odd Fellows, with anumerous retinue, with their emblematical tools, flags, banners, anddevices. He entered the arena amid the clang of trumpets and the roll ofdrums, and proceeded to the place assigned him. Then came the Presidentof the Anti-Lie-a-Bed Society, with a whole troop of boys and girls whohad been cured of this great sin by drinking half a pint of yeastovernight, which made them _rise early_ in the morning. They werereceived by 'artificial cock-crowing' by the gallant showman, who had aplace assigned him as underwarden. Then came a batch of young damsels, all in white, being chimney-sweepers' daughters; and after them aflourish of trumpets--that is, _cow-horns_--a squadron of costermongers'donkey-lads mounted, with their pocket-handkerchiefs floating from thevulnerable point of 'bean-sticks. '

Next came the redoubtable Mr. Mumbles himself, leading Mrs. Mumbles bythe hand, preceded by the young lawyer Quiddity. He ascended the throneprovided for him with extraordinary dignity, and, having made a bow tothe company by putting his hand to one of his curls, as if to pull hishead down, and giving a scrape with his foot behind, the whole assemblyburst out with a simultaneous cheer--'Mumbles for ever! Mumbles forever!'

Soon after Mr. Mumbles had seated himself the clang of trumpets washeard, and Quiddity appeared on a splendid pony, richly caparisoned, with a hearthrug under his saddle as a saddle-cloth, having in one handhis baton of office, and in the other a banner. After making hisobeisance to the king and queen of the tournament, Mrs. And Mr. Mumbles, he took his place in the centre. Immediately the horns were blown, themob shouted, and Quiddity read the following proclamation:

 '_To all whom it may concern, and to our beloved Neighbours, greeting, _

'With a view to do away with and put down the cowardly, dastardly, and_ungenteel_ sports of bull-baiting, badger-baiting, fox-hunting, pigeon-shooting, and other wicked and cruel amusements, we, John Mumblesand Co. , King of Chivalry, Grand Master of this Tournament, invite allpersons, gentlemen born, to engage in, and others to _witness_, trialsof skill, might, prowess, and magnanimity by means of tilt, combat, orarchery, and all those knights who have been enrolled as true knights, worthy to try their prowess in the tilts, are hereby invited to do sowithout fee or reward, fear or distinction. 

 'GOD SAVE THE QUEEN. '

'Hurrah! hurrah!' said everybody, and then arose the flapping of whitepocket-handkerchiefs, the waving of flags, the sounding of horns, andthe beating of drums. The arena was cleared by Sam Swipes with a longcart-whip, and opposite to each other, by separate entrances, appearedthe first two knights who were to engage--(1) The Knight of the BoilingFish-kettle, (2) The Knight of the Red-hot Copper. The Knight of theBoiling Fish-kettle was armed with a splendid helmet of polished metal, something resembling a double block-tin dish-cover, No. 3 on thebottom; at the top was inverted a red-boiled lobster for a crest, overwhich hung in graceful curves three black cats' tails duly charged withelectricity. A large pewter-dish formed the breast-plate of this knight, while his arms and thighs were plated with bands of tin, which had anexceedingly martial appearance. The shield of the knight was the lid ofthe fish-kettle, a broad oblong defence, upon which was painted thedevice of a leg of pork, with the motto 'Porkus est miceabus. ' Thelance-pole of this knight was a clothes-prop, at the end of which apepper-box was duly fixed instead of a lance. 

The Knight of the Copper was also mounted on a steed; it was of areddish-brown, and for his saddle-cloth he had chosen a rich damasktable-cover, which nearly covered the whole body of the animal. He hadon his head a copper cake-mould in the shape of a porcupine. Hisbreast-plate was a richly-figured japanned waiter. His armour consistedof muffin-tins fixed over his arms and legs, his crest was a 'scaldedcat, ' and his shield a copper-lid of wood. The copper-lid was paintedgreen, and it had for its device a calve's head, with a lemon in itsmouth, with the motto, 'Calve's head is best hot. '

The knights being set in due array and in proper position, at the soundof the herald's trumpets spurred their nags, and went towards each otherwith the velocity of lightning. At the first assault the pepper-box wasdashed to pieces against the copper-lid, and the fractured fragmentsclattered about the combatants. The next charge upset the Knight of theBoiling Fish-kettle and his Rosinante at the same time, and both laywallowing on the ground. Mr. Mumbles on this rose from his seat, and theKnight of the Red-hot Copper made his appearance on the throne orplatform, where, kneeling down, he received at the hands of Mrs. Mumblesa beautiful white silken scarf, while the assembly shouted, the drumsbeat, and the trumpets sounded. 

[Illustration: _Knights in armour tumbled over their own steeds, donkeysran snorting about, ladies shrieked. --Page 295. _]

How long this foolery would have gone on I know not, but just as theceremony was being performed of investing the conqueror knight with thesilken scarf a loud cracking was heard under the platform. Mr. Mumbleslooked red, Mrs. Mumbles looked pale, the company stood aghast, themusic ceased, the uproar was quelled, and the applause subsided. Crack, snap, bang! What was the matter? The fireworks placed underneath thescaffolding, and which were to have concluded the evening'sentertainments, had by some means or other ignited. Presently a rocketwith a loud roar made a sweep in a slanting direction through the canvasat the top of the canopy, to the consternation of all. Before the alarmsubsided, and before anyone could make his or her escape by flight, another and another rocket rushed from beneath the scaffolding withprodigious roar and flame. The alarm became general; Mrs. Mumblesfainted; Mr. Mumbles roared out 'Fire, fire!' as loud as he was able. But now the indiscriminate ignition of rockets, crackers, squibs, Catherines, fiery fountains, flaming cascades, sparkling arbours, andgunpowder and nitre pillars, and suns, stars, and comets enveloped thewhole throne and its appurtenances in a blaze of fiery splendour. Rockets shot out on every side, fiery squibs ran along the ground, Catherine wheels danced on every shoulder, and crackers banged at everyheel. Such a scene of confusion followed as is seldom witnessed. Knightsin armour tumbled over their own steeds, donkeys ran snorting about, ladies shrieked, and fell over gentlemen, and gentlemen tumbled overladies in pell-mell havoc and confusion, amid smoke and steam andhissing and cracking and banging and roaring. 

It was with the greatest difficulty that Mr. And Mrs. Mumbles wereextricated from the danger that threatened them--namely, being burntalive. But Mrs. Mumbles was carried home in a wheelbarrow in a state ofinsensibility, while Mr. Mumbles had the same attention bestowed uponhim through the intervention of a well-disposed hurdle and four of themarrow-bone and cleaver musicians. 

Such was the untoward end of the Mumblonian tournament, an event not tobe easily forgotten in the locality in which it took place. It wassubsequently found out, as it ought to have been discovered before, thatboth Mr. And Mrs. Mumbles had driven themselves mad by novel and romancereading, and they were both obliged to be sent to a madhouse for sometime before they could be cured of their egregious folly. But as they_were cured_, it may be said that the circumstances which I have relatedwere 'all for the best. '

Malleville's Night of Adventure

I

The Story of Agnes

In a few minutes Beechnut returned with a large rocking-chair, which heplaced by the fire, on one side. He then took Malleville in his arms, and carried her to the chair, and sat down. Next he asked Phonny to goout into the entry, and look by the side of the door, and to bring inwhat he should find there. 

'What is it?' said Malleville. 

'You will see, ' replied Beechnut. So saying, he placed Malleville in hislap in such a position that she could see the door and the fire. Herhead rested upon a small pillow which Beechnut had laid upon hisshoulder. By the time that Malleville was thus placed, Phonny came back. He had in his hand a small sheet-iron pan, with three large and rosyapples in it. Beechnut directed Phonny to put this pan down upon thehearth where the apples would roast. 

'Who are they for?' asked Malleville. 

'One is for you, ' replied Beechnut, 'one for Phonny, and one for me. Butwe are not going to eat them till to-morrow morning. '

'There ought to be one for Hepzibah, ' said Malleville. 

'Why, Hepzibah can get as many apples as she wants, ' said Beechnut, 'androast them whenever she pleases. Only, ' he continued, after a moment'spause, 'perhaps it would please her to have us remember her, and roasther one together with ours. '

'Yes, ' said Phonny. 'I think it would. '

'Then, ' said Beechnut, 'you may go, Phonny, and get her an apple. Youcan make room for one more upon the pan. '

'Well, ' said Phonny, 'but you must not begin the story until I comeback. '

So Phonny went away to get an apple for Hepzibah. In a short time hereturned, bringing with him a very large and beautiful apple, which heput upon the pan with the rest. There was just room for it. He then setthe pan down before the fire, and took his own seat in the littlerocking-chair, which still stood in its place by the side of thelight-stand. 

'Now, Beechnut, ' said he, as soon as he was seated, 'now for the story. '

'What sort of story shall I tell you, Malleville?' asked Beechnut. 'Shall it be the plain truth, or shall it be embellished?'

'Embellished, ' said Malleville. 'I wish you would embellish it as muchas ever you can. '

'Well, ' said Beechnut, 'I will tell you about Agnes. '

'Agnes!' repeated Phonny. 'Who was she?'

'You must not speak, Phonny, ' said Malleville. 'Beechnut is going totell this story to me. '

'Yes, ' said Beechnut, 'it is altogether for Malleville, and you mustnot say a word about it from beginning to end. '

'One night, ' continued Beechnut, 'about three weeks ago, I sat up verylate in my room, writing. It was just after I had got well from my hurt, and as I had been kept away from my desk for a long time, I was veryglad to get back to it again, and I used to sit up quite late in theevenings, writing and reading. The night that I am now speaking of, Isat up even later than usual. It had been a very warm day, and theevening air, as it came into my open window, was cool and delightful. Besides, there was a bright moon, and it shone very brilliantly upon thegarden, and upon the fields and mountains beyond, as I looked upon themfrom my window. 

'At last I finished my writing just as the clock struck twelve, and as Istill did not feel sleepy, notwithstanding that it was so late, and asthe night was so magnificent, I thought that I would go out and take alittle walk. So I put my books and papers away, took my cap, and put itupon my head, and then stepped out of the window upon the roof of theshed, which, you know, is just below it. I thought it better to go outthat way rather than to go down the stairs, as by going down the stairsI might possibly have disturbed somebody in the house. 

'I walked along the roof of the shed, without meeting anybody or seeinganybody except Moma. She was lying down asleep behind one of thechimneys. '

Moma was a large black cat belonging to Malleville. 

'Poor Moma!' said Malleville. 'Has not she got any better place to sleepin than that? I mean to make her a bed as soon as I get well. '

'When I reached the end of the shed, ' continued Beechnut, 'I climbeddown by the great trellis to the fence, and from the fence to theground. I went along the yard to the steps of the south platform, andsat down there. It looked very pleasant in the garden, and I went inthere. I walked through the garden, and out at the back gate into thewoods, and so up the glen. I rambled along different glens and valleysfor half an hour, until at last I came to a most beautiful place amonggroves and thickets where there was a large spring boiling out fromunder some mossy rocks. This spring was in a deep shady place, and wasoverhung with beautiful trees. In front of the spring was a large basinof water, half as large as this room. The water was very clear, and asthe moonlight shone upon it through the interstices of the trees, Icould see that the bottom was covered with yellow sands, while beautifulshells and pebbles lined the shore. 

'The water fell down into the basin from the spring in a beautifulcascade. All around there were a great many tall wild flowers growing. It seemed to me the most beautiful place I ever saw. I sat down upon alarge round stone which projected out from a grassy bank just below thislittle dell, where I could see the basin of water and the spring, andthe flowers upon its banks, and could hear the sound of the waterfalling over the cascade. 

'There was a very large oak-tree growing near the basin on the one side. I could only see the lower part of the stem of it. The top was high inthe air, and was concealed from view by the foliage of the thickets. Thestem of the tree was very large indeed, and it had a very ancient andvenerable appearance. There was a hollow place in this tree very nearthe ground, which had in some degree the appearance of a door, archedabove. The sides of this opening were fringed with beautiful greenmoss, which hung down within like a curtain, and there were a great manybeautiful flowers growing upon each side of it. Another thing whichattracted my attention and excited my curiosity very strongly, was thatthere seemed to be a little path leading from this door down to themargin of the water. 

'While I was wondering what this could mean, I suddenly observed thatthere was a waving motion in the long moss which hung down within theopening in the trunk of the tree, and presently I saw a beautiful littleface peeping out. I was, of course, very much astonished, but Idetermined to sit perfectly still, and see what would happen. 

'I was in such a place that the person to whom the face belonged couldnot see me, though I could see her perfectly. After looking about for aminute or two timidly, she came out. She was very beautiful indeed, withher dark hair hanging in curls upon her neck and shoulders. Her dresswas very simple, and yet it was very rich and beautiful. '

'What did she have on?' asked Malleville. 

'Why, I don't know that I can describe it very well, ' said Beechnut. 'Iam not much accustomed to describe ladies' dresses. It was, however, thedress of a child. She had in her hand a very long feather, like apeacock's feather, only, instead of being of many colours, it was white, like silver, and had the lustre of silver. I verily believe it must havebeen made of silver. '

'I don't believe it would be possible, ' said Phonny, 'to make a featherof silver. '

'Why not?' asked Beechnut, 'as well as to make a tassel of glass?However, it _looked_ like silver, and it was extremely graceful andbrilliant as she held it in her hands waving in the moonbeams. 

'After looking about for a minute or two, and seeing nobody, she beganto dance down the little path to the brink of the basin, and when shereached it she began to speak. "Now, " said she, "I'll freeze thefountain, and then I'll have a dance. "

'As she said this, she stood upon the pebbles of the shore, and begangently to draw the tip of her long feather over the surface of thewater, and I saw, to my amazement, that wherever the feather passed itchanged the surface of the water into ice. Long feathery crystals beganto shoot in every direction over the basin wherever Agnes moved herwand. '

'Was her name Agnes?' asked Malleville. 

'Yes, ' said Beechnut. 

'How do you know?' asked Malleville. 

'Oh, she told me afterwards, ' replied Beechnut. 'You will hear howpresently. When she had got the surface of the water frozen, she steppedcautiously upon it to see if it would bear. '

'Would it?' asked Malleville. 

'Yes, ' replied Beechnut, 'it bore her perfectly. She advanced to themiddle of it, springing up and down upon her feet to try the strength ofthe ice as she proceeded. She found that it was very strong. 

'"Now, " said she, "for the cascade. "

'So saying, she began to draw her silver feather down the cascade, andimmediately the same effect was produced which I had observed upon thewater. The noise of the waterfall was immediately hushed. Beautifulstalactites and icicles were formed in the place of the pouring andfoaming water. I should have thought that the cascade had been whollycongealed were it not that I could see in some places by the moonlightthat the water was still gurgling down behind the ice, just as itusually does when cascades and waterfalls are frozen by natural cold. '

[Illustration: _Wherever the feather passed it changed the surface ofthe water. --Page 302. _]

'Yes, ' said Phonny, 'I have watched it very often on the brook. '

'On what brook?' asked Malleville. 

'On the pasture brook, ' said Phonny. 

Beechnut took no notice of Phonny's remark, but went on with hisnarrative as follows:

'Agnes then walked back and forth upon the ice, and began to draw thetip of her long silver feather over the branches of the trees thatoverhung the basin, and over the mossy banks and the tall grass andflowers. Everything that she touched turned into the most beautifulfrost-work. The branches of the trees were loaded with snow, the bankshung with icicles, and the tall grass and flowers seemed to turn whiteand transparent, and they glittered in the moonbeams as if they wereencrusted with diamonds. I never saw anything so resplendent andbeautiful. 

'At last she looked round upon it all and said: "There, that will do. Iwonder now if the ice is strong enough. "

'Then she went into the middle of the ice, and standing upon it ontiptoe, she sprang up into the air, and then came down upon it again, asif she were trying its strength. At the same instant she said or sung ina beautiful silvery voice, like a bird, the word, "Peep!"

'When she had done this, she stopped for a moment to listen. I satperfectly still, so as not to let her know that I was near. Presentlyshe leaped up again twice in succession, singing, "Peep! Peep!"

'Then, after pausing a moment more, she began to dance away with theutmost agility and grace, singing all the time a little song, the musicof which kept time with her dancing. This was the song:

 '"_Peep! peep! chippeda dee, Playing in the moonlight--nobody to see; The boys and girls are gone away, They've had their playtime in the day, And now the night is left to me. Peep! peep! chippeda dee!_"'

'That's a pretty song, ' said Malleville. 

'Yes, ' said Beechnut, 'and you cannot imagine how beautifully she sangit, and how gracefully she danced upon the ice while she was singing. Iwas so delighted that I could not sit perfectly still, but made somemovement that caused a little rustling. Agnes stopped a moment tolisten. I was very much afraid that she would see me. She did not seeme, however, and so she began the second verse of her song:

 '"_Peep! peep! chippeda dee! The moon is for the mountains, the sun is for the sea!_"

'When she had got so far, ' continued Beechnut, 'she suddenly stopped. She saw me. The fact was, I was trying to move back a little farther, soas to be out of sight, and I made a little rustling, which she heard. The instant she saw me, she ran off the ice, and up her little path tothe opening in the oak, and in a moment disappeared. Presently, however, I saw the fringe of moss moving again, and she began to peep out. 

'"Beechnut, " said she, "how came you here?"

'"Why, I was taking a walk, " said I, "and I came along this path. Don'tyou want me to be here?"

'"No, " said she. 

'"Oh, then I will go away, " said I. "But how came you to know me?"

'"Oh, I know you very well, " said she. "Your name is Beechnut. "

'"And do you know Malleville?" said I. 

'"Yes, " said she. "I know her very well. I like Malleville very much. Ilike her better than I do you. "

'"Ah, " said I; "I am sorry for that. Why do you like her better than youdo me?"

'"Because she is a girl, " said Agnes. 

'"That is a good reason, " said I, "I confess. I like girls myself betterthan I do boys. But how came you to know Malleville?"

'"Oh, I have seen her a great many times, " said she, "peeping into herwindows by moonlight, when she was asleep. "

'"Well, " said I, "I will tell Malleville about you, and she will want tocome and see you. "

'"No, " said Agnes, "she must not come and see me; but she may write me aletter. "

'"But she is not old enough to write letters, " said I. 

'"Then, " said she, "she must tell _you_ what to write, and you mustwrite it for her. "'

Beechnut observed that, though Phonny and Malleville neither of themspoke, they were both extremely interested, and somewhat excited by thestory, and that he was far from accomplishing the object which he had inview at first in telling a story, namely, lulling Malleville to sleep. He therefore said to Malleville that, though he had a great deal more totell her about Agnes, he thought it would be better not to tell her anymore then; but that he would sing Agnes's song to her, to the same tunethat Agnes herself sung it. He would sing it several times, he said, andshe might listen, laying her head upon his shoulder. 

Malleville said that she should like very much to hear Beechnut singthe song, but that after he had sung it, she hoped he would tell her a_little_ more about Agnes that night. She liked to hear about her, shesaid, very much indeed. 

So Beechnut changed Malleville's position, placing her in such a mannerthat her head reclined upon his shoulder. 

'Shut your eyes now, ' said he, 'and form in your mind a picture of thelittle dell and fountain, with the frost-work beaming in the moonlight, and Agnes dancing on the ice while I sing. '

Then Beechnut began to sing the first verse of the song to a very livelyand a pretty tune. He could not sing the second verse, he said, becausehe had not heard it all. But the first verse he sung over and overagain. 

 '_Peep! peep! chippeda dee! Playing in the moonlight, nobody to see; The boys and girls have gone away. They've had their playtime in the day, And now the night is left for me. Peep! peep! chippeda dee!_'

Malleville lay very still, listening to the song for about five minutes, and then Beechnut found that she was fast asleep. He then rose verygently, and carried her to her bed. He laid her in the bed, and Phonny, who stood by, covered her with the clothes. He and Phonny then creptsoftly out of the room. 

II

A Sound Sleeper

About nine o'clock, Hepzibah, having finished her work for the day, covered up the kitchen fire, and fastened the outer doors. Beechnut hadgone to bed, and so had Phonny. Hepzibah went into Phonny's room to seeif all was safe, and to get the light. She then went into Malleville'sroom. 

The room had a very pleasant aspect, although the fire had nearly gonedown. The lamp was burning on the stand at the foot of the bed wherePhonny had left it. Hepzibah advanced softly to the bedside. Mallevillewas lying asleep there, with her cheek upon her hand. 

'Poor child!' said Hepzibah to herself. 'She has gone to sleep. What apity that I have got to wake her up by-and-by, and give her somemedicine. '

Hepzibah then looked at a clock which stood upon the mantel-shelf, andsaw that it was a little past nine. It was an hour or more before itwould be time to give Malleville the drops. Hepzibah thought that if shewent to bed, she should fall asleep, and not wake up again untilmorning, for she always slept very soundly. She determined, therefore, that she would sit up until half-past ten, and then, after givingMalleville the medicine, go to bed. She accordingly went and got herknitting-work, intending to keep herself awake while she sat up byknitting. When she came back into the room, she began to look for acomfortable seat. She finally decided on taking the sofa. 

Mary Bell, after using the sofa for Malleville while she was making thebed, had put it back into its place by the side of the room. Hepzibah, however, easily brought it forward again, for it trundled very smoothand noiselessly upon its castors. Hepzibah brought the sofa up to thefire, placing one end of it near to the stand, in order that she mighthave the benefit of the lamp in case of dropping a stitch. She preparedthe medicine for Malleville by mixing it properly with water in a littlecup, and put it upon the stand, so that it should be all ready to beadministered when the time should come, and then sat down upon the sofa, next to the sofa cushions, which were upon the end of the sofa, betweenherself and the light. 

