This old ballad is one of the best of the

humorous type. Many old stories turn upon some

such riddling series of questions, generally

three in number, to which unexpected answers

come from an unexpected quarter. Of course the

questions are intended to be unanswerable. As a

matter of fact they are, but a clever person

may discover a riddling answer to a riddling

question. King John bows, not to a master in

knowledge, but to a master in cleverness.

KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY

An ancient story I'll tell you anon

Of a notable prince, that was called King John;

And he ruled England with maine and with might,

For he did great wrong and maintein'd little right.

And I'll tell you a story, a story so merrye,

Concerning the Abbot of Canterburye;

How for his house-keeping and high renowne,

They rode poste for him to fair London towne.

An hundred men, the king did heare say,

The abbot kept in his house every day;

And fifty golde chaynes, without any doubt,

In velvet coates waited the abbot about.

"How now, father abbot, I heare it of thee,

Thou keepest a farre better house than mee,

And for thy house-keeping and high renowne,

I fear thou work'st treason against my crown."

"My liege," quo' the abbot, "I would it were knowne,

I never spend nothing but what is my owne;

And I trust your grace will do me no deere

For spending of my owne true-gotten geere."

"Yes, yes, father abbot, thy fault it is highe,

And now for the same thou needest must dye;

For except thou canst answer me questions three,

Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodie.

"And first," quo' the king, "when I'm in this stead,

With my crown of golde so faire on my head,

Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe,

Thou must tell me to one penny what I am worthe.

"Secondlye tell me, without any doubt,

How soone I may ride the whole worlde about.

And at the third question thou must not shrinke,

But tell me here truly what I do thinke."

"O, these are hard questions for my shallow witt,

Nor I cannot answer your grace as yet;

But if you will give me but three weekes space,

I'll do my endeavour to answer your grace."

"Now three weekes space to thee will I give,

And that is the longest thou hast to live;

For if thou dost not answer my questions three,

Thy lands and thy living are forfeit to mee."

Away rode the abbot all sad at that word,

And he rode to Cambridge, and Oxenford;

But never a doctor there was so wise,

That could with his learning an answer devise.

Then home rode the abbot of comfort so cold,

And he mett his shephard a-going to fold:

"How now, my lord abbot, you are welcome home;

What newes do you bring us from good King John?"

"Sad newes, sad newes, shephard, I must give;

That I have but three days more to live:

For if I do not answer him questions three,

My head will be smitten from my bodie.

"The first is to tell him there in that stead,

With his crowne of golde so faire on his head,

Among all his liege-men so noble of birthe,

To within one penny of what he is worthe.

"The seconde, to tell him without any doubt,

How soone he may ride this whole worlde about:

And at the third question I must not shrinke,

But tell him there truly what he does thinke."

"Now cheare up, sire abbot, did you never hear yet

That a fool he may learn a wise man witt?

Lend me horse, and serving-men, and your apparel,

And I'll ride to London to answere your quarrel.

"Nay, frowne not, if it hath bin told unto mee,

I am like your lordship, as ever may bee;

And if you will but lend me your gowne,

There is none shall knowe us at fair London towne."

"Now horses and serving-men thou shalt have,

With sumptuous array most gallant and brave;

With crozier, and miter, and rochet, and cope,

Fit to appeare 'fore our fader the pope."

"Now welcome, sire abbot," the king he did say,

"'Tis well thou'rt come back to keepe thy day:

For and if thou canst answer my questions three,

Thy life and thy living both saved shall bee.

"And, first, when thou see'st me here in this stead,

With my crown of golde so fair on my head,

Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe,

Tell me to one penny what I am worthe."

"For thirty pence our Saviour was sold

Among the false Jewes, as I have bin told:

And twenty-nine is the worth of thee,

For I thinke, thou art one penny worser than Hee."

The king he laugh'd, and swore by St. Bittel,

"I did not think I had been worth so littel!

--Now secondly, tell me, without any doubt,

How soone I may ride this whole world about."

"You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same,

Until the next morning he riseth againe;

And then your grace need not make any doubt,

But in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about."

The king he laugh'd, and swore by St. Jone,

"I did not think it could be done so soone!

--Now from the third question you must not shrinke,

But tell me here truly what I do thinke."

"Yes, that shall I do and make your grace merry:

You thinke I'm the Abbot of Canterburye;

But I'm his poor shephard, as plain you may see,

That am come to beg pardon for him and for mee."

The king he laughed, and swore by the masse,

"I'll make thee lord abbot this day in his place!"

"Now nay, my liege, be not in such speede,

For alacke I can neither write, ne reade."

"Four nobles a weeke, then, I will give thee,

For this merry jest thou hast showne unto me;

And tell the old abbot, when thou comest home,

Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King John."

SECTION VIII

REALISTIC STORIES

BIBLIOGRAPHY

ARRANGED CHRONOLOGICALLY AS A BASIS FOR TRACING THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE

REALISTIC STORY FOR YOUNG PEOPLE

Most of the authors in the following list wrote

other books of a realistic nature, in some

cases greater books than the one mentioned. The

book named is usually the first important one

in this field by its author and has, therefore,

unusual historical value.

1765. Goldsmith, Oliver, _The History of Little Goody Two-Shoes_.

1783-1789. Day, Thomas, _The History of Sandford and Merton_.

1792-1796. Aikin, Dr. John, and Barbauld, Mrs. L. E., _Evenings

at Home_.

[?]-1795. More, Hannah, _The Shepherd of Salisbury Plain_.

1796-1800. Edgeworth, Maria, _The Parent's Assistant, or Stories

for Children_.

1808. Lamb, Mary and Charles, _Mrs. Leicester's School_.

1818. Sherwood, Mrs. M. M., _The History of the Fairchild Family_.

1840. Dana, Richard Henry, _Two Years Before the Mast_.

1841. Martineau, Harriet, _The Crofton Boys_.

1856. Yonge, Charlotte M., _The Daisy Chain_.

1857. Hughes, Thomas, _Tom Brown's School Days_.

1863. Whitney, Mrs. A. D. T., _Faith Gartney's Girlhood_.

1864. Trowbridge, J. T., _Cudjo's Cave_.

1865. Dodge, Mary Mapes, _Hans Brinker, or the Silver Skates_.

1867. Kaler, James Otis, _Toby Tyler, or Ten Weeks with a

Circus_.

1868. Alcott, Louisa May, _Little Women_.

1868. Hale, Edward Everett, _The Man without a Country_.

1871. Eggleston, Edward, _The Hoosier Schoolmaster_.

1876. Twain, Mark, _Adventures of Tom Sawyer_.

1878. Jackson, Helen Hunt, _Nelly's Silver Mine_.

1879. Ewing, Juliana Horatia, _Jackanapes_.

1882. Hale, Lucretia P., _Peterkin Papers_.

1883. Stevenson, Robert Louis, _Treasure Island_.

1887. Wiggin, Kate Douglas, _The Birds' Christmas Carol_.

1890. Jewett, Sarah Orne, _Betty Leicester_.

1895. Bennett, John, _Master Skylark_.

1897. Kipling, Rudyard, _Captains Courageous_.

1899. Garland, Hamlin, _Boy Life on the Prairie_.

1906. Stein, Evaleen, _Gabriel and the Hour-Book_.

1908. Montgomery, L. M., _Anne of Green Gables_.

1912. Masefield, John, _Jim Davis_.

1917. Crownfield, Gertrude, _The Little Taylor of the Winding Way_.

1920. Latham, Harold S., _Jimmy Quigg, Office Boy_.

SECTION VIII. REALISTIC STORIES

INTRODUCTORY

_Origin._ The history of realistic stories for children may well begin

with the interest in juvenile education awakened by the great French

teacher and author Rousseau (1712-1778). He taught that formal methods

should be discarded in juvenile education and that children should be

taught to know the things about them. The new method of education is

illustrated, probably unintentionally, in _The Renowned History of

Little Goody Two-Shoes_, the first selection in this section. Rousseau

directly influenced the thought of such writers as Thomas Day, Maria

Edgeworth, Dr. Aiken, and Mrs. Barbauld. The stories produced by these

authors in the last quarter of the eighteenth century are among the

first written primarily for the purpose of entertaining children. To

these writers we are indebted for the creation of types of children's

literature that modern authors have developed into the fascinating

stories of child life, the thrilling stories of adventure, and the

interesting accounts of nature that now abound in libraries and book

stores.

_The didactic period._ When we read these first stories written for the

entertainment of children, we can hardly fail to observe that each one

presents a lesson, either moral or practical. The didactic purpose is so

prominent that the term "Didactic Period" may be applied to the period

from 1765 (the publication of _Goody Two-Shoes_) to 1825, or even later.

The small amount of writing for children before this period was

practically all for the purpose of moral or religious instruction; hence

it was but natural for these first writers of juvenile entertainment

stories to feel it their duty to present moral and practical lessons. It

would be a mistake, however, to assume that these quaint old stories

would not be interesting to children today, for they deal with

fundamental truths, which are new and interesting to children of all

ages.

In addition to the writers already mentioned, and represented by

selections in the following pages, there were several others whose books

are yet accessible and now and then read for their historical interest

if not for any intrinsic literary value they may possess. One of these

was Mrs. Sarah K. Trimmer (1741-1810), who, associated with the early

days of the Sunday-school movement, wrote many books full of the

overwrought piety which was supposed to be necessary for children of

that earlier time. One of her books, _The History of the Robins_, stands

out from the mass for its strong appeal of simple incident, and is still

widely popular with very young readers. Hannah More (1745-1833) occupied

a prominent place in the thought of her day as a teacher of religious

and social ideas among the poorer classes. Her _Repository Tracts_, many

of them in the form of stories, were devoted to making the poor

contented with their lot through the consolations of a pious life. "The

Shepherd of Salisbury Plain" was the most famous of these story-tracts,

and there are still many people living whose childhood was fed upon this

and like stories. Mrs. Sherwood's _History of the Fairchild Family_ has

never been out of print since the date of its first publication (1818),

and in recent years has had two or three sumptuous revivals at the hands

of editors and publishers. The almost innumerable books of Jacob Abbott

and S. G. Goodrich ("Peter Parley") in America belong to this didactic

movement. They were, however, more devoted to the process of instilling

a knowledge of all the wonders of this great world round about us, and

were considerably less pietistic than their English neighbors. _The

Rollo Books_ (24 vols.) are typical of this school.

_The modern period._ Charles Lamb apparently was one of the first to get

the modern thought that literature for children should be just as

artistic, just as dignified in its presentation of truth, and just as

worthy of literary recognition, as literature for adults. In the hundred

years since Lamb advanced his theory, students have gradually come to

recognize the fact that good literature for children is also good

literature for adults because art is art, whatever its form. In this

connection, Lamb's feeling about the necessity for making children's

books more vital found expression in a famous and much-quoted passage in

a letter to Coleridge:

"_Goody Two-Shoes_ is almost out of print. Mrs.

Barbauld's stuff has banished all the old

classics of the nursery; and the shopman at

Newbery's hardly deigned to reach them off an

old exploded corner of a shelf, when Mary asked

for them. Mrs. B.'s and Mrs. Trimmer's nonsense

lay in piles about. Knowledge insignificant and

vapid as Mrs. Barbauld's books convey, it seems

must come to a child in the _shape of

knowledge_, and his empty noodle must be turned

with conceit of his own powers when he has

learnt that a horse is an animal, and Billy is

better than a horse, and such like; instead of

that beautiful interest in wild tales, which

made the child a man, while all the while he

suspected himself to be no bigger than a child.

Science has succeeded to poetry no less in the

little walks of children than with men. Is

there no possibility of averting this sore

evil? Think what you would have been now, if,

instead of being fed with tales and old wives'

fables in childhood, you had been crammed with

geography and natural history!"

The danger Lamb saw was averted. The bibliography on a preceding page

indicates that about the middle of the nineteenth century many writers

of first-rate literary ability began to write for young people. Among

the number were Harriet Martineau, Captain Marryat, Charlotte M. Yonge,

Thomas Hughes, and others. As we pass toward the end of that century and

the beginning of the twentieth, the great names associated with juvenile

classics are very noticeable, and with Miss Alcott, Mrs. Ewing, "Mark

Twain," Stevenson, Kipling, Masefield, and a kindred host, childhood has

come into its own.

SUGGESTIONS FOR READING

For tracing the stages in the development of

writing for children consult the books named in

the General Bibliography (p. 17, II,

"Historical Development.")

378

Among those authors of the past whom the

present still regards affectionately, Oliver

Goldsmith (1728-1774) holds a high place. At

least five of his works--a novel, a poem, a

play, a book of essays, a nursery story--rank

as classics. He had many faults; he was vain,

improvident almost beyond belief, certainly

dissipated throughout a part of his life. But

with all these faults he had the saving grace

of humor, a kind heart that led him to share

even his last penny with one in need, a genius

for friendships that united him with such men

as Burke and Johnson and Reynolds. Always "hard

up," he wrote much as a publisher's "hack" in

order merely to live. It was in this capacity

that he probably wrote the famous story that

follows--a story that stands at the beginning

of the long and constantly broadening current

of modern literature for children. While it has

generally been attributed to Goldsmith, no

positive evidence of his authorship has been

discovered. It was published at a time when he

was in the employ of John Newbery, the London

publisher, who issued many books for children.

