Printed by W. Mulready R.A.Engraved by J. B. Neagle.THE WOLF & THE LAMB.
Printed by W. Mulready R.A.Engraved by J. B. Neagle.THE WOLF & THE LAMB.
Printed by W. Mulready R.A.Engraved by J. B. Neagle.
THE WOLF & THE LAMB.
As soon as he had drawn out the plan in his head, he set about the execution of it with his hands; and by the labour of a few Saturdays, and the sacrifice of a little money that his teacher had given him for some service in the school, he made her an elegant carriage, which he painted with yellow ochre, and emblazoned with his uncle's coat of arms, as he thought he remembered it on the old family coach, belonging to three generations of noblesse in St. Domingo. He had put the infant in her fairy vehicle, and was drawing her toward the house, to show it to his aunt, when Mike Redman appeared. "Hurra, Louy, what have you got there? It looks like a frog in a pumpkin shell." The comparison was not unapt, when he only saw a small head, and two little fat hands, peeping out of a yellow box. "Come, tumble it out here, I want you to go a-fishing, and this wagon will do to carry them home in." "Oh, no, Michael, that is little Susette's." "Oh, never mind, she's able to trot about well enough on her own stumpy legs; but the fish have no feet to walk." "I will bring Antoine's basket." "No, you needn't, this thing here is a great deal better; and we'll keep it for that always. So hurra, Miss Susan, clear out, and run as fast as you can." Saying this, he took the baby from the carriage,and stood her on the ground; upon which she did not cry, but remained looking in his face, with a mixed expression of surprise and dislike, and never offered to stir; Louis, who at the moment was more afraid for Susette than himself, agreed to go with Mike, if he would wait till he carried the child in. Satisfied with his conquest so far, Redman remained; and when Louis returned, they set off,—but this poor boy could not recover the mortification of sacrificing the toy he had made, with such ingenuity, for the use of his little cousin, and with which he thought he should delight her parents, for the portage of Mike Redman's fish: yet, even this was not so painful a sensation, as he felt, when forced by his companion to catch worms, and bait the hooks with them. At the commencement, indeed, he was so much overcome, that he sickened to faintishness, upon which Michael showed so much feeling, as to throw a hat-full of water in his face; from which it descended in streams to his breast, and making his clothes thoroughly wet, promised to add ill-health to the other evils of his constitution. When the boys were returning home, Mike said, "This is a prime thing, Louy—this here wagon, I'm going to keep it, to carry things always; you can easily get another for yourself, if you want." "No, Michael, I cannot, I have not more money." "Oh! well then, you can do without—as you did before you made it." "But, little Susette, she cannot do without it, because she is sick." "Sick—not she,I tell you—she's as stout as any little pig, so you must make her walk." "Oh, no, Michael, she is too little, she cannot walk such a great deal." "To be sure she can—it is the very thing for her; why, she'll grow as round as one of them tubs yonder in our yard, if you let her ride; so, I'll keep the carriage for that; and, look here, Louy, since you're so clever at these sort o' notions, I want you to make me some arrows. You must get me a dozen done by Saturday—that's the last of our holidays, you know—and then, if I shoot any birds aSunday, I'll give you one or two for your supper." "I do not want them, Michael, I would prefer you let them sing on Sunday."—"Well, I don't want to give you any birds, if you prefergo without—but you must make me the arrows at any rate, and if you don't have them ready, when I call for them, you'll be sorry." What Mike Redman wanted with a dozen arrows and a baby's carriage, I leave to the consideration of those young people, who have witnessed in their companions a premature acuteness in ways of traffic; which discovers itself in the sale, or barter, of all the small wares they can beg or borrow: I omit the other word, so commonly united with these two, because, I trust, that at this period, when education has extended moral influence so far, there is not one, in the whole circle of boyish transgressions, to whom the application of such a word would not be a false and shocking libel. The characters of children then,perhaps, were less attended to; and certainly Mike Redman's parents, though they fed him plentifully, and clothed him fashionably, could never have instructed him in the slightest principle; since he did not give without reluctance, to the poor boy who assisted him materially, a few little fishes to help out his miserable dinner, or scruple to take from him a toy that had cost him three days' labour, and the money that otherwise should have purchased him a new jacket, (which he sadly wanted,) to procure pleasure for his infant relative.
When Louis entered the room, where the family usually assembled, he found the old French gentleman had come to dine with them; though there was nothing on the table, but a dish of okra or gumbo soup, a salad, and an omelette; to which, however, were soon added, through the quick hands of Antoine, Louis's contribution of fish; and surely round any richer board, there was not then assembled a more striking picture of "the sublime and beautiful:" a Christian philosopher cheerfully resigned to the changes of fortune, and his lovely companion, with faithful affection, smiling while she shared his fate. There was so striking a resemblance between Madame Leroy and her nephew, that many persons supposed they were mother and son; and as he was the only child of a beloved sister, that escaped the general death, she loved him as if he had been her own. Mr. Leroy was also related to him in the samedegree; his brother having married the mother of Louis,—had this not been the case, however, he would have been fond of him for his wife's sake. He loved every one that she loved, and herself more than all. Little Susette had forgotten her coach, or resigned to its loss, was making smiling faces over her soup as she drafted it from her plate to her mouth, by half spoonfuls at a time. Poor Louis almost forgot his hardships, under a cruel task-master, when he sat down to his temperate meal, with so good an appetite; while the pleasant jests of the gay old gentleman were relished by all the party, with that better philosophy of the French school, which teaches to make the most of the simplest pleasures, and which, I am afraid, few but her own scholars have learned. The next morning Louis arose early, to perform his allotted task, which would have been easy enough, even had he been less expert. His aunt, whom he did not inform that this labour was involuntary, and from whom he had constantly concealed all the other impositions of Mike Redman, gave him a dozen large pins to tip the arrows with, and Antoine cut him the most suitable wood. But light as the task was, his spirit now rebelled at this slavery, and whispered "Be free," so with a revolting soul he finished the arrows. But Michael, whose father had taken him to the country on Saturday, could not call for them before Monday, when they were to go to school. Louis had a satchelmade, ready to carry his books neatly; but Mike, whose mother never thought of making him one, was obliged to carry his as well as he could without, and he now threw them down with his cap and gloves, to examine the arrows; little Susette, who was playing in the yard, with a tin cup, and with which she had been making music on the stones, now began to look at the books, and with the usual destructiveness of infancy to the works of literature, she tore some of the leaves out. When Mike had put all the arrows in the quiver, except one, he turned round, and seeing the condition of his books, he flew at the little creature in a rage, as if he would tear her in pieces; and so verify his title to the name of a wolf. The cowardice of Louis at that instant vanished; he sprang forward, and seized the young savage by the collar, while his faithful little dog caught hold of one of the straps of Mike's trowsers. This gave the infant some time to escape, and with terrifying cries she ran toward the house. Her mother came to the door in dreadful alarm, when seeing her nephew closed up against the garden gate, by the powerful shoulders of Mike Redman, (who had his hands clenched,) and the little dog howling at his feet, in extreme pain, she called, in the agony of fear, upon two men, who were looking out from the brewery yard, at the boys' affray, to separate them. "Be aisy, Casper," said one, "and let the boys fight it out, I'll jist step over and see the Frenchman clear o'the fence." "Put I'll see de Frenchman clear o' Mike, Patrick; mine hearts, de poy wouldn't stant no chance at all mit him." With these separate intentions, they both sallied forth, and approached the combatants. Pat released the Frenchman, but Mike, resisting the interference of such authority, was knocked down by the German; who, as an excuse for himself, when he was called upon by Mr. Redman to relate the whole transaction, offered this:—"In my country, de poys are prought up to mind the sayins o' pigger people." Mr. Redman, who was not himself an unjust man, admitted the apology, and soon after, considering, perhaps, though it was then too late, that he did not properly control his vicious propensities, while he exposed them to continual increase in the contaminating sphere around him, he sent Michael to school at a distance from home, and recompensed his little neighbour, by many acts of kindness, for the cruel oppression of his son. When I asked the person, who told me this story, what became of the two boys in after life, he said, Michael Redman inherited a large property, which he soon spent; after this he went to sea; and I would, probably, never have learned his final fate, had he not been announced in the newspapers, some years after, with analiasto his name, among a number of men who were executed for piracy. In process of time, Louis Leroy married his young cousin Susette; and proved, through a long course of years, his filialaffection to her parents. He contrived to add to his small patrimony by several useful inventions, which were patented in the state. He reared up a numerous family, with the same frugal and temperate habits that he had been taught, and under the same roof which had sheltered his own boyhood; while all the other habitations that had risen around him were constantly changing their owners and inmates. Behold the just end of "Le Loup et L'Agneau."
