Chapter 14

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

When daylight appeared, a tumultuous concourse of the suitors again filled the hall; and some wondered, and some inquired what meant that glittering store of armour and lances which lay on heaps by the entry of the door; and [to] all that asked Telemachus made reply, that he had caused them to be taken down to cleanse them of the rust and of the stain which they had contracted by lying so long unused, even ever since his father went for Troy; and with that answer their minds were easily satisfied. So to their feasting and vain rioting again they fell. Ulysses by Telemachus's order had a seat and a mess assigned him in the door-way, and he had his eye ever on the lances. And it moved gall in some of the great ones there present, to have their feast still dulled with the society of that wretched beggar as they deemed him, and they reviled and spurned at him with their feet. Only there was one Philætius, who had something a better nature than the rest, that spake kindly to him, and had his age in respect. He coming up to Ulysses, took him by the hand with a kind of fear, as if touched exceedingly with imagination of his great worth, and said thus to him, "Hail! father stranger! my brows have sweat to see the injuries which you have received, and my eyes have broke forth in tears, when I have only thought that such being oftentimes the lot of worthiest men, to this plight Ulysses may be reduced, and that he now may wander from place to place as you do; for such who are compelled by need to range here and there, and have no firm home to fix their feet upon, God keeps them in this earth, as under water; so are they kept down and depressed. And a dark thread is sometimes spun in the fates of kings."

At this bare likening of the beggar to Ulysses, Minerva from heaven made the suitors for foolish joy to go mad, and roused them to such a laughter as would never stop, they laughed without power of ceasing, their eyes stood full of tears for violent joys; but fears and horrible misgivings succeeded: and one among them stood up and prophesied: "Ah, wretches!" he said, "what madness from heaven has seized you, that you can laugh? see you not that your meat drops blood? a night, like the night of death, wraps you about, you shriek without knowing it; your eyes thrust forth tears; the fixed walls, and the beam that bears the whole house up, fall blood; ghosts choak up the entry; full is the hall with apparitions, of murdered men; under your feet is hell; the sun falls from heaven and it is midnight at noon." But like men whom the gods had infatuated to their destruction, they mocked at his fears, and Eurymachus said, "This man is surely mad, conduct him forth into the market-place, set him in the light, for he dreams that 'tis night within the house."

But Theoclymenus (for that was the prophet's name) whom Minerva had graced with a prophetic spirit, that he foreseeing might avoid the destruction which awaited them, answered and said: "Eurymachus, I will not require a guide of thee for I have eyes and ears, the use of both my feet, and a sane mind within me, and with these I will go forth of the doors because I know the imminent evils which await all you that stay, by reason of this poor guest who is a favourite with all the gods." So saying he turned his back upon those inhospitable men, and went away home, and never returned to the palace.

These words which he spoke were not unheard by Telemachus, who kept still his eye upon his father, expecting fervently when he would give the sign, which was to precede the slaughter of the suitors.

They dreaming of no such thing, fell sweetly to their dinner, as joying in the great store of banquet which was heaped in full tables about them; but there reigned not a bitterer banquet planet in all heaven, than that which hung over them this day by secret destination of Minerva.

There was a bow which Ulysses left when he went for Troy. It had lain by since that time, out of use and unstrung, for no man had strength to draw that bow, save Ulysses. So it had remained, as a monument of the great strength of its master. This bow, with the quiver of arrows belonging thereto, Telemachus had brought down from the armoury on the last night along with the lances; and now Minerva, intending to do Ulysses an honour, put it into the mind of Telemachus, to propose to the suitors to try who was strongest to draw that bow; and he promised that to the man who should be able to draw that bow, his mother should be given in marriage; Ulysses's wife the prize to him who should bend the bow of Ulysses.

There was great strife and emulation stirred up among the suitors at those words of the prince Telemachus. And to grace her son's words, and to confirm the promise which he had made, Penelope came and shewed herself that day to the suitors; and Minerva made her that she appeared never so comely in their sight as that day, and they were inflamed with the beholding of so much beauty, proposed as the price of so great manhood; and they cried out, that if all those heroes who sailed to Colchos for the rich purchase of the golden-fleeced ram, had seen earth's richer prize, Penelope, they would not have made their voyage, but would have vowed their valours and their lives to her, for she was at all parts faultless.

And she said, "The gods have taken my beauty from me, since my lord went for Troy." But Telemachus willed his mother to depart and not be present at that contest, for he said, "It may be, some rougher strife shall chance of this, than may be expedient for a woman to witness." And she retired, she and her maids, and left the hall.

Then the bow was brought into the midst, and a mark was set up by prince Telemachus: and lord Antinous as the chief among the suitors had the first offer, and he took the bow and fitting an arrow to the string, he strove to bend it, but not with all his might and main could he once draw together the ends of that tough bow; and when he found how vain a thing it was to endeavour to draw Ulysses's bow, he desisted, blushing for shame and for mere anger. Then Eurymachus adventured, but with no better success; but as it had torn the hands of Antinous, so did the bow tear and strain his hands, and marred his delicate fingers, yet could he not once stir the string. Then called he to the attendants to bring fat and unctuous matter, which melting at the fire, he dipped the bow therein, thinking to supple it and make it more pliable, but not with all the helps of art could he succeed in making it to move. After him Liodes, and Amphinomus, and Polybus, and Eurynomus, and Polyctorides, assayed their strength, but not any one of them, or of the rest of those aspiring suitors, had any better luck: yet not the meanest of them there but thought himself well worthy of Ulysses's wife, though to shoot with Ulysses's bow the completest champion among them was by proof found too feeble.

Then Ulysses prayed them that he might have leave to try; and immediately a clamour was raised among the suitors, because of his petition, and they scorned and swelled with rage at his presumption, and that a beggar should seek to contend in a game of such noble mastery. But Telemachus ordered that the bow should be given him, and that he should have leave to try, since they had failed; "for," he said, "the bow is mine, to give or to withhold:" and none durst gainsay the prince.

Then Ulysses gave a sign to his son, and he commanded the doors of the hall to be made fast, and all wondered at his words, but none could divine the cause. And Ulysses took the bow into his hands, and before he essayed to bend it, he surveyed it at all parts, to see whether, by long lying by, it had contracted any stiffness which hindered the drawing; and as he was busied in the curious surveying of his bow, some of the suitors mocked him and said, "Past doubt this man is a right cunning archer, and knows his craft well. See how he turns it over and over, and looks into it, as if he could see through the wood." And others said, "We wish some one would tell out gold into our laps but for so long a time as he shall be in drawing of that string." But when he had spent some little time in making proof of the bow, and had found it to be in good plight, like as a harper in tuning of his harp draws out a string, with such ease or much more did Ulysses draw to the head the string of his own tough bow, and in letting of it go, it twanged with such a shrill noise as a swallow makes when it sings through the air: which so much amazed the suitors, that their colours came and went, and the skies gave out a noise of thunder, which at heart cheered Ulysses, for he knew that now his long labours by the disposal of the fates drew to an end. Then fitted he an arrow to the bow, and drawing it to the head, he sent it right to the mark which the prince had set up. Which done, he said to Telemachus, "You have got no disgrace yet by your guest, for I have struck the mark I shot at, and gave myself no such trouble in teazing the bow with fat and fire, as these men did, but have made proof that my strength is not impaired, nor my age so weak and contemptible as these were pleased to think it. But come, the day going down calls us to supper, after which succeed poem and harp, and all delights which use to crown princely banquetings."

So saying, he beckoned to his son, who straight girt his sword to his side, and took one of the lances (of which there lay great store from the armoury) in his hand, and armed at all points, advanced towards his father.

The upper rags which Ulysses wore fell from his shoulder, and his own kingly likeness returned, when he rushed to the great hall door with bow and quiver full of shafts, which down at his feet he poured, and in bitter words presignified his deadly intent to the suitors. "Thus far," he said, "this contest has been decided harmless: now for us there rests another mark, harder to hit, but which my hands shall essay notwithstanding, if Phoebus god of archers be pleased to give me the mastery." With that he let fly a deadly arrow at Antinous, which pierced him in the throat as he was in the act of lifting a cup of wine to his mouth. Amazement seized the suitors, as their great champion fell dead, and they raged highly against Ulysses, and said that it should prove the dearest shaft which he ever let fly, for he had slain a man, whose like breathed not in any part of the kingdom: and they flew to their arms, and would have seized the lances, but Minerva struck them with dimness of sight that they went erring up and down the hall, not knowing where to find them. Yet so infatuated were they by the displeasure of heaven, that they did not see the imminent peril which impended over them, but every man believed that this accident had happened beside the intention of the doer. Fools! to think by shutting their eyes to evade destiny, or that any other cup remained for them, but that which their great Antinous had tasted!

Then Ulysses revealed himself to all in that presence, and that he was the man whom they held to be dead at Troy, whose palace they had usurped, whose wife in his life-time they had sought in impious marriage, and that for this reason destruction was come upon them. And he dealt his deadly arrows among them, and there was no avoiding him, nor escaping from his horrid person, and Telemachus by his side plied them thick with those murderous lances from which there was no retreat, till fear itself made them valiant, and danger gave them eyes to understand the peril; then they which had swords drew them, and some with shields, that could find them, and some with tables and benches snatched up in haste, rose in a mass to overwhelm and crush those two; yet they singly bestirred themselves like men, and defended themselves against that great host, and through tables, shields and all, right through the arrows of Ulysses clove, and the irresistible lances of Telemachus; and many lay dead, and all had wounds, and Minerva in the likeness of a bird sate upon the beam which went across the hall, clapping her wings with a fearful noise, and sometimes the great bird would fly among them, cuffing at the swords and at the lances, and up and down the hall would go, beating her wings, and troubling every thing, that it was frightful to behold, and it frayed the blood from the cheeks of those heaven-hated suitors: but to Ulysses and his son she appeared in her own divine similitude, with her snake-fringed shield, a goddess armed, fighting their battles. Nor did that dreadful pair desist, till they had laid all their foes at their feet. At their feet they lay in shoals; like fishes, when the fishermen break up their nets, so they lay gasping and sprawling at the feet of Ulysses and his son. And Ulysses remembered the prediction of Tiresias, which said that he was to perish by his own guests, unless he slew those who knew him not.

Then certain of the queen's household went up and told Penelope what had happened, and how her lord Ulysses was come home, and had slain the suitors. But she gave no heed to their words, but thought that some frenzy possessed them, or that they mocked her: for it is the property of such extremes of sorrow as she had felt, not to believe when any great joy cometh. And she rated and chid them exceedingly for troubling her. But they the more persisted in their asseverations of the truth of what they had affirmed; and some of them had seen the slaughtered bodies of the suitors dragged forth of the hall. And they said, "That poor guest whom you talked with last night was Ulysses." Then she was yet more fully persuaded that they mocked her, and she wept. But they said, "This thing is true which we have told. We sat within, in an inner room in the palace, and the doors of the hall were shut on us, but we heard the cries and the groans of the men that were killed, but saw nothing, till at length your son called to us to come in, and entering we saw Ulysses standing in the midst of the slaughtered." But she persisting in her unbelief, said, that it was some god which had deceived them to think it was the person of Ulysses.

By this time Telemachus and his father had cleansed their hands from the slaughter, and were come to where the queen was talking with those of her household; and when she saw Ulysses, she stood motionless, and had no power to speak, sudden surprise and joy and fear and many passions strove within her. Sometimes she was clear that it was her husband that she saw, and sometimes the alteration which twenty years had made in his person (yet that was not much) perplexed her that she knew not what to think, and for joy she could not believe, and yet for joy she would not but believe, and, above all, that sudden change from a beggar to a king troubled her, and wrought uneasy scruples in her mind. But Telemachus, seeing her strangeness, blamed her, and called her an ungentle and tyrannous mother! and said that she shewed a too great curiousness of modesty, to abstain from embracing his father, and to have doubts of his person, when to all present it was evident that he was the very real and true Ulysses.

Then she mistrusted no longer, but ran and fell upon Ulysses's neck, and said, "Let not my husband be angry, that I held off so long with strange delays; it is the gods, who severing us for so long time, have caused this unseemly distance in me. If Menelaus's wife had used half my caution, she would never have taken so freely to a stranger's bed; and she might have spared us all these plagues which have come upon us through her shameless deed."

These words with which Penelope excused herself, wrought more affection in Ulysses than if upon a first sight she had given up herself implicitly to his embraces; and he wept for joy to possess a wife so discreet, so answering to his own staid mind, that had a depth of wit proportioned to his own, and one that held chaste virtue at so high a price; and he thought the possession of such a one cheaply purchased with the loss of all Circe's delights, and Calypso's immortality of joys; and his long labours and his severe sufferings past seemed as nothing, now they were crowned with the enjoyment of his virtuous and true wife Penelope. And as sad men at sea whose ship has gone to pieces nigh shore, swimming for their lives, all drenched in foam and brine, crawl up to some poor patch of land, which they take possession of with as great a joy as if they had the world given them in fee, with such delight did this chaste wife cling to her lord restored, till the dark night fast coming on reminded her of that more intimate and happy union when in her long-widowed bed she should once again clasp a living Ulysses.

So from that time the land had rest from the suitors. And the happy Ithacans with songs and solemn sacrifices of praise to the gods celebrated the return of Ulysses: for he that had been so long absent was returned to wreak the evil upon the heads of the doers; in the place where they had done the evil, there wreaked he his vengeance upon them.

MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL:

OR,

THE HISTORY OF SEVERAL YOUNG LADIES,

RELATED BY THEMSELVES

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

DEDICATION.

TO

THE YOUNG LADIES AT AMWELL SCHOOL

My dear young friends,

Though released from the business of the school, the absence of your governess confines me to Amwell during the vacation. I cannot better employ my leisure hours than in contributing to the amusement of you my kind pupils, who, by your affectionate attentions to my instructions, have rendered a life of labour pleasant to me.

On your return to school I hope to have a fair copy ready to present to each of you of your own biographical conversations last winter.

Accept my thanks for the approbation you were pleased to express when I offered to become your _amanuensis_. I hope you will find I have executed the office with a tolerably faithful pen, as you know I took notes each day during those conversations, and arranged my materials after you were retired to rest.

I begin from the day our school commenced. It was opened by your governess for the first time, on the ---- day of February. I pass over your several arrivals on the morning of that day. Your governess received you from your friends in her own parlour.

Every carriage that drove from the door I knew had left a sad heart behind.--Your eyes were red with weeping, when your governess introduced me to you as the teacher she had engaged to instruct you. She next desired me to show you into the room which we now call the play-room. "The ladies" said she, "may play, and amuse themselves, and be as happy as they please this evening, that they may be well acquainted with each other before they enter the school-room to-morrow morning."

The traces of tears were on every cheek, and I also was sad; for I, like you, had parted from my friends, and the duties of my profession were new to me, yet I felt that it was improper to give way to my own melancholy thoughts. I knew that it was my first duty to divert the solitary young strangers: for I considered that this was very unlike the entrance to an old established school, where there is always some good-natured girl who will shew attentions to a new scholar, and take pleasure in initiating her into the customs and amusements of the place. These, thought I, have their own amusements to invent; their own customs to establish. How unlike too is this forlorn meeting to old school-fellows returning after the holidays, when mutual greetings soon lighten the memory of parting sorrow!

I invited you to draw near a bright fire which blazed in the chimney, and looked the only cheerful thing in the room.

During our first solemn silence, which, you may remember, was only broken by my repeated requests that you would make a smaller, and still smaller circle, till I saw the fire-place fairly inclosed round, the idea came into my mind, which has since been a source of amusement to you in the recollection, and to myself in particular has been of essential benefit, as it enabled me to form a just estimate of the dispositions of you my young pupils, and assisted me to adapt my plan of future instructions to each individual temper.

An introduction to a point we wish to carry, we always feel to be an aukward affair, and generally execute it in an aukward manner; so I believe I did then: for when I imparted this idea to you, I think I prefaced it rather too formally for such young auditors, for I began with telling you, that I had read in old authors, that it was not unfrequent in former times, when strangers were assembled together, as we might be, for them to amuse themselves with telling stories, either of their own lives, or the adventures of others. "Will you allow me, ladies," I continued, "to persuade you to amuse yourselves in this way? you will not then look so unsociably upon each other: for we find that these strangers of whom we read, were as well acquainted before the conclusion of the first story, as if they had known each other many years. Let me prevail upon you to relate some little anecdotes of your own lives. Fictitious tales we can read in books, and [they] were therefore better adapted to conversation in those times when books of amusement were more scarce than they are at present."

After many objections of not knowing what to say, or how to begin, which I overcame by assuring you how easy it would be, for that every person is naturally eloquent when they are the hero or heroine of their own tale, the _Who should begin_ was next in question.

I proposed to draw lots, which formed a little amusement of itself. Miss Manners, who till then had been the saddest of the sad, began to brighten up, and said it was just like drawing king and queen, and began to tell us where she passed last twelfth day; but as her narration must have interfered with the more important business of the lottery, I advised her to postpone it, till it came to her turn to favour us with the history of her life, when it would appear in its proper order. The first number fell to the share of miss Villiers, whose joy at drawing what we called the_ first prize, _was tempered with shame at appearing as the first historian in the company. She wished she had not been the very first:--she had passed all her life in a retired village, and had nothing to relate of herself that could give the least entertainment:--she had not the least idea in the world where to begin.

"Begin," said I, "with your name, for that at present is unknown to us. Tell us the first thing you can remember; relate whatever happened to make a great impression on you when you were very young, and if you find you can connect your story till your arrival here to-day, I am sure we shall listen to you with pleasure; and if you like to break off, and only treat us with a part of your history, we will excuse you, with many thanks for the amusement which you have afforded us; and the lady who has drawn the second number will, I hope, take her turn with the same indulgence, to relate either all, or any part of the events of her life, as best pleases her own fancy, or as she finds she can manage it with the most ease to herself."--Encouraged by this offer of indulgence, miss Villiers began.

If in my report of her story, or in any which follow, I shall appear to make her or you speak an older language than it seems probable that you should use, speaking in your own words, it must be remembered, that what is very proper and becoming when spoken, requires to be arranged with some little difference before it can be set down in writing. Little inaccuracies must be pared away, and the whole must assume a more formal and correct appearance. My own way of thinking, I am sensible, will too often intrude itself, but I have endeavoured to preserve, as exactly as I could, your own words, and your own peculiarities of style and manner, and to approve myself

Your faithful historiographer, as well as true friend,

M.B.

I

ELIZABETH VILLIERS

(_By Mary Lamb_)

My father is the curate of a village church, about five miles from Amwell. I was born in the parsonage-house, which joins the church-yard. The first thing I can remember was my father teaching me the alphabet from the letters on a tombstone that stood at the head of my mother's grave. I used to tap at my father's study-door; I think I now hear him say, "Who is there?--What do you want, little girl?" "Go and see mamma. Go and learn pretty letters." Many times in the day would my father lay aside his books and his papers to lead me to this spot, and make me point to the letters, and then set me to spell syllables and words: in this manner, the epitaph on my mother's tomb being my primmer and my spelling-book, I learned to read.

I was one day sitting on a step placed across the church-yard stile, when a gentleman passing by, heard me distinctly repeat the letters which formed my mother's name, and then say, _Elizabeth Villiers_, with a firm tone, as if I had performed some great matter. This gentleman was my uncle James, my mother's brother: he was a lieutenant in the navy, and had left England a few weeks after the marriage of my father and mother, and now, returned home from a long sea-voyage, he was coming to visit my mother; no tidings of her decease having reached him, though she had been dead more than a twelvemonth.

When my uncle saw me sitting on the stile, and heard me pronounce my mother's name, he looked earnestly in my face, and began to fancy a resemblance to his sister, and to think I might be her child. I was too intent on my employment to observe him, and went spelling on. "Who has taught you to spell so prettily, my little maid?" said my uncle. "Mamma," I replied; for I had an idea that the words on the tombstone were somehow a part of mamma, and that she had taught me. "And who is mamma?" asked my uncle. "Elizabeth Villiers," I replied; and then my uncle called me his dear little niece, and said he would go with me to mamma: he took hold of my hand, intending to lead me home, delighted that he had found out who I was, because he imagined it would be such a pleasant surprise to his sister to see her little daughter bringing home her long lost sailor uncle.

I agreed to take him to mamma, but we had a dispute about the way thither. My uncle was for going along the road which led directly up to our house; I pointed to the church-yard, and said, that was the way to mamma. Though impatient of any delay, he was not willing to contest the point with his new relation, therefore he lifted me over the stile, and was then going to take me along the path to a gate he knew was at the end of our garden; but no, I would not go that way neither: letting go his hand, I said, "You do not know the way--I will shew you:" and making what haste I could among the long grass and thistles, and jumping over the low graves, he said, as he followed what he called my _wayward steps_, "What a positive soul this little niece of mine is! I knew the way to your mother's house before you were born, child." At last I stopped at my mother's grave, and, pointing to the tombstone, said, "Here is mamma," in a voice of exultation, as if I had now convinced him that I knew the way best: I looked up in his face to see him acknowledge his mistake; but Oh, what a face of sorrow did I see! I was so frightened, that I have but an imperfect recollection of what followed. I remember I pulled his coat, and cried "Sir, sir," and tried to move him. I knew not what to do; my mind was in a strange confusion; I thought I had done something wrong in bringing the gentleman to mamma to make him cry so sadly; but what it was I could not tell. This grave had always been a scene of delight to me. In the house my father would often be weary of my prattle, and send me from him; but here he was all my own. I might say anything and be as frolicsome as I pleased here; all was chearfulness and good humour in our visits to mamma, as we called it. My father would tell me how quietly mamma slept there, and that he and his little Betsy would one day sleep beside mamma in that grave; and when I went to bed, as I laid my little head on the pillow, I used to wish I was sleeping in the grave with my papa and mamma; and in my childish dreams I used to fancy myself there, and it was a place within the ground, all smooth, and soft, and green. I never made out any figure of mamma, but still it was the tombstone, and papa, and the smooth green grass, and my head resting upon the elbow of my father.

How long my uncle remained in this agony of grief I know not; to me it seemed a very long time: at last he took me in his arms, and held me so tight, that I began to cry, and ran home to my father, and told him, that a gentleman was crying about mamma's pretty letters.

No doubt it was a very affecting meeting between my father and my uncle. I remember that it was the first day I ever saw my father weep: that I was in sad trouble, and went into the kitchen and told Susan, our servant, that papa was crying; and she wanted to keep me with her that I might not disturb the conversation; but I would go back to the parlour to _poor papa_, and I went in softly, and crept between my father's knees. My uncle offered to take me in his arms, but I turned sullenly from him, and clung closer to my father, having conceived a dislike to my uncle because he had made my father cry.

Now I first learned that my mother's death was a heavy affliction; for I heard my father tell a melancholy story of her long illness, her death, and what he had suffered from her loss. My uncle said, what a sad thing it was for my father to be left with such a young child; but my father replied, his little Betsy was all his comfort, and that, but for me, he should have died with grief. How I could be any comfort to my father, struck me with wonder. I knew I was pleased when he played and talked with me; but I thought that was all goodness and favour done to me, and I had no notion how I could make any part of his happiness. The sorrow I now heard he had suffered, was as new and strange to me. I had no idea that he had ever been unhappy; his voice was always kind and cheerful; I had never before seen him weep, or shew any such signs of grief as those in which I used to express my little troubles. My thoughts on these subjects were confused and childish; but from that time I never ceased pondering on the sad story of my dead mamma.

The next day I went by mere habit to the study door, to call papa to the beloved grave; my mind misgave me, and I could not tap at the door. I went backwards and forwards between the kitchen and the study, and what to do with myself I did not know. My uncle met me in the passage, and said, "Betsy, will you come and walk with me in the garden?" This I refused, for this was not what I wanted, but the old amusement of sitting on the grave, and talking to papa. My uncle tried to persuade me, but still I said, "No, no," and ran crying into the kitchen. As he followed me in there, Susan said, "This child is so fretful to-day, I do not know what to do with her." "Aye," said my uncle, "I suppose my poor brother spoils her, having but one." This reflection on my papa made me quite in a little passion of anger, for I had not forgot that with this new uncle sorrow had first come into our dwelling: I screamed loudly, till my father came out to know what it was all about. He sent my uncle into the parlour, and said, he would manage the little wrangler by himself. When my uncle was gone I ceased crying; my father forgot to lecture me for my ill humour, or to enquire into the cause, and we were soon seated by the side of the tombstone. No lesson went on that day; no talking of pretty mamma sleeping in the green grave; no jumping from the tombstone to the ground; no merry jokes or pleasant stories. I sate upon my father's knee, looking up in his face, and thinking, "_How sorry papa looks_," till, having been fatigued with crying, and now oppressed with thought, I fell fast asleep.

My uncle soon learned from Susan that this place was our constant haunt; she told him she did verily believe her master would never get the better of the death of her mistress, while he continued to teach the child to read at the tombstone; for, though it might sooth his grief, it kept it for ever fresh in his memory. The sight of his sister's grave had been such a shock to my uncle, that he readily entered into Susan's apprehensions; and concluding, that if I were set to study by some other means there would no longer be a pretence for these visits to the grave, away my kind uncle hastened to the nearest market-town to buy me some books.

I heard the conference between my uncle and Susan, and I did not approve of his interfering in our pleasures. I saw him take his hat and walk out, and I secretly hoped he was gone _beyond seas_ again, from whence Susan had told me he had come. Where _beyond seas_ was I could not tell; but I concluded it was somewhere a great way off. I took my seat on the church-yard stile, and kept looking down the road, and saying, "I hope I shall not see my uncle again. I hope my uncle will not come from _beyond seas_ any more;" but I said this very softly, and had a kind of notion that I was in a perverse ill-humoured fit. Here I sate till my uncle returned from the market-town with his new purchases. I saw him come walking very fast with a parcel under his arm. I was very sorry to see him, and I frowned, and tried to look very cross. He untied his parcel, and said, "Betsy, I have brought you a pretty book." I turned my head away, and said, "I don't want a book;" but I could not help peeping again to look at it. In the hurry of opening the parcel he had scattered all the books upon the ground, and there I saw fine gilt covers and gay pictures all fluttering about. What a fine sight!--All my resentment vanished, and I held up my face to kiss him, that being my way of thanking my father for any extraordinary favour.

My uncle had brought himself into rather a troublesome office; he had heard me spell so well, that he thought there was nothing to do but to put books into my hand, and I should read; yet, notwithstanding I spelt tolerably well, the letters in my new library were so much smaller than I had been accustomed to, they were like Greek characters to me; I could make nothing at all of them. The honest sailor was not to be discouraged by this difficulty; though unused to play the schoolmaster, he taught me to read the small print, with unwearied diligence and patience; and whenever he saw my father and me look as if we wanted to resume our visits to the grave, he would propose some pleasant walk; and if my father said it was too far for the child to walk, he would set me on his shoulder, and say, "Then Betsy shall ride;" and in this manner has he carried me many many miles.

In these pleasant excursions my uncle seldom forgot to make Susan furnish him with a luncheon which, though it generally happened every day, made a constant surprise to my papa and me, when, seated under some shady tree, he pulled it out of his pocket, and began to distribute his little store; and then I used to peep into the other pocket to see if there were not some currant wine there and the little bottle of water for me; if, perchance, the water was forgot, then it made another joke,--that poor Betsy must be forced to drink a little drop of wine. These are childish things to tell of, and instead of my own silly history, I wish I could remember the entertaining stories my uncle used to relate of his voyages and travels, while we sate under the shady trees, eating our noon-tide meal.

The long visit my uncle made us was such an important event in my life, that I fear I shall tire your patience with talking of him; but when he is gone, the remainder of my story will be but short.

The summer months passed away, but not swiftly;--the pleasant walks, and the charming stories of my uncle's adventures, made them seem like years to me; I remember the approach of winter by the warm great coat he bought for me, and how proud I was when I first put it on, and that he called me Little Red Riding Hood, and bade me beware of wolves, and that I laughed and said there were no such things now; then he told me how many wolves, and bears, and tygers, and lions he had met with in uninhabited lands, that were like Robinson Crusoe's Island. O these were happy days!

In the winter our walks were shorter and less frequent. My books were now my chief amusement, though my studies were often interrupted by a game of romps with my uncle, which too often ended in a quarrel because he played so roughly; yet long before this I dearly loved my uncle, and the improvement I made while he was with us was very great indeed. I could now read very well, and the continual habit of listening to the conversation of my father and my uncle made me a little woman in understanding; so that my father said to him, "James, you have made my child quite a companionable little being."

My father often left me alone with my uncle; sometimes to write his sermons; sometimes to visit the sick, or give counsel to his poor neighbours: then my uncle used to hold long conversations with me, telling me how I should strive to make my father happy, and endeavour to improve myself when he was gone:--now I began justly to understand why he had taken such pains to keep my father from visiting my mother's grave, that grave which I often stole privately to look at; but now never without awe and reverence, for my uncle used to tell me what an excellent lady my mother was, and I now thought of her as having been a real mamma, which before seemed an ideal something, no way connected with life. And he told me that the ladies from the Manor-House, who sate in the best pew in the church, were not so graceful, and the best women in the village were not so good, as was my sweet mamma; and that if she had lived, I should not have been forced to pick up a little knowledge from him, a rough sailor, or to learn to knit and sew of Susan, but that she would have taught me all lady-like fine works and delicate behaviour and perfect manners, and would have selected for me proper books, such as were most fit to instruct my mind, and of which he nothing knew. If ever in my life I shall have any proper sense of what is excellent or becoming in the womanly character, I owe it to these lessons of my rough unpolished uncle; for, in telling me what my mother would have made me, he taught me what to wish to be; and when, soon after my uncle left us, I was introduced to the ladies at the Manor-House, instead of hanging down my head with shame, as I should have done before my uncle came, like a little village rustic, I tried to speak distinctly, with ease, and a modest gentleness, as my uncle had said my mother used to do; instead of hanging down my head abashed, I looked upon them, and thought what a pretty sight a fine lady was, and thought how well my mother must have appeared, since she was so much more graceful than these ladies were; and when I heard them compliment my father on the admirable behaviour of his child, and say how well he had brought me up, I thought to myself, "Papa does not much mind my manners, if I am but a good girl; but it was my uncle that taught me to behave like mamma."--I cannot now think my uncle was so rough and unpolished as he said he was, for his lessons were so good and so impressive that I shall never forget them, and I hope they will be of use to me as long as I live: he would explain to me the meaning of all the words he used, such as grace and elegance, modest diffidence and affectation, pointing out instances of what he meant by those words, in the manners of the ladies and their young daughters who came to our church; for, besides the ladies of the Manor-House, many of the neighbouring families came to our church because my father preached so well.

It must have been early in the spring when my uncle went away, for the crocuses were just blown in the garden, and the primroses had begun to peep from under the young budding hedge-rows.--I cried as if my heart would break, when I had the last sight of him through a little opening among the trees, as he went down the road. My father accompanied him to the market-town, from whence he was to proceed in the stage-coach to London. How tedious I thought all Susan's endeavours to comfort me were. The stile where I first saw my uncle, came into my mind, and I thought I would go and sit there, and think about that day; but I was no sooner seated there, than I remembered how I had frightened him by taking him so foolishly to my mother's grave, and then again how naughty I had been when I sate muttering to myself at this same stile, wishing that he, who had gone so far to buy me books, might never come back any more: all my little quarrels with my uncle came into my mind, now that I could never play with him again, and it almost broke my heart. I was forced to run into the house to Susan for that consolation I had just before despised.

Some days after this, as I was sitting by the fire with my father, after it was dark, and before the candles were lighted, I gave him an account of my troubled conscience at the church-stile, when I remembered how unkind I had been to my uncle when he first came, and how sorry I still was whenever I thought of the many quarrels I had had with him.