We know that Goldsmith helped with the _Mother

Goose's Melody_ and other projects of Newbery,

and there are many reasons for supposing that

the general attribution of _Goody Two-Shoes_ to

him may be correct. Charles Welsh, who edited

the best recent edition for schools, says it

"will always deserve a place among the classics

of childhood for its literary merit, the purity

and loftiness of its tone, and its sound sense,

while the whimsical, confidential, affectionate

style which the author employs, makes it

attractive even to children who have long since

passed the spelling-book stage." The version

that follows has been shortened by the omission

of passages that have less importance for the

modern child than they may have had for that of

the eighteenth century. The story is thus

rendered more compact, and contains nothing to

draw attention away from the fine qualities

mentioned above. The quaint phrasing of the

title, in itself one of the proofs of

Goldsmith's authorship, furnishes a good

comment on the meaning of the story: "The

history of little Goody Two-Shoes/otherwise

called Mrs. Margery Two-Shoes/the means by

which she acquired her learning and wisdom, and

in consequence thereof her estate; set forth at

large for the benefit of those/

Who from a state of Rags and Care,

And having Shoes but half a Pair;

Their Fortune and their fame would fix,

And gallop in a Coach and Six."

[For the benefit of those who may overlook the

point, it may be explained that "Mrs." was

formerly used as a term of dignified courtesy

applied to both married and unmarried women.]

THE RENOWNED HISTORY OF LITTLE GOODY TWO-SHOES

ASCRIBED TO OLIVER GOLDSMITH

All the world must allow that Two-Shoes was not her real name. No; her

father's name was Meanwell, and he was for many years a considerable

farmer in the parish where Margery was born; but by the misfortunes

which he met with in business, and the wicked persecutions of Sir

Timothy Gripe, and an overgrown farmer called Graspall, he was

effectually ruined. These men turned the farmer, his wife, Little

Margery, and her brother out of doors, without any of the necessaries of

life to support them.

Care and discontent shortened the days of Little Margery's father. He

was seized with a violent fever, and died miserably. Margery's poor

mother survived the loss of her husband but a few days, and died of a

broken heart, leaving Margery and her little brother to the wide world.

It would have excited your pity and done your heart good to have seen

how fond these two little ones were of each other, and how, hand in

hand, they trotted about.

They were both very ragged, and Tommy had no shoes, and Margery had but

one. They had nothing, poor things, to support them but what they picked

from the hedges or got from the poor people, and they lay every night in

a barn. Their relatives took no notice of them; no, they were rich, and

ashamed to own such a poor little ragged girl as Margery and such a

dirty little curl-pated boy as Tommy. But such wicked folks, who love

nothing but money and are proud and despise the poor, never come to any

good in the end, as we shall see by and by.

Mr. Smith was a very worthy clergyman who lived in the parish where

Little Margery and Tommy were born; and having a relative come to see

him, he sent for these children. The gentleman ordered Little Margery a

new pair of shoes, gave Mr. Smith some money to buy her clothes, and

said he would take Tommy and make him a little sailor.

The parting between these two little children was very affecting. Tommy

cried, and Margery cried, and they kissed each other an hundred times.

At last Tommy wiped off her tears with the end of his jacket, and bid

her cry no more, for he would come to her again when he returned from

sea.

As soon as Little Margery got up the next morning, which was very early,

she ran all round the village, crying for her brother; and after some

time returned greatly distressed. However, at this instant, the

shoemaker came in with the new shoes, for which she had been measured by

the gentleman's order.

Nothing could have supported Little Margery under the affliction she was

in for the loss of her brother but the pleasure she took in her two

shoes. She ran out to Mrs. Smith as soon as they were put on, and,

stroking down her ragged apron, cried out, "Two shoes, mamma, see, two

shoes!"

And she so behaved to all the people she met, and by that means obtained

the name of Goody Two-Shoes, though her playmates called her Old Goody

Two-Shoes.

Little Margery was very happy in being with Mr. and Mrs. Smith, who were

very charitable and good to her, and had agreed to breed her up with

their family. But at last they were obliged to send her away, for the

people who had ruined her father commanded them to do this, and could at

any time have ruined them.

Little Margery saw how good and how wise Mr. Smith was, and concluded

that this was owing to his great learning; therefore she wanted, of all

things, to learn to read. For this purpose she used to meet the little

boys and girls as they came from school, borrow their books, and sit

down and read till they returned. By this means she soon got more

learning than any of her playmates, and laid the following scheme for

instructing those who were more ignorant than herself. She found that

only the following letters were required to spell all the words in the

world; but as some of these letters are large and some small, she with

her knife cut out of several pieces of wood ten sets of each of these:

a b c d e f g h i j k l m n o p q r s t u v w x y z

And six sets of these:

A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z

And having got an old spelling-book, she made her companions set up all

the words they wanted to spell, and after that she taught them to

compose sentences. You know what a sentence is, my dear. _I will be

good_, is a sentence; and is made up, as you see, of several words.

Every morning she used to go round to teach the children, with these

rattletraps in a basket. I once went her rounds with her. It was about

seven o'clock in the morning when we set out on this important business,

and the first house we came to was Farmer Wilson's. Here Margery

stopped, and ran up to the door, tap, tap, tap.

"Who's there?"

"Only little Goody Two-Shoes," answered Margery, "come to teach Billy."

"Oh! little Goody," said Mrs. Wilson, with pleasure in her face, "I am

glad to see you. Billy wants you sadly, for he has learned all his

lesson."

Then out came the little boy. "How do, Doody Two-Shoes," said he, not

able to speak plain. Yet this little boy had learned all his letters;

for she threw down this alphabet mixed together thus:

b d f h k m o q s u w y z a c e g i l n p r t v x j

and he picked them up, called them by their right names, and put them

all in order thus:

a b c d e f g h i j k l m n o p q r s t u v w x y z.

The next place we came to was Farmer Simpson's. "Bow, bow, bow," said

the dog at the door.

"Sirrah," said his mistress, "why do you bark at Little Two-Shoes? Come

in, Madge; here, Sally wants you sadly; she has learned all her lesson."

Then out came the little one.

"So, Madge!" says she.

"So, Sally!" answered the other. "Have you learned your lesson?"

"Yes, that's what I have," replied the little one in the country manner;

and immediately taking the letters she set up these syllables:

ba be bi bo bu, ca ce ci co cu,

da de di do du, fa fe fi fo fu,

and gave them their exact sounds as she composed them.

After this, Little Two-Shoes taught her to spell words of one syllable,

and she soon set up pear, plum, top, ball, pin, puss, dog, hog, fawn,

buck, doe, lamb, sheep, ram, cow, bull, cock, hen, and many more.

The next place we came to was Gaffer Cook's cottage. Here a number of

poor children were met to learn. They all came round Little Margery at

once; and, having pulled out her letters, she asked the little boy next

her what he had for dinner. He answered, "Bread." (The poor children in

many places live very hard.) "Well, then," said she, "set the first

letter."

He put up the letter _B_, to which the next added _r_, and the next _e_,

the next _a_, the next _d_ and it stood thus, "_Bread_".

"And what had you, Polly Comb, for your dinner?" "Apple-pie," answered

the little girl: upon which the next in turn set up a great _A_, the two

next a _p_ each, and so on until the two words _Apple_ and _pie_ were

united and stood thus, "_Apple-pie_."

The next had Potatoes, the next Beef and Turnips, which were spelt, with

many others, until the game of spelling was finished. She then set them

another task, and we went on.

The next place we came to was Farmer Thompson's, where there were a

great many little ones waiting for her.

"So, little Mrs. Goody Two-Shoes," said one of them. "Where have you

been so long?"

"I have been teaching," says she, "longer than I intended, and am afraid

I am come too soon for you now."

"No, but indeed you are not," replied the other, "for I have got my

lesson, and so has Sally Dawson, and so has Harry Wilson, and so have we

all"; and they capered about as if they were overjoyed to see her.

"Why, then," says she, "you are all very good, and God Almighty will

love you; so let us begin our lesson."

They all huddled round her, and though at the other place they were

employed about words and syllables, here we had people of much greater

understanding, who dealt only in sentences.

_The Lord have mercy upon me, and grant I may always be good, and say my

prayers, and love the Lord my God with all my heart, and with all my

soul, and with all my strength; and honor government and all good men in

authority._

Little Margery then set them to compose the following:

LESSON FOR THE CONDUCT OF LIFE

He that will thrive

Must rise by five.

He that hath thriv'n

May lie till seven.

Truth may be blamed,

But cannot be shamed.

Tell me with whom you go,

And I'll tell what you do.

A friend in your need

Is a friend indeed.

They ne'er can be wise

Who good counsel despise.

As we were returning home, we saw a gentleman, who was very ill, sitting

under a shady tree at the corner of his rookery. Though ill, he began to

joke with Little Margery, and said laughing, "So, Goody Two-Shoes! They

tell me you are a cunning little baggage; pray, can you tell me what I

shall do to get well?"

"Yes," said she, "go to bed when your rooks do and get up with them in

the morning; earn, as they do, every day what you eat, and eat and drink

no more than you earn, and you will get health and keep it."

The gentleman, laughing, gave Margery sixpence, and told her she was a

sensible hussy.

Mrs. Williams, who kept a college for instructing little gentlemen and

ladies in the science of A, B, C, was at this time very old and infirm,

and wanted to decline that important trust. This being told to Sir

William Dove, who lived in the parish, he sent for Mrs. Williams, and

desired she would examine Little Two-Shoes and see whether she was

qualified for the office.

This was done, and Mrs. Williams made the following report in her favor;

namely, that Little Margery was the best scholar, and had the best head

and the best heart of any one she had examined. All the country had a

great opinion of Mrs. Williams, and her words gave them also a great

opinion of Mrs. Margery, for so we must now call her.

No sooner was Mrs. Margery settled in this office than she laid every

possible scheme to promote the welfare and happiness of all her

neighbors, and especially of the little ones, in whom she took great

delight; and all those whose parents could not afford to pay for their

education, she taught for nothing but the pleasure she had in their

company; for you are to observe that they were very good, or were soon

made so by her good management.

The school where she taught was that which was before kept by Mrs.

Williams. The room was large, and as she knew that nature intended

children should be always in action, she placed her different letters,

or alphabets, all round the school, so that every one was obliged to get

up to fetch a letter or spell a word when it came to his turn; which not

only kept them in health but fixed the letters and points firmly in

their minds.

She had the following assistants to help her, and I will tell you how

she came by them. One day as she was going through the next village she

met with some wicked boys who had got a young raven, which they were

going to throw at; she wanted to get the poor creature out of their

cruel hands, and therefore gave them a penny for him, and brought him

home. She called his name Ralph, and a fine bird he was.

Some days after she had met with the raven, as she was walking in the

fields she saw some naughty boys who had taken a pigeon and tied a

string to its leg, in order to let it fly and draw it back again when

they pleased; and by this means they tortured the poor animal with the

hopes of liberty and repeated disappointment. This pigeon she also

bought. He was a very pretty fellow, and she called him Tom.

Some time after this a poor lamb had lost its dam, and the farmer being

about to kill it, she bought it of him and brought it home with her to

play with the children and teach them when to go to bed: for it was a

rule with the wise men of that age (and a very good one, let me tell

you) to

_Rise with the lark and lie down with the lamb._

This lamb she called Will, and a pretty fellow he was.

Soon after this a present was made to Mrs. Margery of a little dog,

Jumper, and a pretty dog he was. Jumper, Jumper, Jumper! He was always

in good humor and playing and jumping about, and therefore he was called

Jumper. The place assigned for Jumper was that of keeping the door, so

that he may be called the porter of the college, for he would let nobody

go out or any one come in without the leave of his mistress.

But one day a dreadful accident happened in the school. It was on a

Thursday morning, I very well remember, when the children having learned

their lessons soon, she had given them leave to play, and they were all

running about the school and diverting themselves with the birds and the

lamb. At this time the dog, all of a sudden, laid hold of his mistress's

apron and endeavored to pull her out of the school. She was at first

surprised; however, she followed him to see what he intended.

No sooner had he led her into the garden than he ran back and pulled out

one of the children in the same manner; upon which she ordered them all

to leave the school immediately; and they had not been out five minutes

before the top of the house fell in. What a miraculous deliverance was

here! How gracious! How good was God Almighty, to save all these

children from destruction, and to make use of such an instrument as a

little sagacious animal to accomplish His divine will! I should have

observed that as soon as they were all in the garden, the dog came

leaping round them to express his joy, and when the house had fallen,

laid himself down quietly by his mistress.

Some of the neighbors, who saw the school fall and who were in great

pain for Margery and the little ones, soon spread the news through the

village, and all the parents, terrified for their children, came

crowding in abundance; they had, however, the satisfaction to find them

all safe, and upon their knees, with their mistress, giving God thanks

for their happy deliverance.

You are not to wonder, my dear reader, that this little dog should have

more sense than you, or your father, or your grandfather.

Though God Almighty has made man the lord of creation, and endowed him

with reason, yet in many respects He has been altogether as bountiful to

other creatures of His forming. Some of the senses of other animals are

more acute than ours, as we find by daily experience.

The downfall of the school was a great misfortune to Mrs. Margery; for

she not only lost all her books, but was destitute of a place to teach

in. Sir William Dove, being informed of this, ordered the house to be

built at his own expense, and till that could be done, Farmer Grove was

so kind as to let her have his large hall to teach in.

While at Mr. Grove's, which was in the heart of the village, she not

only taught the children in the daytime, but the farmer's servants, and

all the neighbors, to read and write in the evening. This gave not only

Mr. Grove but all the neighbors a high opinion of her good sense and

prudent behavior; and she was so much esteemed that most of the

differences in the parish were left to her decision.

One gentleman in particular, I mean Sir Charles Jones, had conceived

such a high opinion of her that he offered her a considerable sum to

take care of his family and the education of his daughter, which,

however, she refused. But this gentleman, sending for her afterwards

when he had a dangerous fit of illness, she went and behaved so

prudently in the family and so tenderly to him and his daughter that he

would not permit her to leave his house, but soon after made her

proposals of marriage. She was truly sensible of the honor he intended

her, but, though poor, she would not consent to be made a lady until he

had effectually provided for his daughter.

All things being settled and the day fixed, the neighbors came in crowds

to see the wedding; for they were all glad that one who had been such a

good little girl, and was become such a virtuous and good woman, was

going to be made a lady. But just as the clergyman had opened his book,

a gentleman richly dressed, ran into the church, and cried, "Stop!

stop!"

