to lay that emphasis on the word men, which would have placed it in
contradistinction to the word women. She willingly believed that the
observation extended equally to both sexes, and flattered herself that
she should exceed her brother in merit, if she owned a fault which she
thought that it would be so much more difficult to confess.
"Yes, but," said she, stopping herself, "how can I confess it? This
very evening, in a few hours, the prize will now decided; Leonora or
I shall win it. I have as good a chance as Leonora, perhaps a better;
and must I give up all my hopes? All that I have been labouring for
this month past! O, I never can;—if it were to-morrow, or yesterday, or
any day but this, I would not hesitate, but now I am almost certain of
the prize, and if I win it—well, why then I will—I think, I will tell
all—yes, I will; I am determined," said Cecilia.
Here a bell summoned them to dinner. Leonora sat opposite to her,
and she was not a little surprised to see Cecilia look so gay and
unrestrained.
"Surely," said she to herself, "if Cecilia had done this, that I
suspect, she would not, she could not look as she does."
But Leonora little knew the cause of her gayety; Cecilia was never
in higher spirits, or better pleased with herself; than when she had
resolved upon a sacrifice or a confession.
"Must not this evening be given to the most amiable? Whose, then, will
it be?"
All eyes glanced first at Cecilia and then at Leonora. Cecilia smiled;
Leonora blushed.
"I see that it is not yet decided," said Mrs. Villars.
And immediately they ran up stairs, amidst confused whisperings.
Cecilia's voice could be distinguished far above the rest.
"How can she be so happy?" said Leonora to herself. "O, Cecilia, there
was a time when you could not have neglected me so!—When we were always
together, the best of friends and companions, our wishes, tastes, and
pleasures the same. Surely she did once love me," said Leonora; "but
now she is quite changed. She has even sold my keepsake, and would
rather win a bracelet of hair from girls whom she did not always think
so much superior to Leonora, than have my esteem, my confidence, and
my friendship, for her whole life; yes, for her whole life, for I am
sure she will be an amiable woman. Oh that this bracelet had never been
thought of, or that I was certain of her winning it; for I am certain
that I do not wish to win it from her. I would rather, a thousand times
rather, that we were as we used to be, than have all the glory in the
world. And how pleasing Cecilia can be when she wishes to please! How
candid she is! How much she can improve herself!—Let me be just, though
she has offended me—she is wonderfully improved within this last month;
for one fault, and that against myself, should I forget all her merits?"
As Leonora said these last words, she could but just hear the voices
of her companions; they had left her alone in the gallery. She knocked
softly at Louisa's door.
"Come in," said Louisa. "I'm not asleep. Oh," said she, starting up
with the Flora in her hand, the instant that the door was opened. "I'm
so glad you are come, Leonora, for I did so long to hear what you were
all making such a noise about—have you forgot that the bracelet—"
"O yes! Is this the evening?"
"Well, here's my white shell for you. I've kept it in my pocket this
fortnight; and though Cecilia did give me this Flora, I still love you
a great deal better."
"Thank you, Louisa," said Leonora, gratefully "I will take your shell,
and I shall value it as long as I live. But here is a red one, and if
you wish to show me that you love me, you will give this to Cecilia.
I know that she is particularly anxious for your preference, and I am
sure that she deserves it."
"Yes, if I could, I would choose both of you; but you know I can only
choose which I like the best."
"If you mean, my dear Louisa," said Leonora, "that you like me the
best, I am very much obliged to you; for, indeed I wish you to love me;
but it is enough for me to know it in private. I should not feel the
least more pleasure at hearing it in public, or in having it made known
to all my companions, especially at a time when it would give poor
Cecilia a great deal of pain."
"But why should it give her pain? I don't like her for being jealous of
you."
"Nay, Louisa, surely you don't think Cecilia jealous; she only tries
to excel and to please. She is more anxious to succeed than I am, it
is true, because she has a great deal more activity, and perhaps more
ambition; and it would really mortify her to lose this prize. You know
that she proposed it herself; it has been her object for this month
past, and I am sure she has taken great pains to obtain it."
"But, dear Leonora, why should you lose it?"
"Indeed, my dear, it would be no loss to me; and, if it were, I would
willingly suffer it for Cecilia; for, though we seem not to be such
good friends as we used to be, I love her very much, and she will love
me again, I'm sure she will; when she no longer fears me as a rival,
she will again love me as a friend."