My father smiled, and took hold of my hand, saying, "I will tell you all about this, my little penitent. This is the sort of way in which we all feel, when those we love are taken from us.--When our dear friends are with us, we go on enjoying their society, without much thought or consideration of the blessing we are possessed of, nor do we too nicely weigh the measure of our daily actions;--we let them freely share our kind or our discontented moods; and, if any little bickerings disturb our friendship, it does but the more endear us to each other when we are in a happier temper. But these things come over us like grievous faults when the object of our affection is gone for ever. Your dear mamma and I had no quarrels; yet in the first days of my lonely sorrow, how many things came into my mind that I might have done to have made her happier. It is so with you, my child. You did all a child could do to please your uncle, and dearly did he love you; and these little things which now disturb your tender mind, were remembered with delight by your uncle; he was telling me in our last walk, just perhaps as you were thinking about it with sorrow, of the difficulty he had in getting into your good graces when he first came; he will think of these things with pleasure when he is far away. Put away from you this unfounded grief; only let it be a lesson to you to be as kind as possible to those you love; and remember, when they are gone from you, you will never think you had been kind enough. Such feelings as you have now described are the lot of humanity. So you will feel when I am no more, and so will your children feel when you are dead. But your uncle will come back again, Betsy, and we will now think of where we are to get the cage to keep the talking parrot in, he is to bring home; and go and tell Susan to bring the candles, and ask her if the nice cake is almost baked, that she promised to give us for our tea."

At this point, my dear miss Villiers, you thought fit to break off your story, and the wet eyes of your young auditors, seemed to confess that you had succeeded in moving their feelings with your pretty narrative. It now fell by lot to the turn of miss Manners to relate her story, and we were all sufficiently curious to know what so very young an historian had to tell of herself.--I shall continue the narratives for the future in the order in which they followed, without mentioning any of the interruptions which occurred from the asking of questions, or from any other cause, unless materially connected with the stories. I shall also leave out the apologies with which you severally thought fit to preface your stories of yourselves, though they were very seasonable in their place, and proceeded from a proper diffidence, because I must not swell my work to too large a size.

II

LOUISA MANNERS

(_By Mary Lamb_)

My name is Louisa Manners; I was seven years of age last birthday, which was on the first of May. I remember only four birthdays. The day I was four years old is the first that I recollect. On the morning of that day, as soon as I awoke, I crept into mamma's bed, and said, "Open your eyes, mamma, for it is my birthday. Open your eyes, and look at me!" Then mamma told me I should ride in a post chaise, and see my grandmamma and my sister Sarah. Grandmamma lived at a farm-house in the country, and I had never in all my life been out of London; no, nor had I ever seen a bit of green grass, except in the Drapers' garden, which is near my papa's house in Broad-street; nor had I ever rode in a carriage before that happy birthday.

I ran about the house talking of where I was going, and rejoicing so that it was my birthday, that when I got into the chaise I was tired and fell asleep.

When I awoke, I saw the green fields on both sides of the chaise, and the fields were full, quite full, of bright shining yellow flowers, and sheep and young lambs were feeding in them. I jumped, and clapped my hands together for joy, and I cried out This is

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

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

The trees and hedges seemed to fly swiftly by us, and one field, and the sheep, and the young lambs, passed away; and then another field came, and that was full of cows; and then another field, and all the pretty sheep returned, and there was no end of these charming sights till we came quite to grandmamma's house, which stood all alone by itself, no house to be seen at all near it.

Grandmamma was very glad to see me, and she was very sorry that I did not remember her, though I had been so fond of her when she was in town but a few months before. I was quite ashamed of my bad memory. My sister Sarah shewed me all the beautiful places about grandmamma's house. She first took me into the farm-yard, and I peeped into the barn; there I saw a man thrashing, and as he beat the corn with his flail, he made such a dreadful noise that I was frightened and ran away: my sister persuaded me to return; she said Will Tasker was very good-natured: then I went back, and peeped at him again; but as I could not reconcile myself to the sound of his flail, or the sight of his black beard, we proceeded to see the rest of the farm-yard.

There was no end to the curiosities that Sarah had to shew me. There was the pond where the ducks were swimming, and the little wooden houses where the hens slept at night. The hens were feeding all over the yard, and the prettiest little chickens, they were feeding too, and little yellow ducklings that had a hen for their mamma. She was so frightened if they went near the water. Grandmamma says a hen is not esteemed a very wise bird.

We went out of the farm-yard into the orchard. O what a sweet place grandmamma's orchard is! There were pear-trees, and apple-trees, and cherry-trees, all in blossom. These blossoms were the prettiest flowers that ever were seen, and among the grass under the trees there grew butter-cups, and cowslips, and daffodils, and blue-bells. Sarah told me all their names, and she said I might pick as many of them as ever I pleased.

I filled my lap with flowers, I filled my bosom with flowers, and I carried as many flowers as I could in both my hands; but as I was going into the parlour to shew them to my mamma, I stumbled over a threshold which was placed across the parlour, and down I fell with all my treasure.

Nothing could have so well pacified me for the misfortune of my fallen flowers, as the sight of a delicious syllabub which happened at that moment to be brought in. Grandmamma said it was a present from the red cow to me because it was my birthday; and then because it was the first of May, she ordered the syllabub to be placed under the May-bush that grew before the parlour door, and when we were seated on the grass round it, she helped me the very first to a large glass full of the syllabub, and wished me many happy returns of that day, and then she said I was myself the sweetest little May-blossom in the orchard.

After the syllabub there was the garden to see, and a most beautiful garden it was;--long and narrow, a straight gravel walk down the middle of it, at the end of the gravel walk there was a green arbour with a bench under it.

There were rows of cabbages and radishes, and peas and beans. I was delighted to see them, for I never saw so much as a cabbage growing out of the ground before.

On one side of this charming garden there were a great many bee-hives, and the bees sung so prettily.

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

"How doth the little busy bee improve each shining hour, And gather honey all the day from every opening flower."

They had a most beautiful flower-bed to gather it from, quite close under the hives.

I was going to catch one bee, till Sarah told me about their stings, which made me afraid for a long time to go too near their hives; but I went a little nearer, and a little nearer, every day, and, before I came away from grandmamma's, I grew so bold, I let Will Tasker hold me over the glass windows at the top of the hives, to see them make honey in their own homes.

After seeing the garden, I saw the cows milked, and that was the last sight I saw that day; for while I was telling mamma about the cows, I fell fast asleep, and I suppose I was then put to bed.

The next morning my papa and mamma were gone. I cried sadly, but was a little comforted at hearing they would return in a month or two, and fetch me home. I was a foolish little thing then, and did not know how long a month was. Grandmamma gave me a little basket to gather my flowers in. I went into the orchard, and before I had half filled my basket, I forgot all my troubles.

The time I passed at my grandmamma's is always in my mind. Sometimes I think of the good-natured pied cow, that would let me stroke her, while the dairy-maid was milking her. Then I fancy myself running after the dairy-maid into the nice clean dairy, and see the pans full of milk and cream. Then I remember the wood-house; it had once been a large barn, but being grown old, the wood was kept there. My sister and I used to peep about among the faggots to find the eggs the hens sometimes left there. Birds' nests we might not look for. Grandmamma was very angry once, when Will Tasker brought home a bird's nest, full of pretty speckled eggs, for me. She sent him back to the hedge with it again. She said, the little birds would not sing any more, if their eggs were taken away from them.

A hen, she said, was a hospitable bird, and always laid more eggs than she wanted, on purpose to give her mistress to make puddings and custards with.

I do not know which pleased grandmamma best, when we carried her home a lap-full of eggs, or a few violets; for she was particularly fond of violets.

Violets were very scarce; we used to search very carefully for them every morning, round by the orchard hedge, and Sarah used to carry a stick in her hand to beat away the nettles; for very frequently the hens left their eggs among the nettles. If we could find eggs and violets too, what happy children we were!

Every day I used to fill my basket with flowers, and for a long time I liked one pretty flower as well as another pretty flower, but Sarah was much wiser than me, and she taught me which to prefer.

Grandmamma's violets were certainly best of all, but they never went in the basket, being carried home, almost flower by flower, as soon as they were found; therefore blue-bells might be said to be the best, for the cowslips were all withered and gone, before I learned the true value of flowers. The best blue-bells were those tinged with red; some were so very red, that we called them red blue-bells, and these Sarah prized very highly indeed. Daffodils were so very plentiful, they were not thought worth gathering, unless they were double ones, and butter-cups I found were very poor flowers indeed, yet I would pick one now and then, because I knew they were the very same flowers that had delighted me so in the journey; for my papa had told me they were.

I was very careful to love best the flowers which Sarah praised most, yet sometimes, I confess, I have even picked a daisy, though I knew it was the very worst flower of all, because it reminded me of London, and the Drapers' garden; for, happy as I was at grandmamma's, I could not help sometimes thinking of my papa and mamma, and then I used to tell my sister all about London; how the houses stood all close to each other; what a pretty noise the coaches made; and what a many people there were in the streets. After we had been talking on these subjects, we generally used to go into the old wood-house, and play at being in London. We used to set up bits of wood for houses; our two dolls we called papa and mamma; in one corner we made a little garden with grass and daisies, and that was to be the Drapers' garden. I would not have any other flowers here than daisies, because no other grew among the grass in the real Drapers' garden. Before the time of hay-making came, it was very much talked of. Sarah told me what a merry time it would be, for she remembered every thing which had happened for a year or more. She told me how nicely we should throw the hay about. I was very desirous indeed to see the hay made.

To be sure nothing could be more pleasant than the day the orchard was mowed: the hay smelled so sweet, and we might toss it about as much as ever we pleased; but, dear me, we often wish for things that do not prove so happy as we expected; the hay, which was at first so green, and smelled so sweet, became yellow and dry, and was carried away in a cart to feed the horses; and then, when it was all gone, and there was no more to play with, I looked upon the naked ground, and perceived what we had lost in these few merry days. Ladies, would you believe it, every flower, blue-bells, daffodils, butter-cups, daisies, all were cut off by the cruel scythe of the mower. No flower was to be seen at all, except here and there a short solitary daisy, that a week before one would not have looked at.

It was a grief, indeed, to me, to lose all my pretty flowers; yet, when we are in great distress, there is always, I think, something which happens to comfort us, and so it happened now, that gooseberries and currants were almost ripe, which was certainly a very pleasant prospect. Some of them began to turn red, and, as we never disobeyed grandmamma, we used often to consult together, if it was likely she would permit us to eat them yet, then we would pick a few that looked the ripest, and run to ask her if she thought they were ripe enough to eat, and the uncertainty what her opinion would be, made them doubly sweet if she gave us leave to eat them.

When the currants and gooseberries were quite ripe, grandmamma had a sheep-shearing.

All the sheep stood under the trees to be sheared. They were brought out of the field by old Spot, the shepherd. I stood at the orchard-gate, and saw him drive them all in. When they had cropped off all their wool, they looked very clean, and white, and pretty; but, poor things, they ran shivering about with cold, so that it was a pity to see them. Great preparations were making all day for the sheep-shearing supper. Sarah said, a sheep-shearing was not to be compared to a harvest-home, _that_ was so much better, for that then the oven was quite full of plum-pudding, and the kitchen was very hot indeed with roasting beef; yet I can assure you there was no want at all of either roast beef or plum-pudding at the sheep-shearing.

My sister and I were permitted to sit up till it was almost dark, to see the company at supper. They sate at a long oak table, which was finely carved, and as bright as a looking-glass.

I obtained a great deal of praise that day, because I replied so prettily when I was spoken to. My sister was more shy than me; never having lived in London was the reason of that. After the happiest day bedtime will come! We sate up late; but at last grandmamma sent us to bed: yet though we went to bed we heard many charming songs sung: to be sure we could not distinguish the words, which was a pity, but the sound of their voices was very loud and very fine indeed.

The common supper that we had every night was very cheerful. Just before the men came out of the field, a large faggot was flung on the fire; the wood used to crackle and blaze, and smell delightfully: and then the crickets, for they loved the fire, they used to sing, and old Spot, the shepherd, who loved the fire as well as the crickets did, he used to take his place in the chimney corner; after the hottest day in summer, there old Spot used to sit. It was a seat within the fire-place, quite under the chimney, and over his head the bacon hung.

When old Spot was seated, the milk was hung in a skillet over the fire, and then the men used to come and sit down at the long white table.

* * * * *

_Pardon me, my dear Louisa, that I interrupted you here. You are a little woman now to what you were then; and I may say to you, that though I loved to hear you prattle of your early recollections, I thought I perceived some ladies present were rather weary of hearing so much of the visit to grandmamma. You may remember I asked you some questions concerning your papa and your mamma, which led you to speak of your journey home: but your little town-bred head was so full of the pleasures of a country life, that you first made many apologies that you were unable to tell what happened during the harvest, as unfortunately you were fetched home the very day before it began._

III

ANN WITHERS

(_By Mary Lamb_)

My name you know is Withers, but as I once thought I was the daughter of sir Edward and lady Harriot Lesley, I shall speak of myself as miss Lesley, and call sir Edward and lady Harriot my father and mother during the period I supposed them entitled to those beloved names. When I was a little girl, it was the perpetual subject of my contemplation, that I was an heiress, and the daughter of a baronet; that my mother was the honourable lady Harriot; that we had a nobler mansion, infinitely finer pleasure-grounds, and equipages more splendid than any of the neighbouring families. Indeed, my good friends, having observed nothing of this error of mine in either of the lives which have hitherto been related, I am ashamed to confess what a proud child I once was. How it happened I cannot tell, for my father was esteemed the best bred man in the county, and the condescension and affability of my mother were universally spoken of.

"Oh my dear friend," said miss ----, "it was very natural indeed, if you supposed you possessed these advantages. We make no comparative figure in the county, and my father was originally a man of no consideration at all; and yet I can assure you, both he and mamma had a prodigious deal of trouble to break me of this infirmity, when I was very young." "And do reflect for a moment," said miss Villiers, "from whence could proceed any pride in me--a poor curate's daughter;--at least any pride worth speaking of; for the difficulty my father had to make me feel myself on an equality with a miller's little daughter who visited me, did not seem an anecdote worth relating. My father, from his profession, is accustomed to look into these things, and whenever he has observed any tendency to this fault in me, and has made me sensible of my error, I, who am rather a weak-spirited girl, have been so much distressed at his reproofs, that to restore me to my own good opinion, he would make me sensible that pride is a defect inseparable from human nature; shewing me, in our visits to the poorest labourers, how pride would, as he expressed it, "prettily peep out from under their ragged garbs."--My father dearly loved the poor. In persons of a rank superior to our own humble one, I wanted not much assistance from my father's nice discernment to know that it existed there; and for these latter he would always claim that toleration from me, which he said he observed I was less willing to allow than to the former instances. "We are told in holy writ," he would say, "that it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of heaven." Surely this is not meant alone to warn the affluent: it must also be understood as an expressive illustration, to instruct the lowly-fortuned man that he should bear with those imperfections, inseparable from that dangerous prosperity from which he is happily exempt."--But we sadly interrupt your story.--

"You are very kind, ladies, to speak with so much indulgence of my foible," said miss Withers, and was going to proceed, when little Louisa Manners asked, "Pray, are not equipages carriages?" "Yes, miss Manners, an equipage is a carriage." "Then I am sure if my papa had but one equipage I should be very proud; for once when my papa talked of keeping a one-horse chaise, I never was so proud of any thing in my life: I used to dream of riding in it, and imagine I saw my playfellows walking past me in the streets."

"Oh, my dear miss Manners," replied miss Withers, "your young head might well run on a thing so new to you; but you have preached an useful lesson to me in your own pretty rambling story, which I shall not easily forget. When you were speaking with such delight of the pleasure the sight of a farm-yard, an orchard, and a narrow slip of kitchen-garden, gave you, and could for years preserve so lively the memory of one short ride, and that probably through a flat uninteresting country, I remembered how early I learned to disregard the face of Nature, unless she were decked in picturesque scenery; how wearisome our parks and grounds became to me, unless some improvements were going forward which I thought would attract notice: but those days are gone.--I will now proceed in my story, and bring you acquainted with my real parents.

Alas! I am a changeling, substituted by my mother for the heiress of the Lesley family: it was for my sake she did this naughty deed; yet, since the truth has been known, it seems to me as if I had been the only sufferer by it; remembering no time when I was not Harriot Lesley, it seems as if the change had taken from me my birthright.

Lady Harriot had intended to nurse her child herself; but being seized with a violent fever soon after its birth, she was not only unable to nurse it, but even to see it, for several weeks. At this time I was not quite a month old, when my mother was hired to be miss Lesley's nurse--she had once been a servant in the family--her husband was then at sea.

She had been nursing miss Lesley a few days, when a girl who had the care of me brought me into the nursery to see my mother. It happened that she wanted something from her own home, which she dispatched the girl to fetch, and desired her to leave me till her return. In her absence she changed our clothes: then keeping me to personate the child she was nursing, she sent away the daughter of sir Edward to be brought up in her own poor cottage.

When my mother sent away the girl, she affirmed she had not the least intention of committing this bad action; but after she was left alone with us, she looked on me, and then on the little lady-babe, and she wept over me to think she was obliged to leave me to the charge of a careless girl, debarred from my own natural food, while she was nursing another person's child.

The laced cap and the fine cambric robe of the little Harriot were lying on the table ready to be put on: in these she dressed me, only just to see how pretty her own dear baby would look in missy's fine clothes. When she saw me thus adorned, she said to me, "O, my dear Ann, you look as like missy as any thing can be. I am sure my lady herself, if she were well enough to see you, would not know the difference." She said these words aloud, and while she was speaking, a wicked thought came into her head--How easy it would be to change these children! On which she hastily dressed Harriot in my coarse raiment. She had no sooner finished the transformation of miss Lesley into the poor Ann Withers, than the girl returned, and carried her away, without the least suspicion that it was not the same infant that she had brought thither.

It was wonderful that no one discovered that I was not the same child. Every fresh face that came into the room, filled the nurse with terror. The servants still continued to pay their compliments to the baby in the same form as usual, saying, How like it is to its papa! Nor did sir Edward himself perceive the difference, his lady's illness probably engrossing all his attention at the time; though indeed gentlemen seldom take much notice of very young children.

When lady Harriot began to recover, and the nurse saw me in her arms caressed as her own child, all fears of detection were over; but the pangs of remorse then seized her: as the dear sick lady hung with tears of fondness over me, she thought she should have died with sorrow for having so cruelly deceived her.

When I was a year old Mrs. Withers was discharged; and because she had been observed to nurse me with uncommon care and affection, and was seen to shed many tears at parting from me; to reward her fidelity sir Edward settled a small pension on her, and she was allowed to come every Sunday to dine in the housekeeper's room, and see her little lady.

When she went home it might have been expected she would have neglected the child she had so wickedly stolen; instead of which she nursed it with the greatest tenderness, being very sorry for what she had done: all the ease she could ever find for her troubled conscience, was in her extreme care of this injured child; and in the weekly visits to its father's house she constantly brought it with her. At the time I have the earliest recollection of her, she was become a widow, and with the pension sir Edward allowed her, and some plain work she did for our family, she maintained herself and her supposed daughter. The doting fondness she shewed for her child was much talked of; it was said, she waited upon it more like a servant than a mother, and it was observed, its clothes were always made, as far as her slender means would permit, in the same fashion, and her hair cut and curled in the same form as mine. To this person, as having been my faithful nurse, and to her child, I was always taught to shew particular civility, and the little girl was always brought into the nursery to play with me. Ann was a little delicate thing, and remarkably well-behaved; for though so much indulged in every other respect, my mother was very attentive to her manners.

As the child grew older, my mother became very uneasy about her education. She was so very desirous of having her well-behaved, that she feared to send her to school, lest she should learn ill manners among the village children, with whom she never suffered her to play; and she was such a poor scholar herself, that she could teach her little or nothing. I heard her relate this her distress to my own maid, with tears in her eyes, and I formed a resolution to beg of my parents that I might have Ann for a companion, and that she might be allowed to take lessons with me of my governess.

My birth-day was then approaching, and on that day I was always indulged in the privilege of asking some peculiar favour.

"And what boon has my annual petitioner to beg to-day?" said my father, as he entered the breakfast-room on the morning of my birth-day. Then I told him of the great anxiety expressed by nurse Withers concerning her daughter; how much she wished it was in her power to give her an education, that would enable her to get her living without hard labour. I set the good qualities of Ann Withers in the best light I could, and in conclusion I begged she might be permitted to partake with me in education, and become my companion. "This is a very serious request indeed, Harriot," said sir Edward; "your mother and I must consult together on the subject." The result of this consultation was favourable to my wishes: in a few weeks my foster-sister was taken into the house, and placed under the tuition of my governess.

To me, who had hitherto lived without any companions of my own age except occasional visitors, the idea of a playfellow constantly to associate with, was very pleasant; and, after the first shyness of feeling her altered situation was over, Ann seemed as much at her ease as if she had always been brought up in our house. I became very fond of her, and took pleasure in shewing her all manner of attentions; which so far won on her affections, that she told me she had a secret intrusted to her by her mother, which she had promised never to reveal as long as her mother lived, but that she almost wished to confide it to me, because I was such a kind friend to her; yet, having promised never to tell it till the death of her mother, she was afraid to tell it to me. At first I assured her that I would never press her to the disclosure, for that promises of secrecy were to be held sacred; but whenever we fell into any confidential kind of conversation, this secret seemed always ready to come out. Whether she or I were most to blame I know not, though I own I could not help giving frequent hints how well I could keep a secret. At length she told me what I have before related, namely, that she was in truth the daughter of sir Edward and lady Lesley, and I the child of her supposed mother.

When I was first in possession of this wonderful secret, my heart burned to reveal it. I thought how praiseworthy it would be in me to restore to my friend the rights of her birth; yet I thought only of becoming her patroness, and raising her to her proper rank; it never occurred to me that my own degradation must necessarily follow. I endeavoured to persuade her to let me tell this important affair to my parents: this she positively refused. I expressed wonder that she should so faithfully keep this secret for an unworthy woman, who in her infancy had done her such an injury. "Oh," said she, "you do not know how much she loves me, or you would not wonder that I never resent that. I have seen her grieve and be so very sorry on my account, that I would not bring her into more trouble for any good that could happen to myself. She has often told me, that since the day she changed us, she has never known what it is to have a happy moment; and when she returned home from nursing you, finding me very thin and sickly, how her heart smote her for what she had done; and then she nursed and fed me with such anxious care, that she grew much fonder of me than if I had been her own; and that on the Sundays, when she used to bring me here, it was more pleasure to her to see me in my own father's house, than it was to her to see you her real child. The shyness you shewed towards her while you were very young, and the forced civility you seemed to affect as you grew older, always appeared like ingratitude towards her who had done so much for you. My mother has desired me to disclose this after her death, but I do not believe I shall ever mention it then, for I should be sorry to bring any reproach even on her memory."

In a few days after this important discovery, Ann was sent home to pass a few weeks with her mother, on the occasion of the expected arrival of some visitors to our house; they were to bring children with them, and these I was to consider as my own guests.

In the expected arrival of my young visitants, and in making preparations to entertain them, I had little leisure to deliberate on what conduct I should pursue with regard to my friend's secret. Something must be done I thought to make her amends for the injury she had sustained, and I resolved to consider the matter attentively on her return. Still my mind ran on conferring favours. I never considered myself as transformed into the dependant person. Indeed sir Edward at this time set me about a task which occupied the whole of my attention; he proposed that I should write a little interlude after the manner of the French Petites Pieces; and to try my ingenuity, no one was to see it before the representation except the performers, myself and my little friends, who as they were all younger than me, could not be expected to lend me much assistance. I have already told you what a proud girl I was. During the writing of this piece, the receiving of my young friends, and the instructing them in their several parts, I never felt myself of more importance. With Ann my pride had somewhat slumbered; the difference of our rank left no room for competition; all was complacency and good humour on my part, and affectionate gratitude, tempered with respect, on hers. But here I had full room to shew courtesy, to affect those graces--to imitate that elegance of manners practised by lady Harriot to their mothers. I was to be their instructress in action and in attitudes, and to receive their praises and their admiration of my theatrical genius. It was a new scene of triumph for me, and I might then be said to be in the very height of my glory.

If the plot of my piece, for the invention of which they so highly praised me, had been indeed my own, all would have been well; but unhappily I borrowed from a source which made my drama end far differently from what I intended it should. In the catastrophe I lost not only the name I personated in the piece, but with it my own name also; and all my rank and consequence in the world fled from me for ever.--My father presented me with a beautiful writing-desk for the use of my new authorship. My silver standish was placed upon it; a quire of gilt paper was before me. I took out a parcel of my best crow quills, and down I sate in the greatest form imaginable.

I conjecture I have no talent for invention; certain it is that when I sate down to compose my piece, no story would come into my head, but the story which Ann had so lately related to me. Many sheets were scrawled over in vain, I could think of nothing else; still the babies and the nurse were before me in all the minutiæ of description Ann had given them. The costly attire of the lady-babe,--the homely garb of the cottage-infant,--the affecting address of the fond mother to her own offspring;--then the charming équivoque in the change of the children: it all looked so dramatic:--it was a play ready made to my hands. The invalid mother would form the pathetic, the silly exclamations of the servants the ludicrous, and the nurse was nature itself. It is true I had a few scruples, that it might, should it come to the knowledge of Ann, be construed into something very like a breach of confidence. But she was at home, and might never happen to hear of the subject of my piece, and if she did, why it was only making some handsome apology.--To a dependant companion, to whom I had been so very great a friend, it was not necessary to be so very particular about such a trifle.

Thus I reasoned as I wrote my drama, beginning with the title, which I called "The Changeling," and ending with these words, _The curtain drops, while the lady clasps the baby in her arms, and the nurse sighs audibly_. I invented no new incident, I simply wrote the story as Ann had told it to me, in the best blank verse I was able to compose.

By the time it was finished the company had arrived. The casting the different parts was my next care. The honourable Augustus M----, a young gentleman of five years of age, undertook to play the father. He was only to come in and say, _How does my little darling do to-day?_ The three miss ----'s were to be the servants, they too had only single lines to speak.

As these four were all very young performers, we made them rehearse many times over, that they might walk in and out with proper decorum; but the performance was stopped before their entrances and their exits arrived. I complimented lady Elizabeth, the sister of Augustus, who was the eldest of the young ladies, with the choice of the Lady Mother or the nurse. She fixed on the former; she was to recline on a sofa, and, affecting ill health, speak some eight or ten lines which began with, _O that I could my precious baby see!_ To her cousin miss Emily ---- was given the girl who had the care of the nurse's child; two dolls were to personate the two children, and the principal character of the nurse, I had the pleasure to perform myself. It consisted of several speeches, and a very long soliloquy during the changing of the children's clothes.

The elder brother of Augustus, a gentleman of fifteen years of age, who refused to mix in our childish drama, yet condescended to paint the scenes, and our dresses were got up by my own maid.

When we thought ourselves quite perfect in our several parts, we announced it for representation. Sir Edward and lady Harriot, with their visitors, the parents of my young troop of comedians, honoured us with their presence. The servants were also permitted to go into a music gallery, which was at the end of a ball-room we had chosen for our theatre.

As author, and principal performer, standing before a noble audience, my mind was too much engaged with the arduous task I had undertaken, to glance my eyes towards the music gallery, or I might have seen two more spectators there than I expected. Nurse Withers and her daughter Ann were there; they had been invited by the housekeeper to be present at the representation of miss Lesley's first piece.

In the midst of the performance, as I, in the character of the nurse, was delivering the wrong child to the girl, there was an exclamation from the music gallery, of "Oh, it's all true! it's all true!" This was followed by a bustle among the servants, and screams as of a person in a hysteric fit. Sir Edward came forward to enquire what was the matter. He saw it was Mrs. Withers who had fallen into a fit. Ann was weeping over her, and crying out, "O miss Lesley, you have told all in the play!"

Mrs. Withers was brought out into the ball-room; there, with tears and in broken accents, with every sign of terror and remorse, she soon made a full confession of her so long concealed guilt.

The strangers assembled to see our childish mimicry of passion, were witness to a highly wrought dramatic scene in real life. I had intended they should see the curtain drop without any discovery of the deceit; unable to invent any new incident, I left the conclusion imperfect as I found it: but they saw a more strict poetical justice done; they saw the rightful child restored to its parents, and the nurse overwhelmed with shame, and threatened with the severest punishment.

"Take this woman," said sir Edward, "and lock her up, till she be delivered into the hands of justice."

Ann, on her knees, implored mercy for her mother.--Addressing the children who were gathered round her, "Dear ladies," said she, "help me, on your knees help me to beg forgiveness for my mother." Down the young ones all dropped--even lady Elizabeth bent her knee. "Sir Edward, pity her distress. Sir Edward, pardon her!" All joined in the petition, except one whose voice ought to have been loudest in the appeal. No word, no accent came from me. I hung over lady Harriot's chair, weeping as if my heart would break; but I wept for my own fallen fortunes, not for my mother's sorrow.

I thought within myself, if in the integrity of my heart, refusing to participate in this unjust secret, I had boldly ventured to publish the truth, I might have had some consolation in the praises which so generous an action would have merited: but it is through the vanity of being supposed to have written a pretty story, that I have meanly broken my faith with my friend, and unintentionally proclaimed the disgrace of my mother and myself. While thoughts like these were passing through my mind, Ann had obtained my mother's pardon. Instead of being sent away to confinement and the horrors of a prison, she was given by sir Edward into the care of the housekeeper, who had orders from lady Harriot to see her put to bed and properly attended to, for again this wretched woman had fallen into a fit.

Ann would have followed my mother, but sir Edward brought her back, telling her that she should see her when she was better. He then led Ann towards lady Harriot, desiring her to embrace her child; she did so, and I saw her, as I had phrased it in the play, _clasped in her mother's arms_.

This scene had greatly affected the spirits of lady Harriot; through the whole of it it was with difficulty she had been kept from fainting, and she was now led into the drawing-room by the ladies. The gentlemen followed, talking with sir Edward of the astonishing instance of filial affection they had just seen in the earnest pleadings of the child for her supposed mother.

Ann too went with them, and was conducted by her whom I had always considered as my own particular friend. Lady Elizabeth took hold of her hand, and said, "Miss Lesley, will you permit me to conduct you to the drawing-room?"

I was left weeping behind the chair where lady Harriot had sate, and, as I thought, quite alone. A something had before twitched my frock two or three times, so slightly I had scarcely noticed it; a little head now peeped round, and looking up in my face said, "She is not miss Lesley:" it was the young Augustus; he had been sitting at my feet, but I had not observed him. He then started up, and taking hold of my hand with one of his, with the other holding fast by my clothes, he led, or rather dragged me, into the midst of the company assembled in the drawing-room. The vehemence of his manner, his little face as red as fire, caught every eye. The ladies smiled, and one gentleman laughed in a most unfeeling manner. His elder brother patted him on the head, and said, "You are a humane little fellow. Elizabeth, we might have thought of this."

Very kind words were now spoken to me by sir Edward, and he called me Harriot, precious name now grown to me. Lady Harriot kissed me, and said she would never forget how long she had loved me as her child. These were comfortable words; but I heard echoed round the room, "Poor thing, she cannot help it.--I am sure she is to be pitied.--Dear lady Harriot, how kind, how considerate you are!" Ah! what a deep sense of my altered condition did I then feel!

"Let the young ladies divert themselves in another room," said sir Edward; "and, Harriot, take your new sister with you, and help her to entertain your friends." Yes, he called me Harriot again, and afterwards invented new names for his daughter and me, and always called us by them, apparently in jest; yet I knew it was only because he would not hurt me with hearing our names reversed. When sir Edward desired us to shew the children into another room, Ann and I walked towards the door. A new sense of humiliation arose--how could I go out at the door before miss Lesley?--I stood irresolute; she drew back. The elder brother of my friend Augustus assisted me in this perplexity; pushing us all forward, as if in a playful mood, he drove us indiscriminately before him, saying, "I will make one among you to-day." He had never joined in our sports before.

My luckless Play, that sad instance of my duplicity, was never once mentioned to me afterwards, not even by any one of the children who had acted in it, and I must also tell you how considerate an old lady was at the time about our dresses. As soon as she perceived things growing very serious, she hastily stripped off the upper garments we wore to represent our different characters. I think I should have died with shame, if the child had led me into the drawing-room in the mummery I had worn to represent a nurse. This good lady was of another essential service to me; for perceiving an irresolution in every one how they should behave to us, which distressed me very much, she contrived to place miss Lesley above me at table, and called her miss Lesley, and me miss Withers; saying at the same time in a low voice, but as if she meant I should hear her, "It is better these things should be done at once, then they are over." My heart thanked her, for I felt the truth of what she said.

