CHAPTER X

_The madness from above.--The bow of Ulysses.--The slaughter.--The

conclusion._

When daylight appeared, a tumultuous concourse of the suitors again

filled the hall; and some wondered, and some inquired what meant that

glittering store of armour and lances which lay on heaps by the entry

of the door; and [to] all that asked Telemachus made reply, that he

had caused them to be taken down to cleanse them of the rust and of

the stain which they had contracted by lying so long unused, even ever

since his father went for Troy; and with that answer their minds were

easily satisfied. So to their feasting and vain rioting again they

fell. Ulysses by Telemachus's order had a seat and a mess assigned him

in the door-way, and he had his eye ever on the lances. And it moved

gall in some of the great ones there present, to have their feast

still dulled with the society of that wretched beggar as they deemed

him, and they reviled and spurned at him with their feet. Only there

was one Philætius, who had something a better nature than the rest,

that spake kindly to him, and had his age in respect. He coming up

to Ulysses, took him by the hand with a kind of fear, as if touched

exceedingly with imagination of his great worth, and said thus to him,

"Hail! father stranger! my brows have sweat to see the injuries which

you have received, and my eyes have broke forth in tears, when I have

only thought that such being oftentimes the lot of worthiest men, to

this plight Ulysses may be reduced, and that he now may wander from

place to place as you do; for such who are compelled by need to range

here and there, and have no firm home to fix their feet upon, God

keeps them in this earth, as under water; so are they kept down and

depressed. And a dark thread is sometimes spun in the fates of kings."

At this bare likening of the beggar to Ulysses, Minerva from heaven

made the suitors for foolish joy to go mad, and roused them to such a

laughter as would never stop, they laughed without power of ceasing,

their eyes stood full of tears for violent joys; but fears and

horrible misgivings succeeded: and one among them stood up and

prophesied: "Ah, wretches!" he said, "what madness from heaven has

seized you, that you can laugh? see you not that your meat drops

blood? a night, like the night of death, wraps you about, you shriek

without knowing it; your eyes thrust forth tears; the fixed walls, and

the beam that bears the whole house up, fall blood; ghosts choak up

the entry; full is the hall with apparitions, of murdered men; under

your feet is hell; the sun falls from heaven and it is midnight at

noon." But like men whom the gods had infatuated to their destruction,

they mocked at his fears, and Eurymachus said, "This man is surely

mad, conduct him forth into the market-place, set him in the light,

for he dreams that 'tis night within the house."

But Theoclymenus (for that was the prophet's name) whom Minerva had

graced with a prophetic spirit, that he foreseeing might avoid the

destruction which awaited them, answered and said: "Eurymachus, I will

not require a guide of thee for I have eyes and ears, the use of both

my feet, and a sane mind within me, and with these I will go forth of

the doors because I know the imminent evils which await all you that

stay, by reason of this poor guest who is a favourite with all the

gods." So saying he turned his back upon those inhospitable men, and

went away home, and never returned to the palace.

These words which he spoke were not unheard by Telemachus, who kept

still his eye upon his father, expecting fervently when he would give

the sign, which was to precede the slaughter of the suitors.

They dreaming of no such thing, fell sweetly to their dinner, as

joying in the great store of banquet which was heaped in full tables

about them; but there reigned not a bitterer banquet planet in all

heaven, than that which hung over them this day by secret destination

of Minerva.

There was a bow which Ulysses left when he went for Troy. It had lain

by since that time, out of use and unstrung, for no man had strength

to draw that bow, save Ulysses. So it had remained, as a monument of

the great strength of its master. This bow, with the quiver of arrows

belonging thereto, Telemachus had brought down from the armoury on the

last night along with the lances; and now Minerva, intending to do

Ulysses an honour, put it into the mind of Telemachus, to propose to

the suitors to try who was strongest to draw that bow; and he promised

that to the man who should be able to draw that bow, his mother should

be given in marriage; Ulysses's wife the prize to him who should bend

the bow of Ulysses.

There was great strife and emulation stirred up among the suitors at

those words of the prince Telemachus. And to grace her son's words,

and to confirm the promise which he had made, Penelope came and

shewed herself that day to the suitors; and Minerva made her that she

appeared never so comely in their sight as that day, and they were

inflamed with the beholding of so much beauty, proposed as the price

of so great manhood; and they cried out, that if all those heroes who

sailed to Colchos for the rich purchase of the golden-fleeced ram, had

seen earth's richer prize, Penelope, they would not have made their

voyage, but would have vowed their valours and their lives to her, for

she was at all parts faultless.

And she said, "The gods have taken my beauty from me, since my lord

went for Troy." But Telemachus willed his mother to depart and not be

present at that contest, for he said, "It may be, some rougher strife

shall chance of this, than may be expedient for a woman to witness."

And she retired, she and her maids, and left the hall.

Then the bow was brought into the midst, and a mark was set up by

prince Telemachus: and lord Antinous as the chief among the suitors

had the first offer, and he took the bow and fitting an arrow to the

string, he strove to bend it, but not with all his might and main

could he once draw together the ends of that tough bow; and when he

found how vain a thing it was to endeavour to draw Ulysses's bow,

he desisted, blushing for shame and for mere anger. Then Eurymachus

adventured, but with no better success; but as it had torn the hands

of Antinous, so did the bow tear and strain his hands, and marred his

delicate fingers, yet could he not once stir the string. Then called

he to the attendants to bring fat and unctuous matter, which melting

at the fire, he dipped the bow therein, thinking to supple it and make

it more pliable, but not with all the helps of art could he succeed in

making it to move. After him Liodes, and Amphinomus, and Polybus, and

Eurynomus, and Polyctorides, assayed their strength, but not any one

of them, or of the rest of those aspiring suitors, had any better

luck: yet not the meanest of them there but thought himself well

worthy of Ulysses's wife, though to shoot with Ulysses's bow the

completest champion among them was by proof found too feeble.

Then Ulysses prayed them that he might have leave to try; and

immediately a clamour was raised among the suitors, because of his

petition, and they scorned and swelled with rage at his presumption,

and that a beggar should seek to contend in a game of such noble

mastery. But Telemachus ordered that the bow should be given him, and

that he should have leave to try, since they had failed; "for," he

said, "the bow is mine, to give or to withhold:" and none durst

gainsay the prince.

Then Ulysses gave a sign to his son, and he commanded the doors of the

hall to be made fast, and all wondered at his words, but none could

divine the cause. And Ulysses took the bow into his hands, and before

he essayed to bend it, he surveyed it at all parts, to see whether,

by long lying by, it had contracted any stiffness which hindered the

drawing; and as he was busied in the curious surveying of his bow,

some of the suitors mocked him and said, "Past doubt this man is a

right cunning archer, and knows his craft well. See how he turns it

over and over, and looks into it, as if he could see through the

wood." And others said, "We wish some one would tell out gold into our

laps but for so long a time as he shall be in drawing of that string."

But when he had spent some little time in making proof of the bow, and

had found it to be in good plight, like as a harper in tuning of his

harp draws out a string, with such ease or much more did Ulysses draw

to the head the string of his own tough bow, and in letting of it go,

it twanged with such a shrill noise as a swallow makes when it sings

through the air: which so much amazed the suitors, that their colours

came and went, and the skies gave out a noise of thunder, which at

heart cheered Ulysses, for he knew that now his long labours by the

disposal of the fates drew to an end. Then fitted he an arrow to the

bow, and drawing it to the head, he sent it right to the mark which

the prince had set up. Which done, he said to Telemachus, "You have

got no disgrace yet by your guest, for I have struck the mark I shot

at, and gave myself no such trouble in teazing the bow with fat and

fire, as these men did, but have made proof that my strength is not

impaired, nor my age so weak and contemptible as these were pleased to

think it. But come, the day going down calls us to supper, after which

succeed poem and harp, and all delights which use to crown princely

banquetings."

So saying, he beckoned to his son, who straight girt his sword to his

side, and took one of the lances (of which there lay great store from

the armoury) in his hand, and armed at all points, advanced towards

his father.

The upper rags which Ulysses wore fell from his shoulder, and his own

kingly likeness returned, when he rushed to the great hall door with

bow and quiver full of shafts, which down at his feet he poured, and

in bitter words presignified his deadly intent to the suitors. "Thus

far," he said, "this contest has been decided harmless: now for us

there rests another mark, harder to hit, but which my hands shall

essay notwithstanding, if Phoebus god of archers be pleased to give

me the mastery." With that he let fly a deadly arrow at Antinous,

which pierced him in the throat as he was in the act of lifting a cup

of wine to his mouth. Amazement seized the suitors, as their great

champion fell dead, and they raged highly against Ulysses, and said

that it should prove the dearest shaft which he ever let fly, for he

had slain a man, whose like breathed not in any part of the kingdom:

and they flew to their arms, and would have seized the lances, but

Minerva struck them with dimness of sight that they went erring up and

down the hall, not knowing where to find them. Yet so infatuated were

they by the displeasure of heaven, that they did not see the imminent

peril which impended over them, but every man believed that this

accident had happened beside the intention of the doer. Fools! to

think by shutting their eyes to evade destiny, or that any other cup

remained for them, but that which their great Antinous had tasted!

Then Ulysses revealed himself to all in that presence, and that he

was the man whom they held to be dead at Troy, whose palace they

had usurped, whose wife in his life-time they had sought in impious

marriage, and that for this reason destruction was come upon them.

And he dealt his deadly arrows among them, and there was no avoiding

him, nor escaping from his horrid person, and Telemachus by his side

plied them thick with those murderous lances from which there was no

retreat, till fear itself made them valiant, and danger gave them eyes

to understand the peril; then they which had swords drew them, and

some with shields, that could find them, and some with tables and

benches snatched up in haste, rose in a mass to overwhelm and crush

those two; yet they singly bestirred themselves like men, and defended

themselves against that great host, and through tables, shields and

all, right through the arrows of Ulysses clove, and the irresistible

lances of Telemachus; and many lay dead, and all had wounds, and

Minerva in the likeness of a bird sate upon the beam which went across

the hall, clapping her wings with a fearful noise, and sometimes the

great bird would fly among them, cuffing at the swords and at the

lances, and up and down the hall would go, beating her wings, and

troubling every thing, that it was frightful to behold, and it frayed

the blood from the cheeks of those heaven-hated suitors: but to

Ulysses and his son she appeared in her own divine similitude, with

her snake-fringed shield, a goddess armed, fighting their battles. Nor

did that dreadful pair desist, till they had laid all their foes at

their feet. At their feet they lay in shoals; like fishes, when the

fishermen break up their nets, so they lay gasping and sprawling at

the feet of Ulysses and his son. And Ulysses remembered the prediction

of Tiresias, which said that he was to perish by his own guests,

unless he slew those who knew him not.

Then certain of the queen's household went up and told Penelope what

had happened, and how her lord Ulysses was come home, and had slain

the suitors. But she gave no heed to their words, but thought that

some frenzy possessed them, or that they mocked her: for it is the

property of such extremes of sorrow as she had felt, not to believe

when any great joy cometh. And she rated and chid them exceedingly for

troubling her. But they the more persisted in their asseverations of

the truth of what they had affirmed; and some of them had seen the

slaughtered bodies of the suitors dragged forth of the hall. And they

said, "That poor guest whom you talked with last night was Ulysses."

Then she was yet more fully persuaded that they mocked her, and she

wept. But they said, "This thing is true which we have told. We sat

within, in an inner room in the palace, and the doors of the hall

were shut on us, but we heard the cries and the groans of the men

that were killed, but saw nothing, till at length your son called to

us to come in, and entering we saw Ulysses standing in the midst of

the slaughtered." But she persisting in her unbelief, said, that it

was some god which had deceived them to think it was the person of

Ulysses.

By this time Telemachus and his father had cleansed their hands from

the slaughter, and were come to where the queen was talking with those

of her household; and when she saw Ulysses, she stood motionless,

and had no power to speak, sudden surprise and joy and fear and many

passions strove within her. Sometimes she was clear that it was her

husband that she saw, and sometimes the alteration which twenty years

had made in his person (yet that was not much) perplexed her that she

knew not what to think, and for joy she could not believe, and yet for

joy she would not but believe, and, above all, that sudden change from

a beggar to a king troubled her, and wrought uneasy scruples in her

mind. But Telemachus, seeing her strangeness, blamed her, and called

her an ungentle and tyrannous mother! and said that she shewed a too

great curiousness of modesty, to abstain from embracing his father,

and to have doubts of his person, when to all present it was evident

that he was the very real and true Ulysses.

Then she mistrusted no longer, but ran and fell upon Ulysses's neck,

and said, "Let not my husband be angry, that I held off so long with

strange delays; it is the gods, who severing us for so long time, have

caused this unseemly distance in me. If Menelaus's wife had used half

my caution, she would never have taken so freely to a stranger's bed;

and she might have spared us all these plagues which have come upon us

through her shameless deed."