This greatly alarmed the congregation, particularly the intended bride

and bridegroom, whom he first accosted and desired to speak with them

apart. After they had been talking some little time, the people were

greatly surprised to see Sir Charles stand motionless and his bride cry

and faint away in the stranger's arms. This seeming grief, however, was

only a prelude to a flood of joy which immediately succeeded; for you

must know, gentle reader, that this gentleman, so richly dressed and

bedizened with lace, was that identical little boy whom you before saw

in the sailor's habit; in short, it was little Tom Two-Shoes, Mrs.

Margery's brother, who had just come from beyond sea, where he had made

a large fortune. Hearing, as soon as he landed, of his sister's intended

wedding, he had ridden in haste to see that a proper settlement was made

on her; which he thought she was now entitled to, as he himself was both

able and willing to give her an ample fortune. They soon returned to

their places and were married in tears, but they were tears of joy.

379

_Evenings at Home_, one of the important books

in the history of the development of literature

for children, was published in six small

volumes, from 1792 to 1796. It was a result of

a newly awakened interest in the real world

round about us and represented the profound

reaction against the "fantastic visions" and

"sweetmeats" of popular literature. The main

purpose was to give instruction by showing

things as they really are. The plan of the book

is very simple. The Fairbornes, with a large

"progeny of children, boys and girls," kept a

sort of open house for friends and relatives.

Many of these visitors, accustomed to writing,

would frequently produce a fable, a story, or a

dialogue, adapted to the age and understanding

of the young people. These papers were dropped

into a box until the children should all be

assembled at holidays. Then one of the youngest

was sent to "rummage the budget," which meant

to reach into the box and take the paper that

he happened to touch. It was brought in and

read and considered; then the process was

repeated. "Eyes, and No Eyes" was drawn out on

the twentieth evening. _Evenings at Home_ was

written by Dr. John Aikin (1747-1822) and his

sister Mrs. Anna Letitia Barbauld (1743-1825).

Dr. Aikin seems to have written the larger

number of the hundred papers composing the

book. Mrs. Barbauld's share is placed at

fifteen papers by authority of the _Dictionary

of National Biography_. Some of the children in

these stories may perceive more closely than

normal children do, but this defect may add a

charm if the reader keeps in mind that this is

one of the earliest nature books for children.

Stories of this kind require the presence of

some omniscient or "encyclopedic" character to

whom all the things requiring an answer may be

referred. Mr. Andrews in "Eyes, and No Eyes,"

Mr. Barlow in Day's _Sandford and Merton_, and

Mr. Gresham in Miss Edgeworth's "Waste Not,

Want Not" are good illustrations of this type.

EYES, AND NO EYES

OR

THE ART OF SEEING

DR. AIKIN AND MRS. BARBAULD

"Well, Robert, whither have you been walking this afternoon?" said Mr.

Andrews to one of his pupils at the close of a holiday.

R. I have been, sir, to Broom-heath, and so round by the windmill upon

Camp-mount, and home through the meadows by the river side.

Mr. A. Well, that's a pleasant round.

R. I thought it very dull, sir; I scarcely met with a single person. I

had rather by half have gone along the turnpike-road.

Mr. A. Why, if seeing men and horses were your object, you would,

indeed, have been better entertained on the high-road. But did you see

William?

R. We set out together, but he lagged behind in the lane, so I walked on

and left him.

Mr. A. That was a pity. He would have been company for you.

R. Oh, he is so tedious, always stopping to look at this thing and that!

I had rather walk alone. I dare say he has not got home yet.

Mr. A. Here he comes. Well, William, where have you been?

W. Oh, sir, the pleasantest walk! I went all over Broom-heath, and so up

to the mill at the top of the hill, and then down among the green

meadows, by the side of the river.

Mr. A. Why, that is just the round Robert has been taking, and he

complains of its dullness, and prefers the high-road.

W. I wonder at that. I am sure I hardly took a step that did not delight

me, and I have brought home my handkerchief full of curiosities.

Mr. A. Suppose, then, you give us some account of what amused you so

much. I fancy it will be as new to Robert as to me.

W. I will, sir. The lane leading to the heath, you know, is close and

sandy; so I did not mind it much, but made the best of my way. However,

I spied a curious thing enough in the hedge. It was an old crab-tree,

out of which grew a great bunch of something green, quite different from

the tree itself. Here is a branch of it.

Mr. A. Ah! this is mistletoe, a plant of great fame for the use made of

it by the Druids of old in their religious rites and incantations. It

bears a very slimy white berry, of which birdlime may be made, whence

its Latin name of Viscus. It is one of those plants which do not grow in

the ground by a root of their own, but fix themselves upon other plants;

whence they have been humorously styled _parasitical_, as being

hangers-on, or dependents. It was the mistletoe of the oak that the

Druids particularly honored.

W. A little further on, I saw a green woodpecker fly to a tree, and run

up the trunk like a cat.

Mr. A. That was to seek for insects in the bark, on which they live.

They bore holes with their strong bills for that purpose, and do much

damage to the trees by it.

W. What beautiful birds they are!

Mr. A. Yes; the woodpecker has been called, from its color and size, the

English parrot.

W. When I got upon the open heath, how charming it was! The air seemed

so fresh, and the prospect on every side so free and unbounded! Then it

was all covered with gay flowers, many of which I had never observed

before. There were, at least, three kinds of heath (I have got them in

my handkerchief here), and gorse, and broom, and bell-flower, and many

others of all colors that I will beg you presently to tell me the names

of.

Mr. A. That I will, readily.

W. I saw, too, several birds that were new to me. There was a pretty

greyish one, of the size of a lark, that was hopping about some great

stones; and when he flew, he showed a great deal of white about his

tail.

Mr. A. That was a wheat-ear. They are reckoned very delicious birds to

eat, and frequent the open downs in Sussex, and some other counties, in

great numbers.

W. There was a flock of lapwings upon a marshy part of the heath, that

amused me much. As I came near them, some of them kept flying round and

round, just over my head, and crying _pewet_, so distinctly, one might

almost fancy they spoke. I thought I should have caught one of them, for

he flew as though one of his wings was broken, and often tumbled close

to the ground; but as I came near, he always made a shift to get away.

Mr. A. Ha, ha! you were finely taken in then! This was all an artifice

of the bird's, to entice you away from its nest; for they build upon the

bare ground, and their nests would easily be observed, did they not draw

off the attention of intruders by their loud cries and counterfeit

lameness.

W. I wish I had known that, for he led me a long chase, often over-shoes

in water. However, it was the cause of my falling in with an old man and

a boy who were cutting and piling up turf for fuel, and I had a good

deal of talk with them about the manner of preparing the turf, and the

price it sells at. They gave me, too, a creature I never saw before--a

young viper, which they had just killed, together with its dam. I have

seen several common snakes, but this is thicker in proportion, and of a

darker color than they are.

Mr. A. True. Vipers frequent those turfy, boggy grounds pretty much; and

I have known several turf-cutters bitten by them.

W. They are very venomous, are they not?

Mr. A. Enough so to make their wounds painful and dangerous, though they

seldom prove fatal.

W. Well--I then took my course up to the windmill, on the mount. I

climbed up the steps of the mill, in order to get a better view of the

country around. What an extensive prospect! I counted fifteen

church-steeples; and I saw several gentlemen's houses peeping out from

the midst of green woods and plantations; and I could trace the windings

of the river all along the low grounds, till it was lost behind a ridge

of hills. But I'll tell you what I mean to do, sir, if you will give me

leave.

Mr. A. What is that?

W. I will go again, and take with me the county map, by which I shall

probably be able to make out most of the places.

Mr. A. You shall have it, and I will go with you, and take my pocket

spying-glass.

W. I shall be very glad of that. Well--a thought struck me, that as the

hill is called Camp-mount, there might probably be some remains of

ditches and mounds, with which I have read that camps were surrounded.

And I really believe I discovered something of that sort running round

one side of the mound.

Mr. A. Very likely you might. I know antiquaries have described such

remains as existing there, which some suppose to be Roman, others

Danish. We will examine them further, when we go.

W. From the hill, I went straight down to the meadows below, and walked

on the side of a brook that runs into the river. It was all bordered

with reeds and flags, and tall flowering plants, quite different from

those I had seen on the heath. As I was getting down the bank, to reach

one of them, I heard something plunge into the water near me. It was a

large water-rat, and I saw it swim over to the other side, and go into

its hole. There were a great many large dragonflies all about the

stream. I caught one of the finest, and have got him here in a leaf. But

how I longed to catch a bird that I saw hovering over the water, and

that every now and then darted down into it! It was all over a mixture

of the most beautiful green and blue, with some orange-color. It was

somewhat less than a thrush, and had a large head and bill, and a short

tail.

Mr. A. I can tell you what that bird was--a kingfisher, the celebrated

halcyon of the ancients, about which so many tales are told. It lives on

fish, which it catches in the manner you saw. It builds in holes in the

banks, and is a shy, retired bird, never to be seen far from the stream

which it inhabits.

W. I must try to get another sight of him, for I never saw a bird that

pleased me so much. Well--I followed this little brook till it entered

the river, and then took the path that runs along the bank. On the

opposite side, I observed several little birds running along the shore,

and making a piping noise. They were brown and white, and about as big

as a snipe.

Mr. A. I suppose they were sandpipers, one of the numerous family of

birds that get their living by wading among the shallows, and picking up

worms and insects.

W. There were a great many swallows, too, sporting upon the surface of

the water, that entertained me with their motions. Sometimes they dashed

into the stream; sometimes they pursued one another so quickly that the

eye could scarcely follow them. In one place, where a high, steep

sand-bank rose directly above the river, I observed many of them go in

and out of holes, with which the bank was bored full.

Mr. A. Those were sand-martins, the smallest of our species of swallows.

They are of a mouse-color above, and white beneath. They make their

nests and bring up their young in these holes, which run a great depth,

and by their situation are secure from all plunderers.

W. A little further, I saw a man in a boat, who was catching eels in an

odd way. He had a long pole with broad iron prongs at the end, just like

Neptune's trident, only there were five, instead of three. This he

pushed straight down among the mud, in the deepest parts of the river,

and fetched up the eels sticking between the prongs.

Mr. A. I have seen this method. It is called spearing of eels.

W. While I was looking at him, a heron came flying over my head, with

his large, flagging wings. He alighted at the next turn of the river,

and I crept softly behind the bank to watch his motions. He had waded

into the water as far as his long legs would carry him, and was standing

with his neck drawn in, looking intently on the stream. Presently, he

darted his long bill, as quick as lightning, into the water, and drew

out a fish, which he swallowed. I saw him catch another in the same

manner. He then took alarm at some noise I made, and flew away slowly to

a wood at some distance, where he settled.

Mr. A. Probably his nest was there, for herons build upon the loftiest

trees they can find, and sometimes in society together, like rooks.

Formerly, when these birds were valued for the amusement of hawking,

many gentlemen had their _heronries_, and a few are still remaining.

W. I think they are the largest wild birds we have.

Mr. A. They are of great length and spread of wing, but their bodies are

comparatively small.

W. I then turned homeward, across the meadows, where I stopped awhile to

look at a large flock of starlings, which kept flying about at no great

distance. I could not tell at first what to make of them; for they

arose all together from the ground as thick as a swarm of bees, and

formed themselves into a sort of black cloud, hovering over the field.

After taking a short round, they settled again, and presently arose

again in the same manner. I dare say there were hundreds of them.

Mr. A. Perhaps so; for in the fenny countries their flocks are so

numerous as to break down whole acres of reeds by settling on them. This

disposition of starlings to fly in close swarms was remarked even by

Homer, who compares the foe flying from one of his heroes, to a _cloud_

of _stares_ retiring dismayed at the approach of the hawk.

W. After I had left the meadows, I crossed the corn-fields in the way

to our house, and passed close by a deep marlpit. Looking into it, I saw

in one of the sides a cluster of what I took to be shells; and, upon

going down, I picked up a clod of marl, which was quite full of them;

but how sea-shells could get there, I cannot imagine.

Mr. A. I do not wonder at your surprise, since many philosophers have

been much perplexed to account for the same appearance. It is not

uncommon to find great quantities of shells and relics of marine animals

even in the bowels of high mountains, very remote from the sea. They are

certainly proofs that the earth was once in a very different state from

what it is at present; but in what manner, and how long ago these

changes took place, can only be guessed at.

W. I got to the high field next our house just as the sun was setting,

and I stood looking at it till it was quite lost. What a glorious sight!

The clouds were tinged purple and crimson and yellow of all shades and

hues, and the clear sky varied from blue to a fine green at the horizon.

But how large the sun appears just as it sets! I think it seems twice as

big as when it is overhead.

Mr. A. It does so; and you may probably have observed the same apparent

enlargement of the moon at its rising?

W. I have; but, pray, what is the reason of this?

Mr. A. It is an optical deception, depending upon principles which I

cannot well explain to you till you know more of that branch of science.

But what a number of new ideas this afternoon's walk has afforded you! I

do not wonder that you found it amusing; it has been very instructive,

too. Did _you_ see nothing of all these sights, Robert?

R. I saw some of them, but I did not take particular notice of them.

Mr. A. Why not?

R. I don't know. I did not care about them, and I made the best of my

way home.

Mr. A. That would have been right if you had been sent with a message;

but as you walked only for amusement, it would have been wiser to have

sought out as many sources of it as possible. But so it is--one man

walks through the world with his eyes open, and another with them shut;

and upon this difference depends all the superiority of knowledge the

one acquires above the other. I have known sailors who had been in all

the quarters of the world, and could tell you nothing but the signs of

the tippling-houses they frequented in different ports, and the price

and quality of the liquor. On the other hand, a Franklin could not cross

the Channel without making some observations useful to mankind. While

many a vacant, thoughtless youth is whirled throughout Europe without

gaining a single idea worth crossing a street for, the observing eye and

inquiring mind find matter of improvement and delight in every ramble in

town or country. Do _you_, then, William, continue to make use of your

eyes; and _you_, Robert, learn that eyes were given you to use.