Things went on very well for almost half an hour, but then Hepzibah, being pretty tired in consequence of her long day's work, and of herwant of rest the night before, began to grow sleepy. Twice herknitting-work dropped out of her hands. The dropping of theknitting-work waked her the first and second time that it occurred. Butthe third time it did not wake her. After falling half over andrecovering herself two or three times, she at length sank down upon thecushions, with her head upon the uppermost of them, and there in a shorttime she was fast asleep. 

She remained in this condition for nearly two hours, Malleville in herbed sleeping all the time quietly too. When Malleville went to sleep, she did so resolving not to wake up for her medicine. She did notresolve not to _take_ it, if any one else waked her up for it, but shedetermined not to wake up for it of her own accord. Whether this had anyinfluence in prolonging her sleep it would be difficult to say. She did, however, sleep very soundly, and without changing her position at all, until a little after eleven o'clock, when she began to move her head andher arms a little, and presently she opened her eyes. 

She looked around the room and saw nobody. The light was burning, thoughrather dimly, and the fire had nearly gone out. She sat up in the bed, and after a few minutes' pause, she said in a gentle voice, as ifspeaking to herself:

'I wish there was somebody here to give me a drink of water. ' Then, after waiting for a moment, she added, 'but I can just as well get downand find it myself. '

So saying, she climbed down from the bed, and put on her shoes andstockings, singing gently all the time, 'Peep! peep! chippeda dee!'

This was all of Agnes's song that she could remember. 

She went toward the fire, wondering who had drawn out the sofa and whatfor, and on passing round before it, her wonder was changed intoamazement at finding Hepzibah asleep upon it. 

'Why, ' she exclaimed, in a very low and gentle tone, just above awhisper, 'here is Hepzibah. I suppose she is sitting up to watch withme. How tired she is. '

She stood looking at Hepzibah a minute or two in silence, and then said, speaking in the same tone and manner as before:

'She is not comfortable. I mean to put her feet upon the sofa. '

So saying, Malleville stooped down, and clasping Hepzibah's feet withboth her arms, she lifted them up as gently as she could, and put themupon the sofa. Hepzibah's sound sleep was not at all disturbed by this. In fact, her position being now much more easy than before, she sankaway soon into a slumber deeper and more profound than ever. 

Malleville, finding that her first attempt to render Hepzibah a servicewas so successful, immediately began to feel a strong interest in takingcare of her, and, observing that her feet were not very well covered asshe lay upon the sofa, she thought it would be a good plan to go andfind something to cover them up. So she went to a bureau which wasstanding in the room, and began to open one drawer after another, insearch of a small blanket which was sometimes used for such a purpose. She found the blanket at length in the lowermost drawer of the bureau. 

'Ah! here it is, ' said she. 'I knew it was somewhere in this bureau. '

Saying this, she took out the blanket, and carried it to the sofa, doingeverything in as noiseless a manner as possible. She spread the blanketover Hepzibah's feet, tucking the edges under very gently and carefullyall around. 

'Now, ' said Malleville to herself, 'I will make up the fire a little, sothat she shall not catch cold. '

There were two sticks remaining of those which Beechnut had brought up, and they were lying upon the carpet by the side of the fire, near therocking-chair in which Beechnut had rocked Malleville to sleep. The woodwhich had been put upon the fire had burned entirely down, nothing beingleft of them but a few brands in the corners. Malleville took up the twosticks, one after another, and laid them upon the andirons, one for aback-stick and the other for a fore-stick, as she had often seen Phonnydo. She then brought up a little cricket in front of the andirons, andsitting down upon it there, she took the tongs and began to pick up thebrands and coals, and to put them into the interstice which was leftbetween the two sticks. She did all this in a very noiseless and gentlemanner, so as not to disturb Hepzibah; and she stopped very frequentlyto look round and see if Hepzibah was still sleeping. 

The air soon began to draw up through the coals which Malleville hadplaced between the sticks of wood, and thus fanning them, it brightenedthem into a glow. The brands began to smoke, and presently thereappeared in one part a small flickering flame. 

'There!' said Malleville, in a tone of great satisfaction, 'it isburning. Phonny said that I could not make a fire, but I knew that Icould. '

Malleville had been very careful all the time not to allow hernight-dress to get near the fire, and now, as the fire was beginning toburn, she thought that she must move still further away. She accordinglyrose, and moved the cricket back. The fire burned more and morebrightly, and Malleville observed that the light of it was flashing uponHepzibah's face. 

'I must make a screen for her, ' said she, 'or the flashes will wake herup. '

So she went to the bureau again, and brought forth a shawl, one whichshe had often seen her aunt Henry use for this purpose. Then, putting achair between the sofa and the fire, she spread the shawl upon the backof it, and found that it produced the effect of keeping the flashes oflight from Hepzibah's face entirely to her satisfaction. 

Malleville then began to wonder whether it was not time for her to takeher medicine. She looked at the clock, to see if she could tell whato'clock it was. She could not, of course, for she had never learned totell the time by the clock. Accordingly, after looking at the hands andfigures a few minutes in silence, and listening to the ticking, shesaid:

'I cannot tell what o'clock it is, but it looks pretty late. I have agreat mind to take my medicine myself. '

She then turned to the table, where the lamp and the medicines werestanding. The cup was there in which Hepzibah had prepared Malleville'smedicine. Malleville took it up, looked at it, and stirred it a littlewith the spoon. 

'I wonder if this is my medicine, ' said she. 'I have a great mind totake it. But, then perhaps, it is not my medicine. Perhaps it ispoison. '

So she put the cup down upon the table again, glad, in fact, of aplausible excuse for not taking the draught. 

'I'll sit down in this rocking-chair, ' he said, 'and wait till Hepzibahwakes up. She will wake up pretty soon. '

So she went to the rocking-chair and sat down. She began to rock herselfto and fro, watching the little flames and the curling smoke that wereascending from the fire. She remained thus for nearly a quarter of anhour, and then she began to be a little tired. 

'What a long night!' said she. 'I did not know that nights were so long. I wish that Hepzibah would wake up. But I suppose she is very tired. Imean to go and look out of the window, and see if the morning is notcoming. Beechnut said that we could always see it coming in the east, atthe end of the night. '

Malleville did not know which the east was, but she thought she would atany rate go and look out of the window. She accordingly went to thewindow, and pushing the curtains aside and opening the shutters, shelooked out. She saw the moon in the sky, and several stars, but therewere no appearances of morning. 

There was a bronze ink-stand upon the table near the window, and somepens upon it. The idea occurred to Malleville that perhaps she mightwrite a little while, to occupy the time till Hepzibah should wake up. 

'If I only had some paper, ' said she, 'I would write a letter to Agnes. '

Malleville carried the lamp now to the table by the window, and takinggreat care to put it down in a place where it would not be at all indanger of setting fire to the curtain, she took the pen and began herwriting. She worked patiently upon the task for half an hour. The letterwas then completed. Of course, it is impossible to give any idea in aprinted book of the appearance of the writing, but the letter itself, asMalleville intended to express it, was as follows:

 _Wednesday, midnight. _

 'DEAR AGNES, 'I like you because Beechnut says you like me. Please to answer thisletter. 

 'Your affectionate friend, M. 

Malleville only wrote M. Instead of her whole name, Malleville, at thebottom of her letter, because, just as she was finishing her work, thelamp began to burn very dim. She was afraid that it was going out. Soshe stopped with the M. , saying to herself that Agnes would know who itwas from, and, besides, if she did not, Beechnut could tell her when hegave it to her. She folded the note and slipped it into the envelope, and then, hastily wetting a wafer, which she found in a smallcompartment in the centre of the bronze ink-stand, she put it in itsplace, and pressed down the flap of the envelope upon it. She then tookthe lamp and went to find a pin to prick up the wick a little, to keepit from going out. 

She could not find any pin, and the lamp burned more and more dimly. 

'I must go downstairs and find another lamp, ' said Malleville, 'or elseHepzibah will be left all in the dark. '

She turned and looked towards Hepzibah a moment as she said this, andthen added, 'Poor Hepzibah! How tired she must be to sleep so long. '

She then took the lamp and walked softly out of the room. The stairscreaked a little as she descended, though she stepped as carefully asshe could. When she reached the kitchen door, she found it shut. Sheopened it and went in. 

The kitchen was pretty warm, as there had been a fire in it all the day, although the fire was now all covered up in the ashes. The andirons werestanding one across the other upon the hearth, idle and useless. Malleville looked about the room for a lamp, but she did not see any. The kitchen was in perfect order, everything being put properly away inits place. 

'I will look into the closets, ' said Malleville. 

So she opened a closet door and looked in. There were various articleson the shelves, but no lamps. She then shut this door, and openedanother closet door at the back of the room. Here Malleville found fourlamps standing in a row upon the second shelf. She was very much pleasedto see them. She took one of them down and carried it to the kitchentable, and then lighted it by means of a lamp-lighter, which sheobtained from a lamp-lighter case hanging up by the side of thefireplace. She then blew out her own lamp, and carrying it into thecloset, she put it up upon the shelf in the place of the one which shehad taken away. 

On the lower shelf Malleville saw, much to her satisfaction, a plate ofbread with some butter by the side of it. There was a little pitchernear, too, and Malleville, on looking into it, found that it was halffull of milk. 

'I am very glad that I have found this, ' said she, 'for now I can havesome supper. I wanted something, and I could not tell what. I know now. I was hungry. '

She brought out the bread and butter and the milk to the kitchen table, and then drawing up a chair, she began to eat her supper, feeling a mostexcellent appetite. 

She went on very prosperously for a time, having eaten two slices ofbread and drank nearly all the milk, when suddenly her attention wasarrested by a movement at the head of the kitchen stairs. These stairsascended from very near the door where Malleville had entered thekitchen, and as Malleville had left the door open, the light from herlamp shone out into the entry, and she could also, while in the kitchen, hear any sound upon the stairs. The sound which attracted her attentionwas like that of a person opening a door and coming out. Mallevilleimmediately stopped drinking from her pitcher and listened. 

'Who is that down in the kitchen?' said a voice. Malleville immediatelyrecognised the voice as that of Beechnut. 

'I, ' said Malleville. 

'I?' repeated Beechnut. 'Who do you mean? Is it Malleville. '

'Yes, ' replied Malleville. 

'Why, Malleville, ' exclaimed Beechnut, in a tone of profoundastonishment, 'what are you doing in the kitchen?'

'I am eating some supper, ' said Malleville. 

'But, Malleville, ' exclaimed Beechnut, 'you ought not to be down thereeating supper at this time of night. How came you to go down?'

'Oh, I came down, ' replied Malleville, 'to get a lamp for Hepzibah. '

'For Hepzibah!' repeated Beechnut. 'Did she send you down there for alamp?'

'Oh, no, ' said Malleville, 'I came myself. '

'Where is Hepzibah?' asked Beechnut. 

'She is asleep, ' said Malleville, 'and you must not speak so loud or youwill wake her up. '

Malleville could now hear Beechnut laughing most immoderately, thoughevidently making great efforts to suppress the sound of his laughter. Presently he regained his composure in a sufficient degree to speak, andMalleville heard his voice again, calling:

'Malleville!'

'What?' said Malleville. 

'Have you nearly finished your supper?' asked Beechnut. 

'Yes, ' replied Malleville. 'I have only got a little more milk todrink. '

'Well, ' said Beechnut, 'when you have drank your milk, you had better godirectly back to your room again, and get into bed and go to sleep. '

'And what shall I do with Hepzibah?' said Malleville. 

'Where is Hepzibah?' asked Beechnut. 'Is she asleep in your room?'

'Yes, ' replied Malleville. 

'On the sofa?' asked Beechnut. 

'Yes, ' replied Malleville. 

'Then leave her where she is, ' replied Beechnut, 'and go to bed and goto sleep. If you do not get to sleep in half an hour, ring your bell, and I will dress myself, and come and see what to do. '

'Well, ' said Malleville, 'I will. ' So, taking her new lamp, she wentupstairs again to her room. Hepzibah was sleeping as soundly as ever. 

Malleville, in obedience to Beechnut's directions, after putting herlamp upon the stand, went directly to her bed and lay down. She shut hereyes to try to go to sleep, thinking of Beechnut's injunction to ringthe bell if she did not get to sleep in half an hour, and wondering howshe was to determine when the half hour would be ended. Long, however, before she had decided this perplexing question, she was fast asleep. 

The next morning Hepzibah awoke at half-past five, which was her usualtime of rising. She started up, amazed to find that it was morning, andthat she had been asleep all night upon the sofa in Malleville's room. Her amazement was increased at finding her feet enveloped in a blanket, and a screen placed carefully between her face and the remains of thefire. She went hastily to Malleville's bedside, and finding that thelittle patient was there safe and well, she ran off to her own room, hoping that Phonny and Beechnut would never hear the story of herwatching, and tell it to the men; for if they did, the men, she said toherself, would tease her almost to death about it. 

When the doctor came the next morning, and they told him aboutMalleville's supper, he laughed very heartily, and said that food wasbetter for convalescents than physic after all, and that, thoughpatients often made very sad mistakes in taking their case into theirown hands, yet he must admit that it proved sometimes that they couldprescribe for themselves better than the doctor. 

The Life and Adventures of Lady Anne

Chapter I

Of the first years of my life I have but a slight recollection, as Isuddenly lost my mother by death, and was placed under the care ofstrangers soon after I had completed my fifth year. What passed beforethat time is like the faint remembrance of a long past dream, but itseemed to myself that I had lived among ladies and gentlemen--had beenused to ride in a carriage, to be waited on by servants, who called meLady Anne, and to be fondled by a lady and gentleman, who called meAnnie, and their little darling, and whom I called father and mother. These pleasing visions seemed suddenly to pass away. I no longer saw myfather, nor the ladies and gentlemen; we were no longer living in alarge house; our servants were gone, and mother was almost always intears. Then, all of a sudden, we were riding alone in a post-chaise;night came on, and we stopped at a house. There mother was very ill, andlaid in bed, and did not speak to me for several days, and a great manypeople came and talked to her, but she did not answer any of them. Atlast I thought she was asleep, for her eyes were shut, and her handswere quite cold; then I wanted to get upon the bed that I might sitbeside her, but the strange people that were there carried me out of theroom, and teazed me with questions that I did not understand, or, if Ihad understood them, could not have answered for crying. After this twomen came and put my mother into a large black box, and took her away. 

These are painful remembrances, so sad and so painful that, at thisdistance of time, I cannot think of them without weeping. 

What passed immediately after this I cannot remember, for I have beentold that I had a violent fever, and was ill for a long time. Of allthese things I have but a confused remembrance, yet I do remember them;but the time from which I can clearly recollect is from when I was aboutsix years old, and from that period I remember every materialcircumstance of my life as clearly as if I had written them all down asthey happened. I will now continue my narrative at the time from which Ican correctly remember. I then found myself living in a large cottagewith nearly twenty other children. We were under the care of an elderlywoman, whom we called nurse. This house, I was told, when I was oldenough to understand the meaning of the expression, was the place wherethe infant paupers, or poor children of the parish, were kept. Of ourtreatment there I have no cause to complain. We were well washed everymorning, and our clothes were kept clean and tidy; our food was coarseand rather scanty, so that we always had a good appetite, yet we hadsufficient to keep us in a good state of health, and the farmers' wivesand cottage people who lived near would often give us pieces of breadand a little milk, so that, as I said before, we had no cause forcomplaint. Our nurse taught us reading and sewing, and, as she wasrather a good-natured woman, she would frequently converse with us, ifthe prattle of children can be called conversation, and answer ourlittle questions. 

I must here make a digression to inform my young readers that, though Iwas a poor child, a mere pauper among a number of others who were notany poorer than myself, yet I was always treated with a great deal ofrespect both by the nurse and the other children. I was always calledLady Anne, and in all our little plays my companions would choose me tobe a lady or their queen. Then I would, in a language which seemednatural to me, order the carriage for an airing, or propose a saunter inthe park, or perhaps say we would go to the opera in the evening. Thegirls whom I admitted to the honour of visiting me I would address asladies, and tell some of the others to come and say that 'Her ladyship'scarriage was waiting, ' or that 'Lady Sally's carriage stopped the way. 'It was on one of these occasions that my nurse said to me:

'Ah, Lady Anne, it is a thousand pities that you are not among the lordsand ladies you are so often talking about. It was an unlucky chance thatbrought you here, for, poor child, with us you are like a fish out ofwater. '

'What was it that brought me here?' said I. 'How did I come?'

'It is a long story to tell you, ' replied she, 'but, as it is aboutyourself, you will not be tired of hearing it; so come, children, getyour knitting and sit down, and you shall hear how Lady Anne came tolive among us. '

In a few minutes we all had our knitting, and seated ourselves so as toform a semi- or half-circle round the good woman. Curiosity andexpectation were painted in every countenance, myself the most curiousand anxious of the whole group, for I often, in my own mind, wonderedhow it was that I no longer saw the gentlemen and ladies who it seemedto myself I had been in the habit of seeing, and where my father couldbe gone to, and why everything about me was so different to what it hadonce been. Our nurse having examined our work, and directed us how to goon with it, began her little narrative in the following manner:

'It will be two years on the twelfth of next November since one cold, wet evening, about eight o'clock, a lady, with a little girl that seemedabout five years old, stopped at the Falcon Inn at E----. That lady wasyour mother, and that little girl was you, Lady Anne. Well, the chaisestopped, and your mother got out, and desired to be shown to a bedroom, and ordered tea, and tired and ill the landlady said she looked, but shedid not know how very ill she really was. Well, after tea she put you tobed, and prepared to go herself, and she told the chambermaid to callher next morning at eight o'clock, for that, after breakfast, sheintended to continue her journey. She ordered breakfast too, but, poorlady, when the morning came she was in a high fever. 

'The good woman of the inn was terribly frightened, as you may suppose, at having a strange lady ill in her house, and not knowing whom shebelonged to, nor whether she had money to pay her expenses, so she wentto Mr. Sanders, our clergyman, to advise with him what was to be done. Then he went to the inn, and looked at your mother, and examined alittle trunk, which was all the luggage she had. It contained just achange of linen for herself and you, and rather more than forty poundsin bank-notes and money, but no letters, nor any writing to tell whoshe was. The linen, both yours and your mother's, was marked A. M. , andthe trunk had the same letters in brass nails. 

'Then the clergyman asked you your name; you said it was Lady Anne. Thenhe asked you your father's and mother's, and you said it was my lord andmy lady, and that was all the answer he could get from you, for you didnot know anything about a surname, and I must say I think it is a veryfoolish thing not to teach children their names and proper directions, for if you could have told yours, your friends would have been wrote to, and you would now have been with them, instead of being a poor littlebeggar in a workhouse; but I suppose, as your parents kept theircarriage, they did not think there was any occasion that you should knowyour name and your direction; so much the worse for you. 

'But to go on with my story. When Mr. Sanders asked your age, you saidyou were five years old, and that was all he could learn from you. Well, your mother was very ill, and did not know anything they asked her; shedid not even know you, though you sat on the bed, by her, and did allyou could to make her notice you, but it was all of no use, your poormother could not notice anything. Then a doctor was sent for, and assoon as he came he said that the lady would die, but that he would doall in his power to save her, and so, I believe, he did, but it was allin vain, for on the third evening your mother died. The parish buriedher very decently, for Mr. Sanders said that, as she had left money, sheshould not be buried like a pauper, and he would have taken you home andbrought you up, but Madam Sanders said they had a large family of theirown, and could not be burdened with other people's children, so you weresent to me, and I took all the care of you I could, for you had a badfever, and were ill for a long time, and used to talk about lords andladies, and would often say, if the earl would but forgive your fatherand mother you should all be very happy. When you grew better I askedyou what earl you had been talking about, but you neither knew his name, nor what had been done to offend him. 

[Illustration: _The arrival at the inn. --Page 323. _]

'Mr. Sanders drew up an advertisement that was put into severalnewspapers, describing your mother and you, and telling of her coming toE----, and of her death, and begging her friends to come and take awaythe child, or it must otherwise be sent to the parish poor-house; butnobody ever sent or came, and the churchwardens would not allow any moremoney to be spent upon advertisements, for they said they must keep whatwas left to pay them for their care of you, as you were left upon theirhands, and many people said they thought that you and your mother wereonly sham ladies, and that there was some trick in it, but, for my part, I always said that you and your mother were real ladies, and so thinksMr. Sanders, for he says he does not know what trick there could be in alady being taken ill and dying. He says he hopes to see the day when youwill be restored to your friends, and he keeps the little trunk thatyour mother had, and the picture of a gentleman that she wore hung fromher neck, and two rings; one, I suppose, was her wedding ring, the otheris a very handsome one, and has hair in it and letters, and a great manylittle pearls, and the clergyman says it is worth a great deal of money, and that no sham lady could have such a handsome ring, and, besides allthat, he keeps the clothes that you and your mother wore, that in caseyou should ever meet with your relations all these things may prove youare the same child that was lost, and not an impostor. '

Chapter II

Young as I was this relation of my nurse made me weep very much; itbrought to my memory things which I had long thought must have beendreams. I well remembered my father's picture; I had seen my mother weepover it, press it to her lips, and address it by the name of her dearFrederick. I earnestly entreated the nurse to take me to theclergyman's, that I might once more have the pleasure of seeing it. Shetold me to have patience till Sunday, and that when service was over shewould speak to him about it. I submitted to this delay without a murmur, and the following Sunday, when service was over, as he was walkingthrough the churchyard, nurse went up to him and told him my request. 

'Ah, ' said he, looking at the little troop of children that followed thenurse, and immediately fixing his eyes upon me, 'I suppose this is thelittle lady. What is your name, my dear?'

