"If you have finished writing those rules in your cyphering book in
time, you shall go with me to the booksellers, to choose some books for
your cousin Jane, and for yourself," said Mr. Percy to his nephew,
Arthur Stanly, who was writing at a desk.
"Thank you, my dear uncle. What time shall you be ready?" asked Arthur,
still continuing to write on.
"In about half an hour at farthest," said Mr. Percy.
"Shall you be ready by that time?"
Arthur cast his eyes over a long page of writing and figures which he
had still to copy into his book, repeating, "Half an hour! I am afraid I
cannot get it all done."
"I shall be sorry," observed his uncle, "to go without you; but I am
engaged to dine with some friends precisely at two o'clock. It is now a
few minutes past one: therefore we shall have but one quarter of an hour
to walk there, and transact our business, and the other quarter to go
home and dress in."
Arthur ardently wished that the time went slower.
"I think you have had plenty of time to finish this rule; it is now
upwards of an hour since you began. What have you been doing all this
while?" said Mr. Percy, looking over his nephew's shoulder.
Arthur felt much ashamed: he looked down at his feet, and began tying
his shoe-strings without saying a word, for he did not know what excuse
to offer to his uncle.
Mr. Percy still looked at him, as if expecting an answer; and at last he
repeated the question.
"I was trying," said Arthur, "to catch a robin which flew into the room.
I was very silly, and have lost a great deal of time by it."
"You was silly, indeed," replied his uncle; "but that is your concern,
not mine. However, if you have finished by the time the hand of the hall
clock points to half past one, you shall go with me. If your rule be
written out neatly in that time, I shall give you great credit, if not
you must remain at home. Here are two good pens for you."
[Illustration: Page 81. Page 85.
_Published April 20 1823 by Harris & Son corner of St. Pauls._]
Arthur eagerly took the pens and began writing; but his uncle had
hardly quitted the room, when the thought entered into his head that no
one would be the wiser if he were to put back the clock a few minutes.
Accordingly, without giving himself time to reflect on the gross
impropriety of such an action, he opened the study door and looked out
into the hall. No one was near; he listened a moment--; all was quite
still. He then jumped upon a chair which stood near the clock, and,
having carefully opened the door in front, put back the hand ten
minutes. In doing this, however, he was under considerable alarm, for
persons who are acting wrong are always in fear of being detected.
He now jumped from the chair, and ran back to his desk; but his hand
trembled so much that he could hardly hold his pen. In a minute or two,
however, he recovered himself, and just as he heard his uncle entering
the hall, he finished his assigned task, happy for a moment in the
success of his scheme.
His cousin Jane now came running into the room, and exclaimed:
"Arthur, papa is waiting for you; but he supposes you have not done
yet."
"Yes, but I have, though," answered he, in a tone of exultation, and
went into the hall with his book. Mr. Percy was standing with his watch
in his hand, comparing it with the clock.
Arthur coloured like scarlet, for he feared to be detected in his guilt.
He stood silent, and dared not raise his eyes to the face of his uncle.
But, far from having the least suspicion of what had been done, Mr.
Percy only observed that he must get his watch regulated, for though he
had set it by the clock that very morning, it was now ten minutes
faster.
Arthur felt all the pain arising from conscious guilt. He hung his head
in silence, whilst his uncle, glancing his eyes over the writing,
exclaimed, "Very well, indeed! very prettily done! I give you a deal of
credit for this; and so short a time as you had to do it in, too! Well,
we shall see, if you improve so fast, what I shall do."
"Arthur, who had never deceived his good uncle before, felt more pain at
this unmerited praise than if he had been punished as he deserved.
"Oh," thought he, "if my uncle did but know how wicked I have been, he
would never forgive me."
Mr. Percy told him to put on his hat and great-coat, for they had no
time to lose.
"Good bye, my little Jane," said Mr. Percy, as he shut the street door.
"Good bye, dear papa, and cousin Arthur," cried Jane Percy, going into
the parlour.
"I never knew you so very silent before, Arthur: what is it you are
thinking of?" said Mr. Percy, as they entered the shop of Mansel, the
bookseller.
