Forgotten Tales of Long Ago
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Title: Forgotten Tales of Long Ago
Author: E. V. Lucas
Illustrator: F. D. Bedford
Release date: May 3, 2009 [eBook #28679]
Most recently updated: January 5, 2021
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FORGOTTEN TALES OF LONG AGO ***
Produced by D Alexander, Josephine Paolucci and the Online
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file was produced from images generously made available
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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 writers
for children, the period being roughly 1790 to 1830, with three later
and more sophisticated efforts added. Having so recently made remarks on
the character of these old books--in the preface last year to
_Old-Fashioned Tales_, a companion volume to this--I have very little to
say now, except that I hope the selection will be found to be
interesting. If it is not, it is less my fault than that of the authors,
who preferred teaching to entertaining, moral improvement to drama. The
pendulum has now perhaps swung almost too far the other way; but such
things 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 in
Early Youth, addressed to all who wish to grow in Grace and Favour_. On
the 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 very
brilliant piece of work, but it has some pleasing incidents, not the
least of which is the irreproachable behaviour of the gentlemen at
dinner. 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 to
me 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 the
story, even without the evidence of the title-page. It is astonishing
for how long the poor had to play a degraded part in minor English
literature.
In another story in the book, called 'Good Manners their own Reward,' I
find this sentence, which contains an idea for a children's manual that
certainly ought to be written, under the same title too: 'Master Goodly
not long after this had the pleasure of seeing a small book printed and
circulated among his juvenile acquaintance, called "The Way to be
Invited a Second Time."'
We pass next to a little work of pretty fancy, 'The Months,' which by
its ingenuity I hope makes up for want of drama. I have included it on
that ground, and also because if the descriptions were read aloud in
irregular order to small children, it might be an agreeable means of
encouraging thought and observation if the listeners were asked to put a
name to each month. 'The Months' comes from a book published in 1814
entitled _Tales from the Mountains_, the mountains being those dividing
England from Wales. A story in the same volume which I nearly included
has the promising style 'The Spotted Cow and the Pianoforte,' but its
matter is not equal to its title. It is, indeed, a variation upon a very
old theme, being the narrative of two girls of equal age who, coming
into a little prosperity, at once gratify old desires: one, the
exemplary one, wishing a useful cow, and the other, the frivolous one, a
piano. The author, in the old remorseless way, contrasts their
subsequent careers, nothing but happiness and worth falling to the
sensible girl who chose the cow, and nothing but disaster dogging the
steps of the foolish desirer of the musical instrument. I do not think
this to be good working morality, since proficiency on the piano can
also be a step towards a livelihood and independence, and even Madame
Schumann, one supposes, had to make a start somehow. The name of the
author 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 deserved
it, for it is very pleasantly and sympathetically written, and a better
understanding of home prevails than in so many of these old books.
Jemima's brothers seem to me very well drawn, and certain minor touches
lend an agreeable air of reality to the book. The author's name is, I
believe, not known. His preface, which I quote here, is very sensible.
Considering the date, say about 1785, it is curiously sensible and
discerning:--
'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 are
symbolical. We have another example in 'Dicky Random,' and, I suppose,
in 'Captain Murderer' too, while in 'Prince Life,' to which we soon
come, which is frankly an allegory, the habit is carried beyond Bunyan,
who made his attributes very like men and called them Mr. or Lord to
increase the illusion or diminish the cheat. The drawback to this kind
of nomenclature is that it weakens the realism of the story. It also
perplexes one a little when one thinks of later generations. Jemima's
two brothers, for example, would marry one day, and their children would
necessarily 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 carries
a 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? Or
could he? If not, these names must have immensely have simplified the
question 'What to do with our boys?'
It is hardly necessary to say that the books which Jemima took back with
her from London (on page 46), and which gave such pleasure, were all
published by the same firm that issued her own history. This was a
system of advertisement brought to perfection by Newbery of St. Paul's
Churchyard. It is so very artless and amusing that one is sorry it has
died out.
For the 'Two Trials' I have gone to a little work entitled _Juvenile
Trials for telling Fibs, robbing Orchards, and Other Offences_, 1816,
from which, viâ _Evenings at Home_, I borrowed a story for _Old
Fashioned Tales_. The book is anonymous. Surely such schoolboys and
schoolgirls never were on sea or shore; but that does not matter. In the
old books one did not look for reality.
I have included 'Prince Life' for two reasons. Partly because it seems
to me not bad of its kind, although far from being as good as 'Uncle
David's Nonsensical Story' in the _Old-Fashioned Tales_, and partly
because I thought it interesting to show what kind of stories historical
novelists write for their own families--for 'Prince Life' was written in
1855 for his little boy by G. P. R. James, the author of _The Smuggler_,
_Richelieu_, _Darnley_, and scores of other romances. Allegories, I
must confess, are not much to my taste; but I have so frequently found
that what I like others dislike, and what I dislike others like, that I
include 'Prince Life' here quite confidently. It has given Mr. Bedford
material for a good picture, anyway.
'The Farmyard Journal,' which follows, is not dramatic, but it has
plenty of incident, and is included here to foster the gift of
observation. I found it in a favourite and very excellent and wise old
book, _Evenings at Home_, by the strong-minded Aikins--a kind of work
which it grieves one to think is outgrown not only by the readers of
children'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 the
topic of kidnapping is one of which I think every collection of old
stories for children should take notice. In every book of this nature at
least one child's face must be stained with walnut juice. The story is
from the anonymous _Tales of the Hermitage, written for the Instruction
and Amusement of the Rising Generation_, 1778.
'The Rose's Breakfast,' also anonymous, is one of the many imitations of
Roscoe's _Butterfly's Ball_, about which the English reading public so
strangely 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 present
volume, I am amazed to think I ever marked it for inclusion at all. It
seems to me poverty-stricken in fancy and very paltry in tone, the idea
of making beautiful flowers as mean-spirited as trumpery men and women
can be being wholly undesirable. It is too late to take it out,
especially as Mr. Bedford has drawn a very charming picture for it, but
I hope it will remain only as an object-lesson. Possibly its badness may
incite someone to write a better, and that would be my justification.
One interesting thing about it is the light it throws on the change of
fashion in garden flowers.
'The Three Cakes' is from an English translation of the great Monsieur
Berquin's _L'Ami des Enfants_--the most famous children's book in
France. 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 it
covered most of the ground that a moralist for the young could cover in
those days. It is more like Priscilla Wakefield's _Juvenile Anecdotes_,
to which we are coming, on a larger scale, than anything I can name; but
no 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. French
writers when they have tried seriously to interest children, have been
very successful. I know of few better stories than that which in its
English translation is called _Little Robinson of Paris_; but it is a
long book in itself, and could not be condensed for our purposes. While
on 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 work
called in the English translation _Tales to My Daughter_. I include it
for its quaint _naïveté_, and also for its lesson of gratitude and
minute thoughtfulness. But it was a sad oversight (not too explicable in
a French romance) not to make Augustus marry the Green Hat.
I included 'Amendment,' from _The Little Prisoners; or, Passion and
Patience_, 1828, because its idea is an attractive one. There is always
something engaging, not by any means only to the youthful mind, in the
idea of a complete change in the conditions and surroundings of one's
life. That is why so many of us want to be gipsies. The book is
anonymous.
'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 no
little spirit and reasonableness, a school a hundred years ago, with all
the escapades and errors of the boys and all the homilies of the
schoolmaster. I like the episode of Scourhill as well as any because of
the pleasant interior which it contains--Scourhill's home, with the
noisy old gentlemen, a little like a scene in Marryat. The books are not
worth reprinting, in the way that _Lady Anne_ (to which we draw near) is
worth reprinting; but they are worth looking at if they ever chance to
fall 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, if
its literature is a guide, was in those days less of a nursery than a
conventicle) were in every shop. She poured them forth--little rushing
streams of didacticism. The present work, from which, for its
quaintness, I have chosen 'The Journal,' is a kind of Ann and Jane
Taylor in very obvious prose. Little girls having spent their
half-crowns on themselves, at once meet members of the destitute class,
and, having nothing to give them, are plunged into remorse; little boys
creeping into the larder to steal jam, eat soft soap by mistake and
never are greedy again; and so forth. All the conventional images and
morals are employed. The whole book is one long and emphatic division of
sheep from goats. 'The Journal' is not perhaps exciting, but it reflects
the quieter family life of a century ago, and incidentally portrays the
thorough governess of that day.
Priscilla Wakefield was a Quaker, the great-granddaughter on her
mother's side of Barclay of Ury, who wrote the _Apology_. She had a
famous niece, Elizabeth Fry, and a famous grandson, Edward Gibbon
Wakefield, 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 the
original 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 _Old
Fashioned Tales_, the very pretty history of 'The Little Blue Bag.' I
do not consider 'Ellen and George' as good as the 'Little Blue Bag,' and
I should not be surprised if I discovered on a severe analysis of motive
that it was included here more for its cricket than its human interest.
But it has a certain sweetness and naturalness too. Ellen's very
sensible question (as it really was) on page 184, 'Then why don't you
send the cat away?' is one of the first examples of independent--almost
revolutionary--thought in a child recorded by a writer for children in
the early days. To say such a thing to a mother eighty years ago was
indeed a feat. For the most part children then were to accept all that
was said to them by their elders as fact, and neither meditate nor utter
criticism. The principal difference between the children of those days
and the children of these is their present liberty of criticism. To-day
every 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) as
boys do. I must confess to much perplexity as to what part could be
played in the manufacture of wickets by George's hammer and nails. Runs
were called notches at that time because the scorer cut notches on a
stick. Wilson's good nature has, I fear, found its way more than once
into the first-class game--at least, I remember that a full toss on the
leg side went to Mr. W. G. Grace when he had made ninety-six towards his
hundredth hundred; and quite right too. When it comes, however, to
throwing down one's bat and flinging the ball at a batsman (as George
did), there is no excuse to be offered. I have omitted the end of the
story, in which Mr. Danvers condescends to take a hand at the game, in a
match against George and Tom Fletcher (who made it up), and beats them
by a narrow margin of notches. According to the author he had been in
his youth a fine bat, but this statement has been cruelly discredited by
the artist who illustrated the book, and who placed the gentleman in an
attitude (or 'stance,' as they say now), and gave him a grip on the
handle, from which nothing but ridicule and disaster could result. Mr.
Bedford is not like this. Mr. Bedford is one of those rare artists who
read a story first.
Of 'Waste Not, Want Not' it is unnecessary to speak. It is one of the
best of the stories in Miss Edgeworth's _Parent's Assistant_, most
entertaining of books with dull names. I have my doubts as to whether
Benjamin was not too much encouraged above Hal, but that has nothing to
do with the story.
We come now to comedy and to farce. 'The Fugitive' I found in an odd
little book by a Miss Pearson called _A Few Weeks at Clairmont Castle_,
1828; while 'The Butcher's Tournament' is from Peter Parley. I read this
story when I was quite a child, and it always remained in my memory, and
for several years of late I have kept up a desultory search for it. I
could 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, but
I suppose that William Martin wrote it--under the influence of Douglas
Jerrold, 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 or
two of _Beechnut_, best of the Franconia books. Later the author changed
the name Malleville, which certainly is not beautiful, to Madeline; but
I have left it here as in the original edition. There seems to be no
middle way with Jacob Abbott: you must either think him the flattest of
writers for children, or the most interesting. So many of my earliest
recollections are bound up with Phonny and Beechnut that I shall always
think of Jacob Abbott with enthusiasm. But the heretics in this matter I
can understand, although pitying them too.
For looking through the scores and scores--I might, I believe, say
hundreds--of books from which to select the twenty stories within these
covers, I should consider myself amply rewarded by the discovery of
_Lady Anne_. This story--I might almost say this novel--which is at
once 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 be
a woman's work--wrote also _The Blue Silk Hand-bag_, but of that book I
have been able to catch no glimpse. In order to bring _Lady Anne_ into
this collection I have had here and there to condense a few pages, but I
have touched nothing essential: the sweet little narrative is only
shortened, never altered. _Lady Anne_ was first published in 1823.
With 'Captain Murderer,' which ends the book, we come to another story
by a novelist, this time a man of genius, Charles Dickens. The agreeably
gruesome trifle occurs in the essay in _The Uncommercial Traveller_ on
'Nurses' Stories,' and it was told to the little Dickens by a dreadful
girl 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 is
better than the story of Captain Murderer, but I do not care for the
responsibility of laying it before you. The Captain may be held to be
forbidding enough, but he is, all the same, well within the nursery's
traditions of acceptable villainy, being only a variant upon Bluebeard
and the giant who fed upon bread made with the bone-flour of Englishmen;
whereas the story of Chips introduces infernal elements and makes rats
too horrible to be thought about. So I feel; but if anyone complains of
the grimness of the Captain I shall have, I fear, only a very poor
defence.
E. V. L.
CONTENTS
PAGE
Dicky Random; or, Good-Nature is nothing without Good
Conduct; 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 Maria
Edgeworth 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 beautiful
mirror 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 and
three 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 tempted
from their retreat 121
'I will play you all the pretty tunes that I know, if you
will give me leave' 133
Had not the gardener, who then came up, taken him in his
arms, and carried him into the house, in spite of his
kicking and screaming 143
Every boy ... joined in the pursuit, and every cottage
poured out its matrons and children and dogs 165
George was despatched to desire one of the servants to
bring 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 possess
enhances the value of its enjoyment' 245
'There he goes!' 263
Knights in armour tumbled over their own steeds, donkeys
ran snorting about, ladies shrieked 293
Wherever the feather passed it changed the surface of the
water 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 to
his little son Richard.
'Yes, father,' said Richard; 'for I can count it all round. When both
hands are at the top of the clock, then I know it is time to leave
school.'
'Then go and see what time it is,' said his father.
Away ran Richard, and brought back word in a moment that it was exactly
six o'clock.
In a few minutes after came in a friend with a young lady, the former of
whom asked Mr. Random why he was not ready to go with them to the
concert that evening, as he had promised. Mr. Random replied that it
was but six o'clock, which, however, he was soon convinced was a mistake
of Richard's, who, on being asked what he saw when he looked on the
clock, replied, 'I saw the two hands together close to the six, and that
made me say it was six, for I always call it twelve when they are right
opposite.'
'Remember, my dear,' said his father, 'that the long hand never tells
the hour, except on the stroke of twelve. You ought to know that the
minute hand overtakes its fellow somewhat later every hour, till at noon
and midnight they again start exactly even; and when a bigger boy I
shall expect you to tell me how much difference is increased every time
they come into conjunction. You now see, Dicky, that through such a
mistake I must make my friends wait; pray, therefore, mind better
another time.'
In a few minutes after his father bid him go into the dining-room, and
bring down a bottle of wine, which stood in the _hither_ corner of the
cellaret, that he might help the gentleman and lady to a glass.
'Yes, father,' said little Dick, and up he went. On the stairs he met
puss, and stopped to play with her, during which he forgot what had been
told him. Having gotten a bottle, downstairs he came, and, pouring out a
couple 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 only
very vulgar to drink out of the neck of a bottle, but wrong to make free
slily with that which he was merely entrusted to serve out. However, it
rushed so fast into his mouth, and was so hot, that he was afraid of
being 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 down
the bottle on the floor, when, in stamping about, it rolled downstairs
and made a fine clatter. His father ran out on hearing the noise, but
was stopped in the way by seeing the young lady almost gasping for
breath, and it was some minutes before she could say that he had given
her brandy instead of wine.
Mr. Random next proceeded upstairs, where little Dick was picking up the
pieces 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 the
brandy will serve to bathe your hand, and I hope the pain will make you
reflect that the loss is the same to me, whether you spilt it from
design or inattention.'
He one day made his mother look very simple at table, for which he
deserved to have suffered much more than her good nature required. Young
Random was to have a grand rout in the evening with some of his little
favourites. A few nice tarts, custards, etc., had been made in the
morning for the occasion, and had been most temptingly baked in the
forenoon.
It happened that two gentlemen called on Mr. Random about two o'clock,
and he insisted upon their staying to dinner; in consequence of which
his lady had the pastry removed from the sideboard to the china-closet.