'Lady Anne, sir, ' replied I, curtseying very low. I must here observethat I did not know that lady was a title, but thought it was as much apart of my name as Anne. 

'What, still Lady Anne?' said he. 'You are determined not to lose yourtitle. Well, my little lady, come home with me and I will show you yourfather's picture. '

We then followed the clergyman to his house. The children were told tostay in the garden, with strict orders not to touch anything, and nurseand I were permitted the honour of entering the study. Mr. Sanders then, opening the drawer of a cabinet, took out the miniature portrait of ayoung and handsome gentleman dressed in regimentals. I no sooner beheldit than a thousand recollections seemed to rush upon my mind. I caughtit from his hand, pressed it to my lips, and bursting into a flood oftears, exclaimed:

'It is my father's picture. My own, my dear father. Oh, if I could butsee him! Where is he gone to? Do you know where he is gone to?'

'Be calm, my dear child, ' said the good man, taking me in his arms. 'Wedo not know where your father is, or we would write to him. If you couldtell us his name, we might find him out. Do you not remember any namethey used to call your father?'

'They used to call father my lord; and mother my lady, and they calledme Lady Anne, ' said I. 

'Ah! that is the old story, we know it already, ' replied the clergymanwith a sigh; 'but who, my dear, was the earl? Can you not recollect hisname? Try if you cannot remember. '

'I do not know his name, ' replied I, 'but he came one day and was veryangry, and made mother cry, and then she fell on the floor and Iscreamed, and then the Earl was more angry and stamped, and I screamedwith all my might, and the Earl rang the bell and went away in a greatpassion, and then Sally--yes, it was Sally--came to mother. '

'Where was your father, then, my dear?'

'I do not know, father was gone, and I have never seen him since. '

The good clergyman asked me many more questions, to try if he coulddiscover who my friends were; but, as I unfortunately could not telleither my own name, or that of any of the great people who had visitedus, his enquiries were fruitless, and he closed the conversation byobserving, 'that it was a great pity I had not been taught my own nameand address. '

 * * * * *

[_Lady Anne was then taken to an orphan home, where she was treated veryharshly by Mrs. Dawson, the matron. Great fun was made of her grandname. _]

 * * * * *

At last a man and his wife, who had come down from London on a visit toa relation of theirs in the town, having heard of me, came to the schoolto make their inquiries. I was accordingly ordered to stand up, thatthey might satisfy their curiosity with gazing at me, while Mrs. Dawsonbegan to boast of all the good qualities I possessed, and some to whichI had no claim. 

'She is a very delicate looking child, ' said the woman from London; 'shelooks more like a gentleman's daughter than a parish girl. '

'She is straight, and tall of her age, ma'am, ' replied Mrs. Dawson, 'andthat gives her a genteelish look; but I assure you she is as strong as alittle horse. She will wash and scour with any girl of her age; and, asfor her needle, there is not a girl in the school can work as well. Showyour work, Lady Anne. '

'Lady Anne!' repeated the Londoner, as she took my work into her hand, 'that is a strange name. What do you call her so for?'

Mrs. Dawson ran over my story to her as briefly as she could. The twoLondoners found it very diverting, and laughed heartily, while the tearsstood in my eyes as I thought of my dear parents, one in the grave, andthe other I might never see again. 

'Well, wife, ' said the man, when he had laughed till he was weary, 'suppose we take this young lady on trial for a month; the good womanspeaks of her very well; we can but see what she can do, and, if we findher strong enough for our place, it will be a rare piece of luck for usto have an earl's daughter for our servant. What say you, aye or nay?'

'I have no objection to try her, ' replied the wife. 'She sews very well, and that is the greatest object with us. '

'Very well, then, ' returned the husband. 'Let us away to the overseers, and settle with them about taking her upon trial, for I will not haveher as an apprentice till we know what she can do. '

They then went away, and, in about two hours, the one that I called thegood-natured overseer came to tell Mrs. Dawson to have me in readinessto go to London on the morning after the morrow with my new master andmistress. 

'And I hope, child, ' said he, addressing me, 'that you will do all youcan to please them, for I give you my word for it, that if you are sentback to us we shall send you to the Bridewell, where you will be kept tohard labour, and be whipped every day; so now you know what you have totrust to. '

I assured him very sincerely that I would do to the utmost of my powerto please my master and mistress; and then I very humbly entreated hispermission to allow me to go the next day to pay a farewell visit to Mr. Sanders and my nurse, Jenkins. 

'Yes, child, you shall go. And mind, Dawson, that you let her go early, that she may find Mr. Sanders at home, for he made me promise that wewould not send her away without first letting her call upon him. Good-bye, child, there is a penny for you to spend, and if you are agood girl you shall have a shilling for yourself when you are boundapprentice. '

I curtsied, thanked him, and renewed my promises of good behaviour. Hethen went away, and Mrs. Dawson told me to sit down to my work, for thattoo much time had been lost in talking. 

Chapter III

The next morning I arose before it was well light. It was a cold morningin the month of February, and the snow was lying upon the ground; but myheart felt so light at the thought of escaping from the ill-temper ofMrs. Dawson, and the hope of being more comfortable, that everythingappeared cheerful and pleasant. I made what haste I could to get mymorning work done, and, having breakfasted, set off about nine o'clockon my little journey. The distance from the workhouse to Mr. Sanders'swas rather more than two miles; but the sun was now shining, and theroad hard and dry, and I tripped along so lightly that I was therein alittle more than half an hour. 

'Good-morning to you, my dear, ' said the kind gentleman when he saw me;'you seem in excellent spirits. Have you got a place?'

'Yes, sir, ' I replied. 'I am to go to London to-morrow, and then, Ihope, I shall find my father soon. '

'My poor child, I wish you may, ' answered he; 'but do not raise yourexpectations too high, for fear you should be disappointed. What sort ofpeople are you to be with, and what is it you are to do?'

I then related all that had passed the preceding day between Mrs. Dawsonand the strangers. 

'Well, ' said Mr. Sanders, 'I will call this evening upon the overseers, and hear what they say of these people. I hope they are respectable, andwill be kind to you; and, my dear child, pray remember my advice, behonest and obliging; do not let any temptation lead you to take what isnot your own; and never give a saucy answer, even though you should befound fault with unjustly. Will you think of my advice, and act by it?'

'I will, indeed I will, ' replied I. 'And now, sir, if you please, let meonce more look at my father's picture, for, you know, when I am inLondon, I cannot come to you then to look at it. '

Mr. Sanders, taking it from the drawer, gave it into my hand. I gazed atit, pressed it to my lips, and wept over it; and, at last, when Mr. Sanders desired me to give it him back, I begged of him to let me takeit with me to London. 

'If you take it to London, ' said he, 'you may, perhaps, lose it, or itmay be taken from you. The picture is valuable on account of the goldand pearls about it, and may tempt bad people to steal it. You had muchbetter leave it with me. '

'I will hide it so securely, ' replied I, 'that nobody shall ever see it, or know that I have it. '

'How can you hide it, my dear?'

'I will hide it in my bosom; but I am going to Nurse Jenkins, and shewill fasten it inside my stays, so that it cannot be seen, and peoplewill not think that I have a picture. Do, pray, sir, let me have it. '

'Well, ' said Mr. Sanders, after a little pause, in which he seemed toconsider whether it would be safe to grant my request or not; 'I willentrust it to your care, but be sure never to let it be seen, nor totell anyone that you have such a picture in your possession. '

Most fervently I promised to take every possible care of this belovedportrait, and was about to take my leave when Mr. Sanders said:

'Stay, my dear, here is sixpence for you. '

'No, thank you, sir, ' said I. 'I have the sixpence you gave me when Ileft my nurse. '

'What! have you not spent that yet?'

'No, sir. '

'And why not, pray?'

'Because you gave it to me, sir, I shall never spend it. '

'Then you are keeping it for my sake, I suppose. Well, do so, my dear, but take this sixpence, and mind you spend it. '

I took it with a curtsey, and tried to say 'Good-bye, ' but the wordsseemed to choke me, and I burst into tears. Mr. Sanders seemed muchaffected, and putting his handkerchief to his eyes, walked about theroom for some minutes without speaking; then, again approaching me, hekissed my forehead. 

'Farewell, my dear child, ' said he. 'I wish it was in my power to keepyou, but I have a large family, and Mrs. Sanders is not willing that Ishould take you in addition, so farewell, we must part; be a good girl, and I hope we shall meet again in happier circumstances. '

He then again kissed me, bestowed his benediction upon me, and led me tothe gate. I sobbed out my farewell, and, with the tears streaming downmy face, took my way to the humble dwelling of my nurse. I had nearlytwo miles to walk before I reached her cottage. At first I went alongwith a slow and deliberate step, thinking upon my parting with Mr. Sanders, and comparing my lot with that of children who had fathers andmothers, and weeping at my own destitute situation; for, even among thechildren who were in the workhouse, there was not one excepting myselfwho had not relations who came occasionally to see them, and to whomthey looked up for some sort of protection, while I was a poor littleoutcast in society, not knowing one creature in the whole world to whomI could say I was related. Mr. Sanders and my nurse were the onlypersons who seemed to care anything about me; and even these, my onlyfriends, I must leave, and go and live among strangers. These thoughtsmade me very melancholy, and, though this second part of my journey wasthe shortest, yet I was nearly an hour in walking it. At last I saw thecottage, and, quickening my pace, I arrived there tired and out ofspirits. 

The good woman received me kindly, and placing me near the fire, gave mea basin of broth, with plenty of bread in it. After I had taken thisrefreshment, which I greatly needed, she began asking me a variety ofquestions, and by degrees I gave her the history of all that hadhappened to me from the time I had left her house, for since that time Ihad never had an opportunity of saying more to her than a few words whenwe happened to meet at the church. 

'Poor child, ' said she, when I concluded, 'I was afraid you would not becomfortable, for Mrs. Dawson is a woman of a very bad temper; but shedoes make the girls good servants, that nobody can deny, and that, Isuppose, is the reason she keeps her place; however, your time is overwith her now, so never mind what is past, but look forward to what isto come. What sort of people are you going to live with?'

'I hardly know, ' replied I; 'but their name is Smith, and they live in aplace called the Borough. '

'Do you know what their trade is?'

'They sell umbrellas and shoes, and I am to learn to make the umbrellas, and that is all I know about them. '

'Well, my dear, I hope that you will be able to do for them, and thatthey will be kind to you, and you must trust to Providence for thediscovery of your friends. '

I then drew my father's picture from my bosom, and asked her if shewould fasten it into my stays in such a way that I could wear it withoutits being seen. 

'Yes, my dear, ' said she, 'that I will, and you must mind how I do it, that, when you have a new pair of stays, you may be able to fasten itinto them in the same manner. '

My stays were then taken off, and the portrait fastened inside of them;a piece of flannel was then sewed over it, which, being left loose atone corner, I could, when I had them off, raise it up, and take a viewof the dear likeness. The first sixpence that Mr. Sanders gave me I hadfastened in also, for I was determined never to part with it. This beingdone I produced the sixpence he had given me that morning, and the pennygiven me by the overseer, and begged the nurse to accept of them. 

'No, my dear, ' said she, 'I will not take them from you; keep themyourself, you do not know what you may want when you are in London. Youwill not then have anybody to give you a halfpenny should you need it. '

'I will not keep it, ' replied I. 'Mr. Sanders told me to spend it, andif you will not take it I shall leave it upon the table. '

'Well, ' said she, 'if it must be spent, I will go and lay it out in teaand sugar, and give you all a treat, for I suppose you have not tastedany tea since you have been with Mrs. Dawson. '

'No, ' said I, 'not a single drop. How glad I am that you have thought ofletting us have tea. '

My young readers who, perhaps, have tea every day, cannot imagine what aluxury a little of it is to a poor workhouse child, who never tastes itbut when she is allowed to go out and see her friends. Children inworkhouses have bread and cheese and small-beer about seven o'clock, which serves them for tea and supper, and I, as I had no friends to goand see, had not once tasted tea since I left my nurse's, who was agood-natured woman, and always gave us tea on Sunday evenings--weak, indeed, but we thought it delicious; on other evenings we hadmilk-and-water and bread-and-butter. 

My nurse soon came back with her purchase. The large kettle was set onthe fire, the great brown loaf was brought out, and nurse began cuttingslices of bread-and-butter for us. 

The children were so delighted at the thoughts of the treat they were tohave that they began dancing about the floor, and I, forgetting my latesorrow, joined in their sports. When the repast was quite ready we tookour places, some at the table, and some on the benches, as we could findroom. Nurse gave each of us a little basin of tea and a good slice ofbread-and-butter, and I think I may say that the whole body of aldermendining at the Lord Mayor's feast never ate their meal with half the zestthat we felt in sipping our homely tea, and eating our brown bread. 

Soon after the tea was over nurse proposed my returning home, as thedays were short, and as she did not wish me to be out after it was dark. I felt a pang at the idea of so soon parting with my good nurse, butwithout replying I immediately put on my bonnet and cloak. Nurse and thechildren accompanied me a full mile on my way home, and then we partedwith tears on both sides. 

Chapter IV

It was a very fine morning, the sun shone brightly, the fields, hedges, and trees were covered with snow, which, as the air was very cold, didnot melt, but sparkled and glittered most beautifully. I gazed with muchpleasure on the scenery as we passed along, and should have beencheerful, but I was with strangers, who took very little notice of me, scarcely speaking to me the whole day, so that I could not help feelingsorrowful, and sometimes even wished myself back again with Mrs. Dawson. 

About seven o'clock in the evening we stopped at a small shop in one ofthe cross streets in the Borough. There I was told that we were at home. We entered, and I gave a curious and somewhat fearful glance round theplace. The shop was set out partly with umbrellas and partly with shoes, but everything seemed dirty and in confusion. Shoe-lasts, umbrella-sticks, and a large quantity of whalebone, were lying in heapsabout the floor, while in one corner stood a large pan of dirty waterin which they soaked the leather, and which, not being often changed, sent forth a most unpleasant smell; the floor did not appear as if itwas swept once in a month. We entered the parlour, which was in the samestate of dirt and confusion as the shop. Three dirty children, whoseages I was afterwards told were thirteen, eleven, and nine, came to meettheir parents. Their frocks were dirty and ragged, their stockings withholes in them, their shoes slipped down at the heel, while they worestrings of coloured beads round their necks, that did not seem as ifthey were washed oftener than once a month. They were clamouring roundtheir parents to know what they had brought them from the country, andwho I was. 

Their father gave them a basket with cakes and fruit in it, and toldthem to take that, and ask him no questions till he was at leisure toanswer them. The master's sister, who had taken charge of the houseduring his absence, was dressed much in the same style as the children, her stockings being dirty and with holes in them, her gown unripped inseveral places at the seams, and on her head a dirty cap, with a finelace border and ornamented with pink ribbon. The room and furniture werein the same untidy condition, and as I looked around me I could not butfear that my situation in this house would be very uncomfortable. 

We were all of us both tired and cold. The sister made tea, of whichMrs. Smith gave me a good basinful, and a thick slice ofbread-and-butter. They then began talking among themselves, and me andmy little history was the subject of their conversation. They were allmuch amused at my being called Lady Anne. Mrs. Smith declared that shewould either call me Anne or Nancy, and Mr. Smith insisted that Ishould have my full title. 

'I tell you what, husband, ' said she, 'you may call her what you please, but I shall call her Nanny. '

'And I tell you what, wife, ' returned he, 'I shall call her Lady Anne, and so shall the children, or I'll strap them well, and you ought tocall her so. Who knows but that girl may be the means of making ourfortune? If she really is an earl's daughter, her father may come intoour shop some day to look at an umbrella or a pair of shoes, and when hehears us call her Lady Anne he will, of course, inquire the reason; thenwe shall tell him her history, he'll make us a present--a handsome one, too--not less than a thousand pounds, I should think, or, if it is not ahandsome one, I'll send him in a swinging bill for her keep, so that Iwill have it one way or another. '

'Why, you know that we must keep her, ' replied his wife; 'she is ourservant, and will soon be our 'prentice, if she can do our work. '

'You know nothing about it, ' returned her husband. 'If she is bound tous, we shall be bound to keep her; but if she is not, whenever we findher father we can send him in a good bill for her keep, and make him payit too, that is my opinion of the matter. '

'And so, ' answered his wife, 'for the sake of this fine dream you meanto lose the 'prentice fees, do you?'

'Aye, do I, ' replied he, 'and you'll thank me for it too, when hisearlship gives me the thousand pounds. '

'And in the meantime, ' asked his wife, 'what is to be done with herladyship? Is she to be kept for looking at?'

'You may look at her as much as you please, ' answered her husband, 'but, as she will eat, so she must work or starve, and now give me a glass ofgin and water, for tea is not worth drinking, and I have talked till mythroat is dry. '

His wile brought out and mixed the liquor, repeating to herself: 'And sofor this fine castle in the air we are to lose the 'prentice fees. '

Mr. Smith now had a pipe, and sat smoking and drinking, his wife andsister talked on indifferent subjects, and the children amusedthemselves by repeatedly coming to me, and saying, 'How do you do, LadyAnne? I hope you are very well, ' and the like idle expressions. Theirfather laughed, and said they had learned their lesson already, buttheir mother, who was vexed at losing the apprentice fees, after somelittle time told them to be quiet, or she would send them to bed. Thiscommand released me from their silly questions; they got differentplaythings, and seated themselves on the floor near the fire, while Isat on a stool on a distant part of the room, but glad at any rate to befree from their questions. 

At length nine o'clock came. Mrs. Smith gave each of the children aslice of bread-and-butter, and I was in hopes she would have given meone too, but I was mistaken. After the children had taken their suppershe said to me:

'Now, Anne, you will go upstairs with us, and I will show you where youare to sleep. You must be up betimes in the morning, and let us see whatyou can do for your living; for, I assure you, we shall not keep you inidleness, though you are a lady. '

Without reply, I followed them upstairs into a large back attic, whichwas in the same comfortless state as the shop and parlour. There wasonly one bed in the room, and it had neither curtains or posts: it hadnot been made that day at the least. Mrs. Smith merely laid it smooth, while the children took off their clothes, which they threw in heapsupon the floor, and then scrambled into bed, without either nightgown ornight-cap. Mrs. Smith then looked round the room, and said:

'I must now contrive a bed for you, child. '

I looked round, too, but did not see anything that seemed to me likelyto answer such a purpose. There were, indeed, several heaps of dirty oldclothes, but they did not appear to me fit for anything but to burn, orto send away among the ashes. Mrs. Smith, however, approached one ofthem, and said:

'Here, child, you may pick out plenty of clothes, and spread them uponthe floor, and I will give you an old blanket to cover you: then, Ithink, you will do very well. '

I went to the heap, and my heart heaved with sickness and disgust as Ilifted up dirty old coats, trousers, waistcoats, and gowns. It seemed asif all the old clothes of the family for the last ten years had beencollected into this room; and out of this mass of litter I was to makemy bed. This was, indeed, heart-breaking to me, for all my life I hadbeen accustomed to cleanliness, even when in the workhouse; for there, though we lived hard and slept hard, yet everything was clean. 

'What is the girl thinking about?' said Mrs. Smith angrily. 'Pick out afew things and make your bed. I cannot stand waiting upon you for halfan hour. '

I did not dare to answer, but picked out a few of the things that lookedthe least dirty, and spread them upon the floor. Mrs. Smith then wentdownstairs, and in a few minutes brought me up an old blanket, which shethrew upon the floor, saying:

'I cannot stay any longer; it is moonlight, and you must make your bed, and go to it as you can. '

She then went away, and I was no sooner alone than, seating myself uponthe floor, I wept most bitterly. 

'How unhappy I am!' thought I. 'Every change I make is for the worse. When I left my nurse I was worse off at the workhouse; and now I haveleft the workhouse I am worse off here; and my father--I shall never seehim more, for he will never find me in such a dirty place as this. '

Again I wept, but, being overpowered with sleep, I wrapped the blanketround me, and, laying myself upon the old clothes I had spread upon thefloor, I was soon in a sound sleep. 

I was awakened the next morning at an early hour by Mr. Smith knockingat the room door, and telling me to make haste down and light the fire. This I did, and swept up the parlour, which I made look as tidy as Icould. After breakfast, of which I had but a very scanty allowance, Iwas ordered into the shop, and Mr. Smith sat down, and began teaching mehow to make the covers for umbrellas. The shop-door was open, and myhands were so cold that I could scarcely hold the needle; but I did aswell as I was able, and worked till I was called to my dinner, which wasnot till the rest of the family had dined; then all the bits of fat andscraps that they did not like were scraped together into a plate for me, which, with a very small piece of meat in addition, and a few potatoes, was my dinner. Complaint was useless. I had no choice but to eat it orto go without. I then returned to my work till the family had takentheir tea, when a small basinful was given to me, and one slice ofbread-and-butter--not a slice all round the loaf, but half round it. After tea, Mr. Smith went out, and his wife and sister, with two otherwomen that came in, spent the evening at cards. At nine o'clock thechildren had their supper and went to bed. I was in hopes that I shouldbe allowed to go, too, nine o'clock being the hour when we had been sentto bed at the workhouse. I accordingly folded up my work and went intothe parlour. 

'Well, what do you want?' said Mrs. Smith. 

'If you please, ma'am, may I have my supper and go to bed?'