These words with which Penelope excused herself, wrought more

affection in Ulysses than if upon a first sight she had given up

herself implicitly to his embraces; and he wept for joy to possess a

wife so discreet, so answering to his own staid mind, that had a depth

of wit proportioned to his own, and one that held chaste virtue at

so high a price; and he thought the possession of such a one cheaply

purchased with the loss of all Circe's delights, and Calypso's

immortality of joys; and his long labours and his severe sufferings

past seemed as nothing, now they were crowned with the enjoyment of

his virtuous and true wife Penelope. And as sad men at sea whose ship

has gone to pieces nigh shore, swimming for their lives, all drenched

in foam and brine, crawl up to some poor patch of land, which they

take possession of with as great a joy as if they had the world given

them in fee, with such delight did this chaste wife cling to her lord

restored, till the dark night fast coming on reminded her of that more

intimate and happy union when in her long-widowed bed she should once

again clasp a living Ulysses.

So from that time the land had rest from the suitors. And the happy

Ithacans with songs and solemn sacrifices of praise to the gods

celebrated the return of Ulysses: for he that had been so long absent

was returned to wreak the evil upon the heads of the doers; in the

place where they had done the evil, there wreaked he his vengeance

upon them.

MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL:

OR,

THE HISTORY OF SEVERAL YOUNG LADIES,

RELATED BY THEMSELVES

(_Written 1808. 1st Edition 1809. Text of 2nd Edition 1809_)

DEDICATION.

TO

THE YOUNG LADIES AT AMWELL SCHOOL

My dear young friends,

Though released from the business of the school, the absence of

your governess confines me to Amwell during the vacation. I

cannot better employ my leisure hours than in contributing to the

amusement of you my kind pupils, who, by your affectionate

attentions to my instructions, have rendered a life of labour

pleasant to me.

On your return to school I hope to have a fair copy ready to

present to each of you of your own biographical conversations last

winter.

Accept my thanks for the approbation you were pleased to express

when I offered to become your _amanuensis_. I hope you will find

I have executed the office with a tolerably faithful pen, as

you know I took notes each day during those conversations, and

arranged my materials after you were retired to rest.

I begin from the day our school commenced. It was opened by your

governess for the first time, on the ---- day of February. I

pass over your several arrivals on the morning of that day. Your

governess received you from your friends in her own parlour.

Every carriage that drove from the door I knew had left a sad

heart behind.--Your eyes were red with weeping, when your

governess introduced me to you as the teacher she had engaged to

instruct you. She next desired me to show you into the room which

we now call the play-room. "The ladies" said she, "may play, and

amuse themselves, and be as happy as they please this evening,

that they may be well acquainted with each other before they enter

the school-room to-morrow morning."

The traces of tears were on every cheek, and I also was sad; for

I, like you, had parted from my friends, and the duties of my

profession were new to me, yet I felt that it was improper to give

way to my own melancholy thoughts. I knew that it was my first

duty to divert the solitary young strangers: for I considered that

this was very unlike the entrance to an old established school,

where there is always some good-natured girl who will shew

attentions to a new scholar, and take pleasure in initiating her

into the customs and amusements of the place. These, thought

I, have their own amusements to invent; their own customs

to establish. How unlike too is this forlorn meeting to old

school-fellows returning after the holidays, when mutual greetings

soon lighten the memory of parting sorrow!

I invited you to draw near a bright fire which blazed in the

chimney, and looked the only cheerful thing in the room.

During our first solemn silence, which, you may remember, was only

broken by my repeated requests that you would make a smaller, and

still smaller circle, till I saw the fire-place fairly inclosed

round, the idea came into my mind, which has since been a source

of amusement to you in the recollection, and to myself in

particular has been of essential benefit, as it enabled me to form

a just estimate of the dispositions of you my young pupils, and

assisted me to adapt my plan of future instructions to each

individual temper.

An introduction to a point we wish to carry, we always feel to be

an aukward affair, and generally execute it in an aukward manner;

so I believe I did then: for when I imparted this idea to you, I

think I prefaced it rather too formally for such young auditors,

for I began with telling you, that I had read in old authors,

that it was not unfrequent in former times, when strangers were

assembled together, as we might be, for them to amuse themselves

with telling stories, either of their own lives, or the adventures

of others. "Will you allow me, ladies," I continued, "to persuade

you to amuse yourselves in this way? you will not then look so

unsociably upon each other: for we find that these strangers of

whom we read, were as well acquainted before the conclusion of

the first story, as if they had known each other many years. Let

me prevail upon you to relate some little anecdotes of your own

lives. Fictitious tales we can read in books, and [they] were

therefore better adapted to conversation in those times when books

of amusement were more scarce than they are at present."

After many objections of not knowing what to say, or how to begin,

which I overcame by assuring you how easy it would be, for that

every person is naturally eloquent when they are the hero or

heroine of their own tale, the _Who should begin_ was next in

question.

I proposed to draw lots, which formed a little amusement of

itself. Miss Manners, who till then had been the saddest of the

sad, began to brighten up, and said it was just like drawing king

and queen, and began to tell us where she passed last twelfth day;

but as her narration must have interfered with the more important

business of the lottery, I advised her to postpone it, till it

came to her turn to favour us with the history of her life, when

it would appear in its proper order. The first number fell to the

share of miss Villiers, whose joy at drawing what we called the_

first prize, _was tempered with shame at appearing as the first

historian in the company. She wished she had not been the very

first:--she had passed all her life in a retired village, and

had nothing to relate of herself that could give the least

entertainment:--she had not the least idea in the world where

to begin.

"Begin," said I, "with your name, for that at present is unknown

to us. Tell us the first thing you can remember; relate whatever

happened to make a great impression on you when you were very

young, and if you find you can connect your story till your

arrival here to-day, I am sure we shall listen to you with

pleasure; and if you like to break off, and only treat us with a

part of your history, we will excuse you, with many thanks for the

amusement which you have afforded us; and the lady who has drawn

the second number will, I hope, take her turn with the same

indulgence, to relate either all, or any part of the events of

her life, as best pleases her own fancy, or as she finds she can

manage it with the most ease to herself."--Encouraged by this

offer of indulgence, miss Villiers began.

If in my report of her story, or in any which follow, I shall

appear to make her or you speak an older language than it seems

probable that you should use, speaking in your own words, it must

be remembered, that what is very proper and becoming when spoken,

requires to be arranged with some little difference before it can

be set down in writing. Little inaccuracies must be pared away,

and the whole must assume a more formal and correct appearance. My

own way of thinking, I am sensible, will too often intrude itself,

but I have endeavoured to preserve, as exactly as I could, your

own words, and your own peculiarities of style and manner, and to

approve myself

Your faithful historiographer,

as well as true friend,

M.B.

I

ELIZABETH VILLIERS

(_By Mary Lamb_)

My father is the curate of a village church, about five miles

from Amwell. I was born in the parsonage-house, which joins the

church-yard. The first thing I can remember was my father teaching me

the alphabet from the letters on a tombstone that stood at the head of

my mother's grave. I used to tap at my father's study-door; I think I

now hear him say, "Who is there?--What do you want, little girl?" "Go

and see mamma. Go and learn pretty letters." Many times in the day

would my father lay aside his books and his papers to lead me to this

spot, and make me point to the letters, and then set me to spell

syllables and words: in this manner, the epitaph on my mother's tomb

being my primmer and my spelling-book, I learned to read.

I was one day sitting on a step placed across the church-yard stile,

when a gentleman passing by, heard me distinctly repeat the letters

which formed my mother's name, and then say, _Elizabeth Villiers_,

with a firm tone, as if I had performed some great matter. This

gentleman was my uncle James, my mother's brother: he was a lieutenant

in the navy, and had left England a few weeks after the marriage of

my father and mother, and now, returned home from a long sea-voyage,

he was coming to visit my mother; no tidings of her decease having

reached him, though she had been dead more than a twelvemonth.

When my uncle saw me sitting on the stile, and heard me pronounce my

mother's name, he looked earnestly in my face, and began to fancy a

resemblance to his sister, and to think I might be her child. I was

too intent on my employment to observe him, and went spelling on. "Who

has taught you to spell so prettily, my little maid?" said my uncle.

"Mamma," I replied; for I had an idea that the words on the tombstone

were somehow a part of mamma, and that she had taught me. "And who is

mamma?" asked my uncle. "Elizabeth Villiers," I replied; and then my

uncle called me his dear little niece, and said he would go with me to

mamma: he took hold of my hand, intending to lead me home, delighted

that he had found out who I was, because he imagined it would be such

a pleasant surprise to his sister to see her little daughter bringing

home her long lost sailor uncle.

I agreed to take him to mamma, but we had a dispute about the way

thither. My uncle was for going along the road which led directly up

to our house; I pointed to the church-yard, and said, that was the way

to mamma. Though impatient of any delay, he was not willing to contest

the point with his new relation, therefore he lifted me over the

stile, and was then going to take me along the path to a gate he knew

was at the end of our garden; but no, I would not go that way neither:

letting go his hand, I said, "You do not know the way--I will shew

you:" and making what haste I could among the long grass and thistles,

and jumping over the low graves, he said, as he followed what he

called my _wayward steps_, "What a positive soul this little niece of

mine is! I knew the way to your mother's house before you were born,

child." At last I stopped at my mother's grave, and, pointing to the

tombstone, said, "Here is mamma," in a voice of exultation, as if I

had now convinced him that I knew the way best: I looked up in his

face to see him acknowledge his mistake; but Oh, what a face of

sorrow did I see! I was so frightened, that I have but an imperfect

recollection of what followed. I remember I pulled his coat, and cried

"Sir, sir," and tried to move him. I knew not what to do; my mind

was in a strange confusion; I thought I had done something wrong in

bringing the gentleman to mamma to make him cry so sadly; but what it

was I could not tell. This grave had always been a scene of delight

to me. In the house my father would often be weary of my prattle, and

send me from him; but here he was all my own. I might say anything

and be as frolicsome as I pleased here; all was chearfulness and good

humour in our visits to mamma, as we called it. My father would tell

me how quietly mamma slept there, and that he and his little Betsy

would one day sleep beside mamma in that grave; and when I went to

bed, as I laid my little head on the pillow, I used to wish I was

sleeping in the grave with my papa and mamma; and in my childish

dreams I used to fancy myself there, and it was a place within the

ground, all smooth, and soft, and green. I never made out any figure

of mamma, but still it was the tombstone, and papa, and the smooth

green grass, and my head resting upon the elbow of my father.

How long my uncle remained in this agony of grief I know not; to me

it seemed a very long time: at last he took me in his arms, and held

me so tight, that I began to cry, and ran home to my father, and told

him, that a gentleman was crying about mamma's pretty letters.

No doubt it was a very affecting meeting between my father and my

uncle. I remember that it was the first day I ever saw my father weep:

that I was in sad trouble, and went into the kitchen and told Susan,

our servant, that papa was crying; and she wanted to keep me with her

that I might not disturb the conversation; but I would go back to the

parlour to _poor papa_, and I went in softly, and crept between my

father's knees. My uncle offered to take me in his arms, but I turned

sullenly from him, and clung closer to my father, having conceived a

dislike to my uncle because he had made my father cry.

Now I first learned that my mother's death was a heavy affliction; for

I heard my father tell a melancholy story of her long illness, her

death, and what he had suffered from her loss. My uncle said, what a

sad thing it was for my father to be left with such a young child; but

my father replied, his little Betsy was all his comfort, and that, but

for me, he should have died with grief. How I could be any comfort to

my father, struck me with wonder. I knew I was pleased when he played

and talked with me; but I thought that was all goodness and favour

done to me, and I had no notion how I could make any part of his

happiness. The sorrow I now heard he had suffered, was as new and

strange to me. I had no idea that he had ever been unhappy; his voice

was always kind and cheerful; I had never before seen him weep, or

shew any such signs of grief as those in which I used to express my

little troubles. My thoughts on these subjects were confused and

childish; but from that time I never ceased pondering on the sad story

of my dead mamma.

The next day I went by mere habit to the study door, to call papa to

the beloved grave; my mind misgave me, and I could not tap at the

door. I went backwards and forwards between the kitchen and the study,

and what to do with myself I did not know. My uncle met me in the

passage, and said, "Betsy, will you come and walk with me in the

garden?" This I refused, for this was not what I wanted, but the old

amusement of sitting on the grave, and talking to papa. My uncle tried

to persuade me, but still I said, "No, no," and ran crying into the

kitchen. As he followed me in there, Susan said, "This child is so

fretful to-day, I do not know what to do with her." "Aye," said my

uncle, "I suppose my poor brother spoils her, having but one." This

reflection on my papa made me quite in a little passion of anger, for

I had not forgot that with this new uncle sorrow had first come into

our dwelling: I screamed loudly, till my father came out to know what

it was all about. He sent my uncle into the parlour, and said, he

would manage the little wrangler by himself. When my uncle was gone I

ceased crying; my father forgot to lecture me for my ill humour, or

to enquire into the cause, and we were soon seated by the side of the

tombstone. No lesson went on that day; no talking of pretty mamma

sleeping in the green grave; no jumping from the tombstone to the

ground; no merry jokes or pleasant stories. I sate upon my father's

knee, looking up in his face, and thinking, "_How sorry papa looks_,"

till, having been fatigued with crying, and now oppressed with

thought, I fell fast asleep.