All children must frequently have heard their mothers say, when they
wish to have anything saved for another occasion, 'My friends, you see
your dinner before you; I hope you will consider yourselves at home and
not spare.' This is always thought to be a sufficient excuse for not
bringing anything of another sort to table.
When the meat was nearly done with, Mrs. Random made the above remark
to her visitors, who declared that nothing more was requisite. She then
bid 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 the
closet?'
'Surely you dream?' said his mother.
'No, I don't, indeed,' replied Dicky. 'You put them away directly the
gentlemen said they would stay to dine, and observed what a deal of
trouble visitors do give.'
Anyone will easily believe that this made Mrs. Random look very
confused. She hardly knew what to reply, but she turned it off in the
best 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, and
therefore the reserve I have kept would not have been made but on your
account. The pastry was intended for _your_ visitors, and not your
father's. However, if you are such a child that you cannot wait till
night, they shall be brought to table now; but, remember, I will not
order any more to be made, and you shall provide for your playmates out
of the money put by to purchase the magic-lantern and the books.'
Richard looked quite down when he heard this sentence, and more so when
he saw the pastry placed on the table.
Dear me, how soon had the tarts and custards disappeared, if one of each
had been served round to the company! But the gentlemen were too polite
even to taste them, and father and mother declined eating any.
Richard's sister said she could very well wait till supper; hence they
were all saved. But Dicky was afterwards very severely taken to task for
speaking out of time, when he was not spoken to.
When evening came, and the little visitors were assembled, Richard, who
had seen some of the sports at a country fair, would show his dexterity
to amuse his young party. He took up the poker, and, supposing it to be
a pole, performed some imitations. But, unable long to preserve it
upright from its weight, the sooty end fell on Master Snapper's book,
who was reading a little work upon 'Affability.' The blow fairly knocked
it out of his hand, and made a great smear on his frilled shirt, at
which a loud laugh ensued. Now Master Snapper could not bear to be
laughed at, and was so much out of humour all the evening that he would
not play.
Little Dick never once, all this time, thought that if it had fallen on
his playfellow's toe, it might have lamed him, and he would at least
have had to carry him a pick-a-back home; nor did he think who was to
have paid the doctor; but, pleased with the mirth he had made, he went
upstairs and fetched down one of the pistols which his father kept in a
private drawer. Then, pulling in his rocking-horse, he fancied he was
one of the Light Horse, and mounted it to show the sword exercise, and
how he could shoot a Frenchman or a Turk at full gallop. He had no
business with a rocking-horse or a pistol among young ladies, but he
never thought if it were proper or not, and much less if the pistol were
loaded.
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 mirror
into a thousand pieces. Oh, what a sad scene of confusion ensued! Some
of the young ladies screamed out with fright. Miss Timid, knocked down
by Dicky in falling backwards, lay on the ground bleeding at the nose.
Some were employed in picking up the pieces of glass, or pinning their
handkerchiefs over the fracture, to prevent its being seen while they
stayed; but such a hope was vain.
The noise brought Mr. and Mrs. Random and all the servants upstairs, who
too soon found out the havoc that had been made, and demanded how it
happened. All the children would willingly have screened Dicky, because
they knew he had not done it to frighten, but to amuse them. Master
Snapper, however, now thinking it was his turn, in a very ill-natured
speech made the worst of the story. But the spiteful way in which he
spoke did little Dick no harm, as he seemed more rejoiced at his
misfortune than sorry for Mr. Random's loss; hence it had the effect not
to increase the latter's anger.
'Playing with balancing poles and pistols,' said Mr. Random in a stern
accent to his son, 'is very well in a proper place, but quite
inadmissible in a room full of company. Now, sir, what business had you
to 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 never
to take such a thing without asking, and not even then till someone had
tried if it were loaded. So many accidents have happened with firearms
which have been supposed not to be loaded, that he who unguardedly
shoots another ought to take a similar chance for his own life; for you
know 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, what
would have been the consequence. You would have shot your father! Your
mother would have died of grief, and you and Letitia have been
orphans!'
[Illustration: _Off it went, knocked him backwards, and shivered a
beautiful mirror.--Page 5._]
'Ah, then I should have died too!' said Dicky, wiping the tears from his
eyes with the back of his hand. 'But how came you to load the pistol
last night, father?'
'Because,' replied his father, 'I thought I heard something fall in the
parlour, and the passage-door being directly after shut to in a still
manner. I loaded the pistols, thinking that thieves had broken into the
house, 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 you
might have killed me; for I got up in the night to let Juno out of the
shed, 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 that
I turned Juno into the yard, and this I dare say is all the noise you
heard.'
'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 in
it: "_The pitcher that goes often safe to the well may come home broken
at last._" And so, though the thoughtless and giddy may go on for a long
while without danger, it will overtake them sooner or later. Here is a
strong instance of escape from the consequences which might have
attended Richard's thoughtlessness; besides which, his mother could get
no more sleep all night, and I, after running the risk of catching cold
in searching over the house, have this morning been at the expense of
new fastenings to the doors and windows. The next time, however, you
rise, Richard, to alarm the family, you shall in future roost with the
hens or bed in the stable.'
Dicky now thought that his parent's resentment had subsided, and, upon
the latter's calling to him to come, he sprang across the room with the
greatest alertness; but how suddenly was his smile cast down when Mr.
Random, taking his hand, ordered him to wish his young friends much
mirth and a good appetite, while he was going to be punished for his
misconduct. At once were all their little hands put out to prevent Mr.
Random's resolution of taking him away, but all their petitions were in
vain. Richard was forced into an empty cellar, and left with no other
companion than a glimmering rush-light. Here he was told he might do as
much mischief as he pleased. The iron bars kept him from getting out on
one side, and the door was padlocked on the other. In this dilemma he
marched round and round, crying, with his little candle, and saw stuck
on 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. Random
could 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 young
company, and, on his promising to remember their contents, he was
permitted to sit down to table.
The rest of the evening was spent in innocent cheerfulness, and for some
time after little Random played with more caution.
We must omit many of the less important neglects of young Random, such
as letting the toast fall in handling it, shooting his arrow through the
window, riding a long stick where it might throw persons down, leaving
things in the way at dark, etc., and proceed to relate a good-natured
fancy of his which tended, more than any of the preceding events, to
show him the folly of taking any step without first looking to what it
might lead.
In Mr. Random's garden was a fine tall pear tree, and that year a very
fine pear grew on the topmost twig. His mother and sister had several
times wished for the luscious fruit, but it seemed to bid defiance to
every 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 will
be!' So, when he was alone, he picked out some large stones and threw at
it, but without any success. The next day he renewed his attack in the
evening, and to insure a better chance employed several large pieces of
brick 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 upon
the little fellow's leg, and cut it in so desperate a manner that he
cried out, quite terrified at the blow and sight of the blood. The other
boys directly took the alarm, and picking up some stones as large as
that which had done the mischief, they mounted on a high bench, and
discharged such a well-directed volley at the person of Master Random
that he was most violently struck upon the nose, and knocked backwards
into a glass cucumber-frame.
Here he lay in a most pitiable condition, calling upon his mother, while
the wounded boy on the other side joined in the concert of woe.
'Oh, it served you rightly!' exclaimed the young assailants, who were
looking over the wall, and ran away as soon as they saw Mr. Random come
into the garden to inquire the cause of the uproar.
His first concern was to carry Dicky indoors, and then, having wiped
away the blood and tears, he asked him how it happened.
'I was only trying to get a pear for my mother,' said Richard, 'when
these boys threw stones at me, and hit me!'
'That was very cruel,' said his father, 'to meddle with you when you
were doing nothing to them, and if I can find them out they shall be
punished for it.'
Mr. Random immediately set off to the next house, but was met at his own
door by the father of the wounded boy, who was coming with him in his
arms to demand satisfaction. This brought the whole truth out, and the
artful little fellow was found to have concealed a part of the real
case. Instead of saying 'he was only getting a pear,' he should have
said 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-telling
to 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 all
the bad consequences. It is my duty to see that this unoffending boy is
taken care of; but if his leg be so cut or bruised that he cannot get so
good a living when he comes to be a man as he might otherwise have
done, how would you like to make up the deficiency? You cannot doubt
that he has a demand upon you equal to the damage you may have done to
him. He is poor, and his father must send him to the hospital, but it
would be unjust of me to suffer it. No, on the contrary, I shall prevent
this by taking him home and sending you there, where Dr. Hardheart makes
his patients smart before he cures them. Come, get ready to go, for
delays in wounds of the head are not to be trifled with.'
Mr. Random then ordered the servant to go for a coach, in which Dicky
most certainly would have been sent off had not word been brought back
that there was not a coach on the stand. During this time Dicky had
fallen on his knees, entreating that he might remain at home, and
offering promises to be less heedless in future; nay, he was willing to
yield up all his toys to the maimed little gardener.
The boy's father, though but a labouring man, had a generous mind; he
wanted nothing of this kind, but only wished him to be more cautious in
future, as the same stones, thrown at random, might have either blinded
his son or fractured his skull, instead of merely hurting his leg. Mr.
Random then insisted on Richard's giving him half-a-crown, and asking
pardon for the misfortune occasioned by his carelessness.
This heavy sum was directly taken out of the hoard which had been laid
by for the purchase of a set of drawing instruments, but he had a yet
heavier account to settle with his father for damaging the
cucumber-frame. He had broken as much of it as would come to fifteen
shillings to mend, and as payment was insisted on, or close confinement
until the whole was settled, he was compelled to transfer to his father
all his receipts for the ensuing five months before he could again
resume his scheme of laying by an adequate sum to purchase the drawing
utensils. Independently of which he always carried a strong memorial of
his 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 it
were at a proper time and in a proper place.
The Months
Who is this, clad in russet-brown? His distant step sounds hollow on the
frozen ground; no beam of beauty is on his face, but his look is
healthy, and his step is firm. As he approaches the peasant bars his
door and renews his fire. The sparkling home-brewed goes round and
mantles in the foaming jug, the oft-repeated tale is told, the rain
patters against the casement, but the night passes away, and the storm
is no longer heard.
Bright in his career the sun arises. Millions of gems seem suspended
from the leafless branches. The familiar robin and the bolder sparrow
seek the abode of man. Swift fly the balls of snow; the ruddy youth
binds on his skates and gracefully flies over the frozen pool.
Who is this stranger? He is the first-born of his family, and his name
is JANUARY.
* * * * *
A grave and placid maiden now advances. The crocus and the snow-drop
adorn her brown garments, a wreath of primroses binds her brows, the
robin, perched on the leafless branch, welcomes her approach, and the
lovely green of the young wheat is spread over the lately barren
fields. The lambs frisk about her, they nibble the grass of the valley,
then suddenly start and bound up the shelving mountain. But their infant
coats are now wet with rain, and their sports are over. Shivering, they
follow the shepherd with their bleating dams. And now, adorned with
rustic lays and bleeding hearts, the swain sends to his favourite maid
the mysterious valentine. The birds choose their mates; it is the season
of connubial joys. Mild then be thy reign, gentle FEBRUARY.
* * * * *
Who is this froward youth, with his loud and boisterous voice? He comes
from the east; limping rheumatism and shivering ague are in his train;
but his face is now dressed in smiles. The birds begin their lays, the
lambs again frolic around. The daisy and the violet grow beneath his
feet; he dresses himself with the buds of the spring. Vegetation
displays her lovely green, and holds out the promise of future riches.
Again the tempest of his passions arise; he tears the chaplet from his
brows, 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 their
beauty is expanded. The leaves of the grove burst forth, and the hedges
exhibit their partial verdure. Nature, invigorated, smiles around her;
but she weeps, and her flowerets bend, drooping, to the earth. Mild is
her mien, and the tint of modesty is on her cheek. She smiles, whilst
the tear still trembles in her eye, like placid resignation bending over
the tomb of a departed friend. She is a pensive maiden, and her name is
APRIL.
[Illustration: '_The lambs frisk about her.'--Page 16._]
* * * * *
Hark to the sound of rustic mirth, which precede a cheerful youth! His
step is light and airy, his robe is of many colours, roses adorn his
flowing ringlets, health and pleasure float on the freshening gale,
exercise and mirth gambol before him, age forgets his troubles, quits
his arm-chair, and welcomes his approach. The maids of the hamlet
assemble and dance round the pole, decked with many a flower and many a
streaming pendant. The village lovers loiter at the stile, or wander
down the retired lane, where the hedges are covered with their white
blossoms, and the modest wild rose, emblem of the blushing maid, peeps
from the sheltering thorn. Season of love and delight! long may thy
reign be protracted, young and beauteous MAY!
* * * * *
Who is the maid now approaching? She arises when the lark first pours
his melody in air. Her dress is of a darker green, her head is adorned
with full-blown flowers, her face is tanned by labour. The bleating and
affrighted sheep are plunged, unwillingly, into the pool, and now by the
sturdy 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 fall
before it; the waggon, heavily laden, removes the odoriferous hay; and
the neat-mown fields display a brighter green. The cuckoo, with his
never-varying note is heard; but let us, when the day is over, placed in
some secluded nook, listen to the sweeter nightingale, who, as poets
feign, was once a hapless female. Industry now toils through the
lengthened 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 when
the 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 of
noon, and the kine no longer low. Not a breeze stirs: the foliage of the
groves, all--is still, except the insect world, who dimple the stream,
or, buzzing round the head of the sleeping youth, rouses the panting dog
that lies at his side.
Now the terrified birds dart swiftly through the air; a solemn and
portentous stillness reigns; the thunder mutters, the lightnings flash,
and the pouring storm approaches; the traveller seeks the sheltering
cottage. But when the sun again returns in his glory, the birds plume
their dripping feathers; the gardener ties up his fallen roses, and
trails anew the gadding woodbine. How sweetly refreshing is the air; we
will wander over the breezy hill; we will pluck the summer fruits; and
still welcome shalt thou be to us, sultry JULY.
* * * * *
Who is she, who, with the first blush of Aurora, brushes the pearly dew
from the grass? Her robe is thin and airy, and on her head is a garland
of wheat-ears and poppies. How busy is the scene around her! The shining
scythe cuts down the bearded barley and the quivering oat; the reaper
bends over the golden wheat, and fills the plenteous sheaf.
All are employed: even old age and childhood bend, with prying eyes, to
glean the scattered ears. The master looks on his riches, and swells
with satisfaction; the busy housewife loads the hospitable board, and
hands the mantling ale around; age tells the tale of past times; and the
loud laugh and rustic song burst from the lips of jocund youth. Oh! ever
thus 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 of
the groves is destroyed, and the feathered race fall before his cruel
hand. The timid hare, starting at the sound of early feet, flies from
the furzy brake, and she returns to her shelter no more. Content
thyself, youth, with the various fruits which Nature now bestows. The
golden apricot, the downy peach, and the blooming plum, peep from
beneath their green foliage. Feast on these gifts, but spare the
feathered 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 fills
her barns; and the flail, with monotonous sound, is heard. Labour
blesses her as he turns the earth with his plough, and scatters, with a
seemingly careless hand, the seeds of future harvests. She shakes the
clustering nuts from the trees, and gathers the rosy produce of the
orchard, where the apple and the mellow pear yield their refreshing
juice.
The poet wanders through the silent grove; the mournful breeze wafts the
withered leaves around him; the huntsman winds his horn; exercise bounds
over the plain; the sportsman rejoices in the barren fields. Season that
I love, ever welcome shalt thou be to me, mild and pensive OCTOBER.
* * * * *
What terrific form is this? Sullen and haggard is his face; his ragged
garments float in the blast; a wreath of yew binds his head; thick fogs
arise around him; he tears from the groves the last leaves of autumn;
disease attends his baneful steps; he drinks at the stagnant pool; he
throws himself on the beetling rock; he courts the foaming billows; he
listens to the last groans of the shipwrecked mariner; he wanders
through the churchyard; he seeks the abode of the raven, and horror is
in all his thoughts. Oh, hasten far away from us, gloomy NOVEMBER.