My poor mother continued very ill for many weeks: no medicine would remove the extreme dejection of spirits she laboured under. Sir Edward sent for the clergyman of the parish to give her religious consolation. Every day he came to visit her, and he would always take miss Lesley and me into the room with him. I think, miss Villiers, your father must be just such another man as Dr. Wheelding, our worthy rector; just so I think he would have soothed the troubled conscience of my repentant mother. How feelingly, how kindly he used to talk of mercy and forgiveness!

My heart was softened by my own misfortunes, and the sight of my penitent suffering mother. I felt that she was now my only parent; I strove, earnestly strove, to love her; yet ever when I looked in her face, she would seem to me to be the very identical person whom I should have once thought sufficiently honoured by a slight inclination of the head, and a civil How do you do, Mrs. Withers? One day, as miss Lesley was hanging over her, with her accustomed fondness, Dr. Wheelding reading in a prayer-book, and, as I thought, not at that moment regarding us, I threw myself on my knees and silently prayed that I too might be able to love my mother.

Dr. Wheelding had been observing me: he took me into the garden, and drew from me the subject of my petition. "Your prayers, my good young lady," said he, "I hope are heard; sure I am they have caused me to adopt a resolution, which, as it will enable you to see your mother frequently, will, I hope, greatly assist your pious wishes.

"I will take your mother home with me to superintend my family. Under my roof doubtless sir Edward will often permit you to see her. Perform your duty towards her as well as you possibly can.--Affection is the growth of time. With such good wishes in your young heart, do not despair that in due time it will assuredly spring up."

With the approbation of sir Edward and lady Harriot, my mother was removed in a few days to Dr. Wheelding's house: there she soon recovered--there she at present resides. She tells me she loves me almost as well as she did when I was a baby, and we both wept at parting when I came to school.

Here perhaps I ought to conclude my story, which I fear has been a tedious one: permit me however to say a few words concerning the time which elapsed since the discovery of my birth until my arrival here.

It was on the fifth day of ---- that I was known to be Ann Withers, and the daughter of my supposed nurse. The company who were witness to my disgrace departed in a few days, and I felt relieved from some part of the mortification I hourly experienced. For every fresh instance even of kindness or attention I experienced went to my heart, that I should be forced to feel thankful for it.

Circumstanced as I was, surely I had nothing justly to complain of. The conduct of sir Edward and lady Harriot was kind in the extreme; still preserving every appearance of a parental tenderness for me, but ah! I might no longer call them by the dear names of father and mother.--Formerly when speaking of them, I used, proud of their titles, to delight to say, "Sir Edward or lady Harriot did this, or this;" now I would give worlds to say, "My father or my mother."

I should be perfectly unkind if I were to complain of miss Lesley--indeed, I have not the least cause of complaint against her. As my companion, her affection and her gratitude had been unbounded; and now that it was my turn to be the humble friend, she tried by every means in her power, to make me think she felt the same respectful gratitude, which in her dependant station she had so naturally displayed.

Only in a few rarely constituted minds, does that true attentive kindness spring up, that delicacy of feeling, which enters into every trivial thing, is ever awake and keeping watch lest it should offend. Myself, though educated with the extremest care, possessed but little of this virtue. Virtue I call it, though among men it is termed politeness, for since the days of my humiliating reverse of fortune I have learned its value.

I feel quite ashamed to give instances of any deficiency I observed, or thought I have observed, in miss Lesley. Now I am away from her, and dispassionately speaking of it, it seems as if my own soreness of temper had made me fancy things. I really believe now that I was mistaken; but miss Lesley had been so highly praised for her filial tenderness, I thought at last she seemed to make a parade about it, and used to run up to my mother, and affect to be more glad to see her than she really was after a time; and I think Dr. Wheelding thought so, by a little hint he once dropped. But he too might be mistaken, for he was very partial to me.

I am under the greatest obligation in the world to this good Dr. Wheelding. He has made my mother quite a respectable woman, and I am sure it is owing a great deal to him that she loves me as well as she does.

And here, though it may seem a little out of place, let me stop to assure you, that if I ever could have had any doubt of the sincerity of miss Lesley's affection towards me, her behaviour on the occasion of my coming here ought completely to efface it. She entreated with many tears, and almost the same energy with which she pleaded for forgiveness for my mother, that I might not be sent away.--But she was not alike successful in her supplications.

Miss Lesley had made some progress in reading and writing during the time she was my companion only, it was highly necessary that every exertion should be now made--the whole house was, as I may say, in requisition for her instruction. Sir Edward and lady Harriot devoted great part of the day to this purpose. A well educated young person was taken under our governess, to assist her in her labours, and to teach miss Lesley music. A drawing-master was engaged to reside in the house.

At this time I was not remarkably forward in my education. My governess being a native of France, I spoke French very correctly, and I had made some progress in Italian. I had only had the instruction of masters during the few months in the year we usually passed in London.

Music I never had the least ear for, I could scarcely be taught my notes. This defect in me was always particularly regretted by my mother, she being an excellent performer herself both on the piano and on the harp.

I think I have some taste for drawing; but as lady Harriot did not particularly excel in this, I lost so much time in the summer months, practising only under my governess, that I made no great proficiency even in this my favourite art. But miss Lesley with all these advantages which I have named, every body so eager to instruct her, she so willing to learn--every thing so new and delightful to her, how could it happen otherwise? she in a short time became a little prodigy. What best pleased lady Harriot was, after she had conquered the first difficulties, she discovered a wonderful talent for music. Here she was her mother's own girl indeed--she had the same sweet-toned voice--the same delicate finger.--Her musical governess had little now to do; for as soon as lady Harriot perceived this excellence in her, she gave up all company, and devoted her whole time to instructing her daughter in this science.

Nothing makes the heart ache with such a hopeless, heavy pain, as envy.

I had felt deeply before, but till now I could not be said to envy miss Lesley.--All day long the notes of the harp or the piano spoke sad sounds to me, of the loss of a loved mother's heart.

To have, in a manner, two mothers, and miss Lesley to engross them both, was too much indeed.

It was at this time that one day I had been wearied with hearing lady Harriot play one long piece of Haydn's music after another, to her enraptured daughter. We were to walk with our governess to Dr. Wheelding's that morning; and after lady Harriot had left the room, and we were quite ready for our walk, miss Lesley would not leave the instrument for I know not how long.

It was on that day that I thought she was not quite honest in her expressions of joy at the sight of my poor mother, who had been waiting at the garden-gate near two hours to see her arrive; yet she might be, for the music had put her in remarkably good spirits that morning.

O the music quite, quite won lady Harriot's heart! Till miss Lesley began to play so well, she often lamented the time it would take, before her daughter would have the air of a person of fashion's child. It was my part of the general instruction to give her lessons on this head. We used to make a kind of play of it, which we called lectures on fashionable manners: it was a pleasant amusement to me, a sort of keeping up the memory of past times. But now the music was always in the way. The last time it was talked of, lady Harriot said her daughter's time was too precious to be taken up with such trifling.

I must own that the music had that effect on miss Lesley as to render these lectures less necessary, which I will explain to you; but, first, let me assure you that lady Harriot was by no means in the habit of saying these kind of things. It was almost a solitary instance. I could give you a thousand instances the very reverse of this, in her as well as in sir Edward. How kindly, how frequently, would they remind me, that to me alone it was owing that they ever knew their child! calling the day on which I was a petitioner for the admittance of Ann into the house, the blessed birthday of their generous girl.

Neither dancing, nor any foolish lectures could do much for miss Lesley, she remained wanting in gracefulness of carriage; but all that is usually attributed to dancing, music effected. When she was sitting before the instrument, a resemblance to her mother became apparent to every eye. Her attitudes and the expression of her countenance were the very same. This soon followed her into every thing; all was ease and natural grace; for the music, and with it the idea of lady Harriot, was always in her thoughts. It was a pretty sight to see the daily improvement in her person, even to me, poor envious girl that I was.

Soon after lady Harriot had hurt me by calling my little efforts to improve her daughter trifling, she made me large amends in a very kind and most unreserved conversation that she held with me.

She told me all the struggles she had had at first to feel a maternal tenderness for her daughter; and she frankly confessed that she had now gained so much on her affections, that she feared she had too much neglected the solemn promise she had made me, _Never to forget how long she had loved me as her child._

Encouraged by her returning kindness, I owned how much I had suffered, and ventured to express my fears, that I had hardly courage enough to bear the sight of my former friends, under a new designation, as I must now appear to them, on our removal to London, which was expected to take place in a short time.

A few days after this she told me in the gentlest manner possible, that sir Edward and herself were of opinion it would conduce to my happiness to pass a year or two at school.

I knew that this proposal was kindly intended to spare me the mortifications I so much dreaded; therefore I endeavoured to submit to my hard fate with cheerfulness, and prepared myself, not without reluctance, to quit a mansion which had been the scene of so many enjoyments, and latterly of such very different feelings.

IV

ELINOR FORESTER

(_By Mary Lamb_)

When I was very young, I had the misfortune to lose my mother. My father very soon married again. In the morning of the day in which that event took place, my father set me on his knee, and, as he often used to do after the death of my mother, he called me his dear little orphaned Elinor, and then he asked me if I loved miss Saville. I replied "Yes." Then he said this dear lady was going to be so kind as to be married to him, and that she was to live with us, and be my mamma. My father told me this with such pleasure in his looks, that I thought it must be a very fine thing indeed to have a new mamma; and on his saying it was time for me to be dressed against his return from church, I ran in great spirits to tell the good news in the nursery. I found my maid and the house-maid looking out of the window to see my father get into his carriage, which was new painted; the servants had new liveries, and fine white ribbands in their hats; and then I perceived my father had left off his mourning. The maids were dressed in new coloured gowns and white ribbands. On the table I saw a new muslin frock, trimmed with fine lace ready for me to put on. I skipped about the room quite in an ecstasy.

When the carriage drove from the door, the housekeeper came in to bring the maids new white gloves. I repeated to her the words I had just heard, that that dear lady miss Saville was going to be married to papa, and that she was to live with us, and be my mamma.

The housekeeper shook her head, and said, "Poor thing! how soon children forget every thing!"

I could not imagine what she meant by my forgetting every thing, for I instantly recollected poor mamma used to say I had an excellent memory.

The women began to draw on their white gloves, and the seams rending in several places, Anne said, "This is just the way our gloves served us at my mistress's funeral." The other checked her, and said "Hush!" I was then thinking of some instances in which my mamma had praised my memory, and this reference to her funeral fixed her idea in my mind.

From the time of her death no one had ever spoken to me of my mamma, and I had apparently forgotten her; yet I had a habit which perhaps had not been observed, of taking my little stool, which had been my mamma's footstool, and a doll, which my mamma had drest for me, while she was sitting in her elbow-chair, her head supported with pillows. With these in my hands, I used to go to the door of the room in which I had seen her in her last illness; and after trying to open it, and peeping through the keyhole, from whence I could just see a glimpse of the crimson curtains, I used to sit down on the stool before the door, and play with my doll, and sometimes sing to it mamma's pretty song, of "Balow my babe;" imitating as well as I could, the weak voice in which she used to sing it to me. My mamma had a very sweet voice. I remember now the gentle tone in which she used to say my prattle did not disturb her.

When I was drest in my new frock, I wished poor mamma was alive to see how fine I was on papa's wedding-day, and I ran to my favourite station at her bed-room door. There I sat thinking of my mamma, and trying to remember exactly how she used to look; because I foolishly imagined that miss Saville was to be changed into something like my own mother, whose pale and delicate appearance in her last illness was all that I retained of her remembrance.

When my father returned home with his bride, he walked up stairs to look for me, and my new mamma followed him. They found me at my mother's door, earnestly looking through the keyhole; I was thinking so intently on my mother, that when my father said, "Here is your new mamma, my Elinor," I turned round, and began to cry, for no other reason than because she had a very high colour, and I remembered my mamma was very pale; she had bright black eyes, my mother's were mild blue eyes; and that instead of the wrapping gown and close cap in which I remembered my mamma, she was drest in all her bridal decorations.

I said, "Miss Saville shall not be my mamma," and I cried till I was sent away in disgrace.

Every time I saw her for several days, the same notion came into my head, that she was not a bit more like mamma than when she was miss Saville. My father was very angry when he saw how shy I continued to look at her; but she always said, "Never mind. Elinor and I shall soon be better friends."

One day, when I was very naughty indeed, for I would not speak one word to either of them, my papa took his hat, and walked out quite in a passion. When he was gone, I looked up at my new mamma, expecting to see her very angry too; but she was smiling and looking very good-naturedly upon me; and she said, "Now we are alone together, my pretty little daughter, let us forget papa is angry with us; and tell me why you were peeping through that door the day your papa brought me home, and you cried so at the sight of me." "Because mamma used to be there," I replied. When she heard me say this, she fell a-crying very sadly indeed; and I was so very sorry to hear her cry so, that I forgot I did not love her, and I went up to her, and said, "Don't cry, I won't be naughty any more, I won't peep through the door any more."

Then she said I had a little kind heart, and I should not have any occasion, for she would take me into the room herself; and she rung the bell, and ordered the key of that room to be brought to her; and the housekeeper brought it, and tried to persuade her not to go. But she said, "I must have my own way in this;" and she carried me in her arms into my mother's room.

O I was so pleased to be taken into mamma's room! I pointed out to her all the things that I remembered to have belonged to mamma and she encouraged me to tell her all the little incidents which had dwelt on my memory concerning her. She told me, that she went to school with mamma when she was a little girl, and that I should come into this room with her every day when papa was gone out, and she would tell me stories of mamma when she was a little girl no bigger than me.

When my father came home, we were walking in a garden at the back of our house, and I was shewing her mamma's geraniums, and telling her what pretty flowers they had when mamma was alive.

My father was astonished; and he said, "Is this the sullen Elinor? what has worked this miracle?" "Ask no questions," she replied, "or you will disturb our new-born friendship. Elinor has promised to love me, and she says too that she will call me 'mamma.'" "Yes, I will, mamma, mamma, mamma," I replied, and hung about her with the greatest fondness.

After this she used to pass great part of the mornings with me in my mother's room, which was now made the repository of all my playthings, and also my school-room. Here my new mamma taught me to read. I was a sad little dunce, and scarcely knew my letters; my own mamma had often said, when she got better she would hear me read every day, but as she never got better it was not her fault. I now began to learn very fast, for when I said my lesson well, I was always rewarded with some pretty story of my mother's childhood; and these stories generally contained some little hints that were instructive to me, and which I greatly stood in want of; for, between improper indulgence and neglect, I had many faulty ways.

In this kind manner my mother-in-law has instructed and improved me, and I love her because she was my mother's friend when they were young. She has been my only instructress, for I never went to school till I came here. She would have continued to teach me, but she has not time, for she has a little baby of her own now, and that is the reason I came to school.

V

MARGARET GREEN

(_By Mary Lamb_)

My father has been dead near three years. Soon after his death, my mother being left in reduced circumstances, she was induced to accept the offer of Mrs. Beresford, an elderly lady of large fortune, to live in her house as her companion, and the superintendent of her family. This lady was my godmother, and as I was my mother's only child, she very kindly permitted her to have me with her.

Mrs. Beresford lived in a large old family mansion; she kept no company, and never moved except from the breakfast-parlour to the eating-room, and from thence to the drawing-room to tea.

Every morning when she first saw me, she used to nod her head very kindly, and say, "How do you do, little Margaret?" But I do not recollect she ever spoke to me during the remainder of the day; except indeed after I had read the psalms and the chapters, which was my daily task; then she used constantly to observe, that I improved in my reading, and frequently added, "I never heard a child read so distinctly." She had been remarkably fond of needle-work, and her conversation with my mother was generally the history of some pieces of work she had formerly done; the dates when they were begun, and when finished; what had retarded their progress, and what had hastened their completion. If occasionally any other events were spoken of, she had no other chronology to reckon by, than in the recollection of what carpet, what sofa-cover, what set of chairs, were in the frame at that time.

I believe my mother is not particularly fond of needle-work; for in my father's lifetime I never saw her amuse herself in this way; yet, to oblige her kind patroness, she undertook to finish a large carpet, which the old lady had just begun when her eye-sight failed her. All day long my mother used to sit at the frame, talking of the shades of the worsted, and the beauty of the colours;--Mrs. Beresford seated in a chair near her, and, though her eyes were so dim she could hardly distinguish one colour from another, watching through her spectacles the progress of the work.

When my daily portion of reading was over, I had a task of needle-work, which generally lasted half an hour. I was not allowed to pass more time in reading or work, because my eyes were very weak, for which reason I was always set to read in the large-print Family Bible. I was very fond of reading; and when I could unobserved steal a few minutes as they were intent on their work, I used to delight to read in the historical part of the Bible; but this, because of my eyes, was a forbidden pleasure; and the Bible never being removed out of the room, it was only for a short time together that I dared softly to lift up the leaves and peep into it.

As I was permitted to walk in the garden or wander about the house whenever I pleased, I used to leave the parlour for hours together, and make out my own solitary amusement as well as I could. My first visit was always to a very large hall, which, from being paved with marble, was called the marble hall. In this hall, while Mrs. Beresford's husband was living, the tenants used to be feasted at Christmas.

The heads of the twelve Cæsars were hung round the hall. Every day I mounted on the chairs to look at them, and to read the inscriptions underneath, till I became perfectly familiar with their names and features.

Hogarth's prints were below the Cæsars: I was very fond of looking at them, and endeavouring to make out their meaning.

An old broken battledore, and some shuttlecocks with most of the feathers missing, were on a marble slab in one corner of the hall, which constantly reminded me that there had once been younger inhabitants here than the old lady and her gray-headed servants. In another corner stood a marble figure of a satyr: every day I laid my hand on his shoulder to feel how cold he was.

This hall opened into a room full of family portraits. They were all in the dresses of former times: some were old men and women, and some were children. I used to long to have a fairy's power to call the children down from their frames to play with me. One little girl in particular, who hung by the side of a glass door which opened into the garden, I often invited to walk there with me, but she still kept her station--one arm round a little lamb's neck, and in her hand a large bunch of roses.

From this room I usually proceeded to the garden.

When I was weary of the garden I wandered over the rest of the house. The best suite of rooms I never saw by any other light than what glimmered through the tops of the window-shutters, which however served to shew the carved chimney-pieces, and the curious old ornaments about the rooms; but the worked furniture and carpets, of which I heard such constant praises, I could have but an imperfect sight of, peeping under the covers which were kept over them, by the dim light; for I constantly lifted up a corner of the envious cloth, that hid these highly-praised rarities from my view.

The bed-rooms were also regularly explored by me, as well to admire the antique furniture, as for the sake of contemplating the tapestry hangings, which were full of Bible history. The subject of the one which chiefly attracted my attention, was Hagar and her son Ishmael. Every day I admired the beauty of the youth, and pitied the forlorn state of him and his mother in the wilderness. At the end of the gallery into which these tapestry rooms opened, was one door, which having often in vain attempted to open, I concluded to be locked; and finding myself shut out, I was very desirous of seeing what it contained; and though still foiled in the attempt, I every day endeavoured to turn the lock, which whether by constantly trying I loosened, being probably a very old one, or that the door was not locked but fastened tight by time, I know not,--to my great joy, as I was one day trying the lock as usual, it gave way, and I found myself in this so long desired room.

It proved to be a very large library. This was indeed a precious discovery. I looked round on the books with the greatest delight. I thought I would read them every one. I now forsook all my favourite haunts, and passed all my time here. I took down first one book, then another.

If you never spent whole mornings alone in a large library, you cannot conceive the pleasure of taking down books in the constant hope of finding an entertaining book among them; yet, after many days, meeting with nothing but disappointment, it becomes less pleasant. All the books within my reach were folios of the gravest cast. I could understand very little that I read in them, and the old dark print and the length of the lines made my eyes ache.

When I had almost resolved to give up the search as fruitless, I perceived a volume lying in an obscure corner of the room. I opened it. It was a charming print; the letters were almost as large as the type of the Family Bible. In the first page I looked into I saw the name of my favourite Ishmael, whose face I knew so well from the tapestry, and whose history I had often read in the Bible.

I sate myself down to read this book with the greatest eagerness. The title of it was "Mahometism Explained." It was a very improper book, for it contained a false history of Abraham and his descendants.

I shall be quite ashamed to tell you the strange effect it had on me. I know it was very wrong to read any book without permission to do so. If my time were to come over again, I would go and tell my mamma that there was a library in the house, and ask her to permit me to read a little while every day in some book that she might think proper to select for me. But unfortunately I did not then recollect that I ought to do this: the reason of my strange forgetfulness might be that my mother, following the example of her patroness, had almost wholly discontinued talking to me. I scarcely ever heard a word addressed to me from morning to night. If it were not for the old servants saying "Good morning to you, miss Margaret," as they passed me in the long passages, I should have been the greatest part of the day in as perfect a solitude as Robinson Crusoe. It must have been because I was never spoken to at all, that I forgot what was right and what was wrong, for I do not believe that I ever remembered I was doing wrong all the time I was reading in the library. A great many of the leaves in "Mahometism Explained" were torn out, but enough remained to make me imagine that Ishmael was the true son of Abraham: I read here that the true descendants of Abraham were known by a light which streamed from the middle of their foreheads. It said, that Ishmael's father and mother first saw this light streaming from his forehead, as he was lying asleep in the cradle. I was very sorry so many of the leaves were torn out, for it was as entertaining as a fairy tale. I used to read the history of Ishmael, and then go and look at him in the tapestry, and then read his history again. When I had almost learned the history of Ishmael by heart, I read the rest of the book, and then I came to the history of Mahomet, who was there said to be the last descendant of Abraham.

If Ishmael had engaged so much of my thoughts, how much more so must Mahomet? His history was full of nothing but wonders from the beginning to the end. The book said, that those who believed all the wonderful stories which were related of Mahomet were called Mahometans, and true believers:--I concluded that I must be a Mahometan, for I believed every word I read.

At length I met with something which I also believed, though I trembled as I read it:--this was, that after we are dead, we are to pass over a narrow bridge, which crosses a bottomless gulf. The bridge was described to be no wider than a silken thread; and it said, that all who were not Mahometans would slip on one side of this bridge, and drop into the tremendous gulf that had no bottom. I considered myself as a Mahometan, yet I was perfectly giddy whenever I thought of passing over this bridge.

One day, seeing the old lady totter across the room, a sudden terror seized me, for I thought, how would she ever be able to get over the bridge. Then too it was, that I first recollected that my mother would also be in imminent danger; for I imagined she had never heard the name of Mahomet, because I foolishly conjectured this book had been locked up for ages in the library, and was utterly unknown to the rest of the world.

All my desire was now to tell them the discovery I had made; for I thought, when they knew of the existence of "Mahometism Explained," they would read it, and become Mahometans, to ensure themselves a safe passage over the silken bridge. But it wanted more courage than I possessed, to break the matter to my intended converts; I must acknowledge that I had been reading without leave; and the habit of never speaking, or being spoken to, considerably increased the difficulty.

My anxiety on this subject threw me into a fever. I was so ill, that my mother thought it necessary to sleep in the same room with me. In the middle of the night I could not resist the strong desire I felt to tell her what preyed so much on my mind.

I awoke her out of a sound sleep, and begged she would be so kind as to be a Mahometan. She was very much alarmed, for she thought I was delirious, which I believe I was; for I tried to explain the reason of my request, but it was in such an incoherent manner that she could not at all comprehend what I was talking about.

The next day a physician was sent for, and he discovered, by several questions that he put to me, that I had read myself into a fever. He gave me medicines, and ordered me to be kept very quiet, and said, he hoped in a few days I should be very well; but as it was a new case to him, he never having attended a little Mahometan before, if any lowness continued after he had removed the fever, he would, with my mother's permission, take me home with him to study this extraordinary case at his leisure; and added, that he could then hold a consultation with his wife, who was often very useful to him in prescribing remedies for the maladies of his younger patients.

In a few days he fetched me away. His wife was in the carriage with him. Having heard what he said about her prescriptions, I expected, between the doctor and his lady, to undergo a severe course of medicine, especially as I heard him very formally ask her advice what was good for a Mahometan fever, the moment after he had handed me into the carriage. She studied a little while, and then she said, A ride to Harlow fair would not be amiss. He said he was entirely of her opinion, because it suited him to go there to buy a horse.

During the ride they entered into conversation with me, and in answer to their questions, I was relating to them the solitary manner in which I had passed my time; how I found out the library, and what I had read in the fatal book which had so heated my imagination,--when we arrived at the fair; and Ishmael, Mahomet, and the narrow bridge, vanished out of my head in an instant.

O what a cheerful sight it was to me, to see so many happy faces assembled together, walking up and down between the rows of booths that were full of showy things; ribbands, laces, toys, cakes, and sweetmeats! While the doctor was gone to buy his horse, his kind lady let me stand as long as I pleased at the booths, and gave me many things which she saw I particularly admired. My needle-case, my pin-cushion, indeed my work-basket, and all its contents, are presents which she purchased for me at this fair. After we returned home, she played with me all the evening at a geographical game, which she also bought for me at this cheerful fair.

The next day she invited some young ladies of my own age, to spend the day with me. She had a swing put up in the garden for us, and a room cleared of the furniture that we might play at blindman's-buff. One of the liveliest of the girls, who had taken on herself the direction of our sports, she kept to be my companion all the time I staid with her, and every day contrived some new amusement for us.

Yet this good lady did not suffer all my time to pass in mirth and gaiety. Before I went home, she explained to me very seriously the error into which I had fallen. I found that so far from "Mahometism Explained" being a book concealed only in this library, it was well known to every person of the least information.

The Turks, she told me, were Mahometans, and that, if the leaves of my favourite book had not been torn out, I should have read that the author of it did not mean to give the fabulous stories here related as true, but only wrote it as giving a history of what the Turks, who are a very ignorant people, believe concerning the impostor Mahomet, who feigned himself to be a descendant of Ishmael. By the good offices of the physician and his lady, I was carried home at the end of a month, perfectly cured of the error into which I had fallen, and very much ashamed of having believed so many absurdities.

VI

EMILY BARTON

(_By Mary Lamb_)

When I was a very young child, I remember residing with an uncle and aunt who lived in ----shire. I think I remained there near a twelvemonth. I am ignorant of the cause of my being so long left there by my parents, who, though they were remarkably fond of me, never came to see me during all that time. As I did not know I should ever have occasion to relate the occurrences of my life, I never thought of enquiring the reason.

I am just able to recollect, that when I first went there, I thought it was a fine thing to live in the country, and play with my little cousins in the garden all day long; and I also recollect, that I soon found that it was a very dull thing, to live in the country with little cousins who have a papa and mamma in the house, while my own dear papa and mamma were in London many miles away.

I have heard my papa observe, girls who are not well managed are a most quarrelsome race of little people. My cousins very often quarrelled with me, and then they always said, "I will go and tell my mamma, cousin Emily;" and then I used to be very disconsolate because I had no mamma to complain to of my grievances.

My aunt always took Sophia's part because she was so young; and she never suffered me to oppose Mary, or Elizabeth, because they were older than me.

The playthings were all the property of one or other of my cousins. The large dolls belonged to Mary and Elizabeth, and the pretty little wax dolls were dressed on purpose for Sophia, who always began to cry the instant I touched them. I had nothing that I could call my own but one pretty book of stories; and one day as Sophia was endeavouring to take it from me, and I was trying to keep it, it was all torn to pieces; and my aunt would not be angry with her. She only said, Sophia was a little baby and did not know any better. My uncle promised to buy me another book, but he never remembered it. Very often when he came home in the evening, he used to say, "I wonder what I have got in my pocket;" and then they all crowded round him, and I used to creep towards him, and think, May be it is my book that my uncle has got in his pocket. But, no; nothing ever came out for me. Yet the first sight of a plaything, even if it is not one's own, is always a cheerful thing, and a new toy would put them in a good humour for a while, and they would say, "Here, Emily, look what I have got. You may take it in your own hand and look at it." But the pleasure of examining it, was sure to be stopped in a short time by the old story of "Give that to me again; you know that is mine." Nobody could help, I think, being a little out of humour if they were always served so: but if I shewed any signs of discontent, my aunt always told my uncle I was a little peevish fretful thing, and gave her more trouble than all her own children put together. My aunt would often say, what a happy thing it was, to have such affectionate children as hers were. She was always praising my cousins because they were affectionate; that was sure to be her word. She said I had not one atom of affection in my disposition, for that no kindness ever made the least impression on me. And she would say all this with Sophia seated on her lap, and the two eldest perhaps hanging round their papa, while I was so dull to see them taken so much notice of, and so sorry that I was not affectionate, that I did not know what to do with myself.

Then there was another complaint against me; that I was so shy before strangers. Whenever any strangers spoke to me, before I had time to think what answer I should give, Mary or Elizabeth would say, "Emily is so shy, she will never speak." Then I, thinking I was very shy, would creep into a corner of the room, and be ashamed to look up while the company staid.

Though I often thought of my papa and mamma, by degrees the remembrance of their persons faded out of my mind. When I tried to think how they used to look, the faces of my cousins' papa and mamma only came into my mind.

One morning, my uncle and aunt went abroad before breakfast, and took my cousins with them. They very often went out for whole days together, and left me at home. Sometimes they said it was because they could not take so many children; and sometimes they said it was because I was so shy, it was no amusement to me to go abroad.

That morning I was very solitary indeed, for they had even taken the dog Sancho with them, and I was very fond of him. I went all about the house and garden to look for him. Nobody could tell me where Sancho was, and then I went into the front court and called, "Sancho, Sancho." An old man that worked in the garden was there, and he said Sancho was gone with his master. O how sorry I was! I began to cry, for Sancho and I used to amuse ourselves for hours together when every body was gone out. I cried till I heard the mail coachman's horn, and then I ran to the gate to see the mail-coach go past. It stopped before our gate, and a gentleman got out, and the moment he saw me he took me in his arms, and kissed me, and said I was Emily Barton, and asked me why the tears were on my little pale cheeks; and I told him the cause of my distress. The old man asked him to walk into the house, and was going to call one of the servants; but the gentleman would not let him, and he said, "Go on with your work, I want to talk to this little girl before I go into the house." Then he sate down on a bench which was in the court, and asked me many questions; and I told him all my little troubles, for he was such a good-natured-looking gentleman that I prattled very freely to him. I told him all I have told you, and more, for the unkind treatment I met with was more fresh in my mind than it is now. Then he called to the old man and desired him to fetch a post-chaise, and gave him money that he should make haste, and I never saw the old man walk so fast before. When he had been gone a little while, the gentleman said, "Will you walk with me down the road to meet the chaise, and you shall ride in it a little way along with me." I had nothing on, not even my old straw bonnet that I used to wear in the garden; but I did not mind that, and I ran by his side a good way, till we met the chaise, and the old man riding with the driver. The gentleman said, "Get down and open the door," and then he lifted me in. The old man looked in a sad fright, and said, "O sir, I hope you are not going to take the child away." The gentleman threw out a small card, and bid him give that to his master, and calling to the post-boy to drive on, we lost sight of the old man in a minute.

The gentleman laughed very much, and said, "We have frightened the old man, he thinks I am going to run away with you;" and I laughed, and thought it a very good joke; and he said, "So you tell me you are very shy;" and I replied "Yes, sir, I am, before strangers:" he said, "So I perceive, you are," and then he laughed again, and I laughed, though I did not know why. We had such a merry ride, laughing all the way at one thing or another, till we came to a town where the chaise stopped, and he ordered some breakfast. When I got out I began to shiver a little; for it was the latter end of autumn, the leaves were falling off the trees, and the air blew very cold. Then he desired the waiter to go and order a straw-hat, and a little warm coat for me; and when the milliner came, he told her he had stolen a little heiress, and we were going to Gretna Green in such a hurry, that the young lady had no time to put on her bonnet before she came out. The milliner said I was a pretty little heiress, and she wished us a pleasant journey. When we had breakfasted, and I was equipped in my new coat and bonnet, I jumped into the chaise again, as warm and as lively as a little bird.

When it grew dark, we entered a large city; the chaise began to roll over the stones, and I saw the lamps ranged along London streets.

Though we had breakfasted and dined upon the road, and I had got out of one chaise into another many times, and was now riding on in the dark, I never once considered where I was, or where I was going to. I put my head out of the chaise window, and admired those beautiful lights. I was sorry when the chaise stopped, and I could no longer look at the brilliant rows of lighted lamps.