My uncle soon learned from Susan that this place was our constant

haunt; she told him she did verily believe her master would never get

the better of the death of her mistress, while he continued to teach

the child to read at the tombstone; for, though it might sooth his

grief, it kept it for ever fresh in his memory. The sight of his

sister's grave had been such a shock to my uncle, that he readily

entered into Susan's apprehensions; and concluding, that if I were set

to study by some other means there would no longer be a pretence for

these visits to the grave, away my kind uncle hastened to the nearest

market-town to buy me some books.

I heard the conference between my uncle and Susan, and I did not

approve of his interfering in our pleasures. I saw him take his hat

and walk out, and I secretly hoped he was gone _beyond seas_ again,

from whence Susan had told me he had come. Where _beyond seas_ was I

could not tell; but I concluded it was somewhere a great way off. I

took my seat on the church-yard stile, and kept looking down the road,

and saying, "I hope I shall not see my uncle again. I hope my uncle

will not come from _beyond seas_ any more;" but I said this very

softly, and had a kind of notion that I was in a perverse ill-humoured

fit. Here I sate till my uncle returned from the market-town with his

new purchases. I saw him come walking very fast with a parcel under

his arm. I was very sorry to see him, and I frowned, and tried to look

very cross. He untied his parcel, and said, "Betsy, I have brought

you a pretty book." I turned my head away, and said, "I don't want a

book;" but I could not help peeping again to look at it. In the hurry

of opening the parcel he had scattered all the books upon the ground,

and there I saw fine gilt covers and gay pictures all fluttering

about. What a fine sight!--All my resentment vanished, and I held up

my face to kiss him, that being my way of thanking my father for any

extraordinary favour.

My uncle had brought himself into rather a troublesome office; he had

heard me spell so well, that he thought there was nothing to do but

to put books into my hand, and I should read; yet, notwithstanding

I spelt tolerably well, the letters in my new library were so much

smaller than I had been accustomed to, they were like Greek characters

to me; I could make nothing at all of them. The honest sailor was

not to be discouraged by this difficulty; though unused to play the

schoolmaster, he taught me to read the small print, with unwearied

diligence and patience; and whenever he saw my father and me look as

if we wanted to resume our visits to the grave, he would propose some

pleasant walk; and if my father said it was too far for the child to

walk, he would set me on his shoulder, and say, "Then Betsy shall

ride;" and in this manner has he carried me many many miles.

In these pleasant excursions my uncle seldom forgot to make Susan

furnish him with a luncheon which, though it generally happened every

day, made a constant surprise to my papa and me, when, seated under

some shady tree, he pulled it out of his pocket, and began to

distribute his little store; and then I used to peep into the other

pocket to see if there were not some currant wine there and the little

bottle of water for me; if, perchance, the water was forgot, then it

made another joke,--that poor Betsy must be forced to drink a little

drop of wine. These are childish things to tell of, and instead of my

own silly history, I wish I could remember the entertaining stories my

uncle used to relate of his voyages and travels, while we sate under

the shady trees, eating our noon-tide meal.

The long visit my uncle made us was such an important event in my

life, that I fear I shall tire your patience with talking of him; but

when he is gone, the remainder of my story will be but short.

The summer months passed away, but not swiftly;--the pleasant walks,

and the charming stories of my uncle's adventures, made them seem like

years to me; I remember the approach of winter by the warm great coat

he bought for me, and how proud I was when I first put it on, and that

he called me Little Red Riding Hood, and bade me beware of wolves, and

that I laughed and said there were no such things now; then he told me

how many wolves, and bears, and tygers, and lions he had met with in

uninhabited lands, that were like Robinson Crusoe's Island. O these

were happy days!

In the winter our walks were shorter and less frequent. My books were

now my chief amusement, though my studies were often interrupted by

a game of romps with my uncle, which too often ended in a quarrel

because he played so roughly; yet long before this I dearly loved

my uncle, and the improvement I made while he was with us was very

great indeed. I could now read very well, and the continual habit of

listening to the conversation of my father and my uncle made me a

little woman in understanding; so that my father said to him, "James,

you have made my child quite a companionable little being."

My father often left me alone with my uncle; sometimes to write his

sermons; sometimes to visit the sick, or give counsel to his poor

neighbours: then my uncle used to hold long conversations with me,

telling me how I should strive to make my father happy, and endeavour

to improve myself when he was gone:--now I began justly to understand

why he had taken such pains to keep my father from visiting my

mother's grave, that grave which I often stole privately to look at;

but now never without awe and reverence, for my uncle used to tell

me what an excellent lady my mother was, and I now thought of her as

having been a real mamma, which before seemed an ideal something,

no way connected with life. And he told me that the ladies from the

Manor-House, who sate in the best pew in the church, were not so

graceful, and the best women in the village were not so good, as was

my sweet mamma; and that if she had lived, I should not have been

forced to pick up a little knowledge from him, a rough sailor, or to

learn to knit and sew of Susan, but that she would have taught me all

lady-like fine works and delicate behaviour and perfect manners, and

would have selected for me proper books, such as were most fit to

instruct my mind, and of which he nothing knew. If ever in my life I

shall have any proper sense of what is excellent or becoming in the

womanly character, I owe it to these lessons of my rough unpolished

uncle; for, in telling me what my mother would have made me, he taught

me what to wish to be; and when, soon after my uncle left us, I was

introduced to the ladies at the Manor-House, instead of hanging down

my head with shame, as I should have done before my uncle came, like a

little village rustic, I tried to speak distinctly, with ease, and a

modest gentleness, as my uncle had said my mother used to do; instead

of hanging down my head abashed, I looked upon them, and thought what

a pretty sight a fine lady was, and thought how well my mother must

have appeared, since she was so much more graceful than these ladies

were; and when I heard them compliment my father on the admirable

behaviour of his child, and say how well he had brought me up, I

thought to myself, "Papa does not much mind my manners, if I am

but a good girl; but it was my uncle that taught me to behave like

mamma."--I cannot now think my uncle was so rough and unpolished as

he said he was, for his lessons were so good and so impressive that I

shall never forget them, and I hope they will be of use to me as long

as I live: he would explain to me the meaning of all the words he

used, such as grace and elegance, modest diffidence and affectation,

pointing out instances of what he meant by those words, in the manners

of the ladies and their young daughters who came to our church; for,

besides the ladies of the Manor-House, many of the neighbouring

families came to our church because my father preached so well.

It must have been early in the spring when my uncle went away, for the

crocuses were just blown in the garden, and the primroses had begun to

peep from under the young budding hedge-rows.--I cried as if my heart

would break, when I had the last sight of him through a little opening

among the trees, as he went down the road. My father accompanied him

to the market-town, from whence he was to proceed in the stage-coach

to London. How tedious I thought all Susan's endeavours to comfort me

were. The stile where I first saw my uncle, came into my mind, and I

thought I would go and sit there, and think about that day; but I was

no sooner seated there, than I remembered how I had frightened him

by taking him so foolishly to my mother's grave, and then again how

naughty I had been when I sate muttering to myself at this same stile,

wishing that he, who had gone so far to buy me books, might never come

back any more: all my little quarrels with my uncle came into my mind,

now that I could never play with him again, and it almost broke

my heart. I was forced to run into the house to Susan for that

consolation I had just before despised.

Some days after this, as I was sitting by the fire with my father,

after it was dark, and before the candles were lighted, I gave him

an account of my troubled conscience at the church-stile, when I

remembered how unkind I had been to my uncle when he first came, and

how sorry I still was whenever I thought of the many quarrels I had

had with him.

My father smiled, and took hold of my hand, saying, "I will tell you

all about this, my little penitent. This is the sort of way in which

we all feel, when those we love are taken from us.--When our dear

friends are with us, we go on enjoying their society, without much

thought or consideration of the blessing we are possessed of, nor do

we too nicely weigh the measure of our daily actions;--we let them

freely share our kind or our discontented moods; and, if any little

bickerings disturb our friendship, it does but the more endear us to

each other when we are in a happier temper. But these things come over

us like grievous faults when the object of our affection is gone for

ever. Your dear mamma and I had no quarrels; yet in the first days of

my lonely sorrow, how many things came into my mind that I might have

done to have made her happier. It is so with you, my child. You did

all a child could do to please your uncle, and dearly did he love

you; and these little things which now disturb your tender mind, were

remembered with delight by your uncle; he was telling me in our last

walk, just perhaps as you were thinking about it with sorrow, of the

difficulty he had in getting into your good graces when he first came;

he will think of these things with pleasure when he is far away. Put

away from you this unfounded grief; only let it be a lesson to you to

be as kind as possible to those you love; and remember, when they are

gone from you, you will never think you had been kind enough. Such

feelings as you have now described are the lot of humanity. So you

will feel when I am no more, and so will your children feel when you

are dead. But your uncle will come back again, Betsy, and we will now

think of where we are to get the cage to keep the talking parrot in,

he is to bring home; and go and tell Susan to bring the candles, and

ask her if the nice cake is almost baked, that she promised to give us

for our tea."

At this point, my dear miss Villiers, you thought fit to break off

your story, and the wet eyes of your young auditors, seemed to

confess that you had succeeded in moving their feelings with your

pretty narrative. It now fell by lot to the turn of miss Manners

to relate her story, and we were all sufficiently curious to know

what so very young an historian had to tell of herself.--I shall

continue the narratives for the future in the order in which

they followed, without mentioning any of the interruptions which

occurred from the asking of questions, or from any other cause,

unless materially connected with the stories. I shall also leave

out the apologies with which you severally thought fit to preface

your stories of yourselves, though they were very seasonable in

their place, and proceeded from a proper diffidence, because I

must not swell my work to too large a size.

II

LOUISA MANNERS

(_By Mary Lamb_)

My name is Louisa Manners; I was seven years of age last birthday,

which was on the first of May. I remember only four birthdays. The day

I was four years old is the first that I recollect. On the morning

of that day, as soon as I awoke, I crept into mamma's bed, and said,

"Open your eyes, mamma, for it is my birthday. Open your eyes, and

look at me!" Then mamma told me I should ride in a post chaise,

and see my grandmamma and my sister Sarah. Grandmamma lived at a

farm-house in the country, and I had never in all my life been out of

London; no, nor had I ever seen a bit of green grass, except in the

Drapers' garden, which is near my papa's house in Broad-street; nor

had I ever rode in a carriage before that happy birthday.

I ran about the house talking of where I was going, and rejoicing so

that it was my birthday, that when I got into the chaise I was tired

and fell asleep.

When I awoke, I saw the green fields on both sides of the chaise, and

the fields were full, quite full, of bright shining yellow flowers,

and sheep and young lambs were feeding in them. I jumped, and clapped

my hands together for joy, and I cried out This is

"Abroad in the meadows to see the young lambs,"

for I knew many of Watts's hymns by heart.

The trees and hedges seemed to fly swiftly by us, and one field, and

the sheep, and the young lambs, passed away; and then another field

came, and that was full of cows; and then another field, and all the

pretty sheep returned, and there was no end of these charming sights

till we came quite to grandmamma's house, which stood all alone by

itself, no house to be seen at all near it.

Grandmamma was very glad to see me, and she was very sorry that I did

not remember her, though I had been so fond of her when she was in

town but a few months before. I was quite ashamed of my bad memory.

My sister Sarah shewed me all the beautiful places about grandmamma's

house. She first took me into the farm-yard, and I peeped into the

barn; there I saw a man thrashing, and as he beat the corn with his

flail, he made such a dreadful noise that I was frightened and ran

away: my sister persuaded me to return; she said Will Tasker was very

good-natured: then I went back, and peeped at him again; but as I

could not reconcile myself to the sound of his flail, or the sight of

his black beard, we proceeded to see the rest of the farm-yard.

There was no end to the curiosities that Sarah had to shew me. There

was the pond where the ducks were swimming, and the little wooden

houses where the hens slept at night. The hens were feeding all over

the yard, and the prettiest little chickens, they were feeding too,

and little yellow ducklings that had a hen for their mamma. She was so

frightened if they went near the water. Grandmamma says a hen is not

esteemed a very wise bird.

We went out of the farm-yard into the orchard. O what a sweet place

grandmamma's orchard is! There were pear-trees, and apple-trees,

and cherry-trees, all in blossom. These blossoms were the prettiest

flowers that ever were seen, and among the grass under the trees there

grew butter-cups, and cowslips, and daffodils, and blue-bells. Sarah

told me all their names, and she said I might pick as many of them as

ever I pleased.

I filled my lap with flowers, I filled my bosom with flowers, and I

carried as many flowers as I could in both my hands; but as I was

going into the parlour to shew them to my mamma, I stumbled over a

threshold which was placed across the parlour, and down I fell with

all my treasure.

Nothing could have so well pacified me for the misfortune of my fallen

flowers, as the sight of a delicious syllabub which happened at that

moment to be brought in. Grandmamma said it was a present from the

red cow to me because it was my birthday; and then because it was the

first of May, she ordered the syllabub to be placed under the May-bush

that grew before the parlour door, and when we were seated on the

grass round it, she helped me the very first to a large glass full of

the syllabub, and wished me many happy returns of that day, and then

she said I was myself the sweetest little May-blossom in the orchard.

After the syllabub there was the garden to see, and a most beautiful

garden it was;--long and narrow, a straight gravel walk down the

middle of it, at the end of the gravel walk there was a green arbour

with a bench under it.

There were rows of cabbages and radishes, and peas and beans. I was

delighted to see them, for I never saw so much as a cabbage growing

out of the ground before.