* * * * *
Who is this clad in flannel and warm furs? He wraps his garments close
about him; a wreath of holly binds his bald head; he seeks the warm
hearth and the blazing fire; he expands his hands: they are thin and
shrivelled with age. The snow fast descends; the sweeping blast howls
over the dreary heath, and shakes the cottage of the aged man--he is the
father 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 many
years the vicar of Smiledale. The situation of the parsonage was truly
beautiful, 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 was
remarkably handsome in her youth, but the beauty of her person was much
impaired by a continued state of ill-health, which she supported with
such a degree of cheerful fortitude as did honour to human nature. As
she had had the advantage of a liberal education, and had been always
accustomed to genteel company, her conversation was uncommonly
agreeable; and her daughter derived from her instructions those engaging
qualities which are the most valuable endowments a parent can bestow.
The eldest son, whose name was Charles, was about three years, and
William, the youngest, near a year and a half older than his sister.
Their dispositions were not in all respects so gentle as hers; yet, on
the whole, they formed the most agreeable family.
When Jemima was about six years old, her mother's health rendered it
necessary that she should take a journey to Bristol; and it being out of
her power to have Jemima with her, she left her with an aunt, whose name
was Finer, and who had two daughters a few years older than their
cousin. Miss Placid, who had never before been separated from her
mother, was severely hurt at the thought of leaving home; but as she was
told it was absolutely necessary, she restrained her tears, from fear of
increasing 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 of
conducting Jemima back with them. She was in her father's study at the
time they alighted, and could not help weeping at the idea of quitting
her friends; and throwing her arms around her brother William's neck,
silently sobbed forth that grief she wanted power to restrain. The poor
boy, who loved his sister with great tenderness, was nearly as much
agitated as herself, and could only, with affectionate kisses, every now
and 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 her
sorrow, she wiped her eyes, and walked slowly upstairs to have her frock
put on.
'So your aunt is come, miss?' said Peggy, as she put down the basin on
the table to wash her hands.
Poor Jemima was silent.
'I am sorry we are going to lose you, my dear,' added she, as she wiped
the towel over her forehead.
Peggy's hand held back her head, and at the same time supported her
chin, so that her face was confined and exposed to observation. She
wanted to hide her tears, but she could not; so at last, hastily
covering herself with the maid's apron, and putting her two hands round
her waist, she renewed the sorrow which she had so lately suppressed.
Peggy was very fond of her young lady, as indeed was every servant in
the house; but there was a good woman, who went in the family by the
name of Nurse, for whom Jemima had a still greater attachment. She had
attended Mrs. Placid before her marriage, had nursed all her children
from their births, and Jemima was the darling of her heart. As she
entered 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 her
life she had slept without her.
'And so pray, my dear,' said she, 'take care of yourself; and when you
go to bed, mind that they pin your night-cap close at the top, otherwise
you will get cold; and do not forget to have your linen well aired; for
otherwise it is very dangerous, love; and many a person, by such
neglect, 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 on
her neck.
Jemima promised an observance of her injunctions, and being now dressed,
attended a summons from her mother, who was alone in her chamber, the
company having left her to walk in the garden, whither she was unable to
accompany them.
'I see, my dear girl,' said she, holding out her hand as she sat in an
easy-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 wish
me to be quite well. I hope, therefore, that you will be a good child
while you stay with your uncle and aunt, and not give more trouble than
you cannot avoid.'
Miss Placid assured her mother of her obedience, and her firm resolution
to mind all her admonitions. Mr. Finer returning at this period,
interrupted any further discourse, only Mrs. Placid affectionately
pressed her hand, and, after giving her a kiss, Jemima sat down on a
little stool by her side.
When the hour of her departure was nearly arrived, she retired into the
garden to take leave of her brothers, and went round with them to all
the different places she had been accustomed to play in. They visited
together the poultry-yard, and Jemima fed her bantams before she left
them, bidding them all adieu, and looking behind her for the last time
as she shut the gate. They then walked round by some walnut-trees, where
a 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 drove
in these nails on purpose for you to hang up your doll's clothes, and
now 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 hand
to feed the old doe, and here is some parsley for the young ones. We
shall have some more before you come back, and I will send you word if I
can 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 deal
bigger than any villages which we have seen, and they say, the houses
stand 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 number
of 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 he
belongs to the Rev. Mr. Placid of Smiledale, for then, in case we should
lose him, folk would know where to return him.'
'And would it not be better to have a bell,' said William, 'as the sheep
have? I like a bell very much; it would make such a nice noise about the
house; 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 to
buy, 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 two
or three times before it would write. And then, having but a small scrap
of paper, he despatched his brother, as the shortest way, to fetch a
slate, and he would transcribe it afterwards with a pen and ink, for he
had, in endeavouring to cut a new point to his pencil, broken it off so
frequently that the lead was all wasted, and nothing remained except the
wood. William soon returned with the slate under his arm. Charles took
it from him, and then went to work to prepare a bill of necessary
things, 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 the
party, would have set their teeth on edge (a sensation, I believe, with
which children are unacquainted, for they never seem to notice it at
all).
'First then,' said he, 'I am to mention a collar for Hector, with his
name and place of abode; and I should like very much to have some Indian
glue to mend our playthings, such as father uses, and which we cannot
get here, you know.'
William assented, and Jemima was as attentive as if she had to remember
all the things he was writing without the assistance of his list. They
sat some time in silence to recollect the other necessary commissions
when she reminded them that a new pencil would be a useful article, but
Charles said his father would supply that want, and there was no need to
spend his own money for things he could have without any expense, but if
anyhow he could get a gun with a touch-hole he should be quite happy.
'No, you would not,' returned William, 'for then, Charles, you would
want gunpowder, which you never could have, and if you had, might never
use it.'
'To be sure, that is true. I have long wished for it; but, as you say, I
will be contented without it, so do not concern yourself about that, and
I need not set it down.'
I shall not trouble you with the rest of the consultation on this
important subject, but transcribe the list itself, which, with the
account of the preceding conversation, I received from a young lady who
frequently spent some months with Mrs. Placid, and to whose kindness I
am indebted for many of the various incidents which compose this
history.
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 her
first journey to the Metropolis. They then attended her to bid adieu to
her canary-bird, which she very tenderly committed to their care, and
desired 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 might
be starved. While she was taking her leave of little Dick, who hung in
the hall by the window, her cat came purring to her and rubbed its head
against her frock and pushed against her feet, then lay down on one
side, 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 its
mistress, who, taking it into her arms, particularly desired her
brothers to give puss some of their milk every morning, and to save some
bits of meat at dinner to carry to it. 'For, my pussy,' added she, 'I am
quite sorry to leave you.'
Another affair remained, which was to put away all her playthings; but
this she had deferred so long that the carriage was ready before she had
concluded, so with that, likewise, she was obliged to entrust her
brothers. And, looking round her with a heavy heart upon every object
she had been accustomed to, she quitted the room with regret, and after
receiving the affectionate kisses of the whole family her father lifted
her into the carriage, and, the tears running down her cheeks, she
looked out of the window as long as the house was in sight and her
brothers continued to stand at the gate, till the road to London turning
into a contrary direction they could no longer see each other. She
then, with a melancholy countenance, watched the fields and lanes she
passed by, till at last, quite fatigued, she sat down, and soon after
fell asleep.
When they stopped at the inn where they intended to rest that night, she
was so much fatigued, having been up very early, that she did not wake
till she was nearly undressed, when, finding herself in a house where
she had never before been, she looked about, but was too good to fret at
such a circumstance, though she wished to be at home again. The next
morning 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, had
entirely forgotten them, and, as they expected to find her as much a
baby as at their last interview, they appeared like entire strangers to
each other. They welcomed their father and mother, and looked at Miss
Placid with silent amazement; both parties, indeed, said the civil
things they were desired, such as 'How do you do, cousin?' rather in a
low 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 he
tried to shake her off, and desired her to welcome Miss Placid to
London, 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 her
in a becoming manner. To do this, however, Mr. Piner found was
impossible, as his daughters were not at any time distinguished by the
graces, and were always particularly awkward from their shyness at a
first introduction.
Our young traveller became by the next morning very sociable with her
cousins, and complied with their customs with that cheerful obligingness
which has always so much distinguished her character. She was much
surprised at the bustle which she saw in the street, and the number of
carriages so agreeably engaged her attention that it was with reluctance
she quitted her seat on a red trunk by the window to enjoy the plays in
which her cousins were solicitous to engage her. Mrs. Finer had been for
some time engaged to dine with a lady of her acquaintance, where she
could not conveniently take either of her children, and they both
fretted and pined at the disappointment so as to render themselves
uncomfortable and lose the pleasure of a holiday, which their mother had
allowed them in consequence of their cousin's arrival. Miss Ellen, the
eldest, was continually teasing to know the reason why she might not go,
though she had repeatedly been told it was inconvenient; and Jemima
beheld with astonishment two girls, so much older than herself, presume
to argue with their mother about the propriety of her commands, when
their duty should have been quiet submission. When her aunt was gone she
took all the pains in her power to engage them to be good-humoured,
presented them with their toys, and carried to them their dolls; but
they sullenly replied to all her endeavours they did not want them, and
told her not to plague them so, for they had seen them all a hundred
times. At last Sally, taking up a little tin fireplace which belonged to
her sister, Miss Ellen snatched it from her, and said she should not
have it. Sally caught it back again, and they struggled for it with such
passion as to be entirely careless of the mischief they might do each
other.
Poor Jemima, who had never disagreed with her brothers nor been witness
to such a scene in her life, was terrified to see them engage with a
degree of violence which threatened them with essential hurt. She
endeavoured to appease their fury, and ventured, after she had stood
still for some time between two chairs, to try if, by catching hold of
one of their hands, she could be able to part them, but they only gave
her some blows, and said she had no business in their quarrel. She then
retired to the farther part of the room, and ardently wished herself at
home. When spying another fireplace under the table, she took it up with
good-natured transport, and running to Miss Finer, told her there was
one 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 her
turn, that her sister should not touch any of her playthings; and
finding she was not strong enough to retain it, she threw it with all
her force to the other end of the room, and unfortunately hit Miss
Placid a blow with one of the sharp corners, just above her temple. This
at once put an end to the battle, for the blood immediately trickled
down her cheek, and alarmed the two sisters, who, forgetting the subject
of the debate, began to be uneasy at the effects of it; only Ellen, who
considered herself as more innocent (merely because she had not been the
immediate cause of the accident), with a recriminating air, said:
'There, miss, you have done it now! You have killed your cousin, I
believe!'
Jemima, though in a great deal of pain, and much frightened, did not
cry; as she seldom shed tears, unless from sensibility, or at parting
with her friends. She held her handkerchief to the place, and became
more alarmed in proportion as she saw it covered with blood, till at
last, finding it was beyond their art to stop the effusion, Ellen, with
trembling steps, went upstairs to tell the servant of their misfortune.
Dinah, which was the maid's name, had been so often accustomed to find
her young ladies in mischief, that she did not descend in very good
humour, and upon her entrance exclaimed that they were all the
naughtiest girls in the world, without inquiring how the accident
happened, or making any exception to the innocence of Jemima, who could
only again most sincerely wish to be once more at Smiledale with her
mother. Dinah, after washing her temple with vinegar, which made it
smart very much (though she did not complain), told them they had been
so naughty that they should not go to play any more, nor would she hear
Miss 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 what
you have done already.'
Jemima was too much awed by the ill-nature of her looks and the anger of
her expressions to vindicate her conduct any further, but quietly
sitting down, she comforted herself with the reflection that her
displeasure was undeserved, and that to fret at what she could not avoid
would not make her more happy, and therefore, with great good humour,
took up a bit of paper which contained the rough drawing of a little
horse which Charles had given her on the day of her departure, and which
she had since carefully preserved.
In justice to Mrs. Dinah I must here observe that she was not naturally
ill-natured, but the Misses Piner were so frequently naughty as to give
her a great deal of trouble, and tire out her patience; and their
mother, by not taking the proper methods to subdue the errors of their
dispositions, had made them so refractory that it soured her own temper,
and occasioned her to blame her servants for the consequence of those
faults which it was her duty to have prevented. So you see, my dear
Eliza, from such instances, how mistaken is that indulgence which, by
gratifying the humours of children, will make them impatient and
vindictive, unhappy in themselves, and a trouble to everyone with whom
they are connected. The amiable Jemima was always contented and
good-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 not
be altered, she obtained the love of everybody who knew her, and passed
through life with less trouble than people usually experience; for, by
making it a rule to comply with her situation, she always enjoyed the
comforts it afforded, and suffered as little as possible from its
inconvenience In the present case her cousins, by their ill-temper and
fretfulness, had quarrelled with each other; and when Dinah would not
let them play--as, indeed, they justly deserved to be punished--they did
nothing but grumble and cry the whole day, and were so conscious of
their bad behaviour as to be afraid of seeing their mother; while Miss
Placid, serene in her own innocence, entertained herself for some time
with looking at the horse above mentioned, and afterwards with pricking
it, till Dinah set her at liberty, which, seeing her good temper, she
soon did, and gave her besides some pretty pictures to look at and some
fruit to eat, of all which her cousins were deprived. By the next
morning Jemima's temple had turned black, and Mrs. Piner inquired how
she 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 begged
Mrs. Finer would not be angry if she informed her, which she, having
promised, Jemima told her, adding that her cousin had no intention to
hurt her.
Mrs. Piner kissed and commended Jemima very much, and Dinah having
likewise given a high account of her goodness, she told her daughters
she was much displeased with them, but in consequence of their cousin's
intercession would not punish them that time, and desired them for the
future to imitate her example.
As soon as breakfast was over they were dismissed to school, while
Jemima remained with her aunt, who, after having heard her read, gave
her a handkerchief to hem, which she sat down by her to do, and when she
had done work very prettily, entered into conversation.
'I should be much obliged to you, madam,' said she, 'as I do not know my
way about London, if you would go with me to buy some things for my
brothers, which I promised to carry back when I return. I have got some
money to pay for them, for Charles gave me a sixpence, and three
halfpence, and a farthing; and William gave me threepence; and I have
got a silver penny and a twopence of my own, all screwed safely in a
little 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 the
coach-whip, for you will not be able conveniently to pack it up? And as
to the skates, I do not think your father would choose your brothers
should make use of them till they are much older, as they are very
dangerous, and particularly so to little boys. The other things I will
endeavour to procure, and you shall take a walk with me to buy the books
and choose them yourself, and I will pay for them; so you may save your
money in the little box, for you are a very good girl, and therefore
deserve to be encouraged.'
Jemima thanked her aunt for her kind intentions, and said if she could
get a coach-whip, she thought she could carry it to Smiledale in her
hand; and as her brothers were always kind to her, she wished to do
everything in her power to oblige them.
The next day was to be a holiday at her cousins' school, on account of
their dancing-master's ball, to which the Misses Piner were invited; and
Mrs. Piner had promised Jemima she should be of the party. They rose in
the 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, wishing
it was time to put it on (for she was a silly, vain girl), and was so
foolish as to imagine herself of more consequence, because she was
better dressed than other children.
'Oh, Miss Placid,' said she, 'you will look so dowdy to-night in your
plain muslin frock, while all the rest of the ladies will wear either
gauze frocks or silk coats full trimmed. Have you seen how handsome our
dresses will be? Do, pray, look at them,' added she, opening the drawer
and extending the silk, and then, glad of an excuse to survey it, she
went to a box, and, taking out her cap, held it on her hand, turning it
round and round with a degree of pride and pleasure which was very
silly.
Jemima good-naturedly admired her cousin's finery without wishing for
any 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 are
always clean, and will do extremely well for the present occasion, or
else my aunt would have bought me another.'
'But should not you like such a cap?' said Miss Ellen, putting it on
Jemima's head. 'You look very pretty in it indeed.'
[Illustration: _Ellen went a dozen times in the day to look at hey new
cap.--Page 36._]
'No; I think it is too large for me,' returned Miss Placid; 'and there
is a piece of wire in it which scratches when you press it down. You
should alter that, or it will be very uncomfortable.'