Taken away by a stranger under a pretence of a short ride, and brought quite to London, do you not expect some perilous end of this adventure? Ah! it was my papa himself, though I did not know who he was, till after he had put me into my mamma's arms, and told her how he had run away with his own little daughter. "It is your papa, my dear, that has brought you to your own home." "This is your mamma, my love," they both exclaimed at once. Mamma cried for joy to see me, and she wept again, when she heard my papa tell what a neglected child I had been at my uncle's. This he had found out, he said, by my own innocent prattle, and that he was so offended with his brother, my uncle, that he would not enter his house; and then he said what a little happy good child I had been all the way, and that when he found I did not know him, he would not tell me who he was, for the sake of the pleasant surprise it would be to me. It was a surprise and a happiness indeed, after living with unkind relations, all at once to know I was at home with my own dear papa and mamma.

My mamma ordered tea. Whenever I happen to like my tea very much, I always think of the delicious cup of tea mamma gave us after our journey. I think I see the urn smoking before me now, and papa wheeling the sopha round, that I might sit between them at the table.

Mamma called me Little Run-away, and said it was very well it was only papa. I told her how we frightened the old gardener, and opened my eyes to shew her how he stared, and how my papa made the milliner believe we were going to Gretna Green. Mamma looked grave, and said she was almost frightened to find I had been so fearless; but I promised her another time I would not go into a post-chaise with a gentleman, without asking him who he was; and then she laughed, and seemed very well satisfied.

Mamma, to my fancy, looked very handsome. She was very nicely dressed, quite like a fine lady. I held up my head, and felt very proud that I had such a papa and mamma. I thought to myself, "O dear, my cousins' papa and mamma are not to be compared to mine."

Papa said, "What makes you bridle and simper so, Emily?" Then I told him all that was in my mind. Papa asked if I did not think him as pretty as I did mamma. I could not say much for his beauty, but I told him he was a much finer gentleman than my uncle, and that I liked him the first moment I saw him, because he looked so good-natured. He said, "Well then, he must be content with that half-praise; but he had always thought himself very handsome." "O dear!" said I, and fell a-laughing, till I spilt my tea, and mamma called me Little aukward girl.

The next morning my papa was going to the Bank to receive some money, and he took mamma and me with him, that I might have a ride through London streets. Everyone that has been in London must have seen the Bank, and therefore you may imagine what an effect the fine large rooms, and the bustle and confusion of people had on me; who was grown such a little wondering rustic, that the crowded streets and the fine shops, alone kept me in continual admiration.

As we were returning home down Cheapside, papa said, "Emily shall take home some little books.--Shall we order the coachman to the corner of St. Paul's church-yard, or shall we go to the Juvenile Library in Skinner-street?" Mamma said she would go to Skinner-street, for she wanted to look at the new buildings there. Papa bought me seven new books, and the lady in the shop persuaded him to take more, but mamma said that was quite enough at present.

We went home by Ludgate-hill, because mamma wanted to buy something there; and while she went into a shop, papa heard me read in one of my new books, and he said he was glad to find I could read so well; for I had forgot to tell him my aunt used to hear me read every day.

My papa stopped the coach opposite to St. Dunstan's church, that I might see the great iron figures strike upon the bell, to give notice that it was a quarter of an hour past two. We waited some time that I might see this sight, but just at the moment they were striking, I happened to be looking at a toy-shop that was on the other side of the way, and unluckily missed it. Papa said, "Never mind: we will go into the toyshop, and I dare say we shall find something that will console you for your disappointment." "Do," said mamma, "for I knew miss Pearson, that keeps this shop, at Weymouth, when I was a little girl, not much older than Emily. Take notice of her;--she is a very intelligent old lady." Mamma made herself known to miss Pearson, and shewed me to her, but I did not much mind what they said; no more did papa;--for we were busy among the toys.

A large wax doll, a baby-house completely furnished, and several other beautiful toys, were bought for me. I sat and looked at them with an amazing deal of pleasure as we rode home--they quite filled up one side of the coach.

The joy I discovered at possessing things I could call my own, and the frequent repetition of the words, _My own, my own_, gave my mamma some uneasiness. She justly feared that the cold treatment I had experienced at my uncle's had made me selfish, and therefore she invited a little girl to spend a few days with me, to see, as she has since told me, if I should not be liable to fall into the same error from which I had suffered so much at my uncle's.

As my mamma had feared, so the event proved; for I quickly adopted my cousins' selfish ideas, and gave the young lady notice that they were my own plaything's, and she must not amuse herself with them any longer than I permitted her. Then presently I took occasion to begin a little quarrel with her, and said, "I have got a mamma now, miss Frederica, as well as you, and I will go and tell her, and she will not let you play with my doll any longer than I please, because it is my own doll." And I very well remember I imitated as nearly as I could, the haughty tone in which my cousins used to speak to me.

"Oh, fie! Emily," said my mamma; "can you be the little girl, who used to be so distressed because your cousins would not let you play with their dolls? Do you not see you are doing the very same unkind thing to your play-fellow, that they did to you?" Then I saw as plain as could be what a naughty girl I was, and I promised not to do so any more.

A lady was sitting with mamma, and mamma said, "I believe I must pardon you this once, but I hope never to see such a thing again. This lady is miss Frederica's mamma, and I am quite ashamed that she should be witness to your inhospitality to her daughter, particularly as she was so kind to come on purpose to invite you to a share in her _own_ private box at the theatre this evening. Her carriage is waiting at the door to take us, but how can we accept of the invitation after what has happened?" The lady begged it might all be forgotten; and mamma consented that I should go, and she said, "But I hope, my dear Emily, when you are sitting in the play-house, you will remember that pleasures are far more delightful when they are shared among numbers. If the whole theatre were your own, and you were sitting by yourself to see the performance, how dull it would seem, to what you will find it, with so many happy faces around us, all amused with the same thing!" I hardly knew what my mamma meant, for I had never seen a play; but when I got there, after the curtain drew up, I looked up towards the galleries, and down into the pit, and into all the boxes, and then I knew what a pretty sight it was to see a number of happy faces. I was very well convinced, that it would not have been half so cheerful if the theatre had been my own, to have sat there by myself. From that time, whenever I felt inclined to be selfish, I used to remember the theatre, where the mamma of the young lady I had been so rude to, gave me a seat in her own box. There is nothing in the world so charming as going to a play. All the way there I was as dull and as silent as I used to be in ----shire, because I was so sorry mamma had been displeased with me. Just as the coach stopped, miss Frederica said, "Will you be friends with me, Emily?" and I replied, "Yes, if you please, Frederica;" and we went hand in hand together into the house. I did not speak any more till we entered the box, but after that I was as lively as if nothing at all had happened.

I shall never forget how delighted I was at the first sight of the house. My little friend and I were placed together in the front, while our mammas retired to the back part of the box to chat by themselves, for they had been so kind as to come very early that I might look about me before the performance began.

Frederica had been very often at a play. She was very useful in telling me what every thing was. She made me observe how the common people were coming bustling down the benches in the galleries, as if they were afraid they should lose their places. She told me what a crowd these poor people had to go through, before they got into the house. Then she shewed me how leisurely they all came into the pit, and looked about them, before they took their seats. She gave me a charming description of the king and queen at the play, and shewed me where they sate, and told me how the princesses were drest. It was a pretty sight to see the remainder of the candles lighted; and so it was to see the musicians come up from under the stage. I admired the music very much, and I asked if that was the play. Frederica laughed at my ignorance, and then she told me, when the play began, the green curtain would draw up to the sound of soft music, and I should hear a lady dressed in black say,

"Music hath charms to soothe a savage breast:"

and those were the very first words the actress, whose name was Almeria, spoke. When the curtain began to draw up, and I saw the bottom of her black petticoat, and heard the soft music, what an agitation I was in! But before that we had long to wait. Frederica told me we should wait till all the dress boxes were full, and then the lights would pop up under the orchestra; the second music would play, and then the play would begin.

This play was the Mourning Bride. It was a very moving tragedy; and after that when the curtain dropt, and I thought it was all over, I saw the most diverting pantomime that ever was seen. I made a strange blunder the next day, for I told papa that Almeria was married to Harlequin at last; but I assure you I meant to say Columbine, for I knew very well that Almeria was married to Alphonso; for she said she was in the first scene. She thought he was dead, but she found him again, just as I did my papa and mamma, when she least expected it.

VII

MARIA HOWE

(_By Charles Lamb_)

I was brought up in the country. From my infancy I was always a weak and tender-spirited girl, subject to fears and depressions. My parents, and particularly my mother, were of a very different disposition. They were what is usually called gay: they loved pleasure, and parties, and visiting; but as they found the turn of my mind to be quite opposite, they gave themselves little trouble about me, but upon such occasions generally left me to my choice, which was much oftener to stay at home, and indulge myself in my solitude, than to join in their rambling visits. I was always fond of being alone, yet always in a manner afraid. There was a book-closet which led into my mother's dressing-room. Here I was eternally fond of being shut up by myself, to take down whatever volumes I pleased, and pore upon them, no matter whether they were fit for my years or no, or whether I understood them. Here, when the weather would not permit my going into the dark walk, _my walk_, as it was called, in the garden; here when my parents have been from home, I have stayed for hours together, till the loneliness which pleased me so at first, has at length become quite frightful, and I have rushed out of the closet into the inhabited parts of the house, and sought refuge in the lap of some one of the female servants, or of my aunt, who would say, seeing me look pale, that Hannah [Maria] had been frightening herself with some of those _nasty books_: so she used to call my favourite volumes, which I would not have parted with, no not with one of the least of them, if I had had the choice to be made a fine princess and to govern the world. But my aunt was no reader. She used to excuse herself, and say, that reading hurt her eyes. I have been naughty enough to think that this was only an excuse, for I found that my aunt's weak eyes did not prevent her from poring ten hours a day upon her prayer-book, or her favourite Thomas à Kempis. But this was always her excuse for not reading any of the books I recommended. My aunt was my father's sister. She had never been married. My father was a good deal older than my mother, and my aunt was ten years older than my father. As I was often left at home with her, and as my serious disposition so well agreed with hers, an intimacy grew up between the old lady and me, and she would often say, that she only loved one person in the world, and that was me. Not that she and my parents were on very bad terms; but the old lady did not feel herself respected enough. The attention and fondness which she shewed to me, conscious as I was that I was almost the only being she felt any thing like fondness to, made me love her, as it was natural; indeed I am ashamed to say that I fear I almost loved her better than both my parents put together. But there was an oddness, a silence about my aunt, which was never interrupted but by her occasional expressions of love to me, that made me stand in fear of her. An odd look from under her spectacles would sometimes scare me away, when I had been peering up in her face to make her kiss me. Then she had a way of muttering to herself, which, though it was good words and religious words that she was mumbling, somehow I did not like. My weak spirits, and the fears I was subject to, always made me afraid of any personal singularity or oddness in any one. I am ashamed, ladies, to lay open so many particulars of our family; but, indeed it is necessary to the understanding of what I am going to tell you, of a very great weakness, if not wickedness, which I was guilty of towards my aunt. But I must return to my studies, and tell you what books I found in the closet, and what reading I chiefly admired. There was a great Book of Martyrs in which I used to read, or rather I used to spell out meanings; for I was too ignorant to make out many words; but there it was written all about those good men who chose to be burnt alive, rather than forsake their religion, and become naughty papists. Some words I could make out, some I could not; but I made out enough to fill my little head with vanity, and I used to think I was so courageous I could be burnt too, and I would put my hands upon the flames which were pictured in the pretty pictures which the book had, and feel them; but, you know, ladies, there is a great difference between the flames in a picture, and real fire, and I am now ashamed of the conceit which I had of my own courage, and think how poor a martyr I should have made in those days. Then there was a book not so big, but it had pictures in, it was called Culpepper's Herbal; it was full of pictures of plants and herbs, but I did not much care for that. Then there was Salmon's Modern History, out of which I picked a good deal. It had pictures of Chinese gods, and the great hooded serpent which ran strangely in my fancy. There were some law books too, but the old English frighted me from reading them. But above all, what I relished was Stackhouse's History of the Bible, where there was the picture of the Ark and all the beasts getting into it. This delighted me, because it puzzled me, and many an aching head have I got with poring into it, and contriving how it might be built, with such and such rooms, to hold all the world if there should be another flood, and sometimes settling what pretty beasts should be saved, and what should not, for I would have no ugly or deformed beast in my pretty ark. But this was only a piece of folly and vanity, that a little reflection might cure me of. Foolish girl that I was! to suppose that any creature is really ugly, that has all its limbs contrived with heavenly wisdom, and was doubtless formed to some beautiful end, though a child cannot comprehend it.--Doubtless a frog or a toad is not uglier in itself than a squirrel or a pretty green lizard; but we want understanding to see it.

[_Here I must remind you, my dear miss Howe, that one of the young ladies smiled, and two or three were seen to titter, at this part of your narration, and you seemed, I thought, a little too angry for a girl of your sense and reading; but you will remember, my dear, that young heads are not always able to bear strange and unusual assertions; and if some elder person possibly, or some book which you have found, had not put it into your head, you would hardly have discovered by your own reflection, that a frog or a toad was equal in real loveliness to a frisking squirrel, or a pretty green lizard, as you called it; not remembering that at this very time you gave the lizard the name of pretty, and left it out to the frog--so liable we all are to prejudices. But you went on with your story._]

These fancies, ladies, were not so very foolish or naughty perhaps, but they may be forgiven in a child of six years old; but what I am going to tell I shall be ashamed of, and repent, I hope, as long as I live. It will teach me not to form rash judgements. Besides the picture of the Ark, and many others which I have forgot, Stackhouse contained one picture which made more impression upon my childish understanding than all the rest. It was the picture of the raising up of Samuel, which I used to call the Witch of Endor picture. I was always very fond of picking up stories about witches. There was a book called Glanvil on Witches, which used to lie about in this closet; it was thumbed about, and shewed it had been much read in former times. This was my treasure. Here I used to pick out the strangest stories. My not being able to read them very well probably made them appear more strange and out of the way to me. But I could collect enough to understand that witches were old women who gave themselves up to do mischief;--how, by the help of spirits as bad as themselves, they lamed cattle, and made the corn not grow; and how they made images of wax to stand for people that had done them any injury, or they thought had done them injury; and how they burnt the images before a slow fire, and stuck pins in them; and the persons which these waxen images represented, however far distant, felt all the pains and torments in good earnest, which were inflicted in show upon these images: and such a horror I had of these wicked witches, that though I am now better instructed, and look upon all these stories as mere idle tales, and invented to fill people's heads with nonsense, yet I cannot recall to mind the horrors which I then felt, without shuddering and feeling something of the old fit return.

[_Here, my dear miss Howe, you may remember, that miss M----, the youngest of our party, shewing some more curiosity than usual, I winked upon you to hasten to your story, lest the terrors which you were describing should make too much impression upon a young head, and you kindly understood my sign, and said less upon the subject of your fears, than I fancy you first intended._]

This foolish book of witch stories had no pictures in it, but I made up for them out of my own fancy, and out of the great picture of the raising up of Samuel in Stackhouse. I was not old enough to understand the difference there was between these silly improbable tales which imputed such powers to poor old women, who are the most helpless things in the creation, and the narrative in the Bible, which does not say, that the witch or pretended witch, raised up the dead body of Samuel by her own power, but as it clearly appears, he was permitted by the divine will to appear, to confound the presumption of Saul; and that the witch herself was really as much frightened and confounded at the miracle as Saul himself, not expecting a real appearance; but probably having prepared some juggling, slight-of-hand tricks and sham appearance, to deceive the eyes of Saul: whereas she, nor any one living, had ever the power to raise the dead to life, but only He who made them from the first. These reasons I might have read in Stackhouse itself, if I had been old enough, and have read them in that very book since I was older, but at that time I looked at little beyond the picture.

These stories of witches so terrified me, that my sleeps were broken, and in my dreams I always had a fancy of a witch being in the room with me. I know now that it was only nervousness; but though I can laugh at it now as well as you, ladies, if you knew what I suffered, you would be thankful that you have had sensible people about you to instruct you and teach you better. I was let grow up wild like an ill weed, and thrived accordingly. One night that I had been terrified in my sleep with my imaginations, I got out of bed, and crept softly to the adjoining room. My room was next to where my aunt usually sat when she was alone. Into her room I crept for relief from my fears. The old lady was not yet retired to rest, but was sitting with her eyes half open, half closed; her spectacles tottering upon her nose; her head nodding over her prayer-book; her lips mumbling the words as she read them, or half read them, in her dozing posture; her grotesque appearance; her old-fashioned dress, resembling what I had seen in that fatal picture in Stackhouse; all this, with the dead time of night, as it seemed to me, (for I had gone through my first sleep,) all joined to produce a wicked fancy in me, that the form which I had beheld was not my aunt but some witch. Her mumbling of her prayers confirmed me in this shocking idea. I had read in Glanvil of those wicked creatures reading their prayers _backwards_, and I thought that this was the operation which her lips were at this time employed about. Instead of flying to her friendly lap for that protection which I had so often experienced when I have been weak and timid, I shrunk back terrified and bewildered to my bed, where I lay in broken sleeps and miserable fancies, till the morning, which I had so much reason to wish for, came. My fancies a little wore away with the light, but an impression was fixed, which could not for a long time be done away. In the day-time, when my father and mother were about the house, when I saw them familiarly speak to my aunt, my fears all vanished; and when the good creature has taken me upon her knees, and shewn me any kindness more than ordinary, at such times I have melted into tears, and longed to tell her what naughty foolish fancies I had had of her. But when night returned, that figure which I had seen recurred;--the posture, the half-closed eyes, the mumbling and muttering which I had heard, a confusion was in my head, _who_ it was I had seen that night:--it was my aunt, and it was not my aunt:--it was that good creature who loved me above all the world, engaged at her good task of devotions--perhaps praying for some good to me. Again, it was a witch,--a creature hateful to God and man, reading backwards the good prayers; who would perhaps destroy me. In these conflicts of mind I passed several weeks, till, by a revolution in my fate, I was removed to the house of a female relation of my mother's, in a distant part of the county, who had come on a visit to our house, and observing my lonely ways, and apprehensive of the ill effect of my mode of living upon my health, begged leave to take me home to her house to reside for a short time. I went, with some reluctance at leaving my closet, my dark walk, and even my aunt, who had been such a source of both love and terror to me. But I went, and soon found the good effects of a change of scene. Instead of melancholy closets, and lonely avenues of trees, I saw lightsome rooms and cheerful faces; I had companions of my own age; no books were allowed me but what were rational or sprightly; that gave me mirth, or gave me instruction. I soon learned to laugh at witch stories; and when I returned after three or four months absence to our own house, my good aunt appeared to me in the same light in which I had viewed her from my infancy, before that foolish fancy possessed me, or rather, I should say, more kind, more fond, more loving than before. It is impossible to say how much good that lady, the kind relation of my mother's that I spoke of, did to me by changing the scene. Quite a new turn of ideas was given to me. I became sociable and companionable: my parents soon discovered a change in me, and I have found a similar alteration in them. They have been plainly more fond of me since that change, as from that time I learned to conform myself more to their way of living. I have never since had that aversion to company, and going out with them, which used to make them regard me with less fondness than they would have wished to shew. I impute almost all that I had to complain of in their neglect, to my having been a little unsociable, uncompanionable mortal. I lived in this manner for a year or two, passing my time between our house, and the lady's who so kindly took me in hand, till by her advice, I was sent to this school; where I have told to you, ladies, what, for fear of ridicule, I never ventured to tell any person besides, the story of my foolish and naughty fancy.

VIII

CHARLOTTE WILMOT

(_By Mary Lamb_)

Until I was eleven years of age, my life was one continued series of indulgence and delight. My father was a merchant, and supposed to be in very opulent circumstances, at least I thought so, for at a very early age I perceived that we lived in a more expensive way than any of my father's friends did. It was not the pride of birth, of which, miss Withers, you once imagined you might justly boast, but the mere display of wealth that I was early taught to set an undue value on. My parents spared no cost for masters to instruct me; I had a French governess, and also a woman servant whose sole business it was to attend on me. My play-room was crowded with toys, and my dress was the admiration of all my youthful visitors, to whom I gave balls and entertainments as often as I pleased. I looked down on all my young companions as my inferiors; but I chiefly assumed airs of superiority over Maria Hartley, whose father was a clerk in my father's counting-house, and therefore I concluded she would regard the fine show I made with more envy and admiration than any other of my companions. In the days of my humiliation, which I too soon experienced, I was thrown on the bounty of her father for support. To be a dependent on the charity of her family, seemed the heaviest evil that could have befallen me; for I remembered how often I had displayed my finery and my expensive ornaments, on purpose to enjoy the triumph of my superior advantages; and with shame I now speak it, I have often glanced at her plain linen frock, when I shewed her my beautiful ball-dresses. Nay, I once gave her a hint, which she so well understood that she burst into tears, that I could not invite her to some of my parties, because her mamma once sent her on my birthday in a coloured frock. I cannot now think of my want of feeling without excessive pain; but one day I saw her highly amused with some curious toys, and on her expressing the pleasure the sight of them gave her, I said "Yes, they are very well for those who are not accustomed to these things; but for my part, I have so many, I am tired of them, and I am quite delighted to pass an hour in the empty closet your mamma allows you to receive your visitors in, because there is nothing there to interrupt the conversation."

Once, as I have said, Maria was betrayed into tears: now that I insulted her by calling her own small apartment an empty closet, she turned quick upon me, but not in anger, saying, "O, my dear miss Wilmot, how very sorry I am--" here she stopped; and though I knew not the meaning of her words, I felt it as a reproof. I hung down my head abashed; yet, perceiving that she was all that day more kind and obliging than ever, and being conscious of not having merited this kindness, I thought she was mean-spirited, and therefore I consoled myself with having discovered this fault in her, for I thought my arrogance was full as excusable as her meanness.

In a few days I knew my error; I learned why Maria had been so kind, and why she had said she was sorry. It was for me, proud disdainful girl that I was, that she was sorry; she knew, though I did not, that my father was on the brink of ruin; and it came to pass, as she had feared it would, that in a few days my play-room was as empty as Maria's closet, and all my grandeur was at an end.

My father had what is called an execution in the house; every thing was seized that we possessed. Our splendid furniture, and even our wearing apparel, all my beautiful ball-dresses, my trinkets, and, my toys, were taken away by my father's merciless creditors. The week in which this happened was such a scene of hurry, confusion and misery, that I will not attempt to describe it.

At the end of a week I found that my father and mother had gone out very early in the morning. Mr. Hartley took me home to his own house, and I expected to find them there; but, oh, what anguish did I feel, when I heard him tell Mrs. Hartley they had quitted England, and that he had brought me home to live with them! In tears and sullen silence I passed the first day of my entrance into this despised house. Maria was from home. All the day I sate in a corner of the room, grieving for the departure of my parents; and if for a moment I forgot that sorrow, I tormented myself with imagining the many ways which Maria might invent, to make me feel in return the slights and airs of superiority which I had given myself over her. Her mother began the prelude to what I expected, for I heard her freely censure the imprudence of my parents. She spoke in whispers; yet, though I could not hear every word, I made out the tenor of her discourse. She was very anxious, lest her husband should be involved in the ruin of our house. He was the chief clerk in my father's counting-house; towards evening he came in and quieted her fears, by the welcome news that he had obtained a more lucrative situation than the one he had lost.

At eight in the evening Mrs. Hartley said to me, "Miss Wilmot, it is time for you to be in bed, my dear;" and ordered the servant to shew me up stairs, adding, that she supposed she must assist me to undress, but that when Maria came home, she must teach me to wait on myself. The apartment in which I was to sleep was at the top of the house. The walls were white-washed, and the roof was sloping. There was only one window in the room, a small casement, through which the bright moon shone, and it seemed to me the most melancholy sight I had ever beheld. In broken and disturbed slumbers I passed the night. When I awoke in the morning, she whom I most dreaded to see, Maria, who I supposed had envied my former state, and who I now felt certain would exult over my present mortifying reverse of fortune, stood by my bedside. She awakened me from a dream, in which I thought she was ordering me to fetch her something; and on my refusal, she said I must obey her, for I was now her servant. Far differently from what my dreams had pictured, did Maria address me! She said, in the gentlest tone imaginable, "My dear miss Wilmot, my mother begs you will come down to breakfast. Will you give me leave to dress you?" My proud heart would not suffer me to speak, and I began to attempt to put on my clothes; but never having been used to do any thing for myself, I was unable to perform it, and was obliged to accept of the assistance of Maria. She dressed me, washed my face, and combed my hair; and as she did these services for me, she said in the most respectful manner, "Is this the way you like to wear this, miss Wilmot?" or, "Is this the way you like this done?" and curtsied, as she gave me every fresh article to put on. The slights I expected to receive from Maria, would not have distressed me more, than the delicacy of her behaviour did. I hung down my head with shame and anguish.

In a few days Mrs. Hartley ordered her daughter to instruct me in such useful works and employments as Maria knew. Of every thing which she called useful I was most ignorant. My accomplishments I found were held in small estimation here, by all indeed except Maria. She taught me nothing without the kindest apologies for being obliged to teach me, who, she said, was so excellent in all elegant arts, and was for ever thanking me for the pleasure she had formerly received, from my skill in music and pretty fancy works. The distress I was in, made these complimentary speeches not flatteries, but sweet drops of comfort to my degraded heart, almost broken with misfortune and remorse.

I remained at Mr. Hartley's but two months, for at the end of that time my father inherited a considerable property by the death of a distant relation, which has enabled him to settle his affairs. He established himself again as a merchant; but as he wished to retrench his expences, and begin the world again on a plan of strict economy, he sent me to this school to finish my education.

IX

SUSAN YATES

(_By Charles Lamb_)

I was born and brought up, in a house in which my parents had all their lives resided, which stood in the midst of that lonely tract of land called the Lincolnshire fens. Few families besides our own lived near the spot, both because it was reckoned an unwholesome air, and because its distance from any town or market made it an inconvenient situation. My father was in no very affluent circumstances, and it was a sad necessity which he was put to, of having to go many miles to fetch any thing he wanted from the nearest village, which was full seven miles distant, through a sad miry way that at all times made it heavy walking, and after rain was almost impassable. But he had no horse or carriage of his own.

The church which belonged to the parish in which our house was situated, stood in this village; and its distance being, as I said before, seven miles from our house, made it quite an impossible thing for my mother or me to think of going to it. Sometimes indeed, on a fine dry Sunday, my father would rise early, and take a walk to the village, just to see how _goodness thrived_, as he used to say, but he would generally return tired, and the worse for his walk. It is scarcely possible to explain to any one who has not lived in the fens, what difficult and dangerous walking it is. A mile is as good as four, I have heard my father say, in those parts. My mother, who in the early part of her life had lived in a more civilised spot, and had been used to constant churchgoing, would often lament her situation. It was from her I early imbibed a great curiosity and anxiety to see that thing, which I had heard her call a church, and so often lament that she could never go to. I had seen houses of various structures, and had seen in pictures the shapes of ships and boats, and palaces and temples, but never rightly any thing that could be called a church, or that could satisfy me about its form. Sometimes I thought it must be like our house, and sometimes I fancied it must be more like the house of our neighbour, Mr. Sutton, which was bigger and handsomer than ours. Sometimes I thought it was a great hollow cave, such as I have heard my father say the first inhabitants of the earth dwelt in. Then I thought it was like a waggon, or a cart, and that it must be something moveable. The shape of it ran in my mind strangely, and one day I ventured to ask my mother, what was that foolish thing that she was always longing to go to, and which she called a church. Was it any thing to eat or drink, or was it only like a great huge play-thing, to be seen and stared at?--I was not quite five years of age when I made this inquiry.

This question, so oddly put, made my mother smile; but in a little time she put on a more grave look, and informed me, that a church was nothing that I had supposed it, but it was a great building, far greater than any house which I had seen, where men, and women, and children, came together, twice a day, on Sundays, to hear the Bible read, and make good resolutions for the week to come. She told me, that the fine music which we sometimes heard in the air, came from the bells of St. Mary's church, and that we never heard it but when the wind was in a particular point. This raised my wonder more than all the rest; for I had somehow conceived that the noise which I heard, was occasioned by birds up in the air, or that it was made by the angels, whom (so ignorant I was till that time) I had always considered to be a sort of birds: for before this time I was totally ignorant of any thing like religion, it being a principle of my father, that young heads should not be told too many things at once, for fear they should get confused ideas, and no clear notions of any thing. We had always indeed so far observed Sundays, that no work was done upon that day, and upon that day I wore my best muslin frock, and was not allowed to sing, or to be noisy; but I never understood why that day should differ from any other. We had no public meetings:--indeed the few straggling houses which were near us, would have furnished but a slender congregation; and the loneliness of the place we lived in, instead of making us more sociable, and drawing us closer together, as my mother used to say it ought to have done, seemed to have the effect of making us more distant and averse to society than other people. One or two good neighbours indeed we had, but not in numbers to give me an idea of church attendance.

But now my mother thought it high time to give me some clearer instruction in the main points of religion, and my father came readily into her plan. I was now permitted to sit up half an hour later on a Sunday evening, that I might hear a portion of Scripture read, which had always been their custom, though by reason of my tender age, and my father's opinion on the impropriety of children being taught too young, I had never till now been an auditor. I was taught my prayers, and those things which you, ladies, I doubt not, had the benefit of being instructed in at a much earlier age.

The clearer my notions on these points became, they only made me more passionately long for the privilege of joining in that social service, from which it seemed that we alone, of all the inhabitants of the land, were debarred; and when the wind was in that point which favoured the sound of the distant bells of St. Mary's to be heard over the great moor which skirted our house, I have stood out in the air to catch the sounds which I almost devoured; and the tears have come in my eyes, when sometimes they seemed to speak to me almost in articulate sounds, to _come to church_, and because of the great moor which was between me and them I could not come; and the too tender apprehensions of these things have filled me with a religious melancholy. With thoughts like these I entered into my seventh year.

And now the time was come, when the great moor was no longer to separate me from the object of my wishes and of my curiosity. My father having some money left him by the will of a deceased relation, we ventured to set up a sort of a carriage--no very superb one, I assure you, ladies; but in that part of the world it was looked upon with some envy by our poorer neighbours. The first party of pleasure which my father proposed to take in it, was to the village where I had so often wished to go, and my mother and I were to accompany him; for it was very fit, my father observed, that little Susan should go to church, and learn how to behave herself, for we might some time or other have occasion to live in London, and not always be confined to that out of the way spot.

It was on a Sunday morning that we set out, my little heart beating with almost breathless expectation. The day was fine, and the roads as good as they ever are in those parts. I was so happy and so proud. I was lost in dreams of what I was going to see. At length the tall steeple of St. Mary's church came in view. It was pointed out to me by my father, as the place from which that music had come which I have heard over the moor, and had fancied to be angels singing. I was wound up to the highest pitch of delight at having visibly presented to me the spot from which had proceeded that unknown friendly music; and when it began to peal, just as we approached the village, it seemed to speak. _Susan is come_, as plainly as it used to invite me _to come_, when I heard it over the moor. I pass over our alighting at the house of a relation, and all that passed till I went with my father and mother to church.

St. Mary's church is a great church for such a small village as it stands in. My father said it was a cathedral, and that it had once belonged to a monastery, but the monks were all gone. Over the door there was stone work, representing saints and bishops, and here and there, along the sides of the church, there were figures of men's heads, made in a strange grotesque way: I have since seen the same sort of figures in the round tower of the Temple church in London. My father said they were very improper ornaments for such a place, and so I now think them; but it seems the people who built these great churches in old times, gave themselves more liberties than they do now; and I remember that when I first saw them, and before my father had made this observation, though they were so ugly and out of shape, and some of them seemed to be grinning and distorting their features with pain or with laughter, yet being placed upon a church, to which I had come with such serious thoughts, I could not help thinking they had some serious meaning; and I looked at them with wonder, but without any temptation to laugh. I somehow fancied they were the representation of wicked people set up as a warning.

