think it looks as smart almost as ever;" and under this persuasion, our
young archer resumed his bow—his bow with green ribands now no more!
And he pursued his way to the Downs.
All his companions were far out of sight.
"I suppose," said he to his friend with the black patch—"I suppose my
uncle and Ben had left home before you went for the shoes and stockings
for me?"
"O yes, sir; the butler said they had been gone to the Downs a matter
of a good half hour or more."
Hal trudged on as fast as he possibly could. When he got upon the
Downs, he saw numbers of carriages, and crowds of people, all going
towards the place of meeting, at the Ostrich. He pressed forwards. He
was at first so much afraid of being late, that he did not take notice
of the mirth his motley appearance excited in all beholders. At length
he reached the appointed spot. There was a great crowd of people; in
the midst, he heard Lady Diana's loud voice betting upon some one who
was just going to shoot at the mark.
"So then the shooting is begun, is it?" said Hal. "O, let me in; pray
let me into the circle. I'm one of the archers; I am, indeed; don't you
see my green and white uniform?"
"Your red and white uniform, you mean," said the man to whom he
addressed himself; and the people, as they opened a passage for him,
could not refrain from laughing at the mixture of dirt and finery which
it exhibited.
In vain, when he got into the midst of the formidable circle, he looked
to his friends, the young Sweepstakes, for their countenance and
support; they were amongst the most unmerciful of the laughers. Lady
Diana also seemed more to enjoy than to pity his confusion.
"Why could you not keep your hat upon your head, man?" said she,
in her masculine tone. "You have been almost the ruin of my poor
uniform-habit; but, thank God, I've escaped rather better than you
have. Don't stand there, in the middle of the circle, or you'll have an
arrow in your eyes, just now, I've a notion."
Hal looked round in search of better friends.
"O, where's my uncle? Where's Ben?" said he. He was in such confusion
that, amongst the number of faces, he could scarcely distinguish one
from another; but he felt somebody at this moment pull his elbow,
and, to his great relief, he heard the friendly voice and saw the
good-natured face of his cousin Ben.
"Come back; come behind the people," said Ben; "and put on my great
coat; here it is for you."
Right glad was Hal to cover his disgraced uniform with the rough great
coat which he had formerly despised. He pulled the stained, drooping
cockade out of his unfortunate hat; and he was now sufficiently
recovered from his vexation to give an intelligible account of his
accident to his uncle and Patty, who anxiously inquired what had
detained him so long, and what had been the matter. In the midst of the
history of his disaster, he was just proving to Patty that his taking
the hat-band to spin his top had nothing to do with his misfortune,
and he was at the same time endeavouring to refute his uncle's opinion
that the waste of the whip-cord, that tied the parcel, was the original
cause of all his evils, when he was summoned to try his skill with his
"famous" bow.
"My hands are numbed; I can scarcely feel," said he, rubbing them, and
blowing upon the ends of his fingers.
"Come, come," cried young Sweepstakes, "I'm within one inch of the
mark; who'll go nearer, I shall like to see. Shoot away, Hal. But first
understand our laws; we settled them before you came upon the green.
You are to have three shots, with your own bow and your own arrows; and
nobody's to borrow or lend under pretence of other bows being better or
worse, or under any pretence. Do you hear, Hal?"
This young gentleman had good reasons for being so strict in these
laws, as he had observed that none of his companions had such an
excellent bow as he had provided for himself. Some of the boys had
forgotten to bring more than one arrow with them, and by his cunning
regulations that each person should shoot with his own arrows, many had
lost one or two of their shots.
"You are a lucky fellow: you have your three arrows," said young
Sweepstakes. "Come, we can't wait whilst you rub your fingers,
man—shoot away."
Hal was rather surprised at the asperity with which his friend spoke.
He little knew how easily acquaintances, who call themselves friends,
can change, when their interest comes in the slightest degree in
competition with their friendship. Hurried by his impatient rival, and
with his hands so much benumbed that he could scarcely feel how to
fix the arrow in the string, he drew the bow. The arrow was within a
quarter of an inch of Master Sweepstakes' mark, which was the nearest
that had yet been hit. Hal seized his second arrow—"If I have any
luck," said he—But just as he pronounced the word luck, and as he bent
his bow, the string broke in two, and the bow fell from his hands.
"There, it's all over with you," cried Master Sweepstakes, with a
triumphant laugh.