On one side of this charming garden there were a great many bee-hives,

and the bees sung so prettily.

Mamma said, "Have you nothing to say to these pretty bees, Louisa?"

Then I said to them,

"How doth the little busy bee improve each shining hour,

And gather honey all the day from every opening flower."

They had a most beautiful flower-bed to gather it from, quite close

under the hives.

I was going to catch one bee, till Sarah told me about their stings,

which made me afraid for a long time to go too near their hives; but

I went a little nearer, and a little nearer, every day, and, before I

came away from grandmamma's, I grew so bold, I let Will Tasker hold me

over the glass windows at the top of the hives, to see them make honey

in their own homes.

After seeing the garden, I saw the cows milked, and that was the last

sight I saw that day; for while I was telling mamma about the cows, I

fell fast asleep, and I suppose I was then put to bed.

The next morning my papa and mamma were gone. I cried sadly, but was a

little comforted at hearing they would return in a month or two, and

fetch me home. I was a foolish little thing then, and did not know

how long a month was. Grandmamma gave me a little basket to gather my

flowers in. I went into the orchard, and before I had half filled my

basket, I forgot all my troubles.

The time I passed at my grandmamma's is always in my mind. Sometimes

I think of the good-natured pied cow, that would let me stroke her,

while the dairy-maid was milking her. Then I fancy myself running

after the dairy-maid into the nice clean dairy, and see the pans full

of milk and cream. Then I remember the wood-house; it had once been a

large barn, but being grown old, the wood was kept there. My sister

and I used to peep about among the faggots to find the eggs the hens

sometimes left there. Birds' nests we might not look for. Grandmamma

was very angry once, when Will Tasker brought home a bird's nest, full

of pretty speckled eggs, for me. She sent him back to the hedge with

it again. She said, the little birds would not sing any more, if their

eggs were taken away from them.

A hen, she said, was a hospitable bird, and always laid more eggs

than she wanted, on purpose to give her mistress to make puddings and

custards with.

I do not know which pleased grandmamma best, when we carried her home

a lap-full of eggs, or a few violets; for she was particularly fond of

violets.

Violets were very scarce; we used to search very carefully for them

every morning, round by the orchard hedge, and Sarah used to carry a

stick in her hand to beat away the nettles; for very frequently the

hens left their eggs among the nettles. If we could find eggs and

violets too, what happy children we were!

Every day I used to fill my basket with flowers, and for a long time

I liked one pretty flower as well as another pretty flower, but Sarah

was much wiser than me, and she taught me which to prefer.

Grandmamma's violets were certainly best of all, but they never went

in the basket, being carried home, almost flower by flower, as soon as

they were found; therefore blue-bells might be said to be the best,

for the cowslips were all withered and gone, before I learned the true

value of flowers. The best blue-bells were those tinged with red; some

were so very red, that we called them red blue-bells, and these Sarah

prized very highly indeed. Daffodils were so very plentiful, they

were not thought worth gathering, unless they were double ones, and

butter-cups I found were very poor flowers indeed, yet I would pick

one now and then, because I knew they were the very same flowers that

had delighted me so in the journey; for my papa had told me they were.

I was very careful to love best the flowers which Sarah praised most,

yet sometimes, I confess, I have even picked a daisy, though I knew it

was the very worst flower of all, because it reminded me of London,

and the Drapers' garden; for, happy as I was at grandmamma's, I could

not help sometimes thinking of my papa and mamma, and then I used to

tell my sister all about London; how the houses stood all close to

each other; what a pretty noise the coaches made; and what a many

people there were in the streets. After we had been talking on these

subjects, we generally used to go into the old wood-house, and play at

being in London. We used to set up bits of wood for houses; our two

dolls we called papa and mamma; in one corner we made a little garden

with grass and daisies, and that was to be the Drapers' garden. I

would not have any other flowers here than daisies, because no other

grew among the grass in the real Drapers' garden. Before the time of

hay-making came, it was very much talked of. Sarah told me what a

merry time it would be, for she remembered every thing which had

happened for a year or more. She told me how nicely we should throw

the hay about. I was very desirous indeed to see the hay made.

To be sure nothing could be more pleasant than the day the orchard was

mowed: the hay smelled so sweet, and we might toss it about as much as

ever we pleased; but, dear me, we often wish for things that do not

prove so happy as we expected; the hay, which was at first so green,

and smelled so sweet, became yellow and dry, and was carried away in a

cart to feed the horses; and then, when it was all gone, and there was

no more to play with, I looked upon the naked ground, and perceived

what we had lost in these few merry days. Ladies, would you believe

it, every flower, blue-bells, daffodils, butter-cups, daisies, all

were cut off by the cruel scythe of the mower. No flower was to be

seen at all, except here and there a short solitary daisy, that a week

before one would not have looked at.

It was a grief, indeed, to me, to lose all my pretty flowers; yet,

when we are in great distress, there is always, I think, something

which happens to comfort us, and so it happened now, that gooseberries

and currants were almost ripe, which was certainly a very pleasant

prospect. Some of them began to turn red, and, as we never disobeyed

grandmamma, we used often to consult together, if it was likely she

would permit us to eat them yet, then we would pick a few that looked

the ripest, and run to ask her if she thought they were ripe enough to

eat, and the uncertainty what her opinion would be, made them doubly

sweet if she gave us leave to eat them.

When the currants and gooseberries were quite ripe, grandmamma had a

sheep-shearing.

All the sheep stood under the trees to be sheared. They were

brought out of the field by old Spot, the shepherd. I stood at the

orchard-gate, and saw him drive them all in. When they had cropped off

all their wool, they looked very clean, and white, and pretty; but,

poor things, they ran shivering about with cold, so that it was a

pity to see them. Great preparations were making all day for the

sheep-shearing supper. Sarah said, a sheep-shearing was not to be

compared to a harvest-home, _that_ was so much better, for that then

the oven was quite full of plum-pudding, and the kitchen was very hot

indeed with roasting beef; yet I can assure you there was no want at

all of either roast beef or plum-pudding at the sheep-shearing.

My sister and I were permitted to sit up till it was almost dark, to

see the company at supper. They sate at a long oak table, which was

finely carved, and as bright as a looking-glass.

I obtained a great deal of praise that day, because I replied so

prettily when I was spoken to. My sister was more shy than me; never

having lived in London was the reason of that. After the happiest day

bedtime will come! We sate up late; but at last grandmamma sent us to

bed: yet though we went to bed we heard many charming songs sung: to

be sure we could not distinguish the words, which was a pity, but the

sound of their voices was very loud and very fine indeed.

The common supper that we had every night was very cheerful. Just

before the men came out of the field, a large faggot was flung on the

fire; the wood used to crackle and blaze, and smell delightfully: and

then the crickets, for they loved the fire, they used to sing, and old

Spot, the shepherd, who loved the fire as well as the crickets did,

he used to take his place in the chimney corner; after the hottest

day in summer, there old Spot used to sit. It was a seat within the

fire-place, quite under the chimney, and over his head the bacon hung.

When old Spot was seated, the milk was hung in a skillet over the

fire, and then the men used to come and sit down at the long white

table.

* * * * *

_Pardon me, my dear Louisa, that I interrupted you here. You are a

little woman now to what you were then; and I may say to you, that

though I loved to hear you prattle of your early recollections, I

thought I perceived some ladies present were rather weary of hearing

so much of the visit to grandmamma. You may remember I asked you some

questions concerning your papa and your mamma, which led you to speak

of your journey home: but your little town-bred head was so full of

the pleasures of a country life, that you first made many apologies

that you were unable to tell what happened during the harvest, as

unfortunately you were fetched home the very day before it began._

III

ANN WITHERS

(_By Mary Lamb_)

My name you know is Withers, but as I once thought I was the daughter

of sir Edward and lady Harriot Lesley, I shall speak of myself as

miss Lesley, and call sir Edward and lady Harriot my father and

mother during the period I supposed them entitled to those beloved

names. When I was a little girl, it was the perpetual subject of my

contemplation, that I was an heiress, and the daughter of a baronet;

that my mother was the honourable lady Harriot; that we had a nobler

mansion, infinitely finer pleasure-grounds, and equipages more

splendid than any of the neighbouring families. Indeed, my good

friends, having observed nothing of this error of mine in either of

the lives which have hitherto been related, I am ashamed to confess

what a proud child I once was. How it happened I cannot tell, for

my father was esteemed the best bred man in the county, and the

condescension and affability of my mother were universally spoken of.

"Oh my dear friend," said miss ----, "it was very natural indeed, if

you supposed you possessed these advantages. We make no comparative

figure in the county, and my father was originally a man of no

consideration at all; and yet I can assure you, both he and mamma had

a prodigious deal of trouble to break me of this infirmity, when I was

very young." "And do reflect for a moment," said miss Villiers, "from

whence could proceed any pride in me--a poor curate's daughter;--at

least any pride worth speaking of; for the difficulty my father had to

make me feel myself on an equality with a miller's little daughter who

visited me, did not seem an anecdote worth relating. My father, from

his profession, is accustomed to look into these things, and whenever

he has observed any tendency to this fault in me, and has made me

sensible of my error, I, who am rather a weak-spirited girl, have been

so much distressed at his reproofs, that to restore me to my own good

opinion, he would make me sensible that pride is a defect inseparable

from human nature; shewing me, in our visits to the poorest labourers,

how pride would, as he expressed it, "prettily peep out from under

their ragged garbs."--My father dearly loved the poor. In persons of

a rank superior to our own humble one, I wanted not much assistance

from my father's nice discernment to know that it existed there; and

for these latter he would always claim that toleration from me, which

he said he observed I was less willing to allow than to the former

instances. "We are told in holy writ," he would say, "that it is

easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a

rich man to enter into the kingdom of heaven." Surely this is not

meant alone to warn the affluent: it must also be understood as an

expressive illustration, to instruct the lowly-fortuned man that he

should bear with those imperfections, inseparable from that dangerous

prosperity from which he is happily exempt."--But we sadly interrupt

your story.--

"You are very kind, ladies, to speak with so much indulgence of my

foible," said miss Withers, and was going to proceed, when little

Louisa Manners asked, "Pray, are not equipages carriages?" "Yes, miss

Manners, an equipage is a carriage." "Then I am sure if my papa had

but one equipage I should be very proud; for once when my papa talked

of keeping a one-horse chaise, I never was so proud of any thing

in my life: I used to dream of riding in it, and imagine I saw my

playfellows walking past me in the streets."

"Oh, my dear miss Manners," replied miss Withers, "your young head

might well run on a thing so new to you; but you have preached an

useful lesson to me in your own pretty rambling story, which I shall

not easily forget. When you were speaking with such delight of the

pleasure the sight of a farm-yard, an orchard, and a narrow slip of

kitchen-garden, gave you, and could for years preserve so lively

the memory of one short ride, and that probably through a flat

uninteresting country, I remembered how early I learned to disregard

the face of Nature, unless she were decked in picturesque scenery; how

wearisome our parks and grounds became to me, unless some improvements

were going forward which I thought would attract notice: but those

days are gone.--I will now proceed in my story, and bring you

acquainted with my real parents.

Alas! I am a changeling, substituted by my mother for the heiress of

the Lesley family: it was for my sake she did this naughty deed; yet,

since the truth has been known, it seems to me as if I had been the

only sufferer by it; remembering no time when I was not Harriot

Lesley, it seems as if the change had taken from me my birthright.

Lady Harriot had intended to nurse her child herself; but being seized

with a violent fever soon after its birth, she was not only unable to

nurse it, but even to see it, for several weeks. At this time I was

not quite a month old, when my mother was hired to be miss Lesley's

nurse--she had once been a servant in the family--her husband was then

at sea.

She had been nursing miss Lesley a few days, when a girl who had the

care of me brought me into the nursery to see my mother. It happened

that she wanted something from her own home, which she dispatched the

girl to fetch, and desired her to leave me till her return. In her

absence she changed our clothes: then keeping me to personate the

child she was nursing, she sent away the daughter of sir Edward to be

brought up in her own poor cottage.

When my mother sent away the girl, she affirmed she had not the least

intention of committing this bad action; but after she was left alone

with us, she looked on me, and then on the little lady-babe, and she

wept over me to think she was obliged to leave me to the charge of

a careless girl, debarred from my own natural food, while she was

nursing another person's child.

The laced cap and the fine cambric robe of the little Harriot were

lying on the table ready to be put on: in these she dressed me, only

just to see how pretty her own dear baby would look in missy's fine

clothes. When she saw me thus adorned, she said to me, "O, my dear

Ann, you look as like missy as any thing can be. I am sure my lady

herself, if she were well enough to see you, would not know the

difference." She said these words aloud, and while she was speaking,

a wicked thought came into her head--How easy it would be to change

these children! On which she hastily dressed Harriot in my coarse

raiment. She had no sooner finished the transformation of miss Lesley

into the poor Ann Withers, than the girl returned, and carried her

away, without the least suspicion that it was not the same infant that

she had brought thither.

It was wonderful that no one discovered that I was not the same child.

Every fresh face that came into the room, filled the nurse with

terror. The servants still continued to pay their compliments to the

baby in the same form as usual, saying, How like it is to its papa!

