shady part of the garden. Then they sat down; first in the arbour of
honeysuckles, then on the green bank behind the ice-house; then on a
garden chair; and then on the bench at the foot of the great walnut
tree. They picked a few currants and ate them; and they gathered some
roses and smelled them. For some time they held their parasols over
their heads; and then they shut them, and made marks on the gravel with
the ends of the ivory sticks. They looked awhile at a nursery of young
peach-trees at one side of the garden; and then they turned and looked
towards a clover-field on the other side. Josephine pulled the strings
of her reticule backwards and forwards; and Rosalind counted the
palisades in the fence of the kitchen-garden. At last a bright idea
struck her; and she gathered some dandelions that were going to seed,
and blew off the down; recommending the same amusement to Josephine,
who, after two or three trials, gave it up.
"Suppose we go to the play-room," said Rosalind. Josephine assented, and
they slowly walked back to the house, and ascended the stairs. "Now,"
said Rosalind, "we can play domino _in the morning_. Generally, we never
amuse ourselves with any of those little games in the day-time; though
we have domino, draughts, and loto, sometimes in the evening." They
played domino awhile in a very spiritless manner, and then they tried
draughts and loto, which they also soon gave up; Josephine saying that
all these games required too much attention. She then had recourse to
the rocking-chair, and Rosalind took some white paper and cut fly-traps;
in which amusements they tried to get rid of the time till near the
dinner-hour, when they combed their hair, and changed their dresses.
Adelaide did not join them in the play-room, being much engaged with a
very amusing book.
After dinner, Rosalind, accompanied Josephine to her room to take a nap
likewise. But she found it so warm, and turned and tossed about so much,
and had such difficulty in fixing herself in a comfortable position,
that she thought, if it was not for the name of taking a nap, she had
better have stayed up as usual. Josephine had less difficulty, being
accustomed to afternoon-sleeping; and at length Rosalind shut her eyes,
and fell into a sort of uneasy doze.
When they awoke, Rosalind proposed that they should put on their frocks,
and go down into the porch, where Mrs. Mortlake and Adelaide were
reading and sewing. But Josephine thought it would be much less trouble
to sit in their loose gowns until near tea-time. To this Rosalind
agreed, and they sat and gazed at the river. But it happened _this_
afternoon that no ships came in, and only one went out; and all the
steamboats kept far over towards the opposite shore. They were glad when
the bell rung for tea; for when people do nothing, their meals are a
sort of amusement, and are therefore expected with anxious interest. In
the evening, they declined joining Mrs. Mortlake and Adelaide in their
usual long walk, and took a short stroll under the willows on the bank
of the river; after which they returned to the parlour, where Mr.
Edington sat reading the newspaper, and Josephine threw herself on the
sofa; while Rosalind sat beside her on a chair, and played with the
kitten.
Next morning, their amusements in the garden were a little diversified
by playing jack-stones and platting ribbon-grass; and when they went up
to the play-room, Rosalind, looking among her old toys, found a doll
long since laid aside, and a basket with its clothes. She offered the
doll to Josephine proposing that she should dress it: but Josephine said
"I would rather look at you, while _you_ do it." Rosalind accordingly
dressed the doll in two different suits, one after another; but soon
grew tired, and had recourse to an ivory cup and ball, which she failed
to catch with as much dexterity as usual. She gave Josephine a wooden
lemon, which on being opened in the middle, contained a number of other
lemons one within another, and diminishing in size till the last and
smallest was no bigger than a pea. When Josephine had got through the
lemon, Rosalind took it, and resigned the cup and ball to her cousin,
who soon gave it up, as she could never make the cup catch the ball; and
she again finished the morning with her never-failing resource the
rocking-chair.
Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday having been passed in this manner, on
Thursday Rosalind began to acknowledge to herself, what she had indeed
suspected on the first day, that a life of entire idleness was not quite
so agreeable as she had supposed. Having no useful or interesting
occupation to diversify her time, she found that play had lost its
relish; and now that she could play all day, she found all plays
tiresome. These three days had appeared to her of never-ending length;
and she began to think that when her week of idleness had expired she
would not solicit Mrs. Mortlake to prolong the term.