When we got into the church, the service was not begun, and my father kindly took me round, to shew me the monuments and every thing else remarkable. I remember seeing one of a venerable figure, which my father said had been a judge. The figure was kneeling, as if it was alive, before a sort of desk, with a book, I suppose the Bible, lying on it. I somehow fancied the figure had a sort of life in it, it seemed so natural, or that the dead judge that it was done for, said his prayers at it still. This was a silly notion, but I was very young, and had passed my little life in a remote place, where I had never seen any thing nor knew any thing; and the awe which I felt at first being in a church, took from me all power but that of wondering. I did not reason about any thing, I was too young. Now I understand why monuments are put up for the dead, and why the figures which are upon them, are described as doing the actions which they did in their life-times, and that they are a sort of pictures set up for our instruction. But all was new and surprising to me on that day; the long windows with little panes, the pillars, the pews made of oak, the little hassocks for the people to kneel on, the form of the pulpit with the sounding-board over it, gracefully carved in flower work. To you, who have lived all your lives in populous places, and have been taken to church from the earliest time you can remember, my admiration of these things must appear strangely ignorant. But I was a lonely young creature, that had been brought up in remote places, where there was neither church nor churchgoing inhabitants. I have since lived in great towns, and seen the ways of churches and of worship, and I am old enough now to distinguish between what is essential in religion, and what is merely formal or ornamental.

When my father had done pointing out to me the things most worthy of notice about the church, the service was almost ready to begin; the parishioners had most of them entered, and taken their seats; and we were shewn into a pew where my mother was already seated. Soon after the clergyman entered, and the organ began to play what is called the voluntary. I had never seen so many people assembled before. At first I thought that all eyes were upon me, and that because I was a stranger. I was terribly ashamed and confused at first; but my mother helped me to find out the places in the Prayer-book, and being busy about that, took off some of my painful apprehensions. I was no stranger to the order of the service, having often read in a Prayer-book at home; but my thoughts being confused, it puzzled me a little to find out the responses and other things, which I thought I knew so well; but I went through it tolerably well. One thing which has often troubled me since, is, that I am afraid I was too full of myself, and of thinking how happy I was, and what a privilege it was for one that was so young, to join in the service with so many grown people, so that I did not attend enough to the instruction which I might have received. I remember, I foolishly applied every thing that was said to myself, so as it could mean nobody but myself, I was so full of my own thoughts. All that assembly of people, seemed to me as if they were come together only to shew me the way of a church. Not but I received some very affecting impressions from some things which I heard that day; but the standing up and the sitting down of the people; the organ; the singing;--the way of all these things took up more of my attention than was proper; or I thought it did. I believe I behaved better and was more serious when I went a second time, and a third time; for now we went as a regular thing every Sunday, and continued to do so, till, by a still further change for the better in my father's circumstances, we removed to London. Oh! it was a happy day for me my first going to St. Mary's church: before that day I used to feel like a little outcast in the wilderness, like one that did not belong to the world of Christian people. I have never felt like a little outcast since. But I never can hear the sweet noise of bells, that I don't think of the angels singing, and what poor but pretty thoughts I had of angels in my uninstructed solitude.

X

ARABELLA HARDY

(_By Charles Lamb_)

I was born in the East Indies. I lost my father and mother young. At the age of five my relations thought it proper that I should be sent to England for my education. I was to be entrusted to the care of a young woman who had a character for great humanity and discretion; but just as I had taken leave of my friends, and we were about to take our passage, the young woman was taken suddenly ill, and could not go on board. In this unpleasant emergency, no one knew how to act. The ship was at the very point of sailing, and it was the last ship which was to sail that season. At last the captain, who was known to my friends, prevailed upon my relation who had come with us to see us embark, to leave the young woman on shore, and to let me embark separately. There was no possibility of getting any other female attendant for me, in the short time allotted for our preparation; and the opportunity of going by that ship was thought too valuable to be lost. No other ladies happened to be going; so I was consigned to the care of the captain and his crew,--rough and unaccustomed attendants for a young creature, delicately brought up as I had been; but indeed they did their best to make me not feel the difference. The unpolished sailors were my nursery-maids and my waiting-women. Every thing was done by the captain and the men, to accommodate me, and make me easy. I had a little room made out of the cabin, which was to be considered as my room, and nobody might enter into it. The first mate had a great character for bravery, and all sailor-like accomplishments; but with all this he had a gentleness of manners, and a pale feminine cast of face, from ill health and a weakly constitution, which subjected him to some little ridicule from the officers, and caused him to be named Betsy. He did not much like the appellation, but he submitted to it the better, as he knew that those who gave him a woman's name, well knew that he had a man's heart, and that in the face of danger he would go as far as any man. To this young man, whose real name was Charles Atkinson, by a lucky thought of the captain, the care of me was especially entrusted. Betsy was proud of his charge, and, to do him justice, acquitted himself with great diligence and adroitness through the whole of the voyage. From the beginning I had somehow looked upon Betsy as a woman, hearing him so spoken of, and this reconciled me in some measure to the want of a maid, which I had been used to. But I was a manageable girl at all times, and gave nobody much trouble.

I have not knowledge enough to give an account of my voyage, or to remember the names of the seas we passed through, or the lands which we touched upon, in our course. The chief thing I can remember, for I do not remember the events of the voyage in any order, was Atkinson taking me up on deck, to see the great whales playing about in the sea. There was one great whale came bounding up out of the sea, and then he would dive into it again, and then would come up at a distance where nobody expected him, and another whale was following after him. Atkinson said they were at play, and that that lesser whale loved that bigger whale, and kept it company all through the wide seas: but I thought it strange play, and a frightful kind of love; for I every minute expected they would come up to our ship and toss it. But Atkinson said a whale was a gentle creature, and it was a sort of sea-elephant, and that the most powerful creatures in nature are always the least hurtful. And he told me how men went out to take these whales, and stuck long, pointed darts into them; and how the sea was discoloured with the blood of these poor whales for many miles distance: and I admired at the courage of the men, but I was sorry for the inoffensive whale. Many other pretty sights he used to shew me, when he was not on watch, or doing some duty for the ship. No one was more attentive to his duty than he; but at such times as he had leisure, he would shew me all pretty sea sights:--the dolphins and porpoises that came before a storm, and all the colours which the sea changed to; how sometimes it was a deep blue, and then a deep green, and sometimes it would seem all on fire: all these various appearances he would shew me, and attempt to explain the reason of them to me, as well as my young capacity would admit of. There was a lion and a tiger on board, going to England as a present to the king, and it was a great diversion to Atkinson and me, after I had got rid of my first terrors, to see the ways of these beasts in their dens, and how venturous the sailors were in putting their hands through the grates, and patting their rough coats. Some of the men had monkeys, which ran loose about, and the sport was for the men to lose them, and find them again. The monkeys would run up the shrouds, and pass from rope to rope, with ten times greater alacrity than the most experienced sailor could follow them; and sometimes they would hide themselves in the most unthought-of places, and when they were found, they would grin, and make mouths as if they had sense. Atkinson described to me the ways of these little animals in their native woods, for he had seen them. Oh, how many ways he thought of to amuse me in that long voyage!

Sometimes he would describe to me the odd shapes and varieties of fishes that were in the sea, and tell me tales of the sea-monsters that lay hid at the bottom, and were seldom seen by men; and what a glorious sight it would be, if our eyes could be sharpened to behold all the inhabitants of the sea at once, swimming in the great deeps, as plain as we see the gold and silver fish in a bowl of glass. With such notions he enlarged my infant capacity to take in many things.

When in foul weather I have been terrified at the motion of the vessel, as it rocked backwards and forwards, he would still my fears, and tell me that I used to be rocked so once in a cradle, and that the sea was God's bed, and the ship our cradle, and we were as safe in that greater motion, as when we felt that lesser one in our little wooden sleeping-places. When the wind was up, and sang through the sails, and disturbed me with its violent clamours, he would call it music, and bid me hark to the sea-organ, and with that name he quieted my tender apprehensions. When I have looked around with a mournful face at seeing all _men_ about me, he would enter into my thoughts, and tell me pretty stories of his mother and his sisters, and a female cousin that he loved better than his sisters, whom he called Jenny, and say that when we got to England I should go and see them, and how fond Jenny would be of his little daughter, as he called me; and with these images of women and females which he raised in my fancy, he quieted me for a time. One time, and never but once, he told me that Jenny had promised to be his wife if ever he came to England, but that he had his doubts whether he should live to get home, for he was very sickly. This made me cry bitterly.

That I dwell so long upon the attentions of this Atkinson, is only because his death, which happened just before we got to England, affected me so much, that he alone of all the ship's crew has engrossed my mind ever since; though indeed the captain and all were singularly kind to me, and strove to make up for my uneasy and unnatural situation. The boatswain would pipe for my diversion, and the sailor-boy would climb the dangerous mast for my sport. The rough foremastman would never willingly appear before me, till he had combed his long black hair smooth and sleek, not to terrify me. The officers got up a sort of play for my amusement, and Atkinson, or, as they called him, Betsy, acted the heroine of the piece. All ways that could be contrived, were thought upon, to reconcile me to my lot. I was the universal favourite;--I do not know how deservedly; but I suppose it was because I was alone, and there was no female in the ship besides me. Had I come over with female relations or attendants, I should have excited no particular curiosity; I should have required no uncommon attentions. I was one little woman among a crew of men; and I believe the homage which I have read that men universally pay to women, was in this case directed to me, in the absence of all other woman-kind. I do not know how that might be, but I was a little princess among them, and I was not six years old.

I remember the first draw-back which happened to my comfort, was Atkinson's not appearing during the whole of one day. The captain tried to reconcile me to it, by saying that Mr. Atkinson was confined to his cabin;--that he was not quite well, but a day or two would restore him. I begged to be taken in to see him, but this was not granted. A day, and then another came, and another, and no Atkinson was visible, and I saw apparent solicitude in the faces of all the officers, who nevertheless strove to put on their best countenances before me, and to be more than usually kind to me. At length, by the desire of Atkinson himself, as I have since learned, I was permitted to go into his cabin and see him. He was sitting up, apparently in a state of great exhaustion, but his face lighted up when he saw me, and he kissed me, and told me that he was going a great voyage, far longer than that which we had passed together, and he should never come back; and though I was so young, I understood well enough that he meant this of his death, and I cried sadly; but he comforted me and told me, that I must be his little executrix, and perform his last will, and bear his last words to his mother and his sister, and to his cousin Jenny, whom I should see in a short time; and he gave me his blessing, as a father would bless his child, and he sent a last kiss by me to all his female relations, and he made me promise that I would go and see them when I got to England, and soon after this he died; but I was in another part of the ship when he died, and I was not told it till we got to shore, which was a few days after; but they kept telling me that he was better and better, and that I should soon see him, but that it disturbed him to talk with any one. Oh, what a grief it was, when I learned that I had lost my old ship-mate, that had made an irksome situation so bearable by his kind assiduities; and to think that he was gone, and I could never repay him for his kindness!

When I had been a year and a half in England, the captain, who had made another voyage to India and back, thinking that time had alleviated a little the sorrow of Atkinson's relations, prevailed upon my friends who had the care of me in England, to let him introduce me to Atkinson's mother and sister. Jenny was no more; she had died in the interval, and I never saw her. Grief for his death had brought on a consumption, of which she lingered about a twelvemonth, and then expired. But in the mother and the sisters of this excellent young man, I have found the most valuable friends which I possess on this side the great ocean. They received me from the captain as the little _protégée_ of Atkinson, and from them I have learned passages of his former life, and this in particular, that the illness of which he died was brought on by a wound of which he never quite recovered, which he got in the desperate attempt, when he was quite a boy, to defend his captain against a superior force of the enemy which had boarded him, and which, by his premature valour inspiriting the men, they finally succeeded in repulsing. This was that Atkinson, who, from his pale and feminine appearance, was called Betsy. This was he whose womanly care of me got him the name of a woman, who, with more than female attention, condescended to play the hand-maid to a little unaccompanied orphan, that fortune had cast upon the care of a rough sea captain, and his rougher crew.

THE KING AND QUEEN OF HEARTS

Showing how notably the Queen made her tarts, and how scurvily the Knave stole them away, with other particulars belonging thereunto

Printed for Thomas Hodgkins Hanway Street November 18 1805.

High on a Throne of state is seen She whom all Hearts own for their Queen. Three Pages are in waiting by; He with the umbrella is her Spy, To spy out rogueries in the dark, And smell a rat as you shall mark.

The Queen here by the King's commands, Who does not like Cook's dirty hands, Makes the court-pastry all herself. Pambo the knave, that roguish elf, Watches each sugary sweet ingredient, And slily thinks of an expedient.

Now first of May does summer bring, How bright and fine is every thing! After their dam the chickens run, The green leaves glitter in the sun, While youths and maids in merry dance Round rustic maypoles do advance.

When Kings and Queens ariding go, Great Lords ride with them for a show With grooms & courtiers, a great store; Some ride behind, & some before. Pambo the first of these does pass, And for more state rides on an Ass.

Thieves! Thieves! holla, you knavish Jack, Cannot the good Queen turn her back, But you must be so nimble hasty To come and steal away her pastry You think you're safe, there's one fees all, And understands, though he's but small

How like a thievish Jack he looks! I wish for my part all the cooks Would come and baste him with a ladle As long as ever they were able, To keep his fingers ends from itching After sweet things in the Queen's kitchen.

Behold the King of Hearts how gruff The monarch stands, how square, how bluff! When our eighth Harry rul'd this land, Just like this King did Harry stand; And just so amorous, sweet, and willing, As this Queen stands, stood Anna Bullen.

The meat removed and dinner done, The knives are wip'd and cheese put on. The King aloud for Tarts does bawl, Tarts, tarts, resound through all the Hall. Pambo with tears denies the Fact, But Mungo saw him in the act.

Behold the due reward of sin, See what a plight rogue Pambo's in. The King lays on his blows so stout, The Tarts for fear come tumbling out O King! be merciful as just, You'll beat poor Pambo into dust

How like he looks to a dog that begs In abject sort upon two legs! Good Mr. Knave, give me my due, I like a tart as well as you, But I would starve on good roast Beef, Ere I would look so like a thief.

The Knave brings back the tarts he stole. The Queen swears, that is not the whole. What should poor Pambo do? hard prest Owns he has eaten up the rest. The King takes back, as lawful debt, Not all, but all that he can get.

Lo! Pambo prostrate on the floor Vows he will be a thief no more. O King your heart no longer harden, You've got the tarts, give him his pardon. The best time to forgive a sinner Is always after a good dinner.

"How say you Sir? tis all a joke-- Great Kings love tarts like other folk!" If for a truth you'll not receive it, Pray, view the picture, and believe it. Sly Pambo too has got a share, And eats it snug behind the chair.

Their Majesties so well have fed, The tarts have got up in their head. "Or may be 'twas the wine!"--hush, gipsey! Great Kings & Queens indeed get tipsey! Now, Pambo, is the time for you: Beat little Tell-Tale black & blue.

POETRY FOR CHILDREN

(_1808-1809. Text of 1809_)

ENVY

This rose-tree is not made to bear The violet blue, nor lily fair, Nor the sweet mignionet: And if this tree were discontent, Or wish'd to change its natural bent, It all in vain would fret.

And should it fret, you would suppose It ne'er had seen its own red rose, Nor after gentle shower Had ever smell'd it rose's scent, Or it could ne'er be discontent With its own pretty flower.

Like such a blind and senseless tree As I've imagin'd this to be, All envious persons are: With care and culture all may find Some pretty flower in their own mind, Some talent that is rare.

THE REAPER'S CHILD

If you go to the field where the Reapers now bind The sheaves of ripe corn, there a fine little lass, Only three months of age, by the hedge-row you'll find, Left alone by its mother upon the low grass.

While the mother is reaping, the infant is sleeping; Not the basket that holds the provision is less By the hard-working Reaper, than this little sleeper, Regarded, till hunger does on the babe press.

Then it opens its eyes, and it utters loud cries, Which its hard-working mother afar off will hear; She comes at its calling, she quiets its squalling, And feeds it, and leaves it again without fear.

When you were as young as this field-nursed daughter, You were fed in the house, and brought up on the knee; So tenderly watched, thy fond mother thought her Whole time well bestow'd in nursing of thee.

THE RIDE

Lately an Equipage I overtook, And help'd to lift it o'er a narrow brook. No horse it had except one boy, who drew His sister out in it the fields to view. O happy town-bred girl, in fine chaise going For the first time to see the green grass growing. This was the end and purport of the ride I learn'd, as walking slowly by their side I heard their conversation. Often she-- "Brother, is this the country that I see?" The bricks were smoking, and the ground was broke, There were no signs of verdure when she spoke. He, as the well-inform'd delight in chiding The ignorant, these questions still deriding, To his good judgment modestly she yields; Till, brick-kilns past, they reach'd the open fields. Then as with rapt'rous wonder round she gazes On the green grass, the butter-cups, and daisies, "This is the country sure enough," she cries; "Is't not a charming place?" The boy replies, "We'll go no further." "No," says she, "no need; No finer place than this can be indeed." I left them gathering flow'rs, the happiest pair That ever London sent to breathe the fine fresh air,

THE BUTTERFLY

SISTER

Do, my dearest brother John, Let that Butterfly alone.

BROTHER

What harm now do I do? You're always making such a noise--

SISTER

O fie, John; none but naughty boys Say such rude words as you.

BROTHER

Because you're always speaking sharp: On the same thing you always harp. A bird one may not catch, Nor find a nest, nor angle neither, Nor from the peacock pluck a feather, But you are on the watch To moralise and lecture still.

SISTER

And ever lecture, John, I will, When such sad things I hear. But talk not now of what is past; The moments fly away too fast, Though endlessly they seem to last To that poor soul in fear.

BROTHER

Well, soon (I say) I'll let it loose; But, sister, you talk like a goose, There's no soul in a fly.

SISTER

It has a form and fibres fine, Were temper'd by the hand divine Who dwells beyond the sky. Look, brother, you have hurt its wing-- And plainly by its fluttering You see it's in distress, Gay painted Coxcomb, spangled Beau, A Butterfly is call'd you know, That's always in full dress: The finest gentleman of all Insects he is--he gave a Ball, You know the Poet wrote. Let's fancy this the very same, And then you'll own you've been to blame To spoil his silken coat.

BROTHER

Your dancing, spangled, powder'd Beau, Look, through the air I've let him go: And now we're friends again. As sure as he is in the air, From this time, Ann, I will take care, And try to be humane.

THE PEACH

Mamma gave us a single Peach, She shar'd it among seven; Now you may think that unto each But a small piece was given.

Yet though each share was very small, We own'd when it was eaten, Being so little for us all Did its fine flavour heighten.

The tear was in our parent's eye, It seem'd quite out of season; When we ask'd wherefore she did cry, She thus explain'd the reason.

"The cause, my children, I may say, Was joy, and not dejection; The Peach, which made you all so gay, Gave rise to this reflection:

"It's many a mother's lot to share, Seven hungry children viewing, A morsel of the coarsest fare, As I this Peach was doing."

CHUSING A NAME

I have got a new-born sister; I was nigh the first that kiss'd her. When the nursing woman brought her To Papa, his infant daughter, How Papa's dear eyes did glisten!-- She will shortly be to christen: And Papa has made the offer, I shall have the naming of her.

Now I wonder what would please her, Charlotte, Julia, or Louisa. Ann and Mary, they're too common; Joan's too formal for a woman; Jane's a prettier name beside; But we had a Jane that died. They would say, if 'twas Rebecca, That she was a little Quaker, Edith's pretty, but that looks Better in old English books; Ellen's left off long ago; Blanche is out of fashion now. None that I have nam'd as yet Are so good as Margaret. Emily is neat and fine. What do you think of Caroline? How I'm puzzled and perplext What to chuse or think of next! I am in a little fever. Lest the name that I shall give her Should disgrace her or defame her I will leave Papa to name her.

CRUMBS TO THE BIRDS

A bird appears a thoughtless thing, He's ever living on the wing, And keeps up such a carolling, That little else to do but sing A man would guess had he.

No doubt he has his little cares, And very hard he often fares, The which so patiently he bears, That, list'ning to those cheerful airs, Who knows but he may be

In want of his next meal of seeds? I think for _that_ his sweet song pleads. If so, his pretty art succeeds. I'll scatter there among the weeds All the small crumbs I see.

THE ROOK AND THE SPARROWS

A little boy with crumbs of bread Many a hungry sparrow fed. It was a child of little sense, Who this kind bounty did dispense; For suddenly it was withdrawn, And all the birds were left forlorn, In a hard time of frost and snow, Not knowing where for food to go. He would no longer give them bread, Because he had observ'd (he said) That sometimes to the window came A great blackbird, a rook by name, And took away a small bird's share. So foolish Henry did not care What became of the great rook, That from the little sparrows took, Now and then, as 'twere by stealth, A part of their abundant wealth; Nor ever more would feed his sparrows. _Thus ignorance a kind heart narrows._ I wish I had been there; I would Have told the child, rooks live by food In the same way that sparrows do. I also would have told him too, Birds act by instinct, and ne'er can Attain the rectitude of man. Nay that even, when distress Does on poor human nature press, We need not be too strict in seeing The failings of a fellow being.

DISCONTENT AND QUARRELLING

JANE

Miss Lydia every day is drest Better than I am in my best White cambric-muslin frock. I wish I had one made of clear Work'd lawn, or leno very dear.-- And then my heart is broke

Almost to think how cheap my doll Was bought, when hers cost--yes, cost full A pound, it did, my brother; Nor has she had it weeks quite five, Yet, 'tis as true as I'm alive, She's soon to have another.

ROBERT

O mother, hear my sister Jane, How foolishly she does complain, And teaze herself for nought. But 'tis the way of all her sex, Thus foolishly themselves to vex. Envy's a female fault.

JANE

O brother Robert, say not so; It is not very long ago, Ah! brother, you've forgot, When speaking of a boy you knew, Remember how you said that you Envied his happy lot.

ROBERT

Let's see, what were the words I spoke? Why, may be I was half in joke-- May be I just might say-- Besides that was not half so bad; For Jane, I only said he had More time than I to play.

JANE

O _may be, may be_, very well: And may be, brother, I don't tell Tales to mamma like you.

MOTHER

O cease your wrangling, cease, my dears; You would not wake a mother's fears Thus, if you better knew.

REPENTANCE AND RECONCILIATION

JANE

Mamma is displeased and looks very grave, And I own, brother, I was to blame Just now when I told her I wanted to have, Like Miss Lydia, a very fine _name_. 'Twas foolish, for, Robert, Jane sounds very well, When mamma says, "I love my good Jane." I've been lately so naughty, I hardly can tell If she ever will say so again.

ROBERT

We are each of us foolish, and each of us young, And often in fault and to blame. Jane, yesterday I was too free with my tongue, I acknowledge it now to my shame. For a speech in my good mother's hearing I made, Which reflected upon her whole sex; And now like you, Jenny, I am much afraid That this might my dear mother vex.

JANE

But yet, brother Robert, 'twas not quite so bad As that naughty reflection of mine, When I grumbled because Liddy Bellenger had Dolls and dresses expensive and fine. For then 'twas of her, her own self, I complain'd; Since mamma does provide all I have.

MOTHER

Your repentance, my children, I see is unfeign'd, You are now my good Robert, and now my good Jane; And if you never will be naughty again, Your fond mother will never look grave.

NEATNESS IN APPAREL

In your garb and outward clothing A reserved plainness use; By their neatness more distinguish'd Than the brightness of their hues.

All the colours in the rainbow Serve to spread the peacock's train; Half the lustre of his feathers Would turn twenty coxcombs vain.

Yet the swan that swims in rivers, Pleases the judicious sight; Who, of brighter colours heedless, Trusts alone to simple white.

Yet all other hues, compared With his whiteness, show amiss; And the peacock's coat of colours Like a fool's coat looks by his.

THE NEW-BORN INFANT

Whether beneath sweet beds of roses, As foolish little Ann supposes, The spirit of a babe reposes Before it to the body come; Or, as philosophy more wise Thinks, it descendeth from the skies,-- We know the babe's now in the room.

And that is all which is quite clear, Ev'n to philosophy, my dear. The God that made us can alone Reveal from whence a spirit's brought Into young life, to light, and thought; And this the wisest man must own.

We'll now talk of the babe's surprise, When first he opens his new eyes, And first receives delicious food. Before the age of six or seven, To mortal children is not given Much reason; or I think he would

(And very naturally) wonder What happy star he was born under, That he should be the only care Of the dear sweet-food-giving lady, Who fondly calls him her own baby, Her darling hope, her infant heir.

MOTES IN THE SUN-BEAMS

The motes up and down in the sun Ever restlessly moving we see; Whereas the great mountains stand still, Unless terrible earthquakes there be.

If these atoms that move up and down Were as useful as restless they are, Than a mountain I rather would be A mote in the sun-beam so fair.

THE BOY AND SNAKE

Henry was every morning fed With a full mess of milk and bread. One day the boy his breakfast took, And eat it by a purling brook Which through his mother's orchard ran. From that time ever when he can Escape his mother's eye, he there Takes his food in th' open air. Finding the child delight to eat Abroad, and make the grass his seat, His mother lets him have his way. With free leave Henry every day Thither repairs, until she heard Him talking of a fine _grey bird_. This pretty bird, he said, indeed, Came every day with him to feed, And it lov'd him, and lov'd his milk, And it was smooth and soft like silk. His mother thought she'd go and see What sort of bird this same might be. So the next morn she follows Harry, And carefully she sees him carry Through the long grass his heap'd-up mess. What was her terror and distress, When she saw the infant take His bread and milk close to a snake! Upon the grass he spreads his feast, And sits down by his frightful guest, Who had waited for the treat; And now they both begin to eat. Fond mother! shriek not, O beware The least small noise, O have a care-- The least small noise that may be made, The wily snake will be afraid-- If he hear the lightest sound, He will inflict th' envenom'd wound. She speaks not, moves not, scarce does breathe, As she stands the trees beneath; No sound she utters; and she soon Sees the child lift up its spoon, And tap the snake upon the head, Fearless of harm; and then he said, As speaking to familiar mate, "Keep on your own side, do, Grey Pate:" The snake then to the other side, As one rebuked, seems to glide; And now again advancing nigh, Again she hears the infant cry, Tapping the snake, "Keep further, do; Mind, Grey Pate, what I say to you." The danger's o'er--she sees the boy (O what a change from fear to joy!) Rise and bid the snake "good-bye;" Says he, "Our breakfast's done, and I Will come again to-morrow day:" Then, lightly tripping, ran away.

THE FIRST TOOTH

SISTER

Through the house what busy joy, Just because the infant boy Has a tiny tooth to show. I have got a double row, All as white, and all as small; Yet no one cares for mine at all. He can say but half a word, Yet that single sound's preferr'd To all the words that I can say In the longest summer day. He cannot walk, yet if he put With mimic motion out his foot, As if he thought, he were advancing, It's prized more than my best dancing.

BROTHER

Sister, I know, you jesting are, Yet O! of jealousy beware. If the smallest seed should be In your mind of jealousy, It will spring, and it will shoot, Till it bear the baneful fruit. I remember you, my dear, Young as is this infant here. There was not a tooth of those Your pretty even ivory rows, But as anxiously was watched, Till it burst its shell new hatched, As if it a Phoenix were, Or some other wonder rare. So when you began to walk-- So when you began to talk-- As now, the same encomiums past. 'Tis not fitting this should last Longer than our infant days; A child is fed with milk and praise.

TO A RIVER IN WHICH A CHILD WAS DROWNED

(_Text of 1818_)

Smiling river, smiling river, On thy bosom sun-beams play; Though they're fleeting and retreating, Thou hast more deceit than they.

In thy channel, in thy channel, Choak'd with ooze and grav'lly stones, Deep immersed and unhearsed, Lies young Edward's corse: his bones

Ever whitening, ever whitening, As thy waves against them dash; What thy torrent, in the current, Swallow'd, now it helps to wash.

As if senseless, as if senseless Things had feeling in this case; What so blindly, and unkindly, It destroy'd, it now does grace.

THE FIRST OF APRIL

"Tell me what is the reason you hang down your head; From your blushes I plainly discern, You have done something wrong. Ere you go up to bed, I desire that the truth I may learn."

"O mamma, I have long'd to confess all the day What an ill-natured thing I have done; I persuaded myself it was only in play, But such play I in future will shun.

"The least of the ladies that live at the school, Her whose eyes are so pretty and blue, Ah! would you believe it? an April fool I have made her, and call'd her so too.

"Yet the words almost choak'd me; and, as I spoke low, I have hopes that she might them not hear. I had wrapt up some rubbish in paper, and so, The instant the school-girls drew near,

"I presented it with a fine bow to the child, And much her acceptance I press'd; When she took it, and thank'd me, and gratefully smil'd, I never felt half so distress'd.

"No doubt she concluded some sweetmeats were there, For the paper was white and quite clean, And folded up neatly, as if with great care. O what a rude boy I have been!

"Ever since I've been thinking how vex'd she will be, Ever since I've done nothing but grieve. If a thousand young ladies a walking I see, I will never another deceive."

CLEANLINESS

Come my little Robert near-- Fie! what filthy hands are here-- Who that e'er could understand The rare structure of a hand, With its branching fingers fine, Work itself of hands divine, Strong, yet delicately knit, For ten thousand uses fit, Overlaid with so clear skin You may see the blood within, And the curious palm, disposed In such lines, some have supposed You may read the fortunes there By the figures that appear-- Who this hand would chuse to cover With a crust of dirt all over, Till it look'd in hue and shape Like the fore-foot of an Ape? Man or boy that works or plays In the fields or the highways May, without offence or hurt, From the soil contract a dirt, Which the next clear spring or river Washes out and out for ever-- But to cherish stains impure, Soil deliberate to endure, On the skin to fix a stain Till it works into the grain, Argues a degenerate mind, Sordid, slothful, ill inclin'd, Wanting in that self-respect Which does virtue best protect.

All-endearing Cleanliness, Virtue next to Godliness, Easiest, cheapest, needful'st duty, To the body health and beauty, Who that's human would refuse it, When a little water does it?

THE LAME BROTHER

My parents sleep both in one grave; My only friend's a brother. The dearest things upon the earth We are to one another.

A fine stout boy I knew him once, With active form and limb; Whene'er he leap'd, or jump'd, or ran, O I was proud of him!

He leap'd too far, he got a hurt, He now does limping go.-- When I think on his active days, My heart is full of woe.

He leans on me, when we to school Do every morning walk; I cheer him on his weary way, He loves to hear my talk:

The theme of which is mostly this, What things he once could do. He listens pleas'd--then sadly says, "Sister, I lean on you."

Then I reply, "Indeed you're not Scarce any weight at all.-- And let us now still younger years To memory recall.

"Led by your little elder hand, I learn'd to walk alone; Careful you us'd to be of me, My little brother John.

"How often, when my young feet tir'd, You've carried me a mile!-- And still together we can sit, And rest a little while.

"For our kind master never minds, If we're the very last; He bids us never tire ourselves With walking on too fast."

GOING INTO BREECHES

Joy to Philip, he this day Has his long coats cast away, And (the childish season gone) Puts the manly breeches on. Officer on gay parade, Red-coat in his first cockade, Bridegroom in his wedding trim, Birthday beau surpassing him, Never did with conscious gait Strut about in half the state, Or the pride (yet free from sin) Of my little MANIKIN: Never was there pride, or bliss, Half so rational as his. Sashes, frocks, to those that need 'em-- Philip's limbs have got their freedom-- He can run, or he can ride, And do twenty things beside, Which his petticoats forbad: Is he not a happy lad? Now he's under other banners, He must leave his former manners; Bid adieu to female games, And forget their very names, Puss in Corners, Hide and Seek, Sports for girls and punies weak! Baste the Bear he now may play at, Leap-frog, Foot-ball, sport away at, Show his skill and strength at Cricket, Mark his distance, pitch his wicket, Run about in winter's snow Till his cheeks and fingers glow, Climb a tree, or scale a wall, Without any fear to fall. If he get a hurt or bruise, To complain he must refuse, Though the anguish and the smart Go unto his little heart, He must have his courage ready, Keep his voice and visage steady, Brace his eye-balls stiff as drum, That a tear may never come, And his grief must only speak From the colour in his cheek. This and more he must endure, Hero he in miniature! This and more must now be done Now the breeches are put on.