"Come hither, Emily," said Mrs. Osman to her daughter, a little girl about six years old, who had just returned from school; "Come hither, for I have something to tell you."
"What is it, mamma? Have you had a letter from papa? and is he coming home soon?"
"No, that is not it, though I hope your papa will now very soon be home again; but it is that your friend, Mrs. Cassy, has just been here, to invite you to spend the day with her on Christmas day, to meet your friend Julia."
"Oh! delightful, how very kind Mrs. Cassy is!" said the little girl with great animation.
"She is, indeed! And though the object of this invitation is to give Julia a treat before she leaves the country, which you know she will now soon do, as her mamma has sent for her, to return home with her uncle who is to set off in a few days: yet it will, I am sure, be quite as great a pleasure to yourself; for though Mrs. Cassy has no children of her own, you know how much pains she always takes to make her house pleasant to her little visiters."
"Oh, yes! I remember the last time we were there, she had a large baby for us, that she had dressed herself. And it had a beautiful frock and cap, and a pair of socks, just like those that my little sister Emma wears; and we played at its being sick; and then Mrs. Cassy made a scramble of raisins and sugarplums, and a great many other good things, and we had such fun in picking them up! Oh! it was delightful. I hope you will let me go, mamma!"
"Yes! upon one condition."
"Oh! I know what that condition will be. It will be about my tickets for good conduct."
"Yes, you are quite right. You know, Emily, your great fault is idling. You are apt to spend your time idling when you ought to be attending to your lessons. But if you get——"
"A ticket every day for good conduct," interrupted the little girl.
"Yes! I am sure you will not receive a ticket for good conduct unless your lessons have been properly attended to, and your behaviour in school has been such as it ought to be; and therefore your going to Mrs. Cassy's must depend upon your tickets for good conduct. It only wants two days to Christmas day, and if you can bring me a ticket each day for good conduct you shall go: but if not, you must be content to stay at home. It is a very short time for you to keep watch over yourself, so that if you fail, I amsure even your friend Mrs. Cassy herself will not think that you deserve to partake of her kindness."
"Oh! if it only depends upon my getting two tickets for good conduct, I am sure I shall go," returned the little Emily, clapping her hands with pleasure. "Let me see! This is Monday evening; there is only Tuesday and Wednesday; and on Wednesday we shall have school only half the day; so that I shall have to watch myself only a very short time."
"True, Emily, it will only be a very short time, and therefore the terms on which your going depends are not, you see, very severe; but yet that time, short as it is, may be of great service to you, as every time you try, you do something toward forming a habit of attention; and besides, if you succeed, you will both please me, and prove to your friend Mrs. Cassy that you know how to value her kindness."
"I will go directly and learn my lessons for to-morrow," said Emily, and taking up her bag of books she hastened into a little back parlour, in which she was in the habit of studying her lessons. For some time she kept her attention very steadily fixed on her work; but just as she had taken her geography and opened her map to trace the boundaries of North America, a lady who frequently visited her mother, and who sung very well, began at that moment in an adjoining room to sing a song of which Emily was very fond. The little girl had a verygood ear for music, and was so exceedingly fond of it, that it was with great difficulty that she could keep her attention fixed upon what she was doing. Over and over again she was on the point of leaving her lessons, and going into the parlour where the musician was; but she recollected how soon it would be bed-time, and how little time there was whilst the mornings were so very short, to learn any lessons that had been neglected the evening before, and determined to persevere; and clasping her little hands, and laying them on the book before her, as if to hold fast her resolution, she repeated, North America is bounded on the north by the Arctic ocean, on the west and south by the Pacific ocean, and on the east by the Atlantic ocean. It is true that as she repeated this, and found answers to the rest of the questions which were contained in her lesson, her feet beat time against the chair, and her head moved in unison, whilst she sometimes found herself trying to make the words of her lesson accord with the measure of the music, as she spun out the words eighty-five degrees of north la-ti-tude, yet still she contrived to keep her mind fixed upon what she was doing till she had impressed it on her memory, so as to be sure of being able to call it forward, when required, the following day. "Now I know all my lessons perfectly," said she, as she replaced her books in her bag: "I am sure of not losing my ticket to-morrow on account of my lessons." So saying, shehastened into the other parlour, but the music was over, the lady was gone, and the room was empty. Emily, however, was seldom at a loss for means of amusement, and she skipped about the room, singing "I'll be a butterfly," as if she were indeed that light and airy creature of pleasure. Satisfied with herself for the resolution that she had exercised, the rest of the evening was spent in more than even her usual cheerfulness, and she laid her head down upon the pillow with repeated resolutions of attention the following day. When the little girl opened her eyes the next morning, it looked so gloomy and dark that she very willingly persuaded herself it was too soon to rise, and had just turned over to compose herself for another nap when the clock struck eight. In an instant she was out of bed. She had only a single hour in which to dress herself, to eat her breakfast, and go to school; she had not, therefore, a single moment to lose. Yet a strong temptation assailed her, for on a chair by her bed-side lay a small paper parcel, directed to her, which on opening she found to contain a cap, that her friend Julia had made for her baby, and which had been sent to her after she was in bed the night before, and placed by the servant near her bed-side, that she might see it as soon as she rose in the morning. "Oh! what a beautiful little cap," exclaimed Emily. "How sweet my baby will look in it. I must try it on directly. But no," added she, recollecting herself, "I must not stay totry it on now or I shall be too late for school, and then away goes my ticket for good conduct at once." And with an effort of self denial that would have done credit to a much older mind, Emily put the tempting cap into a drawer and hastened to finish her dressing. Her breakfast was soon swallowed, and she was in the school-room before the school bell rang. "I think now I am safe for to-day," said she, "only I hope Julia will not be in one of her funny humours and try to make me laugh." To the credit of our little heroine, however, though Julia was in a funny humour and did frequently try to make her laugh, and though Emily's gay and even volatile temper was ever ready to receive a lively impression, yet still she succeeded in keeping herself so far within bounds as to escape reproof, and she returned home in the evening with the wished-for ticket. "Here it is, mamma! here it is!" cried she, running to her mother, and holding out the testimony of her good behaviour. Her mother took the ticket, and congratulated her upon having got over half the time successfully. "More than half, mamma," returned Emma, "for to-morrow will be only half a day, and I have very few lessons to learn to-night."