Arthur was spared the trouble of replying, for Mr. Mansel then came
forward, and entered into conversation with Mr. Percy.
Arthur walked to the door: he scarcely knew what was going forward, his
mind being too much occupied in reflecting upon his late transgression,
and in considering what he had best do. At length he determined to tell
his cousin, and ask her advice. He had not observed the people who were
hurrying along to escape a heavy fall of snow, till his ear was
attracted by the plaintive tones of a child's voice, asking charity. He
looked up, and beheld a little girl without any shoes or stockings,
leading by the hand a Highland soldier, who was very handsome, but quite
blind. He appeared scarce thirty years of age: the tattered remnant of a
plaid which was wrapt round him bespoke poverty and distress in the
extreme, and scarcely sufficed to defend his body from the cold wind
and snow. On his head he wore a sort of cap or bonnet, of various
colours; through the many holes of which his yellow hair appeared, and
waved to the breeze in long curls. By his side he wore an old sword,
which made Arthur conclude that he was a soldier. The little girl had
been asking relief of the passengers; but no one thought it worth while
to stop, at the risk of getting wet, to inquire into the cause of their
distress. One man rudely pushed the little suppliant away, calling her
an impostor, and a little beggar brat. She then turned with a sorrowful
look towards Arthur, who dropped into the plaid bonnet which she held in
her hand all the halfpence he had about him, and inquired if her father
were quite blind?
The tears stood in the little girl's eyes, as she turned them
sorrowfully up to her father's face, and answered, "yes: he is _quite_
blind, and very ill."
"Poor man!" said Arthur; "how much he is to be pitied! Is he a
soldier?"
"He was once a soldier, but he cannot see now," replied the little girl.
"And what is your name?" asked Arthur.
"Flora Glengary?"
"And how came your father to lose his sight?"
As Flora did not immediately reply, the soldier, taking off his cap,
said, "my good young gentleman, I was once a soldier, and served with
the army in Egypt, but lost my sight by lightning. I then took my little
girl, and came back to England, in hopes of being able to beg my way to
Dunbar, my native town, in Scotland, where I had friends; but now I can
get no farther, for I am very ill, and quite friendless. Before I lost
my bagpipes I got on very well; but now they are gone, I believe my
child and I must starve."
"And how came you to lose your pipes?" asked Arthur.
"I fell sick, master, and was forced to sell them for a mere trifle.
Whilst I had them, I did not beg, exactly, for many people gave me money
to hear me play."
"And how much would it cost you to buy them again?"
"I cannot get them back for less than half a guinea," answered the
Highlander, sighing; "but we do not possess a sixpence in the world."
"Will half a guinea restore your pipes to you?" eagerly inquired young
Stanly.
He half checked himself, however, as he put his hand into his pocket,
and opened his purse; for he had no money, but one half guinea which his
aunt had recently given him, with a strict charge never to part with it
on any account. "My aunt will be very angry," said he, "if I give this
money away; besides, it was in my dear father's possession for many
years. I should like to keep it as long as he did." But when he saw the
look of joy and hope which shone in the eyes of the anxious Flora, as
she viewed the gold in his hand, he thought it would be cruel, indeed,
to disappoint her.
"No, Flora," said he, "your father shall not starve while I have this,
which I really do not want, only for its having belonged to my father."
He then put the money into her bonnet, saying, "take this; buy the
bagpipes, and some bread for your father: I have no more, or it should
be yours."
He would now have retreated; but Flora forcibly detained him, eagerly
seizing hold of his hand, and uttering a thousand thanks. At length,
however, he disengaged himself, and returned to the shop with a feeling
of happiness, which arises only from the knowledge of having performed
an act of real benevolence.
"Arthur," said his uncle, "where have you been? I have been waiting for
you some minutes. I have selected such books as I think will be the most
proper for your cousin Jane. Now, what is it you wish to have?"
Arthur looked over several volumes which laid on the counter. "If you
have no objection, Sir, I should prefer either Homer's Iliad, or
Voltaire's History of Charles the Twelfth, or the Life of Gustavus
Vasa."