"Here's my bow for him, and welcome," said Ben.
"No, no, sir; that is not fair; that's against the regulation. You may
shoot with your own bow if you choose it, or you may not, just as you
think proper; but you must not lend it, sir."
It was now Ben's turn to make his trial. His first arrow was not
successful. His second was exactly as near as Hal's first.
"You have but one more," said Master Sweepstakes. "Now for it!"
Ben, before he ventured his last arrow, prudently examined the string
of his bow; and as he pulled it to try its strength, it cracked.
Master Sweepstakes clapped his hands with loud exultations and
insulting laughter. But his laughter ceased, when our provident hero
calmly drew from his pocket an excellent piece of whip-cord.
"The everlasting whip-cord, I declare!" exclaimed Hal, when he saw that
it was the very same that had tied up the parcel.
"Yes," said Ben, as he fastened it to his bow, "I put it into my pocket
to-day, on purpose, because I thought I might happen to want it."
He drew his bow the third and last time.
"O, papa," cried little Patty, as his arrow hit the mark, "it's the
nearest; is not it the nearest?"
Master Sweepstakes, with anxiety, examined the hit. There could be no
doubt. Ben was victorious! The bow, the prize bow, was now delivered to
him.
And Hal, as he looked at the whip-cord, exclaimed, "How lucky this
whip-cord has been to you, Ben!"
"It is lucky, perhaps, you mean, that he took care of it," said Mr.
Gresham.
"Ay," said Hal, "very true; he might well say 'Waste not, want not;' it
is a good thing to have two strings to one's bow."
[Illustration]
THE BRACELETS.
———————————
IN a beautiful and retired part of England lived Mrs. Villars, a
lady whose accurate understanding, benevolent heart, and steady
temper, peculiarly fitted her for the most difficult, as well as most
important of all occupations—the education of youth. This task she
had undertaken; and twenty young persons were put under her care,
with the perfect confidence of their parents. No young people could
be happier; they were good and gay, emulous, but not envious of each
other; for Mrs. Villars was impartially just. Her praise they felt to
be the reward of merit, and her blame they knew to be the necessary
consequence of ill conduct; to the one, therefore, they patiently
submitted, and in the other consciously rejoiced. They rose with fresh
cheerfulness in the morning, eager to pursue their various occupations;
they returned in the evening with renewed ardour to their amusements,
and retired to rest satisfied with themselves and pleased with each
other.
Nothing so much contributed to preserve spirit of emulation in this
little society as a small honorary distinction given annually, as the
prize of successful application. The prize this year was peculiarly
dear to each individual, as it was the picture of a friend whom
they all dearly loved—it was the picture of Mrs. Villars in a small
bracelet. It wanted neither gold, pearls, nor precious stones, to give
it value.
The two foremost candidates for the prize were Cecilia and Leonora.
Cecilia was the most intimate friend of Leonora, but Leonora was only
the favourite companion of Cecilia.
Cecilia was of an active, ambitious, enterprising disposition; more
eager in the pursuit than happy in the enjoyment of her wishes.
Leonora was of a contented, unaspiring, temperate character, not
easily roused to action, but indefatigable when once excited. Leonora
was proud, Cecilia was vain. Her vanity made her more dependent upon
the approbation of others, and therefore more anxious to please, than
Leonora; but that very vanity made her, at the same time, more apt
to offend. In short, Leonora was the most anxious to avoid what was
wrong, Cecilia the most ambitious to do what was right. Few of their
companions loved, but many were led by Cecilia, for she was often
successful; many loved Leonora, but none were ever governed by her, for
she was too indolent to govern.
On the first day of May, about six o'clock in the evening, a great
bell rang, to summon this little society into a hall, where the prize
was to be decided. A number of small tables were placed in a circle in
the middle of the hall; seats for the young competitors were raised
one above another, in a semicircle, some yards distant from the table;
and the judges' chairs, under canopies of lilacs and laburnums,
forming another semicircle, closed the amphitheatre. Every one put
their writings, their drawings, their works of various kinds, upon the
tables appropriated for each. How unsteady were the last steps to these
tables! How each little hand trembled as it laid down its claims! Till
this moment every one thought herself secure of success, but now each
felt an equal certainty of being excelled; and the heart which a few
minutes before exulted with hope, now palpitated with fear.