'Supper and go to bed!' exclaimed she. 'Pretty talk for a workhousegirl! No, miss, you will have no supper. Three meals a day are enoughfor you, I should think; and as for bed, you will not go till yourmaster comes home, and that will not be till twelve o'clock. So now, mylady, go and sit down to your work again. '

I obeyed in silence, for, indeed, having no choice, I could not dootherwise; but, being overpowered with sleep, I soon nodded over mywork. This Mrs. Smith observed, for, the upper half of the partitionbetween the shop and parlour being of glass, she could see all thatpassed, and, seeing me nod, she came out, and shook and beat me till Iwas thoroughly awake. At ten o'clock the shop was shut up by Mrs. Smithand her sister, Mrs. Smith telling me that would be my work as soon as Iwas tall enough to put up the shutters. I still kept to my sewing, though two or three times I fell asleep over it, from which I was asroughly awakened as at the first. At length, to my great relief, twelveo'clock struck, the two visitors departed, and soon after Mr. Smithknocked at the door. As soon as he came in his wife began scolding himfor spending his time and money at a public-house, and said that hewould bring them all to the workhouse. He retorted by saying that shelost more money at cards than he spent at the public-house. They thenquarrelled violently. Blows were given on both sides, when Mr. Smith, happening to see me, told me to be gone to bed, or he would knock medown. I did not require to be told twice, but, hastening from the room, groped my way upstairs (for I was not allowed any candle), where, rejoiced at having escaped from the confusion below, I wrapped theblanket round me, and, laying myself upon the heap of rubbish, soon fellasleep. 

The two succeeding days passed nearly as the one I have described. Thencame Sunday, which, instead of being a day of rest, of worship of thegreat Giver of all good, and a day of innocent recreation, was, in thismisguided family, a day of complete slavery, for I found that it was theonly one in the whole week that was devoted to domestic business. Thewhole house was to be cleaned. The dishes, plates, and saucepans, whichhad been used over and over again without washing during the week, werenow all to be washed. The knives were to be cleaned, the boots and shoesto be brushed and blacked, and all this it was expected I should do. Idid the best I could, and kept on working from six o'clock in themorning till nine o'clock at night, without sitting down the whole time, except the few minutes when I took my three scanty meals; but now, overpowered with fatigue, I fainted away upon the floor. 

I believe I continued insensible for rather a long time, for, when Ibegan to recover my hearing, I heard Mrs. Smith and the sister talkingtogether very earnestly, and as if they were fearful of getting intotrouble on my account. They were sprinkling me with water, and holdinghartshorn for me to smell, at the same time conversing in the followingmanner:

'I wish we had not taken this girl, ' said Mrs. Smith. 'She has notstrength to do our work. We cannot afford to keep her for nothing; andyet, if she dies, people will say that we killed her. How white shelooks! I am afraid that she really is dead. '

'Pour a little gin-and-water down her throat, ' said the sister. 'If shehas life in her, that will bring her to; and, to tell you my opinion ofthe matter, I think you half starve her, and overwork her besides. Butget the gin, or she will be dead to all intents and purposes. '

Mrs. Smith, I suppose (for, though I could hear, I was still unable toopen my eyes), mixed the liquor, and poured a little of it into mymouth. It acted like a cordial upon me, for I was soon able to open myeyes, and I found myself supported in the arms of the sister, and Mrs. Smith holding the liquor. 

'What is the matter with you, child?' said she. 'Are you subject tofits?'

Unable to speak, I burst into tears. 

'Very well, ' said she; 'you are better now. There, empty the cup, and Iwill give you some bread and cheese, and then you shall go to bed. '

I did as I was desired, and, after I had eaten the bread and cheese, Istaggered, partly from weakness and partly from the effects of theliquor I had taken, up into my room, where sleep soon made me forget allmy sorrows. 

The weary week circled round, and the dreaded Sunday again appeared; butthis day Mrs. Smith obliged the children to help a little in the work. What they did was but little, but to me every little was of consequence. She also allowed rather more victuals; and at eight o'clock in theevening she gave me a good slice of bread and cheese and a teacupful ofporter, which strengthened me so much that I did all my work, and at teno'clock was allowed to go to bed--my miserable bed, which at first I hadbeheld with so much disgust, was now the only place where I found anycomfort, for there I was free from scolding and anger. There I sleptsoundly, there I generally forgot all my sorrow, and sometimes evendreamed that I had found my father. 

Chapter V

The return of spring in some measure alleviated my sufferings, for, asthe weather grew warmer, my hands and feet got better; but, tocounterbalance this comfort, my quantity of work was increased; and, asthe days lengthened, I was obliged to rise earlier, for during the threemonths in the middle of summer I rose every morning at four o'clock. Being allowed so short a time for rest occasioned me to be continuallysleepy, so that I could not help sometimes falling asleep over my work, even during the day, and this was sure of being the means of my having asevere beating from either Mr. Smith or his wife. My health dailydeclined, and I was pleased that it did so, for I was in hopes that Ishould soon die, and be released from all my troubles. Thus passed awaythe summer and autumn. Winter approached. It was now the latter end ofNovember, and the weather had set in extremely cold. A heavy fall ofsnow, with a sharp frost, was succeeded by a slight thaw, which made thestreets worse to walk in than either a severe frost or completely wet, when one morning Mrs. Smith told me to take an apple-pie to the baker's. I took the pie and went as carefully as I could, that I might not fall, or get my feet wet, for my shoes were now so worn out that they did notkeep my feet from the ground; but in crossing the main street in theborough, as I was trying to step over the gutter, which was choked upwith snow and loose pieces of ice, my foot slipped, and down I fell. Thepie went into the gutter, where the dish was smashed to pieces, and thepaste, sugar, and apples mingled with the dirty water. At first I couldnot see, owing to the quantity of muddy water that had splashed up intomy face; but, having cleared my eyes, I saw an old match-woman crammingthe pie-crust into her basket, a crowd of ragged children were fishingthe apples out of the gutter, and a number of men and women, who oughtto have known better, were laughing at me. 

'Pray, ma'am, ' said I to the match-woman, 'give me back the dough that Imay take it home. '

'La, child!' said she, 'what good can a bit of dirty pie-crust do you? Iam sure your mistress would not use it, and when I have washed off themud it will make me a little dumpling. '

'Pray give it me back, ' said I. 'Oh dear! what shall I do? I shall be sobeat!'

'Beat!' repeated a man, who at that moment came up and lifted me overthe gutter on to the pavement, 'you will be killed. If I was in yourplace, I would run away. Depend upon it, if you go back, Mother Smithwould beat you to death. '

This man lived in our street, and knew the Smiths very well. A woman, onhearing their name mentioned, looked at me and said: 'Is this Smith'sgirl? Why, they will kill her and eat her for their dinner as she haslost them their pie. '

'They would not gain much by that, ' said a man, 'for the girl has not apound of flesh upon her bones. '

'Run, I tell you, ' said the man who had first spoken to me. 'It isimpossible for you to be worse off than you are with them; and if theycatch you, they will be the death of you. '

'Run, girl, run, ' was shouted on all sides, 'run, run for your life!'called out the boys, who by this time had pretty well picked up all theapples. I still stood weeping, not knowing what to do, when a womanexclaimed:

'As I am alive, here comes Mother Smith with a great whalebone; now, girl, you'll be cut to pieces. '

A general shout of 'Run! run!' from men, women, and children almostdeafened me. Without stopping to see if Mrs. Smith was really coming, Idid run as fast as my feet would carry me, till, strength and breathfailing, I was obliged to slacken my pace. I had by this time run nearlythe whole length of the Borough, and was almost at London Bridge. I hadnever before seen the Thames, and thought it was the sea. The noise ofthe water-works frightened me, and I hesitated about venturing on thebridge; but, seeing others go over, I, with some fear, followed them, and thought that I had escaped a great danger when I reached theopposite end in safety. But this imaginary fear was but a shortinterruption to my more just one of Mrs. Smith, and I now ventured tolook back to see if I was pursued. Terror, I suppose, deceived me, for Ithought I saw her coming with a stick in her hand. I again set offrunning, and, following the stream of the people, was soon in Cheapside. My feet were now sore, and cut in several places by the ice; but I stillhurried on as well as I was able, till I entered St. Paul's Churchyard. There, notwithstanding my fear, I stood still to gaze on the immense andbeautiful building, which I now for the first time beheld, and for someminutes I was lost in a dream of astonishment. My dream was sooninterrupted by the crowds of people who were hurrying on in differentdirections, and who pushed me about without any ceremony, so that I wassoon obliged to collect my scattered ideas and consider what I was nowto do. I had left Mr. Smith's, but I had no where else to go to, not afriend to receive me, nor a house to shelter me for a single night. As Ithought of my miserable situation, the tears chased each other down myface. Of the great numbers who passed me, no doubt some observed them;but they were all too much engaged with their own concerns to make anyinquiries into the sorrows of a poor little outcast like myself, and Ipassed on unheeded. Going on with the course of the people, I wentthrough St. Paul's Churchyard, down Ludgate Hill, along Fleet Street, and entered the Strand. By this time I had made the determination ofendeavouring to find my way back to E----; of going to Mr. Sanders's, and telling him how ill I had been treated by the Smiths; for I thoughtthat his influence with the overseers would prevent their punishing me, as they had threatened, if I did not stay in my place. I therefore nowbegan to look down all the streets as I passed them to see if any ofthem led to the country; but on the right hand side they all led toother streets. I began to think I should never come to the end of them. Being at length arrived opposite to Catharine Street, I looked up to it, and saw that it led to a wide space, where there was a great quantity ofgreen that looked like small trees. 'Well, ' thought I, 'this must be theway into the country, and the trees are beginning to grow here, but howlittle they are!'

[Illustration: _The flight over London Bridge. --Page 349. _]

I immediately crossed the Strand, went up Catharine Street, and enteredCovent Garden. Disappointment damped my hopes when I found that thisgreat space was surrounded by houses; but there was something sopleasing in the appearance of the evergreens that were exposed for sale, and the shops looked so pretty, being set out with holly and laurel, that I crossed into the market, and walked slowly along, examining thecountenances of the shopkeepers, to see if there was one that lookedsufficiently good-natured for me to dare to speak to her. At last Iasked a woman who kept a fruit and flower shop if she would be so goodas to direct me the way to E----. 

'To E----, child? Why, you are near forty miles off. What do you wantthere?'

'I want to go to Mr. Sanders's, ' replied I, 'and to tell him how ill Mr. Smith used me, and perhaps he would get me another place, and not letthe overseers punish me. '

'I don't know what you are talking about, child, ' said the woman. 'Iknow nothing of Mr. Sanders nor Mr. Smith. Who are they?'

I looked in surprise at the woman, for I thought it impossible buteverybody must know Mr. Sanders. I, however, replied that he was theclergyman at E----. 

'Well, ' said she, 'and who are you? A parish 'prentice, I shouldsuppose, by your gown. '

'And run away from your master, ' said a man who had drawn near, attracted by curiosity. 

'Come, tell the truth, ' said the woman, 'what made you run away? Forthat, I suppose, is the case. '

I related the accident of the pie. The man and several others, who hadcome near to listen, laughed heartily. 

'And so, ' said he, 'the old woman picked up the pie-crust, did she? Shewas no bad judge. The boys had the apples, the gutter had the sugar, you had the mud; and, if you had gone home, I suppose you would have hadthe cane. Ha! ha! ha!'

All the people laughed at this, and I stood crying. 

'Don't cry, ' said the fruiteress, 'you shall not go back to Smith'sagain. I will see if I cannot get you another place, and a pair ofstockings and shoes too, for you are barefoot. '

'So she is, ' said the man who had laughed so heartily; 'she seems tobelong to the ragged regiment, to be sure. But how comes it, child, thatyour father and mother did not look after you a little?'

At the mention of these dear names, my tears flowed afresh, and I sobbedout that I had no father or mother. The good-natured fruiteressabsolutely wept; several women, who had come round us, shed tears; andthe men said it was a great deal too bad that poor orphans should betreated so barbarously. 

'Well, ' said the man who had laughed so much, 'pitying will do her butlittle good without something more substantial, so there's twopence foryou, child, towards a pair of shoes; and if all these good people willgive you as much you will soon be shod. '

They did so far follow his example as to give me some a penny and some ahalfpenny, so that in a short time I had one shilling and sevenpencehalfpenny. They then went away, the fruiteress assuring them that Ishould have shoes and stockings, and that she had no doubt but that shecould get me a place at a gardener's in the country where I might becomfortable. When the people were all gone, she told me to come into theshop and warm myself; but when she looked at my face, scratched with theice and smeared with mud, she said:

'I think a good washing will be the best thing for you, for you cannotbe made comfortable till you are clean. '

She then gave me soap, water, a towel, and I was not a little glad ofhaving the means of washing myself well. She then looked at my feet, which were much cut with the ice, and still bleeding. 

'Poor child, ' said she, 'I think you have suffered enough for breaking apie-dish. However, its done, and you shall soak your feet well with warmwater; and when my little girls come with my dinner I will see if Icannot find you a pair of shoes. '

I accordingly washed my feet well, which was a comfort I had notexperienced for many months. The good woman threw away my old stockingsand shoes, and, doubling a piece of carpet under my feet, told me to sitby the fire till her children brought the dinner. 

Thus refreshed, and seated on a low stool near the fire, I leaned myhead against the wall, and was soon in a sound sleep. From this I wasawakened in a little more than half an hour by a murmuring of voices. Myfirst idea was that Mrs. Smith had discovered my retreat, and I startedup in terror, exclaiming:

'Oh, save me from her, for she will kill me!'

'Do not frighten yourself, my dear, ' said the fruiteress, 'it is only mylittle girls with the dinner. Come and sit to the table, I dare say youare hungry. '

That I really was, but I was so dirty and ragged that I felt ashamed ofsitting at the table with people who had everything clean and whole uponthem. I therefore stood back, and, telling my reasons, asked her to letme have my dinner upon the stool. 

'Take off that ragged apron, ' said she, 'and, Sally, my dear, let thelittle girl have yours, and then come and sit down to dinner with us, child. '

Sally, a good-natured girl, seemingly about fourteen years old, took offher clean coloured apron, which she gave to me, and then, observing mynaked feet, exclaimed:

'Dear mother, she has no shoes! Shall I take off mine, and let her havethem?'

'After dinner, ' replied her mother, 'you must see if you have not atolerable pair of shoes and stockings that you can give her; but now letus sit down, and be thankful that we have a good home to shelter us, andvictuals to eat, and are not, like this poor child, without either. '

The fruiteress (whose name I found was Williams) then said grace, and weall sat down to a comfortable dinner of boiled mutton, turnips, andpotatoes, to which I was helped very liberally. During the repast thechildren naturally inquired who I was, and why I was there. The mothermerely answered them as to how I had come; but, when the dinner wasover, she asked me many questions, such as my name, and what I couldremember of my parents, etc. , and I told them all I could remember, fromthe time of my mother's death to the misfortunes of the present morning, taking care, at the same time, not to mention that I had my father'sportrait in my possession. The good woman shed tears several times, andthe children seemed much affected. 

'Ah, my dears, ' said she to them, 'it is well for you that you have amother to take care of you, or you would not be better off than thispoor child is. I am sure, when your dear father died, I thought we musthave all gone to the workhouse; but yet I kept striving and striving, and Providence has sent us a living. But now you had better take theplates and things home, and see if you have not some of your clothesthat you can spare for this little girl. Jane, you can let her have yourold bonnet. '

'Yes, mother, and my blue spencer, too, for I have left off wearing it. May I bring it?'

'Yes, and make haste, for the poor child is very cold, as you may see, without a bit of a handkerchief on her neck this cold weather!'

The children packed up the plates and the remains of the dinner on atray, and took them to a room that their mother had at a small distance, where they slept, cooked, etc. , as they could not do anything of thatsort at the shop, on account of the fruit and flowers. The children soonreturned with a bundle of clothes, which, though old, were by no meansragged, and, what was to me a great recommendation, they were all clean. From these things Mrs. Williams gave me a tolerably good pair ofstockings and shoes, a very tidy straw bonnet with black ribbons, and ablue cloth spencer. The stockings, shoes, and spencer. I put onimmediately, and felt so warm and comfortable that I seemed to myselfquite a different creature. I offered to Mrs. Williams the money thathad been collected for me in the morning, but she refused it, saying:

'No, my dear, keep your pence; you will want them when you are gone intothe country, and I cannot think of taking money from a poor friendlesschild like you. I have children of my own, and can feel for otherpeople's. '

This good woman then made up the remainder of the things into a smallbundle, and told me that she should give them to me, and perhaps more, when I left her, which would most likely be the following day. 

'To-morrow is market morning, ' said she. 'Several men that I know willbe here with their cartloads of vegetables from the country. There isone in particular whom I think a very honest-hearted man. He is married, and has children of his own, so he may feel for you. I mean to ask himif he will try to get you employed at his master's, who has veryextensive grounds indeed, and raises vegetables, fruits, and flowers forthe London markets. He keeps more than fifty people employed about hisgrounds, and I think it will be a hard case if he cannot find room foryou among them. What do you say, my girl? Will you like to be agardener?'

I replied that I did not know how to garden, but, if they would show me, I would do all I could to learn. 

'That is right, ' said she. 'I hope they will engage you, and then, Idare say, you will do very well. I shall tell John Davis all your story, and that you are to be called Lady Anne, for that, as the good clergymansaid, will be a more likely way for your father to discover you. It wasnot at all likely that he should find you out in such a dirty place asSmith's was, but it is probable that he may find you out at Freeman'snursery grounds, for, in the fine weather, he has crowds of quality goto look at his flowers and eat his fruit; and then, in the flowerseason, he has exhibitions of prize-tulips and prize carnations, whenthe nobility will go to see them, and there's such a number of carriagesand curricles, and horses and gigs, and I don't know what besides, thatthe road is choked up like St. James's Street on a Court day; and whoknows but your father may go among these great people? What do you sayto that, Lady Anne?'

Her description had brought former scenes to my mind, and the tears cameinto my eyes as I expressed my wish that my father might be among thosewho came to visit the gardens. 

The two children stayed all the afternoon, and employed themselves inneedlework. Several people came and bought fruit and trees, such asgeraniums, myrtles, and other greenhouse plants, so that Mrs. Williamshad what she called a good day, and said it would pay her for what shewas doing for me. About five o'clock we had tea; and, about nine all thefruit and shrubs were taken inside the shop, which was then shut up, andI accompanied Mrs. Williams and her daughters home to her room. When wearrived there, one of the children made a fire, while the other set thethings upon the table for supper. Mrs. Williams looked round the roomand said:

'Well, you have been very good girls; everything looks neat andcomfortable. We will first have our supper, and then we must think howwe can make up a bed for this little girl. '

I now felt so comfortable that, if I could have stayed with Mrs. Williams, I should have been completely happy, and I may say that thefew hours I spent in her family were like a bright gleam of sunshinedarting through the gloom that had long surrounded me. After our supper, which was bread and broth made from the mutton that was boiled fordinner, Mrs. Williams spread a small mattress upon the ground, which, with two blankets and a pillow, made me a very good bed. She then, fromher daughters' clothes, picked me out two pretty good chemises, aflannel petticoat, and an old stuff-frock, which still was a very goodone. After I had put on my clean linen, Mrs. Williams took my oldclothes, excepting my stays, which I doubled up and laid under mypillow, and tying them in a small bundle, opened the window and threwthem into the street, saying:

'Bad as they are, they may be useful to some poor creature. '

We then retired to bed, and I passed some hours in peaceful repose. 

Chapter VI

We arose about four o'clock in the morning and went to the market, which, at this early hour, was crowded with waggons, carts, and countrypeople, who had brought various kinds of vegetables for sale. Mrs. Williams and her eldest daughter went among these people to make theirpurchases, while the younger one, Jane, and myself went to the shop, which we opened, kindled a fire, and prepared everything for breakfast. About eight o'clock Mrs. Williams returned, accompanied by a clean, good-looking countryman, to whom she said:

'This, Master Davis, is the little girl I was mentioning to you. I seebreakfast is ready, so sit down and take a cup of tea with us, and Iwill tell you all I know about her, and how it was she came to me. '

The good man took his seat at the table, and during the time ofbreakfast Mrs. Williams told him all my little story, and concluded byurging the request that he would try to get me engaged to work in Mr. Freeman's gardens. 

'I will do what I can, ' said he; 'but this is a bad time of year to takeon a fresh hand, and the child looks but weakly, and that, you know, isagainst her. However, I'll give her the chance, and take her down withme in the cart, and I'll go with her to Mr. Freeman and say what I canfor her; and if he engages her, why, I'll let her be at my house as oneof my children--that is, if my dame agrees to it, and belike she may, aswe have children of our own, and don't know what they may come to; butif master will not engage her, why, I must bring her back again nextmarket-day, for I cannot afford to keep her for nothing. '

'No, no, ' said Mrs. Williams; 'I don't desire that you should. If Mr. Freeman will not engage her, bring her back, and I must try to dosomething else for her; but say all you can in her favour. She is afriendless child, and you don't know what your own children may cometo. '

'Very true, ' said he. 'I'll do all I can for her. But what be we to callher, as she has no right kind of name? Lady Anne is so long that I shallnever get it all out. '

'It is no longer than Mary Anne, ' replied she; 'and I think if you are awise man you will call her by her title and make your children do thesame. If it should be the means of discovering her father, it might puta pretty sum into your pocket. '

'Why, as for that, it might and it might not; but if it is the girl'sname she shall be called by it, so there's an end to that. And now Imust away to settle my money matters, and I'll come back for the childabout eleven o'clock, so good-bye t'ye for the present. '

Away went the man, leaving Mrs. Williams much pleased with the successshe had met with, as she said she had not a doubt but Mr. Freeman wouldengage me when he knew it was one of his best customers that asked thefavour. I was much pleased too, for, as I could not stay with Mrs. Williams, I did not venture to form a higher wish than to be engaged atMr. Freeman's, for my spirits had been so much broken during my stay atSmith's that I no longer dared to indulge the hope of ever finding myfather. 