In short, the ball was the only subject of conversation during the whole
day; and although Miss Piner felt an uncommon headache and sickness, yet
she would not complain, for fear her mother should think proper to leave
her at home. The pain, however, increased greatly, and she frequently
left the parlour to give vent to her complaints and avoid her mother's
notice. The heaviness of her eyes and alternate change of countenance
from pale to red, at last took Mrs. Piner's attention, and she tenderly
inquired after her health; but Ellen affected to treat her indisposition
as a trifle, though, as she was by no means patient in general, she
would at any other time have made incessant complaints. She attempted to
laugh and play, but to no purpose, for her illness became too violent to
be suppressed. However, upon her father's hinting at dinner that she
seemed to have no appetite, and had better, if not well, go to bed, she
forced herself, against her inclination, to eat some meat and pudding,
and went up afterwards to conceal her uneasiness, and put on her
clothes, thinking that if she was in readiness it would be an additional
reason for her going. But, alas! so foolish is vanity, and so
insignificant are outward ornaments, that when Miss Ellen was decked out
in the gauze frock which had so long engaged her thoughts, she felt such
a degree of uneasiness from her sickness as to make her disregard what
she had before wished for with such ill-placed ardour.
Having eaten more than was proper for her stomach in such a disordered
state, it increased her illness very much; but being determined to go,
though her mother advised her to the contrary, and pretending she was
somewhat better, she stepped into the coach, the motion of which soon
produced a most terrible catastrophe; and before she could speak for
assistance, occasioned such a violent sickness as totally spoiled her
own and her cousin's clothes, who sat opposite to her; nor did Sally's
quite escape the disaster, for as she had spread them over Jemima, with
an intent to display their beauties, they shared in part that calamity
which had so unfortunately overtaken the others.
Mrs. Piner, though she was grieved at her daughter's indisposition, was
likewise 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 this
condition.'
Sally, notwithstanding her sister's illness, continually teased her
mother to know whether they should go when Ellen was set down and her
own dress wiped, without attending to her sister's complaints. When the
carriage reached Mr. Piner's, he came himself hastily to the door to
know what accident had occasioned their unexpected return, and upon
being informed, lifted poor Ellen into the house, while her sister
declared she would not walk indoors, as she wanted to go to the ball.
Dinah was, however, called down, and with much resistance conveyed the
young lady crying and kicking upstairs.
Jemima stood by unnoticed in the general confusion, and Miss Piner was
undressed with the utmost expedition, and sincerely rejoiced to be rid
of the encumbrance of that finery which in another situation would have
excited her envy. Our little heroine, whose sense as well as serenity
was uncommon, reflected that gay clothes must, certainly in themselves
be of little value, since they could not prevent the approach of
disease, or suspend for a moment the attacks of pain; that the pleasure
they bestowed, as it was ill-founded, was likewise extremely transient,
as Sally's passion on her disappointment was sufficient to prove, since
she was now mortified in proportion as she had before been elated. And
though her sister's reflections were for the present suspended by the
violence of pain, yet her vexation, when she was restored to the ability
of contemplating the state of her clothes, would be equally poignant and
without remedy.
While Miss Placid, in obedience to her aunt, took off the frock which
had suffered so much in its short journey, Sally sat screaming and
crying in an easy-chair, into which she had thrown herself, declaring
she would go, and pushed Dinah away as often as she attempted to take
out a pin. Nor would she be pacified by any endeavours which were used
to please and amuse her, till her mother, quite tired with her noise and
ill-humour, declared she would send word to her governess the next
morning if she did not do what she was desired; upon which threat she
submitted to be undressed, but petulantly threw every article of her
attire upon the ground, and afterwards sat down in one of the windows in
sullen silence, without deigning an answer to any question that was
proposed to her. Jemima was as much disappointed as her cousin could be,
and had formed very high expectations of the pleasure she should receive
at the ball; but she had been always accustomed to submit to unavoidable
accidents without repining, and to make herself happy with those
amusements in her power when she was deprived of what she might wish for
but 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 an
intention of seeing Miss Jemima, who was much distressed that she
happened to be absent, as she wished to hear some news of her father and
brothers. However, he returned again the next day, and Miss Placid very
gracefully paid her respects to him, and inquired after the friends she
had left. He satisfied her as to their health, and presented her with a
letter from her brother Charles, which, as soon as she could find an
opportunity, 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 he
should scribble at all, he has desired me to inform you of everything
that has passed since you left us. And first I must acquaint you with a
sad accident which will render one of your commissions useless. Poor
Hector, the day after you went away, was lost for several hours. We went
to every house in the village, and hunted behind every tomb in the
churchyard; called Hector! Hector! through all the fields, and then
returned and sought him in our own garden again; looked under the bench
in the poultry-yard, nay, even in the cellar and coal hole; but no
Hector 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 bear
the loss of him with more fortitude, took William on his lap, and read a
story to divert him. We got tolerably cheerful and went down to tea; but
as soon as my brother took up his bread and butter, the thoughts of
Hector always jumping up to him for a bit, and how he would bark and
snap in play at his fingers, quite overcame his firmness, and he could
not touch a morsel. Well, to make short of the story, the next morning
John came in and told father that Squire Sutton's gamekeeper, not
knowing 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 Jemima
had brought him a collar he would not have been killed. Poor Hector! I
shall hate Ben Hunt as long as I live for it." "Fie, Charles," said my
father. "Hector is dead, sir," said I; and I did not then stay to hear
any further. But since that we have talked a great deal about love and
forgiveness; and I find I must love Ben Hunt, even though I now see poor
Hector's tomb in the garden. For John went to fetch him, and we buried
him under the lilac-tree, on the right hand side, just by the large
sun-flower. And we cried a great deal, and made a card tomb-stone over
his grave; and father gave us an old hatband and we cut it into pieces
and we went as mourners. His coffin was carried by Tom Wood, the
carpenter's son, whose father was so kind as to make it for us, while
James Stavely (the clerk's nephew), my brother, and I, followed as chief
mourners, and old nurse and Peggy put on their black hoods which they
had when Jane Thompson died, and went with us, and we had the kitchen
table-cloth for a pall, with the old black wrapper put over it which
used to cover the parrot's cage; but we did not read anything, for that
would 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 very
carefully 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 the
skin of which is white with black spots, the prettiest I ever saw, and
which we have called Jemima, and will give to you when you return. Peggy
has sprained her ankle by a fall downstairs. I forgot my wooden horse
and left it in the way, and she came down in the dark and stumbled over
it. I was very sorry, and my father was much displeased, as it is what
he 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 your
canary-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 I
have done has been a fortnight in hand. I have a great many things which
I want to tell you if we could meet, and I should wish to know how you
like London. Good-bye! William desires his love to you, and bids me say
that 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 some
uneasiness; more especially as, at the first time Mr. Steward had
called, she was out with her aunt and actually purchased a collar for
him, which, before the receipt of her letter, she had contemplated with
great 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 was
returned from Bristol, Mr. Placid came up to fetch her home, and invited
her cousins to accompany her to Smiledale, promising to take great care
of them and to teach them to read and write, and that Mrs. Placid would
instruct them in every other part of their learning. To which Mr. and
Mrs. Piner consented. The pleasure which Jemima felt at seeing her
father after so long an absence can be better imagined than described.
She looked at him with such transport that the tears started to her
eyes, and, wanting words to declare the feelings of her heart, could
only express her joy by stroking and kissing his hand as she sat on a
stool by his side, and pressing it with fervour between both hers, she
exclaimed that she was glad to see him. Her uncle and aunt gave her the
highest praise for her good behaviour, and assured her father that they
had never during the whole time of her visit seen her once out of
humour, or at all fretful upon any occasion. Mr. Placid said he was
extremely happy to hear so good an account of his little girl, but that
he had expected everything amiable from the sweetness of her
disposition, adding, 'It would be very strange if she had behaved
otherwise with you as, I assure you, she is at all times equally
tractable and engaging.'
The evening before her departure her aunt was so obliging as to present
her with a new doll, which she had taken great pains to dress, and had
made for it two dimity petticoats, with a nice pair of stays, a pink
satin coat, and a muslin frock. She had likewise purchased some cotton
stockings and a pair of red shoes with white roses, white gloves tied
with pink strings, and a gauze cap with pink satin ribbons. Jemima,
with a graceful courtesy, paid her acknowledgments to Mrs. Piner for
that favour, and all the kind attentions she had received since she had
been 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 her
mother. She then busied herself in putting up the Indian glue, and a
great quantity of pictures which had been given her, poor Hector's
collar, and several books which she had bought and had already perused
with much delight, particularly 'A Course of Lectures for Sunday
Evenings,' '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 her
to Smiledale, and Mr. Placid was so much pleased with them as to send
for an additional supply to present to his friends. As to the skates, he
had desired her not to think about them, as he should by no means
approve of her brothers using them; nor would they have occasion for a
coach-whip, but as he knew Charles had broken his bat she might carry
him 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 he
immediately consented, and went himself to procure one.
The Misses Piner, who were in as great a hurry with their preparations
as Jemima, behaved with less composure on the occasion. They tossed
everything out of their drawers in search of such toys as they could
possibly take with them, and wanted to pack up their whole stock of
playthings (which, indeed, was a very large one), and then, as fast as
Dinah put what they desired into their trunk, Ellen snatched it out if
it belonged to her sister, and Sally did the same unless it happened to
be her own. So that, quite tired with their teasing, naughty behaviour,
she turned it topsy-turvy, and declared she would not put up any one
thing except their clothes, and added she wished they were gone with all
her heart.
I shall not take up your time with any account of their journey, nor
endeavour to describe the places which they passed through on their way
to Smiledale, whither they arrived about five o'clock in the afternoon.
Jemima ran to her mother with a degree of rapture which evinced the
sincerity of her joy in returning to her embraces as soon as her
brothers would permit her to disengage herself from their caresses, for,
as they knew the day which was fixed for their return, and could nearly
guess at the time she would arrive, they had taken their stand at the
very place where they had parted with her, and, as soon as the carriage
came in sight, they ran with their utmost speed to meet it, and came
back again, jumping by the side, and when the coach stopped, were so
eager to welcome their sister that they would scarcely leave room for
her to get out, and they were in such a hurry to show her every new
acquisition they had made since her departure that they would not allow
her 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 contention
among her schoolfellows, and disturbing the general peace.
_Judge._ If I was unhappy in being appointed to sit in judgment on Billy
Prattle, how much more so must I now be when I am bound to inquire with
impartiality into every particular which may tend to convict Sally Delia
of the charge laid against her. I would, however, recommend you to go
through this business with the utmost candour, to advance nothing
through prejudice, to conceal nothing through a mistaken tenderness; and
to you, ladies of the jury, to divest yourselves of everything but
truth, to weigh nicely the force of the evidence, that, in giving your
verdict, you may convince everyone present you have acted upon upright
principles.
_Secretary._ Lucy Sterling, please to support the charge.
_Judge._ I would beg leave, Lucy Sterling, before you proceed to give
your evidence, to ask you whether either of the ladies on the jury were
anyways concerned in this quarrel.
_Lucy Sterling._ Sally Delia left the choice of her jury to me. It
therefore 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 enemies
confide!
_Lucy Sterling._ A few evenings ago, when all the young ladies had
finished their labours for that day, they were allowed to amuse
themselves in what innocent manner they pleased in our garden. Our
governess, solicitous for our felicity, thought to add to our pleasures
by sending us a basket of sweetmeats, which she intended to be equally
divided; but an unlucky accident turned this kind intention into a scene
of sorrow, and raised in their hearts nothing but strife. There happened
to be a piece of candied angelica, which seemed very beautiful. On this
they all placed their attention, and all begged for that. Every one
endeavoured to show her superior right. Sally Delia urged her superior
strength. But as they were all speaking together it was almost
impossible 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. I
endeavoured to quiet them, but they would not listen to me. Their minds
were so bent upon this piece of sweetmeat that all the rest were
disregarded. I offered to divide it amongst them to pacify them; but
they 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 of
contention into a ditch, from whence it was impossible for either of
them to get it. A profound silence ensued, and I took that opportunity
to reason with them on the folly of quarrelling about such trifles. My
admonitions were in vain, for the contention broke out more violently,
and the dispute now was, not who should have it, but who ought to have
had it. Sally Delia was the first who renewed the strife, and not being
able to give vent to her passion in words alone, gave Nancy Graceful a
slap on the face. The other returned the blow, and the scuffle became
general. Many blows, indeed, did not pass between them, for they aimed
only 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 torn
down the middle; and, in short, there was hardly one among them who had
not some mark to show of having been concerned in this unfortunate
affair.
_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 to
do, received several scratches on the hands and arms. I know not where
all this would have ended had not our governess come to my assistance.
After hearing her voice, everything was quiet, excepting with Sally
Delia, who, in the presence of her governess, tore two handkerchiefs and
an apron. The fear of punishment now began to take place of anger, and
each, ashamed of the trophies of victory she held in her hands, let them
fall to the ground. Our governess for some time stood astonished, little
thinking that what she had given them to increase their felicity should
be the cause of so much animosity. Madame inquired of me the cause of
this disaster, which I explained as well as I was able. They were all
examined separately, their tears pleaded their pardon; but Sally Delia
remained 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 next
morning I attended Sally Delia's examination before Lucy Sterling. Her
governess had ordered Lucy Sterling to examine her, and in case she
could not bring her to repentance, then to confine her, and order her to
be brought to trial.
_Judge._ Relate what passed at this examination.
_Polly Artless._ Lucy Sterling asked her in the most kind manner what
she could think to get by her contention about a piece of sweetmeat.
Sally Delia replied that she should not answer her question; that she
did not like to have more than one governess, and if she obeyed her she
thought she did enough.
_Judge._ What reply did Lucy Sterling make to this?
_Polly Artless._ Lucy Sterling reminded her of the authority with which
she herself had contributed to invest her; that she did not set up to
govern others, or to prove herself wiser than they; that she only wanted
to persuade her to learn to be peaceable and happy. She therefore begged
leave to repeat the question whether she got anything by this last
quarrel?
_Judge._ Did Sally Delia make any answer?
_Polly Artless._ She replied that she could not say she did get anything
by 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 spirit
to be imposed on, and that she was sure she had as much right to it as
any of them.
_Judge._ Did Lucy Sterling endeavour any further to convince her of her
fault?
_Polly Artless._ Yes. Lucy Sterling told her that she would have shown a
greater spirit in giving up the matter of contention than in fighting
for it; that then she would have proved herself a young lady of
moderation and sense, nor would she have incurred the high displeasure
of her governess. Sally Delia was at a loss for an answer, but she was
so obstinate that she did not care to own herself in the wrong. At last
she replied: 'I think I am as capable of judging what is right as you
are of teaching me.' Then, finding herself overpowered by reason, she
burst into tears. Lucy Sterling did everything in her power to bring her
to confess her fault, but all was to no purpose. She therefore left her
in 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 high
birth, 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 the
accused before Lucy Sterling, and, to the best of my remembrance, Polly
Artless has told the truth.
_Judge._ Do you know anything further?
_Betsy Friendly._ I called this morning on Sally Delia, before she came
on her trial. I found her divided between obstinacy and contrition, but
I 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 sitting
on a sofa in a pensive posture, and tears in her eyes. I asked her what
she thought of Lucy Sterling's advice, and whether it would not have
been better to have followed it than suffer her conduct to be exposed in
a public manner?
_Judge._ What reply did she make?
_Betsy Friendly._ Sally Delia said that she began to see a good deal of
truth in Lucy Sterling's observations, and she seemed to fear that her
reason would at last oblige her to own it. This last thought seemed to
fill her with the most painful reflections.
_Judge._ Did you not endeavour to convince her of the folly of her
obstinacy?
_Betsy Friendly._ I said all I could think of to persuade her to conquer
her spirit. She would not, at last, give me a word of answer to anything
I 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 at
other 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 cambric
apron, 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 you
will 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 know
concerning this affair.
_Anne Graceful._ I have reason to complain of my loss; my muslin frock
was 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 have
no reason to doubt she was the person from whom I received it. When we
were disputing who ought to have had the favourite sweetmeat, Sally
Delia urged her high birth and fortune, and concluded that if reason
could not strength should have obtained it. Hearing this, I turned my
back on her as a mark of contempt, when I instantly received a violent
slap on the head.