380

Thomas Day's _History of Sandford and Merton_

was published in three volumes, 1783-1789. Day

died in the latter year at the early age of

forty-one. He was a "benevolent eccentric."

Since he was well to do he could devote himself

to the attempt to carry out the schemes of

social reform which he had at heart. Influenced

by Rousseau and the doctrines of the French

Revolution, he believed human nature could be

made over by an educational scheme. _Sandford

and Merton_ is an elaborate setting forth of

the concrete workings of this process. The

inculcation of greater sympathy for the lower

classes and for animals, and a return to the

natural, commonplace virtues as opposed to the

artificial organization of society formed the

main burden of the book. Tommy Merton,

six-year-old spoiled darling of an

over-indulgent gentleman of great fortune, and

Harry Sandford, wonderfully perfect son of a

"plain, honest farmer," are placed under the

tuition of a minister-philosopher, named

Barlow. This philosopher is evidently Mr. Day's

fictitious portrayal of himself. The story

given below is one of a number by means of

which the "encyclopedic" Barlow educates Tommy

and Harry. Another story from this group,

"Androcles and the Lion," may be found in the

fables (No. 214). _Sandford and Merton_ is

still, according to Sir Leslie Stephen, "among

the best children's books in the language, in

spite of its quaint didacticism, because it

succeeds in forcibly expressing his [Day's]

high sense of manliness, independence, and

sterling qualities of character."

THE GOOD-NATURED LITTLE BOY

THOMAS DAY

A little Boy went out, one morning, to walk to a village about five

miles from the place where he lived, and carried with him, in a basket,

the provision that was to serve him the whole day. As he was walking

along, a poor little half-starved dog came up to him, wagging his tail,

and seeming to entreat him to take compassion on him. The little Boy at

first took no notice of him, but at length, remarking how lean and

famished the creature seemed to be, he said, "This animal is certainly

in very great necessity: if I give him part of my provision, I shall be

obliged to go home hungry myself; however, as he seems to want it more

than I do, he shall partake with me." Saying this, he gave the dog part

of what he had in the basket, who ate as if he had not tasted victuals

for a fortnight.

The little Boy then went on a little farther, his dog still following

him, and fawning upon him with the greatest gratitude and affection;

when he saw a poor old horse lying upon the ground, and groaning as if

he was very ill, he went up to him, and saw that he was almost starved,

and so weak that he was unable to rise. "I am very much afraid," said

the little Boy, "if I stay to assist this horse, that it will be dark

before I can return; and I have heard that there are several thieves in

the neighborhood; however, I will try; it is doing a good action to

attempt to relieve him; and God Almighty will take care of me." He then

went and gathered some grass, which he brought to the horse's mouth, who

immediately began to eat with as much relish as if his chief disease was

hunger. He then fetched some water in his hat, which the animal drank

up, and seemed immediately to be so much refreshed, that, after a few

trials, he got up, and began grazing.

The little Boy then went on a little farther, and saw a man wading about

in a pond of water, without being able to get out of it, in spite of all

his endeavors. "What is the matter, good man," said the little Boy to

him; "can't you find your way out of this pond?" "No, God bless you, my

worthy master, or miss," said the man; "for such I take you to be by

your voice: I have fallen into this pond, and know not how to get out

again, as I am quite blind, and I am almost afraid to move for fear of

being drowned." "Well," said the little Boy, "though I shall be wetted

to the skin, if you will throw me your stick, I will try to help you out

of it." The blind man then threw the stick to that side on which he

heard the voice; the little Boy caught it, and went into the water,

feeling very carefully before him, lest he should unguardedly go beyond

his depth; at length he reached the blind man, took him very carefully

by the hand, and led him out. The blind man then gave him a thousand

blessings, and told him he could grope out his way home; and the little

Boy ran on as hard as he could, to prevent being benighted.

But he had not proceeded far, before he saw a poor Sailor who had lost

both his legs in an engagement by sea, hopping along upon crutches. "God

bless you, my little master!" said the Sailor; "I have fought many a

battle with the French, to defend poor old England: but now I am

crippled, as you see, and have neither victuals nor money, although I am

almost famished." The little Boy could not resist his inclination to

relieve him; so he gave him all his remaining victuals, and said, "God

help you, poor man! This is all I have, otherwise you should have more."

He then ran along, and presently arrived at the town he was going to,

did his business, and returned towards his own home with all the

expedition he was able.

But he had not gone much more than half way, before the night shut in

extremely dark, without either moon or stars to light him. The poor

little Boy used his utmost endeavors to find his way, but unfortunately

missed it in turning down a lane which brought him into a wood, where he

wandered about a great while without being able to find any path to lead

him out. Tired out at last, and hungry, he felt himself so feeble that

he could go no farther, but set himself down upon the ground, crying

most bitterly. In this situation he remained for some time, till at last

the little dog, who had never forsaken him, came up to him, wagging his

tail, and holding something in his mouth. The little Boy took it from

him, and saw it was a handkerchief nicely pinned together, which

somebody had dropped and the dog had picked up; and on opening it, he

found several slices of bread and meat, which the little Boy ate with

great satisfaction, and, felt himself extremely refreshed with his meal.

"So," said the little Boy, "I see that if I have given you a breakfast,

you have given me a supper; and a good turn is never lost, done even to

a dog."

He then once more attempted to escape from the wood; but it was to no

purpose; he only scratched his legs with briars, and slipped down in the

dirt, without being able to find his way out. He was just going to give

up all farther attempts in despair, when he happened to see a horse

feeding before him, and, going up to him, saw by the light of the moon,

which just then began to shine a little, that it was the very same he

had fed in the morning. "Perhaps," said the little Boy, "this creature,

as I have been so good to him, will let me get upon his back, and he may

bring me out of the wood, as he is accustomed to feed in this

neighborhood." The little Boy then went up to the horse, speaking to him

and stroking him, and the horse let him mount his back without

opposition; and then proceeded slowly through the wood, grazing as he

went, till he brought him to an opening which led to the high road. The

little Boy was much rejoiced at this, and said, "If I had not saved this

creature's life in the morning, I should have been obliged to have staid

here all night; I see by this that a good turn is never lost."

But the poor little Boy had yet a greater danger to undergo; for, as he

was going along a solitary lane, two men rushed out upon him, laid hold

of him, and were going to strip him of his clothes; but, just as they

were beginning to do it, the little dog bit the leg of one of the men

with so much violence that he left the little Boy and pursued the dog,

that ran howling and barking away. In this instant a voice was heard

that cried out, "There the rascals are; let us knock them down!" which

frightened the remaining man so much that he ran away, and his companion

followed him. The little Boy then looked up, and saw that it was the

Sailor, whom he had relieved in the morning, carried upon the shoulders

of the blind man whom he had helped out of the pond. "There, my little

dear," said the Sailor, "God be thanked! We have come in time to do you

a service, in return for what you did us in the morning. As I lay under

a hedge I heard these villains talk of robbing a little Boy, who, from

the description, I concluded must be you: but I was so lame that I

should not have been able to come time enough to help you, if I had not

met this honest blind man, who took me upon his back while I showed him

the way."

The little Boy thanked him very sincerely for thus defending him; and

they went all together to his father's house, which was not far off;

where they were all kindly entertained with a supper and a bed. The

little Boy took care of his faithful dog as long as he lived, and never

forgot the importance and necessity of doing good to others, if we wish

them to do the same to us.

381

It has been no unusual thing for critics and

others following in their wake to sneer at

Maria Edgeworth (1767-1849) and her school as

hopelessly utilitarian. But to find fault with

her on that score is to blame her for having

achieved the very end she set out to reach. Sir

Walter Scott, who certainly knew what good

story-telling was, had the highest opinion of

her abilities, and it is difficult to see how

any reader with a fair amount of catholicity in

his nature can fail to be impressed with her

power to build up a story in skillful dramatic

fashion, to portray various types of character

in most convincing manner, and to emphasize in

unforgettable ways the old and basic verities

of life. Of course fashions change in outward

matters, and we must not quarrel with a taste

that prefers the newest in literature any more

than with one that prefers the newest in dress.

Miss Edgeworth helped her eccentric father

present in _Practical Education_ an extended

discussion for the layman of the whole question

of the ways and means of educating people. That

was one of the very first modern treatments of

that much-discussed subject, and its ideas are

not all obsolete yet by any means. _Castle

Rackrent_ belongs in the list of classic

fiction. However, her chief interest for this

collection rests in the most important of her

books for children, _The Parent's Assistant or,

Stories for Children_ (1796-1800). The

forbidding primary title was something the

publisher was mainly responsible for, and has

been relegated to second place in modern

reprints. In these stories, according to the

preface, "only such situations are described as

children can easily imagine, and which may

consequently interest their feelings. Such

examples of virtue are painted as are not above

their conceptions of excellence, and their

powers of sympathy and emulation." Miss

Edgeworth knew children thoroughly. She was

surrounded by a crowd of brothers and sisters

for whom she had to invent means of

entertainment as well as instruction. They

really collaborated in the making of the

stories. As the stories were written out on a

slate, the sections were read to eager

listeners, and the author had the advantage of

their honest expressions of approval or

dissent. "Waste Not, Want Not" first appeared

in the final form given to _The Parent's

Assistant_, the third edition published in six

volumes in 1800. It is perhaps the best to

represent Miss Edgeworth's work, though "Simple

Susan," "Lazy Lawrence," and others have their

admirers. In judging her work the student

should keep in mind (1) that she wrote at a

time when, unlike the present, the best authors

thought it beneath their dignity to write for

children, (2) that the too repressive and

dogmatic attitude towards children which one

now and then feels in her stories was due to a

conscious effort to offset the undisciplined

enthusiasms and sentimentalisms of her day, and

(3) that she has been a living influence in the

lives of countless men and women for over a

century. She was a real pioneer.

WASTE NOT, WANT NOT

OR

TWO STRINGS TO YOUR BOW

MARIA EDGEWORTH

Mr. Gresham, a Bristol merchant, who had by honorable industry and

economy accumulated a considerable fortune, retired from business to a

new house which he had built upon the Downs, near Clifton. Mr. Gresham,

however, did not imagine that a new house alone could make him happy: he

did not purpose to live in idleness and extravagance, for such a life

would have been equally incompatible with his habits and his principles.

He was fond of children, and as he had no sons, he determined to adopt

one of his relations. He had two nephews, and he invited both of them to

his house, that he might have an opportunity of judging of their

dispositions, and of the habits which they had acquired.

Hal and Benjamin, Mr. Gresham's nephews, were about ten years old; they

had been educated very differently. Hal was the son of the elder branch

of the family; his father was a gentleman, who spent rather more than he

could afford; and Hal, from the example of the servants in his father's

family, with whom he had passed the first years of his childhood,

learned to waste more of everything than he used. He had been told that

"gentlemen should be above being careful and saving"; and he had

unfortunately imbibed a notion that extravagance is the sign of a

generous, and economy of an avaricious disposition.

Benjamin, on the contrary, had been taught habits of care and foresight:

his father had but a very small fortune, and was anxious that his son

should early learn that economy insures independence, and sometimes puts

it in the power of those who are not very rich, to be very generous.

The morning after these two boys arrived at their uncle's, they were

eager to see all the rooms in the house. Mr. Gresham accompanied them,

and attended to their remarks, and exclamations.

"Oh! what an excellent motto!" exclaimed Ben, when he read the following

words which were written in large characters over the chimneypiece, in

his uncle's spacious kitchen:

WASTE NOT, WANT NOT

"Waste not, want not!" repeated his cousin Hal, in rather a contemptuous

tone; "I think it looks stingy to servants; and no gentleman's servants,

cooks especially, would like to have such a mean motto always staring

them in the face."

Ben, who was not so conversant as his cousin in the ways of cooks and

gentleman's servants, made no reply to these observations.

Mr. Gresham was called away while his nephews were looking at the other

rooms in the house. Some time afterwards, he heard their voices in the

hall.

"Boys," said he, "what are you doing there?"

"Nothing, Sir," said Hal; "you were called away from us, and we did not

know which way to go."

"And have you nothing to do?" said Mr. Gresham.

"No, Sir, nothing," answered Hal, in a careless tone, like one who was

well content with the state of habitual idleness.

"No, Sir, nothing!" replied Ben, in a voice of lamentation.

"Come," said Mr. Gresham, "if you have nothing to do, lads, will you

unpack these two parcels for me?"

The two parcels were exactly alike, both of them well tied up with good

whipcord. Ben took his parcel to a table, and, after breaking off the

sealing wax, began carefully to examine the knot, and then to untie it.

Hal stood still exactly in the spot where the parcel was put into his

hands, and tried first at one corner, and then at another, to pull the

string off by force: "I wish these people wouldn't tie up their parcels

so tight, as if they were never to be undone," cried he, as he tugged at

the cord; and he pulled the knot closer instead of loosening it.

"Ben! why how did you get yours undone, man? What's in your parcel? I

wonder what is in mine! I wish I could get this string off--I must cut

it."

"Oh, no," said Ben, who now had undone the last knot of his parcel, and

who drew out the length of string with exultation, "don't cut it,

Hal--look what a nice cord this is, and yours is the same; it's a pity

to cut it; '_Waste not, want not!_' you know."

"Pooh!" said Hal, "what signifies a bit of pack-thread?"

"It is whipcord," said Ben.

"Well, whipcord! What signifies a bit of whipcord! You can get a bit of

whipcord twice as long as that for twopence; and who cares for twopence!

Not I, for one! So here it goes," cried Hal, drawing out his knife; and

he cut the cord, precipitately, in sundry places.

"Lads! Have you undone the parcels for me?" said Mr. Gresham, opening

the parlor door as he spoke.