About eleven o'clock my new friend, John Davis, came for me. Taking mylittle bundle under his arm, he conducted me to his cart. He lifted mein, and putting his horses into motion, we went shaking and rattlingthrough the streets. This part of the journey was disagreeable enough;but when, at Knightsbridge, we entered the turnpike-road, then it beganto be very pleasant. A complete thaw had succeeded to the frost; thefields and hedges looked green, and the air was as soft and mild as ifit had been spring. I was seated on a truss of hay in the corner of thecart, and as we rode slowly along my spirits seemed to revive, and Ionce more indulged the pleasing hope of finding my father; then, again, as we advanced, my hope was damped by fear lest Mr. Freeman would notengage me, or lest Mrs. Davis should refuse to let me be at her house. Icontinued in this agitation of mind during the time of our littlejourney. At last we stopped at a cottage by the roadside, at a smalldistance from Turnham Green. John Davis lifted me out of the cart andled me into the house, where we were received by a woman, whom Iimmediately found was his wife. 

'You are late to-day, ' said she; 'and, pray, who is this you havebrought with you?'

He took his seat near the fire (while I remained standing near thedoor), and briefly related my story to her, particularly dwelling onMrs. Williams being such a good customer that he could not refuse tobring me. 

'Bless thee, John!' she said, as he concluded; 'I wish thee had as muchwit as good nature, and thee would not have brought another person'schild to burden us with. Suppose Master Freeman should not engage her, what's to be done then?'

'I must take her back again, to be sure; but I don't see why he shouldnot engage her--she's a clean, wholesome-looking girl. '

The dame had eyed me pretty well during this conversation. She now gaveme another scrutinizing gaze, and then said to her husband:

'She may be clean and wholesome enough--I don't say anything againstthat--but she's as white as a curd, and does not look as if she has everhad a good meal of victuals in her life. '

'The more's the pity, wife. Then let us give her one. I told you howcruelly that umbrella-maker in the borough used her. I should like tohave the dressing of them with my horsewhip. I would lay it on them withgoodwill, I give you my word. '

'No fear of that, ' replied his wife, 'and they deserve it, too. Come, child, don't stand there by the door; here's a seat for you by the fire. Dinner will soon be ready, and you shall not starve while you are withus, I give you my word; but whether we can let you stay or not is adifferent question. '

Soon after this their three children, two girls and a boy, who wereemployed in the nursery-grounds, came in to dinner. The table wasquickly spread, and we sat down to an ample repast of good boiledpotatoes and fried bacon. After we had dined and sat awhile, Mr. Davissaid to me:

'Come, Miss Minnikin, let us go and see what Master Freeman will say tous. Why, wife, I'll be flogged if the girl does not look better already. I fancy she'll do credit to our keep. '

'I suppose the child was cold and wanted her dinner, ' replied his wife, 'and now she has had it, of course she looks better. But do you see itis past one o'clock? You had better make haste; and you, children, beoff to your work. You have stayed more than an hour at your dinner. '

We now all departed for Mr. Freeman's, which was about half a quarter ofa mile distant. The children went to their work in the garden, and Mr. Davis led me up to the house. After having given an account to Mr. Freeman of the money he had taken at the market that morning, hepresented me to him, and mentioned Mrs. Williams's request. 

'Well, Master Davis, ' said Mr. Freeman, 'I do not want another hand, youknow very well; but Mrs. Williams is, as you say, a very good customer, and so, I suppose, we must give the child a trial. Take her to MasterJoseph, and he will set her about something, and we shall be able tojudge by Saturday night what she can earn, and you shall be paid what isright, for I suppose she will be with you. '

'Yes, sir, ' replied Mr. Davis. 'She shall take lot and scot among my ownchildren. I shall make no difference. '

'Well, well, ' said Mr. Freeman, 'we will do what is right by her and youtoo. '

I was then taken into the grounds to Mr. Joseph, who was thehead-gardener. We found him working at a flower-bed. When he saw Mr. Davis he said:

'Well, friend, what have you there--a lily or a snow-drop?'

'Which you please, Master Joseph, ' replied the other. 'She is a littlegirl that I have brought to put under your government. '

He then gave him an account how he had met with me, told him I was anEarl's daughter, but had lost my father, and was to be called Lady Anne. At this Mr. Joseph laughed, and said 'he had no objection to call meLady Anne, but that he should forget and call me Lady Lily. ' After alittle more talk it was agreed that I should go the following morning, as they both said it was too late for me to begin work that day. Mr. Davis then conducted me back to his cottage, and having told his wifethat I was engaged, he went away to his work. The good dame told me thatI might sit down and rest myself, for she supposed I was tired. I reallywas very tired, but seeing her engaged in mending the family clothes, Itold her that if she pleased I would help her. 

'What!' said she; 'can you sew? I am sure if you can I shall be veryglad of your help, for my girls never put in a stitch, even forthemselves, except it is some finery for Sundays, and then they do itbecause I can't do it well enough for them. There, my girl, if you canmend me those stockings you'll do me a service. They have holes largeenough for you to put your hand through. I have sometimes thought thatif the girls would not mend their stockings themselves they should wearthem with holes in, and so they would, for never a stitch would they putin, and then I am ashamed of seeing them go about in rags, so I keepmending for them; but I have so much to do that I can hardly keep themtidy. '

I took the stockings and found the dame had described them verycorrectly, for one of the holes was so large that I actually did put myhand through it. However, by dint of close application, I mended twopairs of them before it was quite dark. I was then obliged to lay asidemy work, as Mrs. Davis said she should not yet light a candle, and Ineed not do any more work till after tea. My having helped her at theneedlework put her into high good humour, and she asked me a great manyquestions, and said she was glad that Mr. Freeman had engaged me, andthat, if I behaved myself properly, I should be very welcome to staywith them till I was old enough to take care of myself. These kindexpressions, so different to any I had heard for a long time, cheered myheart. I thanked her most sincerely, and promised to do all I could toplease her. I then helped her to prepare the tea. Soon after this Mr. Davis and the children came in. We sat down to our tea, and during therepast the eager questions of the children as to who I was, where I camefrom, and what I was to do, were more attended to than they had been atdinner-time. Their father gave them some account of me, and made merelate all the particulars of my falling into the kennel with the pie. They all laughed heartily, and now that I was out of danger, I could nothelp laughing at it myself. 

'That smashing of the pie is a good joke, ' said Mr. Davis. 'I shouldlike to see how the Smiths looked when you did not go back, and whenthey heard that you had laid their pie in the gutter. I warrant theywould wear out more pairs of shoes than they would sell in a week inrunning after the old woman and the boys; but I can tell you, girl, itwas a lucky chance for you that you did tumble down, or else you wouldstill have been with them misericating in their dirty garret. By-the-by, dame, where's the girl to sleep?'

'That question is sooner asked than answered, ' replied his wife. 'Youknow there is not a bit to spare in the house; the children cannot beput out of their beds. There is no way that I can see but for her tohave a blanket and sleep among the hay in the loft over the stable. Ihave slept so many a time when I was a girl, and was none the worse forit. '

'I wish you could make room for her in the house, ' answered her husband. 'I do not like the thought of turning her out of the house, as it were. Could you not make her up a bed on the floor?'

'No, no, ' replied his wife, 'I cannot. I can see no hardship in hersleeping upon clean sweet hay, with a good blanket to wrap round her. '

To shorten the contest I said that I thought I could sleep very wellupon the hay, though I certainly should have preferred sleeping in thehouse, but I was afraid they would quarrel on my account, which wouldhave been to my injury; and, at all events, the hay-loft was a betterplace to sleep in than the wretched attic at Mr. Smith's. This pointbeing settled, Mr. Davis went out, as he had not yet finished his day'swork, and it being dark, so that no more work could be done in thegardens, the children remained at home. 

I had now an opportunity of observing these children. The eldest was agirl, seemingly about thirteen, of a healthy, robust appearance, but byno means neat in her dress. The second, a girl of eleven, with much thesame appearance as her sister; and the youngest, a boy, seemingly aboutnine, a chubby, good-natured-looking little fellow, and, I thought, verylike his father. After the tea-things were put away, the girls broughteach a little box to the table, in which was a quantity of odd pieces ofmuslin, ribbon, silk, etc. , and they passed the evening in making thesethings up into frills and other articles of finery. The boy brought aquantity of wood to the further end of the table, and with no tool but aknife and a little saw, he employed himself in making little toys. Thatevening he made a dining-table and a chair. 

'Tommy is a clever boy, ' said the mother to me, seeing I was looking athis work. 'He amuses himself of an evening in making these kind of toys, and he sells them to young gentlemen and ladies in the neighbourhood, and I assure you they like his toys better than what they buy in theshops. What was it Master Watson gave you for the little boat, Tommy?'

'Half a crown, mother; but I was two weeks in making it; and last week Iearned two shillings in making chairs and tables. '

I felt curious to know what Tommy did with his money, as he earned somuch, but I did not like to ask the question, as that would have beenrude. However, his mother, who seemed very fond of him, and, I thought, justly so, soon told me. 

'Tommy earns a great deal of money by this kind of work, which is hisplay, ' said she; 'and he gives every farthing of it to his father andme. Part of it we lay out in clothes for him, and the rest we are savingtill he is ten years old, and then he is to go to school, and his ownmoney will pay for it. We take what he earns at the grounds for hiskeep, but all that he earns of an evening shall be laid out uponhimself. I wish my girls were half as industrious. '

'Why, la! mother, ' said the eldest, 'you would never let us amuseourselves at all, I believe. We go to the grounds as soon as it is lightof a morning and work there till it is dark of an evening, and you haveall the money we earn. I don't know what more you would have. '

'I would have you mend your own clothes, hussy, and not spend all theselong evenings in making up a parcel of finery that only makes peoplelaugh at you. '

I was much afraid that the mother and daughter would have quarrelled, but Tommy, showing his workmanship to his mother, took her attentionfrom his sister, and thus peace was restored. Mrs. Davis and I spent theevening, till nine o'clock, in mending stockings. Then her husband camein, and we sat down to our supper of bread and cheese and small beer. 

After supper was over Mr. Davis would not allow any more work to bedone, so we sat and chatted till ten o'clock, which was bedtime. Mrs. Davis then gave me a piece of rush-light in a lanthorn, and I was shownto the hay-loft, where the fragrant smell of the hay was as refreshingas the dirt at Mr. Smith's had been disgusting. 

I soon tossed up a sufficient quantity of hay to make myself a soft nicebed; and, after having on my knees returned thanks to the Almighty forhaving delivered me from such a state of misery as I had been in, Iwrapped the blanket around me, and, laying down on the hay, was soon ina profound slumber. 

Chapter VII

I was awakened the next morning about seven o'clock by Mr. Davis, whocame into the stable below, calling out:

'What! hollo, lassy! Be you awake? Come, it's time to get up. Breakfastis almost ready, and you must be in the gardens by eight o'clock. '

I had slept so soundly, and had such an uncommonly long night to what Ihad for the last eight months been accustomed to, that I did not atfirst recollect where I was, but, quickly remembering everything, Ianswered Mr. Davis, and, dressing myself as expeditiously as possible Iwent down. Going into an outhouse, where there was plenty of water, Igave myself a good washing, and, having combed my hair with a comb thatMrs. Williams had given me, I went into the house and found the familyjust beginning their breakfast. 

'I'll be flogged if the girl does not look five pounds better than shedid yesterday morning, when I first saw her at Mrs. Williams's!' saidMr. Davis. 'You have slept well, girl, I'll answer for it. '

'Yes, sir, ' I replied. 'I have slept better than I did all the time Iwas at Mr. Smith's. '

'I knew she would sleep well upon the sweet hay, ' said Mrs. Davis. 'But, come, child, take your breakfast. It is almost time you should be gone. '

Breakfast being soon over, I accompanied the children to the garden, where, having conducted me to Mr. Joseph, they went to their own work inanother part of the grounds. 

Mr. Joseph was a grave man, between fifty and sixty years of age. Hesuperintended all the work of the garden. Some of the children heinstructed himself in what they were to do, and some he put under thecare of other people. He had read a good deal, and understood botany, and knew the Latin names of all the trees and plants in the garden. ThatMr. Freeman had sent me to be under his own care, I was very glad, forhe seemed a very good-natured man. After a little conversation, in whichhe asked me if I could read, if I knew anything about gardening, and afew more of the like questions, he set me to pick the weeds and stonesout of a bed of pinks, and, having shown me how to do it, he left me tomyself. I worked diligently at my new employment (frequentlycongratulating myself on the happy change I had made). The clock strucktwelve, when we all went home to dinner. One hour was allowed for thatrepast. When I returned in the afternoon, Mr. Joseph came to see what Ihad done. He commended my diligence, and, as the first bed wastolerably well weeded, he told me to go on to the next, and I was againleft to myself. 

In high spirits at being praised, which was quite a new thing to me, Iworked on all the afternoon till about four o'clock, when it became toodark to distinguish plants from weeds; then, in company with thechildren, I returned home to Davis's cottage. What a delightful contrastdid this cottage present to the miserable shop and parlour at Smith's!There everything was spoiled by dirt and confusion: here all was clean. The brick floor was nicely swept and sanded, a cheerful fire blazed inthe grate, and the tea, with plenty of coarse bread and salt butter, wasready upon the table, and the countenances of the family expressedhealth and contentment. After tea was over I again offered my servicesto Mrs. Davis to assist her in her sewing. They were willingly accepted, and this evening passed as the former one had done. At ten o'clock Iagain retired to my bed in the loft. 

The week passed rapidly away, and I had the pleasure of being very muchpraised by Mr. Joseph, who said I should soon be a better gardener thanany of the children on the grounds. Saturday night came, and Mr. Davisreceived for my work at the rate of sixpence a day, which, he said, wasrather more than he had expected. Mrs. Davis was also very wellcontented, and said that what with the money I earned, and what with thesewing I did for her of an evening, they should be very well paid forme. I was much pleased that my new friends were so well satisfied withme, and I looked upon myself as being now settled in a comfortable home. I was also upon very good terms with the children. The girls werepleased that I mended their clothes for them, which prevented theirbeing so much blamed by their mother; and Tommy was so grateful to mefor having mended some of his that he made me a little box for me to putmy money in when I had any. I offered the money that had been given tome at Covent Garden to Mrs. Davis, but she told me to keep it till Iwanted a pair of shoes, and that then they would make up the deficiencyfor me. I accordingly put it into my box and deposited it in a safecorner of my loft. 

Thus passed away the winter months. I was under the care of Mr. Josephmore than the other children that were employed about the grounds; for, as I could read, he taught me the Latin as well as the English names ofthe different plants and flowers, so that I could bring him any that hewanted from either the green or the hothouse. When I had been there twomonths, my wages were raised to four shillings a week; besides that, Mr. Joseph often gave me a penny for myself. 

The tranquil, and I may say happy, life I now led soon made a greatalteration in my personal appearance. I grew plump, and by the time themonth of March came, I had such a colour in my cheeks that Mr. Josephsaid his lily was turned into a rose. 

As the days increased in length, our hours of labour were alsoincreased, for we were now on the ground by six in the morning, and didnot leave work till seven in the evening. This lengthening of the dayswas a great advantage to me. I awoke with the dawn, and generally had afull hour to myself before any other part of the family was up. Then Iused to contemplate the portrait of my dear father, which I used to talkto as if it could understand me, to mend my clothes, and to read in oldschool-books of the children's that were lying about, and never lookedinto by their owners. All the books I had ever read were the Bible, Testament, Prayer Book, and the spelling-book. The old books belongingto the children were an abridgment of the history of England, a smallgeography, and a little book of poetry. I took such pleasure in readingthese books that I could soon repeat the whole pages of them without asingle mistake, and the poetry I soon learned from the beginning to theending of the book. 

The flower season was now advanced, and ladies and gentlemen came towalk in the garden, and to buy flowers. I was always anxious to seethem, that I might have an opportunity of observing if any of thegentlemen resembled my father's portrait. Mr. Joseph, who knew my story, was so good-natured as to send me to them with flowers, and, as I wasalways particular to keep myself neat and clean, the ladies were ratherpleased with my attendance than otherwise. One day, when I carried alarge quantity of flowers to a party, one of the gentlemen said:

'This little damsel is the finest plant in the whole garden, for shecarries violets in her eyes and roses upon her cheeks. '

The ladies laughed at what they called his compliment, while I was somuch abashed that, giving the flowers into the hands of one of theladies, I retreated to a distant part of the garden. After this I mademy observations at a greater distance, but, alas! among the hundreds whovisited the garden, I could not discover one who resembled the portrait. 

Thus employed, my days flew rapidly past, and I was so happy that, unless it had been to discover my father, I did not wish for any changein my situation; but clouds of sorrow again gathered around me, and Iwas soon very unhappy. My unhappiness arose from two causes: the firstwas that most of the children envied me on account of the partialityshown me by Mr. Joseph, and would jeer at me because I was called LadyAnne. Mr. Davis's children were not among the number of these, for, onaccount of my mending their clothes, they were upon very good terms withme. The second cause of my unhappiness was of a more serious nature, andarose from what I could not have expected, and from what I could not andwould not alter, as I shall soon explain. 

As the summer advanced, such of the children as were turned of twelveyears of age, and were able to carry a basket upon their heads, weresent to town with flowers and fruit, which would have been crushed andbruised if sent to town in the cart. Mr. Davis's eldest daughter andmyself were amongst the number of these. 

At first I was much pleased at the thought of this walk, as it was anagreeable change from our usual mode of living; the flowers were lightto carry, and the walk was not so long as to be a fatigue. I also lookedforward to the pleasure I should have in seeing Mrs. Williams, andthanking her for having procured me such a happy situation. 

On the appointed morning we left the garden and proceeded to town underthe guidance of two or three women and one man, who was one of theprincipal gardeners. They also carried their baskets, which were largerand heavier laden than ours. 

The walk to town was pleasant. We arrived at the market, and in abouttwo hours had sold off all our stock. Mrs. Williams bought the contentsof my basket, and congratulated me on the great improvement in my healthand appearance. 

Richard having paid some fees which were customary for the privilege ofstanding in the market, we took up our baskets and began to walkhomeward. We had not gone far when Richard entered a public-house, thewomen and children followed, I, of course, did the same. We went into aroom where there was no one but ourselves; there we all had to give upour money to Richard, which he counted over. He took out two shillingsto be spent in the house, one shilling for himself, ninepence for eachof the women, and sixpence apiece for the children; then, putting theremainder of the money together, said that was for the master. I was soastonished at this proceeding that I asked him what he meant by it. Helaughed at me, and said it was a general rule among themselves to make alittle deduction on market-days to pay them for the trouble of coming totown. 

'I thought, ' said I, 'that Mr. Freeman paid us for our work on Saturdaynight. Does he know that you take this money?'

'Know it, blockhead! no. And it will be the worse for you if you tellhim. Come, take your sixpence, and think yourself well off that we letyou share with us. '

'I do not want the sixpence, ' said I, 'unless it is to give it to Mr. Freeman, for it is his money, and I will not keep it. '

'Lady Anne, ' said Susan Davis, 'do not be a simpleton. Take the money, and do not pretend to more honesty than the rest of us. '

'I cannot take the money, ' said I. 'Mr. Sanders told me never to takeother people's property, but always to do as I would be done by. '

'You shall not have the money, ' said Richard, at the same time giving mea violent slap across the shoulders. 'Mr. Sanders was a canting oldMethodist, and you are like him. But take care, if you say a word ofwhat has passed I will be the death of you. '

The women and children were also in a violent rage, and began beating meand pulling my hair, so that I was afraid they would really kill me, andI cried out, begging them not to beat me, and that I would not tell. 

'Let her alone, ' said Susan Davis; 'she will not tell, I'll answer forher. I'll talk to her when we are at home; and, I dare say, nextmarket-day, she will do as we do. '

'Aye, let her alone, ' said Richard, 'or Joseph will find out that wehave been thumping her. She has a pretty swelled face to show. But mind, girl, if you say a word of what has passed I'll tie you neck and heels, and throw you into a pond. '

I was obliged to renew my promise of secrecy, and soon after we left thehouse. 

When we came to town in the morning the distance had appeared as nothingto me, my heart was then so light; but now I felt so wretched that thedistance seemed more than double, the empty basket felt so heavy on myhead, and I felt myself like a guilty culprit who had robbed her master. 

When we arrived at the grounds Richard went to give an account of themorning's sale, and what money he thought proper, to his master. Thewomen and children went to their work in different parts of the garden, and I also concealed myself from Mr. Joseph's sight, lest he should seethat I had been in tears. 

In the afternoon he called for me, and I tremblingly obeyed his summons. 

'Why, Lady Anne, how is this?' said he. 'Why do you not like to come tome as usual? How did you like your walk this morning? But what is thematter? You have been crying. '

'I am so tired, ' I replied, 'and the basket was heavy. '

'That is not all, ' said he, regarding me very earnestly; 'somebody hasbeen beating you, for you have the marks of the blows upon your face andshoulders. Who was it?'

'Pray, sir, do not ask me, ' said I; 'for if I tell you I shall be beatmore. '

'Well, well, ' said he, 'I will not ask you. I have long seen that thegirls envied you. They think that I favour you, and, if I do, it istheir own fault. There is not one among them that, if I sent to thegreenhouse for a plant, but will either come back without it, or bringme a wrong one, though they have all been sent to school, and might havelearned to read if they would. There are Davis's two daughters: Mr. Freeman paid for their schooling for two years, yet neither of them canread the names of the plants. But you are envied because I employ you indoing what they cannot do. Well, never mind, Rose, you shall not go totown any more with them, but stay here with me, and attend to the ladiesand gentlemen. '

I was glad to hear Mr. Joseph say this, for I was in hopes I should befree from any further trouble, and be as happy as I had been; but sorrowhad again burst upon me like a storm, and I was not yet to be rescuedfrom its fury. 