Here Leonora heard a number of her companions running along the
gallery. They all knocked hastily at the door, calling, "Leonora!
Leonora! Will you never come? Cecilia has been with us this half hour."
Leonora smiled. "Well, Louisa," said she, smiling, "will you promise
me?"
"O, I'm sure, by the way they speak to you, that they won't give you
the prize!" said the little Louisa; and the tears started into her eyes.
"They love me though, for all that; and as for the prize, you know whom
I wish to have it."
"Leonora! Leonora!" called her impatient companions. "Don't you hear
us? What are you about?"
"O, she never will take any trouble about any thing," said one of the
party; "let's go away."
"O go! Go! Make haste," cried Louisa; "don't stay, they are so angry—I
will, I will, indeed!"
"Remember, then, that you have promised me," said Leonora, and she left
the room.
During all this time Cecilia had been in the garden with her
companions. The ambition which she had felt to win the first prize,
the prize of superior talents and superior application, was not to be
compared to the absolute anxiety which she now expressed to win this
simple testimony of the love and approbation of her equals and rivals.
To employ her exuberant activity, she had been dragging branches of
lilacs, and laburnums, roses, and sweet-briar, to ornament the bower
in which her fate was to be decided. It was excessively hot, but her
mind was engaged, and she was indefatigable. She stood still, at last,
to admire her works; her companions all joined in loud applause. They
were not a little prejudiced in her favour by the great eagerness which
she expressed to win their prize, and by the great importance which she
seemed to affix to the preference of each individual.
At last, "Where is Leonora?" cried one of them, and immediately, as we
have seen, they ran to call her.
Cecilia was left alone. Overcome with heat and too violent exertion,
she had hardly strength to support herself; each moment appeared to her
intolerably long; she was in a state of the utmost suspense, and all
her courage failed her; even hope forsook her, and hope is a cordial
which leaves the mind depressed and enfeebled.
"The time is now come," said Cecilia; "in a few moments it will be
decided. In a few moments! Goodness! How much I do hazard! If I should
not win the prize, how shall I confess what I have done? How shall I
beg Leonora to forgive me? I, who hoped to restore my friendship to her
as an honour!—They are gone to seek for her—the moment she appears I
shall be forgotten—what shall—what shall I do?" said Cecilia, covering
her face with her hands.
Such was her situation, when Leonora, accompanied by her companions,
opened the hall door; they most of them ran forward to Cecilia. As
Leonora came into the bower, she held out her hand to Cecilia—"We are
not rivals, but friends, I hope," said she.
Cecilia clasped her hand, but she was in too great agitation to speak.
The table was now set in the arbour—the vase was now placed in the
middle.
"Well!" said Cecilia, eagerly, "who begins?"
Caroline, one of her friends, came forward first, and then all the
others successively.
Cecilia's emotion was hardly conceivable.—"Now they are all in. Count
them, Caroline!"
"One, two, three, four; the numbers are both equal." There was a dead
silence.
"No, they are not," exclaimed Cecilia, pressing forward and putting a
shell into the vase—"I have not given mine, and I give it to Leonora."
Then snatching the bracelet, "It is yours, Leonora," said she; "take
it, and give me back your friendship."
The whole assembly gave a universal clap and shout of applause.
"I cannot be surprised at this from you, Cecilia," said Leonora; "and
do you then still love me as you used to do?"
"O Leonora! Stop! Don't praise me; I don't deserve this," said she,
turning to her loudly applauding companions; "you will soon despise
me—O Leonora, you will never forgive me!—I have deceived you—I have
sold—"
At this instant Mrs. Villars appeared—the crowd divided—she had heard
all that passed from her window.
"I applaud your generosity, Cecilia," said she, "but I am to tell you
that in this instance it is unsuccessful; you have it not in your power
to give the prize to Leonora—it is yours—I have another vote to give
you—you have forgotten Louisa."
"Louisa! But surely, ma'am, Louisa loves Leonora better than she does
me!"
"She commissioned me, however," said Mrs. Villars, "to give you a red
shell, and you will find it in this box."
Cecilia started, and turned as pale as death—it was the fatal box.