On Thursday afternoon Rosalind gave up her nap, and went and seated
herself at the open window, that she might hear Mrs. Mortlake and
Adelaide read aloud in the porch. And next morning, she actually stopped
and listened at the school-room door while Adelaide was repeating her
French lesson; and she returned again, and stood behind the door, to
hear Mrs. Mortlake instructing her sister in a new song accompanied on
the harp. All that day and the next, she felt as if she was actually
sick of doing nothing; and she absolutely languished to be allowed once
more to take a book and read, or to draw, or play on the piano. Even
sewing, she thought, would now seem delightful to her.
On Saturday morning Rosalind met Adelaide in her brown linen apron with
long sleeves, going into the housekeeper's room to assist in making
cakes and pastry. She longed to go in with her, and to do her part as
formerly; and her longing increased when she heard the sound of beating
eggs, and grinding spice. She had hitherto looked forward with great
pleasure to her holiday on Saturday afternoon. Now, after doing nothing
all the week, Saturday afternoon had no charms for her; and she was glad
to find it was to be devoted to a ride in the carriage, through a
pleasant part of the adjacent country.
"Well, Rosalind," said Josephine, as they were taking off their bonnets,
after their return from the ride, "you have now spent a week in _my_
way. Do you not wish you could pass your whole life in the same manner?"
_Rosalind._ No, indeed--nor even another week. This week of idleness has
seemed to me like a month; and I have no desire to renew the
experiment. I have never in my life gone to bed so tired as after those
days of doing nothing. I find that want of occupation is to me absolute
misery; though it may be very delightful to _you_, as you have been
brought up in a different manner, and have never been accustomed to any
sort of employment. Yet, still I think you would be much happier, if you
had something to do.
In the evening Mr. Edington said to his youngest daughter, "Well,
Rosalind, how do you like your week of idleness? Are you going to
request Mrs. Mortlake to lengthen the term of your enjoyment?"
_Rosalind._ O no, dear father; it has been no enjoyment to _me_. On the
contrary, I am glad to think that it is now over. I have found it
absolutely a punishment.
_Mr. Edington._ So I suspected.
_Rosalind._ And I deserved it, for allowing myself to become
dissatisfied with the manner in which Mrs. Mortlake chose that I should
occupy myself. I am tired of lying in bed, tired of idleness, and tired
of play. So, dear Mrs. Mortlake, be so kind as to let me rise at
daylight on Monday morning, to work in my garden, and resume my lessons
as usual. You may depend on it I shall never again wish for a single
day of idleness.
_Mrs. Mortlake._ I am very glad to hear you say so, my dear Rosalind.
And I do not despair of at length convincing Josephine that she would be
more happy if she had some regular employment.
That night Rosalind returned to her own chamber, and next morning she
was up at daylight. It being Sunday, they went as usual to church in the
city, and Rosalind was now delighted to pass the remainder of the day in
reading a volume of Mrs. Sherwood's excellent work, the Lady of the
Manor. A book now seemed like a novelty to her.
Next day Rosalind went through her lessons with a pleasure she had never
felt before; and when they were over, she highly enjoyed her two hours'
recreation after dinner. She took no more afternoon naps; and after a
short time even Josephine was persuaded to give them up, and found it
possible, with some practice, to keep awake while her cousins or Mrs.
Mortlake were reading aloud in the porch.
Finally, Josephine became ashamed of being the only idle person in Mr.
Edington's house, and was prevailed on by her uncle and Mrs. Mortlake to
join her cousins in their lessons. By degrees, and by giving her only a
very little to learn at a time, and by having constantly before her such
good examples as Adelaide and Rosalind, she entirely conquered her love
of idleness. She was really not deficient in natural capacity, and she
soon began to take pleasure in trying to improve herself; so that when
she returned to Maryland, she carried with her a newly acquired taste
for rational pursuits, which she never afterwards lost.
MADELINE MALCOLM.
Now here--now there--in noise and mischief ever.
_Rogers._
"Well, Juliet, how is your friend, Cecilia Selden?" said Edward
Lansdowne to his sister, as they were sitting by the parlour fire, in
the interval between daylight and darkness. It was the evening after his
arrival from Princeton college to spend a fortnight at Christmas with
his family in Philadelphia.
_Juliet._ I believe Cecilia is very well. At least she was so when last
I saw her, about five weeks since.