The works were examined, the preference adjudged; and the prize was
declared to be the happy Cecilia's. Mrs. Villars came forward smiling,
with the bracelet in her hand. Cecilia was behind her companions, on
the highest row; all the others gave way, and she was on the floor in
an instant. Mrs. Villa clasped the bracelet on her arm; the clasp was
heard through the whole hall, and a universal smile of congratulation
followed. Mrs. Villars kissed Cecilia's little hand; and "now," said
she, "go and rejoice with your companions; the remainder of the day is
yours."
Oh! You whose hearts are elated with success, whose bosoms beat high
with joy, in the moment of triumph, command yourselves; let that
triumph be moderate, that it may be lasting. Consider that, though you
are good, you may be better, and though wise, you may be weak.
As soon as Mrs. Villars had given her the bracelet, all Cecilia's
little companions crowded round her, and they all left the hall in an
instant. She was full of spirits and vanity—she ran on, running down
the flight of steps which led to the garden. In her violent haste,
Cecilia threw down the little Louisa. Louisa had a china mandarin in
her hand, which her mother had sent her that very morning; it was all
broke to pieces by the fall.
"Oh! My mandarin!" cried Louisa, bursting into tears.
The crowd behind Cecilia suddenly stopped.
Louisa sat on the lowest steps fixing her eyes upon the broken pieces;
then, turning round, she hid her face in her hands upon the step above
her. In turning, Louisa threw down the remains of the mandarin; the
head, which she had placed in the socket, fell from the shoulders, and
rolled bounding along the gravel-walk.
Cecilia pointed to the head and to the socket, and burst out laughing;
the crowd behind laughed too. At any other time they would have been
more inclined to cry with Louisa; but Cecilia had just been successful,
and sympathy with the victorious often makes us forget justice.
Leonora, however, preserved her usual consistency. "Poor, Louisa!" said
she, looking first at her, and then reproachfully at Cecilia.
Cecilia turned sharply round, colouring, half with shame and half with
vexation. "I could not help it, Leonora," said she.
"But you could have helped laughing, Cecilia."
"I didn't laugh at Louisa; and I surely may laugh, for it does nobody
any harm."
"I am sure, however," replied Leonora, "I should not have laughed if I
had—"
"No, to be sure you wouldn't, because Louisa is your favourite. I can
buy her another mandarin the next time that old pedlar comes to the
door, if that's all. I can do no more. Can I?" said she, turning round
to her companions.
"No, to be sure," said they, "that's all fair."
Cecilia looked triumphantly at Leonora. Leonora let go her hand; she
ran on, and the crowd followed. When she got to the end of the garden,
she turned round to see if Leonora had followed her too; but was vexed
to see her still sitting on the steps with Louisa.
"I'm sure I can do no more than buy her another! Can I?" said she,
again appealing to her companions.
"No, to be sure," said they, eager to begin their plays.
How many did they begin and leave off before Cecilia could be satisfied
with any. Her thoughts were discomposed, and her mind was running upon
something else; no wonder then that she did not play with her usual
address. She grew still more impatient; she threw down the nine-pins:
"Come, let us play at something else—at threading the needle," said
she, holding out her hand.
They all yielded to the hand which wore the bracelet. But Cecilia,
dissatisfied with herself, was discontented with everybody else; her
tone grew more and more peremptory—one was too rude, another too stiff;
one was too slow, another too quick; in short, everything went wrong,
and everybody was tired of her humours.
The triumph of "success" is absolute, but short. Cecilia's companions
at length recollected that though she had embroidered a tulip and
painted a peach better than they, yet that they could play as well,
and keep their tempers better: she was thrown out. Walking towards the
house in a peevish mood, she met Leonora; she passed on.
"Cecilia!" cried Leonora.
"Well, what do you want with me?"
"Are we friends?"
"You know best."
"We are; if you will let me tell Louisa that you are sorry—"
Cecilia, interrupting her, "O! Pray let me hear no more about Louisa!"
"What! Not confess that you were in the wrong! Oh, Cecilia! I had a
better opinion of you."
"Your opinion is of no consequence to me now; for you don't love me."
"No, not when you are unjust, Cecilia."
"Unjust! I am not unjust; and if I were, you are not my governess."
"No, but am I not your friend?"
"I don't desire to have such a friend, who would quarrel with me for
happening to throw down little Louisa—how could I tell that she had
a mandarin in her hand? And when it was broken, could I do more than
promise her another? Was that unjust?"