"I am not sure that you are any more safe on that account, Emma," replied her mother, "for you know I have often remarked to you, that you generally prepare your lessons the worst when you consider them the easiest; as then you are apt, from the idea thatthey can be learnt in so very short a time, to put them off until you have no time for them at all, instead of learning them first and amusing yourself afterward." "But I will not do so to-night," said the little girl, and away she went directly to study them. And fortunate it was for her that she did so, for she had scarcely finished the last thing that she had to learn before her friend Julia came to play with her. She could now, however, play with safety, and the rest of the evening was passed in amusement. The new cap was tried on and found to fit beautifully, and the baby was dressed and undressed, put to bed and taken up again; declared to be very sick and obliged to take medicine; taken out to visit; sent to bed for being naughty; and, in short, passed through all the vicissitudes of a moderate life-time before the friends parted for the night.
"It is eight o'clock," cried Emily, capering about the room, half dancing and half jumping as she spoke; "I am safe for to-day, and I have only till twelve o'clock to-morrow, and then I shall get my ticket, and then I shall be safe; and then I shall go to Mrs. Cassy's."
"And then," rejoined her mother, "I hope you will have learned how much better it is to work first and play after, than to play first and run the risk of the work being neglected altogether."
"Oh! yes, mamma! I intend to remember that in future," said the little girl, and away she went tobed, singing as she went, to a tune of her own making,
"How pleasant it is at the end of the day,Of no follies to have to repent."
"How pleasant it is at the end of the day,Of no follies to have to repent."
"How pleasant it is at the end of the day,Of no follies to have to repent."
"How pleasant it is at the end of the day,
Of no follies to have to repent."
"Emily!" said her mother, rousing her little girl from a sound sleep, as she spoke; "Emily! Do you know it is nearly eight o'clock?"
"Oh! it is time enough, mamma," said Emily, starting up as she spoke; "it struck eight o'clock before I was out of bed yesterday morning; and yet I was in the school-room some minutes before the bell rang."
"But if you trifle in that way, it will be nine o'clock before you are out of this room," continued her mother; as Emily, taking hold of her little night-gown, instead of a frock, began to practice her dancing steps. "You see, my dear, you have yet only got your stockings and shoes on; so, at this rate, it will certainly take you more than an hour to finish your dressing."
"Oh! indeed you are mistaken, mamma, you will see how soon I shall be out of the room," and roused to recollection by this remonstrance, the rest of her dressing was very quickly finished. Her breakfast too was despatched with equal rapidity. "Now I am ready," said she, starting from her chair, and putting on her little brown beaver hat as she spoke; "and now for my coat; but stop," she continued,throwing her coat carelessly over her arm; "I have not my bag: Where is it, I wonder? Oh! I remember! I left it in the piazza when I went to look what sort of a morning it was;" and off she went, dragging her coat, which still hung over her arm, after her; and on the piazza she found her bag, mittens, one of her books, and slate, all lying as she had thrown them out of her hand, to run after some trifle that had at the moment attracted her attention; but as she took up her bag with the intention of putting her book and slate into it, her favourite kitten, which had followed her to the piazza, running after her coat as it dragged after her along the floor, now caught at the bag, and tugged and scratched at it, as if it had been intended entirely for its amusement. This was too congenial with Emily's own frolicsome disposition to be resisted, and there she stood, at one moment drawing the bag away, and the next throwing it back again to the sportive little animal. And we must be permitted here to pause and describe our little friend, as she looked while thus engaged. It was one of those fine mild mornings, which of late years we have so often witnessed in the very depth of winter, and the sun, which had just risen, sent forth his beams to gild the landscape behind her, defining her figure more clearly by the contrast. To the eye of fancy and affection, that rising sun might have been thought to represent her whose orb like his own was just rising; and though a few mists yetobscured the bright rays of mind which had already begun to beam, yet no one could look at the face, which, though not formed according to any of the acknowledged rules of beauty, was bright with innocence, animation, and happiness, without feeling assured, that as it gained its meridian heights, it would shine forth with pure, unclouded lustre, and prepare the way for a clear and glorious evening. Though Emily, as she thus stood, presented a picture that a painter might study, it was but of short duration, for whilst she yet played with her favourite, the clock struck nine, and at once recalled the little girl to a recollection of her folly. "Oh! what shall I do?" she exclaimed. "It is nine o'clock, and I am not ready. Get away, kitty! do not come near me again," she continued, as the kitten, which had received no warning from the stroke of the clock, still tried to catch at the strings of the bag whilst she was putting in its usual contents; "get away! for if you had not come near me, I should not have staid so long. I should not have been tempted with any thing else. Oh! how hard my coat is to get on this morning. I cannot tell what is the matter with this hook and eye! it will not fasten. Yes! now it is fastened and I must run." But though poor Emily did run, and put herself into a most violent heat; and though she went into the school-room puffing and blowing, the words, as she entered, of "Miss Emily Osman—you are too late," told her at oncethat all chance of visiting her friend Mrs. Cassy was over.
A few tears chased each other silently down her cheek, as she took her seat at her desk, and for the rest of the day it was little effort to poor Emily to be silent and attentive. Julia tried a thousand ways to excite a smile, but in vain; for the idea that she had not only deprived herself of so much pleasure for the morrow, but had disappointed her mamma and appeared ungrateful to Mrs. Cassy for her kindness, weighed on her mind, and every now and then filled her eyes with tears. "Do not cry, Emily, I beg of you," said Julia, as they returned home together, after the school hours were over, "I am quite sure your mamma will let you go to Mrs. Cassy's, after all. I feel quite certain of it, for you know this is almost the last day we have to be together; and I am sure she could not find in her heart to deprive you of the pleasure for such a trifle."
"No! my mamma never changes her mind after she has promised me any thing," said Emily, "and I am glad she does not, because it always makes me sure that if I am good I shall get the reward I expect."
"Oh! well, but she may change her mind just about such a little trifle as that, after all," returned Julia.