NURSING

O hush, my little baby brother; Sleep, my love, upon my knee. What though, dear child, we've lost our mother; That can never trouble thee.

You are but ten weeks old to-morrow; What can you know of our loss? The house is full enough of sorrow. Little baby, don't be cross.

Peace, cry not so, my dearest love; Hush, my baby-bird, lie still.-- He's quiet now, he does not move, Fast asleep is little Will.

My only solace, only joy, Since the sad day I lost my mother, Is nursing her own Willy boy, My little orphan brother.

THE TEXT

One Sunday eve a grave old man, Who had not been at church, did say, "Eliza, tell me, if you can, What text our Doctor took to-day?"

She hung her head, she blush'd for shame, One single word she did not know, Nor verse nor chapter she could name, Her silent blushes told him so.

Again said he, "My little maid, What in the sermon did you hear; Come tell me that, for that may aid Me to find out the text, my dear."

A tear stole down each blushing cheek, She wish'd she better had attended; She sobbing said, when she could speak, She heard not till 'twas almost ended.

"Ah! little heedless one, why what Could you be thinking on? 'tis clear Some foolish fancies must have got Possession of your head, my dear.

"What thoughts were they, Eliza, tell, Nor seek from me the truth to smother."-- "O I remember very well, I whisper'd something to my brother.

"I said, 'Be friends with me, dear Will;' We quarrell'd, Sir, at the church door,-- Though he cried, 'Hush, don't speak, be still,' Yet I repeated these words o'er

"Sev'n or eight times, I have no doubt. But here comes William, and if he The good things he has heard about Forgets too, Sir, the fault's in me."

"No, Sir," said William, "though perplext And much disturbed by my sister, I in this matter of the text, I thank my memory, can assist her.

"I have, and pride myself on having, A more retentive head than she."-- Then gracefully his right hand waving, He with no little vanity

Recited gospel, chapter, verse-- I should be loth to spoil in metre All the good words he did rehearse, As spoken by our Lord to Peter.

But surely never words from heaven Of peace and love more full descended; That we should seventy times seven Forgive our brother that offended.

In every point of view he plac'd it, As he the Doctor's self had been, With emphasis and action grac'd it: But from his self-conceit 'twas seen

Who had brought home the words, and who had A little on the meaning thought; Eliza now the old man knew had Learn'd that which William never caught.

Without impeaching William's merit, His head but served him for the letter, Hers miss'd the words, but kept the spirit; Her memory to her heart was debtor.

THE END OF MAY

"Our Governess is not in school, So we may talk a bit; Sit down upon this little stool, Come, little Mary, sit:

"And, my dear play-mate, tell me why In dismal black you're drest? Why does the tear stand in your eye? With sobs why heaves your breast?

"When we're in grief, it gives relief Our sorrows to impart; When you've told why, my dear, you cry, 'Twill ease your little heart."

"O, it is trouble very bad Which causes me to weep; All last night long we were so sad, Not one of us could sleep.

"Beyond the seas my father went, 'Twas very long ago; And he last week a letter sent (I told you so, you know)

"That he was safe in Portsmouth bay, And we should see him soon, Either the latter end of May, Or by the first of June.

"The end of May was yesterday, We all expected him; And in our best clothes we were drest, Susan, and I, and Jim.

"O how my poor dear mother smil'd, And clapt her hands for joy; She said to me, 'Come here, my child, And Susan, and my boy.

"'Come all, and let us think,' said she, 'What we can do to please Your father, for to-day will he Come home from off the seas.

"'That you have won, my dear young son, A prize at school, we'll tell, Because you can, my little man, In writing all excel;

"'And you have made a poem, nearly All of your own invention: Will not your father love you dearly, When this to him I mention?

"'Your sister Mary, she can say Your poetry by heart; And to repeat your verses may Be little Mary's part,

"'Susan, for you, I'll say you do Your needlework with care, And stitch so true the wristbands new, Dear father's soon to wear!'

"'O hark!' said James; 'I hear one speak; 'Tis like a seaman's voice.'-- Our mother gave a joyful shriek; How did we all rejoice!

"'My husband's come!' 'My father's here! But O, alas, it was not so; It was not as we said: A stranger seaman did appear, On his rough cheek there stood a tear, For he brought to us a tale of woe, Our father dear was dead."

FEIGNED COURAGE

Horatio, of ideal courage vain, Was flourishing in air his father's cane, And, as the fumes of valour swell'd his pate, Now thought himself _this_ Hero, and now _that_: "And now," he cried, "I will Achilles be; My sword I brandish; see, the Trojans flee. Now I'll be Hector, when his angry blade A lane through heaps of slaughter'd Grecians made! And now by deeds still braver I'll evince, I am no less than Edward the Black Prince.-- Give way, ye coward French:--" as thus he spoke, And aim'd in fancy a sufficient stroke To fix the fate of Cressy or Poictiers; (The Muse relates the Hero's fate with tears) He struck his milk-white hand against a nail, Sees his own blood, and feels his courage fail. Ah! where is now that boasted valour flown, That in the tented field so late was shown! Achilles weeps, Great Hector hangs the head, And the Black Prince goes whimpering to bed.

THE BROKEN DOLL

An infant is a selfish sprite; But what of that? the sweet delight Which from participation springs, Is quite unknown to these young things. We elder children then will smile At our dear little John awhile, And bear with him, until he see There is a sweet felicity In pleasing more than only one Dear little craving selfish John.

He laughs, and thinks it a fine joke, That he our new wax doll has broke. Anger will never teach him better; We will the spirit and the letter Of courtesy to him display, By taking in a friendly way These baby frolics, till he learn True sport from mischief to discern.

Reproof a parent's province is; A sister's discipline is this, By studied kindness to effect A little brother's young respect. What is a doll? a fragile toy. What is its loss? if the dear boy, Who half perceives he's done amiss, Retain impression of the kiss That follow'd instant on his cheek; If the kind loving words we speak Of "Never mind it," "We forgive," If these in his short memory live Only perchance for half a day-- Who minds a doll--if that should lay The first impression in his mind That sisters are to brothers kind? For thus the broken doll may prove Foundation to fraternal love.

THE DUTY OF A BROTHER

Why on your sister do you look, Octavius, with an eye of scorn, As scarce her presence you could brook?-- Under one roof you both were born.

Why, when she gently proffers speech, Do you ungently turn your head? Since the same sire gave life to each; With the same milk ye both were fed.

Such treatment to a female, though A perfect stranger she might be, From you would most unmanly show; In you to her 'tis worse to see.

When any ill-bred boys offend her, Showing their manhood by their sneers, It is your business to defend her 'Gainst their united taunts and jeers.

And not to join the illiberal crew In their contempt of female merit; What's bad enough in them, from you Is want of goodness, want of spirit.

What if your rougher out-door sports Her less robustious spirits daunt; And if she join not the resorts, Where you and your wild playmates haunt:

Her milder province is at home; When your diversions have an end, When over-toil'd from play you come, You'll find in her an in-doors friend.

Leave not your sister to another; As long as both of you reside In the same house, who but her brother Should point her books, her studies guide?

If Nature, who allots our cup, Than her has made you stronger, wiser; It is that you, as you grow up, Should be her champion, her adviser.

It is the law that Hand intends, Which fram'd diversity of sex; The man the woman still defends, The manly boy the girl protects.

WASPS IN A GARDEN

The wall-trees are laden with fruit; The grape, and the plum, and the pear, The peach, and the nect'rine, to suit Ev'ry taste in abundance, are there.

Yet all are not welcome to taste These kind bounties of nature; for one From her open-spread table must haste, To make room for a more favour'd son:

As that wasp will soon sadly perceive, Who has feasted awhile on a plum; And, his thirst thinking now to relieve, For a sweet liquid draught he is come.

He peeps in the narrow-mouth'd glass, Which depends from a branch of the tree; He ventures to creep down,--alas! To be drown'd in that delicate sea.

"Ah say," my dear friend, "is it right, These glass bottles are hung upon trees: 'Midst a scene of inviting delight, Should we find such mementoes as these?"

"From such sights," said my friend, "we may draw A lesson, for look at that bee; Compar'd with the wasp which you saw, He will teach us what we ought to be.

"He in safety industriously plies His sweet honest work all the day, Then home with his earnings he flies; Nor in thieving his time wastes away."--

"O hush, nor with _fables_ deceive," I replied; "which, though pretty, can ne'er Make me cease for that insect to grieve, Who in agony still does appear.

"If a _simile_ ever you need, You are welcome to make a wasp do; But you ne'er should mix fiction indeed With things that are serious and true."

WHAT IS FANCY?

SISTER

I am to write three lines, and you Three others that will rhyme. There--now I've done my task.

BROTHER

Three stupid lines as e'er I knew. When you've the pen next time, Some Question of me ask.

SISTER

Then tell me, brother, and pray mind, Brother, you tell me true: What sort of thing is _fancy_?

BROTHER

By all that I can ever find, 'Tis something that is very new, And what no dunces _can see_.

SISTER

That is not half the way to tell What _fancy_ is about; So pray now tell me more.

BROTHER

Sister, I think 'twere quite as well That you should find it out; So think the matter o'er.

SISTER

It's what comes in our heads when we Play at "Let's make believe," And when we play at "Guessing."

BROTHER

And I have heard it said to be A talent often makes us grieve, And sometimes proves a blessing.

ANGER

Anger in its time and place May assume a kind of grace. It must have some reason in it, And not last beyond a minute. If to further lengths it go, It does into malice grow. 'Tis the difference that we see 'Twixt the Serpent and the Bee. If the latter you provoke, It inflicts a hasty stroke, Puts you to some little pain, But it _never stings again_. Close in tufted bush or brake Lurks the poison-swelled snake, Nursing up his cherish'd wrath. In the purlieus of his path, In the cold, or in the warm, Mean him good, or mean him harm, Whensoever fate may bring you, The vile snake will _always sting you_.

BLINDNESS

In a stage-coach, where late I chanc'd to be, A little quiet girl my notice caught; I saw she look'd at nothing by the way, Her mind seem'd busy on some childish thought.

I with an old man's courtesy address'd The child, and call'd her pretty dark-eyed maid And bid her turn those pretty eyes and see The wide extended prospect. "Sir," she said,

"I cannot see the prospect, I am blind." Never did tongue of child utter a sound So mournful, as her words fell on my ear. Her mother then related how she found

Her child was sightless. On a fine bright day She saw her lay her needlework aside, And, as on such occasions mothers will, For leaving off her work began to chide.

"I'll do it when 'tis day-light, if you please; I cannot work, Mamma, now it is night." The sun shone bright upon her when she spoke, And yet her eyes receiv'd no ray of light.

THE MIMIC HARLEQUIN

"I'll _make believe_, and fancy something strange: I will suppose I have the power to change And make all things unlike to what they were, To jump through windows and fly through the air, And quite confound all places and all times, Like Harlequins we see in Pantomimes. These thread-papers my wooden sword must be, Nothing more like one I at present see. And now all round this drawing-room I'll range And every thing I look at I will change. Here's Mopsa, our old cat, shall be a bird; To a Poll Parrot she is now transferr'd. Here's Mamma's work-bag, now I will engage To whisk this little bag into a cage; And now, my pretty Parrot, get you in it, Another change I'll shew you in a minute."

"O fie, you naughty child, what have you done? There never was so mischievous a son. You've put the cat among my work, and torn A fine lac'd cap that I but once have worn."

WRITTEN IN THE FIRST LEAF OF A CHILD'S MEMORANDUM-BOOK

My neat and pretty book, when I thy small lines see, They seem for any use to be unfit for me. My writing, all misshaped, uneven as my mind, Within this narrow space can hardly be confin'd. Yet I will strive to make my hand less aukward look; I would not willingly disgrace thee, my neat book! The finest pens I'll use, and wond'rous pains I'll take, And I these perfect lines my monitors will make. And every day I will set down in order due, How that day wasted is; and should there be a few At the year's end that shew more goodly to the sight, If haply here I find some days not wasted quite, If a small portion of them I have pass'd aright, Then shall I think the year not wholly was misspent, And that my Diary has been by some good Angel sent.

MEMORY

"For gold could Memory be bought, What treasures would she not be worth! If from afar she could be brought, I'd travel for her through the earth!"

This exclamation once was made By one who had obtain'd the name Of young forgetful Adelaide: And while she spoke, lo! Memory came.

If Memory indeed it were, Or such it only feign'd to be-- A female figure came to her, Who said, "My name is Memory:

"Gold purchases in me no share, Nor do I dwell in distant land; Study, and thought, and watchful care, In every place may me command.

"I am not lightly to be won; A visit only now I make: And much must by yourself be done, Ere me you for an inmate take.

"The only substitute for me Was ever found, is call'd a pen: The frequent use of that will be The way to make me come again."

THE REPROOF

Mamma heard me with scorn and pride A wretched beggar boy deride. "Do you not know," said I, "how mean It is to be thus begging seen? If for a week I were not fed, I'm sure I would not beg my bread." And then away she saw me stalk With a most self-important walk. But meeting her upon the stairs, All these my consequential airs Were chang'd to an entreating look. "Give me," said I, "the Pocket Book, Mamma, you promis'd I should have." The Pocket Book to me she gave; After reproof and counsel sage, She bade me write in the first page This naughty action all in rhyme; No food to have until the time, In writing fair and neatly worded, The unfeeling fact I had recorded. Slow I compose, and slow I write; And now I feel keen hunger bite. My mother's pardon I entreat, And beg she'll give me food to eat. Dry bread would be received with joy By her repentant Beggar Boy.

THE TWO BEES

But a few words could William say, And those few could not speak plain. Yet thought he was a man one day; Never saw I a boy so vain.

From what could vanity proceed In such a little lisping lad? Or was it vanity indeed? Or was he only very glad?

For he without his maid may go To the heath with elder boys, And pluck ripe berries where they grow: Well may William then rejoice.

Be careful of your little charge; Elder boys, let him not rove; The heath is wide, the heath is large, From your sight he must not move.

But rove he did: they had not been One short hour the heath upon, When he was no where to be seen; "Where," said they, "is William gone?"

Mind not the elder boys' distress; Let them run, and let them fly. Their own neglect and giddiness They are justly suffering by.

William his little basket fill'd With his berries ripe and red; Then, naughty boy, two bees he kill'd, Under foot he stamp'd them dead.

William had cours'd them o'er the heath, After them his steps did wander; When he was nearly out of breath, The last bee his foot was under.

A cruel triumph, which did not Last but for a moment's space, For now he finds that he has got Out of sight of every face.

What are the berries now to him? What the bees which he hath slain? Fear now possesses every limb, He cannot trace his steps again.

The poor bees William had affrighted In more terror did not haste, Than he from bush to bush, benighted And alone amid the waste.

Late in the night the child was found: He who these two bees had crush'd Was lying on the cold damp ground, Sleep had then his sorrows hush'd.

A fever follow'd from the fright, And from sleeping in the dew; He many a day and many a night Suffer'd ere he better grew.

His aching limbs while sick he lay Made him learn the crush'd bees' pain; Oft would he to his mother say, "I ne'er will kill a bee again."

THE JOURNEY FROM SCHOOL AND TO SCHOOL

O what a joyous joyous day Is that on which we come At the recess from school away, Each lad to his own home!

What though the coach is crammed full, The weather very warm; Think you a boy of us is dull, Or feels the slightest harm?

The dust and sun is life and fun; The hot and sultry weather A higher zest gives every breast, Thus jumbled all together.

Sometimes we laugh aloud aloud, Sometimes huzzah, huzzah. Who is so buoyant, free, and proud, As we home-travellers are?

But sad, but sad is every lad That day on which we come, That last last day on which away We all come from our home.

The coach too full is found to be: Why is it crammed thus? Now every one can plainly see There's not half room for us.

Soon we exclaim, O shame, O shame, This hot and sultry weather, Who but our master is to blame, Who pack'd us thus together!

Now dust and sun does every one Most terribly annoy; Complaints begun, soon every one Elbows his neighbour boy.

Not now the joyous laugh goes round, We shout not now huzzah; A sadder group may not be found Than we returning are.

THE ORANGE

The month was June, the day was hot, And Philip had an orange got. The fruit was fragrant, tempting, bright, Refreshing to the smell and sight; Not of that puny size which calls Poor customers to common stalls, But large and massy, full of juice, As any Lima can produce. The liquor would, if squeezed out, Have fill'd a tumbler thereabout--

The happy boy, with greedy eyes, Surveys and re-surveys his prize. He turns it round, and longs to drain, And with the juice his lips to stain. His throat and lips were parch'd with heat; The orange seem'd to cry, _Come eat_. He from his pocket draws a knife-- When in his thoughts there rose a strife, Which folks experience when they wish, Yet scruple to begin a dish, And by their hesitation own It is too good to eat alone. But appetite o'er indecision Prevails, and Philip makes incision. The melting fruit in quarters came-- Just then there passed by a dame-- One of the poorer sort she seem'd, As by her garb you would have deem'd-- Who in her toil-worn arms did hold A sickly infant ten months old; That from a fever, caught in spring, Was slowly then recovering. The child, attracted by the view Of that fair orange, feebly threw A languid look--perhaps the smell Convinc'd it that there sure must dwell A corresponding sweetness there, Where lodg'd a scent so good and rare-- Perhaps the smell the fruit did give Felt healing and restorative-- For never had the child been grac'd To know such dainties by their taste.

When Philip saw the infant crave, He straitway to the mother gave His quarter'd orange; nor would stay To hear her thanks, but tript away. Then to the next clear spring he ran To quench his drought, a happy man!

THE YOUNG LETTER-WRITER

_Dear Sir, Dear Madam_, or _Dear Friend_, With ease are written at the top; When those two happy words are penn'd, A youthful writer oft will stop,

And bite his pen, and lift his eyes, As if he thinks to find in air The wish'd-for following words, or tries To fix his thoughts by fixed stare.

But haply all in vain--the next Two words may be so long before They'll come, the writer, sore perplext, Gives in despair the matter o'er;

And when maturer age he sees With ready pen so swift inditing, With envy he beholds the ease Of long-accustom'd letter-writing.

Courage, young friend; the time may be, When you attain maturer age, Some young as you are now may see You with like ease glide down a page.

Ev'n then when you, to years a debtor, In varied phrase your meanings wrap, The welcom'st words in all your letter May be those two kind words at top.

THE THREE FRIENDS

(_Text of 1818_)

Three young maids in friendship met; Mary, Martha, Margaret. Margaret was tall and fair, Martha shorter by a hair; If the first excell'd in feature, Th' other's grace and ease were greater; Mary, though to rival loth, In their best gifts equall'd both. They a due proportion kept; Martha mourn'd if Margaret wept; Margaret joy'd when any good She of Martha understood; And in sympathy for either Mary was outdone by neither. Thus far, for a happy space, All three ran an even race, A most constant friendship proving, Equally belov'd and loving; All their wishes, joys, the same; Sisters only not in name.

Fortune upon each one smil'd, As upon a fav'rite child; Well to do and well to see Were the parents of all three; Till on Martha's father crosses Brought a flood of worldly losses, And his fortunes rich and great Chang'd at once to low estate; Under which o'erwhelming blow Martha's mother was laid low; She a hapless orphan left, Of maternal care bereft, Trouble following trouble fast, Lay in a sick bed at last.

In the depth of her affliction Martha now receiv'd conviction, That a true and faithful friend Can the surest comfort lend. Night and day, with friendship tried, Ever constant by her side Was her gentle Mary found, With a love that knew no bound; And the solace she imparted Sav'd her dying' broken-hearted.

In this scene of earthly things Not one good unmixed springs. That which had to Martha proved A sweet consolation, moved Different feelings of regret In the mind of Margaret. She, whose love was not less dear, Nor affection less sincere To her friend, was, by occasion Of more distant habitation, Fewer visits forc'd to pay her, When no other cause did stay her; And her Mary living nearer, Margaret began to fear her, Lest her visits day by day Martha's heart should steal away. That whole heart she ill could spare her, Where till now she'd been a sharer. From this cause with grief she pined, Till at length her health declined. All her chearful spirits flew, Fast as Martha gather'd new; And her sickness waxed sore, Just when Martha felt no more.

Mary, who had quick suspicion Of her alter'd friend's condition, Seeing Martha's convalescence Less demanded now her presence, With a goodness, built on reason, Chang'd her measures with the season; Turn'd her steps from Martha's door, Went where she was wanted more; All her care and thoughts were set Now to tend on Margaret. Mary living 'twixt the two, From her home could oft'ner go, Either of her friends to see, Than they could together be.

Truth explain'd is to suspicion Evermore the best physician. Soon her visits had the effect; All that Margaret did suspect, From her fancy vanish'd clean; She was soon what she had been, And the colour she did lack To her faded cheek came back. Wounds which love had made her feel, Love alone had power to heal.

Martha, who the frequent visit Now had lost, and sore did miss it, With impatience waxed cross, Counted Margaret's gain her loss: All that Mary did confer On her friend, thought due to her. In her girlish bosom rise Little foolish jealousies, Which into such rancour wrought, She one day for Margaret sought; Finding her by chance alone, She began, with reasons shown, To insinuate a fear Whether Mary was sincere; Wish'd that Margaret would take heed Whence her actions did proceed. For herself, she'd long been minded Not with outsides to be blinded; All that pity and compassion, She believ'd was affectation; In her heart she doubted whether Mary car'd a pin for either. She could keep whole weeks at distance, And not know of their existence, While all things remain'd the same; But, when some misfortune came, Then she made a great parade Of her sympathy and aid,-- Not that she did really grieve, It was only _make-believe_, And she car'd for nothing, so She might her fine feelings shew, And get credit, on her part, For a soft and tender heart.

With such speeches, smoothly made, She found methods to persuade Margaret (who, being sore From the doubts she'd felt before, Was prepared for mistrust) To believe her reasons just; Quite destroy'd that comfort glad, Which in Mary late she had; Made her, in experience' spite, Think her friend a hypocrite, And resolve, with cruel scoff, To renounce and cast her off.

See how good turns are rewarded! She of both is now discarded, Who to both had been so late Their support in low estate, All their comfort, and their stay-- Now of both is cast away. But the league her presence cherish'd, Losing its best prop, soon perish'd; She, that was a link to either, To keep them and it together, Being gone, the two (no wonder) That were left, soon fell asunder;-- Some civilities were kept, But the heart of friendship slept; Love with hollow forms was fed, But the life of love lay dead:-- A cold intercourse they held After Mary was expell'd.

Two long years did intervene Since they'd either of them seen, Or, by letter, any word Of their old companion heard,-- When, upon a day, once walking, Of indifferent matters talking, They a female figure met;-- Martha said to Margaret, "That young maid in face does carry A resemblance strong of Mary." Margaret, at nearer sight, Own'd her observation right: But they did not far proceed Ere they knew 'twas she indeed. She--but ah! how chang'd they view her From that person which they knew her! Her fine face disease had scarr'd, And its matchless beauty marr'd:-- But enough was left to trace Mary's sweetness--Mary's grace. When her eye did first behold them, How they blush'd!--but, when she told them How on a sick bed she lay Months, while they had kept away, And had no inquiries made If she were alive or dead;-- How, for want of a true friend, She was brought near to her end, And was like so to have died, With no friend at her bed-side;-- How the constant irritation, Caus'd by fruitless expectation Of their coming, had extended The illness, when she might have mended,-- Then, O then, how did reflection Come on them with recollection! All that she had done for them, How it did their fault condemn!

But sweet Mary, still the same, Kindly eas'd them of their shame; Spoke to them with accents bland, Took them friendly by the hand; Bound them both with promise fast, Not to speak of troubles past; Made them on the spot declare A new league of friendship there; Which, without a word of strife, Lasted thenceforth long as life. Martha now and Margaret Strove who most should pay the debt Which they ow'd her, nor did vary Ever after from their Mary.

ON THE LORD'S PRAYER

I have taught your young lips the good words to say over, Which form the petition we call the Lord's Pray'r, And now let me help my dear child to discover The meaning of all the good words that are there. "Our Father," the same appellation is given To a parent on earth, and the parent of all-- O gracious permission, the God that's in heaven Allows his poor creatures him Father to call.

To "hallow his name," is to think with devotion Of it, and with reverence mention the same; Though you are so young, you should strive for some notion Of the awe we should feel at the Holy One's name.

His "will done on earth, as it is done in heaven," Is a wish and a hope we are suffer'd to breathe, That such grace and favour to us may be given, Like good angels on high we may live here beneath.

"Our daily bread give us," your young apprehension May well understand is to pray for our food; Although we ask bread, and no other thing mention, God's bounty gives all things sufficient and good.

You pray that your "trespasses may be forgiven, As you forgive those that are done unto you;" Before this you say to the God that's in heaven, Consider the words which you speak. Are they true?

If any one has in the past time offended Us angry creatures who soon take offence, These words in the prayer are surely intended To soften our minds, and expel wrath from thence.

We pray that "temptations may never assail us," And "deliverance beg from all evil" we find; But we never can hope that our pray'r will avail us, If we strive not to banish ill thoughts from our mind.

"For thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory, For ever and ever," these titles are meant To express God's dominion and majesty o'er ye: And "Amen" to the sense of the whole gives assent.

"SUFFER LITTLE CHILDREN, AND FORBID THEM NOT, TO COME UNTO ME"

To Jesus our Saviour some parents presented Their children--what fears and what hopes they must feel! When this the disciples would fain have prevented, Our Saviour reprov'd their unseas'nable zeal.

Not only free leave to come to him was given, But "Of such" were the blessed words Christ our Lord spake, "Of such is composed the kingdom of heaven:" The disciples, abashed, perceiv'd their mistake.

With joy then the parents their children brought nigher, And earnestly begg'd that his hands he would lay On their heads; and they made a petition still higher, That he for a blessing upon them would pray.

O happy young children, thus brought to adore him, To kneel at his feet, and look up in his face; No doubt now in heaven they still are before him, Children still of his love, and enjoying his grace.

For being so blest as to come to our Saviour, How deep in their innocent hearts it must sink! 'Twas a visit divine; a most holy behaviour Must flow from that spring of which then they did drink.

THE MAGPYE'S NEST OR A LESSON OF DOCILITY

A FABLE

When the arts in their infancy were, In a fable of old 'tis exprest, A wise Magpye constructed that rare Little house for young birds, call'd a nest.

This was talk'd of the whole country round, You might hear it on every bough sung, "Now no longer upon the rough ground Will fond mothers brood over their young.

"For the Magpye with exquisite skill Has invented a moss-cover'd cell, Within which a whole family will In the utmost security dwell."

To her mate did each female bird say, "Let us fly to the Magpye, my dear; If she will but teach us the way, A nest we will build us up here.

"It's a thing that's close arch'd over head, With a hole made to creep out and in; We, my bird, might make just such a bed, If we only knew how to begin."

To the Magpye soon every bird went, And in modest terms made their request, That she would be pleas'd to consent To teach them to build up a nest.

She replied, "I will shew you the way, So observe every thing that I do. First two sticks cross each other I lay--" "To be sure," said the Crow; "why, I knew,

"It must be begun with two sticks, And I thought that they crossed should be." Said the Pye, "Then some straw and moss mix, In the way you now see done by me."

"O yes, certainly," said the Jack Daw, "That must follow of course, I have thought; Though I never before building saw, I guess'd that without being taught."

"More moss, straw, and feathers, I place, In this manner," continued the Pye. "Yes, no doubt, Madam, that is the case; Though no builder myself, even I,"

Said the Starling, "conjectur'd 'twas so; It must of necessity follow: For more moss, straw, and feathers, I know, It requires, to be soft, round, and hollow."

Whatever she taught them beside, In his turn every bird of them said, Though the nest-making art he ne'er tried, He had just such a thought in his head.

Still the Pye went on shewing her art, Till a nest she had built up half way; She no more of her skill would impart, But in anger went flutt'ring away.

And this speech in their hearing she made, As she perched o'er their heads on a tree, "If ye all were well skill'd in my trade, Pray, why came ye to learn it of me?"--

When a scholar is willing to learn, He with silent submission should hear. Too late they their folly discern; The effect to this day does appear:

For whenever a Pye's nest you see, Her charming warm canopy view, All birds' nests but hers seem to be A Magpye's nest just cut in two.

THE BOY AND THE SKY-LARK

A FABLE

"A wicked action fear to do, When you are by yourselves; for though You think you can conceal it, A little bird that's in the air The hidden trespass shall declare, And openly reveal it."

Richard this saying oft had heard, Until the sight of any bird Would set his heart a quaking; He saw a host of winged spies For ever o'er him in the skies, Note of his actions taking.

This pious precept, while it stood In his remembrance, kept him good When nobody was by him; For though no human eye was near, Yet Richard still did wisely fear The little bird should spy him.

But best resolves will sometimes sleep; Poor frailty will not always keep From that which is forbidden; And Richard one day, left alone, Laid hands on something not his own, And hop'd the theft was hidden.

His conscience slept a day or two, As it is very apt to do When we with pain suppress it; And though at times a slight remorse Would raise a pang, it had not force To make him yet confess it.

When on a day, as he abroad Walk'd by his mother, in their road He heard a sky-lark singing; Smit with the sound, a flood of tears Proclaim'd the superstitious fears His inmost bosom wringing.

His mother, wond'ring, saw him cry, And fondly ask'd the reason why; Then Richard made confession, And said, he fear'd the little bird He singing in the air had heard Was telling his transgression.

The words which Richard spoke below, As sounds by nature upwards go, Were to the sky-lark carried; The airy traveller with surprise To hear his sayings, in the skies On his mid journey tarried.

His anger then the bird exprest: "Sure, since the day I left the nest, I ne'er heard folly utter'd So fit to move a sky-lark's mirth, As what this little son of earth Hath in his grossness mutter'd.

"Dull fool! to think we sons of air On man's low actions waste a care, His virtues or his vices; Or soaring on the summer gales, That we should stoop to carry tales Of him or his devices!

"Our songs are all of the delights We find in our wild airy flights, And heavenly exaltation; The earth you mortals have at heart Is all too gross to have a part In sky-lark's conversation.

"Unless it be in what green field Or meadow we our nest may build, Midst flowering broom, or heather; From whence our new-fledg'd offspring may With least obstruction wing their way Up to the walks of ether.

"Mistaken fool! man needs not us His secret merits to discuss, Or spy out his transgression; When once he feels his conscience stirr'd, That voice within him is the _bird_ That moves him to confession."

THE MEN AND WOMEN, AND THE MONKEYS

A FABLE

When beasts by words their meanings could declare, Some well-drest men and women did repair To gaze upon two monkeys at a fair:

And one who was the spokesman in the place Said, in their count'nance you might plainly trace The likeness of a wither'd old man's face.

His observation none impeach'd or blam'd, But every man and woman when 'twas nam'd Drew in the head, or slunk away asham'd.

One monkey, who had more pride than the other, His infinite chagrin could scarcely smother; But Pug the wiser said unto his brother:

"The slights and coolness of this human nation Should give a sensible ape no mort'fication; 'Tis thus they always serve a poor relation."

LOVE, DEATH, AND REPUTATION

A FABLE

Once on a time, Love, Death, and Reputation, Three travellers, a tour together went; And, after many a long perambulation, Agreed to part by mutual consent.

Death said: "My fellow tourists, I am going To seek for harvests in th' embattled plain; Where drums are beating, and loud trumpets blowing, There you'll be sure to meet with me again"

Love said: "My friends, I mean to spend my leisure With some young couple, fresh in Hymen's bands; Or 'mongst relations, who in equal measure Have had bequeathed to them house or lands."

But Reputation said: "If once we sever, Our chance of future meeting is but vain: Who parts from me, must look to part for ever, For _Reputation lost comes not again_."

THE SPARROW AND THE HEN

A Sparrow, when Sparrows like Parrots could speak, Addressed an old Hen who could talk like a Jay: Said he, "It's unjust that we Sparrows must seek Our food, when your family's fed every day.

"Were you like the Peacock, that elegant bird, The sight of whose plumage her master may please, I then should not wonder that you are preferr'd To the yard, where in affluence you live at your ease.

"I affect no great style, am not costly in feathers, A good honest brown I find most to my liking, It always looks neat, and is fit for all weathers, But I think your gray mixture is not very striking.