_Judge._ How did you act on that occasion.
_Anne Graceful._ I instantly turned about, and in my anger, mistaking
Susan Lenox for Sally Delia, I treated her very rudely.
_Judge._ This ought to teach us that passion is not only ill-becoming a
young lady, but that it may lead into such mistakes as may be attended
with serious consequences. But when you found your mistake, how did you
behave towards Susan Lenox?
_Anne Graceful._ As soon as peace was restored, I begged pardon, and
offered to repair all injuries. The former was granted, but the latter
she would not accept.
_Judge._ I have only one more question to ask, which you will please to
answer me on your word. Was there not some old grudge subsisting between
you and Sally Delia?
_Anne Graceful._ I must own that I never liked her; there was something
in her so proud and overbearing as gave me a disgust.
_Judge._ But were Delia to alter her conduct, should you forget what is
past?
_Anne Graceful._ When she begins to act like a reasonable girl, she
will 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 looking
after a bird's nest in a field next to the garden: I heard the young
ladies in high chat: but, as the sound did not seem to be very
harmonious, curiosity led me to see what they were at. I instantly
climbed up into a tree, and scarce had I taken my seat, when the
engagement 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 of
her hair with it. The battle soon became general, and it was impossible
for 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 I
know of this terrible disaster.
_Judge._ Do you, on your word, declare that Sally Delia gave the first
blow?
_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 some
mean-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, and
disturbing the general peace. Lucy Sterling affirms that the governess
having presented the young ladies with a basket of sweetmeats to regale
them, a quarrel arose among them with respect to the preference of
choice of one part of it. Disputes ran high, and at last Sally Delia
was so imprudent as to lift up her hand against one of her
schoolfellows, which created a general confusion. The part Lucy Sterling
acted in endeavouring to pacify them is no small addition to that
character for which she is so justly admired. This young lady says
positively that she saw Sally Delia give the first blow; that the
contention was no sooner over than all of them were sorry for what they
had done, except Sally Delia, who persisted in her fault, and was to be
prevailed on by no entreaties or arguments. Polly Artless says that she
was not present at the fray, but attended Sally Delia on her examination
before Lucy Sterling, and corroborates everything which that young lady
had advanced, but more particularly points out the care Lucy Sterling
took to bring her to reason. I may add, the character this evidence
gives Sally Delia is not at all to her reputation. Betsy Friendly, who
visited the accused before her trial, seems to speak something in her
favour by saying she showed some marks of contrition, but at last left
her in an obstinate condition. Susan Lenox stood next to the accused at
the time she struck Anne Graceful, and became herself a sufferer
thereby. Anne Graceful cannot take upon herself positively that Sally
Delia was the person that struck her, though circumstances are strong
against her; but Henry Lenox declares he saw Sally Delia give the blow.
Sally Delia, in her defence, contents herself with denying the whole of
the charge, and rests on her innocence. I will only observe that I
cannot see how you can acquit her when there are so many convincing
proofs of her guilt. The principal point to be considered is what
punishment you will inflict: it ought not to be so slight a one that the
remembrance of it may leave no impression behind, nor so heavy that it
may anyways be deemed insupportable. After all, I only give my opinion
freely, 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 neither
sweetmeats nor fruit, nor to receive any visits; but, that her health
may not be impaired, that she be allowed to walk twice a day in the
garden, at those times when none of the scholars are there; that, after
that time is expired, she be brought into the large hall, and there be
obliged to ask a general pardon of all her schoolfellows; and that, in
case she refuses to comply with these injunctions, that her parents be
then prayed to take her home.
Sally Delia, who had made no doubt that she should be acquitted, no
sooner heard this hard judgment given against her than she burst into
tears. The judge seeing it, thus spoke to her: 'I should be glad, Sally
Delia, if you would inform me and the whole court from what source those
tears flow: whether from a just sense of your crimes, or only from the
apprehensions of your punishment? Why should you delay to humble that
haughty spirit, to acknowledge your error, and beg for a mitigation of
your punishments? I will myself then plead for you. But remember, if you
continue obstinate till the court is broken up, your repentance
afterwards will come too late.'
Sally Delia then fell upon her knees, acknowledged her fault, and begged
a mitigation of her punishment. The judge recommended her to the jury,
who left the matter entirely to him. He ordered her to be confined only
three days, and even during that time to have the liberty of receiving
visits from the rest of the scholars.
The trial being now ended, Sally Delia's schoolfellows, who just before
had been evidences against her, ran to her and tenderly embraced her.
She promised to lay aside all her haughty actions, and, instead of being
hated by her companions, to obtain the love of them all. She kept her
word, and is now become one of the most amiable young ladies in the
school.
The whole court was extremely well satisfied with the candid manner in
which every part of the trial was supported.
II
Harry Lenox
Harry Lenox little thought, when he was giving evidence against Sally
Delia, that he should himself be soon brought to public trial. He was in
many respects of a good disposition; he loved his books, was affable and
obliging to his schoolfellows, and subservient to his tutor; but then he
was fond of getting into mischief, such as breaking church-windows,
laying traps to throw people down, and was very ingenious at inventions
of this kind. Whenever he was accused of anything of this sort, he would
not only deny it, but stoutly stand to it; and this, at last, brought
him 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 been
deemed bribery and corruption. The ladies were, most of them, well
pleased that he was himself now brought into the same dilemma. In the
meantime the judge took his seat, the jury assembled, and the prisoner
was brought to the bar.
_Secretary._ Sammy Halifax against Harry Lenox, for a robbery and
telling 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 in
the 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 as
I had eat the tart. Henry Lenox was remarkably taken with the look of
this tart, and offered to keep it for me till I wanted it, alleging that
his 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 the
offer, and saw him put it into his cupboard. I went immediately to
invite two or three of my intimates to partake of it in the evening in
my own room, and thought I could do no less than ask Harry Lenox to make
one of the party, in consideration of his kindness; but he excused
himself. In the evening we all met, and Harry Lenox brought the tart and
set it down, and begged leave to be excused, as he had promised to take
a 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 I
stuck 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 beat
him soundly could we have then found him; but he had taken care to get
out of the way. When our first warmth was over, we concluded it would be
better to treat him in a judicial manner; and he is now before this
court 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 he
said to me when he put the tart into it that he had no lock, and he
hoped 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 and
partake 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 this
tart; but on cutting it up, instead of plums, we found only stones. It
was 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 I
was 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 delicate
repast!' I did not then know that he was entrusted with the care of it,
and concluded that this manner of answering me arose from my
supposition of his not being invited; but the tart was no sooner cut up
than his reason for answering me thus was evidently apparent.
_Judge._ You cannot take upon you to say that you positively know him to
be guilty of the charge?
_George Bobadil._ I cannot, but there is the strongest presumption of
it.
_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 this
tart, which, when cut up, produced nothing but stones. I had been
walking after dinner in the garden before I went into the school; and
when I got to the bottom of it I saw Henry Lenox and three or four more
sitting on the grass under a rose-bush. As soon as I came within sight
of them, I saw them all in a bustle; and when I came up to them, though
I did not see them eating anything, yet their mouths were so clammy that
it was with difficulty they could answer me. As I had then no reason to
suspect anything, and finding myself an unwelcome guest, I left them and
went 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 had
been eating, but I afterwards made no doubt of its being Sammy Halifax's
tart.
_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 and
bottom crust, all the plums being taken away, and stones and water put
in their place.
_Judge._ Who do you suppose did it?
_Edward Harris._ I make no doubt that it was Henry Lenox. It being left
in his custody, and his refusing to come and partake of it, seem to
corroborate 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 some
time in the school, he was called out to construe. Before he left his
form, he pulled out his handkerchief to blow his nose, when three or
four 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 pale
or 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 so
much room to suspect that Henry Lenox was the culprit, I pulled out the
stones, and found by their colour they had been baked, for they were of
a deep red. We concluded likewise that they must that day have been
taken 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 have
answered me.
_Judge._ Did you take any method to discover who was the person that
robbed 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 any
of the party who would turn evidence, and give information of the person
who committed the fact. As we had great reason to suppose several were
concerned in the eating of it, we were in hopes by this means to make a
discovery; 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 governess
to attend here, in order to prove that the tart I delivered to Sammy
Halifax 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 and
confectionery; I that day made all the tarts myself, and was ordered to
give Sammy Halifax one of the best. Before I gave it him, I raised one
side of the crust, to see if the syrup might not have boiled out, when I
found it had not; and I am certain it was filled with plums when I
delivered 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 myself
so unfortunate as to fall under the censure of this court. I am sorry
for the crime which then brought me before you, but I shall ever
consider that day as the happiest period of my life--a day in which I
was convinced of my folly, obstinacy, and self-conceit; a day to which I
owe all the happiness of a calm and peaceful life, free from the
passions of thoughtless girls who place enjoyments in the gratification
of unreasonable desires.
_Judge._ Pray, Sally, proceed, and do not imagine you will be
troublesome to the court; there is nothing we can listen to with so much
pleasure as the language of reformation.
_Sally Delia._ I do not mention this out of vanity; only to induce the
court to believe that I do not this day appear here against Henry Lenox
out of any grudge whatever to his having been a witness against me. So
far from it, I consider him as my benefactor; I consider him as one of
those to whom I am indebted for my reformation. Happy shall I think
myself if I shall in any way contribute to his.
_Judge._ Your evidence cannot be disputed, and I doubt not the jury will
lay much stress on what you shall advance.
_Sally Delia._ It has lately been my custom in the evening to retire to
a little arbour behind the summer-house in the bottom of the garden. I
had this evening been so intent on what I was reading that I had stayed
longer than usual. In the midst of my thoughts I was interrupted by the
noise of somebody breaking through the bushes. I soon heard Henry
Lenox's voice, and that of some others whom I well knew. I soon found
the cause of their thus breaking out of their own bounds. They had some
secret to talk of. I sat as still as possible, fearing I might be
discovered, and heard Henry Lenox say, 'If you blow me, I never will
forgive 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 anything
sweeter in his life; another said it was sweeter because it was stolen;
and a fourth laughed heartily on thinking, when it was opened, how
foolish they must all look; it was, says the fifth, one of the
best----Here he stopped, for the foot of a person was heard coming down
the garden, when they all flew away, and got off unperceived by anyone
but 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. My
acknowledging my fault and asking pardon was thought a sufficient
atonement.
[Illustration: _'I was reading, and was interrupted by Henry Lenox and
three others talking over a secret.'--Page 64._]
_Judge._ Can you, from what you heard in the garden, take upon you to
say 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, I
doubt not but I should have been able to answer in the affirmative; at
the present, I only say that I believe so, and that upon the strongest
presumption.
_Henry Lenox._ I am happy in being tried by a judge and jury who have
too much sense to convict me on mere conjecture, and there is far from
any positive proof. To give a verdict against me in this case would be
opening a way to the greatest errors. How many, through the hasty
determination of a jury, on mere conjecture, have suffered unjustly! But
should I meet with that fate, I will never find fault or repine, since I
am sensible I shall not be the first, and I trust that my innocence will
support 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 into
my cupboard. I brought it from thence, and gave it him. If anyone got to
it, and treated it in the manner he describes, I am sorry for it; but it
cannot be imputed to my fault. My reason for declining taking part of it
is well known to my sister, whom I had promised to take a walk with in
the evening. She is now in court, and I apprehend her word will not be
doubted. As for the sneering words I made use of to George Bobadil (for
that was the term he gave them), if they had any particular meaning at
all, it could only serve to show what little consideration I made of
mere matters for the tooth. As for the evidence which Samuel Evelyn has
given against me, it can be of no weight, since it is well known that
each has his confidant, and that each has some mighty secret to reveal
to another. As to what Edward Harris advances with respect to the
plumstones, they might as easily have fallen from the pocket of another
as from mine, and there is even a possibility that these very plumstones
may have come out of the tart after they themselves had eat it. Upon the
whole, I leave it to your lordship and this honourable court whether
there be any other view in this trial than that my accusers may obtain
another 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 tart
was eat, agreeable to my invitation; and I did not hear him mention the
least syllable that could indicate his guilt in this matter. He
mentioned 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 less
of his natural gaiety and cheerfulness.
_Stephen Brooks._ I have known the prisoner a long time, and have always
found him more ready to give than receive, and far from taking anything
from anyone.
_Richard Richards._ The prisoner has been my intimate playmate for four
years, and I never once quarrelled with him in my life.
_Benjamin Blunt._ The whole is a contrivance to bring Henry Lenox into
disgrace, and to make you believe they have been ill used.
_Judge._ You have said, Sally Delia, that there were some voices you
heard in the summer-house besides that of Henry Lenox. Do you imagine
that 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 in
recapitulating the evidence given; every part of it seems to agree so
well that you cannot mistake it. The two principal points to be
considered are these: If you are determined to find him guilty only on
positive proofs, then you must acquit him, for there does not appear to
be any throughout the whole trial; but if you will be contented with
circumstances, supported by the strongest evidence that can be given,
then you must find him guilty. It is, indeed, a just observation of the
prisoner, in his defence, that many have suffered innocently, though on
the strongest presumptions, and I must add that the character of a young
gentleman is too tender a thing to be sported with. After all, I do not
presume to direct you. I would only advise you to think of the matter
impartially; a verdict given from such principles of action, though it
may 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 a
quarter.)
_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 by
the tutor, and the judge took the place of the secretary. Henry Lenox,
who had not doubted, as there was no positive proof against him, but
that he should be acquitted, as soon as he found the jury left it
special, and that his tutor had taken the chair against him, his heart
instantly failed him, and everyone took notice of the alteration of his
countenance. 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 theft
you have added the grievous guilt of a lie. By your artful defence, you
have so far baffled the jury as to make them doubtful of the clearest
thing in the world. Do not foolishly imagine that you have any
compliment to pay yourself on this score; the most shining abilities,
when used to deceive and mislead, to trick and cozen mankind, and to
persuade them out of their lawful property, become the most dangerous
possessions, and are as mischievous as plagues, pestilence, and famine.
How can you dare to arrogate to yourself that part of philosophy which
teaches you to look upon the luxuries of life with indifference, while
your heart must tell you that you have not the least claim to it, and
that you sacrifice your character and reputation to obtain luxurious
trifles? They who are capable of deceiving in small concerns will not
scruple to be guilty of injustice in matters of the highest moment. No
one is wicked all at once; they harden their hearts by degrees against
the truth, and at last are totally blind to it. Such conduct as yours
promises nothing but the most fatal events; but it is my place to
destroy it in its bud; and be assured that, though the jury could not
see into your guilt, I can most clearly; and I do further tell you that
unless you confess your fault, ask pardon, promise to do so no more, and
make it your study to keep your word, I will treat you with the utmost
severity. I will abridge you of every kind of amusement, and will
confine you from the rest of your schoolfellows, that you may not
corrupt them. On the other hand, if you confess your crime, I will
lessen 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 of
it. His master then forgave him, on his most faithful promises of future
amendment; and those who had been evidences against him shook hands with
him, and they were all friends immediately.
Prince Life
Chapter I
Once upon a time there was a young Prince who met with a very curious
kind of misfortune. Most people want something which they cannot get;
and because they cannot get it, they generally desire it more than
anything else, which is very foolish, for it would be much better to be
contented with what they have.
He was a wise fox, my dear Charlie, who thought the grapes were sour
when he could not reach them. Now the Prince's misfortune consisted in
this, that he had everything on earth he could want or desire, and a
little more. He had a fine palace and a fine country, obedient subjects
and servants, and true friends. When he got up in the morning, there was
someone ready to put on his clothes for him; when he went to bed at
night, someone to take them off again. A fairy called Prosperity gave
him everything he desired as soon as he desired it. If he wanted peaches
at Christmas, or cool air at mid-summer, the first came instantly from
his hothouses, and the second was produced by an enormous fan, which
hung 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 of
wanting 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 to
put 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 he
was 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 yawning
all day, and very often set the Prince yawning, too, only to look at
him. This dwarf they called Satiety, and he followed the Prince about
wherever he went.