"I am quite sure she will not," was Emily's quiet reply, and the friends parted, as their roads now layin different directions. As Emily entered the house, she felt almost ashamed of meeting her mamma, and she blushed at the idea of the reluctance which she felt; but she soon found that, for the present at least, she was saved the pain of seeing her, for she was told that a very short time after she went to school, her mother had been sent for to a very particular friend, who was dangerously ill, and that she was not yet returned. Emily always thought the house very forlorn and dull when her mother was not in it, but now that she was out of spirits herself, she felt it more so than ever, and she hung about listless and uneasy, and unable to enter into any of her usual amusements. She tried to sing, but her voice was husky and out of tune. She began to practise her steps, but it was impossible to dance without music, and Emily that day had no music in her soul. She took out her baby, with the intention of amusing herself with it, but it brought to her recollection the pleasure she had expected to enjoy in playing with Mrs. Cassy's baby the next day; and she put it aside, and forgot that she had expected entertainment from it. Even her little kitten, which, from its fondness for play, seemed to be so nearly allied to herself, played with a ball of cotton, or ran after its own tail, round and round the room, in vain; for Emily only recollected that it was it that had tempted her to the neglect of her duty in the morning. "I wonder when my mamma will come home," saidshe to herself, as the short winter's day began to draw to a close. "I wish she would come that I might see her, and hear her say that she forgives me, and will not punish me any further than by not letting me go to Mrs. Cassy's. I hope she will not look grave at me, for that will be worse than all. I wish she would come that I might know at once what she would say. Oh! perhaps that is she," added the little girl, starting up and running to the window at the sound of the door bell; but it was too dark for her to see who it was, and she was returning to the fireside, when the room door opened and the servant brought in a letter, which he said was for her. "For me!" cried Emily, in great surprise; "who can have written to me? I never received a letter in my life from any body." A lamp, however, was lighted, and the letter opened, which proved to be from Julia, and, after spelling and puzzling over it for a considerable time, Emily at length made out the following epistle:
"My dear Emily,"I have just heard that your mamma is not at home; and I wanted to come round to you, but my aunt would not let me. But I have sent you the ticket for good conduct, which I got to-day, and you may call it your own. It will not be cheating, you know, because you did behave very well at school, and then we shall meet at Mrs. Cassy's to-morrow,which will be delightful; for you know it is almost the last day that we can be together, before I go away."Your affectionate friend,"Julia."
Julia, who was nearly two years older than Emily, had written this letter with much more ease than her friend could read it. She, at last, however, succeeded in deciphering it; and, after having made herself fully acquainted with its contents, she took the ticket which was enclosed in it, and putting it very carefully by, as deliberately put the letter into the fire. From that moment Emily's face began gradually to brighten, her voice became less husky, and though she did not jump and skip about as she was in the habit of doing, yet she ceased to stretch and yawn, and wish the evening was over; and her countenance, though more thoughtful than usual, was expressive only of composure and satisfaction. The return of her mamma, which she had sometimes wished for and sometimes dreaded, now appeared to have become of less importance to her, so that on finding, by her usual bed-time, that she was not yet come home, she went very contentedly to bed, and was soon wrapped in a sound sleep. Her first object, on waking in the morning, was to ascertain whether her mother was yet returned, but finding that she was not, she prepared to spend some more hours alone. Emily, however, though a very little girlwas able not only to read, but to understand what she read; so that she could easily find amusement from the variety of little books with which her mamma had supplied her; and this made the morning pass over very comfortably, till about twelve o'clock, when she began to feel very anxious for her mother's return. It seemed a long time since she had seen her; she did not remember, ever in her life having been so long absent from her before, and she sighed and wondered when she would come. At length she heard some one open the front door, and come along the entry; and her little heart began to beat at the idea of meeting her mother. The door opened, but instead of her mamma, Julia entered, very prettily dressed, and evidently prepared for her visit.
"Why, Emily!" she exclaimed, as she came forward, "not dressed yet! I expected to find you ready to go."
"Go where?" asked the little girl.
"Why, to Mrs. Cassy's to be sure. Where else could I mean?"
"You know I am not going to Mrs. Cassy's."
"Why not? has your mamma found out that the ticket was mine?"
"I have not seen my mamma since yesterday morning. She has never been at home yet."
"Then why are you not going? You have no need to wait for her to give you leave to go, when you know she said you should go if you could bringher a ticket for good conduct, each day; and you can show her one when she comes home."
"Yes! but not one of my own."
"Yes! it is your own, for I have given it to you."
"But it is not gained by my own good behaviour."
"But you deserved to have one, for you never behaved better in school, in your life, than you did yesterday morning. You only lost your ticket for being a very few minutes too late, and therefore, it will not be cheating at all, to tell your mamma that you behaved well." Happily, however, for Emily, there had been so much pains taken to impress upon her mind, from her earliest dawn of thought, a nice distinction between truth and falsehood, that she was not to be deceived by this false reasoning of her friend, whose mind having been less carefully guarded, had adopted the error, so common with young people, that equivocation is not falsehood. Julia imagined that she would be as unwilling to tell an untruth as Emily herself could be, but she did not consider that a habit of equivocation is as obnoxious as falsehood itself, to that nice sense of honour, which can alone preserve the mind pure and untainted. She had not been taught, with sufficient care, to know, that, though she told a part of what was true, she was yet equally guilty of the crime of falsehood, as long as what she said was dictated by a wish to deceive. Emily, though so much younger, had, therefore, arrived at much greater maturity in the artof reasoning, and had imbibed, even at that early age, an ardent love of truth, and a keen contempt for the meanness of deceit; and she replied, in a quiet but steady voice: "Though I did behave well in school, I should still be cheating, if I made my mamma believe that I got a ticket for good behaviour, and that would take away all the pleasure of the visit;" and, as she spoke, she took the ticket from the place in which she had deposited it, with the intention of giving it to its right owner; but, whilst she held it in her hand, the parlour door opened, and Mrs. Osman entered the room. The moment Emily saw her mother, the recollection of her own fault rose to her mind, and checked the pleasure with which she would otherwise have welcomed her return, and the constraint of her manner was immediately observed by her watchful parent. "What is the matter, Emily, my dear?" asked she anxiously. "I see by the ticket in your hand, that you have succeeded in gaining your promised reward, and yet you do not appear to be in your usual spirits." Emily's countenance became still more agitated, whilst the colour of her face and neck, the skin of which readily told, by its varying hue, the different fluctuations of her feelings, proved that a severe conflict was passing within. To allow her mother to remain in the error of supposing the ticket to be her own, was impossible: yet how was she to explain the fact of its being Julia's, without exposing the fault of herfriend? for she knew that her mamma's first question would be, "what had she to do with Julia's ticket?"
"What is the matter, my dear?" again asked the anxious mother, "is there any objection, which I am ignorant of, to your going to Mrs. Cassy's to-day?"
"Mamma, I have no right at all to go," replied Emily, almost trembling with agitation as she spoke.
"Why not? You got your ticket yesterday I see."
"No, mamma, I did not! This is not my ticket."