"Any of these you can have," said his uncle; "it only remains for you to
determine."
Arthur considered for a few minutes. "Homer I have read; we have it in
the library. I have not read either of the others; but I admire Gustavus
more than Charles, because I think he was the most amiable character.
Well, then, if you please, Sir, I will take this," said he, choosing an
elegantly bound pocket volume, containing the life of that excellent
monarch, by Raymond. He wrote his name in it, and Mr. Mansel packed it
up with the rest.
The fall of snow having ceased, Arthur returned home, and Mr. Percy
proceeded to join his friends.
Arthur tried to read part of the life of Gustavus aloud, to his aunt and
cousin: but, in spite of every thing, the misdeed of the morning would
obtrude into his thoughts; he therefore made some excuse, and retired to
the study, to consider what he should do.
As he passed through the hall, and raised his eyes to the clock, his
conscience reproached him bitterly for his misconduct. He ran into the
study, and throwing himself into a chair, covered his face with both his
hands. It was the first fault of the kind he had ever committed, but
that did not lessen it in his eyes.
Arthur bitterly lamented his idleness, when he first began writing. "If
I had not tried to catch the poor little robin," said he, "this would
not have happened; for I should have finished my writing in plenty of
time."
Arthur actually shed tears of regret and sorrow at his own foolishness,
in thus having been tempted to deceive his good and unsuspecting uncle.
While he was thus deploring his fault, Jane Percy softly stole into the
room, and taking one of his hands from his face, said in a soothing
voice,
"My dear cousin, what is it that affects you? Will you not tell your
Jane?"
Arthur was moved by the gentle, persuasive voice of his amiable
relative, and confided to her the cause of his sorrow. Jane was truly
grieved that her dear cousin Arthur should have acted so extremely
wrong; but she strove to console him in the best manner she could.
"Consider, Arthur," said she, "it is the _first_ fault of the kind you
ever were guilty of."
But this observation, far from comforting him, only added to his grief,
as reminding him that he had now forfeited his good name. It was true,
no one need know it but himself and Jane: but _he_ was conscious of it,
and therefore he could never again bear to be praised for being a good
boy, when he knew he did not deserve that character.
"Dear Arthur," said Jane, "I think it will be the best to go to your
uncle to-morrow morning, and tell him what you have done. He will not be
so angry if you openly confess it to him; and I know you will never do
so again."
Arthur tenderly embraced his little cousin, and thanked her for her good
advice.
"Indeed, Jane," said he, "that will be the best plan: for I would rather
my uncle should know it at once, and be angry, and punish me as I
deserve; for then I might, by my future good conduct, atone for my
transgression. But I never can look up in his face with pleasure again,
knowing that I have deceived him."
Arthur now wished to tell his cousin about little Flora and her father;
but a feeling of something like pride withheld him. He was afraid she
might think he told her, only to lessen the crime he had committed in
her eyes, he therefore remained silent on that subject; for Arthur knew
well that a generous action, however excellent, did not obliterate the
disgrace of deceit and falsehood.
The next morning, when Mr. Percy came into the study, to set Arthur and
Jane their tasks, he offered to shake hands with his nephew, according
to his usual custom; but Arthur, bursting into tears, exclaimed,
"Oh, Sir! I have been a very wicked boy, and am not worthy that you
should shake hands with me."
Mr. Percy, much surprised, demanded an explanation; and Arthur, with
great earnestness and simplicity, related what he had done.
Mr. Percy was sensibly touched by the sincerity of his nephew, though at
the same time he was seriously displeased, for he did not like to be
deceived by a child: he therefore finished setting the copies, and left
the room, without saying a word; for though he would not punish Arthur,
as he had so nobly revealed the truth; yet he thought, if he left him in
doubt, it would operate on his mind as an adequate punishment. In this
opinion he was perfectly correct: for poor Arthur, imagining that he had
offended past all forgiveness, gave himself up to despair.
Jane herself knew not what to think, but she tried to comfort her
disconsolate cousin; and whilst they were condoling together, they heard
Mrs. Percy calling them.