One day the Prince asked him what he was yawning for, and Satiety
answered:
'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 cannot
go from you; I can never leave you as long as you remain in the palace
of Prosperity.'
'Then I will have you turned out,' said the Prince.
'No one can do that,' said Satiety, 'but Misfortune, and he is a very
capricious person. Though he is a very disagreeable monster, some people
seem to court him, but cannot get him to come near them; while to a
great many he comes unawares, and catches them, though they fly from
him eagerly. I tell you, Prince, you can go from me, but I cannot go
from you as long as you remain in the palace of Prosperity.'
That night, when he went to his soft bed, the Prince thought very much
as to the conversation he had held with Satiety, and he resolved to go
out 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 that
night 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 a
groom: 'Bring me my stout horse, Expedition; I am going out to take a
ride all alone.'
The groom answered not a word, for in that palace everyone obeyed the
Prince at once, and nobody troubled him but the ugly little dwarf,
Satiety. As he went away, however, the groom said to himself with a
sigh: 'It is a sad thing to be in the wide world all alone. My Prince
does 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 Prince
came down he felt quite well, and, looking about amongst all his
attendants, he could only catch a distant glimpse of Satiety standing
yawning behind. For a minute he was half-inclined not to go, for he did
not mind seeing Satiety at a distance if he did not come near. But the
groom, whose name was Resolution, seeing him hesitate, said: 'You had
better go, my Prince, as you determined; it may do you good.' And a
chamberlain called Effort helped him on his horse.
At first, as the Prince rode along, everything was quite delightful to
him. He seemed to breathe more freely now that he was no more troubled
with Satiety. The flowers looked bright, and the sky beautiful, for a
cloud or two here and there only gave variety. The very air seemed
fresher than it had been in the sheltered gardens of the palace, and the
Prince said to himself: 'What a delightful country this is, just on the
verge of the land of Prosperity.'
Just then he saw a countryman gathering grapes in a vineyard, and every
now and then putting some into his mouth, and the Prince asked him whose
fine 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 ever
seen. When Activity is tired, Ease takes his head upon her lap; and soon
as she is weary of her burden, Activity jumps up and relieves her from
it.'
'But to whom does that more barren country just beyond belong?' asked
the 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 the
first you will find very wearisome, and the second exceedingly
unpleasant, although people do say that there is a great deal of very
good fruit in the forest; only one gets well-nigh torn to pieces with
the thorns before one can reach it.'
The Prince determined to follow his advice, and rode on. There was not
anything 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 into
him continually, for they grew high as well as thick, and crossed the
path in every direction. He began heartily to repent that he had quitted
the palace of Prosperity, and wished himself back again with all his
heart, thinking that he should care little about yawning Satiety if he
could but get out of the thorns of Adversity. Indeed, he tried to turn
his horse back; but he found it more difficult than he imagined, for, as
I have told you, the road was very narrow and those thorns hedged it on
every side. There was nothing for it, in short, but to try and force his
way 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 great
number of paths, but in vain. Still there were the same thorns and the
same gloomy darkness. He was hungry and thirsty, and he looked round for
those 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 the
forest. The air was very sultry and oppressive, too; he grew weary and
faint, quite sick at heart, and even the limbs of his good horse seemed
to be failing him, and hardly able to carry him on.
Dark as it all was, it at length begin to grow darker, and he perceived
that night was coming, so that the poor Prince began to give up all
hope, and to think that there would be nothing for him but to lie down
and die in despair, when suddenly he caught a sort of twinkling light
through 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 before
him, till suddenly he came to a great rock, overgrown in many places
with briars and brambles. In the midst of it, however, was the mouth of
a large cave, with great masses of stone hanging over, as if ready to
fall on a traveller's head. It was a very stern and gloomy-looking place
indeed, with clefts and crevices and ragged crags all around. But a few
steps in the cave someone seemed to have built themselves a house; for
it was blocked up with large, unhewn boards of wood, and in this
partition there was a door and a window, through which came the light he
had seen. The Prince dismounted from his horse, and though he did not
know who might be within, he thought it best to knock at the door, and
ask 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 certainly
disappointed; for that thicket of Adversity is full of disappointments,
as everyone knows who has travelled through it. He had thought he should
see some poor woodman or honest peasant, who would welcome him to his
homely hut in the rock with kindness and benevolence; but instead of
that he beheld, seated at the table, carving away at a piece of stick by
the light of a very small twinkling candle, one of the most tremendous
monsters ever man's eyes lighted upon. In shape he was like a man, but
he was a great deal stronger than any man. His face looked as if it were
cast in iron, so hard and rigid were all the features; and there was an
everlasting frown planted on his brow. His hands were long and sinewy,
with terrible sharp claws upon them; and his feet were so large and
heavy that they seemed as if they would crush anything they would set
upon to pieces.
The poor Prince, though he was a very brave young man, stopped and
hesitated at the sight of this giant; but the monster, without ever
turning his head, cried out again: 'Come in! Why do you pause? All men
must obey me, and I am the only one that all men do obey.'
'You must be a mighty monarch, then,' said the young Prince, taking
courage. 'Pray, what is your name?'
'My name is Necessity,' answered the other in his thundering voice; 'and
some people give me bad names, and call me "Hard Necessity" and "Dire
Necessity"; but, nevertheless, I often lead men to great things and
teach 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 the
Prince, 'and teach me how I can procure food for myself and my poor
famishing horse.'
The monster rose up almost as tall as a steeple and suddenly laid his
great clutches upon the Prince's shoulders, saying: 'I will do both, if
you do but wrestle with me courageously. You must do it, for there is no
other way of escaping from my hands.'
The Prince had never been handled so roughly before, and as he was
brave, strong, and active, he made a great effort to free himself, and
tried 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 shall
have some food and drink, such as you would never have tasted had you
not come to me.'
Thereupon he led him to his own coarse wooden table, and set before him
half of a hard brown loaf and a pitcher of water; but so hungry and
thirsty was the Prince that the bread seemed to him the best he had ever
eaten, and the water sweeter than any in the world.
'Unfasten your horse's bridle,' said Necessity, when the Prince had
done, '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-looking
companion pointed to a wooden bedstead in a dark corner of the cave,
which looked as hard as his own face, saying: 'There, lie down and
sleep.'
'I can never sleep on that thing,' said the Prince.
'Ho, ho!' cried the other; 'Necessity can make any bed soft,' and taking
a 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 a
bed of down, and when he rose the next morning the monster's features
did not seem half so stern and forbidding as they had done at first. The
inside of the cave, too, looked much more light and blithesome, though
it 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 as
soon as he was up the giant said to him: 'Come, trudge; you must quit my
cave, and go on.'
'You must open the door for me, then,' said the Prince; 'for the bolt is
so high up I cannot reach it.'
'You cannot get out by the door through which you came in,' said the
giant, 'for it is the door of Idleness. There is but one way for you to
get out, and that I will show you.'
So, taking him by the hand, he led him on into a very dark part of the
cave, which went a long way under ground, and then said to him: 'You
must now go on until you come to a great house, where you will find an
old woman, who will give you your meals at least.'
'But I want to return to my own palace of Prosperity,' replied the
Prince.
'She will show you the way,' replied the monster, 'and without her you
will 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, which
sent him on at a very rapid rate.
For some time he continued to grope his way almost in darkness, but soon
a light began to shine before him, which grew bigger and bigger as he
advanced, and he perceived that he was coming to another mouth of the
cave, leading to an open, but very rough country. The Prince was very
glad indeed to issue forth and breathe the fresh air, and he looked at
the clear sky with great satisfaction. Just before him, however, there
was a large house, with a great number of doors and windows; and as he
felt very hungry, he determined to knock, and see if he could get any
breakfast.
Almost as soon as he had touched the knocker the door was opened by a
little old woman, plainly dressed, but neat and tidy; and when the
Prince told her who he was, and what he wanted, she answered him with a
good-humoured smile, very different from the frown of stern Necessity:
'Everyone can have food in my house who chooses to work for it; nobody
without. I can help you on your way, too; and as for your poor horse you
talk about, he shall be provided for. My name is Industry, and Industry
always 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 of
people, all as busy as bees in a field of clover, and all looking as
bright 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 were
employed in, everyone working by himself on his separate task, although
two 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 a
thoughtful-looking, careful girl, who was busy in every part of the room
alternately, picking up all the little odds and ends which were left
after any piece of work was completed--little bits of string, ends of
tape 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 could
find them again; and it is wonderful how often she was called upon by
the workmen for some little scrap or another, just sufficient to
complete 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, putting
everything to rights. If a chair was out of its place, or a table turned
awry, or a tool put down where it should not be she could not bear to
see it for a minute, but put all things straight again, so that nobody
was at a loss where to find anything. She was called Order.
The hungry Prince was somewhat mortified to find a good, large piece of
work assigned him to do before he could get his breakfast, and at first
he was exceedingly awkward, and did not know how to set about it; but
Industry showed him the way, Order helped him a good deal, and Economy
supplied him with the materials.
Chapter V
At the end of an hour he had completed his task, and the old lady patted
him 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 a
very nice place, where you will get all you desire.'
Thus saying, she led him into a great hall, where there was a vast
number of people, all eating rich fruits, with a somewhat hard-favoured
dame, whom they called Labour, scattering sugar on the different dishes.
When the Prince heard her name, he asked one of the people near if that
was really Labour, saying, 'I passed through her land not long ago, and
it seemed so poor and hard a country that I should have thought it
produced nothing good.'
'That is a mistake,' said the other. 'That is the land where grows the
sugar-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 grow
wider 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, so
that you may have that distant mountain peak before your eyes, and don't
suffer yourself to grow faint or get tired. If you should have any doubt
or difficulty, you will find someone on the road who will show you the
way. But only remember always to keep straight forward, and don't be
tempted 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 his
way with a stout heart. Nevertheless, he began to get somewhat tired
before an hour was over, although the road was pleasant enough to walk
in. There were beautiful green meadows on every side, and
richly-coloured flowers, and what seemed very delicious fruit; and here
and there, at a little distance, were pleasant groves, with a number of
gay birds, singing very sweetly.
At the end of an hour and a half the Prince became hungry and thirsty
again, as well as tired, and he said to himself, 'There could be no
great harm surely in going across that meadow and gathering some of that
fruit, to eat under the shade of the trees, while the birds sing over my
head. 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 those
trees. I can easily find my way back again.'
But just at that moment, luckily for himself, the Prince spied a man
trudging on before him, and he hurried after, saying to himself, 'I will
ask 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 great
pike-staff in his hand; and though the Prince called after him as soon
as he was within hearing, he did not halt for a moment, or even turn his
head, but trudged onward, saying, 'Come along, come along; one never
gets 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, 'Pray
can you tell me whither this road leads, and if it will be very long
before I get to some house where I can find rest and food.'
'It leads to a very fine and beautiful castle,' replied the other
somewhat doggedly, and still walking on. 'I think, if you come along
with 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 those
who go with me are generally made welcome by my lady, who, though she is
sometimes a little whimsical, is the most charming person in the world
when she smiles upon me. But you must keep on steadily with me; for if
you stop or turn aside, a thousand to one you will be lost.'
When the Prince found him so communicative, he asked him if they could
not cross one of the meadows to refresh themselves a little, and told
him 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 of
swamps and quagmires, the groves filled with snakes, and many of the
fruits poisonous. You might have got yourself into such troubles that
not 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 want
to know mine, it is Perseverance.'
Not long after the Prince began to think he saw several tall towers
glittering before him in the distance, with some misty clouds round
about 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 first
prospect is always very charming. But we have some way to go yet, I can
tell you, and not a little to overcome. You would never get there
without 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 did
seem very long; and sometimes, as they went over hill and dale, the
sight of the beautiful castle, which cheered him so much, was quite shut
out from his eyes, and at length, when they were coming very near it,
with nothing but one valley between them and the building, he perceived
that the road went over a narrow drawbridge, and saw two terrible
monsters lying close beside the way. Their bodies were like those of
lions, very large and very strong, but they had necks like that of a
snake, and from each neck issued a hundred horrible heads, all differing
in kind from one another.
The poor Prince was alarmed, and said to his companion: 'Do you see
those horrible brutes? Is there no other way into the castle but between
them?'
'There are a thousand ways into the castle,' replied his companion, 'but
every 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 of
the castle, most likely, to give us assistance.'
Chapter VII
Upon these words, the Prince went on more cheerfully, especially when he
saw a man come running down from the gate of the castle as they
approached the drawbridge.
'Ay,' said his companion, stepping on without stopping a moment, 'there
comes 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 was
nearest to Perseverance growled terribly at him; but he struck him a
blow with his pike-staff, which knocked him down and cowed him entirely;
and there he lay, with all his hundred heads prostrated in a manner
which the Prince could hardly have thought possible. The other brute
sprang right at the Prince himself, as if to destroy him, so that he was
inclined to draw back; but the man Courage, who had run down from the
castle, put his foot upon the creature's snaky neck, and crushed it into
the earth.
'Go on, go on, young man!' he cried. 'These are terrible monsters truly,
but you see our friend Perseverance has vanquished Difficulty, and I
have trampled upon Danger.'
As he spoke, the Prince passed on rapidly over the drawbridge; and when
he stood under the gate of the castle, Perseverance took him by the hand
with a smiling air, and led him in, saying: 'Now I will conduct you to
my lady, Success.'
[Illustration: _The Prince slays the monster with a hundred horrible
heads.--Page 86._]
At the very sound the poor Prince seemed quite refreshed, forgot all the
weary way he had travelled, the dark forest of Adversity, the grim frown
of Necessity, the faintness and the weariness, and hundred-headed
Difficulty and Danger. But he was more rejoiced still when, on entering
the building, he found himself suddenly, all at once, in the great hall
of 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 never
bestow on any but my greatest favourites. It is called the crown of
Contentment. I reserve it for those who, led on by Perseverance, come to
me by the Right Path, in spite of Difficulty and Danger. Those who
arrive at my presence by any of the many other roads that are open to
mankind I give over to the charge of some of my inferior attendants,
such as Pride, Vanity, or Ambition, who amuse themselves by making them
play all manner of strange tricks.'
Thus saying, she put the crown upon his head, and the Prince found the
most delightful tranquil feeling spread through his whole body.
Nevertheless, he could not help looking about almost instantly for the
figure of the ugly little grey dwarf; and, as he could not see him
anywhere, he said to the beautiful lady: 'Where is that hideous, yawning
Satiety? I hope he has left the palace.'
'He may be hanging about in some dark corners of the palace,' answered
the lady, 'or hiding amongst the roses in your garden of Pleasure; but
he will never appear in your presence again, so long as you wear that
crown upon your head; for there is a rich jewel called Moderation in the
crown of Contentment which is too bright and pure to be looked upon by
Satiety.'
The Farm-Yard Journal
Dear Tom,
'Since we parted at the breaking-up, I have been for most of the time at
a pleasant farm in Hertfordshire, where I have employed myself in
rambling about the country, and assisting, as well as I could, at the
work going on at home and in the fields. On wet days, and in the
evenings, I have amused myself with keeping a journal of all the great
events that have happened among us; and hoping that when you are tired
of the bustle of your busy town you may receive some entertainment from
comparing our transactions with yours, I have copied out for your
perusal 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 the
milk-pail.--Page 93._]
'_June 10._--Last night we had a dreadful alarm. A violent scream was
heard from the hen-roost; the geese all set up a cackle, and the dogs
barked. Ned, the boy who lies over the stable, jumped up and ran into
the yard, when he observed a fox galloping away with a chicken in his
mouth, and the dogs on full chase after him. They could not overtake
him, and soon returned. Upon further examination, the large white cock
was found lying on the ground all bloody, with his comb torn almost off,
and his feathers all ruffled; and the speckled hen and three chickens
lay dead beside him. The cock recovered, but appeared terribly
frightened. It seems that the fox had jumped over the garden hedge, and
then, crossing part of the yard behind the straw, had crept into the
hen-roost through a broken pale. John, the carpenter, was sent for to
make 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 hatched
this day, and the ducklings all directly ran into the pond, to the great
terror of the hen, who went round and round, clucking with all her
might, in order to call them out, but they did not regard her. An old
drake took the little ones under his care, and they swam about very
merrily.