"What ticket is it then? for I have all your others." Emily was silent, and her agitation increased to a degree that was very painful to observe; but Julia, who possessed a mind, which, though some noxious weeds had been permitted to spring up in it, was yet adorned with the rich and beautiful flowers of generosity and affection, saw and understood her distress, and determined to relieve her even at the pain of exposing herself; and therefore said, "I will tell you, ma'am, all about it; for, although it was not very good in me, it was so very good in Emily, that I know you will reward her for it." She then related the circumstance of the ticket very simply, without attempting either to excuse or extenuate her own conduct, though she did full justice to the integrity and honourable behaviour of her friend. Whilst Julia was speaking, Emily watched hermother's countenance with an expression of great anxiety, and the moment she had ceased, she turned to her and said, in a timid and supplicating voice, "Mamma, do not be angry with Julia!"
"As Julia is now to be so short a time among us, Emily, I will take no further notice of her conduct, but will leave it to the animadversions of her own breast," replied Mrs. Osman, gravely.
"But you will let Emily go to Mrs. Cassy's," said Julia eagerly. "You will surely, Mrs. Osman, reward her for behaving so well."
"I hope, Julia, that though Emily is so young a child, she yet knows too well that it is her duty to be honest, to expect any other reward for being so, than that which she has already secured to herself."
"But it is so trifling a fault that she lost her ticket for," remonstrated Julia.
"It was indeed a trifle, and her having so very nearly succeeded this time, gives me hopes that she will be wholly successful the next time."
"O! yes, I am sure, ma'am, if you will let her go to-day she will be more careful the next time."
"I am of a different opinion, Julia," replied Mrs. Osman, smiling; "and believe that this lesson, which I now hope will be of service to Emily as long as she lives, would be lost entirely, were she not to suffer the punishment for her fault that she knows it deserves."
"But ought she not to be rewarded for being goodtoo? and if she is not allowed to go she will have no reward at all."
"Oh! yes, I shall," interrupted Emily, who read, in her mother's countenance, the approbation which she felt of her conscientious conduct, "I shall have reward enough."
"Yes, Emily," replied her mother, "you will have the best of all rewards, a self-approving mind; and I should be sorry to weaken its effects by seeming to think that any further reward is necessary for your having done your duty." But Emily showed that she did not consider any thing more necessary to reward her for the part which she had acted, and she saw her friend go to pay her visit to Mrs. Cassy without a sigh; for though exceedingly sorry not to accompany her, she felt an inward consciousness of having acted properly, that made every thing appear cheerful and pleasant around her. The day passed delightfully, therefore, though no particular pains were taken to amuse her; for her mother was afraid, if she indulged in any extraordinary expressions of approbation, she might lead her little girl to imagine that she had performed some wonderful act of virtue, instead of having merely done her duty. What Emily had done, however, had been done purely because she knew it to be right, and not for the sake of admiration or reward. The approbation of her own conscience was all that she required; and, with such a companion, she felt no difficulty in spending a delightfulChristmas day. Her voice, when she sung, had never, to her own ear at least, sounded so well; nor had her feet ever before fallen so lightly on the floor, as they did when she skipped about; and as to her little kitten, though it had brought her into trouble, it was now forgiven, and they ran about the room together, as if trying to show, by their light and sportive movements, how graceful and beautiful a thing is the union of childhood and innocence.
M. H.
Indeed ye are a happy pair,Thyself and darling treasure—With little heads unvexed by care,And hearts brim full of pleasure.Which spirit knows the least of grief,'Tis very hard to say,—The kitten jumping at a leaf,Or she who joins the play.Ye both are frisking, giddy things—A play-ground earth before ye,Where hours pass by with silken wings,And fling no shadows o'er ye.I wish it thus might always be,My guileless little one:—It makes me sad to look on thee,And think what change may come.Then freely pour thy young heart out,And take thy fill of joy—I love to hear thy merry shout,And see thy blest employ.
Indeed ye are a happy pair,Thyself and darling treasure—With little heads unvexed by care,And hearts brim full of pleasure.Which spirit knows the least of grief,'Tis very hard to say,—The kitten jumping at a leaf,Or she who joins the play.Ye both are frisking, giddy things—A play-ground earth before ye,Where hours pass by with silken wings,And fling no shadows o'er ye.I wish it thus might always be,My guileless little one:—It makes me sad to look on thee,And think what change may come.Then freely pour thy young heart out,And take thy fill of joy—I love to hear thy merry shout,And see thy blest employ.
Indeed ye are a happy pair,Thyself and darling treasure—With little heads unvexed by care,And hearts brim full of pleasure.
Indeed ye are a happy pair,
Thyself and darling treasure—
With little heads unvexed by care,
And hearts brim full of pleasure.
Which spirit knows the least of grief,'Tis very hard to say,—The kitten jumping at a leaf,Or she who joins the play.
Which spirit knows the least of grief,
'Tis very hard to say,—
The kitten jumping at a leaf,
Or she who joins the play.
Ye both are frisking, giddy things—A play-ground earth before ye,Where hours pass by with silken wings,And fling no shadows o'er ye.
Ye both are frisking, giddy things—
A play-ground earth before ye,
Where hours pass by with silken wings,
And fling no shadows o'er ye.
I wish it thus might always be,My guileless little one:—It makes me sad to look on thee,And think what change may come.
I wish it thus might always be,
My guileless little one:—
It makes me sad to look on thee,
And think what change may come.
Then freely pour thy young heart out,And take thy fill of joy—I love to hear thy merry shout,And see thy blest employ.
Then freely pour thy young heart out,
And take thy fill of joy—
I love to hear thy merry shout,
And see thy blest employ.
Drawn by W. Sharp.Engd. by F. Kearny.THE KITTEN.
Drawn by W. Sharp.Engd. by F. Kearny.THE KITTEN.
Drawn by W. Sharp.Engd. by F. Kearny.
THE KITTEN.
"Only think, Charlotte," said Marianne Glanvil, on entering the chamber where her sister was endeavouring to get through a warm afternoon in August, by lolling on the bed in a loose gown,—"Susan Davison has just been here with an invitation for us."
Charlotte.—And pray, who is Susan Davison?
Marianne.—The daughter of farmer Davison up the creek. We met her at Trenchard's the day we were obliged to drink tea there.
Charlotte.—I wonder how you can remember their names, or theirselves either: I am sure I do not know one of these people from another, and I never wish to know.
Marianne.—But this Susan Davison is really not so bad. She is diffident enough, to be sure, but is rather less awkward and uncouth than the generality of country girls.
Charlotte.—To me they are all alike; I do not profess to understand the varieties of the species.
Marianne.—Well, I was going to tell you, that after a sitting of half an hour, Susan Davison, as sherose to depart, uttered an invitation to her quilting to-morrow.
Charlotte.—And what is a quilting?
Marianne.—Now, I am sure you must have heard of quiltings. It is an assemblage of all the females in the neighbourhood, for the purpose of quilting, in one afternoon, a whole patch-work bed-cover.
Charlotte.—I shall certainly not go. I never quilted any thing in my life, and I hate the sight of a patch-work bed-cover.
Marianne.—But my father and mother were in the parlour, and promised at once that we should both go.
Charlotte.—How vexatious! Was it not enough, after being educated at the most genteel boarding school in the city, and accustomed only to polished society, to be brought to live at this remote place, where my father has thought proper to purchase an iron-foundry, but we are required also to be civil to the country people, and interchange visits with them? I almost think my father intends being a candidate for the assembly next election, or he never would take the trouble to make himself agreeable to the farmers and their families.