"Yes, Sir," cried Hal; and he dragged off his half-cut, half-entangled

string--"here's the parcel."

"And here's my parcel, Uncle; and here's the string," said Ben.

"You may keep the string for your pains," said Mr. Gresham.

"Thank you, Sir," said Ben: "what an excellent whipcord it is!"

"And you, Hal," continued Mr. Gresham, "you may keep your string too, if

it will be of any use to you."

"It will be of no use to me, thank you, Sir," said Hal.

"No, I am afraid not, if this be it," said his uncle taking up the

jagged, knotted remains of Hal's cord.

A few days after this, Mr. Gresham gave to each of his nephews a new

top.

"But how's this?" said Hal; "these tops have no strings; what shall we

do for strings?"

"I have a string that will do very well for mine," said Ben; and he

pulled out of his pocket the fine long smooth string which had tied up

the parcel. With this he soon set up his top, which spun admirably well.

"Oh, how I wish that I had but a string!" said Hal: "what shall I do for

a string? I'll tell you what: I can use the string that goes round my

hat."

"But then," said Ben, "what will you do for a hatband?"

"I'll manage to do without one," said Hal and he took the string off his

hat for his top. It soon was worn through; and he split his top by

driving the peg too tightly into it. His cousin Ben let him set up his

the next day; but Hal was not more fortunate or more careful when he

meddled with other people's things than when he managed his own. He had

scarcely played half an hour before he split it, by driving in the peg

too violently.

Ben bore this misfortune with good humor. "Come," said he, "it can't be

helped! But give me the string, because _that_ may still be of use for

something else."

It happened some time afterwards, that a lady who had been intimately

acquainted with Hal's mother at Bath, that is to say, who had frequently

met her at the card table during the winter, now arrived at Clifton. She

was informed by his mother that Hal was at Mr. Gresham's: and her sons,

who were _friends_ of his, came to see him, and invited him to spend the

next day with them.

Hal joyfully accepted the invitation. He was always glad to go out to

dine, because it gave him something to do, something to think of, or, at

least, something to say. Besides this, he had been educated to think it

was a fine thing to visit fine people; and Lady Diana Sweepstakes (for

that was the name of his mother's acquaintance) was a very fine lady;

and her two sons intended to be very _great_ gentlemen.

He was in a prodigious hurry when these young gentlemen knocked at his

uncle's door the next day; but just as he got to the hall door, little

Patty called to him from the top of the stairs, and told him that he

had dropped his pocket-handkerchief.

"Pick it up, then, and bring it to me, quick, can't you, child," cried

Hal, "for Lady Di.'s sons are waiting for me?"

Little Patty did not know anything about Lady Di.'s sons; but as she was

very good-natured, and saw that her cousin Hal was, for some reason or

other, in a desperate hurry, she ran down stairs as fast as she possibly

could towards the landing-place, where the handkerchief lay:--but alas!

Before she reached the handkerchief she fell, rolling down a whole

flight of stairs; and, when her fall was at last stopped by the

landing-place, she did not cry, but she writhed as if she was in great

pain.

"Where are you hurt, my love?" said Mr. Gresham, who came instantly, on

hearing the noise of some one falling down stairs.

"Where are you hurt, my dear?"

"Here, Papa," said the little girl, touching her ankle, which she had

decently covered with her gown: "I believe I am hurt here, but not

much," added she, trying to rise; "only it hurts me when I move."

"I'll carry you, don't move then," said her father; and he took her up

in his arms.

"My shoe, I've lost one of my shoes," said she. Ben looked for it upon

the stairs, and he found it sticking in a loop of whipcord, which was

entangled round one of the balusters. When this cord was drawn forth, it

appeared that it was the very same jagged, entangled piece which Hal had

pulled off his parcel. He had diverted himself with running up and down

stairs, whipping the balusters with it, as he thought he could convert

it to no better use; and with his usual carelessness, he at last left it

hanging just where he happened to throw it, when the dinner-bell rang.

Poor little Patty's ankle was terribly sprained, and Hal reproached

himself for his folly, and would have reproached himself longer,

perhaps, if Lady Di. Sweepstakes' sons had not hurried him away.

In the evening, Patty could not run about as she used to do; but she sat

upon the sofa, and she said that "she did not feel the pain of her ankle

so _much_ whilst Ben was so good as to play at _jack-straws_ with her."

"That's right, Ben; never be ashamed of being good-natured to those who

are younger and weaker than yourself," said his uncle, smiling at seeing

him produce his whipcord, to indulge his little cousin with a game at

her favorite cat's-cradle. "I shall not think you one bit less manly,

because I see you playing at cat's-cradle with a child six years old."

Hal, however, was not precisely of his uncle's opinion; for when he

returned in the evening and saw Ben playing with his little cousin, he

could not help smiling contemptuously, and asked if he had been playing

at cat's-cradle all night. In a heedless manner he made some inquiries

after Patty's sprained ankle, and then he ran on to tell all the news he

had heard at Lady Diana Sweepstakes'--news which he thought would make

him appear a person of vast importance.

"Do you know, Uncle--Do you know, Ben," said he--"there's to be the most

_famous_ doings that ever were heard of, upon the Downs here, the first

day of next month, which will be in a fortnight, thank my stars! I wish

the fortnight were over; I shall think of nothing else I know, till that

happy day comes."

Mr. Gresham inquired why the first of September was to be so much

happier than any other day in the year.

"Why," replied Hal, "Lady Diana Sweepstakes, you know, is a _famous_

rider, and archer, and _all that_--"

"Very likely," said Mr. Gresham, soberly--"but what then?"

"Dear Uncle!" cried Hal, "but you shall hear. There's to be a race upon

the Downs the first of September, and, after the race, there's to be an

archery meeting for the ladies, and Lady Diana Sweepstakes is to be one

of _them_. And after the ladies have done shooting--now, Ben, comes the

best part of it! we boys are to have our turn, and Lady Di. is to give a

prize to the best marksman amongst us, of a very handsome bow and arrow!

Do you know I've been practising already, and I'll show you tomorrow, as

soon as it comes home, the _famous_ bow and arrow that Lady Diana has

given me: but, perhaps," added he, with a scornful laugh, "you like a

cat's-cradle better than a bow and arrow."

Ben made no reply to this taunt at the moment; but the next day, when

Hal's new bow and arrow came home, he convinced him that he knew how to

use it very well.

"Ben," said his uncle, "you seem to be a good marksman, though you have

not boasted of yourself. I'll give you a bow and arrow; and perhaps, if

you practise, you may make yourself an archer before the first of

September; and, in the meantime, you will not wish the fortnight to be

over, for you will have something to do."

"Oh, Sir," interrupted Hal, "but if you mean that Ben should put in for

the prize, he must have a uniform."

"Why _must_ he?" said Mr. Gresham.

"Why, Sir, because everybody has--I mean everybody that's anybody;--and

Lady Diana was talking about the uniform all dinner-time, and it's

settled all about it except the buttons; the young Sweepstakes are to

get theirs made first for patterns; they are to be white, faced with

green; and they'll look very handsome, I'm sure; and I shall write to

Mamma to-night, as Lady Diana bid me, about mine; and I shall tell her

to be sure to answer my letter, without fail, by return of the post; and

then, if Mamma makes no objection, which I know she won't, because she

never thinks much about expense, and _all that_--then I shall bespeak my

uniform, and get it made by the same tailor that makes for Lady Diana

and the young Sweepstakes."

"Mercy upon us!" said Mr. Gresham, who was almost stunned by the rapid

vociferation with which this long speech about a uniform was pronounced.

"I don't pretend to understand these things," added he, with an air of

simplicity, "but we will inquire, Ben, into the necessity of the case,

and if it is necessary--or if you think it necessary--that you should

have a uniform, why--I'll give you one."

"_You_, Uncle!--Will you, _indeed_?" exclaimed Hal, with amazement

painted in his countenance. "Well, that's the last thing in the world I

should have expected!--You are not at all the sort of person I should

have thought would care about a uniform; and I should have supposed

you'd have thought it extravagant to have a coat on purpose only for one

day; and I'm sure Lady Diana Sweepstakes thought as I do: for when I

told her that motto over your kitchen chimney, WASTE NOT, WANT NOT, she

laughed, and said that I had better not talk to you about uniforms, and

that my mother was the proper person to write to about my uniform; but

I'll tell Lady Diana, Uncle, how good you are, and how much she was

mistaken."

"Take care how you do that," said Mr. Gresham; "for, perhaps, the lady

was not mistaken."

"Nay, did not you say, just now, you would give poor Ben a uniform?"

"I said I would, if he thought it necessary to have one."

"Oh, I'll answer for it, he'll think it necessary," said Hal, laughing,

"because it is necessary."

"Allow him, at least, to judge for himself," said Mr. Gresham.

"My dear Uncle, but I assure you," said Hal, earnestly, "there's no

judging about the matter, because really, upon my word, Lady Diana said

distinctly that her sons were to have uniforms, white faced with green,

and a green and white cockade in their hats."

"May be so," said Mr. Gresham, still with the same look of calm

simplicity; "put on your hats, boys, and come with me. I know a

gentleman whose sons are to be at this archery meeting, and we will

inquire into all the particulars from him. Then, after we have seen him

(it is not eleven o'clock yet), we shall have time enough to walk on to

Bristol and choose the cloth for Ben's uniform, if it be necessary."

"I cannot tell what to make of all he says," whispered Hal, as he

reached down his hat; "do you think, Ben, he means to give you this

uniform, or not?"

"I think," said Ben, "that he means to give me one, if it be necessary;

or, as he said, if I think it is necessary."

"And that, to be sure, you will; won't you? or else you'll be a great

fool, I know, after all I've told you. How can any one in the world know

so much about the matter as I, who have dined with Lady Diana

Sweepstakes but yesterday; and heard all about it, from beginning to

end? And as for this gentleman that we are going to, I'm sure, if he

knows anything about the matter, he'll say exactly the same as I do."

"We shall hear," said Ben, with a degree of composure, which Hal could

by no means comprehend, when a uniform was in question.

The gentleman upon whom Mr. Gresham called had three sons, who were all

to be at this archery meeting, and they unanimously assured him, in the

presence of Hal and Ben, that they had never thought of buying uniforms

for this grand occasion; and that amongst the number of their

acquaintance, they knew of but three boys whose friends intended to be

at such _an unnecessary_ expense. Hal stood amazed--"Such are the

varieties of opinion upon all the grand affairs of life," said Mr.

Gresham, looking at his nephews--"what amongst one set of people you

hear asserted to be absolutely necessary, you will hear from another set

of people is quite unnecessary. All that can be done, my dear boys, in

these difficult cases, is to judge for yourselves, which opinions, and

which people, are the most reasonable."

Hal, who had been more accustomed to think of what was fashionable than

of what was reasonable, without at all considering the good sense of

what his uncle said to him, replied with childish petulance, "Indeed,

sir, I don't know what other people think; I only know what Lady Diana

Sweepstakes said."

The name of Lady Diana Sweepstakes, Hal thought, must impress all

present with respect: he was highly astonished, when, as he looked

round, he saw a smile of contempt upon every one's countenance; and he

was yet further bewildered when he heard her spoken of as a very silly,

extravagant, ridiculous woman, whose opinion no prudent person would ask

upon any subject, and whose example was to be shunned, instead of being

imitated.

"Ay, my dear Hal," said his uncle, smiling at his look of amazement,

"these are some of the things that young people must learn from

experience. All the world do not agree in opinion about characters: you

will hear the same person admired in one company, and blamed in another;

so that we must still come round to the same point, _Judge for

yourself_."

Hal's thoughts were, however, at present, too full of the uniform to

allow his judgment to act with perfect impartiality. As soon as their

visit was over, and all the time they walked down the hill from

Prince's-buildings, towards Bristol, he continued to repeat nearly the

same arguments which he had formerly used; respecting necessity, the

uniform, and Lady Diana Sweepstakes.

To all this Mr. Gresham made no reply; and longer had the young

gentleman expatiated upon the subject, which had so strongly seized upon

his imagination, had not his senses been forcibly assailed at this

instant by the delicious odors and tempting sight of certain cakes and

jellies in a pastry-cook's shop.

"Oh, Uncle," said he, as his uncle was going to turn the corner to

pursue the road to Bristol, "look at those jellies!" pointing to a

confectioner's shop; "I must buy some of those good things; for I have

got some half-pence in my pocket."

"Your having half-pence in your pocket is an excellent reason for

eating," said Mr. Gresham, smiling.

"But I really am hungry," said Hal; "you know, Uncle, it is a good while

since breakfast."

His uncle, who was desirous to see his nephews act without restraint,

that he might judge of their characters, bid them do as they pleased.

"Come, then, Ben, if you've any half-pence in your pocket."

"I'm not hungry," said Ben.

"I suppose _that_ means that you've no half-pence," said Hal, laughing,

with the look of superiority which he had been taught to think _the

rich_ might assume towards those who were convicted either of poverty or

economy.

"Waste not, want not," said Ben to himself. Contrary to his cousin's

surmise, he happened to have two pennyworth of half-pence actually in

his pocket.

At the very moment Hal stepped into the pastry-cook's shop, a poor

industrious man, with a wooden leg, who usually sweeps the dirty corner

of the walk which turns at this spot to the Wells, held his hat to Ben,

who, after glancing his eye at the petitioner's well-worn broom,

instantly produced his two-pence. "I wish I had more half-pence for you,

my good man," said he; "but I've only two-pence."

Hal came out of Mr. Millar's, the confectioner's shop, with a hatful of

cakes in his hand.

Mr. Millar's dog was sitting on the flags before the door; and he looked

up, with a wistful, begging eye, at Hal, who was eating a queen-cake.

Hal, who was wasteful even in his good nature, threw a whole queen-cake

to the dog, who swallowed it for a single mouthful.