"We know that the bird from the isles of Canary Is fed, foreign airs to sing in a fine cage; But your note from a cackle so seldom does vary, The fancy of man it cannot much engage.

"My chirp to a song sure approaches much nearer, Nay, the Nightingale tells me I sing not amiss; If voice were in question I ought to be dearer; But the Owl he assures me there's nothing in this.

"Nor is it your proneness to domestication, For he dwells in man's barn, and I build in man's thatch, As we say to each other--but, to our vexation, O'er your safety alone man keeps diligent watch."

"Have you e'er learned to read?" said the Hen to the Sparrow. "No, Madam," he answer'd, "I can't say I have," "Then that is the reason your sight is so narrow," The old Hen replied, with a look very grave.

"Mrs. Glasse in a Treatise--I wish you could read-- Our importance has shown, and has prov'd to us why Man shields us and feeds us: of us he has need Ev'n before we are born, even after we die."

WHICH IS THE FAVOURITE?

Brothers and sisters I have many: Though I know there is not any Of them but I love, yet I Will just name them all; and try, As one by one I count them o'er, If there be one a little more Lov'd by me than all the rest. Yes; I do think, that I love best My brother Henry, because he Has always been most fond of me. Yet, to be sure, there's Isabel; I think I love her quite as well. And, I assure you, little Ann, No brother nor no sister can Be more dear to me than she. Only, I must say, Emily, Being the eldest, it's right her To all the rest I should prefer. Yet after all I've said, suppose My greatest fav'rite should be Rose. No, John and Paul are both more dear To me than Rose, that's always here, While they are half the year at school; And yet that neither is no rule. I've nam'd them all, there's only seven; I find my love to all so even, To every sister, every brother, I love not one more than another.

THE BEGGAR-MAN

Abject, stooping, old, and wan, See yon wretched beggar man; Once a father's hopeful heir, Once a mother's tender care. When too young to understand He but scorch'd his little hand, By the candle's flaming light Attracted, dancing, spiral, bright, Clasping fond her darling round, A thousand kisses heal'd the wound. Now abject, stooping, old, and wan, No mother tends the beggar man.

Then nought too good for him to wear, With cherub face and flaxen hair, In fancy's choicest gauds array'd, Cap of lace with rose to aid, Milk-white hat and feather blue, Shoes of red, and coral too With silver bells to please his ear, And charm the frequent ready tear. Now abject, stooping, old, and wan, Neglected is the beggar man.

See the boy advance in age, And learning spreads her useful page; In vain! for giddy pleasure calls, And shews the marbles, tops, and balls. What's learning to the charms of play? The indulgent tutor must give way. A heedless wilful dunce, and wild, The parents' fondness spoil'd the child; The youth in vagrant courses ran; Now abject, stooping, old, and wan, Their fondling is the beggar man.

CHOOSING A PROFESSION

A Creole boy from the West Indies brought, To be in European learning taught, Some years before to Westminster he went, To a Preparatory School was sent. When from his artless tale the mistress found, The child had not one friend on English ground, She, ev'n as if she his own mother were, Made the dark Indian her peculiar care. Oft on her fav'rite's future lot she thought; To know the bent of his young mind she sought, For much the kind preceptress wish'd to find To what profession he was most inclin'd, That where his genius led they might him train; For nature's kindly bent she held not vain. But vain her efforts to explore his will; The frequent question he evaded still: Till on a day at length he to her came, Joy sparkling in his eyes; and said, the same Trade he would be those boys of colour were, Who danc'd so happy in the open air. It was a troop of chimney-sweeping boys, With wooden music and obstrep'rous noise, In tarnish'd finery and grotesque array, Were dancing in the street the first of May.

BREAKFAST

A dinner party, coffee, tea, Sandwich, or supper, all may be In their way pleasant. But to me Not one of these deserves the praise That welcomer of new-born days, _A breakfast_, merits; ever giving Cheerful notice we are living Another day refresh'd by sleep, When its festival we keep. Now although I would not slight Those kindly words we use "Good night," Yet parting words are words of sorrow, And may not vie with sweet "Good morrow," With which again our friends we greet, When in the breakfast-room we meet, At the social table round, Listening to the lively sound Of those notes which never tire, Of urn, or kettle on the fire. Sleepy Robert never hears Or urn, or kettle; he appears When all have finish'd, one by one Dropping off, and breakfast done. Yet has he too his own pleasure, His breakfast hour's his hour of leisure; And, left alone, he reads or muses, Or else in idle mood he uses To sit and watch the vent'rous fly, Where the sugar's piled high, Clambering o'er the lumps so white, Rocky cliffs of sweet delight.

WEEDING

As busy Aurelia, 'twixt work and 'twixt play, Was lab'ring industriously hard To cull the vile weeds from the flow'rets away, Which grew in her father's court-yard;

In her juvenile anger, wherever she found, She pluck'd, and she pull'd, and she tore; The poor passive suff'rers bestrew'd all the ground; Not a weed of them all she forbore.

At length 'twas her chance on some nettles to light (Things, till then, she had scarcely heard nam'd); The vulgar intruders call'd forth all her spite; In a transport of rage she exclaim'd,

"Shall briars so unsightly and worthless as those Their great sprawling leaves thus presume To mix with the pink, the jonquil, and the rose, And take up a flower's sweet room?"

On the odious offenders enraged she flew; But she presently found to her cost A tingling unlook'd for, a pain that was new, And rage was in agony lost.

To her father she hastily fled for relief, And told him her pain and her smart; With kindly caresses he soothed her grief, Then smiling he took the weed's part.

"The world, my Aurelia, this garden of ours Resembles: too apt we're to deem In the world's larger garden ourselves as the flow'rs, And the poor but as weeds to esteem.

"But them if we rate, or with rudeness repel, Though some will be passive enough, From others who're more independent 'tis well If we meet not a _stinging rebuff_."

PARENTAL RECOLLECTIONS

A child's a plaything for an hour; Its pretty tricks we try For that or for a longer space; Then tire, and lay it by.

But I knew one, that to itself All seasons could controul; That would have mock'd the sense of pain Out of a grieved soul.

Thou, straggler into loving arms, Young climber up of knees, When I forget thy thousand ways, Then life and all shall cease.

THE TWO BOYS

I saw a boy with eager eye Open a book upon a stall, And read as he'd devour it all: Which when the stall-man did espy, Soon to the boy I heard him call, "You, Sir, you never buy a book, Therefore in one you shall not look." The boy pass'd slowly on, and with a sigh He wish'd he never had been taught to read, Then of the old churl's books he should have had no need.

Of sufferings the poor have many, Which never can the rich annoy. I soon perceiv'd another boy Who look'd as if he'd not had any Food for that day at least, enjoy The sight of cold meat in a tavern larder. This boy's case, thought I, is surely harder, Thus hungry longing, thus without a penny, Beholding choice of dainty dressed meat: No wonder if he wish he ne'er had learn'd to eat.

THE OFFER

"Tell me, would you rather be Chang'd by a fairy to the fine Young orphan heiress Geraldine, Or still be Emily?

"Consider, ere you answer me, How many blessings are procur'd By riches, and how much endur'd By chilling poverty."

After a pause, said Emily: "In the words orphan heiress I Find many a solid reason why I would not changed be.

"What though I live in poverty, And have of sisters eight--so many, That few indulgences, if any, Fall to the share of me;

"Think you that for wealth I'd be Of ev'n the least of them bereft, Or lose my parent, and be left An orphan'd Emily?

"Still should I be Emily, Although I look'd like Geraldine; I feel within this heart of mine No change could worked be."

THE SISTER'S EXPOSTULATION ON THE BROTHER'S LEARNING LATIN

Shut these odious books up, brother-- They have made you quite another Thing from what you us'd to be-- Once you lik'd to play with me-- Now you leave me all alone, And are so conceited grown With your Latin, you'll scarce look Upon any English book. We had us'd on winter eyes To con over Shakespeare's leaves, Or on Milton's harder sense Exercise our diligence-- And you would explain with ease The obscurer passages, Find me out the prettiest places The poetic turns, and graces, Which alas! now you are gone, I must puzzle out alone, And oft miss the meaning quite, Wanting you to set me right. All this comes since you've been under Your new master. I much wonder What great charm it is you see In those words, _musa, musæ_; Or in what they do excel Our word, _song_. It sounds as well To my fancy as the other. Now believe me, dearest brother, I would give my finest frock, And my cabinet, and stock Of new playthings, every toy, I would give them all with joy, Could I you returning see Back to English and to me.

THE BROTHER'S REPLY

Sister, fie, for shame, no more, Give this ignorant babble o'er, Nor with little female pride Things above your sense deride. Why this foolish under-rating Of my first attempts at Latin? Know you not each thing we prize Does from small beginnings rise? 'Twas the same thing with your writing, Which you now take such delight in. First you learnt the down-stroke line, Then the hair-stroke thin and fine, Then a curve, and then a better, Till you came to form a letter; Then a new task was begun, How to join them two in one; Till you got (these first steps past) To your fine text-hand at last. So though I at first commence With the humble accidence, And my study's course affords Little else as yet but words, I shall venture in a while At construction, grammar, style, Learn my syntax, and proceed Classic authors next to read, Such as wiser, better, make us, Sallust, Phædrus, Ovid, Flaccus: All the poets (with their wit), All the grave historians writ, Who the lives and actions show Of men famous long ago; Ev'n their very sayings giving In the tongue they us'd when living.

Think not I shall do that wrong Either to my native tongue, English authors to despise, Or those books which you so prize; Though from them awhile I stray, By new studies call'd away, Them when next I take in hand, I shall better understand. For I've heard wise men declare Many words in English are From the Latin tongue deriv'd, Of whose sense girls are depriv'd 'Cause they do not Latin know.-- But if all this anger grow From this cause, that you suspect By proceedings indirect, I would keep (as misers pelf) All this learning to myself; Sister, to remove this doubt, Rather than we will fall out, (If our parents will agree) You shall Latin learn with me.

NURSE GREEN

"Your prayers you have said, and you've wished Good night: What cause is there yet keeps my darling awake? This throb in your bosom proclaims some affright Disturbs your composure. Can innocence quake?

"Why thus do you cling to my neck, and enfold me, What fear unimparted your quiet devours?" "O mother, there's reason--for Susan has told me, A dead body lies in the room next to ours."

"I know it; and, but for forgetfulness, dear, I meant you the coffin this day should have seen, And read the inscription, and told me the year And day of the death of your poor old Nurse Green."

"O not for the wealth of the world would I enter A chamber wherein a dead body lay hid, Lest somebody bolder than I am should venture To go near the coffin and lift up the lid."

"And should they do so and the coffin uncover, The corpse underneath it would be no ill sight; This frame, when its animal functions are over, Has nothing of horror the living to fright.

"To start at the dead is preposterous error, To shrink from a foe that can never contest; Shall that which is motionless move thee to terror; Or thou become restless, 'cause they are at rest?

"To think harm of her our good feelings forbid us By whom when a babe you were dandled and fed; Who living so many good offices did us, I ne'er can persuade me would hurt us when dead.

"But if no endeavour your terrors can smother, If vainly against apprehension you strive, Come, bury your fears in the arms of your mother; My darling, cling close to me, I am alive."

GOOD TEMPER

In whatsoever place resides Good Temper, she o'er all presides; The most obdurate heart she guides.

Even Anger yields unto her power, And sullen Spite forgets to lour, Or reconciled weeps a shower;

Reserve she softens into Ease, Makes Fretfulness leave off to teaze, She Waywardness itself can please.

Her handmaids they are not a few: Sincerity that's ever true, And Prompt Obedience always new,

Urbanity that ever smiles, And Frankness that ne'er useth wiles, And Friendliness that ne'er beguiles,

And Firmness that is always ready To make young good-resolves more steady, The only safeguard of the giddy;

And blushing Modesty, and sweet Humility in fashion neat; Yet still her train is incomplete,

Unless meek Piety attend Good Temper as her surest friend, Abiding with her to the end.

MODERATION IN DIET

The drunkard's sin, excess in wine, Which reason drowns, and health destroys, As yet no failing is of thine, Dear Jim; strong drink's not given to boys.

You from the cool fresh steam allay Those thirsts which sultry suns excite; When choak'd with dust, or hot with play, A cup of water yields delight.

And reverence still that temperate cup, And cherish long the blameless taste; To learn the faults of men grown up, Dear Jim, be wise and do not haste.

They'll come too soon.--But there's a vice, That shares the world's contempt no less; To be in eating over-nice, Or to court surfeits by excess.

The first, as finical, avoid; The last is proper to a swine: By temperance meat is best enjoy'd; Think of this maxim when you dine.

Prefer with plain food to be fed, Rather than what are dainties styl'd; A sweet tooth in an infant's head Is pardon'd, not in a grown child.

If parent, aunt, or liberal friend, With splendid shilling line your purse, Do not the same on sweetmeats spend, Nor appetite with pampering nurse.

Go buy a book; a dainty eaten Is vanish'd, and no sweets remain; They who their minds with knowledge sweeten, The savour long as life retain.

Purchase some toy, a horse of wood, A pasteboard ship; their structure scan; Their mimic uses understood, The school-boy make a kind of man.

Go see some show; pictures or prints; Or beasts far brought from Indian land; Those foreign sights oft furnish hints, That may the youthful mind expand.

And something of your store impart, To feed the poor and hungry soul; What buys for you the needless tart, May purchase him a needful roll.

INCORRECT SPEAKING

Incorrectness in your speech Carefully avoid, my Anna; Study well the sense of each Sentence, lest in any manner It misrepresent the truth; Veracity's the charm of youth.

You will not, I know, tell lies, If you know what you are speaking.-- Truth is shy, and from us flies; Unless diligently seeking Into every word we pry, Falsehood will her place supply.

Falsehood is not shy, not she,-- Ever ready to take place of Truth, too oft we Falsehood see, Or at least some latent trace of Falsehood, in the incorrect Words of those who Truth respect.

CHARITY

O why your good deeds with such pride do you scan, And why that self-satisfied smile At the shilling you gave to the poor working man, That lifted you over the stile?

'Tis not much; all the bread that can with it be bought Will scarce give a morsel to each Of his eight hungry children;--reflection and thought Should you more humility teach.

Vain glory's a worm which the very best action Will taint, and its soundness eat thro'; But to give one's self airs for a small benefaction, Is folly and vanity too.

The money perhaps by your father or mother Was furnish'd you but with that view; If so, you were only the steward of another, And the praise you usurp is their due.

Perhaps every shilling you give in this way Is paid back with two by your friends; Then the bounty you so ostentatious display, Has little and low selfish ends.

But if every penny you gave were your own, And giving diminish'd your purse; By a child's slender means think how little is done, And how little for it you're the worse.

You eat, and you drink; when you rise in the morn, You are cloth'd; you have health and content; And you never have known, from the day you were born, What hunger or nakedness meant.

The most which your bounty from you can subtract Is an apple, a sweetmeat, a toy; For so easy a virtue, so trifling an act, You are paid with an innocent joy.

Give thy bread to the hungry, the thirsty thy cup; Divide with th' afflicted thy lot: This can only be practis'd by persons grown up, Who've possessions which children have not.

Having two cloaks, give one (said our Lord) to the poor; In such bounty as that lies the trial: But a child that gives half of its infantile store Has small praise, because small self-denial.

MY BIRTH-DAY

A dozen years since in this house what commotion, What bustle, what stir, and what joyful ado; Ev'ry soul in the family at my devotion, When into the world I came twelve years ago.

I've been told by my friends (if they do not belie me) My promise was such as no parent would scorn; The wise and the aged who prophesied by me, Augur'd nothing but good of me when I was born.

But vain are the hopes which are form'd by a parent, Fallacious the marks which in infancy shine; My frail constitution soon made it apparent, I nourish'd within me the seeds of decline.

On a sick bed I lay, through the flesh my bones started, My grief-wasted frame to a skeleton fell; My physicians foreboding took leave and departed, And they wish'd me dead now, who wished me well.

Life and soul were kept in by a mother's assistance, Who struggled with faith, and prevail'd 'gainst despair; Like an angel she watch'd o'er the lamp of existence, And never would leave while a glimmer was there.

By her care I'm alive now--but what retribution Can I for a life twice bestow'd thus confer? Were I to be silent, each year's revolution Proclaims--each new birth-day is owing to her.

The chance-rooted tree that by way-sides is planted, Where no friendly hand will watch o'er its young shoots, Has less blame if in autumn, when produce is wanted, Enrich'd by small culture it put forth small fruits.

But that which with labour in hot-beds is reared, Secur'd by nice art from the dews and the rains, Unsound at the root may with justice be feared, If it pay not with int'rest the tiller's hard pains.

THE BEASTS IN THE TOWER

Within the precincts of this yard, Each in his narrow confines barr'd, Dwells every beast that can be found On Afric or on Indian ground. How different was the life they led In those wild haunts where they were bred, To this tame servitude and fear, Enslav'd by man, they suffer here!

In that uneasy close recess Couches a sleeping Lioness; The next den holds a Bear; the next A Wolf, by hunger ever vext; There, fiercer from the keeper's lashes, His teeth the fell Hyena gnashes; That creature on whose back abound Black spots upon a yellow ground, A Panther is, the fairest beast That haunteth in the spacious East. He underneath a fair outside Does cruelty and treach'ry hide.

That cat-like beast that to and fro Restless as fire does ever go, As if his courage did resent His limbs in such confinement pent, That should their prey in forests take, And make the Indian jungles quake, A Tiger is. Observe how sleek And glossy smooth his coat: no streak On sattin ever match'd the pride Of that which marks his furry hide. How strong his muscles! he with ease Upon the tallest man could seize, In his large mouth away could bear him, And into thousand pieces tear him: Yet cabin'd so securely here, The smallest infant need not fear.

That lordly creature next to him A Lion is. Survey each limb. Observe the texture of his claws, The massy thickness of those jaws; His mane that sweeps the ground in length, Like Samson's locks, betok'ning strength. In force and swiftness he excels Each beast that in the forest dwells; The savage tribes him king confess Throughout the howling wilderness. Woe to the hapless neighbourhood, When he is press'd by want of food! Of man, or child, of bull, or horse, He makes his prey; such is his force. A waste behind him he creates, Whole villages depopulates. Yet here within appointed lines How small a grate his rage confines!

This place methinks resembleth well The world itself in which we dwell. Perils and snares on every ground Like these wild beasts beset us round. But Providence their rage restrains, Our heavenly Keeper sets them chains; His goodness saveth every hour His darlings from the Lion's power.

THE CONFIDANT

Anna was always full of thought As if she'd many sorrows known, Yet mostly her full heart was fraught With troubles that were not her own; For the whole school to Anna us'd to tell Whatever small misfortunes unto them befell.

And being so by all belov'd, That all into her bosom pour'd Their dearest secrets, she was mov'd To pity all--her heart a hoard, Or storehouse, by this means became for all The sorrows can to girls of tender age befall.

Though individually not much Distress throughout the school prevail'd, Yet as she shar'd it all, 'twas such A weight of woe that her assail'd, She lost her colour, loath'd her food, and grew So dull, that all their confidence from her withdrew.

Released from her daily care, No longer list'ning to complaint, She seems to breathe a different air, And health once more her cheek does paint. Still Anna loves her friends, but will not hear Again their list of grievances which cost so dear.

THOUGHTLESS CRUELTY

There, Robert, you have kill'd that fly-- And should you thousand ages try The life you've taken to supply, You could not do it.

You surely must have been devoid Of thought and sense, to have destroy'd A thing which no way you annoy'd-- You'll one day rue it.

'Twas but a fly perhaps you'll say, That's born in April, dies in May; That does but just learn to display His wings one minute,

And in the next is vanish'd quite. A bird devours it in his flight-- Or come a cold blast in the night, There's no breath in it.

The bird but seeks his proper food-- And Providence, whose power endu'd That fly with life, when it thinks good, May justly take it.

But you have no excuses for't-- A life by Nature made so short, Less reason is that you for sport Should shorter make it.

A fly a little thing you rate-- But, Robert, do not estimate A creature's pain by small or great; The greatest being

Can have but fibres, nerves, and flesh, And these the smallest ones possess, Although their frame and structure less Escape our seeing.

EYES

Lucy, what do you espy In the cast in Jenny's eye That should you to laughter move? I far other feelings prove. When on me she does advance Her good-natur'd countenance, And those eyes which in their way Saying much, so much would say, They to me no blemish seem, Or as none I them esteem; I their imperfection prize Above other clearer eyes.

Eyes do not as jewels go By the brightness and the show, But the meanings which surround them, And the sweetness shines around them.

Isabel's are black as jet, But she cannot that forget, And the pains she takes to show them Robs them of the praise we owe them. Ann's, though blue, affected fall; Kate's are bright, but fierce withal; And the sparklers of her sister From ill-humour lose their lustre. Only Jenny's eyes we see, By their very plainness, free From the vices which do smother All the beauties of the other.

PENNY PIECES

"I keep it, dear Papa, within my glove." "You do--what sum then usually, my love, Is there deposited? I make no doubt, Some Penny Pieces you are not without."

"O no, Papa, they'd soil my glove, and be Quite odious things to carry. O no--see, This little bit of gold is surely all That I shall want; for I shall only call For a small purchase I shall make, Papa, And a mere trifle I'm to buy Mamma, Just to make out the change: so there's no need To carry Penny Pieces, Sir, indeed."

"O now I know then why a blind man said Unto a dog which this blind beggar led,-- 'Where'er you see some fine young ladies, Tray, Be sure you lead me quite another way. The poor man's friend fair ladies us'd to be; But now I find no tale of misery Will ever from their pockets draw a penny.'-- The blind man did not see _they wear not any_."

THE RAINBOW

After the tempest in the sky How sweet yon Rainbow to the eye! Come, my Matilda, now while some Few drops of rain are yet to come, In this honeysuckle bower Safely shelter'd from the shower, We may count the colours o'er.-- Seven there are, there are no more; Each in each so finely blended, Where they begin, or where are ended, The finest eye can scarcely see. A fixed thing it seems to be; But, while we speak, see how it glides Away, and now observe it hides Half of its perfect arch--now we Scarce any part of it can see. What is colour? If I were A natural philosopher, I would tell you what does make This meteor every colour take: But an unlearned eye may view Nature's rare sights, and love them too. Whenever I a Rainbow see, Each precious tint is dear to me; For every colour find I there, Which flowers, which fields, which ladies wear; My favourite green, the grass's hue, And the fine deep violet-blue, And the pretty pale blue-bell, And the rose I love so well, All the wondrous variations Of the tulip, pinks, carnations, This woodbine here both flower and leaf;-- 'Tis a truth that's past belief, That every flower and every tree, And every living thing we see, Every face which we espy, Every cheek and every eye, In all their tints, in every shade, Are from the Rainbow's colours made.

THE FORCE OF HABIT

A little child, who had desired To go and see the Park guns fired, Was taken by his maid that way Upon the next rejoicing day. Soon as the unexpected stroke Upon his tender organs broke, Confus'd and stunn'd at the report, He to her arms fled for support, And begg'd to be convey'd at once Out of the noise of those great guns, Those naughty guns, whose only sound Would kill (he said) without a wound: So much of horror and offence The shock had giv'n his infant sense. Yet this was He in after days Who fill'd the world with martial praise, When from the English quarter-deck His steady courage sway'd the wreck Of hostile fleets, disturb'd no more By all that vast conflicting roar, That sky and sea did seem to tear, When vessels whole blew up in air, Than at the smallest breath that heaves, When Zephyr hardly stirs the leaves.

CLOCK STRIKING

Did I hear the church-clock a few minutes ago, I was ask'd, and I answer'd, I hardly did know, But I thought that I heard it strike three. Said my friend then, "The blessings we always possess We know not the want of, and prize them the less; The church-clock was no new sound to thee.

"A young woman, afflicted with deafness a year, By that sound you scarce heard, first perceiv'd she could _hear;_ I was near her, and saw the girl start With such exquisite wonder, such feelings of pride, A happiness almost to terror allied, She shew'd the sound went to her heart."

WHY NOT DO IT, SIR, TO-DAY?

"Why so I will, you noisy bird, This very day I'll advertise you, Perhaps some busy ones may prize you. A fine-tongu'd parrot as was ever heard, I'll word it thus--set forth all charms about you, And say no family should be without you."

Thus far a gentleman address'd a bird, Then to his friend: "An old procrastinator, Sir, I am: do you wonder that I hate her? Though she but seven words can say, Twenty and twenty times a day She interferes with all my dreams, My projects, plans, and airy schemes, Mocking my foible to my sorrow: I'll advertise this bird to-morrow."

To this the bird seven words did say: "Why not do it, Sir, to-day?"

HOME DELIGHTS

To operas and balls my cousins take me, And fond of plays my new-made friend would make me. In summer season, when the days are fair, In my godmother's coach I take the air. My uncle has a stately pleasure barge, Gilded and gay, adorn'd with wondrous charge; The mast is polish'd, and the sails are fine, The awnings of white silk like silver shine; The seats of crimson sattin, where the rowers Keep time to music with their painted oars; In this on holydays we oft resort To Richmond, Twickenham, or to Hampton Court. By turns we play, we sing--one baits the hook, Another angles--some more idle look At the small fry that sport beneath the tides, Or at the swan that on the surface glides. My married sister says there is no feast Equal to sight of foreign bird or beast. With her in search of these I often roam: My kinder parents make me blest at home. Tir'd of excursions, visitings, and sights, No joys are pleasing to these home delights.

THE COFFEE SLIPS

Whene'er I fragrant coffee drink, I on the generous Frenchman think, Whose noble perseverance bore The tree to Martinico's shore. While yet her colony was new, Her island products but a few, Two shoots from off a coffee-tree He carried with him o'er the sea. Each little tender coffee slip He waters daily in the ship, And as he tends his embryo trees, Feels he is raising midst the seas Coffee groves, whose ample shade Shall screen the dark Creolian maid. But soon, alas! his darling pleasure In watching this his precious treasure Is like to fade,--for water fails On board the ship in which he sails. Now all the reservoirs are shut, The crew on short allowance put; So small a drop is each man's share, Few leavings you may think there are To water these poor coffee plants;-- But he supplies their gasping wants, Ev'n from his own dry parched lips He spares it for his coffee slips. Water he gives his nurslings first, Ere he allays his own deep thirst; Lest, if he first the water sip, He bear too far his eager lip. He sees them droop for want of more;-- Yet when they reached the destin'd shore, With pride th' heroic gardener sees A living sap still in his trees. The islanders his praise resound; Coffee plantations rise around; And Martinico loads her ships With produce from those dear-sav'd slips.[1]

[Footnote 1: The name of this man was Desclieux, and the story is to be found in the Abbé Raynal's History of the Settlements and Trade of the Europeans in the East and West Indies, book XIII.]

THE DESSERT

With the apples and the plums Little Carolina comes, At the time of the dessert she Comes and drops her new last curt'sy; Graceful curt'sy, practis'd o'er In the nursery before. What shall we compare her to? The dessert itself will do. Like preserves she's kept with care, Like blanch'd almonds she is fair, Soft as down on peach her hair, And so soft, so smooth is each Pretty cheek as that same peach, Yet more like in hue to cherries; Then her lips, the sweet strawberries, Caroline herself shall try them If they are not like when nigh them; Her bright eyes are black as sloes, But I think we've none of those Common fruit here--and her chin From a round point does begin, Like the small end of a pear; Whiter drapery she does wear Than the frost on cake; and sweeter Than the cake itself, and neater, Though bedeck'd with emblems fine, Is our little Caroline.

TO A YOUNG LADY, ON BEING TOO FOND OF MUSIC

Why is your mind thus all day long Upon your music set; Till reason's swallow'd in a song, Or idle canzonet?

I grant you, Melesinda, when Your instrument was new, I was well pleas'd to see you then Its charms assiduous woo.

The rudiments of any art Or mast'ry that we try, Are only on the learner's part Got by hard industry.

But you are past your first essays; Whene'er you play, your touch, Skilful, and light, ensures you praise: All beyond that's too much.

Music's sweet uses are, to smooth Each rough and angry passion; To elevate at once, and soothe: A heavenly recreation.

But we misconstrue, and defeat The end of any good; When what should be our casual treat, We make our constant food.

While, to th' exclusion of the rest, This single art you ply, Your nobler studies are supprest, Your books neglected lie.

Could you in what you so affect The utmost summit reach; Beyond what fondest friends expect, Or skilful'st masters teach:

The skill you learn'd would not repay The time and pains it cost, Youth's precious season thrown away, And reading-leisure lost.

A benefit to books we owe, Music can ne'er dispense; The one does only _sound_ bestow, The other gives us _sense_.

TIME SPENT IN DRESS

In many a lecture, many a book, You all have heard, you all have read, That time is precious. Of its use Much has been written, much been said.

The accomplishments which gladden life, As music, drawing, dancing, are Encroachers on our precious time; Their praise or dispraise I forbear.

They should be practis'd or forborne, As parents wish, or friends desire: What rests alone in their own will Is all I of the young require.

There's not a more productive source Of waste of time to the young mind Than dress; as it regards our hours My view of it is now confin'd.

Without some calculation, youth May live to age and never guess, That no one study they pursue Takes half the time they give to dress.

Write in your memorandum-book The time you at your toilette spend; Then every moment which you pass, Talking of dress with a young friend:

And ever when your silent thoughts Have on this subject been intent, Set down as nearly as you can How long on dress your thoughts were bent.

If faithfully you should perform This task, 'twould teach you to repair Lost hours, by giving unto dress Not more of time than its due share.

THE FAIRY

Said Ann to Matilda, "I wish that we knew If what we've been reading of fairies be true. Do you think that the poet himself had a sight of The fairies he here does so prettily write of? O what a sweet sight if he really had seen The graceful Titania, the Fairy-land Queen! If I had such dreams, I would sleep a whole year; I would not wish to wake while a fairy was near.-- Now I'll fancy that I in my sleep have been seeing A fine little delicate lady-like being, Whose steps and whose motions so light were and airy, I knew at one glance that she must be a fairy. Her eyes they were blue, and her fine curling hair Of the lightest of browns, her complexion more fair Than I e'er saw a woman's; and then for her height, I verily think that she measur'd not quite Two feet, yet so justly proportion'd withal, I was almost persuaded to think she was tall. Her voice was the little thin note of a sprite-- There--d'ye think I have made out a fairy aright? You'll confess, I believe, I've not done it amiss." "Pardon me," said Matilda, "I find in all this Fine description, you've only your young sister Mary Been taking a copy of here for a fairy."

CONQUEST OF PREJUDICE

Unto a Yorkshire school was sent A Negro youth to learn to write, And the first day young Juba went All gaz'd on him as a rare sight.

But soon with alter'd looks askance They view his sable face and form, When they perceive the scornful glance Of the head boy, young Henry Orme.

He in the school was first in fame: Said he, "It does to me appear To be a great disgrace and shame A black should be admitted here."

His words were quickly whisper'd round, And every boy now looks offended; The master saw the change, and found That Orme a mutiny intended.

Said he to Orme, "This African It seems is not by you approv'd; I'll find a way, young Englishman, To have this prejudice remov'd.

"Nearer acquaintance possibly May make you tolerate his hue; At least 'tis my intent to try What a short month may chance to do."

Young Orme and Juba then he led Into a room, in which there were For each of the two boys a bed, A table, and a wicker chair.

He lock'd them in, secur'd the key, That all access to them was stopt; They from without can nothing see; Their food is through a sky-light dropt.

A month in this lone chamber Orme Is sentenc'd during all that time To view no other face or form Than Juba's parch'd by Afric clime.

One word they neither of them spoke The first three days of the first week; On the fourth day the ice was broke; Orme was the first that deign'd to speak.

The dreary silence o'er, both glad To hear of human voice the sound, The Negro and the English lad Comfort in mutual converse found.

Of ships and seas, and foreign coast, Juba can speak, for he has been A voyager: and Orme can boast He London's famous town has seen.

In eager talk they pass the day, And borrow hours ev'n from the night; So pleasantly time past away, That they have lost their reckoning quite.

And when their master set them free, They thought a week was sure remitted, And thank'd him that their liberty Had been before the time permitted.

Now Orme and Juba are good friends; The school, by Orme's example won, Contend who most shall make amends For former slights to Afric's son.