_Edward._ Is it five weeks since you have seen Cecilia Selden? You were
formerly almost inseparable. I hope there has been no quarrel between
you.
_Juliet._ None at all. But--somehow--I am tired of Cecilia Selden. She
is certainly a very dull companion.
_Edward._ Dull! You once thought her very amusing. For my part, _I_
always found her so. She has read a great deal, is highly accomplished,
and as she travels every summer with her parents, she has had
opportunities of seeing a variety of interesting places and people. And
above all, she has an excellent natural understanding.
_Juliet._ But she is always so sensible and so correct, and every thing
that she says and does is so very proper.
_Edward._ So much the better. You will improve by being intimate with
her.
_Juliet._ I never shall be intimate again with Cecilia Selden. She is
too particular, too fastidious. She does not like Madeline Malcolm.
_Edward._ And who is Madeline Malcolm? I never heard of her before.
_Juliet._ Her father is our next door neighbour. You know we did not
live in this house when you were last in Philadelphia. The very day we
moved, Madeline Malcolm came in to see us, in the midst of all our
bustle and confusion, and stayed the whole afternoon. She said she had
long been desirous of becoming acquainted with me, was delighted that
we were now near neighbours, and therefore could not forbear running in
to commence the intimacy immediately.
_Edward._ But "in the midst of all your bustle and confusion," it must
have been very in convenient to receive a visitor, and to entertain her
the whole afternoon.
_Juliet._ Why,--we were a little disconcerted at first, but she begged
of us not to consider her a stranger. She was just as sociable as if she
had known us for seven years; and she was so queer, and there was so
much fun in every thing she said and did, that she kept me laughing all
the time.
_Edward._ I should like to see this prodigy of fun.
_Juliet._ No doubt you will soon have that pleasure; for she runs in and
out, the back way, ten times a-day.
Juliet had scarcely spoken when they heard a voice in the entry, singing
"I'd be a butterfly," and Madeline Malcolm, a tall, black-eyed,
red-cheeked girl, with long ringlets of dark hair, came flying into the
parlour, exclaiming, "What, still by fire-light--I shall have to pull
your Peter's ears myself, if he does not mind his business and light the
astral lamp sooner. O! here he comes. Now, Peter, proceed; and take
yourself off as soon as you have accomplished the feat. Well,--now that
there is no longer any danger of falling over this young gentleman, I
must beg leave to be introduced to him in form. I surmise that he is the
most learned Mr. Edward Lansdowne of Nassau-Hall, Princeton. Ah! I have
torn my frock on the fender. Just like me, you know." Juliet immediately
introduced her brother. "Well, Ned," exclaimed Miss Malcolm, "you have
come to make us happy at last. Your sister has talked so much about you
that I have actually been longing for your arrival. Come, tell us the
best news at college. I have a cousin there, but he has not been in town
since the rebellion before the last. I suppose he goes to New York to
take his frolics. Come, tell us all the particulars of your last
'Barring out;' I suppose it was conducted according to the newest
fashion. Juliet, did you ever see any thing like Ned's face? A sort of
mixed expression; trying to smile and be agreeable, but looking all the
time as if he could bar _me_ out himself."
In this manner she ran on for near half an hour, Juliet laughing
heartily, and Edward not at all. At last she rose to go away, and when
Juliet invited her to stay all the evening, she said she _must_ go
home, for they were to have waffles at tea, and she would not miss them
on any consideration. However, the tea-table in Mrs. Lansdowne's parlour
being now set, she took a spoonful of honey which she dripped all over
the cloth, and then giving Juliet a hearty kiss, she seized Edward's arm
saying, "Come, Ned, escort me home. I am going in at the front-door this
time, and there is always ice on our steps, so be sure to take care that
I do not fall."
When Edward took his leave at Madeline's door, she shook hands with him,
saying, "Am I not a wild creature? You see how my spirits run away with
me."
Edward came back with a countenance of almost disgust. "If this is your
new friend," said he to his sister, "I must say that I consider her
scarcely endurable. Why, she never saw me before this evening, and yet
she is as familiar as if she had known me all her life. To think of her
calling me Ned."
"Ah!" said Juliet with a smile, "I suspect _that_ to be the grand
offence, after all. But depend upon it, you will like her better when
you know her better."
"I very much doubt my ever liking her at all," replied Edward.