When we went home at night, Susan took an opportunity when her fatherwas out of the house to tell her mother the adventures of the morning, with some alterations of her own; and I was astonished to hear hermother defend the conduct of Richard and the others, and blame me fornot joining the robbery; and, when I would not say that the next time wewent to town (for I did not dare to tell them that I was not to go anymore) I would take my share in the plunder, she was completely in arage, and kept repeating that there was no harm in taking the money. Atlast I ventured to say:

'Would you think it right of me, ma'am, if I was to rob _you_?'

'To rob _me_, child! No. But that is quite a different thing. To rob_me_! No. You would be the most ungrateful creature that ever lived ifyou did. I took you in, and sheltered you when you had not a hole to putyour head in, nor a morsel of victuals to eat. '

'You did, ma'am, ' I replied; 'and I would do anything I could to serveyou. I would not rob nor injure you upon any account. And I cannot robMr. Freeman, for he gave me employment when I had none, and he pays mesix shillings a week. How ungrateful I should be if I could rob him. Icannot do it; indeed, I cannot. '

'Take your supper and go to bed, ' said Mrs. Davis. 'I cannot argue withyou, but I know that you are a very foolish child. '

I did as I was ordered, and retired to my loft, and happy should I havebeen if this disagreeable business ended there, but a few eveningsafter, just before we left the gardens, I went to put a knife into abasket that belonged to Susan, and, to my surprise and grief, found thatit concealed five fine peaches in it. I trembled so when I saw them thatI could scarcely cover them over again, and soon after, as we werewalking home, with great civility and humility I ventured to remonstratewith her on the great impropriety, and indeed danger, of her robbing thegarden. 

'What business have you to look into my basket?' said she. 'If you donot choose to take a little fruit yourself you have no right to meddlewith them that do; however, I shall tell mother, and I hope she'll turnyou into the wide world again as you were when you came to us. '

When we arrived at home Mr. Davis was in the house, and Susan did notchoose to say anything till he went out; she then opened the basket, showed the peaches to her mother, and made a heavy complaint of myimpertinence in telling her she ought not to take them, that it wasstealing, and would, if discovered, most likely be the cause of herbeing discharged from the garden. 

Mrs. Davis was in such a passion that she struck me several times, andsaid I should be the cause of her children being turned out of work. 

'Don't say me, mother, ' said Tommy, 'for I shall not steal. TheCatechism says I am to keep my hands from picking and stealing, andfather says if I steal I shall come to be hanged, so that you may dependupon it I shall not steal, and I wish sisters would not. '

'You are a little blockhead, ' replied his mother; 'and as for Lady Anne, if she does not mind what she is about I shall turn her out of doors, and she may go a-begging. '

The peaches were then put out of sight. Soon after this Mr. Davis camein; we had our supper, and at ten o'clock went to bed. 

In the course of the following day the peaches were missed at thegarden, for Mr. Freeman had counted the fruit on some of the principaltrees, and this day he found that three peaches had been taken from onetree and two from another. We were all questioned about it, and all ourbaskets were examined, but as all denied the theft and no fruit could befound, no one could be charged with it. Mr. Freeman was very angry onthis occasion, as he well might, and ordered Mr. Joseph to keep a strictwatch over all the workpeople, as he was determined to make an exampleof whoever should be detected robbing him, let it be who it might. I wasanxious to know what the children did with the fruit, as I never sawthem eating it, and I soon found that when their father was out of thehouse (for they did not dare to let him know of their ill practices) thefruit was exposed in the window for sale. Their father having a smallgarden, in which were a few fruit trees, served as an excuse for all thefruit they had to sell, and thus they contrived to deceive their fatherand rob their master. 

The strict watch kept by Mr. Joseph, and some of the honest people inthe garden, prevented any fruit being taken for some time, but the plumseason coming on, and the plums on a tree not being so easily counted, nor so soon missed, as peaches, the children again ventured to take afew, and their father having two fine trees of the kind in his garden, if once the plums could be got home there was no likelihood of theirbeing detected. 

I did not watch the children, nor wish to know anything of what they didin the garden, yet somehow it seemed as if I was always to find them outin their thefts, for I one day suddenly came upon them just as they werecramming about a dozen fine Orlean plums into their pockets. I coveredmy face with my hands, and said:

'Oh, why will you do so? We shall all be discharged. '

'_You_ shall be discharged, ' said Susan, darting at me and slapping mewith all her strength. 'What business have you to watch us? This is thefirst bit of fruit we have taken since those nasty peaches, and now, Isuppose, you will go and tell. '

'No, I shall not, ' replied I; 'but I wish you would not take any morefruit. You know what Mr. Freeman said. '

'Yes, and you shall know what my mother will say. I am not to befollowed about and watched, and lose my place, for a tell-talebeggar-girl. '

I again assured her that I should not tell, and went away to a distantpart of the garden, my mind being very unhappy, for I thought that ifthese thefts were discovered we should all be discharged, and again Ithought that perhaps I was doing very wrong in concealing them, but thenhow could I bring people who were so kind to me into disgrace, and eveninto want of bread? I did not know what to do, but, after muchconsidering in my own mind, I determined that when Saturday night cameto ask Mr. Joseph to give me only five shillings, and not to ask me anyquestions, for I thought that the odd shilling would partly pay for thefruit Mr. Davis's children took. Having made this determination I feltrather happier, though I dreaded the resentment of Mrs. Davis and thechildren. When night came we went home together, the children notspeaking to me once the whole way. When we arrived at the house Mr. Davis was out, and Susan asked her mother to give Tommy his supper, asshe had something to say to her. The mother, who saw somethingparticular was the matter, hurried the child to bed, while I sat on achair near the door sick at my very heart. No sooner had her brotherleft the room than Susan told of the discovery of the plums, with manyadditions of her own. Mrs. Davis was in such a passion that she couldscarcely speak for two or three minutes; she seized me by the arm, andshook me violently. 

'I will put a stop to this, ' said she as soon as she had recovered herbreath. 'You shall not stay here to be the ruin of my children, youungrateful creature. Don't we feed you and clothe you? Don't you haveall the children's old clothes, and don't you mend them up and make themlook so smart that you look as well dressed as they do, though theirclothes are new and yours are old? Oh, you ungrateful creature. Youwould ruin us all for our kindness to you. '

She then ran over the affair of the peaches, and of my refusing to takethe money at the market, reproaching me at every sentence, till sheincreased her anger to such degree that she seemed to lose her reason, and, again seizing me by the arm, she said she would give me cause torepent of my ingratitude to the latest moment of my life, when at theinstant I expected to be dashed to the ground, to her great dismay, andto my great relief, an inner door opened, and her husband entered theroom. 

'Stop, mistress, ' said he, 'do not dare to hurt that child. I came in bythe wash-house, and have heard all Suke's story, and have heard whostole the peaches. Little did I think, when there was such a piece ofwork about them, that my own children were the thieves, and little did Ithink, when Suke was so pleased at going to market, that it was becauseshe was to go shares with a parcel of thieves in robbing her master. '

'Now, John, ' said his wife, 'how can you talk so? What harm is there inthe children taking a few pence apiece? They have more trouble when theygo to town, and they ought to be paid for it. You know that all theworkpeople make a market-penny. '

'I know no such thing, ' replied her husband. 'They are allowed money forrefreshment when they go to town, and if they take more than the masterallows I say that they cheat him, but I'll put a stop to Suke's tricks, for she shall not go to town any more. I shall speak to Mr. Joseph aboutthat. '

'Why, surely you are not going to tell him that they divided a few penceamong them. '

'No, wife, I am not, but I shall ask him not to let her leave thegarden, for that I don't think she is steady enough to be sent to townyet. And now, you two girls, hear what I say to you. Every one of thoseplums must be returned. You must take all of them back again, and laythem under the trees that you took them from, and next time that I knowyou to steal a single thing, aye, if its only a single plum, I'llhorsewhip you while I can stand over you. '

The father was now silent, the two girls sat weeping, and the mother, who had been very much agitated, first by anger and then by fear, threwherself into a chair, and burst into a violent passion of tears. Mr. Davis walked two or three times across the floor, and then stopping, said:

'Now what's the use of crying and taking on in this manner? Is it not aseasy to be honest as to be thieves? Oh, wife, wife, you do not considerwhat a bad course our girls have begun in. They have begun with trifles, but they will go on till they take something great, and then they willeither be transported or hung, and that will break our hearts, and bringour grey hairs with sorrow to the grave. '

'Oh, John, do not talk so, ' said Mrs. Davis; 'I cannot bear to hear youtalk about the grave. The girls shall not steal any more. If they bringhome any more fruit I will not put it into the window, nor sell it, sonow let us have done with it, and let us be friends again. '

'Aye, let us be friends, with all my heart, ' said Mr. Davis, taking hiswife's hand, 'and I hope nothing of this sort will ever happen again. Now, children, leave off crying, and be good girls, and remember thathonesty is the best policy, for if you follow bad practices you willalso be poor and despised. '

Soon after this we had our supper, which we took nearly in silence, forwe were all of us in grief, though from different causes, and from someangry glances cast at me by Mrs. Davis I saw I had yet more to dreadfrom her resentment. When I was going to bed Mr. Davis said:'Good-night, Lady Anne, do not cry; I am not angry with you. You are agood girl. I wish my own children were as honest. '

Mrs. Davis and the girls also wished me good-night, but in such a cold, constrained manner that I trembled for what might be the consequences oftheir anger. When I reached my loft I gazed with tears upon my father'spicture, and earnestly did I wish and pray that I might at some time berestored to his protection. I then retired to my bed among the hay, andthere, for the first time since I had been in the family, I wept myselfto sleep. 

Early in the morning I went to the garden. Mrs. Davis's children did notchoose to walk with me, so I went alone. When I returned home tobreakfast (it being market-day Mr. Davis was gone to town) his wife anddaughters did not speak to me once during the meal, excepting to tell methat the plums were laid under the trees. I finished my breakfast assoon as I could and returned to my work, grieved that I had lost thegoodwill of people who were really kind to me, but whose practices weresuch as I could not follow. The hour of dinner came, and with a heavyheart I went to the cottage, dreading the angry looks, and perhapsreproaches, of Mrs. Davis. When I arrived there I found the brother andsister-in-law of Mrs. Davis were paying her a visit. I had seen thesepeople once before, and soon after I came into the family; they werepedlars, and traversed the county from one end of it to the other. Theman carried a large pack filled with linens, muslins, stuffs, and manyother articles for clothing; his wife carried two boxes, with trinkets, lace, millinery, and a great variety of light goods. When I entered theroom they turned their eyes upon me as if I had been the subject oftheir conversation, which I quickly found had been the case, for Mrs. Davis said to them:

'That is the girl I have been telling you of. She would be of great useto you, for she could carry one of the boxes, and in my house she is ofno use in the world, but quite a burden to us, and she makes quarrelsbetween my husband and me, for you know that Davis is so particular, andhas such odd notions about honesty, that he seems to think it next thingto murder to take a bit of fruit or a sixpence belonging to Mr. Freeman. You never heard such a piece of work as we had last night because thegirls had taken a few plums. '

She then in her own way told her brother of the keeping back part of themarket-money and of the peaches. I was surprised that she was notashamed of telling such things, but she was not, and her brother onlylaughed at them, and said that honesty was very well in its place, butthat it was ridiculous to carry it so far. '

'But, however, ' said he, 'I shall have no objection to Lady Anne (Ithink you call her) being very honest with us. I shall not be afraid ofher robbing me. '

'No, indeed, ' replied his sister; 'you will have no cause. You mighttrust her with your pack and boxes all open; she would not rob you of afarthing's worth; she is only _too_ honest, that is her fault. '

'And it is a fault that perhaps I can cure her of, ' returned herbrother. 'But she has only been used to gardening. She will be of verylittle use to us, for we do not want a girl merely to carry a band-box. '

'She can work very well at her needle, ' quickly answered his sister. 'Itis unknown the sewing she has done for me since she has been here. Ihave never had the children so tidy in my life as since she has beenwith us. I shall miss her help very much, that I know I shall. '

'Do not let me go, ' said I, for I was really frightened at the thoughtof being sent away with Mr. Sharpley and his wife. 'Pray let me stay. Iwill work so hard; I will do everything I can to please you. '

'Will you promise to take a little fruit, as the others do, and not sayanything when you see my children take some, and to take a market-pennywhen you can get it?' answered Mrs. Davis. 'Promise me that, and youshall stay. '

'I cannot promise it, ' said I, bursting into tears, 'for I must notsteal. '

'Very well, then, you shall go, ' returned she. 'It is entirely your ownfault. I had no wish to part with you, but I cannot keep you to turn mychildren out of bread. '

'Lady Anne is a _nonsuch_ of honesty, ' said Mr. Sharpley; 'but I warrantshe will tell a different tale by this time twelvemonths. What say you, wife? Shall we take her or not?'

'As she can work at her needle, ' replied Mrs. Sharpley, 'suppose we giveher a trial for a few months. If she does not do for us, we can bringher back again; and as for her honesty, that will not hurt us. '

'Well, then, I suppose it is a bargain, ' said Mr. Sharpley, 'so, mygirl, if you have any better clothes make haste and put them on; and, sister, let us have a bit of dinner, as I want to be going. '

'And I want you gone, ' replied his sister, 'for if my good man comeshome before you are off, it's ten to one but he knocks all the businesson the head, and I shall have the girl on my hands again. Lady Anne, make haste; and you, Suke, look after her a little. '

This command to Susan to watch me prevented my following a plan I hadjust formed, which was to run back to the garden and tell Mr. Josephthat they were going to send me away against my will; but I suppose theywere afraid I should do so, for Susan did not leave me a single momenttill I was washed and dressed. I then entered the room where they allwere, and presented myself before them, with the tears running down myface. 

'She is a genteel-looking child, ' said Mrs. Sharpley; 'but what are youcrying for, simpleton? We shall not hurt you, and you need not stealunless you like, so pray set your heart at ease. '

I did try to check my tears, for I considered that I could never behappy at the cottage any more, though it grieved me to the heart to partwith people who had been so kind to me, especially Mr. Joseph, Mr. Davis, and little Tommy, who was gone to town with his father; and theseI was obliged to leave, without so much as saying _good-bye_ to them. Iwas not able to eat a morsel of dinner, and Mr. And Mrs. Sharpley havingfinished theirs, we rose up to depart. I sobbed so that I could notspeak. Mrs. Davis and the girls seemed a little affected. They shookhands with me, wished me well, and said they hoped I should grow wiserin time; then, with a band-box before me, that was fastened by a strapthat went over my shoulders, I left the cottage, following my new masterand mistress. 

Chapter VIII

Being thus turned out of the cottage, where I had once been so happy, Ifollowed the footsteps of Mr. And Mrs. Sharpley, frequently looking backto see if I could discover Mr. Davis and his cart coming from town, which, if I had, I should certainly have run back, told him what hadpassed, and asked him to take me back to Mrs. Williams, instead ofsending me away with strangers. But no cart came in view, and a turningin the road soon hid even the cottage from my sight. I then walkedpensively forward, meditating on my own unhappy fate, and comparing itwith that of other children who were blessed with parents and relations. Mr. And Mrs. Sharpley had frequently looked back, as if to see that Ifollowed them, but--here the path became wider--they told me to come andwalk between them. I did so, and they then asked me a great manyquestions respecting my story, all of which I was obliged to answer, sothat they soon knew every particular, excepting my having my father'spicture, which I took care not to give the least hint of. They thenasked me about my age, and, as I could not answer them exactly, theycalculated it as well as they could from circumstances. Supposing I wasfive years old at the time of my mother's death, as I was seven years atE----, I must have been twelve years old the November before I went tothe Smiths, thirteen last November, when I ran away from them; andshould be fourteen next November. It was now the beginning of September. This point being settled, they began talking of other things, told mewhat a pleasant life I should lead with them, that all my employmentwould be to carry a light band-box during the days, and in the evenings, when they arrived at the inn where they were to pass the night, to workat my needle. To this I had no objection, and began to think I shouldnot be so unhappy as I had at first supposed; but the idea of theirstealing still predominated in my mind, though I could not imagine howthey could do it, as the goods they carried were their own, and theycould not rob themselves, and I was at a loss to think how they couldcommit theft. Simpleton that I was, I never thought that they could robother people. 

As we proceeded, they told me the names of the different places wepassed through. They stopped at all the genteel houses, and many of thefarmhouses, to ask them if they wanted any goods. Several bought a goodmany things of them; others would scarcely give them an answer, butalmost shut their doors in our faces. Thus passed away several hours. The shades of evening were beginning to fall, and I was very weary withwalking so much, when we entered a large town, where they told me weshould pass the night. We went to a small inn, which they said was thehouse where they always slept when they came to this town. We were shownto a room that they called their own, as it was kept entirely for theiruse. Mrs. Sharpley ordered tea, and her husband said to her:

'Come, my dear, we must see if we have a remnant of some stuff to make adress for Lady Anne. She is very well dressed for a gardener's girl, butnot smart enough for us. '

The pack was then opened, and they picked out the remains of a piece ofvery pretty slate-coloured stuff sufficiently large to make me a dress. 

'Now, ' said Mrs. Sharpley, 'after tea we must stitch away, for yourdress must be made this night before you go to bed. '

The tea was soon brought in, and we all sat down to it with a goodappetite, for it was now past seven o'clock, and we had not tastedanything but a little porter since we dined, which was between twelveand one o'clock. After tea Mr. Sharpley went out. His wife veryexpeditiously cut out my dress, and gave me the skirt to make, while shesat down to make the body and sleeves. I had been used to do a greatdeal of sewing, and was not slow at my needle; but I think I never in mylife had worked so fast as I did that evening; and, as for Mrs. Sharpley, she worked so quick that her hand seemed absolutely to fly toand from the work. She said very little to me, except occasionally a fewwords of commendation, such as:

'That is a good girl! I see you will do very well. If you are diligentyou shall have no cause to repent having come with us. '

Thus encouraged, I worked with unabated diligence till about teno'clock, when Mr. Sharpley returned, and soon after our supper, consisting of mutton-chops and potatoes, was brought up. After supperMrs. Sharpley and I returned to our work, and Mr. Sharpley read aloudfrom a newspaper. Thus passed the time, till a few minutes after twelve, when my dress was finished, excepting a little trimming of ribbon, whichMrs. Sharpley said might be put on another night. It was tried on, fitted me extremely well, and Mr. Sharpley said that if I was properlydressed I might pass, not only for an Earl's daughter, but a Duke'sdaughter. 

'But, Lady Anne, ' said he very seriously, 'I would advise you to put allthese fine thoughts out of your head, for, though I will not call yourmother an impostor, as the people of E---- did, yet I must say that, ifshe had been an Earl's lady, she would hardly have been travelling in apost-chaise without an attendant. It seems to me that, whatever yourfather was, he had left your mother, and that she was returning to herown friends to live with them, when she was taken ill at E----and died. If this is the case, which appears to me most likely, your father, if hewas to see you, would not own you, nor give himself the least troubleabout you; so I wish you to put all high thoughts out of your head, giveyour mind entirely to our business, and we will reward you according toyour diligence. '

These words brought tears into my eyes, for, though in my own mind Ifeared I should never find my father, yet to hear another person saythat I should not seemed to make it so certain that my heart appeared todie at the thought; and then, again, to hear it said that my father haddeserted us--that if he was to see me he would not own me--oh! couldthat be possible? Yet how was it that I was really left a wanderer inthe wide world? That I knew not, but the certainty that I was so made meweep bitterly. Calming my agitation as much as I was able, I promised tobe diligent in their business, and to obey them in everything that Icould. They both laughed, and said I was terribly afraid they shouldwant me to steal. Mrs. Sharpley then showed me to a bed in a closetadjoining their room, and the oblivion of sleep soon made me forget allthat had passed the preceding day. 

The next morning we breakfasted early, and then left the inn. In goingthrough the town Mrs. Sharpley went into a shop, where she bought me avery pretty straw hat trimmed with blue ribbons. My dress was nowcompletely different to what it had been the day before, I now having anew hat, new dress, and a pretty silk handkerchief pinned over myshoulders. The purchase being made, my old bonnet was thrown down in thestreet, for the benefit of whoever chose to pick it up. We thenproceeded on our way, and soon left the town. This day was passed nearlyas the former one had been, some people buying, and others not evenlooking at the goods. In the evening when we arrived at our inn, Mr. Sharpley went out while the tea was being prepared, and returned inlittle more than half an hour. We then had tea, after which he went outagain. Mrs. Sharpley then employed herself in making caps and frills tosell, and I passed the evening in putting the trimming on to my dress. Inow began to feel more reconciled to my new mode of life. Mr. And Mrs. Sharpley were good-natured, and certainly treated me with kindness, andI thought, if they did not want me to steal, I might be very comfortablewith them. The week passed away. Saturday night came, and they gave mesixpence, telling me they should give me as much every week, so long asI continued to behave well. Weeks thus passed on. Our days were employedin walking from place to place, endeavouring to sell the goods, and ourevenings in making up caps, frills, etc. , for sale, and I soon became soexpert in making them that they increased my weekly money from sixpenceto a shilling. This money was in reality but of very little use tomyself, for, as I had everything provided for me, I did not want it onmy own account; but, then, it was a source of very great pleasure tome, as it enabled me to relieve the distress of many poor objects thatI met upon the road, whose pale faces told, without their speaking it, that they were in want of bread. 