'As Dolly this morning was milking the new cow that was bought at the
fair she kicked with her hind legs, and threw down the milk-pail, at the
same time knocking Dolly off her stool into the dirt. For this offence
the cow was sentenced to have her head fastened to the rack, and her
legs tied together.
'A kite was observed to hover a long while over the yard with an
intention of carrying off some of the young chickens; but the hens
called their broods together under their wings, and the cocks put
themselves in order of battle, so that the kite was disappointed. At
length one chicken, not minding its mother, but straggling heedlessly to
a distance, was descried by the kite, who made a sudden swoop, and
seized it in his talons. The chicken cried out, and the cocks and hens
all screamed, when Ralph, the farmer's son, who saw the attack, snatched
up 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 up
against the wall, by way of warning to his wicked comrades.
'In the forenoon we were alarmed with strange noises approaching us, and
looking out we saw a number of people with frying pans, warming pans,
tongs and pokers, beating, ringing, and making all possible din. We soon
discovered them to be our neighbours of the next farm in pursuit of a
swarm of bees which was hovering in the air over their heads. The bees
at length alighted on the tall pear tree in our orchard, and hung in a
bunch from one of the boughs. A ladder was got, and a man ascending with
gloves on his hands, and an apron tied over his head, swept them into a
hive, which was rubbed on the inside with honey and sweet herbs. But as
he was descending, some bees which had got under his gloves stung him in
such a manner that he hastily threw down the hive, upon which the
greater part of the bees fell out, and began in a rage to fly among the
crowd, and sting all whom they lit upon. Away scampered the people, the
women shrieking, the children roaring; and poor Adam, who had held the
hive, was assailed so furiously that he was obliged to throw himself on
the ground, and creep under the gooseberry bushes. At length the bees
began to return to the hive, in which the queen bee had remained; and
after 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 rioting
upon the carrots and turnips, and doing a great deal of mischief by
trampling the beds and rooting up the plants with their snouts, when
they were spied by old Towzer, the mastiff, who ran among them, and
laying hold of their long ears with his teeth, made them squeal most
dismally, and get out of the garden as fast as they could.
'Roger, the ploughman, when he came for his dinner, brought word that he
had 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 did
not choose to rear birds upon his corn which he was not allowed to
scratch, but must leave to some qualified sportsman, who would besides
break down his fences in the pursuit.
'A sheep washing was held this day at the mill-pool, when seven score
were well washed, and then penned in the high meadow to dry. Many of
them made great resistance at being thrown into the water, and the old
ram, being dragged to the brink by a boy at each horn, and a third
pushing behind, by a sudden spring threw two of them into the water, to
the great diversion of the spectators.
'Towards the dusk of the evening the Squire's mongrel greyhound, which
had been long suspected of worrying sheep, was caught in the fact. He
had 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, and
directly leaped the hedge and made off. The dead bodies were taken to
the Squire's, with an indictment of wilful murder against the dog. But
when they came to look for the culprit, he was not to be found in any
part of the premises, and is supposed to have fled his country through
consciousness of his heinous offence.
'Joseph, who sleeps in the garret at the old end of the house, after
having been some time in bed, came downstairs in his shirt, as pale as
ashes, and frightened the maids, who were going up. It was some time
before he could tell what was the matter. At length he said he had heard
some dreadful noises overhead, which he was sure must be made by some
ghost or evil spirit. Nay, he thought he had seen something moving,
though he owned he durst hardly lift up his eyes. He concluded with
declaring that he would rather sit up all night in the kitchen than go
to his room again. The maids were almost as much alarmed as he, and did
not know what to do; but the master, overhearing their talk, came out
and insisted upon their accompanying him to the spot, in order to search
into the affair. They all went into the garret, and for a while heard
nothing, when the master ordered the candle to be taken away, and
everyone to keep quite still. Joseph and the maids stuck close to each
other, and trembled in every limb. At length a kind of groaning or
snoring began to be heard, which grew louder and louder, with intervals
of a strange sort of hissing. "That's it!" whispered Joseph, drawing
back towards the door. The maids were ready to sink, and even the farmer
himself was a little disconcerted. The noise seemed to come from the
rafters near the thatch. In a while, a glimpse of moonlight shining
through a hole at the place plainly discovered the shadow of something
stirring, and on looking intently somewhat like feathers were perceived.
The farmer now began to suspect what the case was, and ordering up a
short ladder, bid Joseph climb to the spot, and thrust his hand into
the hole. This he did rather unwillingly, and soon drew it back, crying
loudly 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 heard
to fly away. The cause of the alarm was now made clear enough, and poor
Joseph, after being heartily jeered by the maids, though they had been
as much frightened as he, sneaked into bed again, and the house soon
became quiet.'
The Fruits of Disobedience
or
The Kidnapped Child
In a beautiful villa, on the banks of the Medway resided a gentleman
whose name was Darnley, who had, during the early part of life, filled a
post of some importance about the Court, and even in its decline
preserved that elegance of manners which so peculiarly marks a finished
gentleman.
The loss of a beloved wife had given a pensive cast to his features, and
a seriousness to his deportment, which many people imagined proceeded
from 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 the
object of her tenderest affection, but who, in dividing her attention
between her brother and his amiable children, endeavoured to forget her
own misfortunes.
Mr. Darnley's fortune was sufficiently great to enable him to place his
daughters in the first school in London, but he preferred having them
under his immediate instruction, and as Mrs. Collier offered to assist
him in their education he resolved for some years not to engage a
governess, as Nurse Chapman was one of those worthy creatures to whose
care 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. Collier
resolved to make her of the party, leaving Sophia, Amanda, and Eliza
under that good woman's protection.
It was Mr. Darnley's wish that the young folks should rise early and
take a long walk every morning before breakfast, but they were strictly
ordered never to go beyond their own grounds unless their aunt or father
accompanied them. This order they had frequently endeavoured to persuade
Nurse 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 found
herself thoroughly indisposed, and wholly incapable of rising at the
accustomed hour. The children, however, were dressed for walking, and
the nursemaid charged not to go beyond the shrubbery, and they all
sallied out in high good humour.
'Now, Susan,' said Sophia, as soon as they entered the garden, 'this is
the only opportunity you may ever have of obliging us. Do let us walk to
the 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 place
is worth if Nurse Chapman should find out.'
'Find it out indeed,' said Amanda; 'how do you think she is to find it
out? Come, do let us go, there's a dear good creature.'
'Yes, dear, dear Susan, do let us go,' said Eliza, skipping on before
them, 'and I'll show you the way, for I walked there last summer with
father.'
Whether it was the wish of obliging the young ladies, or the desire of
seeing her parents, I cannot pretend to say, but in a luckless hour
Susan yielded, and the party soon reached the village.
Susan's mother was delighted at seeing her, and highly honoured by the
young ladies' presence.
'Oh, sweet, dear creatures!' said the old woman, 'I must get something
for them to eat after their long walk, and my oven's quite hot, and I
can bake them a little cake in a quarter of an hour, and I'll milk Jenny
in ten minutes.'
The temptation of her hot cake and new milk was not to be withstood, and
Susan began taking down some smart china cups, which were arranged in
form upon the mantelpiece, and carefully dusted them for the young
ladies' use.
Eliza followed the old woman into the cowhouse, and began asking a
thousand questions, when her attention was suddenly attracted by the
appearance of a tame lamb, who went up bleating to its mistress with a
view of asking its accustomed breakfast.
'You must wait a little, Billy,' said the woman, 'and let your betters
be served before you. Don't you see that we have got gentlefolks to
breakfast with us this morning?'
Eliza was so delighted with the beauty of the little animal that she
wanted to kiss it, and attempted to restrain it for that purpose, whilst
Billy, ungrateful for her intended kindness, gave a sudden spring and
frisked away.
Eliza followed in hopes of being able to catch him, but he ran baaing
along into the high road.
A woman whose appearance was descriptive of poverty but whose smiling
countenance indicated good nature, at that moment happened to pass, and,
accosting Eliza in a tone of familiarity, said: 'That's not half such a
pretty lamb, miss, as I have got at home, and not a quarter so tame, for
if you did but say, Bob, he'd follow you from one end of the town to the
other, and then he'll fetch and carry like a dog, stand up on his hind
legs, when my husband says "Up" for the thing, and play more tricks than
a 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 just
across the next field, but you must run as hard as you can, because my
husband 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 faster
together. But there goes my husband, I declare; and there's Bob, as
usual, skipping on before.'
'Where? where?' exclaimed Eliza, stretching her little neck as far as
she possibly could, to see if she could discern the lamb.
'You are not tall enough,' said the artful creature; 'but let me lift
you up, miss, and then I dare say you will see them;' and, instantly
catching 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 soon
overtake them.'
Eliza looked, but looked in vain, and, perceiving the woman had soon
carried 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 breath
was nearly exhausted by the rapidity of the motion, and Eliza continued
entreating her to stop, and struggled violently to elude her grasp.
At length, after a quarter of an hour's exertion, the woman found
herself incapable of proceeding, and stopped suddenly, sat down on a
bank, keeping tight hold of Eliza's arms, who cried dreadfully, and
besought her to let her go.
'Let you go!' she replied; 'what, after all the plague I've had to knap
you? No, no, you don't catch me at that, I promise you; but be a good
girl, 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 vile
creature; 'but they won't know you in them there fine clothes; so let's
pull 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 rest
of the things shared the same fate, and she was compelled to put on some
old rags which the inhuman creature took out of a bag she carried under
her petticoat; then, taking a bottle of liquid from the same place, she
instantly began washing Eliza's face with it, and, notwithstanding all
her remonstrances, cut her beautiful hair close to her head.
Thus metamorphosed, it would have been impossible even for Mr. Darnley
to have known his child, and they proceeded onward until her little legs
would carry her no farther. At this period they were overtaken by the
Canterbury waggon, and for a mere trifle the driver consented to let
them ride to London. Eliza's tears continued to flow, but she dared not
utter a complaint, as her inhuman companion protested she would break
every 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 bread
and 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 of
rags thrown into a corner of the room, with a dirty blanket spread
across it; and there she was left by her inhuman kidnapper to mourn her
misfortunes and lament having disregarded her father's injunctions.
The next morning she was forced to rise the moment it was light, and to
walk as far as her little legs would carry her before they stopped
anywhere to take refreshment. The second night was passed in a barn, and
about five o'clock the third afternoon they knocked at the door of a
neat-looking cottage, where nine or ten children were sitting in a
little room making lace.
'Why, Peggy,' said the woman, as she opened the door, 'I thought you
never would have come again! However, I see you have got me a hand at
last, and God knows I'm enough in want of her; for two of my brats have
thought proper to fall sick, and I have more to do than ever I had in my
life.'
On the following day Eliza's filthy rags were all taken off, and she was
dressed in a tidy, brown stuff gown, a nice clean round-eared cap, and a
little coloured bib and apron; and she was ordered, if any person asked
her name, to say it was Biddy Bullen, and that she was niece to the
woman who employed her.
The severity with which all this wretch's commands were enforced wholly
prevented any of the helpless victims who were under her protection
from daring to disobey them; and though most of them were placed under
her care by the same vile agent who had decoyed Eliza, yet they were all
tutored to relate similar untruths.
But I now think it is high time to carry my little readers back to the
cottage scene, where Susan was arranging things in order for breakfast,
and Sophia and her sister were anxiously watching the moment when the
cake was pronounced completely ready.
The old woman soon returned with the milk-pail on her arm, and Susan
eagerly demanded: 'Where's Miss Eliza?'
'Oh, the pretty creature!' replied her mother, 'she'll be here in a
minute, I warrant her; but she has gone skipping after our Billy, and
the two sweet innocents they are together.'
She then went to the oven, produced the cake, and began buttering it
with all expedition, whilst Sophia joyously ran to the door of the
cowhouse, and began loudly calling her sister Eliza.
No answer being returned, Susan began to feel alarmed, but the young
ladies told her not to be frightened, as they knew it was only one of
Eliza'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 only
by Susan and her mother, but by all the neighbours who had heard of the
calamity, 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 children
were not returned from their walk, sent the housemaid directly after
them.
The garden, the shrubbery, and the lawn were all searched without
success; and just as Betty was returning to inform the nurse they were
not to be found, she perceived Susan and the two children enter a little
green gate at the bottom of the shrubbery.
'Where's Miss Eliza?' called Betty, in a voice as loud as she could
articulate.
'God knows! God knows!' replied the careless girl, sobbing so loud she
could 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 the
garden to see what had become of her little charges; and, not directly
missing Eliza from the group, which was then fast approaching towards
the house, she called out:
'Come, my dear children--come along! I thought you would never have
returned 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? What
do I hear? Oh, my master! my dear master! never shall I bear to see his
face again!'
Susan then repeated every circumstance just as has been related, and
with sighs and tears bewailed her own folly in suffering herself to be
over-persuaded. And the children declared they dare not encounter their
father's displeasure.
The menservants were instantly summoned, and sent on horseback different
ways. That she had been stolen admitted of no doubt, as there was no
water near the cottage; and had any accident happened, they must have
found her, as they had searched every part of the village before they
ventured to return home.
One servant was sent to Rochester, another towards London, and a third
and fourth across the country roads; but no intelligence could be
obtained, or the slightest information gathered, by which the
unfortunate child could be found, or her wicked decoyer's footsteps
traced.
When Mr. Darnley was apprised of the calamitous event, the agitation of
his mind may be easily conceived, but can never be described.
Handbills were instantly circulated all over the country, the child's
person described, and a reward of five hundred guineas offered for her
restoration.
Sophia and Amanda were inconsolable, and Susan was ordered to be
discharged before Mr. Darnley returned home, which he did not for more
than a month after the melancholy circumstance happened, as he was not
satisfied with sending messengers in pursuit of his lost treasure, but
went himself to all those wretched parts of London where poverty and
vice are known to dwell, in the hope of meeting the object of his
solicitude, and at length gave up the interesting pursuit, because he
found his health rendered him incapable of continuing it.
Nine tedious months passed away without any intelligence of the lost
Eliza; and time, which is a general remedy for all misfortunes, had not
softened the severity of their affliction. Mrs. Collier had engaged a
lady to be governess to her nieces, as her attention had been wholly
devoted to her unfortunate brother, whose agitated state of mind had
produced a bodily complaint which demanded her unremitting care and
tenderness.
Although Emily loved Eliza with the fondest affection, yet her grief was
much less poignant than either of her sisters', as she could not accuse
herself with being accessory to her loss.
'Never, never shall I forgive myself,' Sophia would often say, 'for
having deviated from my dear father's command! Oh, so good and indulgent
as he is to us, how wicked it was to transgress his will! I was the
eldest, and ought to have known better, and my poor Eliza is the
sufferer for my crime!'
Thus would she bewail her folly and imprudence, until, agonized by the
torture of her own reflections, she would sink down in a chair quite
exhausted, 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 more
reconciled to the cruelty of her destiny, and to support her different
mode of life with resignation and composure. She had acquired such a
degree of skill in the art of lacemaking (which was the business her
employer followed) as generally to be able to perform the tasks which
were 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 she
was very fond, was always kind enough to complete it for her.
The cottage in which the vile Mrs. Bullen resided was situated about a
quarter of a mile from High Wycombe; and whenever she was obliged to go
to that place, either to purchase or to dispose of her goods, she always
went either before her family were up, or after they had retired to
rest, locking the door constantly after her, and putting the key in her
pocket, so that the poor little souls had no opportunity of telling
their misfortunes to any human creature.
One intense hot afternoon, in the month of August, as the children were
sitting hard at work with the door open for the sake of air, an elderly
lady and gentleman walked up to it, and begged to be accommodated with a
seat, informing Mrs. Bullen their carriage had broke down a mile
distant, and they had been obliged to walk in the heat of the sun.
The appearance of so many children, all industriously employed, was a
sight particularly pleasing to the liberal-minded Mrs. Montague, and she
immediately began asking the woman several questions about them; but
there was something of confusion in her manner of replying that called
forth 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 the
carriage, which he perceived coming forward; 'and as to that little
creature with the mole under her left eye, I declare I think it is a
perfect beauty.'