"There go two-pence in the form of a queen-cake," said Mr. Gresham.

Hal next offered some of his cakes to his uncle and cousin; but they

thanked him, and refused to eat any, because, they said, they were not

hungry; so he ate and ate, as he walked along, till at last he stopped,

and said, "This bun tastes so bad after the queen-cakes, I can't bear

it!" and he was going to fling it from him into the river.

"Oh, it is a pity to waste that good bun; we may be glad of it yet,"

said Ben; "give it to me, rather than throw it away."

"Why, I thought you said you were not hungry," said Hal.

"True, I am not hungry now; but that is no reason why I should never be

hungry again."

"Well, there is the cake for you; take it, for it has made me sick; and

I don't care what becomes of it."

Ben folded the refuse bit of his cousin's bun in a piece of paper, and

put it into his pocket.

"I'm beginning to be exceedingly tired, or sick, or something," said

Hal, "and as there is a stand of coaches somewhere hereabouts, had we

not better take a coach, instead of walking all the way to Bristol?"

"For a stout archer," said Mr. Gresham, "you are more easily tired than

one might have expected. However, with all my heart; let us take a

coach; for Ben asked me to show him the cathedral yesterday, and I

believe I should find it rather too much for me to walk so far, though I

am not sick with eating good things."

"_The cathedral!_" said Hal, after he had been seated in the coach about

a quarter of an hour, and had somewhat recovered from his sickness. "The

cathedral! Why, are we only going to Bristol to see the cathedral? I

thought we came out to see about a uniform."

There was a dullness and melancholy kind of stupidity in Hal's

countenance, as he pronounced these words, like one wakening from a

dream, which made both his uncle and cousin burst out a laughing.

"Why," said Hal, who was now piqued, "I'm sure you _did_ say, Uncle, you

would go to Mr. ----'s, to choose the cloth for the uniform."

"Very true: and so I will," said Mr. Gresham; "but we need not make a

whole morning's work, need we, of looking at a piece of cloth? Cannot we

see a uniform and a cathedral both in one morning?"

They went first to the cathedral. Hal's head was too full of the uniform

to take any notice of the painted window, which immediately caught Ben's

unembarrassed attention. He looked at the large stained figures on the

Gothic window; and he observed their colored shadows on the floor and

walls.

Mr. Gresham, who perceived that he was eager on all subjects to gain

information, took this opportunity of telling him several things about

the lost art of painting on glass, Gothic arches, etc., which Hal

thought extremely tiresome.

"Come! come! we shall be late, indeed," said Hal; "surely you've looked

long enough, Ben, at this blue and red window."

"I'm only thinking about these colored shadows," said Ben.

"I can show you, when we go home, Ben," said his uncle, "an entertaining

paper on such shadows."

"Hark!" cried Ben, "did you hear that noise?"

They all listened, and heard a bird singing in the cathedral.

"It's our old robin, sir," said the lad who had opened the cathedral

door for them.

"Yes," said Mr. Gresham, "there he is, boys--look--perched upon the

organ; he often sits there, and sings whilst the organ is playing."

"And," continued the lad who showed the cathedral, "he has lived here

this many winters; they say he is fifteen years old; and he is so tame,

poor fellow, that if I had a bit of bread he'd come down and feed in my

hand."

"I've a bit of bun here," cried Ben, joyfully, producing the remains of

the bun which Hal, but an hour before, would have thrown away. "Pray let

us see the poor robin eat out of your hand."

The lad crumbled the bun, and called to the robin, who fluttered and

chirped, and seemed rejoiced at the sight of the bread; but yet he did

not come down from his pinnacle on the organ.

"He is afraid of _us_," said Ben; "he is not used to eat before

strangers, I suppose."

"Ah, no, Sir," said the young man, with a deep sigh, "that is not the

thing: he is used enough to eat afore company; time was, he'd have come

down for me, before ever so many fine folks, and have ate his crumbs out

of my hand, at my first call; but, poor fellow, it's not his fault now;

he does not know me now, Sir, since my accident, because of this great

black patch."

The young man put his hand to his right eye, which was covered with a

huge black patch.

Ben asked what _accident_ he meant; and the lad told him that, a few

weeks ago, he had lost the sight of his eye by the stroke of a stone,

which reached him as he was passing under the rocks of Clifton,

unluckily, when the workmen were blasting.

"I don't mind so much for myself, Sir," said the lad; "but I can't work

so well now, as I used to do before my accident, for my old mother, who

has had a stroke of the palsy; and I've a many little brothers and

sisters, not well able yet to get their own livelihood, though they be

as willing, as willing can be."

"Where does your mother live?" said Mr. Gresham.

"Hard by, Sir, just close to the church here: it was _her_ that always

had the showing of it to strangers, till she lost the use of her poor

limbs."

"Shall we, may we, go that way?--This is the house: is it not?" said

Ben, when they went out of the cathedral.

They went into the house: it was rather a hovel than a house; but, poor

as it was, it was as neat as misery could make it.

The old woman was sitting up in her wretched bed, winding worsted; four

meager, ill-clothed, pale children were all busy, some of them sticking

pins in paper for the pin-maker, and others sorting rags for the

paper-maker.

"What a horrid place it is!" said Hal, sighing; "I did not know there

were such shocking places in the world. I've often seen

terrible-looking, tumble-down places, as we drove through the town in

Mamma's carriage; but then I did not know who lived in them; and I never

saw the inside of any of them. It is very dreadful, indeed, to think

that people are forced to live in this way. I wish Mamma would send me

some more pocket-money, that I might do something for them. I had

half-a-crown; but," continued he, feeling in his pockets, "I'm afraid I

spent the last shilling of it this morning, upon those cakes that made

me sick. I wish I had my shilling now, I'd give it to _these poor

people_."

Ben, though he was all this time silent, was as sorry as his talkative

cousin, for all these poor people. But there was some difference between

the sorrow of these two boys.

Hal, after he was again seated in the hackney-coach, and had rattled

through the busy streets of Bristol for a few minutes, quite forgot the

spectacle of misery which he had seen; and the gay shops in Wine-street,

and the idea of his green and white uniform, wholly occupied his

imagination.

"Now for our uniforms!" cried he, as he jumped eagerly out of the coach,

when his uncle stopped at the woolen-draper's door.

"Uncle," said Ben, stopping Mr. Gresham before he got out of the

carriage, "I don't think a uniform is at all necessary for me. I'm very

much obliged to you, but I would rather not have one. I have a very good

coat--and I think it would be waste."

"Well, let me out of the carriage and we will see about it," said Mr.

Gresham "perhaps the sight of the beautiful green and white cloth, and

the epaulettes (have you ever considered the epaulettes?) may tempt you

to change your mind."

"Oh, no," said Ben, laughing; "I shall not change my mind."

The green cloth, and the white cloth, and the epaulettes, were produced,

to Hal's infinite satisfaction. His uncle took up a pen, and calculated

for a few minutes; then, showing the back of the letter, upon which he

was writing, to his nephews, "Cast up these sums, boys," said he, "and

tell me whether I am right."

"Ben, do you do it," said Hal, a little embarrassed; "I am not quick at

figures."

Ben _was_, and he went over his uncle's calculation very expeditiously.

"It is right, is it?" said Mr. Gresham.

"Yes, Sir, quite right."

"Then by this calculation, I find I could for less than half the money

your uniforms would cost, purchase for each of you boys a warm

great-coat, which you will want, I have a notion, this winter upon the

Downs."

"Oh, Sir," said Hal, with an alarmed look; "but it is not winter _yet_;

it is not cold weather yet. We sha'n't want great-coats _yet_."

"Don't you remember how cold we were, Hal, the day before yesterday, in

that sharp wind, when we were flying our kite upon the Downs?--and

winter will come, though it is not come yet; I am sure, I should like to

have a good warm great-coat very much," said Ben.

Mr. Gresham took six guineas out of his purse; and he placed three of

them before Hal, and three before Ben.

"Young gentlemen," said he, "I believe your uniforms would come to about

three guineas apiece. Now I will lay out this money for you just as you

please: Hal, what say you?"

"Why, Sir," said Hal, "a great-coat is a good thing, to be sure; and

then, after the great-coat, as you said it would only cost half as much

as the uniform, there would be some money to spare, would not there?"

"Yes, my dear, about five-and-twenty shillings."

"Five-and-twenty shillings! I could buy and do a great many things, to

be sure, with five-and-twenty shillings; but then, _the thing is_, I

must go without the uniform, if I have the great-coat."

"Certainly," said his uncle.

"Ah!" said Hal, sighing as he looked at the epaulettes, "Uncle, if you

would not be displeased if I choose the uniform--"

"I shall not be displeased at your choosing whatever you like best,"

said Mr. Gresham.

"Well, then, thank you, Sir, I think I had better have the uniform,

because if I have not the uniform now directly it will be of no use to

me, as the archery meeting is the week after next, you know; and as to

the great-coat, perhaps, between this time and the _very_ cold weather,

which, perhaps, won't be till Christmas, Papa will buy a great-coat for

me; and I'll ask Mamma to give me some pocket-money to give away, and

she will perhaps."

To all this conclusive conditional reasoning, which depended upon

_perhaps_, three times repeated, Mr. Gresham made no reply; but he

immediately bought the uniform for Hal, and desired that it should be

sent to Lady Diana Sweepstakes' sons' tailor, to be made up. The measure

of Hal's happiness was now complete.

"And how am I to lay out the three guineas for you, Ben?" said Mr.

Gresham. "Speak, what do you wish for first?"

"A great-coat, Uncle, if you please."

Mr. Gresham bought the coat; and after it was paid for, five-and-twenty

shillings of Ben's three guineas remained.

"What's next, my boy?" said his uncle.

"Arrows, Uncle, if you please: three arrows."

"My dear, I promised you a bow and arrows."

"No, Uncle, you only said a bow."

"Well, I meant a bow and arrows. I'm glad you are so exact, however. It

is better to claim less than more than what is promised. The three

arrows you shall have. But go on: how shall I dispose of these

five-and-twenty shillings for you?"

"In clothes, if you will be so good, Uncle, for that poor boy, who has

the great black patch on his eye."

"I always believed," said Mr. Gresham, shaking hands with Ben, "that

economy and generosity were the best friends, instead of being enemies,

as some silly, extravagant people would have us think them. Choose the

poor blind boy's coat, my dear nephew, and pay for it. There's no

occasion for my praising you about the matter; your best reward is in

your own mind, child; and you want no other, or I'm mistaken. Now jump

into the coach, boys, and let's be off. We shall be late, I'm afraid,"

continued he, as the coach drove on; "but I must let you stop, Ben, with

your goods, at the poor boy's door."

When they came to the house, Mr. Gresham opened the coach door, and Ben

jumped out with his parcel under his arm.

"Stay, stay! you must take me with you," said his pleased uncle; "I like

to see people made happy as well as you do."

"And so do I too!" said Hal; "let me come with you. I almost wish my

uniform was not gone to the tailor's, so I do."

And when he saw the look of delight and gratitude with which the poor

boy received the clothes which Ben gave him; and when he heard the

mother and children thank him, Hal sighed, and said, "Well, I hope Mamma

will give me some more pocket-money soon."

Upon his return home, however, the sight of the _famous_ bow and arrow

which Lady Diana Sweepstakes had sent him, recalled to his imagination

all the joys of his green and white uniform; and he no longer wished

that it had not been sent to the tailor's.

"But I don't understand, cousin Hal," said little Patty, "why you call

this bow a _famous_ bow; you say _famous_ very often; and I don't know

exactly what it means--a _famous_ uniform--_famous_ doings--I remember

you said there are to be _famous_ doings the first of September upon the

Downs--What does _famous_ mean?"

"Oh, why _famous_ means--Now don't you know what _famous_ means? It

means--it is a word that people say--It is the fashion to say it. It

means--it means _famous_."

Patty laughed, and said, "_This_ does not explain it to me."

"No," said Hal, "nor can it be explained: if you don't understand it,

that's not my fault: everybody but little children, I suppose,

understands it; but there's no explaining _those sorts_ of words, if you

don't _take them_ at once. There's to be _famous_ doings upon the Downs

the first of September; that is, grand, fine. In short, what does it

signify talking any longer, Patty, about the matter? Give me my bow; for

I must go upon the Downs, and practise."

Ben accompanied him with the bow and the three arrows which his uncle

had now given to him; and every day these two boys went out upon the

Downs, and practised shooting with indefatigable perseverance. Where

equal pains are taken, success is usually found to be pretty nearly

equal. Our two archers, by constant practice, became expert marksmen;

and before the day of trial they were so exactly matched in point of

dexterity, that it was scarcely possible to decide which was superior.

The long-expected first of September at length arrived.

"What sort of a day is it?" was the first question that was asked by Hal

and Ben, the moment that they awakened.

The sun shone bright; but there was a sharp and high wind.

"Ha!" said Ben, "I shall be glad of my good great-coat to-day; for I've

a notion it will be rather cold upon the Downs, especially when we are

standing still, as we must, while all the people are shooting."

"Oh, never mind! I don't think I shall feel it cold at all," said Hal,

as he dressed himself in his new white and green uniform: and he viewed

himself with much complacency.

"Good morning to you, Uncle; how do you do?" said he, in a voice of

exultation, when he entered the breakfast-room.

How do you do? seemed rather to mean, How do you like me in my uniform?

And his uncle's cool, "Very well, I thank you, Hal," disappointed him,

as it seemed only to say, "Your uniform makes no difference in my

opinion of you."

Even little Patty went on eating her breakfast much as usual, and talked

of the pleasure of walking with her father to the Downs, and of all the

little things which interested her; so that Hal's epaulettes were not

the principal object in any one's imagination but his own.