"But you know, Cecilia—"
"'I know,'" ironically, "I know, Leonora, that you love Louisa better
than you do me; that's the injustice!"
"If I did," replied Leonora gravely, "it would be no injustice, if she
deserved it better."
"How can you compare Louisa to me!" exclaimed Cecilia, indignantly.
Leonora made no answer, for she was really hurt at her friend's
conduct; she walked on to join the rest of her companions. They were
dancing in a round upon the grass. Leonora declined dancing, but they
prevailed upon her to sing for them; her voice was not so sprightly,
but it was sweeter than usual. Who sung so sweetly as Leonora? Or who
danced so nimbly as Louisa?
Away she was flying, all spirits and gayety, when Leonora's eyes full
of tears, caught hers. Louisa silently let go her companions' hands,
and quitting the dance, ran up to Leonora to inquire what was the
matter with her.
"Nothing," replied she, "that need interrupt you—Go, my dear, and dance
again."
Louisa immediately ran away to her garden, and pulling off her little
straw hat, she lined it with the freshest strawberry leaves, and was
upon her knees before the strawberry bed when Cecilia came by. Cecilia
was not disposed to be pleased with Louisa at that instant, for two
reasons: because she was jealous of her, and because she had injured
her. The injury, however, Louisa had already forgotten; perhaps, to
tell things just as they were, she was not quite so much inclined to
kiss Cecilia as she would have been before the fall of her mandarin,
but this was the utmost extent of her malice, if it can be called
malice.
"What are you doing there, little one?" said Cecilia in a sharp tone.
"Are you eating your early strawberries here all alone?"
"No," said Louisa, mysteriously; "I am not eating them."
"What are you doing with them—can't you answer then? I'm not playing
with you, child!"
"Oh! As to that, Cecilia, you know I need not answer you unless I
choose it; not but what I would, if you would only ask me civilly—and
if you would not call me child."
"Why should not I call you child?"
"Because—because—I don't know;—but I wish you would stand out of my
light, Cecilia, for you are trampling upon all my strawberries."
"I have not touched one, you covetous little creature!"
"Indeed—indeed, Cecilia, I am not covetous. I have not eaten one of
them—they are all for your friend Leonora. See how unjust you are."
"Unjust! That's a Cant word you learned of my friend Leonora, as you
call her, but she is not my friend now."
"Not your friend now!" exclaimed Louisa. "Then, I am sure you must have
done something very naughty."
"How!" said Cecilia, catching hold of her.
"Let me go—Let me go!" cried Louisa, struggling. "I won't give you one
of my strawberries, for I don't like you at all."
"You don't, don't you?" said Cecilia, provoked and catching the
strawberries over the hedge.
"Will nobody help me!" exclaimed Louisa, snatching her hat again, and
running away with all her force.
"What have I done?" said Cecilia, recollecting herself. "Louisa!
Louisa!"
She called very loud, but Louisa would not turn back! She was running
to her companions.
They were still dancing, hand in hand, upon the grass, whilst Leonora,
sitting in the middle, sang to them.
"Stop! Stop! And hear me!" cried Louisa, breaking through them; and
rushing up to Leonora, she threw her hat at her feet, and panting for
breath—
"It was full—almost full of my own strawberries," said she, "the first
I ever got out of my own garden. They should all have been for you,
Leonora, but now I have not one left. They are all gone!" said she; and
she hid her face in Leonora's lap.
"Gone! Gone where?" said every one at once, running up to her.
"Cecilia! Cecilia!" said she, sobbing.
"Cecilia!" repeated Leonora. "What of Cecilia?"
"Yes, it was—it was."
"Come along with me," said Leonora, unwilling to have her friend
exposed; "come, and I will get you some more strawberries."
"Oh, I don't mind the strawberries, indeed; but I wanted to have had
the pleasure of giving them to you."
Leonora took her up in her arms to carry her away, but it was too late.
"What, Cecilia! Cecilia, who won the prize! It could not surely be
Cecilia," whispered every busy tongue.
At this instant the bell summoned them in.
"There she is!—There she is!" cried they, pointing to an arbour, where
Cecilia was standing, ashamed and alone; and as they passed her, some
lifted up their hands and eyes with astonishment, others whispered and
huddled mysteriously together, as if to avoid her. Leonora walked on,
her head a little higher than usual.
"Leonora!" said Cecilia, timorously, as she passed.