Marianne.—You know, he thinks it is always desirable to be popular with our neighbours.
Charlotte.—That is what I shall never be, unless my neighbours are popular with me.
Marianne.—Now, for my part, I like very well to astonish them by the elegance of my dress, andby my various accomplishments. I am going to put my lace sleeves in my new palmyrene frock, purposely to wear at this quilting.
Charlotte.—It is well worth your while to take that trouble, when the worst dress you have is too good for such company. I shall do quite the contrary, to let them see how little I care for them.
Marianne.—Then you will displease my father.
Charlotte.—Is it necessary that he should know it? I am sure my mother will never tell him, and for her own part, she never opposes us in any thing. However, if I must be at this quilting, I shall take care to make the time as short as possible, for I will go late and come away early.
Marianne.—Susan Davison said, she hoped we would be there by two o'clock, which I suppose will be the usual hour of assembling.
Charlotte.—Two o'clock! Go to a party at two o'clock! Why the wild Indians could not be more uncouth on such an occasion!
Marianne.—I doubt whether the wild Indians have any quiltings. But go we must, as my father and mother at once accepted the invitation for us.
Charlotte.—How unlucky that they happened to be present!
The next day, between one and two o'clock, the Miss Glanvils saw numerous young girls ride by onhorseback, on their way to Andrew Davison's which was about two miles from the iron works. "Now," remarked Marianne, "these poor girls must have hurried to get their dinners over before twelve, that they might have time to be drest and mounted by one o'clock."
"But why," asked Charlotte, "do they all wear striped linen skirts with silk bodies and sleeves?"
"Oh!" replied Marianne, "you surely know that those are their riding-skirts; a sort of petticoat made of thick homespun linen, which they tie on over the skirts of their silk frocks to keep them clean while riding."
"You seem to be well versed in all their ways," said Charlotte, contemptuously.
It was five o'clock, however, before the Miss Glanvils were ready to set out for the quilting, as Charlotte took her usual afternoon's nap, and Marianne occupied two hours in dressing; arraying herself in her straw-coloured palmyrene with lace sleeves, and ornamenting her hair (which was a mass of curls) with a profusion of yellow flowers and gauze ribbon. She put on all her jewels, and sewed her white kid gloves to her lace sleeves, which were confined at the wrists with three bracelets each. She had embroidered silk stockings, and white satin shoes, and threw over her shoulders a splendid scarf of various colours. This dress she had worn at a boarding school ball, shortly before the family removed intothe country. Nothing could be a greater contrast than the appearance of the two sisters as they got into the carriage; for Charlotte persevered in going to the quilting in a pink gingham, her hair merely tucked behind her ears with two side combs.
Their mother slightly disapproved of both their dresses, but as soon as they were gone thought of something else.
In a short time the Miss Glanvils arrived at Andrew Davison's, and found the quilting going on in the vast stone barn, which had been put in order for the purpose. They were conducted to the barn by young Davison, the farmer's eldest son, who had assisted them out of the carriage, and were met at the entrance by Susan, who received them with much respect, as being the two greatest strangers of the party. The guests were all sitting round the quilting frame busily at work. They looked with some surprise at the two sisters so very differently habited, but no remark was made, even in a whisper.
Charlotte declined taking a chair at the frame, saying, she knew nothing about quilting, and seated herself in a most inconvenient place at the head of the quilt, very much in the way of a young girl that could not draw out her arm in consequence of the vicinity of Miss Glanvil, who saw that she incommoded her, but made no offer to move. Marianne, however, advanced to the frame, and dislodging three or four girls, who rose to make room for herand her immense frock, which was flounced far above her knees, she took out of her reticule an elegant little ivory work box, and laying down beside it a perfumed and embroidered cambric handkerchief, and a tortoise-shell fan, she most pompously set to work with her gloves on. She found this way of quilting very inconvenient, and as her gloves could only be taken off by ripping them from her sleeves, she begged, with an air of the most condescending affability, to be excused from the quilting; and then removed to a seat beside her sister. Charlotte threw herself back in her chair, and putting her feet on the bars of another, sat drumming with her fingers on the quilt and humming a French song.
The other guests, though they all had too much civility to stare as steadily as the Miss Glanvils expected, stole occasional glances of surprise and curiosity at the sisters; one so overdrest and affecting so much condescension, the other insulting them by coming in dishabille, and setting at defiance even the most common rules of politeness.
There sat at the quilt a very pretty young girl, with her dark hair curling on her temples in natural ringlets. She wore a white muslin frock, with a worked cape, and a broad pink ribbon on her neck, which was beautifully white. Her figure was very good, though rather plump than otherwise, and her cheeks had the bloom of roses. She seemed to beacquainted with all the company, and talked pleasantly and sensibly to every one, without any air of superiority, or any affectation of graciousness. She quilted assiduously and neatly, and assisted with great skill in the various operations of rolling, stretching, and pinning the quilt. The sisters did not distinguish and did not ask her surname, but they heard every one call her Fanny.
Shortly after the arrival of the Miss Glanvils, the two younger daughters of farmer Davison, on a signal from their sister Susan, went to a table which stood in a corner of the barn, and removing a cloth which had been lightly thrown over it, disclosed several large custards and three sorts of fruit pies, peach, plum, and apple. The pastry being already cut up, was very soon transferred to as many plates as there were guests, every plate containing a piece of custard and three slices of pie, one of each sort.
These plates were handed to the company on small waiters, by Jane and Mary Davison, while Susan remained near the quilt and invited her guests to eat; every one being expected to taste all the varieties on their plate. The Glanvils exchanged significant looks.
"Is it puff-paste?" said Charlotte, speaking for the first time, and touching a piece of pie with the point of her knife.
"I believe not," replied Susan, colouring, "noneof our family understand making puff-paste; but I know mother did her best to have this as short and crisp as possible. Please to try some of it."
"I thank you," answered Charlotte, coldly, "I am very careful of my teeth, and I am afraid to risk their coming in contact with hard substances."
She commenced on a piece of the plum pie, but pointedly avoided the paste, eating out all the fruit, and conspicuously laying aside the crust. Marianne, however, found the pastry so palatable, that she could scarcely refrain from eating the whole that was on her plate, and she was not surprised to overhear the young girl they called Fanny, praising it to another who sat next to her.
The presence of the Miss Glanvils evidently threw a restraint on the whole company, except Fanny, who, to the great surprise of the sisters, appeared perfectly at her ease all the time, and not in the least awed by their superiority.
"Who can that girl be?" whispered Marianne to Charlotte.
"Some vulgar thing like the rest," answered Charlotte.
"I do not think her vulgar," said Marianne.
"I know no reason for supposing her otherwise," rejoined Charlotte. "You know the proverb, 'Birds of a feather flock together.' See how familiar she is with all of them. She knows every one of their names. She must have been born and brought upwith them. By their talk she has been here since two o'clock."