"Papa," said Patty, "as we go up the hill where there is so much red

mud, I must take care to pick my way nicely; and I must hold up my

frock, as you desired me; and perhaps you will be so good, if I am not

troublesome, to lift me over the very bad place where there are no

stepping-stones. My ankle is entirely well, and I'm glad of that, or

else I should not be able to walk so far as the Downs. How good you were

to me, Ben, when I was in pain, the day I sprained my ankle! You played

at jack-straws, and at cat's-cradle with me. Oh, that puts me in

mind--Here are your gloves, which I asked you that night to let me mend.

I've been a great while about them, but are not they very neatly mended,

Papa? Look at the sewing."

"I am not a very good judge of sewing, my dear little girl," said Mr.

Gresham, examining the work with a close and scrupulous eye; "but in my

opinion, here is one stitch that is rather too long; the white teeth are

not quite even."

"O Papa, I'll take out that long tooth in a minute," said Patty

laughing; "I did not think that you would have observed it so soon."

"I would not have you trust to my blindness," said her father, stroking

her head fondly: "I observe everything. I observe, for instance, that

you are a grateful little girl, and that you are glad to be of use to

those who have been kind to you; and for this I forgive you the long

stitch."

"But it's out, it's out, Papa," said Patty; "and the next time your

gloves want mending, Ben, I'll mend them better."

"They are very nice, I think," said Ben, drawing them on; "and I am much

obliged to you. I was just wishing I had a pair of gloves to keep my

fingers warm to-day, for I never can shoot well when my hands are

numbed. Look, Hal--you know how ragged these gloves were; you said they

were good for nothing but to throw away; now look, there's not a hole in

them," said he, spreading his fingers.

"Now, is it not very extraordinary," said Hal to himself, "that they

should go on so long talking about an old pair of gloves, without

scarcely saying a word about my new uniform? Well, the young Sweepstakes

and Lady Diana will talk enough about it; that's one comfort."

"Is not it time to think of setting out, Sir?" said Hal to his uncle;

"the company, you know, are to meet at the Ostrich at twelve, and the

race to begin at one, and Lady Diana's horses, I know, were ordered to

be at the door at ten."

Mr. Stephen, the butler, here interrupted the hurrying young gentleman

in his calculations. "There's a poor lad, Sir, below, with a great black

patch on his right eye, who is come from Bristol, and wants to speak a

word with the young gentlemen, if you please. I told him they were just

going out with you, but he says he won't detain them above half a

minute."

"Show him up, show him up," said Mr. Gresham.

"But I suppose," said Hal, with a sigh, "that Stephen mistook, when he

said the young _gentlemen_; he only wants to see Ben, I dare say; I'm

sure he has no reason to want to see me."

"Here he comes--O Ben, he is dressed in the new coat you gave him,"

whispered Hal, who was really a good-natured boy, though extravagant.

"How much better he looks than he did in the ragged coat! Ah! he looked

at you first, Ben; and well he may!"

The boy bowed without any cringing servility, but with an open, decent

freedom in his manner, which expressed that he had been obliged, but

that he knew his young benefactor was not thinking of the obligation. He

made as little distinction as possible between his bows to the two

cousins.

"As I was sent with a message, by the clerk of our parish, to Redland

Chapel, out on the Downs, to-day, Sir," said he to Mr. Gresham, "knowing

your house lay in my way, my mother, Sir, bid me call, and make bold to

offer the young gentlemen two little worsted balls that she had worked

for them," continued the lad, pulling out of his pocket two worsted

balls worked in green and orange colored stripes: "they are but poor

things, Sir, she bid me say, to look at; but considering she had but one

hand to work with, and _that_ her left hand, you'll not despise 'em, we

hopes."

He held the balls to Ben and Hal. "They are both alike, gentlemen," said

he; "if you'll be pleased to take 'em, they are better than they look,

for they bound higher than your head; I cut the cork round for the

inside myself, which was all I could do."

"They are nice balls, indeed; we are much obliged to you," said the

boys, as they received them, and they proved them immediately. The balls

struck the floor with a delightful sound, and rebounded higher than Mr.

Gresham's head. Little Patty clapped her hands joyfully; but now a

thundering double rap at the door was heard.

"The Master Sweepstakes, Sir," said Stephen, "are come for Master Hal;

they say that all the young gentlemen who have archery uniforms are to

walk together in a body, I think they say, Sir; and they are to parade

along the Well-Walk, they desired me to say, Sir, with a drum and fife,

and so up the hill, by Prince's Place, and all to go upon the Downs

together, to the place of meeting. I am not sure I'm right, Sir, for

both the young gentlemen spoke at once, and the wind is very high at the

street door, so that I could not well make out all they said; but I

believe this is the sense of it."

"Yes, yes," said Hal, eagerly, "it's all right; I know that is just what

was settled the day I dined at Lady Diana's; and Lady Diana and a great

party of gentlemen are to ride--"

"Well, that is nothing to the purpose," interrupted Mr. Gresham. "Don't

keep the Master Sweepstakes waiting; decide--do you choose to go with

them, or with us?"

"Sir--Uncle--Sir, you know, since all the _uniforms_ agreed to go

together--"

"Off with you then, Mr. Uniform, if you mean to go," said Mr. Gresham.

Hal ran downstairs in such a hurry that he forgot his bow and arrows.

Ben discovered this when he went to fetch his own; and the lad from

Bristol, who had been ordered by Mr. Gresham to eat his breakfast before

he proceeded to Redland Chapel, heard Ben talking about his cousin's bow

and arrows.

"I know," said Ben, "he will be sorry not to have his bow with him,

because here are the green knots tied to it, to match his cockade; and

he said that the boys were all to carry their bows as part of the

show."

"If you'll give me leave, sir," said the poor Bristol lad, "I shall have

plenty of time; and I'll run down to the Well-Walk after the young

gentleman, and take him his bow and arrows."

"Will you? I shall be much obliged to you," said Ben; and away went the

boy with the bow that was ornamented with green ribands.

The public walk leading to the Wells was full of company. The windows of

all the houses in St. Vincent's parade were crowded with well-dressed

ladies, who were looking out in expectation of the archery procession.

Parties of gentlemen and ladies, and a motley crowd of spectators, were

seen moving backwards and forwards under the rocks, on the opposite side

of the water. A barge, with colored streamers flying, was waiting to

take up a party, who were going upon the water. The bargemen rested upon

their oars, and gazed with broad faces of curiosity on the busy scene

that appeared upon the public walk.

The archers and archeresses were now drawn up on the flags under the

semi-circular piazza just before Mrs. Yearsley's library. A little band

of children, who had been mustered by Lady Diana Sweepstakes' _spirited

exertions_, closed the procession. They were now all in readiness. The

drummer only waited for her ladyship's signal; and the archers' corps

only waited for her ladyship's word of command to march.

"Where are your bow and arrows, my little man?" said her ladyship to

Hal, as she reviewed her Lilliputian regiment. "You can't march, man,

without your arms!"

Hal had dispatched a messenger for his forgotten bow, but the messenger

returned not; he looked from side to side in great distress. "Oh,

there's my bow coming, I declare!" cried he; "look, I see the bow and

the ribands; look now, between the trees, Charles Sweepstakes, on the

Hot-well Walk; it is coming."

"But you've kept us all waiting a confounded time," said his impatient

friend.

"It is that good-natured poor fellow from Bristol, I protest, that has

brought it to me; I'm sure I don't deserve it from him," said Hal to

himself, when he saw the lad with the black patch on his eye running

quite out of breath towards him with his bow and arrows.

"Fall back, my good friend, fall back," said the military lady, as soon

as he had delivered the bow to Hal: "I mean stand out of the way, for

your great patch cuts no figure amongst us. Don't follow so close, now,

as if you belonged to us, pray."

The poor boy had no ambition to partake the triumph; he _fell back_ as

soon as he understood the meaning of the lady's words. The drum beat,

the fife played, the archers marched, the spectators admired. Hal

stepped proudly, and felt as if the eyes of the whole universe were upon

his epaulettes, or upon the facings of his uniform; whilst all the time

he was considered only as part of a show. The walk appeared much shorter

than usual; and he was extremely sorry that Lady Diana, when they were

half way up the hill leading to Prince's Place, mounted her horse,

because the road was dirty, and all the gentlemen and ladies who

accompanied her, followed her example. "We can leave the children to

walk, you know," said she to the gentleman who helped her to mount her

horse. "I must call to some of them, though, and leave orders where they

are to _join_."

She beckoned: and Hal, who was foremost, and proud to show his alacrity,

ran on to receive her ladyship's orders. Now, as we have before

observed, it was a sharp and windy day; and though Lady Diana

Sweepstakes was actually speaking to him, and looking at him, he could

not prevent his nose from wanting to be blown; he pulled out his

handkerchief, and out rolled the new ball, which had been given to him

just before he left home, and which, according to his usual careless

habits, he had stuffed into his pocket in a hurry. "Oh, my new ball!"

cried he, as he ran after it. As he stooped to pick it up, he let go his

hat, which he had hitherto held on with anxious care; for the hat,

though it had a fine green and white cockade, had no band or string

round it. The string, as we may recollect, our wasteful hero had used in

spinning his top. The hat was too large for his head without this band;

a sudden gust of wind blew it off--Lady Diana's horse started and

reared. She was a _famous_ horse-woman, and sat him to the admiration of

all beholders; but there was a puddle of red clay and water in this

spot, and her ladyship's uniform-habit was a sufferer by the accident.

"Careless brat!" said she. "Why can't he keep his hat upon his head?"

In the meantime, the wind blew the hat down the hill, and Hal ran after

it, amidst the laughter of his kind friends, the young Sweepstakes, and

the rest of the little regiment. The hat was lodged at length, upon a

bank. Hal pursued it: he thought this bank was hard. But, alas! the

moment he set his foot upon it, the foot sank. He tried to draw it back,

his other foot slipped, and he fell prostrate, in his green and white

uniform, into the treacherous bed of red mud. His companions, who had

halted upon the top of the hill, stood laughing spectators of his

misfortune.

It happened that the poor boy with the black patch upon his eye, who had

been ordered by Lady Diana to "_fall back_" and to "_keep at a

distance_," was now coming up the hill; and the moment he saw our fallen

hero, he hastened to his assistance. He dragged poor Hal, who was a

deplorable spectacle, out of the red mud; the obliging mistress of a

lodging-house, as soon as she understood that the young gentleman was

nephew to Mr. Gresham, to whom she had formerly let her house, received

Hal, covered as he was with dirt.

The poor Bristol lad hastened to Mr. Gresham's for clean stockings and

shoes for Hal. He was unwilling to give up his uniform; it was rubbed

and rubbed, and a spot here and there was washed out; and he kept

continually repeating, "When it's dry it will all brush off; when it's

dry it will all brush off, won't it?" But soon the fear of being too

late at the archery meeting began to balance the dread of appearing in

his stained habiliments; and he now as anxiously repeated, while the

woman held the wet coat to the fire, "Oh, I shall be too late; indeed I

shall be too late; make haste; it will never dry: hold it nearer--nearer

to the fire. I shall lose my turn to shoot. Oh, give me the coat; I

don't mind how it is, if I can but get it on."

Holding it nearer and nearer to the fire dried it quickly, to be sure,

but it shrank it also, so that it was no easy matter to get the coat on

again.

However, Hal, who did not see the red splashes, which, in spite of all

the operations, were too visible upon his shoulders and upon the skirts

of his white coat behind, was pretty well satisfied to observe that

there was not one spot upon the facings. "Nobody," said he, "will take

notice of my coat behind, I dare say. I 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?"

"Oh, 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 on 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. "Oh, 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 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 eye presently,

I've a notion."

Hal looked round in search of better friends. "Oh, where's my

uncle?--where's Ben," said he. He was in such confusion, that, amongst

the number of faces, he 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 these 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 endeavoring to refute his uncle's opinion, that

the waste of the whipcord 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 should like to see. Shoot away, Hal; but first,

understand our laws: we settled them before you came on 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 regulation, 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 hand 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 whipcord.

"The everlasting whipcord, 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 whipcord, exclaimed, "How _lucky_ this

whipcord has been to you, Ben!"

"It is _lucky_ perhaps you mean, that he took care of it," said Mr.

Gresham.

"Ay," said Hal, "very true; he might well say, 'Waste not, want not'; it

is a good thing to have two strings to one's bow."

382

Only a few of those who have written

immediately for children have produced work

distinguished by the same high artistic

qualities found in the work of writers for

readers of mature minds. Of these few one is

Mrs. Juliana Horatia Ewing (1841-1885). Edmund

Gosse has said that of the numerous English

authors who have written successfully on or for

children only two "have shown a clear

recollection of the mind of healthy childhood

itself. . . . Mrs. Ewing in prose and Mr.

Stevenson in verse have sat down with them

without disturbing their fancies, and have

looked into the world of 'make-believe' with

the children's own eyes." They might lead, he

thinks, "a long romp in the attic when nurse

was out shopping, and not a child in the house

should know that a grown-up person had been

there." This is very high praise indeed and it

suggests the reason for the immense popularity

of "Jackanapes," "The Story of a Short Life,"

"Daddy Darwin's Dovecot,"

"Lob-Lie-by-the-Fire," "Mrs. Overtheway's

Remembrances," and many another of the stories

that delighted young readers when they first

appeared in the pages of _Aunt Judy's

Magazine_. The preeminence of "Jackanapes"

among these many splendid stories may at least

partly be accounted for by the fact that it

grew out of the heat of a great conviction

about life. Early in 1879 the news reached

England of the death of the Prince Imperial of

France, who fell while serving with the English

forces in South Africa during the war with the

Zulus. Perhaps the present-day reader needs to

be reminded that the Prince Imperial was the

only son of the ex-Empress Eugenie, who, with

her husband Napoleon III had taken refuge in

England after the loss of the French throne at

the close of the Franco-Prussian War in 1871.