Mrs. Villars produced another box—she opened it—it contained the
Flora—"And Louisa also desired me," said she, "to return you this
Flora." She put it into Cecilia's hand—Cecilia trembled so that she
could not hold it; Leonora caught it.
"O, madam! O, Leonora!" exclaimed Cecilia. "Now I have no hope left. I
intended, I was just going to tell—"
"Dear Cecilia," said Leonora, "you need not tell it me; I know it
already, and I forgive you with all my heart."
"Yes, I can prove to you," said Mrs. Villars, "that Leonora has
forgiven you: it is she who has given you the prize; it was she who
persuaded Louisa to give you her vote. I went to see her a little while
ago, and perceiving, by her countenance, that something was the matter,
I pressed her to tell me what it was.
"'Why, madam,' said she, 'Leonora has made me promise to give my shell
to Cecilia. Now I don't love Cecilia half so well as I do Leonora;
besides, I would not have Cecilia think I vote for her because she gave
me a Flora.'
"Whilst Louisa was speaking," continued Mrs. Villars, "I saw the silver
box lying on the bed; I took it up, and asked if it was not yours, and
how she came by it.
"'Indeed, madam,' said Louisa, 'I could have been almost certain that
it was Cecilia's; but Leonora gave it me, and she said that she bought
it of the pedlar this morning. If any body else had told me so, I could
not have believed them, because I remembered the box so well; but I
can't help believing Leonora.'
"'But did you not ask Cecilia about it?' said I.
"'No, madam,' replied Louisa, 'for Leonora forbade me.'
"I guessed her reason. 'Well,' said I, 'give me the box, and I will
carry your shell in it to Cecilia.'
"'Then, madam,' said she, 'if I must give it her, pray do take the
Flora, and return it to her first, that she may not think it is for
that I do it.'"
"O, generous Leonora!" exclaimed Cecilia. "But indeed, Louisa, I cannot
take your shell."
"Then, dear Cecilia, accept of mine instead of it; you cannot refuse
it—I only follow your example. As for the bracelet," added Leonora,
taking Cecilia's hand, "I assure you I don't wish for it, and you do,
and you deserve it."
"No," said Cecilia, "indeed I do not deserve it; next to you, surely,
Louisa deserves it best."
"Louisa! O yes, Louisa," exclaimed every body with one voice.
"Yes," said Mrs. Villars, "and let Cecilia carry the bracelet to
her; she deserves that reward. For one fault I cannot forget merits,
Cecilia; nor, I am sure, will your companions."
"Then, surely, not your best friend," said Leonora, kissing her.
Every body present was moved—they looked up to Leonora with respectful
and affectionate admiration.
"O, Leonora, how I love you! And how I wish to be like you!" exclaimed
Cecilia. "To be as good, as generous!"
"Rather wish, Cecilia," interrupted Mrs. Villars, "to be as just; to be
as strictly honourable, and as invariably consistent.
"Remember that many of our sex are capable of great efforts, of making
what they call great sacrifices to virtue or to friendship; but few
treat their friends with habitual gentleness, or uniformly conduct
themselves with prudence and good sense."
[Illustration]
LAZY LAWRENCE.
———————————
IN the pleasant valley of Ashton, there lived an elderly woman of
the name of Preston; she had a small, neat cottage, and there was
not a weed to be seen in her garden. It was upon her garden that she
chiefly depended for support; it consisted of strawberry-beds, and
one small border for flowers. The pinks and roses she tied up in nice
nosegays, and sent either to Clifton or Bristol to be sold; as to her
strawberries, she did not send them to market, because it was the
custom for numbers of people to come from Clifton, in the summer time,
to eat strawberries and cream, at the gardens in Ashton.
Now the widow Preston was so obliging, active, and good-humored, that
every one who came to see her was pleased. She lived happily in this
manner for several years; but, alas! One autumn she fell sick, and
during her illness every thing went wrong: her garden was neglected,
her cow died, and all the money which she had saved was spent in paying
for medicines. The winter passed away, while she was so weak that she
could earn but little by her work; and when the summer came, her rent
was called for, and the rent was not ready in her little purse, as
usual. She begged a few months' delay, and they were granted to her;
but at the end of that time there was no resource but to sell her
horse, Lightfoot.
Now Lightfoot, though perhaps he had seen has best days, was a very
great favourite: in his youth he had always carried the dame to market
behind her husband; and it was now her little son Jem's turn to ride
him. It was Jem's business to feed Lightfoot, and to take care of
him; a charge which he never neglected; for, besides being a very
good-natured, he was a very industrious boy.