* * * * *
Nothing could exceed the sociability of Madeline Malcolm. She
breakfasted, dined, and drank tea at Mrs. Lansdowne's table nearly as
often as at her father's; and she frequently ran in early in the
morning, and scampered into Juliet's chamber before she had risen. Mr.
and Mrs. Lansdowne (both whose dispositions were remarkably amiable and
indulgent) did not approve of their daughter's intimacy with Madeline.
They had spoken to her on the subject; but Madeline's frank and
caressing manner, and her perpetual good-humour, had so won the heart of
Juliet, that it was painful to her to hear a word against her friend, as
she called her. So her parents concluded to let it pass for the present;
trusting to Juliet's becoming eventually disgusted by some outrageous
folly of Madeline's, who seemed to think her professed volatility an
excuse for every thing; and that the appellation of _a wild creature_,
which she took pride in giving herself, would screen her from any
resentment her unwarrantable conduct might provoke.
Still, as Edward observed, she had a great deal of selfishness and
cunning; as is generally the case with wild creatures; for when females
have so little of the delicacy of their sex as to throw aside the
restraints of propriety, the same want of delicacy makes them totally
regardless of the feelings or convenience of others, and renders them
callous to every thing like real sympathy or kindness of heart.
At home, Madeline was allowed to do exactly as she pleased; her father's
thoughts were perpetually in his counting-house, and her step-mother,
who spent all her time in the nursery, was incessantly occupied with the
care of a large family of young children, of whom Madeline never took
the least account. And she was so much at Mr. Lansdowne's that Juliet
had few opportunities of returning her visits.
She borrowed all Juliet's best books, and did not scruple to lend them
again to any person that she knew. Some of the books were never
returned; and others were brought back soiled, torn, and in a most
deplorable condition. One of her jokes was to take up Juliet's
muslin-work, and disfigure it with what she called gobble-stitch. She
came in one day and found the parlour unoccupied, and Juliet's
drawing-box on the table, with a beautiful landscape nearly finished.
Madeline sat down and daubed at it till it was quite spoiled, and when
Juliet discovered her at this employment, she turned it off with a
laugh, insisting that she had greatly improved the picture. She found
Juliet one evening engaged in copying a very scarce and beautiful song,
which she had borrowed from her music-master, and which had never been
published in America. On Juliet's being called up stairs for a few
moments to her mother, Madeline took the pen, and scribbled on the
margin of the borrowed music, some nonsensical verses of her own
composition, in ridicule of the music-master.
Edward presented his sister at Christmas with a set of a new English
magazine, which contained biographical sketches and finely engraved
portraits of some of the most celebrated female authors. Madeline came
in soon after the arrival of the books; and having looked them over, she
insisted on carrying one of the volumes home with her. Next day she
brought it back, with a pair of spectacles drawn with a pen and ink
round the eyes of each of the portraits that, as she said, "The learned
ladies might look still wiser." Upon this Edward immediately left the
room, lest his indignation should induce him to say too much, and
Juliet could not help warmly expressing her dissatisfaction. But
Madeline pacified her by hanging round her neck and pleading that her
love of fun was constantly leading her to do mischievous things; and
that she was sure her darling Juliet loved her too well not to forgive
her.
Cecilia Selden, a sensible and amiable girl, and formerly Juliet's most
intimate friend, was an object of Madeline's particular dislike and
ridicule; of which Cecilia perceived so many palpable symptoms, that she
left off visiting at Mrs. Lansdowne's house; to the great regret of
Edward.
Mrs. Templeton, a lady that lived at the distance of a few squares, gave
a juvenile ball, to which Juliet and Edward were invited, and also
Madeline with several of her little brothers and sisters. Soon after
Juliet had gone up to her room to commence dressing, Madeline came in
followed by a servant with two bandboxes, and exclaiming, "Well, Juliet,
I have brought all my trappings, and have come here to dress with _you_,
that I may escape being put in requisition at home to assist in
decorating the brats, who will entirely fill up _our_ carriage, so I am
going to the ball in _yours_. There now, get away from the glass and
let me begin."