Napoleon's death shortly after made the young

prince a central figure in all considerations

of the possible recouping of the fortunes of

the Napoleonic dynasty. Full of the spirit of

adventure and courage, he had joined the

English forces to learn something of the

soldier's profession. Unexpectedly ambushed,

the prince was killed while the young officer

who had been assigned to look after him escaped

unhurt. There immediately ensued a wide

discussion of the action of this young officer

in saving himself and, apparently, leaving the

Prince to his fate. Now, Mrs. Ewing was a

soldier's wife and believed in the standard of

honor which would naturally be reflected in

military circles on such an incident. But

hearing the rule of "each man for himself" so

often emphasized in other circles, she was

moved to write the protest against such a view

which forms the central motive in "Jackanapes."

There is no argument, however, no undue

moralizing. With the finest art she embodies

that central doctrine in a great faith that the

saving of a man's life lies in his readiness to

lose it. It was Satan who said, "Skin for skin,

yea, all that a man hath will he give for his

life." The pathos in the story is naturally

inherent in the situation and is never

emphasized for its own sake. Mrs. Ewing was

always a thoroughly conscientious artist. She

believed that the laws of artistic composition

laid down by Ruskin in his _Elements of

Drawing_ applied with equal force to

literature. "For example," says her brother in

an article on her methods, "in the story of

'Jackanapes' the law of Principality is very

clearly demonstrated. Jackanapes is the one

important figure. The doting aunt, the

weak-kneed but faithful Tony Johnson, the

irascible general, the punctilious postman, the

loyal boy-trumpeter, the silent major, and the

ever-dear, faithful, loving Lollo,--all and

each of them conspire with one consent to

reflect forth the glory and beauty of the

noble, generous, recklessly brave, and gently

tender spirit of the hero 'Jackanapes.'" As to

the laws of repetition and contrast: "Again and

again is the village green introduced to the

imagination. It is a picture of eternal peace

and quietness, amid the tragedies of our

ever-changing life which are enacted around

it."

JACKANAPES

JULIANA HORATIA EWING

CHAPTER I

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,

Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay,

The midnight brought the signal sound of strife,

The morn the marshaling in arms--the day

Battle's magnificently stern array!

The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent

The earth is covered thick with other clay,

Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent,

Rider and horse,--friend, foe,--in one red burial blent.

Their praise is hymn'd by loftier harps than mine:

Yet one would I select from that proud throng.

* * * * *

To thee, to thousands, of whom each

And one and all a ghastly gap did make

In his own kind and kindred, whom to teach

Forgetfulness were mercy for their sake;

The Archangel's trump, not glory's, must awake

Those whom they thirst for.

--BYRON

Two Donkeys and the Geese lived on the Green, and all other residents of

any social standing lived in houses round it. The houses had no names.

Everybody's address was "The Green," but the Postman and the people of

the place knew where each family lived. As to the rest of the world,

what has one to do with the rest of the world when he is safe at home on

his own Goose Green? Moreover, if a stranger did come on any lawful

business, he might ask his way at the shop. Most of the inhabitants were

long-lived, early deaths (like that of the little Miss Jessamine) being

exceptional; and most of the old people were proud of their age,

especially the sexton, who would be ninety-nine come Martinmas, and

whose father remembered a man who had carried arrows, as a boy, for the

battle of Flodden Field. The Gray Goose and the big Miss Jessamine were

the only elderly persons who kept their ages secret. Indeed, Miss

Jessamine never mentioned any one's age, or recalled the exact year in

which anything had happened. She said that she had been taught that it

was bad manners to do so "in a mixed assembly." The Gray Goose also

avoided dates; but this was partly because her brain, though

intelligent, was not mathematical, and computation was beyond her. She

never got farther than "last Michaelmas," "the Michaelmas before that,"

and "the Michaelmas before the Michaelmas before that." After this her

head, which was small, became confused, and she said, "Ga, ga!" and

changed the subject.

But she remembered the little Miss Jessamine, the Miss Jessamine with

the "conspicuous hair." Her aunt, the big Miss Jessamine, said it was

her only fault. The hair was clean, was abundant, was glossy; but do

what you would with it, it never looked quite like other people's. And

at church, after Saturday night's wash, it shone like the best brass

fender after a spring cleaning. In short, it was conspicuous, which does

not become a young woman, especially in church.

Those were worrying times altogether, and the Green was used for strange

purposes. A political meeting was held on it with the village Cobbler in

the chair, and a speaker who came by stage-coach from the town, where

they had wrecked the bakers' shops, and discussed the price of bread. He

came a second time by stage; but the people had heard something about

him in the meanwhile, and they did not keep him on the Green. They took

him to the pond and tried to make him swim, which he could not do, and

the whole affair was very disturbing to all quiet and peaceable fowls.

After which another man came, and preached sermons on the Green, and a

great many people went to hear him; for those were "trying times," and

folk ran hither and thither for comfort. And then what did they do but

drill the ploughboys on the Green, to get them ready to fight the

French, and teach them the goose-step! However, that came to an end at

last; for Bony was sent to St. Helena, and the ploughboys were sent back

to the plough.

Everybody lived in fear of Bony in those days, especially the naughty

children, who were kept in order during the day by threats of "Bony

shall have you," and who had nightmares about him in the dark. They

thought he was an Ogre in a cocked hat. The Gray Goose thought he was a

Fox, and that all the men of England were going out in red coats to hunt

him. It was no use to argue the point; for she had a very small head,

and when one idea got into it there was no room for another.

Besides, the Gray Goose never saw Bony, nor did the children, which

rather spoilt the terror of him, so that the Black Captain became more

effective as a Bogy with hardened offenders. The Gray Goose remembered

_his_ coming to the place perfectly. What he came for she did not

pretend to know. It was all part and parcel of the war and bad times. He

was called the Black Captain, partly because of himself and partly

because of his wonderful black mare. Strange stories were afloat of how

far and how fast that mare could go when her master's hand was on her

mane and he whispered in her ear. Indeed, some people thought we might

reckon ourselves very lucky if we were not out of the frying-pan into

the fire, and had not got a certain well-known Gentleman of the Road to

protect us against the French. But that, of course, made him none the

less useful to the Johnsons' Nurse when the little Miss Johnsons were

naughty.

"You leave off crying this minnit, Miss Jane, or I'll give you right

away to that horrid wicked officer. Jemima! just look out o' the windy,

if you please, and see if the Black Cap'n's a-coming with his horse to

carry away Miss Jane."

And there, sure enough, the Black Captain strode by, with his sword

clattering as if it did not know whose head to cut off first. But he did

not call for Miss Jane that time. He went on to the Green, where he came

so suddenly upon the eldest Master Johnson, sitting in a puddle on

purpose, in his new nankeen skeleton suit, that the young gentleman

thought judgment had overtaken him at last, and abandoned himself to the

howlings of despair. His howls were redoubled when he was clutched from

behind and swung over the Black Captain's shoulder; but in five minutes

his tears were stanched, and he was playing with the officer's

accoutrements. All of which the Gray Goose saw with her own eyes, and

heard afterwards that that bad boy had been whining to go back to the

Black Captain ever since, which showed how hardened he was, and that

nobody but Bonaparte himself could be expected to do him any good.

But those were "trying times." It was bad enough when the pickle of a

large and respectable family cried for the Black Captain; when it came

to the little Miss Jessamine crying for him, one felt that the sooner

the French landed and had done with it, the better.

The big Miss Jessamine's objection to him was that he was a soldier; and

this prejudice was shared by all the Green. "A soldier," as the speaker

from the town had observed, "is a bloodthirsty, unsettled sort of a

rascal, that the peaceable, home-loving, bread-winning citizen can never

conscientiously look on as a brother till he has beaten his sword into a

ploughshare and his spear into a pruning-hook."

On the other hand, there was some truth in what the Postman (an old

soldier) said in reply,--that the sword has to cut a way for us out of

many a scrape into which our bread-winners get us when they drive their

ploughshares into fallows that don't belong to them. Indeed, whilst our

most peaceful citizens were prosperous chiefly by means of cotton, of

sugar, and of the rise and fall of the money-market (not to speak of

such salable matters as opium, firearms, and "black ivory"),

disturbances were apt to arise in India, Africa, and other outlandish

parts, where the fathers of our domestic race were making fortunes for

their families. And for that matter, even on the Green, we did not wish

the military to leave us in the lurch, so long as there was any fear

that the French were coming.[3]

To let the Black Captain have little Miss Jessamine, however, was

another matter. Her aunt would not hear of it; and then, to crown all,

it appeared that the Captain's father did not think the young lady good

enough for his son. Never was any affair more clearly brought to a

conclusion.

But those were "trying times"; and one moonlight night, when the Gray

Goose was sound asleep upon one leg, the Green was rudely shaken under

her by the thud of a horse's feet. "Ga, ga!" said she, putting down the

other leg and running away.

By the time she returned to her place not a thing was to be seen or

heard. The horse had passed like a shot. But next day there was hurrying

and scurrying and cackling at a very early hour, all about the white

house with the black beams, where Miss Jessamine lived. And when the sun

was so low and the shadows so long on the grass that the Gray Goose felt

ready to run away at the sight of her own neck, little Miss Jane Johnson

and her "particular friend" Clarinda sat under the big oak tree on the

Green, and Jane pinched Clarinda's little finger till she found that she

could keep a secret, and then she told her in confidence that she had

heard from Nurse and Jemima that Miss Jessamine's niece had been a very

naughty girl, and that that horrid wicked officer had come for her on

his black horse and carried her right away.

"Will she never come back?" asked Clarinda.

"Oh, no!" said Jane, decidedly. "Bony never brings people back."

"Not never no more?" sobbed Clarinda, for she was weak-minded, and could

not bear to think that Bony never, never let naughty people go home

again.

Next day Jane had heard more.

"He has taken her to a Green."

"A Goose Green?" asked Clarinda.

"No. A Gretna Green. Don't ask so many questions, child," said Jane,

who, having no more to tell, gave herself airs.

Jane was wrong on one point. Miss Jessamine's niece did come back, and

she and her husband were forgiven. The Gray Goose remembered it well; it

was Michaelmas-tide, the Michaelmas before the Michaelmas before the

Michaelmas--but, ga, ga! What does the date matter? It was autumn,

harvest-time, and everybody was so busy prophesying and praying about

the crops, that the young couple wandered through the lanes, and got

blackberries for Miss Jessamine's celebrated crab and blackberry jam,

and made guys of themselves with bryony wreaths, and not a soul troubled

his head about them, except the children and the Postman. The children

dogged the Black Captain's footsteps (his bubble reputation as an Ogre

having burst) clamoring for a ride on the black mare. And the Postman

would go somewhat out of his postal way to catch the Captain's dark eye,

and show that he had not forgotten how to salute an officer.

But they were "trying times." One afternoon the black mare was stepping

gently up and down the grass, with her head at her master's shoulder,

and as many children crowded on to her silky back as if she had been an

elephant in a menagerie; and the next afternoon she carried him away,

sword and _sabre-tache_ clattering war music at her side, and the old

Postman waiting for them, rigid with salutation, at the four

cross-roads.

War and bad times! It was a hard winter; and the big Miss Jessamine and

the little Miss Jessamine (but she was Mrs. Black-Captain now) lived

very economically, that they might help their poorer neighbors. They

neither entertained nor went into company; but the young lady always

went up the village as far as the _George and Dragon_, for air and

exercise when the London Mail[4] came in.

One day (it was a day in the following June) it came in earlier than

usual, and the young lady was not there to meet it.

But a crowd soon gathered round the _George and Dragon_, gaping to see

the Mail Coach dressed with flowers and oak-leaves, and the guard

wearing a laurel wreath over and above his royal livery. The ribbons

that decked the horses were stained and flecked with the warmth and foam

of the pace at which they had come, for they had pressed on with the

news of Victory.

Miss Jessamine was sitting with her niece under the oak tree on the

Green, when the Postman put a newspaper silently into her hand. Her

niece turned quickly,--

"Is there news?"

"Don't agitate yourself, my dear," said her aunt. "I will read it aloud,

and then we can enjoy it together; a far more comfortable method, my

love, than when you go up the village, and come home out of breath,

having snatched half the news as you run."

"I am all attention, dear aunt," said the little lady, clasping her

hands tightly on her lap.

Then Miss Jessamine read aloud,--she was proud of her reading,--and the

old soldier stood at attention behind her, with such a blending of pride

and pity on his face as it was strange to see:--

"Downing Street

_June_ 22, 1815, 1 A. M."

"That's one in the morning," gasped the Postman; "beg your pardon, mum."

But though he apologized, he could not refrain from echoing here and

there a weighty word: "Glorious victory,"--"Two hundred pieces of

artillery,"--"Immense quantity of ammunition,"--and so forth.

"The loss of the British Army upon this

occasion has unfortunately been most severe. It

had not been possible to make out a return of

the killed and wounded when Major Percy left

headquarters. The names of the officers killed

and wounded, as far as they can be collected,

are annexed.

I have the honor--"

"The list, aunt! Read the list!"

"My love--my darling--let us go in and--"

"No. Now! now!"

To one thing the supremely afflicted are entitled in their sorrow,--to

be obeyed; and yet it is the last kindness that people commonly will do

them. But Miss Jessamine did. Steadying her voice, as best she might,

she read on; and the old soldier stood bareheaded to hear that first

Roll of the Dead at Waterloo, which began with the Duke of Brunswick and

ended with Ensign Brown.[5] Five-and-thirty British Captains fell asleep

that day on the Bed of Honor, and the Black Captain slept among them.

* * * * *

There are killed and wounded by war of whom no returns reach Downing

Street.

Three days later, the Captain's wife had joined him, and Miss Jessamine

was kneeling by the cradle of their orphan son, a purple-red morsel of

humanity with conspicuously golden hair.

"Will he live, Doctor?"

"Live? God bless my soul, ma'am. Look at him! The young Jackanapes!"

CHAPTER II

And he wandered away and away

With Nature, the dear old Nurse.

--LONGFELLOW