Mr. Sharpley did not go out every evening, but would sometimes spend itwith us, and then he would read either the daily paper or someentertaining book, and when we had a good stock of caps and frills madeup they would allow me to read books for my own amusement. Of these, asthey sold them, they had a great variety, and thus circumstanced my lifepassed very pleasantly. Of _stealing_ I never heard a word, and I beganto think they had only talked of it to frighten me, but the time nowcame when I was to be undeceived. One evening when we arrived at ourinn, before we sat down to tea, Mr. Sharpley took six silver teaspoonsand a pair of sugar-tongs out of his pocket, and, laying them on thetable, asked me what I thought he had given for them. As I did not knowthe value of such things it was impossible for me to guess, and aftersome time he said:

'Why, then, to tell you the truth, I--stole them. '

'Stole them!' I exclaimed with horror. 'How could you do so? Who did yousteal them from?'

'I _took_ them, for we do not generally say _stole_, from the farmer'swife who bought the stuff gowns and two caps of us this afternoon. '

I was so shocked at the ingratitude and baseness of the action that Iburst into tears. 

'You are a silly girl to cry, Lady Anne, ' said he. 'These are by nomeans the first things I have taken since you have been out with us, forof an evening when I go out it is generally to some friend of mine, whotakes this kind of goods off my hands, and gives me money instead ofthem. When once they are gone I am in no danger, for if I was to betaken up, and my pack searched, nothing could be found, so I should beset at liberty again. '

'But, ' said I, 'suppose you were to be taken up before you had partedwith them, and they were to be found in your possession, what would bedone to you then?'

'I should most likely be hung, ' replied he very calmly. 

'Be hung!' I exclaimed. 'But why do you do it? Do you not get enoughmoney to live upon from the things you sell? You know it is a verywicked thing to steal. You know the Commandment says "Thou shalt notsteal. "'

'Very true, Lady Anne, ' said he, laughing. 'It would be a good thing forthe world if we were all as innocent and as well disposed as you are. Iwill not argue the subject any further with you now, but I wish, bydegrees, to bring you into our business, and when you will take thingsas well as us, you shall have half for yourself. '

'Well, sir, ' I replied, 'I would sooner be as poor and as miserable as Iwas at Mr. Smith's than I would be a thief. '

No more was at that time said on the subject, but Mr. Sharpley no longermade a secret of his evil practices, and I was sorry to observe thatscarcely a day passed without his taking something from the people whobought of him. His wife, I do believe, if she had not been influenced byhim, would have been very honest; indeed, I never knew her to takeanything herself, and sometimes, when he laid his plunder before her, she would say:

'Ah, James, I am afraid these tricks of yours will one day bring you tothe gallows. '

Several more weeks thus passed away, and I have no cause of complaintagainst them, except their taking other peoples' property, for they weregood-natured, paid very honestly for everything they had at the inns, and often gave money to poor people they met on the roads. 

Often of an evening Mr. Sharpley would amuse himself with what he calleda mock trial--that is, he would make believe he had been taken up fortheft, and I was to be examined before a judge to see if I had assistedhim or knew anything about it; then he sat as judge, and I was always todeny having any knowledge of the theft, and when I did not answer rightMrs. Sharpley said what I was to say. I always disliked these trials, and could never go through them without tears, for I was always afraidthey would one day be a reality. 

The winter months passed away, and spring again returned. One day, inthe month of April, as we were entering a large town, we were met bysuch a vast crowd of people that we were obliged to stand up against thehouses to be out of the way while it passed. On Mr. Sharpley inquiringwhat was the matter, he was told it was a man going to be hung forprivately stealing in a dwelling-house. My heart seemed to die within mewhen I heard the answer, for I thought that it would very likely one daybe our own case. When we reached the inn where we were to dine, throwingmyself into a chair I covered my face with a handkerchief and wept mostbitterly. 

'What is the matter?' said Mr. Sharpley. 'Are you ill?'

'No, ' I replied; 'but that poor man was going to be hung. Oh, Mr. Sharpley, we may some day be taken up and be hung too. I do wish thatyou would be honest. Do not give me any more money, but keep it insteadof stealing, and I have ten shillings that I will give you back again. '

'Indeed, James, ' said his wife, 'I wish you would leave off _taking_. When you read of trials and executions in the newspapers, and when wemet that poor man to-day you don't know how I felt. I am very muchafraid, as well as Lady Anne, that we shall come to an untimely end. '

'You and Lady Anne are enough to drive a man mad, ' replied her husband;'but, however, I will make this bargain with you both. Whenever ithappens that I am taken up for theft, and am brought to within an inchof my life, so that there seems no chance of escaping, then, if anyunforeseen circumstance arises and delivers me from the danger, then, Igive you my word, I swear to you, that from that day forward I will bean honest man, and content myself with the profits of my trade. '

'Then the sooner it happens the better, ' said his wife, 'for I am sickof the life of jeopardy we lead. '

One would have thought that from the dreadful example that passed beforehis eyes, and from what his wife said to him, that Mr. Sharpley would insome degree have left off his bad practices; but he did quite thecontrary, and took more and more. Sometimes, after committing thesethefts, we were obliged instead of keeping along the road to cross thefields and go for miles out of our way, and at night to sleep inouthouses or barns, that we might not be seen before Mr. Sharpley hadcome to some place where he could part with his stolen goods. On theseoccasions I was truly miserable, and I determined, in my own mind, thatwhenever we should travel near to London I would contrive to leave them, and go to Mrs. Williams, who, I doubted not, would get me someemployment to enable me to live in an honest manner. 

Things went on in this way till the beginning of June, when one day, aswe were passing a very fine park, we stopped to admire it. A broadavenue planted on each side with trees led up to the house, which waslarge and handsome. 

'We will go in there, ' said Mr. Sharpley; 'perhaps we may have the goodfortune to sell something. ' He opened the gate, we entered, and walkedup the avenue to the house. As we passed one of the parlour windows hepeeped in, and said in a low voice:

'There is nobody there, the cloth is spread for dinner, and there is arare lot of plate. '

With an aching heart I followed him up the steps to the hall-door; therehe saw a woman servant, whom he began to persuade to look at some of hisgoods. She said she would call the lady's maid, who she thought wouldshow some of the muslins and laces to the ladies upstairs. She then wentaway, using the precaution of locking the dining-parlour door, andtaking the key with her. She soon returned with the lady's maid, thepack and our boxes were opened, the women picked out what they chose, and after inquiring the prices took them upstairs. 

'That is a clever girl, ' said Mr. Sharpley; 'she has locked the door, but I rather think she has left the window open. I'll just take a peep. '

He went out upon the lawn, and returned in less than five minutes, smiling and muttering to his wife:

'The sooner those girls come down the better. We must not quit the parktill they do come, for we might be seen from the upper windows, and theywould send after and stop us. '

I trembled so when I heard this speech that I could hardly stand, and Idetermined to leave them the very first opportunity that I could find. In about ten minutes they came down, and brought the money for whatthings the ladies had chosen. They then made several purchases forthemselves, which Mr. Sharpley let them have at their own price. Ourgoods were then expeditiously packed up, and we left the park. We had nosooner reached the road than he told us we must cross over and go intothe field on the opposite side, where we must keep along under thescreen of the hedge till we came to some place where we could cross overto a further distance. We followed his directions, and, when on theother side, we were obliged, each of us, to tie a coloured handkerchiefover our bonnets, which a little altered their appearance. Mr. Sharpleyput on a waggoner's frock which he always carried in his pack, and thusdisguised we proceeded forward. 

'We must go to a barn that I know of near N----, ' said Mr. Sharpley. 'Itis about seven miles off; so, Lady Anne, you must walk stoutly; there weshall sleep. We must be up again by four in the morning, and go on toA----; that is only five miles further, and will be a nice little walkbefore breakfast. There I know a man who will take my silver goods offmy hands, and then we shall be all safe again. '

I followed in silence, for talking to him I knew was of no use, and Iwas so disgusted at the life I was compelled to lead that I determinedto escape as soon as I possibly could. About nine in the evening wereached the field where the barn was situated, where we were to sleep, but it being summer-time, and many people about, we sat ourselves downin a retired corner of the field to wait till night was fartheradvanced, and the country people retired to rest. There we had oursupper, consisting of cold victuals and a glass of ale apiece, for Mr. Sharpley always carried provisions with him in a wallet, in case ofaccidents, he said. Into this wallet he had crammed the plunder that hehad taken from the gentleman's house. The shades of night every momentbecame darker, the dim figures of the countrymen, as they were returningto their homes, were seen less frequently, and the lights that gleamedfrom the cottage windows were by degrees all extinguished, but it wasnot until the clock of the neighbouring village had struck eleven thatwe dared to approach the barn, which we then did with cautious steps. Mr. Sharpley having found that the door was rather loose, pushed it somuch aside as to admit us. We accordingly all entered; he replaced theboard, and soon procured a light from a German matchbox that he alwayscarried with him. He then emptied the wallet of the booty, whichconsisted of four large silver candlesticks, six table and six dessertspoons. 

'Now, Lady Anne, ' said he, 'I must put these things into your box, forin case of a pursuit I and my pack will be the first they will seize andexamine. You must, if possible, step on one side and throw these thingsaway into a ditch or pond, or anywhere; for, if they are not found uponus, they will have some difficulty to prove me the thief. '

I said very little, for I was determined this very night, when theyshould be asleep, that I would, if possible, make my escape from thebarn and leave them for ever. Having arranged the things in my box, Mr. Sharpley locked it and returned the key to me, which I wore hung from myneck by a black ribbon. 

 * * * * *

[_Lady Anne then ran away, but only to be caught by a policeman. _]

Chapter IX

I endeavoured to liberate myself from his grasp, and asked him who hewas and what he wanted. 

'Pretty innocent!' said he. 'I suppose you really don't know. '

'If you come from Mr. Sharpley, ' said I, 'tell him I shall not live withhim any longer. I mean to go to London. '

'You will go with me first, my dear, ' replied the man, 'and, as you willmost likely see Mr. Sharpley this morning, you may tell him your messageyourself; so come along. '

'Where are you going to take me to?' said I, struggling to free myselffrom his hold. 

'I am going to take you to prison, where you will see your worthyfriend, Mr. Sharpley. You will all be tried for your lives for therobbery you committed yesterday. '

When I heard this, I no longer resisted, but walked on in silence, meditating on the wretched state to which we were all reduced by thedishonesty of Mr. Sharpley. When we entered the road I found, to mysurprise, that I had in the gloom of the night retraced my steps, andwas within a short distance of the house where the robbery had beencommitted. 

I was conducted into the town, which, in our hasty flight the daybefore, we had not dared to visit. I was then taken to the magistrate'shouse and locked up in a room with a stone floor, grated windows, andno furniture but a wooden bench. There I was left for nearly two hours, and had full leisure to think over my melancholy situation. It appearedto me most likely that we should all be condemned to die, and when Ithought of my past life--how very little I had known but sorrow--when Ireflected that I had no relations to be sorry for my death, I thoughtthat, if it was not for the disgrace of dying as a thief, I should notwish to live, but be glad to die, that I might be free from all thetroubles of this world. 

In the midst of these reflections the man who had awakened me in thefield opened the door and told me to come, for I was now going to betried for my life. I instantly arose. He took me by the arm and led meinto a large room, where there were a great many people assembled. Somewere standing, and others sitting on benches. At the upper end of alarge table sat a gentleman with a very severe countenance. 

From the description often given me by Mr. Sharpley of a justice-room Iinstantly concluded that this was one, and that the gentleman I saw wasthe justice. By his side sat another gentleman and some ladies. I heardthe people near me whisper that they were the persons who had beenrobbed, and that they were come to swear to the things. I did not lookat them more than merely to see that three persons were there, for inone corner of the room stood Mr. Sharpley and his wife, guarded by twomen; and on the floor near the table was placed the pack and our twoboxes. 

'All is over with us, ' thought I, as I was led up to the table, which Ifound was called being put to the bar. I was then ordered to take off myhat, which I did, and the justice asked me what was my name. 

'Lady Anne, ' I replied. 

A general laugh circled round the room. 

'What is your surname?' demanded the justice, with great severity. 

'I do not know, ' answered I. 

I must here observe that these very short answers were such as, in ourmock trials, Mr. Sharpley had taught me to give, for he said I mustnever say more than was necessary to answer the question asked. 

'What is your father's name?' with increased severity demanded thejustice. 

'I do not know. '

'What is the name you yourself generally go by?'

'Lady Anne. '

'Well, Lady Anne, since that is the name you choose to be called, whatare you to Mr. Sharpley?'

'His servant. '

'Do you know for what reason you are brought here?'

'I cannot say. '

'Astonishing calmness!' said the justice in a low tone to the gentlemanbeside him. Then again addressing me: 'Lady Anne, you are accused ofrobbing, in conjunction with your master, James Sharpley, the Earl ofMalbourne of various articles of plate. What do you say to this charge?'

'I did not take anything myself, ' replied I, 'nor did I see my mastertake anything. '

'It is melancholy to see one so young in years so old in vice, ' observedthe justice. 'Who generally carries that small box?'

'I do. '

'Did you carry it yesterday?'

'I did. '

'Where is the key of it?'

I now with horror remembered that when I left the barn in the night Ihad forgot to take the key from my neck, and that it was still in mypossession. With my eyes fixed on the ground, I remained silent. Thequestion was angrily repeated. 

'I have it, ' I falteringly answered. 

'Hand it over. We must see the contents of that box. '

I attempted to obey, but the key had slipped so low into my bosom thatit had somehow got fixed in the ribbon belonging to my father's picture, and I trembled so violently that I could not disentangle it withoutdrawing the picture entirely out, and holding it in my hand while Idisengaged the key. The keen eye of the justice instantly caught it. 

'What fine picture is that, set in gold and adorned with pearls?' saidhe. 'Hand it over, and let me look at it. '

'It is my father's picture, ' I replied; 'it is my own property, and Iwill not part with it to anybody. '

'You must part with it to me, ' said the justice. 'Hand it overimmediately. '

I slipped it within my stays and spread my hands over my bosom, while Ireplied:

'It is my father's picture. It does not belong to anybody in the worldbut myself, and I will sooner die than part with it. '

'Take it from her, Johnson, ' said the justice. 

In vain I struggled. The man forced my hands from my bosom, and, catching hold of the ribbon, dragged the picture from me, and handed itto the justice. My misery was now complete--I could endure no more--andwith a bitter scream I sunk to the ground in a swoon. 

How long my insensibility lasted I do not know; but when recollectionreturned I found myself supported in a chair by a woman who was aspectator, and Johnson, the officer, was sprinkling me with water. Itwas some minutes before I could speak or stand, but, as soon as I could, I arose and earnestly entreated to have the picture restored to me. 

'Keep your seat, Lady Anne, ' said the justice. 'If the picture is yours, it certainly shall be returned to you; but try to recollect yourself, and give me some account how it came into your possession. '

'It is my father's picture, ' I replied. 'My mother always wore it; andwhen she died a gentleman--Mr. Sanders, the clergyman of theparish--took care of it for me, and when I was sent to London he let mehave it myself, that I might, if I should ever meet with my father, beable to know him. That is all I know. Now, pray, sir, let me have thepicture again, for it is the only comfort I have in the world, and ifyou take it from me I shall die. '

'Do you not, then, child, know your father's name? Do you not know whohe is?'

'Oh, if I knew his name I should not be here; but I do not know hisname, and I do not know who he is. '

'Did you ever see him?'

'Yes; but it is very long since. He went away when I was five years old, and I have never seen him since. '

During these questions many heavy sighs had proceeded from some personnear, but at my last answer that gentleman who was seated beside thejustice rose up, and, coming round to me, took my hands, saying:

'Look at me, my child, and tell me if you think you ever saw _me_before. '

I did look at him; but, oh! how can I describe the astonishment and joyI felt when in his countenance I traced, though more advanced in life, the features of that portrait that had so long been my greatestcomfort? I sunk down before him, and, clasping his knees, exclaimed:

'Surely, surely, you are my father--you are my mother's dear Frederick!'

Overpowered by my feelings, I again fainted. When I recovered, I foundmyself laid upon a sofa in a handsome apartment. One of the ladies whomI had seen in the justice-room was sprinkling me with water, anotherholding a vinaigrette to me, my father chafing my temples, and thejustice standing near, looking on, not with the stern countenance he hadbefore shown, but as if he really pitied me. I tried to rouse myself, and, as soon as I could speak, apologised to the ladies for the troubleI had given them. 

'Compose yourself, my dear, ' said the elder of the two. 'To see you wellis all we wish. '

I was now able to sit upright. My father sat beside me, and, putting hisarms around me, pressed me to his bosom. I leaned my head against him, and the tears rolled fast down my face; but they were no longer thechilling tears of sorrow I had long been used to shed, they were tearsof joy and gladness at being restored to a kind father, to whom I hadfeared I was lost for ever. When he spoke, I seemed to recollect thetones of his voice; the scenes of my early childhood returned to mymemory, and I asked him if he had not been used to call me his Annie andhis little darling. 

'Yes, my dear, ' he replied, 'that I certainly did, But tell me, mychild, by what miracle your life was preserved from the perils of thesea, and what was the final fate of your unfortunate mother. '

'My dear mother died at E----, ' I replied; 'but I do not know what youmean by the perils of the sea, for I was never upon it that I know ofin my life; and now, my dear father, tell me why you went away and leftus, and has the Earl forgiven you yet?'

'Ah! my child, ' said my father, with a deep sigh, 'I see that we haveeach a tale to tell, but it must be deferred till your spirits are morecomposed. And now, Sir Robert, ' turning to the justice, 'I can onlyapologise for the great trouble we have given you this morning. '

'My dear lord, ' replied the justice, whose name was Sir Robert Eldridge, 'accept my warmest congratulations on the happy discovery of yourdaughter; and to you, Lady Anne, I beg leave to return the portrait ofyour father, which has fortunately been the means of your being restoredto his protection. '

A few more compliments having passed, we were departing, when Sir Robertsaid:

'What is your lordship's pleasure respecting the Sharpleys? Shall Iremand them to prison for another examination?'

'My dear father, ' said I, 'for my sake have pity on Mr. Sharpley and hiswife, for indeed they have been very kind to me. '

'If they have been so, my child, ' replied my father, 'I shall certainlyshow them lenity, but I wish first to hear your story, and then I shallknow how to proceed. So, Sir Robert, if you will please to detain thesepeople till to-morrow, I shall esteem it a favour. '

We then took our leave, and returned home in my father's carriage, andwas soon conveyed to that house where the day before I had stood as apoor little pedlar, but which I now entered as the only child of theEarl of Malbourne. 

[Illustration: _Lady Anne finds her father. --Page 405. _]

We proceeded to the drawing-room, and my father then informed me thatthe lady who had shown me so much kindness was his sister, Lady CarolineBeaumont. The young lady, who appeared about thirteen, was my cousin, Miss Beaumont; and another young lady, who seemed about eleven, was alsomy cousin, Miss Ellen Beaumont. 

Refreshments were now brought, and my father and aunt, when theyunderstood that I had been up the whole night, insisted that I should goto bed, and try to get a little rest before dinner, which I did, and inabout two hours arose very much refreshed. 

In the course of the evening I gave my father and new-found relations acircumstantial detail of everything that had happened to me as far backas I could remember. When I gave the account of my mother's death at theinn they were affected even to tears. 

'Oh! how unfortunate was I to be out of England at that time, ' said myfather; 'and how cruel was my father by his resentment and ambition thusto occasion the death of the most amiable of women. But proceed, mychild, with your melancholy story, and afterwards I will tell you mine, and explain circumstances of which you seem to have some recollection. '

I accordingly went on, and finished my narrative, by which time it wasso late, and I was so much exhausted, that my father said he would deferhis narration till the following day. 

My aunt and cousins were extremely kind to me, and, when I retired tobed, I was furnished with night-clothes from Miss Beaumont's wardrobe. 

 * * * * *

[_On the next day the Sharpleys, on their promising never to stealagain, were released, and later Sir Robert told Lady Anne the story ofher life. _]

 * * * * *

'It is a painful story, my dear child, ' said he; 'and I must spare yourfeelings by relating it as briefly as I can. Your mother was of a verygood family, and, during the earlier part of her youth, her parents werein affluence. 

She was a boarder at the same school as my sister Caroline; and, byfrequently going to see my sister, I became acquainted with Miss Norman, and was sincerely attached to her before I thought that I felt more forher than a common friendship. This, in some respects, was an unfortunatecircumstance, for my father, who was then Earl of Malbourne, wished meto marry a lady of high birth and large fortune; but she was of such adisagreeable imperious temper that I could not endure the thought ofpassing my life with her. 

'When Miss Norman was a little turned of seventeen, her mother died, andshe went home to live with her father. I still visited her in companywith my sister, for I hoped that my father would, at some time, consentto my marrying her. About a year after this, her father engaged in somemercantile business that failed; he was also very much defrauded by hisagents, so that, from being what might be called a rich man, he wassuddenly reduced to poverty. This sad change in his affairs affected himso much that he fell ill. I was grieved to my heart to see him in such astate, and to see Miss Norman pining, as it were, to death. 

'I was certainly old enough to choose a wife for myself, for I wastwenty-five, had a handsome estate, and was then major of a regiment. Ihad often told my father that I could never marry Lady Clara Froward, for that I was attached to another lady, and only wished for his consentto marry her. That, said my father, I never should have, for that hewould never consent to my marrying anybody but Lady Clara Froward. 

'I had waited a long time in the hope that he would change his mind, buthe did not; and, when I saw Mr. Norman and his daughter in suchdistress, I determined not to wait any longer, but offered my hand toyour mother, and urged her father to consent to the marriage. It was along time before he would agree to it; but, finding his health every dayworse, he gave his consent, and we were married. 