Nor did sir Edward himself perceive the difference, his lady's illness

probably engrossing all his attention at the time; though indeed

gentlemen seldom take much notice of very young children.

When lady Harriot began to recover, and the nurse saw me in her arms

caressed as her own child, all fears of detection were over; but the

pangs of remorse then seized her: as the dear sick lady hung with

tears of fondness over me, she thought she should have died with

sorrow for having so cruelly deceived her.

When I was a year old Mrs. Withers was discharged; and because she had

been observed to nurse me with uncommon care and affection, and was

seen to shed many tears at parting from me; to reward her fidelity sir

Edward settled a small pension on her, and she was allowed to come

every Sunday to dine in the housekeeper's room, and see her little

lady.

When she went home it might have been expected she would have

neglected the child she had so wickedly stolen; instead of which she

nursed it with the greatest tenderness, being very sorry for what

she had done: all the ease she could ever find for her troubled

conscience, was in her extreme care of this injured child; and in the

weekly visits to its father's house she constantly brought it with

her. At the time I have the earliest recollection of her, she was

become a widow, and with the pension sir Edward allowed her, and some

plain work she did for our family, she maintained herself and her

supposed daughter. The doting fondness she shewed for her child was

much talked of; it was said, she waited upon it more like a servant

than a mother, and it was observed, its clothes were always made, as

far as her slender means would permit, in the same fashion, and her

hair cut and curled in the same form as mine. To this person, as

having been my faithful nurse, and to her child, I was always taught

to shew particular civility, and the little girl was always brought

into the nursery to play with me. Ann was a little delicate thing, and

remarkably well-behaved; for though so much indulged in every other

respect, my mother was very attentive to her manners.

As the child grew older, my mother became very uneasy about her

education. She was so very desirous of having her well-behaved, that

she feared to send her to school, lest she should learn ill manners

among the village children, with whom she never suffered her to play;

and she was such a poor scholar herself, that she could teach her

little or nothing. I heard her relate this her distress to my own

maid, with tears in her eyes, and I formed a resolution to beg of my

parents that I might have Ann for a companion, and that she might be

allowed to take lessons with me of my governess.

My birth-day was then approaching, and on that day I was always

indulged in the privilege of asking some peculiar favour.

"And what boon has my annual petitioner to beg to-day?" said my

father, as he entered the breakfast-room on the morning of my

birth-day. Then I told him of the great anxiety expressed by nurse

Withers concerning her daughter; how much she wished it was in her

power to give her an education, that would enable her to get her

living without hard labour. I set the good qualities of Ann Withers

in the best light I could, and in conclusion I begged she might be

permitted to partake with me in education, and become my companion.

"This is a very serious request indeed, Harriot," said sir Edward;

"your mother and I must consult together on the subject." The result

of this consultation was favourable to my wishes: in a few weeks my

foster-sister was taken into the house, and placed under the tuition

of my governess.

To me, who had hitherto lived without any companions of my own age

except occasional visitors, the idea of a playfellow constantly to

associate with, was very pleasant; and, after the first shyness of

feeling her altered situation was over, Ann seemed as much at her ease

as if she had always been brought up in our house. I became very fond

of her, and took pleasure in shewing her all manner of attentions;

which so far won on her affections, that she told me she had a secret

intrusted to her by her mother, which she had promised never to reveal

as long as her mother lived, but that she almost wished to confide it

to me, because I was such a kind friend to her; yet, having promised

never to tell it till the death of her mother, she was afraid to tell

it to me. At first I assured her that I would never press her to the

disclosure, for that promises of secrecy were to be held sacred; but

whenever we fell into any confidential kind of conversation, this

secret seemed always ready to come out. Whether she or I were most to

blame I know not, though I own I could not help giving frequent hints

how well I could keep a secret. At length she told me what I have

before related, namely, that she was in truth the daughter of sir

Edward and lady Lesley, and I the child of her supposed mother.

When I was first in possession of this wonderful secret, my heart

burned to reveal it. I thought how praiseworthy it would be in me to

restore to my friend the rights of her birth; yet I thought only of

becoming her patroness, and raising her to her proper rank; it never

occurred to me that my own degradation must necessarily follow. I

endeavoured to persuade her to let me tell this important affair to

my parents: this she positively refused. I expressed wonder that she

should so faithfully keep this secret for an unworthy woman, who

in her infancy had done her such an injury. "Oh," said she, "you

do not know how much she loves me, or you would not wonder that I

never resent that. I have seen her grieve and be so very sorry on my

account, that I would not bring her into more trouble for any good

that could happen to myself. She has often told me, that since the day

she changed us, she has never known what it is to have a happy moment;

and when she returned home from nursing you, finding me very thin and

sickly, how her heart smote her for what she had done; and then she

nursed and fed me with such anxious care, that she grew much fonder

of me than if I had been her own; and that on the Sundays, when she

used to bring me here, it was more pleasure to her to see me in my

own father's house, than it was to her to see you her real child.

The shyness you shewed towards her while you were very young, and

the forced civility you seemed to affect as you grew older, always

appeared like ingratitude towards her who had done so much for you. My

mother has desired me to disclose this after her death, but I do not

believe I shall ever mention it then, for I should be sorry to bring

any reproach even on her memory."

In a few days after this important discovery, Ann was sent home to

pass a few weeks with her mother, on the occasion of the expected

arrival of some visitors to our house; they were to bring children

with them, and these I was to consider as my own guests.

In the expected arrival of my young visitants, and in making

preparations to entertain them, I had little leisure to deliberate

on what conduct I should pursue with regard to my friend's secret.

Something must be done I thought to make her amends for the injury

she had sustained, and I resolved to consider the matter attentively

on her return. Still my mind ran on conferring favours. I never

considered myself as transformed into the dependant person. Indeed sir

Edward at this time set me about a task which occupied the whole of my

attention; he proposed that I should write a little interlude after

the manner of the French Petites Pieces; and to try my ingenuity, no

one was to see it before the representation except the performers,

myself and my little friends, who as they were all younger than me,

could not be expected to lend me much assistance. I have already

told you what a proud girl I was. During the writing of this piece,

the receiving of my young friends, and the instructing them in their

several parts, I never felt myself of more importance. With Ann my

pride had somewhat slumbered; the difference of our rank left no room

for competition; all was complacency and good humour on my part, and

affectionate gratitude, tempered with respect, on hers. But here I had

full room to shew courtesy, to affect those graces--to imitate that

elegance of manners practised by lady Harriot to their mothers. I was

to be their instructress in action and in attitudes, and to receive

their praises and their admiration of my theatrical genius. It was a

new scene of triumph for me, and I might then be said to be in the

very height of my glory.

If the plot of my piece, for the invention of which they so highly

praised me, had been indeed my own, all would have been well; but

unhappily I borrowed from a source which made my drama end far

differently from what I intended it should. In the catastrophe I lost

not only the name I personated in the piece, but with it my own name

also; and all my rank and consequence in the world fled from me for

ever.--My father presented me with a beautiful writing-desk for the

use of my new authorship. My silver standish was placed upon it; a

quire of gilt paper was before me. I took out a parcel of my best crow

quills, and down I sate in the greatest form imaginable.

I conjecture I have no talent for invention; certain it is that when I

sate down to compose my piece, no story would come into my head, but

the story which Ann had so lately related to me. Many sheets were

scrawled over in vain, I could think of nothing else; still the babies

and the nurse were before me in all the minutiæ of description Ann

had given them. The costly attire of the lady-babe,--the homely garb

of the cottage-infant,--the affecting address of the fond mother to

her own offspring;--then the charming équivoque in the change of

the children: it all looked so dramatic:--it was a play ready made

to my hands. The invalid mother would form the pathetic, the silly

exclamations of the servants the ludicrous, and the nurse was nature

itself. It is true I had a few scruples, that it might, should it

come to the knowledge of Ann, be construed into something very like

a breach of confidence. But she was at home, and might never happen

to hear of the subject of my piece, and if she did, why it was only

making some handsome apology.--To a dependant companion, to whom I

had been so very great a friend, it was not necessary to be so very

particular about such a trifle.

Thus I reasoned as I wrote my drama, beginning with the title, which

I called "The Changeling," and ending with these words, _The curtain

drops, while the lady clasps the baby in her arms, and the nurse sighs

audibly_. I invented no new incident, I simply wrote the story as Ann

had told it to me, in the best blank verse I was able to compose.

By the time it was finished the company had arrived. The casting the

different parts was my next care. The honourable Augustus M----, a

young gentleman of five years of age, undertook to play the father. He

was only to come in and say, _How does my little darling do to-day?_

The three miss ----'s were to be the servants, they too had only

single lines to speak.

As these four were all very young performers, we made them rehearse

many times over, that they might walk in and out with proper decorum;

but the performance was stopped before their entrances and their exits

arrived. I complimented lady Elizabeth, the sister of Augustus, who

was the eldest of the young ladies, with the choice of the Lady Mother

or the nurse. She fixed on the former; she was to recline on a sofa,

and, affecting ill health, speak some eight or ten lines which began

with, _O that I could my precious baby see!_ To her cousin miss Emily

---- was given the girl who had the care of the nurse's child; two

dolls were to personate the two children, and the principal character

of the nurse, I had the pleasure to perform myself. It consisted of

several speeches, and a very long soliloquy during the changing of the

children's clothes.

The elder brother of Augustus, a gentleman of fifteen years of age,

who refused to mix in our childish drama, yet condescended to paint

the scenes, and our dresses were got up by my own maid.

When we thought ourselves quite perfect in our several parts, we

announced it for representation. Sir Edward and lady Harriot, with

their visitors, the parents of my young troop of comedians, honoured

us with their presence. The servants were also permitted to go into a

music gallery, which was at the end of a ball-room we had chosen for

our theatre.

As author, and principal performer, standing before a noble audience,

my mind was too much engaged with the arduous task I had undertaken,

to glance my eyes towards the music gallery, or I might have seen two

more spectators there than I expected. Nurse Withers and her daughter

Ann were there; they had been invited by the housekeeper to be present

at the representation of miss Lesley's first piece.

In the midst of the performance, as I, in the character of the nurse,

was delivering the wrong child to the girl, there was an exclamation

from the music gallery, of "Oh, it's all true! it's all true!" This

was followed by a bustle among the servants, and screams as of a

person in a hysteric fit. Sir Edward came forward to enquire what was

the matter. He saw it was Mrs. Withers who had fallen into a fit. Ann

was weeping over her, and crying out, "O miss Lesley, you have told

all in the play!"

Mrs. Withers was brought out into the ball-room; there, with tears and

in broken accents, with every sign of terror and remorse, she soon

made a full confession of her so long concealed guilt.

The strangers assembled to see our childish mimicry of passion,

were witness to a highly wrought dramatic scene in real life. I had

intended they should see the curtain drop without any discovery of

the deceit; unable to invent any new incident, I left the conclusion

imperfect as I found it: but they saw a more strict poetical justice

done; they saw the rightful child restored to its parents, and the

nurse overwhelmed with shame, and threatened with the severest

punishment.

"Take this woman," said sir Edward, "and lock her up, till she be

delivered into the hands of justice."

Ann, on her knees, implored mercy for her mother.--Addressing the

children who were gathered round her, "Dear ladies," said she, "help

me, on your knees help me to beg forgiveness for my mother." Down

the young ones all dropped--even lady Elizabeth bent her knee. "Sir

Edward, pity her distress. Sir Edward, pardon her!" All joined in the

petition, except one whose voice ought to have been loudest in the

appeal. No word, no accent came from me. I hung over lady Harriot's

chair, weeping as if my heart would break; but I wept for my own

fallen fortunes, not for my mother's sorrow.

I thought within myself, if in the integrity of my heart, refusing to

participate in this unjust secret, I had boldly ventured to publish

the truth, I might have had some consolation in the praises which so

generous an action would have merited: but it is through the vanity

of being supposed to have written a pretty story, that I have meanly

broken my faith with my friend, and unintentionally proclaimed the

disgrace of my mother and myself. While thoughts like these were

passing through my mind, Ann had obtained my mother's pardon. Instead

of being sent away to confinement and the horrors of a prison, she was

given by sir Edward into the care of the housekeeper, who had orders

from lady Harriot to see her put to bed and properly attended to, for

again this wretched woman had fallen into a fit.

Ann would have followed my mother, but sir Edward brought her back,

telling her that she should see her when she was better. He then led

Ann towards lady Harriot, desiring her to embrace her child; she did

so, and I saw her, as I had phrased it in the play, _clasped in her

mother's arms_.

This scene had greatly affected the spirits of lady Harriot; through

the whole of it it was with difficulty she had been kept from

fainting, and she was now led into the drawing-room by the ladies.

The gentlemen followed, talking with sir Edward of the astonishing

instance of filial affection they had just seen in the earnest

pleadings of the child for her supposed mother.

Ann too went with them, and was conducted by her whom I had always

considered as my own particular friend. Lady Elizabeth took hold of

her hand, and said, "Miss Lesley, will you permit me to conduct you to

the drawing-room?"