About sunset the quilt was completed. The chalk-marks, and the clippings of thread, were then carefully brushed off; a dozen scissors were employed in ripping it from the frame, and two dozen hands afterwards spread it to the full size, and shook it till the lofty roof of the barn echoed the sound; which sound brought in near twenty young men who had been lingering about the barn-door for the last half hour, none of them having courage to venture within, except Susan Davison's two brothers. They were all clean shaved, and in their best clothes; some even had their hair curled, and the Miss Glanvils now found occasion to whisper and titter at the costume of the country beaux, particularly at their very fine waistcoats.
Soon after, one of the little girls came to announce that supper was ready, which intelligence was repeated by Susan to the Miss Glanvils; and her two brothers now came forward, each with a low bow, and offered their arms to conduct the young ladies to the house, as they had been previously tutored by their sister. The Miss Glanvils, however, took no notice of the offered arms, and the young men, much abashed, walked silently beside them. Fanny, escorted by the old farmer, who had accosted her at the barn-door with great cordiality, joined about midway in the procession, and they all walked tothe house, where supper was set out in the largest room.
The table was of immense size, with at each end a waiter, containing an equipage for tea and coffee; Mrs. Davison presiding at one and Susan at the other. The centre ornament was a roast pig, flanked by dishes of stewed fowls, and the rest of the table was covered with plates of pound cake, gingerbread, short cakes, doughnuts, rusk, preserves, apple-sauce, fried ham, cream-cheese, and sage-cheese; there being always four plates of each particular article, that a share of all the various good things might be within the reach of every one at table. William and Thomas Davison, assisted by several others of the least bashful and most alert of the young men, stood behind the chairs with waiters in their hands, and helped the females; their father being the only man that took a seat at the table.
The Miss Glanvils sat together in solemn state; Marianne carefully employed in defending her finery from the expected inroads of the various things that were handed about in her neighbourhood; but very much inclined to eat heartily of many of the tempting viands that were before her, had she not been checked by the disapproving looks of her sister.
It was with difficulty that Charlotte consented to be helped to any thing, and uniformly after tasting it laid each article on the side of her plate, as if unfit to eat. After she had taken a sip of tea she drewback with a look of horror, and declaring it to be green tea, and that she would not drink a cup of it for the world, she pushed it away from her as far as possible.
She then requested some black tea, but unluckily there was none in the house; and Mrs. Davison, much disconcerted, apologized in great confusion, saying, that as black tea was not used in the neighbourhood, she did not believe there was any to be had at the store, or she would send and get some. She then asked if Miss Glanvil would take a cup of coffee, but Charlotte replied that though extravagantly fond of coffee in the morning, (always drinking three cups,) she could not possibly touch it at night.
"Did you never drink green tea?" asked the farmer. "Certainly," she replied in a disdainful tone, "I drank it always till black tea became fashionable."
"Then," said the farmer, smiling, "if you have been drinking it all your life till very lately, perhaps you might, if you were to try, make out once more to swallow a cup of it on a pinch, and be none the worse for it."
Charlotte looked much displeased, and sat back in her chair, obstinately determined not to touch the green tea. Of course all the Davison family felt and looked extremely uncomfortable, and they would have been glad when the Miss Glanvils finallyrose from table, which they did shortly after, only that the rest of the company thought it necessary to follow their example, and the feast prepared with so much care and trouble was concluded in half the usual time. The female guests were conducted to an adjoining room, while the supper table was cleared away and then re-set exactly as before for the young men.
Singing being proposed, Fanny was invited "to favour them with a song." She consented at once, and inquired which of her songs they would have. The simple and beautiful Scotch air of the Bonnie Boat was named, and she sung it with a sweet clear voice and excellent taste, though no attempt at ornament. The Miss Glanvils exchanged glances and whispers.
The two young ladies were then respectfully requested to sing. Charlotte refused at once, declaring that it was impossible to sing without an instrument: but Marianne, eager to display her knowledge of fashionable music, complied readily, and gave "Una voce poco fa," with what she considered wonderful execution. As soon as she had finished, Charlotte perceiving that the company, though greatly amazed at first, had become much fatigued by this unseasonable exhibition of Italian singing, and that it had not given the least pleasure to any one, ill-naturedly proposed to her sister to try "Di piacer," which she also got through, to the greatannoyance of the young men who had long before come in from the supper room, and who were certainly not of a class to relish such songs as are unintelligible to all but the initiated.
A black man now appeared with a fiddle, and took his seat in one of the windows; there was a reinforcement of beaux, and the Miss Glanvils found that a dance was to be the next amusement. Marianne remarked, in a group of young men that had just entered the room, one of remarkably genteel appearance and extremely handsome. "Charlotte," said she, "look at that young gentleman in black, talking to Tom Davison."
"I see nogentlemanin the room," replied Charlotte, "and I do not know Tom Davison from the other clowns."
"Oh! but this, I am certain, is really a gentleman," said Marianne, "I wish he would ask me to dance."
"What!" exclaimed Charlotte, "would you actually join in a dance with these people? Could you stand up with them and give them your hand? And above all things, would you make one in acountry-dance, for of course they know nothing about cotillions?"
"Yes I would," answered Marianne, "with such a partner as that young gentleman in black. And then, when they seemyFrench steps, how ashamed they will be of their own shuffling and prancing."
Just then, Tom Davison, observing Marianne's eyes fixed with evident approbation on the stranger in black, brought him up and introduced him to her as Captain Selman; and on his requesting the pleasure of dancing with her, she immediately consented with great satisfaction. Tom Davison then, with a low bow and a look of much embarrassment, ventured to make the same request of Charlotte, who refused with an air of such unequivocal contempt, that the youth determined in his own mind to leave her to herself for the remainder of the evening.
The musician made three scrapes on his fiddle as a signal for every one to take their places. "Of course," said Marianne, "we go to the top," and Captain Selman led her to the head of the country dance that was forming, while she lamented to him the sad necessity of being obliged to join in such a dance, saying that she must depend on him to give her some idea of the figure; and adding that he would find her an apt scholar, as she was always considered very quick at learning every thing.
The musician gave a loud stamp with his foot, and then struck up New-Jersey; but observing that Charlotte stopped her ears in horror, Marianne begged of her partner to go and ask the man if he could not play something less barbarous. The man replied that New-Jersey was the dancing tune he was most used to, but that he could play the Morning Star and Fisher's Hornpipe quite as well. Marianne said that shehad heard her mother speak of dancing these things when she was a girl, and therefore she was sure they must be abominable.
At last, after much sending of Captain Selman backwards and forwards, and proposing tunes which she knew the poor fiddler had never even heard of, it was ascertained that he thought he could play "The Campbells are coming," havingcatchedit, as he said, the last time he was in town.
Captain Selman undertook to instruct the company in the figure, which he did with great good humour, and they actually learnt it with a quickness that surprised Marianne. She went down the dance exhibiting all her most difficult steps, and affecting a wonderful gracefulness in every motion. However, when she got to the bottom, suspecting that this display had not excited quite as much admiration as she had expected, she professed great fatigue, and threw herself into a chair, declaring she could not dance another step; and knowing that in consequence Captain Selman could do no less than stand by and converse with her till the set was over.
"I do not see Susan Davison dancing," said Marianne, "she has been sitting all the time beside my sister. She is rather a pretty girl; I wonder none of the young men have taken her out."