"Oh, Cecilia! Who would have thought that you had a bad heart?"
Cecilia turned her head aside and burst into tears.
"Oh no, indeed, she has not a bad heart," cried Louisa, running up
to her, and throwing her arms round her neck; "she's very sorry!—Are
not you, Cecilia? But don't cry any more, for I forgive you with all
my heart; and I love you now, though I said I did not when I was in a
passion."
"O, you sweet-tempered girl! How I love you," said Cecilia, kissing her.
"Well then, if you do, come along with me, and dry your eyes, for they
are so red."
"Go, my dear, and I'll come presently."
"Then I will keep a place for you next to me; but you must make haste,
or you will have to come in when we have all set down to supper, and
then you will be so stared at! So don't stay now."
Cecilia followed Louisa with her eyes till she was out of sight. "And
is Louisa," said she to herself, "the only one who would stop to pity
me? Mrs. Villars told me that this day should be mine; she little
thought how it would end!"
Saying these words, Cecilia threw herself down upon the ground; her arm
leaned upon a heap of turf which she had raised in the morning, and
which in the pride and gayety of her heart, she had called her throne.
At this instant, Mrs. Villars came out to enjoy the serenity of the
evening, and passing by the arbour where Cecilia lay, she started;
Cecilia rose hastily.
"Who is there?" said Mrs. Villars.
"It is I, madam."
"And who is I?"
"Cecilia."
"Why, what keeps you here, my dear—where are your companions? This is,
perhaps, one of the happiest days of your life."
"O no, madam!" said Cecilia, hardly able to repress her tears.
"Why, my dear, what is the matter?"
Cecilia hesitated.
"Speak, my dear. You know that when I ask you to tell me any thing as
your friend, I never punish you as your governess; therefore you need
not be afraid to tell me what is the matter."
"No, madam, I am not afraid, but ashamed. You asked me why I was not
with my companions. Why, madam, because they have all left me, and—"
"And what, my dear?"
"And I see that they all dislike me. And yet I don't know why they
should, for I take as much pains to please as any of them. All my
masters seem satisfied with me; and you yourself, ma'am, were pleased
this very morning to give me this bracelet; and I am sure you would not
have given it to any one who did not deserve it."
"Certainly not. You did deserve it for your application—for your
successful application. The prize was for the most assiduous, not for
the most amiable."
"Then if it had been for the most amiable, it would not have been for
me?"
Mrs. Villars, smiling—"Why, what do you think yourself, Cecilia? You
are better able to judge than I am. I can determine whether or no
you apply to what I give you to learn; whether you attend to what I
desire you to do, and avoid what I desire you not to do. I know that
I like you as a pupil, but I cannot know that I should like you as a
companion, unless I were your companion; therefore I must judge of what
I should do by seeing what others do in the same circumstances."
"O, pray don't, ma'am; for then you would not love me neither. And yet
I think you would love me; for I hope that I am as ready to oblige, and
as good-natured, as—"
"Yes, Cecilia, I don't doubt but that you would be very good-natured
to me, but I am afraid that I should not like you unless you were
good-tempered, too."
"But, ma'am, by good-natured I mean good-tempered—it's all the same
thing."
"No, indeed, I understand by them two very different things. You are
good-natured, Cecilia, for you are desirous to oblige and serve your
companions, to gain them praise and save them from blame, to give them
pleasure, and to relieve them from pain; but Leonora is good-tempered,
for she can bear with their foibles, and acknowledge her own. Without
disputing about the right, she sometimes yields to those who are in
the wrong. In short, her temper is perfectly good, for it can bear and
forbear."
"I wish that mine could," said Cecilia, sighing.
"It may," replied Mrs. Villars; "but it is not wishes alone which can
improve us in any thing. Turn the same exertion and perseverance which
have won you the prize to-day to this object, and you will meet with
the same success; perhaps not on the first, the second, or the third
attempt, but depend upon it that you will at last; every new effort
will weaken your bad habits and strengthen your good ones. But you must
not expect to succeed all at once; I repeat it to you, for habit must
be counteracted by habit. It would be as extravagant in us to expect
that all our faults could be destroyed by one punishment, were it ever
so severe, as it was in the Roman emperor we were reading of a few days
ago to wish that all the heads of his enemies were upon one neck, that
he might cut them off by one blow."
Here Mrs. Villars took Cecilia by the hand, and they began to walk home.