'A few days afterwards I informed my father of our marriage, andentreated him to receive my amiable wife as his daughter. He wrote meword that I had married without his consent, he disowned me as his son, and would never receive either me or my wife. 

'This determination was the subject of regret to us all; but we lived inhopes that time would soften his resentment, and that in the end hewould relent. About two months after our marriage Mr. Norman died; and, after the funeral, I and my wife removed to a house I had in Piccadilly, near the park. There we lived very happily for a length of time; mysister, who had been bridesmaid to your mother, frequently came to seeus; there you were born, and my sister was one of your godmothers. Thereason of your being called Lady Anne was entirely owing to a whim ofyour maid's, for at that time you had no right to the title of Lady; butshe said you would soon have, and that she should call you so now, thatshe might be used to it; and, from her continually calling you so, it bydegrees became a general custom, not only with our own family, but alsowith our visitors. 

'Time passed away very happily till you had just completed your fifthyear, when I received orders to join my regiment, which was going uponforeign service. It is needless to say anything of the deep grief thatyour mother and I felt on this occasion. We parted, and I went abroadin the hope that I should return again in a few months. 

'Two or three letters passed between your mother and me after mydeparture, when they suddenly ceased on her side. Unable to account forthis strange silence, I wrote to my sister, entreating her to writeimmediately, and inform me if anything had happened. I soon received heranswer, which informed me that my father, taking advantage of myabsence, had unfortunately thought proper to pay a visit to your mother, and reproach her in the most cruel manner for having married me. Yourdear mother was so terrified that it made her very ill. '

'Oh!' said I, interrupting my father, 'I remember it. The Earl was atall, thin, old gentleman; and he was in such a passion that my dearmother fainted away on the ground, and a servant, I think her name wasSally, came and helped her up, and brought her to her recollectionagain. '

'My dear child, you are quite right, ' said my father, holding hishandkerchief to his eyes; 'that unfortunate visit was the cause of allthe misery that has since befallen us. Your mother, being fearful ofreceiving such another visit, soon after the Earl was gone, sent Sallyout to take lodgings for her in a private street, to which she removedthe same evening, attended only by Sally and another woman servant. Shethen wrote an account of all that had passed to my sister (who wasmarried to Sir Henry Beaumont), and concluded her letter by saying thatshe should continue in privacy in those apartments till my return, asshe dreaded a repetition of the Earl's visit if she remained inPiccadilly. A few days after she had been in these lodgings she saw theEarl pass by on the other side of the street, accidentally he has sinceassured me it was. The idea instantly seized her that he was searchingfor her, and, not knowing what might be the consequences should hediscover her retreat, she determined to leave England and come over toHolland to me. She wrote a few lines to my sister, telling her of herfears and determination, and that she intended to take her passage in apacket from H----. That very day a post-chaise was sent for. She wouldnot allow Sally to accompany her; but, taking you for her onlycompanion, and a few clothes in a small trunk, she set out on hermelancholy journey. No letter has since been received from her, and mysister had hoped and believed she was with me in Holland. 

'On the receipt of this distressing intelligence, I made every possibleinquiry to ascertain the fate of my beloved wife and child; and, aftersome days, had the misery to hear that the hull of a packet had beenfound floating at sea keel upwards. Its name and port were legiblypainted upon it, and on inquiry it was found that this very packet hadleft H---- two days after your mother's departure from London, and, nonehaving sailed for some days before, no doubt could be entertained butthat your mother and you had been lost at sea. What misery was mine! Howoften did I wish that I had been with you, and that we had all beenburied in the same watery grave! When the campaign was ended I returnedto England, and resigned my commission. My grief was so great that Ibelieved I should have lost my senses had it not been for the kindnessof my sister and Sir Henry, who obliged me almost by force to residewith them. My father, too late repenting of his cruelty, and shocked atthe dreadful calamity it had occasioned, sought a reconciliation withhis wretched son. I shall not dwell upon the particulars of thedistressing interview that passed between us; we were reconciled, but myfather could never forgive himself for the misery his ambition hadoccasioned. Our firm belief that your mother and you had been lost atsea prevented our making any inquiries by land, and we were too muchabsorbed by grief to read the newspapers, so that we never saw theadvertisements that you say were inserted. Since that time, my dearchild. I have passed a very unhappy life. I have several times been onthe Continent on government business. When in England, I reside chieflywith my sister and brother-in-law. Your uncle, Sir Henry, is at presentat Vienna, and, during the time of his absence, your aunt and twocousins are staying with me. These, my dear, are the principalcircumstances of my life. 

'I will now say something of the events of yesterday. When my servantstold me of the robbery committed by the pedlar there appeared to me somuch ingratitude as well as roguery in the transaction, for the man hadtaken more than ten pounds in money for his goods, that I determined tolet the law take its course with respect to him, and my servants were atthe justice's to swear to the things; but the description the two womenservants gave me of you interested your aunt and me very much in yourfavour, and we thought that if you were so young and innocent as theyrepresented you to be it would be a deed of kindness to rescue you fromthe guardianship of such people, and it was for that purpose that weattended. 

'When you were led forward to the bar the great resemblance you bear toyour mother instantly struck me, and when in tones so dear, and sofamiliar to my ear you said that your name was Lady Anne, my agitationwas extreme, though still without thinking it possible that you could bemy daughter, but when at last my own portrait was produced, and youdeclared it to be your father's, then I thought it possible that yourlife might have been preserved, and I whispered Sir Robert, for I wastoo much agitated to question you myself, to inquire particularly how ithad come into your possession. To what a happy discovery did thatexamination lead. My child is restored to me, and I am happier than Iever expected to be again in this world. '

My father tenderly embraced me at the conclusion of his narrative, sodid my aunt and cousins, with many kind expressions of joy at my beingrestored to my family. 

'Your likeness to your mother is very great, ' said my aunt. 'She was mychosen friend at school from the time she came to it, which was when shewas twelve years old. In features, in voice, you are as like what shewas at your age as if you were the same person. '

In the course of the evening my father told me that in a few days, whenI should have had a proper assortment of clothes made up for me, it washis intention to make a tour. 

'We will go to town, ' said he, 'again, and pay a visit to all thosepeople who have been your friends, and even those who have beenotherwise. I intend to go to those cruel people in the Borough. A fewwords of proper admonition may be of service to them, and induce them totreat another poor child with more humanity. And to Mrs. Williams, honest Davis, and that good man Joseph we must show our gratitude bydeeds as well as words. '

About a week after this we went to town, and soon after paid a visit toDavis's cottage. We knocked at the door, which was opened by Mrs. Davis, who seemed surprised at so many fine people coming to her cottage, andasked, 'What was our pleasure?' My father told her that he was come tothank her for the kindness she had shown to a little friendless girl whowent by the name of Lady Anne, and whom he had lately discovered to behis daughter. She looked astonished, but, fixing her eyes upon me, instantly recollected me, and burst into a flood of tears. 

'Do not cry, Mrs. Davis, ' said I, for I was grieved at seeing her weep. 'I do sincerely thank you, for you were very kind to me till just thelast. '

'Ah, Lady Anne, ' said she, 'I have never been happy since I sent youaway. My husband was dreadfully angry with me, and I don't believe hehas forgiven me yet. He said that I had turned an orphan out of doors, and that it would bring ill luck upon our heads, and so it proved, forabout a week after Mr. Freeman himself caught Susan as she was fillingher pockets with plums, and discharged her instantly. Luckily Phoebe hadnone in her pocket, and Tom they knew to be an honest boy, so they twoescaped, but we had a world of trouble with Susan, for, as she had losther character, we could hardly get her a place at all, but at last awoman in the village who takes in washing agreed to take her. There shehas a great deal of work to do for very little money, but she isdetermined to be honest, and to stay there for a year that she mayrecover her character, and then we hope that she will do better, but itgrieves me to the heart to think that I encouraged her to bring thefruit home, for if I had scolded her for it at the first, she would haveleft it off, and might now have been at Mr. Freeman's. '

'Well, my good woman, ' said my father, 'you seem so sensible of yourerror, both with respect to encouraging your daughter in dishonesty, andyour ill-treatment of mine at the last, that I shall say nothing furtherto you on the subject, but thank you for the kindness you did show to mychild during the greater part of the time she was with you. Now I wishto see your husband. Is he here or gone to town?'

'He is at the garden, sir, for Richard and the women quarrelled aboutthe money that they took, and at last one of them told Mr. Freeman ofthe tricks they played, so Richard and some of the women weredischarged, and the rest had such a lecturing that I don't believe thereis now a creature in the garden would dare to take so much as agooseberry from it, but my husband is there a good deal to look afterthem, for Mr. Freeman says he shall not trust them too far. '

'Ah, ' said my father, 'you see that honesty is still the best policy. Well, I wish you good-day, and hope you will continue in your goodresolutions. '

I shook hands with the poor woman, and we then proceeded to Mr. Freeman's gardens. The door being open we entered. Mr. Joseph soonappeared, and came up to us with a bow. 

'We would look at your greenhouses, ' said my father. 'I wish to choosesome plants. '

Joseph looked at me with a doubting, curious look, but without utteringany observation, and led the way to the nearest greenhouse. We looked atthe plants, and my cousins took occasion to address me by my title. Atthis Joseph again gazed very earnestly at me, and hesitatingly said:

'I beg pardon, but this young lady is so like a child that used to behere last summer, and went by that name, that I could almost swear shewas now before me. '

'And so she is, my good man, ' replied my father, 'and I am come to thankyou for the kindness you showed to her. '

'Well now, ' said Joseph, 'this is the most joyful day that I have seenfor this long time. To see the little drooping rose transplanted intoits own garden was more than I ever expected, but I am glad to my heartthat it has happened, and, Lady Anne, forgive the freedom of an old manwhen I say that I loved you as if you had been one of my owngrandchildren, and had I known how uncomfortable you were at Davis's youshould have been removed into the family of one of my own daughters, wholives near, and she would have treated you as one of her own children;but you see all things happen for the best, for by your being turned outof doors, as it were, you have discovered your father, and are muchbetter off than ever we could make you. '

We all very cordially shook hands with this honest good man, and myfather compelled him to accept of a handsome present. 

Mr. Freeman was in town, so my father left his compliments and thanks tohim for having given me employment, and ordered plants to the amount oftwenty pounds to be sent to his house in Piccadilly. We went to adifferent part of the garden in quest of Davis and his son Tommy. Wesoon found them, and, on making myself known to the father, the poor mancould not forbear shedding tears, and said he should be ashamed as longas he lived to think how I had been turned out of his cottage. My fatherbegged him not to think of it any longer, for that we did not, and itwas with difficulty that he prevailed on him to accept a present whichDavis said he did not deserve, and that it was like a reproach to him. 

'Say no more, I beg of you, ' said my father; 'my daughter can only thinkof the kindness you showed her, and we shall always remember it withgratitude. '

Little Tommy, as soon as he felt convinced that I was the same LadyAnne that used to live in their cottage, took my hand, kissed it, andsaid he would make me a prettier box than I had ever seen, for that hemade them much better now than when I lived with them. I gave the littlefellow a guinea, and I gave his sister Phoebe five shillings, for thoughI did not entertain any resentment against her, yet I did not think itwould be just to give her as much as her brother, who had always beenkind to me, and was an honest boy. We then took leave of them, andreturned to town. 

The next morning, after breakfast was over, my father ordered thecarriage, and we drove to Covent Garden to pay a visit to Mrs. Williamsand her family. When we arrived at the Garden I led the way to the shop, and found her and her two daughters busy in setting out the fruit andflowers. I asked her the price of some of them, and though she answeredme as a stranger, yet I saw that she looked at me very earnestly, buther daughter Jane, having observed me, whispered to her mother:

'I am sure that is the little girl that we took in who was in suchdistress; I am positive it was her. '

Mrs. Williams again looked at me very intently. I smiled, and said:

'Yes, Mrs. Williams, I am that poor child that you were so kind as totake in and feed and clothe. '

'Bless your sweet face, ' said she, 'and so you are; and have you foundyour friends, and is your father living?'

'Yes, my good friend, ' replied my father, 'I am that happy father, andcan never be sufficiently grateful to you for befriending my poor childwhen she was almost dying of cold and hunger. '

Mrs. Williams made many exclamations of joy and surprise at the happychange that had taken place in my situation. We all entered the shop, and, seating ourselves as well as we could, my father gave her a slightdetail of the circumstances that had brought me to his knowledge. Westayed with her nearly an hour, and, before leaving the shop, my fatherobliged her to accept of bank-notes to the amount of a hundred pounds. We then returned to the carriage, and my father ordered the coachman todrive to D---- Street in the borough. 

'For, ' said he, 'we will now go and make our acknowledgment to Mr. Smithand his wife, for I think it is as proper to reprove them for theirbarbarity as to reward those who have treated you with kindness. '

When we arrived at the street I pointed out the house, but it was now ina different business. We entered the shop, and on inquiring for Smiths, were told that they had been gone away for some time, for that thehusband had given himself up to drinking, and the wife to gambling tillthey were involved in debt to everybody that would trust them; and atlast they had moved away in the night without paying anyone, and it wasnot known where they were gone to. '

'It is very well, ' said my father, 'these people by their bad managementand ill conduct have brought a punishment upon themselves. I shall notseek for them any further. It is not my wish to reproach those who arefallen into distress, and that, I think, is likely to be their presentstate. '

We then returned home, and my father informed us that it was hisintention, in the course of two or three days, to take a longer journey, which would give us much pleasure and also much pain. 

'For, ' said he, 'we will go to E----. I wish to visit Mr. Sanders andyour good nurse, and to go to the grave of your dear mother. She mustnot lie there; I must have her removed and laid in our family vault atMalbourne. Though so cruelly separated from her during my life, yet onetomb shall contain us at our death. '

 * * * * *

CONCLUSION. 

_Mr. Sanders was very happy to know that Lady Anne had found her father, and the Earl gave him a living worth two hundred pounds a year. He alsoprovided for Nurse Jenkins and her children, and reprimanded theoverseers of the workhouse, but made a present to the parish for thebenefit of the poor children. Some time later the reformed Sharpleyscalled at Sir Robert's house, and being now honest pedlars, wereliberally patronized. _

Captain Murderer

Captain Murderer's mission was matrimony, and the gratification of acannibal appetite with tender brides. On his marriage morning he alwayscaused both sides of the way to church to be planted with curiousflowers; and when his bride said, 'Dear Captain Murderer, I never sawflowers like these before; what are they called?' he answered, 'They arecalled garnish for house-lamb, ' and laughed at his ferocious practicaljoke in a horrid manner, disquieting the minds of the noble bridalcompany with a very sharp show of teeth, then displayed for the firsttime. He made love in a coach-and-six, and married in acoach-and-twelve, and all his horses were milk-white horses with one redspot on the back, which he caused to be hidden by the harness; for thespot _would_ come there, though every horse was milk-white when CaptainMurderer bought him. And the spot was young bride's blood. (To thisterrific point I am indebted for my first personal experience of ashudder and cold beads on the forehead. ) When Captain Murderer had madean end of feasting and revelry, and had dismissed the noble guests, andwas alone with his wife on the day month after their marriage, it washis whimsical custom to produce a golden rolling-pin and a silverpie-board. Now, there was this special feature in the Captain'scourtships, that he always asked if the young lady could make pie-crust, and if she couldn't by nature or education, she was taught. Well, whenthe bride saw Captain Murderer produce the golden rolling-pin and silverpie-board, she remembered this, and turned up her laced-silk sleeves tomake a pie. The Captain brought out a silver pie-dish of immensecapacity, and the Captain brought out flour and butter and eggs and allthings needful, except the inside of the pie. Of materials for thestaple of the pie itself the Captain brought out none. Then said thelovely bride: 'Dear Captain Murderer, what pie is this to be?' Hereplied: 'A meat pie. ' Then said the lovely bride: 'Dear CaptainMurderer, I see no meat. ' The Captain humorously retorted: 'Look in theglass. ' She looked in the glass, but still she saw no meat, and then theCaptain roared with laughter, and suddenly frowning and drawing hissword, bade her roll out the crust. So she rolled out the crust, dropping large tears upon it all the time, because he was so cross, andwhen she had lined the dish with crust, and had cut the crust all readyto fit the top, the Captain called out: '_I_ see the meat in the glass!'And the bride looked up at the glass, just in time to see the Captaincutting her head off; and he chopped her in pieces, and peppered her, and salted her, and put her in the pie, and sent it to the baker's, andate it all, and picked the bones. 

Captain Murderer went on in this way, prospering exceedingly, until hecame to choose a bride from two twin sisters, and at first didn't knowwhich to choose; for, though one was fair and the other dark, they wereboth equally beautiful. But the fair twin loved him, and the dark twinhated him, so he chose the fair one. The dark twin would have preventedthe marriage if she could, but she couldn't. However, on the nightbefore it, much suspecting Captain Murderer, she stole out and climbedhis garden-wall, and looked in at his window through a chink in theshutter, and saw him having his teeth filed sharp. Next day she listenedall day, and heard him make his joke about the house-lamb. And that daymonth he had the paste rolled out, and cut the fair twin's head off, andchopped her in pieces, and peppered her, and salted her, and put her inthe pie, and sent it to the baker's, and ate it all, and picked thebones. 

Now, the dark twin had had her suspicions much increased by the filingof the Captain's teeth, and again by the house-lamb joke. Putting allthings together when he gave out that her sister was dead, she divinedthe truth, and determined to be revenged. So she went up to CaptainMurderer's house and knocked at the knocker and pulled at the bell, andwhen the Captain came to the door, said: 'Dear Captain Murderer, marryme next, for I always loved you, and was jealous of my sister. ' TheCaptain took it as a compliment, and made a polite answer, and themarriage was quickly arranged. On the night before it the bride againclimbed to his window, and again saw him having his teeth filed sharp. At this sight she laughed such a terrible laugh at the chink in theshutter that the Captain's blood curdled, and he said: 'I hope nothinghas disagreed with me!' At that she laughed again--a still more terriblelaugh--and the shutter was opened and search made, but she was nimblygone, and there was no one. Next day they went to church in acoach-and-twelve and were married. And that day month she rolled thepie-crust out, and Captain Murderer cut her head off, and chopped her inpieces, and peppered her, and salted her, and put her in the pie, andsent it to the baker's, and ate it all, and picked the bones. 

But before she began to roll out the paste she had taken a deadly poisonof a most awful character, distilled from toads' eyes and spiders'knees, and Captain Murderer had hardly picked her last bone when hebegan to swell, and to turn blue, and to be all over spots, and toscream. And he went on swelling and turning bluer, and being more allover spots and screaming, until he reached from floor to ceiling andfrom wall to wall; and then, at one o'clock in the morning, he blew upwith a loud explosion. At the sound of it all the milk-white horses inthe stables broke their halters and went mad, and then they gallopedover everybody in Captain Murderer's house (beginning with the familyblacksmith, who had filed his teeth) until the whole were dead, and thenthey galloped away. 

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A BOOK OF BALLAD STORIES

Selected and Edited by MARY MACLEOD

With Introduction by EDWARD DOWDEN

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 'Beyond it rose a castle fair Y-built of marble stone; The battlements were gilt with gold, And glittered in the sun. --_p. 129. _]

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FAIRY TALES FROM GRIMM

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S. BARING GOULD

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 FAIRY TALES FROM HANS ANDERSEN

 Introduction By EDWARD CLODD

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STORIES FROM FROISSART

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CHILDREN OF THE DAWN

OLD TALES OF GREECE

By ELSIE FINNEMORE BUCKLEY

With Introduction by ARTHUR SIDGWICK

'_For a child whose eyes are just opening to beauty, and whoseimagination is ready to be kindled by a spark from any torch, we canthink of few more delightful or enduring gifts than this book, with itsimmortal themes and its graceful interpretation in our time and tongue. The illustrations by Mr. F. C. Papé deserve praise. _'--MORNING LEADER. 

'_Told with rare good taste and judgment. _'--DAILY TELEGRAPH. 

'_Cannot fail to instruct as well as interest not only children, butschoolboys and schoolgirls who have begun the study of the old Greek andRoman poets. To such students a knowledge of these stories isinvaluable. In every respect the book is an excellent one. _'--DUNDEE COURIER. 

[Illustration: 'Each night Hero lighted her torch. '--_p. 117. _]

_Large crown 8vo. Printed on superfine paper, cloth boards. _

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Illustrated by Gordon Browne

[Illustration: 'And your experience makes you sad?--_p. 152. _]

 THE SHAKESPEARE STORY BOOK

 By MARY MACLEOD

 With Introduction By SIDNEY LEE

'_Mr. Sidney Lee, a quite unimpeachable authority, strongly recommendsthis new volume, for which indeed Miss Mary Macleod's literaryreputation will commend a favourable hearing. This new rendering hasbeen very well done. Mr. Gordon Browne's illustrations add another charmto a very attractive book. _'--SPECTATOR. 

'_Miss Mary Macleod has followed the plot more closely than Mary andCharles Lamb, and a charming book of stories is the result. _'--TRUTH. 

[Illustration: 'Some have greatness thrust upon them. ' _p. _ xiv. ]

_Large crown 8vo. Printed on superfine paper, cloth boards. _

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Illustrated by Hugh Thomson

TALES OF THE CANTERBURY PILGRIMS

RETOLD FROM CHAUCER AND OTHER WRITERS

By F. J. HARVEY DARTON

With Introduction By Dr. F. J. FURNIVALL

[Illustration: 'The cow ran, the calf ran, and even the very hogstrotted. '--_p. 122. _]

Large 8vo. Printed on superfine paper, cloth boards gilt top, 7s. 6d. 

WELLS GARDNER, DARTON, & CO. , LTD. , LONDON