Juliet removed from the glass, and throwing a shawl over her shoulders,
sat down by the fire, determined to wait patiently till Madeline had
finished her toilet. But this was no expeditious matter. Madeline always
professed to be too giddy to have her clothes in order, or to think of
any thing before the last moment. Every article that she was to wear
this evening required some alteration, which Juliet was called upon to
make, till Lucy, a mulatto seamstress that lived in the family, came up
to assist the young ladies in dressing. Madeline's white satin
under-frock was longer than the tulle dress that she wore over it: and
after it was put on, it was necessary to make it shorter by turning the
hem up all round and running it along with a needle and thread. Her
satin belt would not meet, and after a great deal of pulling and
squeezing in vain, the only remedy was to take off the hooks and eyes
and set them nearer to the ends. She desired Lucy to arrange her hair
for her, which was a difficult task, as Madeline would not hold still a
moment; and after it was at last accomplished, she declared that Lucy
had made a fright of her, and demolished the whole structure with her
own hands, strewing the floor with hair-pins and flowers. She then
called Juliet to her assistance; and, in the course of time, her hair
was finished to her satisfaction.
When Madeline was dressed, she took a lamp from the mantlepiece and
setting it on the floor, that she might see her feet to advantage with
her embroidered silk stockings and white satin shoes, she began to caper
and dance; and in performing one of her best steps she kicked down the
lamp, which splashed all over her right foot, and over the lower part of
her dress, beside deluging the carpet with oil. She screamed violently,
and her volatility seemed to forsake her when she held up her beautiful
tulle dress bespattered with lamp-oil. Juliet endeavoured to console
her, and lent her another pair of silk stockings, and Lucy was sent to
the nearest shoemaker's to bring several pair of white satin shoes that
Madeline might choose from among them. But what was to be done with the
disfigured frock? Madeline declared she had no other dress that was
handsome enough to wear that evening, and said she would rather stay
away from the ball than not look as she wished. Juliet, who was about
the same size, offered to lend her a frock, even the clear muslin she
was to wear that night herself; but Madeline said that Juliet's dresses
were all too plain for her, and that she had set her mind upon the white
silk-sprigged tulle, and nothing else.
She continued to lament her misfortune, when a thought struck her that
it was possible to conceal the spots of oil by arranging artificial
flowers round the lower part of the dress. But Juliet had no such
flowers, not having yet begun to wear them, and her mother had long
since left them off. Madeline's whole stock of flowers, was already
disposed of on her head, and she protested against taking out a single
one; saying, that it required a multitude to cover all the oil-stains.
At last she exclaimed, "I have just thought of it, Juliet,--There
are plenty of flowers in the French vases on your front-parlour
mantle-piece.[A] I will have _them_. They will do exactly."--"But,"
said Juliet, "I know not that my mother will approve of the flowers
being taken out of the vases."--"Nonsense," replied Madeline. "What
a vastly proper person you are. Tell her that your volatile friend
Madeline took them; and she will expect nothing better of such a
wild creature."
[A] It was formerly the fashion to decorate the mantle-piece
with artificial flowers placed in china vases under glass
shades.
So saying, she ran down stairs, and found Edward dressed for the ball,
and waiting for them in the parlour. "Here, Ned, my boy," said she, "off
with those glass shades, and hand me out the flowers from the vases. I
have kicked over a lamp and splashed my frock with oil, and I must have
all the flowers I can get, to hide the stains. Why do you look so
dubious? I will send them safely back again to-morrow morning. What,
won't you give them to me? Oh! then I shall make bold to help myself to
them."--She jumped on a chair, and was going to lift one of the glass
shades, when Edward, fearful of the consequences, stepped up and took
out the flowers for her; and when she had obtained them all, she ran off
with them in her lap, dropping them along the stairs as she went.
When she entered the chamber, she called out to Juliet, "Come now, dear
creature, down on your knees with a pin-cushion in your hand, and pin
these flowers all nicely round my frock, so as to cover every one of the
vile oil-spots." "Shall _I_ do it, miss?" said the maid, who had just
finished wiping up the oil that had fallen on the carpet, and which,
however, left a large splash of grease. "Miss Juliet will rumple her
dress if she stoops down to put on the flowers."--"So much the better,"
said Madeline, "it will be an advantage to that new muslin to have a
little of the stiffness taken out. Come, Lucy, you may hold the candle."
Juliet then stooped down, and in a most painful posture proceeded to pin
the flowers round Madeline's frock, which she did so adroitly as to
conceal all the spots of oil.