I was left weeping behind the chair where lady Harriot had sate, and,

as I thought, quite alone. A something had before twitched my frock

two or three times, so slightly I had scarcely noticed it; a little

head now peeped round, and looking up in my face said, "She is not

miss Lesley:" it was the young Augustus; he had been sitting at my

feet, but I had not observed him. He then started up, and taking hold

of my hand with one of his, with the other holding fast by my clothes,

he led, or rather dragged me, into the midst of the company assembled

in the drawing-room. The vehemence of his manner, his little face as

red as fire, caught every eye. The ladies smiled, and one gentleman

laughed in a most unfeeling manner. His elder brother patted him on

the head, and said, "You are a humane little fellow. Elizabeth, we

might have thought of this."

Very kind words were now spoken to me by sir Edward, and he called me

Harriot, precious name now grown to me. Lady Harriot kissed me, and

said she would never forget how long she had loved me as her child.

These were comfortable words; but I heard echoed round the room, "Poor

thing, she cannot help it.--I am sure she is to be pitied.--Dear lady

Harriot, how kind, how considerate you are!" Ah! what a deep sense of

my altered condition did I then feel!

"Let the young ladies divert themselves in another room," said sir

Edward; "and, Harriot, take your new sister with you, and help her

to entertain your friends." Yes, he called me Harriot again, and

afterwards invented new names for his daughter and me, and always

called us by them, apparently in jest; yet I knew it was only because

he would not hurt me with hearing our names reversed. When sir Edward

desired us to shew the children into another room, Ann and I walked

towards the door. A new sense of humiliation arose--how could I go

out at the door before miss Lesley?--I stood irresolute; she drew

back. The elder brother of my friend Augustus assisted me in this

perplexity; pushing us all forward, as if in a playful mood, he drove

us indiscriminately before him, saying, "I will make one among you

to-day." He had never joined in our sports before.

My luckless Play, that sad instance of my duplicity, was never once

mentioned to me afterwards, not even by any one of the children who

had acted in it, and I must also tell you how considerate an old lady

was at the time about our dresses. As soon as she perceived things

growing very serious, she hastily stripped off the upper garments we

wore to represent our different characters. I think I should have

died with shame, if the child had led me into the drawing-room in the

mummery I had worn to represent a nurse. This good lady was of another

essential service to me; for perceiving an irresolution in every one

how they should behave to us, which distressed me very much, she

contrived to place miss Lesley above me at table, and called her miss

Lesley, and me miss Withers; saying at the same time in a low voice,

but as if she meant I should hear her, "It is better these things

should be done at once, then they are over." My heart thanked her, for

I felt the truth of what she said.

My poor mother continued very ill for many weeks: no medicine would

remove the extreme dejection of spirits she laboured under. Sir

Edward sent for the clergyman of the parish to give her religious

consolation. Every day he came to visit her, and he would always take

miss Lesley and me into the room with him. I think, miss Villiers,

your father must be just such another man as Dr. Wheelding, our worthy

rector; just so I think he would have soothed the troubled conscience

of my repentant mother. How feelingly, how kindly he used to talk of

mercy and forgiveness!

My heart was softened by my own misfortunes, and the sight of my

penitent suffering mother. I felt that she was now my only parent; I

strove, earnestly strove, to love her; yet ever when I looked in her

face, she would seem to me to be the very identical person whom I

should have once thought sufficiently honoured by a slight inclination

of the head, and a civil How do you do, Mrs. Withers? One day, as

miss Lesley was hanging over her, with her accustomed fondness, Dr.

Wheelding reading in a prayer-book, and, as I thought, not at that

moment regarding us, I threw myself on my knees and silently prayed

that I too might be able to love my mother.

Dr. Wheelding had been observing me: he took me into the garden, and

drew from me the subject of my petition. "Your prayers, my good young

lady," said he, "I hope are heard; sure I am they have caused me to

adopt a resolution, which, as it will enable you to see your mother

frequently, will, I hope, greatly assist your pious wishes.

"I will take your mother home with me to superintend my family. Under

my roof doubtless sir Edward will often permit you to see her. Perform

your duty towards her as well as you possibly can.--Affection is the

growth of time. With such good wishes in your young heart, do not

despair that in due time it will assuredly spring up."

With the approbation of sir Edward and lady Harriot, my mother was

removed in a few days to Dr. Wheelding's house: there she soon

recovered--there she at present resides. She tells me she loves me

almost as well as she did when I was a baby, and we both wept at

parting when I came to school.

Here perhaps I ought to conclude my story, which I fear has been a

tedious one: permit me however to say a few words concerning the time

which elapsed since the discovery of my birth until my arrival here.

It was on the fifth day of ---- that I was known to be Ann Withers,

and the daughter of my supposed nurse. The company who were witness to

my disgrace departed in a few days, and I felt relieved from some part

of the mortification I hourly experienced. For every fresh instance

even of kindness or attention I experienced went to my heart, that I

should be forced to feel thankful for it.

Circumstanced as I was, surely I had nothing justly to complain of.

The conduct of sir Edward and lady Harriot was kind in the extreme;

still preserving every appearance of a parental tenderness for me,

but ah! I might no longer call them by the dear names of father and

mother.--Formerly when speaking of them, I used, proud of their

titles, to delight to say, "Sir Edward or lady Harriot did this, or

this;" now I would give worlds to say, "My father or my mother."

I should be perfectly unkind if I were to complain of miss

Lesley--indeed, I have not the least cause of complaint against her.

As my companion, her affection and her gratitude had been unbounded;

and now that it was my turn to be the humble friend, she tried

by every means in her power, to make me think she felt the same

respectful gratitude, which in her dependant station she had so

naturally displayed.

Only in a few rarely constituted minds, does that true attentive

kindness spring up, that delicacy of feeling, which enters into every

trivial thing, is ever awake and keeping watch lest it should offend.

Myself, though educated with the extremest care, possessed but little

of this virtue. Virtue I call it, though among men it is termed

politeness, for since the days of my humiliating reverse of fortune I

have learned its value.

I feel quite ashamed to give instances of any deficiency I observed,

or thought I have observed, in miss Lesley. Now I am away from her,

and dispassionately speaking of it, it seems as if my own soreness

of temper had made me fancy things. I really believe now that I was

mistaken; but miss Lesley had been so highly praised for her filial

tenderness, I thought at last she seemed to make a parade about it,

and used to run up to my mother, and affect to be more glad to see her

than she really was after a time; and I think Dr. Wheelding thought

so, by a little hint he once dropped. But he too might be mistaken,

for he was very partial to me.

I am under the greatest obligation in the world to this good Dr.

Wheelding. He has made my mother quite a respectable woman, and I am

sure it is owing a great deal to him that she loves me as well as she

does.

And here, though it may seem a little out of place, let me stop to

assure you, that if I ever could have had any doubt of the sincerity

of miss Lesley's affection towards me, her behaviour on the occasion

of my coming here ought completely to efface it. She entreated with

many tears, and almost the same energy with which she pleaded for

forgiveness for my mother, that I might not be sent away.--But she was

not alike successful in her supplications.

Miss Lesley had made some progress in reading and writing during the

time she was my companion only, it was highly necessary that every

exertion should be now made--the whole house was, as I may say, in

requisition for her instruction. Sir Edward and lady Harriot devoted

great part of the day to this purpose. A well educated young person

was taken under our governess, to assist her in her labours, and to

teach miss Lesley music. A drawing-master was engaged to reside in the

house.

At this time I was not remarkably forward in my education. My

governess being a native of France, I spoke French very correctly, and

I had made some progress in Italian. I had only had the instruction of

masters during the few months in the year we usually passed in London.

Music I never had the least ear for, I could scarcely be taught my

notes. This defect in me was always particularly regretted by my

mother, she being an excellent performer herself both on the piano and

on the harp.

I think I have some taste for drawing; but as lady Harriot did not

particularly excel in this, I lost so much time in the summer months,

practising only under my governess, that I made no great proficiency

even in this my favourite art. But miss Lesley with all these

advantages which I have named, every body so eager to instruct her,

she so willing to learn--every thing so new and delightful to her,

how could it happen otherwise? she in a short time became a little

prodigy. What best pleased lady Harriot was, after she had conquered

the first difficulties, she discovered a wonderful talent for

music. Here she was her mother's own girl indeed--she had the same

sweet-toned voice--the same delicate finger.--Her musical governess

had little now to do; for as soon as lady Harriot perceived this

excellence in her, she gave up all company, and devoted her whole time

to instructing her daughter in this science.

Nothing makes the heart ache with such a hopeless, heavy pain, as

envy.

I had felt deeply before, but till now I could not be said to envy

miss Lesley.--All day long the notes of the harp or the piano spoke

sad sounds to me, of the loss of a loved mother's heart.

To have, in a manner, two mothers, and miss Lesley to engross them

both, was too much indeed.

It was at this time that one day I had been wearied with hearing

lady Harriot play one long piece of Haydn's music after another, to

her enraptured daughter. We were to walk with our governess to Dr.

Wheelding's that morning; and after lady Harriot had left the room,

and we were quite ready for our walk, miss Lesley would not leave the

instrument for I know not how long.

It was on that day that I thought she was not quite honest in her

expressions of joy at the sight of my poor mother, who had been

waiting at the garden-gate near two hours to see her arrive; yet she

might be, for the music had put her in remarkably good spirits that

morning.

O the music quite, quite won lady Harriot's heart! Till miss Lesley

began to play so well, she often lamented the time it would take,

before her daughter would have the air of a person of fashion's child.

It was my part of the general instruction to give her lessons on this

head. We used to make a kind of play of it, which we called lectures

on fashionable manners: it was a pleasant amusement to me, a sort of

keeping up the memory of past times. But now the music was always

in the way. The last time it was talked of, lady Harriot said her

daughter's time was too precious to be taken up with such trifling.

I must own that the music had that effect on miss Lesley as to render

these lectures less necessary, which I will explain to you; but,

first, let me assure you that lady Harriot was by no means in the

habit of saying these kind of things. It was almost a solitary

instance. I could give you a thousand instances the very reverse of

this, in her as well as in sir Edward. How kindly, how frequently,

would they remind me, that to me alone it was owing that they ever

knew their child! calling the day on which I was a petitioner for

the admittance of Ann into the house, the blessed birthday of their

generous girl.

Neither dancing, nor any foolish lectures could do much for miss

Lesley, she remained wanting in gracefulness of carriage; but all that

is usually attributed to dancing, music effected. When she was sitting

before the instrument, a resemblance to her mother became apparent to

every eye. Her attitudes and the expression of her countenance were

the very same. This soon followed her into every thing; all was

ease and natural grace; for the music, and with it the idea of lady

Harriot, was always in her thoughts. It was a pretty sight to see the

daily improvement in her person, even to me, poor envious girl that I

was.

Soon after lady Harriot had hurt me by calling my little efforts to

improve her daughter trifling, she made me large amends in a very kind

and most unreserved conversation that she held with me.

She told me all the struggles she had had at first to feel a maternal

tenderness for her daughter; and she frankly confessed that she had

now gained so much on her affections, that she feared she had too much

neglected the solemn promise she had made me, _Never to forget how

long she had loved me as her child._

Encouraged by her returning kindness, I owned how much I had suffered,

and ventured to express my fears, that I had hardly courage enough to

bear the sight of my former friends, under a new designation, as I

must now appear to them, on our removal to London, which was expected

to take place in a short time.

A few days after this she told me in the gentlest manner possible,

that sir Edward and herself were of opinion it would conduce to my

happiness to pass a year or two at school.

I knew that this proposal was kindly intended to spare me the

mortifications I so much dreaded; therefore I endeavoured to submit

to my hard fate with cheerfulness, and prepared myself, not without

reluctance, to quit a mansion which had been the scene of so many

enjoyments, and latterly of such very different feelings.

IV

ELINOR FORESTER

(_By Mary Lamb_)

When I was very young, I had the misfortune to lose my mother. My

father very soon married again. In the morning of the day in which

that event took place, my father set me on his knee, and, as he often

used to do after the death of my mother, he called me his dear little

orphaned Elinor, and then he asked me if I loved miss Saville. I

replied "Yes." Then he said this dear lady was going to be so kind

as to be married to him, and that she was to live with us, and be my

mamma. My father told me this with such pleasure in his looks, that I

thought it must be a very fine thing indeed to have a new mamma; and

on his saying it was time for me to be dressed against his return from

church, I ran in great spirits to tell the good news in the nursery.

I found my maid and the house-maid looking out of the window to see

my father get into his carriage, which was new painted; the servants

had new liveries, and fine white ribbands in their hats; and then I

perceived my father had left off his mourning. The maids were dressed

in new coloured gowns and white ribbands. On the table I saw a new

muslin frock, trimmed with fine lace ready for me to put on. I skipped

about the room quite in an ecstasy.

When the carriage drove from the door, the housekeeper came in to

bring the maids new white gloves. I repeated to her the words I had

just heard, that that dear lady miss Saville was going to be married

to papa, and that she was to live with us, and be my mamma.

The housekeeper shook her head, and said, "Poor thing! how soon

children forget every thing!"

I could not imagine what she meant by my forgetting every thing, for

I instantly recollected poor mamma used to say I had an excellent

memory.

The women began to draw on their white gloves, and the seams rending

in several places, Anne said, "This is just the way our gloves served

us at my mistress's funeral." The other checked her, and said "Hush!"

I was then thinking of some instances in which my mamma had praised my

memory, and this reference to her funeral fixed her idea in my mind.