"Come, make haste, children," said she, "come and hear the Scotch
piper."
The sound of music was plainly heard in the street; and Arthur eagerly
pressed forward to catch a glance at the musician. All the pain he had
previously suffered was amply repaid at that moment, by the sight of the
blind Highlander, and little Flora his daughter, who was looking, with
the greatest delight, at her father as he played.
Arthur had the satisfaction of beholding many a handful of halfpence
thrown into the plaid bonnet of the now happy Flora.
The Highlander came opposite the window. Mrs. Percy threw open the sash,
in order to bestow a trifle on the piper.
Flora raised her eyes, and uttered almost a scream of joy, as she beheld
their little benefactor: exclaiming, "There he is--there he is!--Oh, how
glad I am to see him!"
Arthur hastily drew in his head; for he feared lest his aunt should be
angry at his having parted with the half-guinea.
But Flora still continued jumping about, and calling for him to look
out, and see how happy they were.
"What can the child mean?" said Mr. Percy, who stood with them at the
window. "Let somebody call her in, and we will hear."
"No, no, dear uncle, do not have her in," cried Arthur, in a tone of
entreaty.
But Mr. Percy, who was determined to know the reason, left the room, and
hastened into the street; where he heard the whole account of his
nephew's generosity from the lips of the grateful Flora.
At first he could scarcely credit it; but the truth was attested by the
soldier, who, on hearing Arthur's voice, declared it to be that of his
benefactor.
Arthur, with tears in his eyes, informed his aunt and cousin of the
whole affair, saying, as he concluded,
"Indeed, my dear aunt, I could not help giving the money to them, though
it had been my father's."
Mrs. Percy, far from blaming her nephew, applauded him as he deserved;
as to Jane, she was, if possible, the happiest of the party.
Mr. Percy shortly after returned, and presenting his hand to Arthur,
said: "I now give you my hand with the greatest pleasure I ever did in
my life; your fault was trivial compared to your generous action, and I
am at this moment prouder of my nephew than if he had been born a
prince."
That very day Mr. Percy presented Arthur with the Life of Charles XII;
and a beautiful edition of Homer, handsomely bound in purple morocco. He
also raised a subscription among his friends, to enable the blind piper
to return to the place of his nativity.
Arthur Stanly was often heard to declare, when he grew to man's estate,
that these two days had been the most miserable as well as the happiest
of his life.
----
All eyes were attentively fixed on Mrs. Dormer as she concluded, and the
children agreed that this was the best story they had yet heard. When
they had done commenting on it, Edward observed that it was getting
dusk, and was time for him and his brother to be going. When he had
taken his leave, the children sat talking with their mother till near
dark, and Mrs. Dormer began to think it was almost bed-time. As Mary and
Kate were bidding her good-night, the latter happened to look towards a
flower-stand, on which Mrs. Dormer had placed the glass jar.
"Oh, Mary," cried she, "look, look! the dear little glow-worms have come
back again!"
As she spoke all the children ran to the jar, which glittered among the
plants, and every moment became an object of greater beauty, as the
brilliant insects, one by one, unfolded their light, as if in emulation
of each other, filling the vase wish lustre, and shewing every particle
of the moss they laid on, as if it were transparent. The children gazed
on it with the greatest admiration; at last Mary said,
"I can hardly help laughing, to think how silly I was in the morning;
for I now see plainly the shape of the glow-worm is the same with the
brown beetles I was so angry with."
"Oh, Mary," said Kate, "my aunt knew all about it, when she told us so
gravely that the ugly beetles would bring us news of the glow-worms."
"I did, indeed," said her aunt, "for many summers ago I kept many of
them in wet moss and grass till near autumn; at that time they laid some
whitish eggs and died. These eggs, however, did not produce any thing;
so I cannot tell you whether these insects assume any other form
previous to that you now see them in; nor can I direct you to any book
that will give you a satisfactory account."
"Dear mamma," said Mary, "they are far from being ugly now; for they are
very brisk and lively, and constantly in motion, though in the morning
they seemed half dead."