"It will go near to break my Jem's heart," said Dame Preston to
herself, as she sat one evening beside the fire stirring the embers,
and considering how she had best open the matter to her son, who stood
opposite to her, eating a dry crust of bread, very heartily, for supper.
"Jem," said the old woman, "what, art hungry?"
"That I am, brave and hungry!"
"Aye! No wonder, you've been brave hard at work—eh!"
"Brave hard! I wish it was not so dark, mother, that you might just
step out and see the great bed I've dug: I know you'd say it was no bad
day's work—and oh, mother! I've good news; farmer Truck will give us
the giant strawberries, and I am to go for 'em to-morrow morning; and
I'll be back afore breakfast."
"God bless the boy, how he talks! Four miles there, and four miles back
again, afore breakfast."
"Aye, upon Lightfoot, you know, mother, very easily; mayn't I?"
"Aye, child."
"Why do you sigh, mother?"
"Finish thy supper, child."
"I've done!" cried Jem, swallowing the last mouthful hastily, as if he
thought he had been too long at supper. "And now for the great needle;
I must see and mend Lightfoot's bridle afore I go to bed."
To work he set, by the light of the fire, and the dame, having once
more stirred it, began again with:
"Jem, dear, does he go lame at all, now?"
"What, Lightfoot? O la, no, not he! Never was so well of his lameness
in all his life—he's grown quite young again, I think; and then he's so
fat, he can hardly wag."
"God bless him—that's right; we must see, Jem, and keep him fat."
"For what, mother?"
"For Monday fortnight, at the fair; he's to be—sold!"
"Lightfoot!" cried Jem, and let the bridle fall from his hand. "And
will mother sell Lightfoot?"
"'Will,' no; but I 'must,' Jem."
"'Must;' who says you 'must?' Why 'must' you, mother?"
"I must, I say, child!—Why, must not I pay my debts honestly—and must
not I pay my rent? And was not it called for long and long ago? And
have not I had time? And did not I promise to pay it for certain Monday
fortnight? And am not I two guineas short?—And where am I to get two
guineas! So what signifies talking, child?" said the widow, leaning her
head upon her arm. "Lightfoot must go."
Jem was silent for a few minutes—"Two guineas; that's a great, great
deal—if I worked, and worked, and worked ever so hard, I could noways
earn two guineas afore Monday fortnight; could I, mother?"
"Lord help thee, no; not an' work thyself to death."
"But I could earn something, though, I say," cried Jem, proudly; "and I
will earn something—if it be ever so little, it will be something; and
I shall do my very best; so I will."
"That I am sure of, my child," said his mother, drawing him towards her
and kissing him. "You are always a good, industrious lad, that I will
say, afore your face or behind your back; but it won't do now—Lightfoot
must go."
Jem turned away, struggling to hide his tears, and went to bed, without
saying a word more. But he knew that crying would do no good, so he
presently wiped his eyes, and lay awake, considering what he could
possibly do to save the horse. "If I get ever so little," he still said
to himself, "it will be something; and who knows but landlord might
then wait a bit longer? And we might make it all up in time; for a
penny a day might come to two guineas, in time."
But how to get the first penny, was the question. Then he recollected,
that one day, when he had been sent to Clifton, to sell some flowers,
he had seen an old woman, with a board beside her covered with various
sparkling stones, which people stopped to look at as they passed, and
he remembered that some people bought the stones; one paid two-pence,
another three-pence, and another six-pence for them; and Jem heard her
say that she got them amongst the neighbouring rocks; so he thought
that if he tried, he might find some too, and sell them as she had done.
Early in the morning he awaked, full of this scheme, jumped up, dressed
himself, and having given one look at poor Lightfoot in his stable, set
off to Clifton, in search of the old woman, to inquire where she found
her sparkling stones. But it was too early in the morning—the old woman
was not at her seat; so he turned back again, disappointed.
He did not waste his time waiting for her, but saddled and bridled
Lightfoot, and went to farmer Truck's for the giant strawberries. A
great part of the morning was spent in putting them into the ground.