"I made my bow to her soon after I came in," replied the Captain, "but she declines dancing this evening, alleging that, being in her own house, she isunwilling to take a place that might be occupied by one of her friends."
"I suppose," said Marianne, abruptly, "your next partner will be the young person they call Fanny, as she is certainly rather well-looking. There she is, about the middle of the dance, with a broad pink ribbon round her neck. Indeed, though my sister is of a contrary opinion, I should be almost inclined to think this Fanny something of a lady, only that she is so sociable with these people. To be sure, I have tried myself to be affable this evening, but I find it such an irksome task that I believe it will be my last attempt. Now it seems quite natural to this said Fanny, which proves, as my sister Charlotte says, that she is in reality no better than the rest. We think she must be the daughter of one of these country store-keepers, and that she has now and then had the benefit of a fortnight's polishing in the city, while her father was buying his spring goods."
Captain Selman smiled, and was going to reply, when Charlotte joined them, saying in a most peevish voice, "Marianne, do you intend staying here all night? If you do, you must stay by yourself. I have just heard our carriage drive up, for I charged William to come for us early, and I am dying to get away."
Marianne, who would willingly have stayed longer, was about to remonstrate, but finding that the Captain had escaped from her side, she felt less reluctant togo. Charlotte made her exit without ceremony, but Marianne purposely loitered till the dance was over, that she might make her departure the more conspicuous, and produce a great effect by her elegant manner of taking leave. She then walked up to Mrs. Davison, and overwhelming the good woman with curtseyings, bowings, compliments and flourishes, she left the room, accompanied by Susan, to the chamber in which their shawls and calashes had been deposited.
They were put into the carriage by Tom Davison, as his last effort of civility. And it was resolved next day by the family in council, that the Miss Glanvils should on no future occasion be invited; for, as Mrs. Davison remarked, they held their heads quite too high, and their airs were unbearable.
As they drove home, Charlotte, in the most unqualified terms, expressed her disgust at the quilting-party, and every thing connected with it. Marianne acknowledged that the whole concern, as she called it, was very ungenteel, but still not quite so bad as she had expected. She said that in her opinion Captain Selman would be presentable even in good society, and expressed her surprise at finding an officer at a quilting.
"Pho," said Charlotte, "he is only a militia captain, of course."
"No," replied Marianne, "I am very sure he is no such thing. If he were a militia officer, he wouldundoubtedly have come to the party in full uniform, booted and spurred, with epaulette, and chapeau and feather, his sword at his side, and his sash spread out over his body as broad as possible, and pinned up in a peak before and behind, as I have heard my mother describe their costume. No, no; this officer is in the regular army, and from something he said, I know he was educated at West Point."
"Well," said Charlotte, "I doubt his being a man of fashion after all. I observed him, after he left you, speaking familiarly to that Fanny as if they were well acquainted. However, he did not seem to ask her to dance, but he paid that compliment to one that sat near the door, a poor bashful-looking girl, the worst dressed and least attractive in the room."
The next day but one was Sunday. The church, which was about three miles off, had been shut up, undergoing repairs ever since Mr. Glanvil had removed to the iron-works, but it was now again opened for worship, and the Glanvil family all repaired thither in their carriage. On this occasion, Charlotte was as elegantly drest as her sister; for having satisfied her perverseness by going indishabilleto the quilting, she determined now to astonish the congregation by a great display of finery at church.
As they passed up the middle aisle, the eyes of the Miss Glanvils were attracted immediately to a handsome pew near the pulpit; in which pew theysaw Captain Selman, accompanied by Fanny, and an elderly gentleman and lady, both of remarkably genteel and dignified appearance. The two sisters, at the same moment, pulled each other's sleeves significantly. They thought the service very long, and as soon as church was over, Marianne asked her father if he knew the occupants of the pew that was lined with blue moreen. He replied, "They are the governor and his family. They have been travelling all summer, and only returned last week. I called yesterday to see them as I passed their house, which is about five miles from ours." "Is it possible," exclaimed Charlotte, "that Fanny can be the governor's daughter!" "Is Captain Selman the governor's son?" cried Marianne.
"No," replied Mr. Glanvil. "The governor's name, you know, is Milford. Captain Selman is the son of Mrs. Milford's first marriage, and Miss Fanny Milford is his half-sister."
At the church-gate the governor's carriage was waiting beside Mr. Glanvil's, and Mr. Milford stopped with his family to introduce them to Mrs. Glanvil and her daughters. The Miss Glanvils looked much embarrassed. Charlotte was ashamed that Miss Milford should have witnessed her unamiable behaviour at the quilting, and Marianne was shocked at recollecting the freedom with which she had talked to Captain Selman of his step-sister. Their confusionwas so evident, that the Captain and Fanny, when introduced to the Miss Glanvils, avoided making any allusion to having met them at farmer Davison's.
But little was said on either side, and the disconcerted sisters were glad to take refuge in the carriage.
On their way home, Charlotte expressed her surprise at the condescension of the governor's family in deigning to be on visiting terms with the farmer's.
"And why not?" said Mr. Glanvil. "Andrew Davison is a good citizen, and a respectable, sensible and worthy man; and his children, though he has wisely forborne to make any attempt at giving them what is called a fashionable education, are by no means coarse. The old-fashioned plainness of decent country people is not vulgarity; and if they are ignorant of the conventional forms of city society, they generally make amends by having a large share of that natural civility which springs from good feeling; and it is easy in our intercourse with them to avoid imitating such of their habits and expressions as are at variance with our standard of refinement. As fellow-citizens, their rights are the same as ours, and, like us, they call no man master. Not one of them would bend his knee to any monarch upon earth.
"Governor Milford has lived in this part of thecountry nearly his whole life, and is, of course, acquainted with all the old settlers, of whom Andrew Davison is one. And he has very judiciously brought up his family in the mutual interchange of civilities with all his respectable neighbours, knowing that nothing is ever lost by cultivating the good opinion of those among whom our lot is cast."
"I suspect, after all," said Charlotte, ill-naturedly, "that the governor's affability, and that of his children, originate in the expectation of securing the votes of farmer Davison and his sons at the next election."
"You are entirely mistaken," replied Mr. Glanvil. "Governor Milford and the Davisons, though old friends, are of opposite parties. They did not vote for him at the last election, and he has declined being a candidate for the next."
Next day, the Glanvils were visited by the governor, with his wife and daughter. Captain Selman did not accompany them, having set out to return to his station. Mr. and Mrs. Glanvil were not at home, but the young ladies overwhelmed the Milford family with civilities; Charlotte, in particular, was absolutely obsequious in her attentions.
Upon farther acquaintance, they found that Fanny Milford had been educated in the city, and was quite as accomplished as either of themselves, though shehad too much good sense to make any unseasonable display. Her example was not lost upon Marianne, who improved greatly by occasional intercourse with this amiable girl. We wish we could say the same of Charlotte; but pride is of all faults one of the most difficult to conquer, as it is seldom found except in persons of weak understanding. Sensible people are never offensively proud.
ELIZA LESLIE.