Mr. Montague turned his head, and regarded Eliza with a look that at
once proved that his sentiments corresponded with those of his lady.
'What is your name, my love?' said he, in a tone of kindness which poor
Eliza had long been a stranger to.
The child coloured like scarlet, and looked immediately at her inhuman
employer, who, catching the contagion, replied with evident marks of
confusion:
'Her name is Biddy Bullen, sir; she's my niece; but 'tis a poor timid
little fool, and is always in a fright when gentlefolks happen to speak
to her. Go, Biddy,' she continued--'go up into my bedroom, and mind that
thread which you'll find upon the reel.'
'You should try to conquer that timidity,' said Mr. Montague, 'by making
her answer every stranger who speaks to her; but by taking that office
upon yourself, you absolutely encourage the shyness you complain of.
Come hither, my little girl,' continued he, observing she was retiring
upstairs, 'and tell the lady what your name is.'
Encouraged by the kindness of Mr. Montague's address, the agitated child
obeyed the summons, although Mrs. Bullen attempted to force her into
resistance.
'Well,' continued the old gentleman, patting her on the cheek, 'and
where did you get that pretty mole?'
'My mother gave it me, sir,' replied the blushing child; 'but I did not
see her do it, because Nurse Chapman told me she went to heaven as soon
as I was born.'
'Your mother! And what was your mother's name?' said Mr. Montague.
'Darnley, sir,' said the child, and suddenly recollecting the lesson
that had been taught her; 'but my name is Biddy Bullen, and that is my
aunt.'
'Darnley!' exclaimed Mrs. Montague--'the very child that has been for
these twelve months past advertised in all the papers'--then turning to
convince herself of the fact--'and the very mole confirms it.'
Mr. Montague immediately attempted to secure the woman, but her activity
eluded his grasp, and darting out at the back door she was out of sight
in a few moments.
'Is she really gone? Is she gone?' all the little voices at once
demanded, and upon Mr. Montague's assuring them she was really gone for
ever, their joy broke out in a thousand different ways--some cried, some
laughed, and others jumped. In short, there never was a scene more
completely calculated to interest the feelings of a benevolent heart.
Mr. Montague's carriage at this period arrived, and the footman was
desired to fetch a magistrate from Wycombe, whilst the worthy clergyman
resolved to remain there until his arrival, and began questioning all
the children. Two had been there from so early a period that they could
give no account of their name or origin, but all the rest were so clear
in their description that the benevolent Mr. Montague had no doubt of
being 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 stolen
came 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 she
begged her husband to order a post-chaise directly, and set off
immediately for town. This request was willingly complied with, and by
three o'clock the next afternoon the party arrived at Darnley Hall.
Mrs. Collier was standing at the window when the carriage stopped, and
looking 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 door
in an ecstasy of joy. In less than a minute he returned folding his
Eliza to his throbbing heart. The joyful intelligence ran through the
house, and the other children impatiently flew to this scene of
transport.
To describe their feelings or express their felicity would require the
aid of the most descriptive pen, and even then would be but faintly
told, and therefore had much better be passed over.
From that moment the children all unanimously agreed strictly to attend
to their father's orders, and never in the slightest instance act in
opposition to his will.
Mr. and Mrs. Montague were laden with caresses, and earnestly entreated
to remain Mr. Darnley's guests. The hospitable invitation would have
been gladly accepted had not the thoughts of the poor children who were
still at Wycombe seemed to claim his immediate attention, and so great
was the philanthropy of Mr. Montague's character that he could never
rest satisfied if a single duty remained unfulfilled.
The Rose's Breakfast
The shrubs and flowers, having heard of the Peacock At Home, the
Butterfly's Ball, and Grasshopper's Feast, Elephant's Ball, and many
others of equal celebrity, and having been themselves of late much
introduced into the assemblies of _Ton_, grew so vain as to wish to have
a gala of their own. They were aware of their want of the organs of
speech, but knowing they had plenty of Ladies' Tongue among them, and
that crowded parties neither afforded gratification to the mind, or
allowed opportunity for conversation, and as they could shake their
leaves at each other, as well as fine ladies could their heads, they
were perfectly satisfied with their powers to entertain.
As all their refreshments were composed from air, earth, and water it
was determined that a fine summer's day after a reviving shower, would
afford ample regale for a breakfast, which was to begin, like all
fashionable ones, late in the afternoon, that the genteel flowers might
be awake. Mrs. Honeysuckle first proposed giving one, but her husband
was a Dutchman, and would not agree to the bustle and expense, and not
choosing the risk of separation she for once yielded, and Mrs. Rose,
being in high beauty, determined to send out her fragrance to invite the
company, provided she could procure the consent of Mr. Pluto Rose;
indeed, he never interfered with the pursuits of his wife; he only
declared he should not appear, and as he was a very dark-looking rose
without any sweet she was delighted at this declaration, but, though
much admired in her own little circle, she was unknown in the great
World, and she was sensible that unless some of the leaders of the _Ton_
were present her breakfast would be regarded with contempt; she
therefore consulted two of her friends, Lady Acacia and Mrs. Larch, and
got Mr. Plane from the east to secure the attendance of his party.
Lady Acacia had just got her niece Robina from America, whom she was
very solicitous to have properly introduced, having kept very
indifferent company in her own country, and being handsome, she aspired
to settling her well. She, of course, aided all in her power to promote
Mrs. Rose's scheme, and, by being in a higher circle, offered to get all
the Forest Trees to attend except Lord Oak; but she knew he never
condescended to go to such meetings. Mrs. Larch, from her connections,
promised her influence with all the Cedars and Firs, though she was sure
her cousin from Lebanon would not come, but all the rest yielded easily
to her entreaties. Mrs. Rose was delighted with the success of Lady
Acacia and Mrs. Larch in their solicitations with the Forest and Fir
Trees, whose majestic appearance and respectable characters she imagined
would dignify her fête, never considering her own littleness might
appear to them despicable; but from them she had nothing to fear, as
they were too well bred to attend any meeting to ridicule it. 'Tis true
when 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 gayest
attire.
There was an elegant lightness of drapery in Mrs. Birch's dress, but
poor Lady Aspen had certainly a very trifling way with her in shaking
continually her leaves, which sounded as if she was tittering at
everything around. Old Lord Elm was hurt at it, and often hinted to her
ladyship how improper such behaviour would have been deemed in former
times. It was, poor thing, in her a natural weakness which she could not
amend, and it had been copied by some inferior plants who had ignorantly
supposed it the height of good breeding.
Mrs. Rose, with all her charms, could not aspire to become one of the
Forest set, though she had hopes she might be reckoned a descendant from
the famous Roses so well known in the reigns of some of our Henrys,
Edwards, and Richard III., though she assuredly was of a very different
extraction; indeed, it was said that she was bred up in a cottage
garden, but had passed one winter in the hothouse, by which she was
greatly elated, and now thought from that circumstance she was secure in
having a large party from thence, not knowing the prejudice it was to
memory and sight to be constantly for any length of time in such
artificial air. Had it not been for this breakfast bringing Mrs. Rose
into notice she would have been totally forgotten by them, but her
invitation made them soon recollect the dear little creature, and as
every offer of accommodation was made to entice them to attend, even to
the promise of being placed near the Burning Bush: for that whatever is
difficult to obtain is always peculiarly desirable to possess was not
unknown in the hothouse. Notwithstanding that most of its inhabitants,
except Lady Sensitive and a few others (who were really too delicate to
venture out), all anxiously wished to be at Mrs. Rose's, yet they seemed
to make the waiting on her a very great favour, and their terms vexed
her greatly--namely, the excluding of many of the common plants or
natives as they termed them which prevented her from asking some of her
old acquaintance and near connections, with whom till now she had lived
in habits of intimacy; besides she had wished to have shown her taste
and consequence to them, having thorns enough on her stem to have
pleasure in exciting a little envy; but being afraid these connections
should be known she excluded every friend she was requested to do, and
thus the Sweet Briar and many of that rank were left out, yet several
weeds 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 of
apparent dissatisfaction at everything they met with, and quizzing most
shamefully all the company. The greenhouse plants in winter follow the
example of the hothouse in living in their own circle, but at this
season mix more generally, though, alas! they were nearly as much
inclined as the hothouse party to quizzing. Mrs. Myrtle and Lady
Orange-tree promised to chaperon the Misses Heath and the Misses
Geranium--that is, such as were properly accomplished by having had a
greenhouse education; but the poor relations of these two families,
which I am forced to confess were many, were not asked. Lord
Heliotropium and Mr. Monkeyplant were their welcome attendants.
The Evergreens of rank were invited, the females of whom are charged
with being fond of showing themselves, and are usually to be seen in the
front of plantations. Hitherto they had despised the fickleness of
fashion, and had never modernized their dress enough to seem thinly clad
even in the winter, and now they could not reconcile themselves to such
a change, which, in fact, did them honour, though a few of the weakest
and vainest among them rather lamented it, but the wiser valued their
foliage as a great addition to beauty and elegance, and justly
reprobated the prevailing _Ton_ of transparent clothing as very
pernicious to health. Mrs. Arbutus was particularly unlucky in having
sent all her jewels away for the summer, but Lady Portugal Laurel and a
few others ornamented their usual green dresses very prettily with
white, and her ladyship was allowed to make a sweet figure, whilst the
correctness of her appearance gained her respect and admiration.
Many Laurels were invited, but in this country they are so numerous, and
of such rapid growth, and such flourishing plants, that it was
absolutely impossible to collect as many of them as could be desired,
and some old veterans declined attending. The Cypresses in general sent
excuses, being confined by the loss of a friend, which was thought
rather an uncommon reason for confinement. Mr. Stock was also prevented
by a pre-engagement in the alley; he was a remarkably rich, showy
flower, or he would not have been invited, yet he was known to possess
more intrinsic merit before he had acquired so many petals. Dr. Yew
would not leave his church, nor Dr. Palma Christi his patients; indeed,
their absence was not at all regretted, it being owing to a mistake that
they were asked. The Ladies Weeping Willow stayed away with the Misses
Weeping Ash to mourn over the vanities of the world, which greatly
alarmed and distressed them.
Mrs. Passion-Flower sent her excuses, being enraged she was not
consulted on the occasion, as she would have deferred the meeting until
she had regained her bloom. Most of the Shrubs that were invited
attended, and the Duchess of Syringa and the Ladies Lilac looked
beautiful. It was a disputed point whether Lady White Lilac or her
sister was the handsomer, yet some of the party were so ill-humoured as
to hint they were fading. Lord Laburnum came with them. Some bulbous
roots were admitted, and Mrs. Lily made as engaging a figure as anyone;
her headdress was simply elegant, the petals white with yellow stamens
forming a very rich coral. The sweet Misses Lily of the Valley could not
be tempted from their retreat.
Lord Tulip was particularly noticed, his coral being diversified in a
most superb manner, and as dress among _Ton beaux_ now is neglected he
made 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 by
in the crowd, or turned out as a weed. He came with the Duchess of
Hyacinth, which was rather particular, but it was little regarded, and
the Duke was blamed for not properly estimating her Grace's charms.
There were some perennials asked, but Mrs. Rose was obliged to forget
many of them, yet Miss Scabious was there, though not yet come out,
flirting shamefully with young Lychnis, who was waiting for his ensigncy
to get out his scarlet coat. Mrs. Rose made a point of inviting Mr.
Monkshood because she would not appear to have any prejudices, though it
is well known to be a poisonous plant, but its evil properties were to
her and her friends of no consequence as they had never reflected on
serious subjects. She also pressed the attendance of several annuals of
showy appearance. Intrinsic merit had no value with her, who had no
guide but fashion, and was ambitious only of becoming a leader in
dissipation or a patroness of talent, which would be the means of making
her ridiculous, and the dupe of presuming ignorance.
The annuals, though they flourished but for a short time, were often
during that period greatly caressed, yet never lamented when they
disappeared; in short, they were made subservient to the powers of
others, which Mr. Coxcomb, the painted Lady Pea, and some more were too
vain to discover, and whilst they were frequently amused in quizzing all
around never suspected they were deservedly greater objects of ridicule
themselves. Very few of the Creepers were invited except those that
belonged to the hothouse or greenhouse, and the sharpness of Lady Cereus
made Mrs. Rose wish even to have avoided her company, but she would not
be put off. Mrs. Bramble was very sharp at not being invited, thinking
she had as good a right as Mrs. Ivy, whom she accused as being one of
those sycophants that push themselves into high life by clinging to
greatness, and thus getting into the first circle without being
respected in or out of it; indeed, there was amongst many of the party a
good deal of satire. Mrs. Rose herself was a little formed of it, but
her sweetness was allowed to blunt the force of her thorn, and made it
even regarded as pleasing, whilst Mrs. Holly was disliked for her
general sharpness.
[Illustration: _The sweet Misses Lilies of the Valley could not be
tempted from their retreat.--Page 119._]
All the Auriculas that had been applauded on the stage were wonderfully
sought after by Mrs. Rose as being now generally in all _Ton_
assemblies, and they were always ready to accept these invitations, but
their season of exhibition was now over, and they were gone strolling
about for the remainder of the year. The Ladies Carnation were all
asked, and some of their cousins, the Misses Pink, were particularly
named (not having accommodations for all the family), and such of the
Misses Pink as came were chaperoned by their near relations, Mr. and
Mrs. Sweet-William; but the Ladies Carnation were obliged to
refuse--they were afraid they should not be come out in time, and if
they 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, and
the general propriety of their conduct, but they were all voted quizzes
for their usefulness in society and their attention to domestic
concerns. They were vain of this neglect, regarding it as a proof of
their merit, and as they lived comfortably together were happy and
contented, and far more easy and cheerful than the more dissipated
societies. Mrs. Onion, it must be allowed, took it as a slight, but she
was the only one that did, and she, presuming upon the having been much
at great dinners, imagined she must be qualified for any breakfast, not
considering she generally was obliged to go to them disguised or hid by
a veil, but she was a proof of the errors of self knowledge, as she
thought 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 natural
soil is good, and much pains is bestowed on proper culture, yet in the
circles of dissipation there was reason to fear their health and good
habits might be injured, particularly as attempts had been made to
disseminate baneful seeds, though hitherto they had been kept down by
care and attention. Mrs. Apple-Tree, Mr. Cherry, Miss Currant, Miss
Gooseberry, the Beans, Peas, Potatoes, and Cabbages well knew their own
value, and despised the weak ambition of those who force themselves into
company they were not designed for.
Mrs. Rose would have liked to have got at the Mint, but it was so well
guarded by the Sages that she dared not make the attempt, knowing it
would be useless, and she could not presume to ask the Sages, or would
have been delighted to have had them--that is, all the family but Common
Sage, well imagining how much consequence she might acquire by even the
appearance of such an acquaintance, yet it was an absurd idea, as she
had not the smallest relish for their taste or anything Sage-like about
her, and the wish to be thought to possess talents she did not would, as
it always does, have made her contemptible to those who really have
them. True knowledge is highly valuable and respectable, but the
ignorant pretenders to it only make themselves objects of ridicule. Mrs.
Rose was fortunate enough to get some of the Bays brought to her, and
she thus trusted to have her breakfast properly celebrated in a poem
dedicated to the Rose Unique.
The bog plants had all contrived to be in the _Ton_, and the Misses
Rhododendron 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 fountain
continually playing. Around were heaps of various sorts of soils, many
procured at great distances at an enormous expense. The Buttercups and
Dandelions waited on the lawn in full yellow liveries, and the Daisies,
dressed neatly in a uniform of white with yellow ornaments, were as
female servants to give the refreshments to the waiters, and the
Foxgloves in red uniforms presided over the whole. The Trumpet Flowers
were numerous; indeed, there was no other music, and there was no
regular dancing, though many pretty groups dispersed about.
The crowd was very great, and the company did not leave the lawn till
late, many of them exceedingly fatigued, and drooping with their
exertions, and poor Mrs. Poppy was so much inclined to sleep as to
distress the Misses Larkspur and Lupin that came with her, and Sir
Laurus Tinus got much squeezed in getting the Marchioness Magnolia, a
most charming creat
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