And as soon as that was finished, he set out again in quest of the old
woman, whom to his great joy, he spied sitting at her corner of the
street, with her board before her. But this old woman was deaf and
cross; and when at last Jem made her hear his questions, he could get
no answer from her but that she found the fossils where he would never
find any more.
"But can't I look where you looked?"
"Look away, nobody hinders you," replied the old woman; and these were
the only words she would say.
Jem was not, however, a boy to be easily discouraged; he went to the
rocks and walked slowly along, looking at all the stones as he passed.
Presently he came to a place where a number of men were at work
loosening some large rocks, and one amongst the workmen was stooping
down, looking for something very eagerly; Jem ran up, and asked if he
could help him.
"Yes," said the man, "you can. I've just dropped amongst this heap of
rubbish a fine piece of crystal that I got to-day."
"What kind of a looking thing is it?" said Jem.
"White, and like glass," said the man, and went on working, whilst Jem
looked very carefully over the heap of rubbish for a great while.
"Come," said the man, "it's gone for ever; don't trouble yourself any
more, my boy."
"It's no trouble; I'll look a little longer; we will not give it up so
soon," said Jem; and after he had looked a little longer, he found the
piece of crystal.
"Thank'e," said the man; "you are a fine little industrious fellow."
Jem, encouraged by the tone of voice in which the man spoke this,
ventured to ask him the same questions which he had asked the old woman.
"One good turn deserves another," said the man. "We are going to dinner
just now, and shall leave off work; wait for me here, and I'll make it
worth your while."
Jem waited; and as he was very attentively observing how the workmen
went on with their work, he heard somebody near him give a great
yawn, and turning round, he saw stretched upon the grass, beside the
river, a boy about his own age, whom he knew very well went in the
village of Ashton by the name of Lazy Lawrence; a name which he most
justly deserved, for he never did any thing from morning to night; he
neither worked nor played, but sauntered or lounged about, restless
and yawning. His father was an alehouse-keeper, and, being generally
drunk, could take no care of his son; so that Lazy Lawrence grew every
day worse and worse. However, some of the neighbours said that he was a
good-natured, poor fellow enough, and would never do any one harm but
himself; whilst others, who were wiser, often shook their heads, and
told him that idleness was the root of all evil.
"What, Lawrence!" cried Jem to him, when he saw him lying upon the
grass. "What! Are you asleep?"
"Not quite."
"Are you awake?"
"Not quite."
"What are you doing there?"
"Nothing."
"What are you thinking of?"
"Nothing."
"What makes you lie there?"
"I don't know—because I can't find anybody to play with me to-day; will
you come and play?"
"No, I can't; I'm busy."
"Busy," cried Lawrence, stretching himself, "you are always busy—I
would not be you for the world, to have so much to do, always."
"And I," said Jem, laughing, "would not be you for the world, to have
nothing to do."
So they parted, for the workman just then called Jem to follow him. He
took him home to his own house, and showed him a parcel of fossils,
which he had gathered he said on purpose to sell, but had never had
time yet to sort them. He set about it, however, now, and having picked
out those which he judged to be the best, he put them into a small
basket, and gave them to Jem to sell, upon condition that he should
bring him half of what he got. Jem, pleased to be employed, was ready
to agree to what the man proposed, provided his mother had no objection
to it. When he went home to dinner, he told his mother his scheme, and
she smiled and said he might do as he pleased, for she was not afraid
of his being from home.
"You are not an idle boy," said she, "so there is little danger of your
getting into any mischief."
Accordingly, Jem, that evening, took his stand, with his little basket,
upon the bank of the river, just at the place where people land from
a ferryboat, and where the walk turns to the wells, where numbers of
people perpetually pass to drink the waters. He chose his place well,
and waited almost all the evening, offering his fossils with great
assiduity to every passenger; but not one person bought any.
"Holla!" cried some sailors, who had just rowed a boat to land. "Bear a
hand here, will you, my little fellow! And carry these parcels for us
into yonder house."
Jean ran down immediately for the parcels, and did what he was asked
to do so quickly, and with so much good will, that the master of the
boat took notice of him, and when he was going away stopped to ask
him what he had got in his little basket. And when he saw that they
were fossils, he immediately told Jem to follow him, for he was going
to carry some shells he had brought from abroad to a lady in the
neighbourhood, who was making a grotto.
"She will very likely buy your stones into the bargain. Come along, my
lad; we can but try."