From the time of her death no one had ever spoken to me of my mamma,

and I had apparently forgotten her; yet I had a habit which perhaps

had not been observed, of taking my little stool, which had been my

mamma's footstool, and a doll, which my mamma had drest for me, while

she was sitting in her elbow-chair, her head supported with pillows.

With these in my hands, I used to go to the door of the room in which

I had seen her in her last illness; and after trying to open it, and

peeping through the keyhole, from whence I could just see a glimpse of

the crimson curtains, I used to sit down on the stool before the door,

and play with my doll, and sometimes sing to it mamma's pretty song,

of "Balow my babe;" imitating as well as I could, the weak voice in

which she used to sing it to me. My mamma had a very sweet voice. I

remember now the gentle tone in which she used to say my prattle did

not disturb her.

When I was drest in my new frock, I wished poor mamma was alive to

see how fine I was on papa's wedding-day, and I ran to my favourite

station at her bed-room door. There I sat thinking of my mamma, and

trying to remember exactly how she used to look; because I foolishly

imagined that miss Saville was to be changed into something like my

own mother, whose pale and delicate appearance in her last illness was

all that I retained of her remembrance.

When my father returned home with his bride, he walked up stairs

to look for me, and my new mamma followed him. They found me at my

mother's door, earnestly looking through the keyhole; I was thinking

so intently on my mother, that when my father said, "Here is your new

mamma, my Elinor," I turned round, and began to cry, for no other

reason than because she had a very high colour, and I remembered my

mamma was very pale; she had bright black eyes, my mother's were

mild blue eyes; and that instead of the wrapping gown and close cap

in which I remembered my mamma, she was drest in all her bridal

decorations.

I said, "Miss Saville shall not be my mamma," and I cried till I was

sent away in disgrace.

Every time I saw her for several days, the same notion came into my

head, that she was not a bit more like mamma than when she was miss

Saville. My father was very angry when he saw how shy I continued to

look at her; but she always said, "Never mind. Elinor and I shall soon

be better friends."

One day, when I was very naughty indeed, for I would not speak one

word to either of them, my papa took his hat, and walked out quite in

a passion. When he was gone, I looked up at my new mamma, expecting

to see her very angry too; but she was smiling and looking very

good-naturedly upon me; and she said, "Now we are alone together, my

pretty little daughter, let us forget papa is angry with us; and tell

me why you were peeping through that door the day your papa brought

me home, and you cried so at the sight of me." "Because mamma used to

be there," I replied. When she heard me say this, she fell a-crying

very sadly indeed; and I was so very sorry to hear her cry so, that I

forgot I did not love her, and I went up to her, and said, "Don't cry,

I won't be naughty any more, I won't peep through the door any more."

Then she said I had a little kind heart, and I should not have any

occasion, for she would take me into the room herself; and she rung

the bell, and ordered the key of that room to be brought to her; and

the housekeeper brought it, and tried to persuade her not to go. But

she said, "I must have my own way in this;" and she carried me in her

arms into my mother's room.

O I was so pleased to be taken into mamma's room! I pointed out to her

all the things that I remembered to have belonged to mamma and she

encouraged me to tell her all the little incidents which had dwelt on

my memory concerning her. She told me, that she went to school with

mamma when she was a little girl, and that I should come into this

room with her every day when papa was gone out, and she would tell me

stories of mamma when she was a little girl no bigger than me.

When my father came home, we were walking in a garden at the back of

our house, and I was shewing her mamma's geraniums, and telling her

what pretty flowers they had when mamma was alive.

My father was astonished; and he said, "Is this the sullen Elinor?

what has worked this miracle?" "Ask no questions," she replied, "or

you will disturb our new-born friendship. Elinor has promised to love

me, and she says too that she will call me 'mamma.'" "Yes, I will,

mamma, mamma, mamma," I replied, and hung about her with the greatest

fondness.

After this she used to pass great part of the mornings with me in my

mother's room, which was now made the repository of all my playthings,

and also my school-room. Here my new mamma taught me to read. I was a

sad little dunce, and scarcely knew my letters; my own mamma had often

said, when she got better she would hear me read every day, but as she

never got better it was not her fault. I now began to learn very fast,

for when I said my lesson well, I was always rewarded with some pretty

story of my mother's childhood; and these stories generally contained

some little hints that were instructive to me, and which I greatly

stood in want of; for, between improper indulgence and neglect, I had

many faulty ways.

In this kind manner my mother-in-law has instructed and improved me,

and I love her because she was my mother's friend when they were

young. She has been my only instructress, for I never went to school

till I came here. She would have continued to teach me, but she has

not time, for she has a little baby of her own now, and that is the

reason I came to school.

V

MARGARET GREEN

(_By Mary Lamb_)

My father has been dead near three years. Soon after his death, my

mother being left in reduced circumstances, she was induced to accept

the offer of Mrs. Beresford, an elderly lady of large fortune, to live

in her house as her companion, and the superintendent of her family.

This lady was my godmother, and as I was my mother's only child, she

very kindly permitted her to have me with her.

Mrs. Beresford lived in a large old family mansion; she kept no

company, and never moved except from the breakfast-parlour to the

eating-room, and from thence to the drawing-room to tea.

Every morning when she first saw me, she used to nod her head very

kindly, and say, "How do you do, little Margaret?" But I do not

recollect she ever spoke to me during the remainder of the day; except

indeed after I had read the psalms and the chapters, which was my

daily task; then she used constantly to observe, that I improved in

my reading, and frequently added, "I never heard a child read so

distinctly." She had been remarkably fond of needle-work, and her

conversation with my mother was generally the history of some pieces

of work she had formerly done; the dates when they were begun, and

when finished; what had retarded their progress, and what had hastened

their completion. If occasionally any other events were spoken of, she

had no other chronology to reckon by, than in the recollection of what

carpet, what sofa-cover, what set of chairs, were in the frame at that

time.

I believe my mother is not particularly fond of needle-work; for in

my father's lifetime I never saw her amuse herself in this way; yet,

to oblige her kind patroness, she undertook to finish a large carpet,

which the old lady had just begun when her eye-sight failed her. All

day long my mother used to sit at the frame, talking of the shades of

the worsted, and the beauty of the colours;--Mrs. Beresford seated in

a chair near her, and, though her eyes were so dim she could hardly

distinguish one colour from another, watching through her spectacles

the progress of the work.

When my daily portion of reading was over, I had a task of

needle-work, which generally lasted half an hour. I was not allowed to

pass more time in reading or work, because my eyes were very weak, for

which reason I was always set to read in the large-print Family Bible.

I was very fond of reading; and when I could unobserved steal a few

minutes as they were intent on their work, I used to delight to read

in the historical part of the Bible; but this, because of my eyes, was

a forbidden pleasure; and the Bible never being removed out of the

room, it was only for a short time together that I dared softly to

lift up the leaves and peep into it.

As I was permitted to walk in the garden or wander about the house

whenever I pleased, I used to leave the parlour for hours together,

and make out my own solitary amusement as well as I could. My first

visit was always to a very large hall, which, from being paved

with marble, was called the marble hall. In this hall, while Mrs.

Beresford's husband was living, the tenants used to be feasted at

Christmas.

The heads of the twelve Cæsars were hung round the hall. Every day I

mounted on the chairs to look at them, and to read the inscriptions

underneath, till I became perfectly familiar with their names and

features.

Hogarth's prints were below the Cæsars: I was very fond of looking at

them, and endeavouring to make out their meaning.

An old broken battledore, and some shuttlecocks with most of the

feathers missing, were on a marble slab in one corner of the hall,

which constantly reminded me that there had once been younger

inhabitants here than the old lady and her gray-headed servants. In

another corner stood a marble figure of a satyr: every day I laid my

hand on his shoulder to feel how cold he was.

This hall opened into a room full of family portraits. They were all

in the dresses of former times: some were old men and women, and some

were children. I used to long to have a fairy's power to call the

children down from their frames to play with me. One little girl in

particular, who hung by the side of a glass door which opened into the

garden, I often invited to walk there with me, but she still kept her

station--one arm round a little lamb's neck, and in her hand a large

bunch of roses.

From this room I usually proceeded to the garden.

When I was weary of the garden I wandered over the rest of the house.

The best suite of rooms I never saw by any other light than what

glimmered through the tops of the window-shutters, which however

served to shew the carved chimney-pieces, and the curious old

ornaments about the rooms; but the worked furniture and carpets, of

which I heard such constant praises, I could have but an imperfect

sight of, peeping under the covers which were kept over them, by the

dim light; for I constantly lifted up a corner of the envious cloth,

that hid these highly-praised rarities from my view.

The bed-rooms were also regularly explored by me, as well to admire

the antique furniture, as for the sake of contemplating the tapestry

hangings, which were full of Bible history. The subject of the one

which chiefly attracted my attention, was Hagar and her son Ishmael.

Every day I admired the beauty of the youth, and pitied the forlorn

state of him and his mother in the wilderness. At the end of the

gallery into which these tapestry rooms opened, was one door, which

having often in vain attempted to open, I concluded to be locked;

and finding myself shut out, I was very desirous of seeing what

it contained; and though still foiled in the attempt, I every day

endeavoured to turn the lock, which whether by constantly trying I

loosened, being probably a very old one, or that the door was not

locked but fastened tight by time, I know not,--to my great joy, as I

was one day trying the lock as usual, it gave way, and I found myself

in this so long desired room.

It proved to be a very large library. This was indeed a precious

discovery. I looked round on the books with the greatest delight. I

thought I would read them every one. I now forsook all my favourite

haunts, and passed all my time here. I took down first one book, then

another.

If you never spent whole mornings alone in a large library, you cannot

conceive the pleasure of taking down books in the constant hope

of finding an entertaining book among them; yet, after many days,

meeting with nothing but disappointment, it becomes less pleasant. All

the books within my reach were folios of the gravest cast. I could

understand very little that I read in them, and the old dark print and

the length of the lines made my eyes ache.

When I had almost resolved to give up the search as fruitless, I

perceived a volume lying in an obscure corner of the room. I opened

it. It was a charming print; the letters were almost as large as the

type of the Family Bible. In the first page I looked into I saw the

name of my favourite Ishmael, whose face I knew so well from the

tapestry, and whose history I had often read in the Bible.

I sate myself down to read this book with the greatest eagerness. The

title of it was "Mahometism Explained." It was a very improper book,

for it contained a false history of Abraham and his descendants.

I shall be quite ashamed to tell you the strange effect it had on me.

I know it was very wrong to read any book without permission to do so.

If my time were to come over again, I would go and tell my mamma that

there was a library in the house, and ask her to permit me to read a

little while every day in some book that she might think proper to

select for me. But unfortunately I did not then recollect that I ought

to do this: the reason of my strange forgetfulness might be that my

mother, following the example of her patroness, had almost wholly

discontinued talking to me. I scarcely ever heard a word addressed to

me from morning to night. If it were not for the old servants saying

"Good morning to you, miss Margaret," as they passed me in the long

passages, I should have been the greatest part of the day in as

perfect a solitude as Robinson Crusoe. It must have been because I

was never spoken to at all, that I forgot what was right and what was

wrong, for I do not believe that I ever remembered I was doing wrong

all the time I was reading in the library. A great many of the leaves

in "Mahometism Explained" were torn out, but enough remained to make

me imagine that Ishmael was the true son of Abraham: I read here that

the true descendants of Abraham were known by a light which streamed

from the middle of their foreheads. It said, that Ishmael's father and

mother first saw this light streaming from his forehead, as he was

lying asleep in the cradle. I was very sorry so many of the leaves

were torn out, for it was as entertaining as a fairy tale. I used

to read the history of Ishmael, and then go and look at him in the

tapestry, and then read his history again. When I had almost learned

the history of Ishmael by heart, I read the rest of the book, and then

I came to the history of Mahomet, who was there said to be the last

descendant of Abraham.

If Ishmael had engaged so much of my thoughts, how much more so

must Mahomet? His history was full of nothing but wonders from the

beginning to the end. The book said, that those who believed all

the wonderful stories which were related of Mahomet were called

Mahometans, and true believers:--I concluded that I must be a

Mahometan, for I believed every word I read.

At length I met with something which I also believed, though I

trembled as I read it:--this was, that after we are dead, we are to

pass over a narrow bridge, which crosses a bottomless gulf. The bridge

was described to be no wider than a silken thread; and it said, that

all who were not Mahometans would slip on one side of this bridge, and

drop into the tremendous gulf that had no bottom. I considered myself

as a Mahometan, yet I was perfectly giddy whenever I thought of

passing over this bridge.

One day, seeing the old lady totter across the room, a sudden terror

seized me, for I thought, how would she ever be able to get over the

bridge. Then too it was, that I first recollected that my mother would

also be in imminent danger; for I imagined she had never heard the

name of Mahomet, because I foolishly conjectured this book had been

locked up for ages in the library, and was utterly unknown to the rest

of the world.

All my desire was now to tell them the discovery I had made; for I

thought, when they knew of the existence of "Mahometism Explained,"

they would read it, and become Mahometans, to ensure themselves a

safe passage over the silken bridge. But it wanted more courage than

I possessed, to break the matter to my intended converts; I must

acknowledge that I had been reading without leave; and the habit

of never speaking, or being spoken to, considerably increased the

difficulty.