"It seems," said her mother, "that damp and dark places are necessary to
to their existence; and yet they appear only in the warmest weather.
"But, Mary, there is another luminous insect, which some people mistake
for the glow-worm: it is of a very disgusting shape, being a species of
the centipede; it has, like that ugly insect, nearly fifty legs, on each
side, and runs amazingly fast, leaving behind a long trail of greenish
light."
"I should not like them at all," said William, "for I think the
centipede is uglier than a snake."
"I have a great dislike to them, myself," said Mrs. Dormer; "but the
luminous centipede is not so frightful as those black ones you see
sometimes on cellar walls, and in old wood. I remember the first time I
saw any of the bright centipedes: I was coming home with my brother in
the evening, through a green lane; I saw something shine brightly in the
hedge: I ran up to it, thinking it was one of my favourite glow-worms,
but recoiled, with no little disgust, when I saw that I was going to lay
my hand on a nest of these centipedes, all writhing and clinging
together like serpents, shewing at the same time a brilliant light."
"Dear!" said William, "how horrid they must have looked! I suppose,
mamma, you did not catch any?"
"No," said Mrs. Dormer, "I was then very young, not much older than
Mary; and I could not conquer the antipathy I had to their hideous
shape. But my brother took one, and brought it home, and when we looked
at it by the light we found it was about two inches and a half long, of
a pale brown, and certainly the best-looking of its species that I have
seen."
The children would have been glad to have asked some more questions, but
it grew so late, that their mother would not detain them from their
beds, and they went away talking about the story and the glow-worms.
----
During the next week the children could think of nothing but the
pleasure they were to enjoy at Hampstead fair; and all of them were
continually wishing for a fine day. As the time drew near, Lewis and
Kate were every minute running into the hall, and climbing one of the
green chairs to consult the barometer; though I cannot say they
understood much about it. However, the evening before the wished-for day
Kate ventured boldly to predict beautiful weather for the morrow: they
all retired to rest, therefore, in excellent spirits. But when they
awoke in the morning the rain was descending in torrents, and the sky
looked as dark and heavy as if the wet weather had set in for a week.
The poor children passed the morning in great anxiety, frequently
peeping out at different windows, in hopes of seeing a little bit of
blue in the sky, and wishing in vain for the rain to clear off. When the
afternoon came, and they were forced to give up all hopes of going, Mary
retreated to a corner, and began to weep bitterly. Kate and her brothers
came and tried to comfort her; but Mary had set her mind so much on
going, that she only cried the more. Presently her mamma came in; and
Mary, ashamed that her mother should see that she was such a baby as to
cry for a little disappointment, hid her face in her frock: but still
she could not suppress a sob or two. Mrs. Dormer came up to the corner
where they all were assembled.
"What is the matter?" she said (putting Mary's frock from her eyes),
"What ails my poor Mary? Is she ill, or has some one hurt her?"
Mary was much confused, and did not answer. Kate told her aunt that she
believed her cousin cried because the rain had hindered her from going
to the fair. Mrs. Dormer looked at Mary for some time, and then said,
"I dare say, Mary, you expect that I should ridicule you for being so
weak as to cry; but I will not do so, for I see that you are ashamed of
it already. Come out of your corner, and see whether I can convince you,
that you might have gone to the fair, and it is possible you might have
returned still more unhappy than you are now."
Mary dried her tears; and her mamma seated her on part of her own chair.
The other children got their stools, and sat down by Mrs. Dormer.
"I remember the time, Mary, when I was as anxious to see the fair as you
are now; and the day on which I was to go turned out quite fine, and yet
I was very far from spending it happily."
"Pray, dear mamma," said William, "do tell us what happened; for I would
as soon hear you tell a story, as go to the fair; only we should have
liked to have spent another day with dear Edward."
"I had written down all that happened," said his mother; "I meant to
have read it to you, one day or other, but I think this will be the best
time; for however you may laugh at the comical distresses I got into,
yet you would have found them very unpleasant, if they had befallen you
to-day. Listen then, my children, and hear my account of