My anxiety on this subject threw me into a fever. I was so ill, that

my mother thought it necessary to sleep in the same room with me. In

the middle of the night I could not resist the strong desire I felt to

tell her what preyed so much on my mind.

I awoke her out of a sound sleep, and begged she would be so kind as

to be a Mahometan. She was very much alarmed, for she thought I was

delirious, which I believe I was; for I tried to explain the reason of

my request, but it was in such an incoherent manner that she could not

at all comprehend what I was talking about.

The next day a physician was sent for, and he discovered, by several

questions that he put to me, that I had read myself into a fever. He

gave me medicines, and ordered me to be kept very quiet, and said, he

hoped in a few days I should be very well; but as it was a new case

to him, he never having attended a little Mahometan before, if any

lowness continued after he had removed the fever, he would, with my

mother's permission, take me home with him to study this extraordinary

case at his leisure; and added, that he could then hold a consultation

with his wife, who was often very useful to him in prescribing

remedies for the maladies of his younger patients.

In a few days he fetched me away. His wife was in the carriage with

him. Having heard what he said about her prescriptions, I expected,

between the doctor and his lady, to undergo a severe course of

medicine, especially as I heard him very formally ask her advice what

was good for a Mahometan fever, the moment after he had handed me into

the carriage. She studied a little while, and then she said, A ride

to Harlow fair would not be amiss. He said he was entirely of her

opinion, because it suited him to go there to buy a horse.

During the ride they entered into conversation with me, and in answer

to their questions, I was relating to them the solitary manner in

which I had passed my time; how I found out the library, and what I

had read in the fatal book which had so heated my imagination,--when

we arrived at the fair; and Ishmael, Mahomet, and the narrow bridge,

vanished out of my head in an instant.

O what a cheerful sight it was to me, to see so many happy faces

assembled together, walking up and down between the rows of booths

that were full of showy things; ribbands, laces, toys, cakes, and

sweetmeats! While the doctor was gone to buy his horse, his kind

lady let me stand as long as I pleased at the booths, and gave me

many things which she saw I particularly admired. My needle-case, my

pin-cushion, indeed my work-basket, and all its contents, are presents

which she purchased for me at this fair. After we returned home, she

played with me all the evening at a geographical game, which she also

bought for me at this cheerful fair.

The next day she invited some young ladies of my own age, to spend the

day with me. She had a swing put up in the garden for us, and a room

cleared of the furniture that we might play at blindman's-buff. One of

the liveliest of the girls, who had taken on herself the direction of

our sports, she kept to be my companion all the time I staid with her,

and every day contrived some new amusement for us.

Yet this good lady did not suffer all my time to pass in mirth and

gaiety. Before I went home, she explained to me very seriously the

error into which I had fallen. I found that so far from "Mahometism

Explained" being a book concealed only in this library, it was well

known to every person of the least information.

The Turks, she told me, were Mahometans, and that, if the leaves of

my favourite book had not been torn out, I should have read that the

author of it did not mean to give the fabulous stories here related as

true, but only wrote it as giving a history of what the Turks, who are

a very ignorant people, believe concerning the impostor Mahomet, who

feigned himself to be a descendant of Ishmael. By the good offices of

the physician and his lady, I was carried home at the end of a month,

perfectly cured of the error into which I had fallen, and very much

ashamed of having believed so many absurdities.

VI

EMILY BARTON

(_By Mary Lamb_)

When I was a very young child, I remember residing with an uncle

and aunt who lived in ----shire. I think I remained there near a

twelvemonth. I am ignorant of the cause of my being so long left there

by my parents, who, though they were remarkably fond of me, never came

to see me during all that time. As I did not know I should ever have

occasion to relate the occurrences of my life, I never thought of

enquiring the reason.

I am just able to recollect, that when I first went there, I thought

it was a fine thing to live in the country, and play with my little

cousins in the garden all day long; and I also recollect, that I soon

found that it was a very dull thing, to live in the country with

little cousins who have a papa and mamma in the house, while my own

dear papa and mamma were in London many miles away.

I have heard my papa observe, girls who are not well managed are

a most quarrelsome race of little people. My cousins very often

quarrelled with me, and then they always said, "I will go and tell my

mamma, cousin Emily;" and then I used to be very disconsolate because

I had no mamma to complain to of my grievances.

My aunt always took Sophia's part because she was so young; and she

never suffered me to oppose Mary, or Elizabeth, because they were

older than me.

The playthings were all the property of one or other of my cousins.

The large dolls belonged to Mary and Elizabeth, and the pretty little

wax dolls were dressed on purpose for Sophia, who always began to cry

the instant I touched them. I had nothing that I could call my own but

one pretty book of stories; and one day as Sophia was endeavouring

to take it from me, and I was trying to keep it, it was all torn to

pieces; and my aunt would not be angry with her. She only said, Sophia

was a little baby and did not know any better. My uncle promised to

buy me another book, but he never remembered it. Very often when he

came home in the evening, he used to say, "I wonder what I have got in

my pocket;" and then they all crowded round him, and I used to creep

towards him, and think, May be it is my book that my uncle has got in

his pocket. But, no; nothing ever came out for me. Yet the first sight

of a plaything, even if it is not one's own, is always a cheerful

thing, and a new toy would put them in a good humour for a while, and

they would say, "Here, Emily, look what I have got. You may take it in

your own hand and look at it." But the pleasure of examining it, was

sure to be stopped in a short time by the old story of "Give that to

me again; you know that is mine." Nobody could help, I think, being a

little out of humour if they were always served so: but if I shewed

any signs of discontent, my aunt always told my uncle I was a little

peevish fretful thing, and gave her more trouble than all her own

children put together. My aunt would often say, what a happy thing

it was, to have such affectionate children as hers were. She was

always praising my cousins because they were affectionate; that was

sure to be her word. She said I had not one atom of affection in my

disposition, for that no kindness ever made the least impression on

me. And she would say all this with Sophia seated on her lap, and

the two eldest perhaps hanging round their papa, while I was so dull

to see them taken so much notice of, and so sorry that I was not

affectionate, that I did not know what to do with myself.

Then there was another complaint against me; that I was so shy before

strangers. Whenever any strangers spoke to me, before I had time to

think what answer I should give, Mary or Elizabeth would say, "Emily

is so shy, she will never speak." Then I, thinking I was very shy,

would creep into a corner of the room, and be ashamed to look up while

the company staid.

Though I often thought of my papa and mamma, by degrees the

remembrance of their persons faded out of my mind. When I tried to

think how they used to look, the faces of my cousins' papa and mamma

only came into my mind.

One morning, my uncle and aunt went abroad before breakfast, and

took my cousins with them. They very often went out for whole days

together, and left me at home. Sometimes they said it was because

they could not take so many children; and sometimes they said it was

because I was so shy, it was no amusement to me to go abroad.

That morning I was very solitary indeed, for they had even taken the

dog Sancho with them, and I was very fond of him. I went all about

the house and garden to look for him. Nobody could tell me where

Sancho was, and then I went into the front court and called, "Sancho,

Sancho." An old man that worked in the garden was there, and he said

Sancho was gone with his master. O how sorry I was! I began to cry,

for Sancho and I used to amuse ourselves for hours together when every

body was gone out. I cried till I heard the mail coachman's horn,

and then I ran to the gate to see the mail-coach go past. It stopped

before our gate, and a gentleman got out, and the moment he saw me

he took me in his arms, and kissed me, and said I was Emily Barton,

and asked me why the tears were on my little pale cheeks; and I told

him the cause of my distress. The old man asked him to walk into the

house, and was going to call one of the servants; but the gentleman

would not let him, and he said, "Go on with your work, I want

to talk to this little girl before I go into the house." Then he

sate down on a bench which was in the court, and asked me many

questions; and I told him all my little troubles, for he was such a

good-natured-looking gentleman that I prattled very freely to him. I

told him all I have told you, and more, for the unkind treatment I met

with was more fresh in my mind than it is now. Then he called to the

old man and desired him to fetch a post-chaise, and gave him money

that he should make haste, and I never saw the old man walk so fast

before. When he had been gone a little while, the gentleman said,

"Will you walk with me down the road to meet the chaise, and you shall

ride in it a little way along with me." I had nothing on, not even my

old straw bonnet that I used to wear in the garden; but I did not mind

that, and I ran by his side a good way, till we met the chaise, and

the old man riding with the driver. The gentleman said, "Get down and

open the door," and then he lifted me in. The old man looked in a sad

fright, and said, "O sir, I hope you are not going to take the child

away." The gentleman threw out a small card, and bid him give that to

his master, and calling to the post-boy to drive on, we lost sight of

the old man in a minute.

The gentleman laughed very much, and said, "We have frightened the old

man, he thinks I am going to run away with you;" and I laughed, and

thought it a very good joke; and he said, "So you tell me you are very

shy;" and I replied "Yes, sir, I am, before strangers:" he said, "So I

perceive, you are," and then he laughed again, and I laughed, though

I did not know why. We had such a merry ride, laughing all the way at

one thing or another, till we came to a town where the chaise stopped,

and he ordered some breakfast. When I got out I began to shiver a

little; for it was the latter end of autumn, the leaves were falling

off the trees, and the air blew very cold. Then he desired the waiter

to go and order a straw-hat, and a little warm coat for me; and when

the milliner came, he told her he had stolen a little heiress, and we

were going to Gretna Green in such a hurry, that the young lady had no

time to put on her bonnet before she came out. The milliner said I was

a pretty little heiress, and she wished us a pleasant journey. When

we had breakfasted, and I was equipped in my new coat and bonnet, I

jumped into the chaise again, as warm and as lively as a little bird.

When it grew dark, we entered a large city; the chaise began to roll

over the stones, and I saw the lamps ranged along London streets.

Though we had breakfasted and dined upon the road, and I had got out

of one chaise into another many times, and was now riding on in the

dark, I never once considered where I was, or where I was going to.

I put my head out of the chaise window, and admired those beautiful

lights. I was sorry when the chaise stopped, and I could no longer

look at the brilliant rows of lighted lamps.

Taken away by a stranger under a pretence of a short ride, and

brought quite to London, do you not expect some perilous end of this

adventure? Ah! it was my papa himself, though I did not know who he

was, till after he had put me into my mamma's arms, and told her how

he had run away with his own little daughter. "It is your papa, my

dear, that has brought you to your own home." "This is your mamma, my

love," they both exclaimed at once. Mamma cried for joy to see me, and

she wept again, when she heard my papa tell what a neglected child

I had been at my uncle's. This he had found out, he said, by my own

innocent prattle, and that he was so offended with his brother, my

uncle, that he would not enter his house; and then he said what a

little happy good child I had been all the way, and that when he found

I did not know him, he would not tell me who he was, for the sake

of the pleasant surprise it would be to me. It was a surprise and a

happiness indeed, after living with unkind relations, all at once to

know I was at home with my own dear papa and mamma.

My mamma ordered tea. Whenever I happen to like my tea very much,

I always think of the delicious cup of tea mamma gave us after our

journey. I think I see the urn smoking before me now, and papa

wheeling the sopha round, that I might sit between them at the table.

Mamma called me Little Run-away, and said it was very well it was

only papa. I told her how we frightened the old gardener, and opened

my eyes to shew her how he stared, and how my papa made the milliner

believe we were going to Gretna Green. Mamma looked grave, and said

she was almost frightened to find I had been so fearless; but I

promised her another time I would not go into a post-chaise with a

gentleman, without asking him who he was; and then she laughed, and

seemed very well satisfied.

Mamma, to my fancy, looked very handsome. She was very nicely dressed,

quite like a fine lady. I held up my head, and felt very proud that I

had such a papa and mamma. I thought to myself, "O dear, my cousins'

papa and mamma are not to be compared to mine."

Papa said, "What makes you bridle and simper so, Emily?" Then I told

him all that was in my mind. Papa asked if I did not think him as

pretty as I did mamma. I could not say much for his beauty, but I told

him he was a much finer gentleman than my uncle, and that I liked him

the first moment I saw him, because he looked so good-natured. He

said, "Well then, he must be content with that half-praise; but he

had always thought himself very handsome." "O dear!" said I, and fell

a-laughing, till I spilt my tea, and mamma called me Little aukward

girl.

The next morning my papa was going to the Bank to receive some money,

and he took mamma and me with him, that I might have a ride through

London streets. Everyone that has been in London must have seen the

Bank, and therefore you may imagine what an effect the fine large

rooms, and the bustle and confusion of people had on me; who was grown

such a little wondering rustic, that the crowded streets and the fine

shops, alone kept me in continual admiration.

As we were returning home down Cheapside, papa said, "Emily shall take

home some little books.--Shall we order the coachman to the corner

of St. Paul's church-yard, or shall we go to the Juvenile Library in

Skinner-street?" Mamma said she would go to Skinner-street, for she

wanted to look at the new buildings there. Papa bought me seven new

books, and the lady in the shop persuaded him to take more, but mamma

said that was quite enough at present.

We went home by Ludgate-hill, because mamma wanted to buy something

there; and while she went into a shop, papa heard me read in one of my

new books, and he said he was glad to find I could read so well; for I

had forgot to tell him my aunt used to hear me read every day.