THE GREAT GRANDFATHER

My father's grandfather lives still, His age is fourscore years and ten; He looks a monument of time, The agedest of aged men.

Though years lie on him like a load, A happier man you will not see Than he, whenever he can get His great grand-children on his knee.

When we our parents have displeas'd, He stands between us as a screen; By him our good deeds in the sun, Our bad ones in the shade are seen.

His love's a line that's long drawn out, Yet lasteth firm unto the end; His heart is oak, yet unto us It like the gentlest reed can bend.

A fighting soldier he has been-- Yet by his manners you would guess, That he his whole long life had spent In scenes of country quietness.

His talk is all of things long past, For modern facts no pleasure yield-- Of the fam'd year of forty-five, Of William, and Culloden's field.

The deeds of this eventful age, Which princes from their thrones have hurl'd, Can no more interest wake in him Than stories of another world.

When I his length of days revolve, How like a strong tree he hath stood, It brings into my mind almost Those patriarchs old before the flood.

THE SPARTAN BOY

When I the memory repeat Of the heroic actions great, Which, in contempt of pain and death, Were done by men who drew their breath In ages past, I find no deed That can in fortitude exceed The noble Boy, in Sparta bred, Who in the temple minist'red.

By the sacrifice he stands, The lighted incense in his hands. Through the smoking censer's lid Dropp'd a burning coal, which slid Into his sleeve, and passed in Between the folds ev'n to the skin. Dire was the pain which then he prov'd; But not for this his sleeve he mov'd, Or would the scorching ember shake Out from the folds, lest it should make Any confusion, or excite Disturbance at the sacred rite. But close he kept the burning coal, Till it eat itself a hole In his flesh. The slanders by Saw no sign, and heard no cry, Of his pangs had no discerning, Till they smell'd the flesh aburning All this he did in noble scorn, And for he was a Spartan born.

Young student, who this story readest, And with the same thy thoughts now feedest, Thy weaker nerves might thee forbid To do the thing the Spartan did; Thy feebler heart could not sustain Such dire extremity of pain. But in this story thou mayst see, What may useful prove to thee. By his example thou wilt find, That to the ingenuous mind Shame can greater anguish bring Than the body's suffering; That pain is not the worst of ills, Not when it the body kills; That in fair religion's cause, For thy country, or the laws, When occasion due shall offer 'Tis reproachful _not to suffer._ If thou shouldst a soldier be, And a wound should trouble thee, If without the soldier's fame Thou to chance shouldst owe a maim, Do not for a little pain On thy manhood bring a stain; But to keep thy spirits whole, Think on the Spartan and the _coal._

QUEEN ORIANA'S DREAM

(_Text of 1818_)

On a bank with roses shaded, Whose sweet scent the violets aided, Violets whose breath alone Yields but feeble smell or none, (Sweeter bed Jove ne'er repos'd on When his eyes Olympus closed on,) While o'er head six slaves did hold Canopy of cloth o' gold, And two more did music keep, Which might Juno lull to sleep, Oriana who was queen To the mighty Tamerlane, That was lord of all the land Between Thrace and Samarchand, While the noon-tide fervor beam'd, Mused herself to sleep, and _dream'd_.

Thus far, in magnific strain, A young poet sooth'd his vein, But he had nor prose nor numbers To express a princess' slumbers.-- Youthful Richard had strange fancies, Was deep versed in old romances, And could talk whole hours upon The great Cham and Prester John,-- Tell the field in which the Sophi From the Tartar won a trophy-- What he read with such delight of, Thought he could as eas'ly write of-- But his over-young invention Kept not pace with brave intention. Twenty suns did rise and set, And he could no further get; But, unable to proceed, Made a virtue out of need, And, his labours wiselier deem'd of, Did omit _what the queen dream'd of._

ON A PICTURE OF THE FINDING OF MOSES BY PHARAOH'S DAUGHTER

This Picture does the story express Of Moses in the Bulrushes. How livelily the painter's hand By colours makes us understand!

Moses that little infant is. This figure is his sister. This Fine stately lady is no less A personage than a princess, Daughter of Pharaoh, Egypt's king; Whom Providence did hither bring This little Hebrew child to save. See how near the perilous wave He lies exposed in the ark, His rushy cradle, his frail bark! Pharaoh, king of Egypt land, In his greatness gave command To his slaves, they should destroy Every new-born Hebrew boy. This Moses was an Hebrew's son. When he was born, his birth to none His mother told, to none reveal'd, But kept her goodly child conceal'd. Three months she hid him; then she wrought With Bulrushes this ark, and brought Him in it to this river's side, Carefully looking far and wide To see that no Egyptian eye Her ark-hid treasure should espy. Among the river-flags she lays The child. Near him his sister stays. We may imagine her affright, When the king's daughter is in sight. Soon the princess will perceive The ark among the flags, and give Command to her attendant maid That its contents shall be display'd. Within the ark the child is found, And now he utters mournful sound. Behold he weeps, as if he were Afraid of cruel Egypt's heir! She speaks, she says, "This little one I will protect, though he the son Be of an Hebrew." Every word She speaks is by the sister heard. And now observe, this is the part The painter chose to show his art. Look at the sister's eager eye, As here she seems advancing nigh. Lowly she bends, says, "Shall I go And call a nurse to thee? I know A Hebrew woman liveth near, Great lady, shall I bring her here?" See! Pharaoh's daughter answers, "Go."-- No more the painter's art can show. He cannot make his figures move.-- On the light wings of swiftest love The girl will fly to bring the mother To be the nurse, she'll bring no other. To her will Pharaoh's daughter say, "Take this child from me away: For wages nurse him. To my home At proper age this child may come. When to our palace he is brought, Wise masters shall for him be sought To train him up, befitting one I would protect as my own son. And Moses be a name unto him, Because I from the waters drew him."

DAVID

It is not always to the strong Victorious battle shall belong. This found Goliath huge and tall: Mightiest giant of them all, Who in the proud Philistian host Defied Israel with boast.

With loud voice Goliath said: "Hear, armed Israel, gathered, And in array against us set: Ye shall alone by me be met. For am not I a Philistine? What strength may be compar'd to mine?

"Chuse ye a man of greatest might: And if he conquer me in fight, Then we will all servants be, King of Israel, unto thee. But if I prove the victor, then Shall Saul and all his armed men Bend low beneath Philistian yoke." Day by day these words he spoke, Singly traversing the ground. But not an Israelite was found To combat man to man with him, Who such prodigious force of limb Display'd. Like to a weaver's beam The pond'rous spear he held did seem. In height six cubits he did pass, And he was arm'd all o'er in brass.

Him we will leave awhile--and speak Of one, the soft down on whose cheek Of tender youth the tokens bare. Ruddy he was and very fair. David, the son of Jesse he, Small-siz'd, yet beautiful to see. Three brothers had he in the band Of warriors under Saul's command; Himself at home did private keep In Bethlem's plains his father's sheep.

Jesse said to this his son: "David, to thy brothers run, Where in the camp they now abide, And learn what of them may betide. These presents for their captains take, And of their fare inquiries make." With joy the youth his sire obey'd.-- David was no whit dismay'd When he arrived at the place Where he beheld the strength and face Of dread Goliath, and could hear The challenge. Of the people near Unmov'd he ask'd, what should be done To him who slew that boasting one, Whose words such mischiefs did forebode To th' armies of the living God?

"The king," they unto David say, "Most amply will that man repay, He and his father's house shall be Evermore in Israel free. With mighty wealth Saul will endow That man: and he has made a vow; Whoever takes Goliath's life, Shall have Saul's daughter for his wife."

His eldest brother, who had heard His question, was to anger stirr'd Against the youth: for (as he thought) Things out of his young reach he sought. Said he, "What mov'd thee to come here, To question warlike men? say, where And in whose care are those few sheep, That in the wilderness you keep? I know thy thoughts, how proud thou art: In the naughtiness of thy heart, Hoping a battle thou mayst see, Thou comest hither down to me."

Then answer'd Jesse's youngest son In these words: "What have I done? Is there not cause?" Some there which heard, And at the manner of his word Admir'd, report this to the king. By his command they David bring Into his presence. Fearless then, Before the king and his chief men, He shews his confident design To combat with the Philistine. Saul with wonder heard the youth, And thus address'd him: "Of a truth, No pow'r thy untried sinew hath To cope with this great man of Gath."

Lowly David bow'd his head, And with firm voice the stripling said: "Thy servant kept his father's sheep.-- Rushing from a mountain steep There came a lion, and a bear, The firstlings of my flock to tear. Thy servant hath that lion kill'd, And kill'd that bear, when from the field Two young lambs by force they seiz'd. The Lord was mercifully pleas'd Me to deliver from the paw Of the fierce bear, and cruel jaw Of the strong lion. I shall slay Th' unrighteous Philistine this day, If God deliver him also To me." He ceas'd. The king said, "Go: Thy God, the God of Israel, be In the battle still with thee."

David departs, unarmed, save A staff in hand he chanc'd to have. Nothing to the fight he took, Save five smooth stones from out a brook; These in his shepherd's scrip he plac'd, That was fasten'd round his waist. With staff and sling alone he meets The armed giant, who him greets With nought but scorn. Looking askance On the fair ruddy countenance Of his young enemy--"Am I A dog, that thou com'st here to try Thy strength upon me with a staff--?" Goliath said with scornful laugh. "Thou com'st with sword, with spear, with shield, Yet thou to me this day must yield. The Lord of Hosts is on my side, Whose armies boastful thou'st defied. All nations of the earth shall hear He saveth not with shield and spear."

Thus David spake, and nigher went, Then chusing from his scrip, he sent Out of his slender sling a stone.-- The giant utter'd fearful moan. The stone though small had pierced deep Into his forehead, endless sleep Giving Goliath--and thus died Of Philistines the strength and pride.

DAVID IN THE CAVE OF ADULLAM

(_Text of 1818_)

David and his three captains bold Kept ambush once within a hold. It was in Adullam's cave, Nigh which no water they could have, Nor spring, nor running brook was near To quench the thirst that parch'd them there. Then David, king of Israel, Strait bethought him of a well, Which stood beside the city gate, At Bethlem; where, before his state Of kingly dignity, he had Oft drunk his fill, a shepherd lad; But now his fierce Philistine foe Encamp'd before it he does know. Yet ne'er the less, with heat opprest, Those three bold captains he addrest, And wish'd that one to him would bring Some water from his native spring. His valiant captains instantly To execute his will did fly. The mighty Three the ranks broke through Of armed foes, and water drew For David, their beloved king, At his own sweet native spring. Back through their armed foes they haste, With the hard earn'd treasure graced. But when the good king David found What they had done, he on the ground The water pour'd. "Because," said he, "That it was at the jeopardy Of your three lives this thing ye did, That I should drink it, God forbid."

THREE POEMS NOT IN _POETRY FOR CHILDREN_

SUMMER FRIENDS

The Swallow is a summer bird; He in our chimneys, when the weather Is fine and warm, may then be heard Chirping his notes for weeks together.

Come there but one cold wintry day, Away will fly our guest the Swallow: And much like him we find the way Which many a gay young friend will follow.

In dreary days of snow and frost Closer to Man will cling the Sparrow: Old friends, although in life we're crost, Their hearts to us will never narrow.

Give me the bird--'give me the friend-- Will sing in frost--will love in sorrow-- Whate'er mischance to-day may send, Will greet me with his sight to-morrow.

A BIRTH-DAY THOUGHT

Can I, all gracious Providence! Can I deserve thy care: Ah! no; I've not the least pretence To bounties which I share.

Have I not been defended still From dangers and from death; Been safe preserv'd from ev'ry ill E'er since thou gav'st me breath?

I live once more to see the day That brought me first to light; Oh! teach my willing heart the way To take thy mercies right!

Tho' dazzling splendour, pomp, and show, My fortune has denied, Yet more than grandeur can bestow, Content hath well supplied.

I envy no one's birth or fame, Their titles, train, or dress; Nor has my pride e'er stretched its aim Beyond what I possess.

I ask and wish not to appear More beauteous, rich, or gay: Lord, make me wiser every year, And better every day.

THE BOY, THE MOTHER, AND THE BUTTERFLY

[1827]

Young William held the Butterfly in chase, And it was pretty to observe the race Betwixt the Fly and Child, who nigh had caught him But for a merry jest his Mother taught him. "My valiant Huntsman, fie!" she said, "for shame, You are too big a match for so small game, To catch the Hare, or nimble Squirrel try, Remember, William, He is BUT A FLY."

Not always is Humanity imprest By serious schooling; a light word or jest Will sometimes leave a moral sting behind When graver lessons vanish out of mind.

PRINCE DORUS

OR

FLATTERY PUT OUT OF COUNTENANCE

A POETICAL VERSION OF AN ANCIENT TALK

In days of yore, as Ancient Stories tell, A King in love with a great Princess fell. Long at her feet submiss the Monarch sigh'd, While she with stern repulse his suit denied. Yet was he form'd by birth to please the fair, Dress'd, danc'd, and courted with a Monarch's air; But Magic Spells her frozen breast had steel'd With stubborn pride, that knew not how to yield.

This to the King' a courteous Fairy told, And bade the Monarch in his suit be bold; For he that would the charming Princess wed, Had only on her cat's black tail to tread, When straight the Spell would vanish into air, And he enjoy for life the yielding fair.

He thank'd the Fairy for her kind advice.-- Thought he, "If this be all, I'll not be nice; Rather than in my courtship I will fail I will to mince-meat tread Minon's black tail."

To the Princess's court repairing strait, He sought the cat that must decide his fate; But when he found her, how the creature stared! How her back bristled, and her great eyes glared! That [tail] which he so fondly hop'd his prize, Was swell'd by wrath to twice its usual size; And all her cattish gestures plainly spoke She thought the affair he came upon, no joke. With wary step the cautious King draws near, And slyly means to attack her in her rear; But when he thinks upon her tail to pounce, Whisk--off she skips--three yards upon a bounce-- Again he tries, again his efforts fail-- Minon's a witch--the deuce is in her tail--

The anxious chase for weeks the Monarch tried, Till courage fail'd, and hope within him died. A desperate suit 'twas useless to prefer, Or hope to catch a tail of quicksilver.-- When on a day, beyond his hopes, he found Minon, his foe, asleep upon the ground; Her ample tail behind her lay outspread, Full to the eye, and tempting to the tread. The King with rapture the occasion bless'd. And with quick foot the fatal part he press'd. Loud squalls were heard, like howlings of a storm, And sad he gazed on Minon's altered form,-- No more a cat, but chang'd into a man Of giant size, who frown'd, and thus began:

"Rash King, that dared with impious design To violate that tail, that once was mine; What though the spell be broke, and burst the charms, That kept the Princess from thy longing arms,-- Not unrevenged shall thou my fury dare, For by that violated tail I swear, From your unhappy nuptials shall be born A Prince, whose Nose shall be thy subjects' scorn. Bless'd in his love thy son shall never be, Till he his foul deformity shall see, Till he with tears his blemish shall confess, Discern its odious length, and wish it less!"

This said, he vanish'd; and the King awhile Mused at his words, then answer'd with a smile "Give me a child in happy wedlock born, And let his Nose be made like a French horn; His knowledge of the fact I ne'er can doubt,-- If he have eyes, or hands, he'll find it out."

So spake the King, self-flatter'd in his thought, Then with impatient step the Princess sought. His urgent suit no longer she withstands, But links with him in Hymen's knot her hands.

Almost as soon a widow as a bride, Within a year the King her husband died; And shortly after he was dead and gone, She was deliver'd of a little son, The prettiest babe, with lips as red as rose, And eyes like little stars--but such a nose-- The tender Mother fondly took the boy Into her arms, and would have kiss'd her joy; His luckless nose forbade the fond embrace-- He thrust the hideous feature in her face.

Then all her Maids of Honour tried in turn, And for a Prince's kiss in envy burn; By sad experience taught, their hopes they miss'd, And mourn'd a Prince that never could be kiss'd.

In silent tears the Queen confess'd her grief, Till kindest Flattery came to her relief. Her maids, as each one takes him in her arms, Expatiate freely o'er his world of charms-- His eyes, lips, mouth--his forehead was divine-- And for the nose--they called it Aquiline-- Declared that Cæsar, who the world subdued, Had such a one--just of that longitude-- That Kings like him compelled folks to adore them, And drove the short-nos'd sons of men before them-- That length of nose portended length of days, And was a great advantage many ways-- To mourn the gifts of Providence was wrong-- Besides, _the Nose was not so very long_.--

These arguments in part her grief redrest, A mother's partial fondness did the rest; And Time, that all things reconciles by use, Did in her notions such a change produce. That, as she views her babe, with favour blind, She thinks him handsomest of human kind.

Meantime in spite of his disfigured face, Dorus (for so he's call'd) grew up apace; In fair proportion all his features rose, Save that most prominent of all--his Nose. That Nose, which in the infant could annoy, Was grown a perfect nuisance in the boy. Whene'er he walk'd, his Handle went before, Long as the snout of Ferret, or Wild Boar; Or like the Staff, with which on holy day The solemn Parish Beadle clears the way.

But from their cradle to their latest year, How seldom Truth can reach a Prince's ear! To keep th' unwelcome knowledge out of view, His lesson well each flattering Courtier knew; The hoary Tutor, and the wily Page, Unmeet confederates! dupe his tender age. They taught him that whate'er vain mortals boast-- Strength, Courage, Wisdom--all they value most-- Whate'er on human life distinction throws-- Was all comprised--in what?--a length of nose! Ev'n Virtue's self (by some suppos'd chief merit) In short-nosed folks was only want of spirit.

While doctrines such as these his guides instill'd, His Palace was with long-nosed people fill'd; At Court, whoever ventured to appear With a short nose, was treated with a sneer. Each courtier's wife, that with a babe is blest, Moulds its young nose betimes; and does her best, By pulls, and hauls, and twists, and lugs and pinches, To stretch it to the standard of the Prince's.

Dup'd by these arts, Dorus to manhood rose, Nor dream'd of aught more comely than his Nose, Till Love, whose pow'r ev'n Princes have confest, Claim'd the soft empire o'er his youthful breast. Fair Claribel was she who caused his care; A neighb'ring Monarch's daughter, and sole heir. For beauteous Claribel his bosom burn'd; The beauteous Claribel his flame return'd; Deign'd with kind words his passion to approve, Met his soft vows, and yielded love for love. If in her mind some female pangs arose At sight (and who can blame her?) of his Nose. Affection made her willing to be blind; She loved him for the beauties of his mind; And in his lustre, and his royal race, Contented sunk--one feature of his face.

Blooming to sight, and lovely to behold, Herself was cast in Beauty's richest mould; Sweet female majesty her person deck'd, Her face an angel's--save for one defect-- Wise Nature, who to Dorus over kind, A length of nose too liberal had assign'd, As if with us poor mortals to make sport, Had giv'n to Claribel a nose too short: But turned up with a sort of modest grace; It took not much of beauty from her face; And subtle Courtiers, who their Prince's mind Still watch'd, and turned about with every wind, Assur'd the Prince, that though man's beauty owes Its charm to a majestic length of nose, The excellence of Woman (softer creature) Consisted in the shortness of that feature. Few arguments were wanted to convince The already more than half persuaded Prince; Truths, which we hate, with slowness we receive, But what we wish to credit, soon believe.

The Princess's affections being gain'd, What but her Sire's approval now remain'd? Ambassadors with solemn pomp are sent To win the aged Monarch to consent (Seeing their States already were allied) That Dorus might have Claribel to bride. Her Royal Sire, who wisely understood The match propos'd was for both kingdoms' good, Gave his consent; and gentle Claribel With weeping bids her Father's court farewell.

With gallant pomp, and numerous array, Dorus went forth to meet her on her way; But when the Princely pair of lovers met, Their hearts on mutual gratulations set, Sudden the Enchanter from the ground arose, (The same who prophesied the Prince's nose) And with rude grasp, unconscious of her charms, Snatch'd up the lovely Princess in his arms, Then bore her out of reach of human eyes, Up in the pathless regions of the skies.

Bereft of her that was his only care, Dorus resign'd his soul to wild despair; Resolv'd to leave the land that gave him birth, And seek fair Claribel throughout the earth. Mounting his horse, he gives the beast the reins, And wanders lonely through the desert plains; With fearless heart the savage heath explores, Where the wolf prowls, and where the tiger roars, Nor wolf, nor tiger, dare his way oppose; The wildest creatures see, and shun, his NOSE. Ev'n lions fear! the elephant alone Surveys with pride a trunk so like his own. At length he to a shady forest came, Where in a cavern lived an aged dame; A reverend Fairy, on whose silver head A hundred years their downy snows had shed. Here ent'ring in, the Mistress of the place Bespoke him welcome with a cheerful grace, Fetch'd forth her dainties, spread her social board With all the Store her dwelling could afford. The Prince with toil and hunger sore opprest, Gladly accepts, and deigns to be her guest. But when the first civilities were paid, The dishes rang'd, and Grace in order said; The Fairy, who had leisure now to view Her guest more closely, from her pocket drew Her spectacles, and wip'd them from the dust, Then on her nose endeavour'd to adjust; With difficulty she could find a place To hang them on in her unshapely face; For if the Princess's was somewhat small, This Fairy scarce had any nose at all. But when by help of spectacles the Crone Discern'd a Nose so different from her own, What peals of laughter shook her aged sides! While with sharp jests the Prince she thus derides.

FAIRY

"Welcome, great Prince of Noses, to my cell; 'Tis a poor place,--but thus we Fairies dwell. Pray, let me ask you, if from far you come-- And don't you sometimes find it cumbersome?"

PRINCE

"Find what?"

FAIRY

"Your Nose--."

PRINCE

"My Nose, Ma'am!"

FAIRY

"No offence.-- The King your Father was a man of sense, A handsome man (but lived not to be old) And had a Nose cast in the common mould. Ev'n I myself, that now with age am grey, Was thought to have some beauty in my day, And am the Daughter of a King. Your sire In this poor face saw something to admire-- And I to shew my gratitude made shift-- Have stood his friend--and help'd him at a lift-- 'Twas I that, when his hopes began to fail, Shew'd him the spell that lurk'd in Minon's tail-- Perhaps you have heard--but come, Sir, you don't eat-- That Nose of yours requires both wine and meat-- Fall to, and welcome, without more ado-- You see your fare--what shall I help you to? This dish the tongues of nightingales contains; This, eyes of peacocks; and that, linnets' brains; That next you is a Bird of Paradise-- We fairies in our food are somewhat nice.-- And pray, Sir, while your hunger is supplied, Do lean your Nose a little on one side; The shadow, which it casts upon the meat, Darkens my plate, I see not what I eat "--

The Prince on dainty after dainty feeding, Felt inly shock'd at the old Fairy's breeding; And held it want of manners in the Dame, And did her country education blame. One thing he only wonder'd at,--what she So very comic in his nose could see. Hers, it must be confest, was somewhat short, And time and shrinking age accounted for't; But for his own, thank heaven, he could not tell That it was ever thought remarkable; A decent nose, of reasonable size, And handsome thought, rather than otherwise. But that which most of all his wonder paid, Was to observe the Fairy's waiting Maid; How at each word the aged Dame let fall She courtsied low, and smil'd assent to all; But chiefly when the rev'rend Grannam told Of conquests, which her beauty made of old.-- He smiled to see how Flattery sway'd the Dame, Nor knew himself was open to the same! He finds her raillery now increase so fast, That making hasty end of his repast, Glad to escape her tongue, he bids farewell To the old Fairy, and her friendly cell.

But his kind Hostess, who had vainly tried The force of ridicule to cure his pride, Fertile in plans, a surer method chose, To make him see the error of his nose; For till he view'd that feature with remorse, The Enchanter's direful spell must be in force.

Midway the road by which the Prince must pass, She rais'd by magic art a House of Glass; No mason's hand appear'd, nor work of wood; Compact of glass the wondrous fabric stood. Its stately pillars, glittering in the sun, Conspicuous from afar, like silver, shone. Here, snatch'd and rescued from th' Enchanter's might, She placed the beauteous Claribel in sight. The admiring Prince the chrystal dome survey'd, And sought access unto his lovely Maid; But, strange to tell, in all that mansion's bound, Nor door, nor casement, was there to be found. Enrag'd, he took up massy stones, and flung With such a force, that all the palace rung; But made no more impression on the glass, Than if the solid structure had been brass. To comfort his despair, the lovely maid Her snowy hand against her window laid; But when with eager haste he thought to kiss, His Nose stood out, and robb'd him of the bliss. Thrice he essay'd th' impracticable feat; The window and his lips can never meet.

The painful Truth, which Flattery long conceal'd, Rush'd on his mind, and "O!" he cried, "I yield; Wisest of Fairies, thou wert right, I wrong-- _I own, I own, I have a Nose too long_."

The frank confession was no sooner spoke, But into shivers all the palace broke, His Nose of monstrous length, to his surprise Shrunk to the limits of a common size; And Claribel with joy her Lover view'd, Now grown as beautiful as he was good. The aged Fairy in their presence stands, Confirms their mutual vows, and joins their hands. The Prince with rapture hails the happy hour, That rescued him from self-delusion's power; And trains of blessings crown the future life Of Dorus, and of Claribel, his wife.

NOTES

CHARLES LAMB AND BOOKS FOR CHILDREN

Charles Lamb's activities as a writer for children seem to have begun and ended in the service of Godwin. The earliest effort in this direction of which we have any knowledge is _The King and Queen of Hearts_, 1805, and the latest _Prince Dorus_, 1810 or 1811, unless we count _Beauty and the Beast_, possibly 1811, which in my opinion he did not write.

Lamb first met William Godwin (1756-1836), the philosopher, probably through the instrumentality of their mutual friend Thomas Holcroft, not long after Gillray had satirised Lamb and Lloyd, in his plate in the first number of _The Anti-Jacobin Review and Magazine_, August, 1798, as a frog and a toad, seated in the vicinity of Coleridge and Southey and reading together a volume labelled "Blank Verse, by Toad and Frog." "Pray, Mr. Lamb," said Godwin when he first made Lamb's acquaintance, "are you toad or frog?" It was feared that trouble might ensue, but Lamb and Godwin were found the next morning at breakfast together and they became good, though never very intimate, friends.

Godwin, who had been for a while a minister at Ware, in Hertfordshire, came to London in 1779, and took up literature as a profession seriously in 1783. His _Political Justice_ was published in 1793, _Caleb Williams_ in 1794, and _St. Leon_ in 1799. After loving at a distance Mrs. Opie and Mrs. Inchbald, Godwin married Mary Wollstonecraft in 1797. Their daughter afterwards became Mrs. Shelley, the wife of the poet. Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin died in the year of her marriage, and in 1801 Godwin married again, a Mrs. Clairmont, a widow. Lamb detested her. None the less it was she who took to publishing and who incited him and his sister to write the charming children's books in this volume.

Lamb helped Godwin with other literary ventures before the publishing business was started. In 1800 he wrote an epilogue to his tragedy of "Antonio" (see the essay in Vol. II., "The Old Actors," for a description of the luckless first night), and he advised him in the composition of "Faulkener," another tragedy, which failed in 1807 and which also had a prologue by Lamb. And a letter is extant showing Lamb toiling at a review of Godwin's _Chaucer_ in 1803, but the review itself is not forthcoming.

The publishing business was started in 1805 on Mrs. Godwin's initiative. At first, owing to the undesirability of connecting the name of a political and moral firebrand like Godwin with books for children, it was arranged that the business, which was in Hanway Street, Oxford Street, should bear the name of the manager, Thomas Hodgkins, while the books contributed by Godwin were to be signed Edward Baldwin. In 1806, however, Mrs. Godwin opened a shop at 41 Skinner Street, Snow Hill (now demolished), and published in her own name as M.J. Godwin & Co., at The Children's Library.

For her the Lambs wrote _The King and Queen of Hearts_ (by Charles Lamb), 1805; _Tales from Shakespear_, 1807; _The Adventures of Ulysses_ (by Charles Lamb), 1808; _Mrs. Leicester's School and Poetry for Children_, 1809; and _Prince Dorus_ (by Charles Lamb), 1811. Mrs. Godwin translated tales from the French, Godwin contributed _Baldwin's Fables_, _Baldwin's Pantheon_, and histories of Greece, England and Rome, and Hazlitt wrote an English Grammar. The principal illustrator to the firm was William Mulready.

Although Lamb had the most cordial disliking for Mrs. Godwin, he always stood by his old friend her husband. Between 1811 and 1821 the two men seem to have had little to do with each other; but in 1822 Lamb came to Godwin's assistance to much purpose. The title to Godwin's house in Skinner Street was successfully contested in that year, and Godwin became a bankrupt. A fund was therefore set on foot for him by Lamb and others, Lamb's own contribution being £50. Godwin, however, never rightly rallied, and thenceforward lived very quietly, wrote the _History of the Commonwealth_ and _Lives of the Necromancers_, and died in 1836. Mrs. Godwin survived him until 1841.

Knowing what we do--from Dowden's _Shelley_ and other sources--it is not possible greatly to admire Godwin's character, nor is the second Mrs. Godwin a subject for enthusiasm; but the part played by them in the Lambs' literary life was extremely valuable. Charles Lamb had, it is true, other stimulus, and without his work for children, sweet though it is, his name would still be a household word; but Mary Lamb might, but for the Godwins, have gone almost silent to the grave. Her writings, with their sweet gravity and tender simplicity, were called forth wholly by the Bad Baby, as Lamb called Mrs. Godwin.

Lamb's views on the literature of the nursery had crystallised long before he began to write children's books himself. In a letter to Coleridge, October 23,1802, he had said:--

"'Goody Two Shoes' is almost out of print. Mrs. Barbauld's stuff has banished all the old classics of the nursery; and the shopman at Newberry's hardly deigned to reach them off an old exploded corner of a shelf, when Mary asked for them. Mrs. B.'s and Mrs. Trimmer's nonsense lay in piles about. Knowledge insignificant and vapid as Mrs. Barbauld's books convey, it seems, must come to a child in the _shape of knowledge_, and his empty noddle must be turned with conceit of his own powers when he has learnt, that a horse is an animal, and Billy is better than a horse, and such like; instead of that beautiful interest in wild tales, which made the child a man, while all the while he suspected himself to be no bigger than a child. Science has succeeded to poetry no less in the little walks of children than with men. Is there no possibility of averting this sore evil? Think what you would have been now, if, instead of being fed with tales and old wives' fables in childhood, you had been crammed with geography and natural history!"

Hence when the time came Lamb was all ready with a nursery method of his own.

* * * * *

Page 1. TALES FROM SHAKESPEAR.

Mary Lamb was asked to write the _Tales from Shakespear_, with help from her brother, in the spring of 1806 or the winter of 1805. I have seen the statement that this was at the instigation of Hazlitt, but Lamb does not say so. The first mention of the work is in Lamb's letter to Manning, May 10, 1806:--

"She [Mary] says you saw her writings about the other day, and she wishes you should know what they are. She is doing for Godwin's bookseller twenty of Shakspeare's plays, to be made into children's tales. Six are already done by her, to wit, 'The Tempest,' 'Winter's Tale,' 'Midsummer Night,' 'Much Ado,' 'Two Gentlemen of Verona,' and 'Cymbeline'; and the 'Merchant of Venice' is in forwardness. I have done 'Othello' and 'Macbeth,' and mean to do all the tragedies. I think it will be popular among the little people, besides money. It's to bring in sixty guineas. Mary has done them capitally, I think, you'd think. These are the humble amusements we propose, while you are gone to plant the cross of Christ among barbarous pagan anthropophagi. Quam homo homini præstat! but then, perhaps, you'll get murdered, and we shall die in our beds with a fair literary reputation."

Mary Lamb's letters to Sarah Stoddart (afterwards Sarah Hazlitt), continue the story. This is on June 2, 1806:--

My _Tales_ are to be published in separate story-books; I mean, in single stories, like the children's little shilling books. I cannot send you them in Manuscript, because they are all in the Godwins' hands; but one will be published very soon, and then you shall have it _all in print_. I go on very well, and have no doubt but I shall always be able to hit upon some such kind of job to keep going on. I think I shall get fifty pounds a year at the lowest calculation; but as I have not yet seen any _money_ of my own earning, for we do not expect to be paid till Christmas, I do not feel the good fortune, that has so unexpectedly befallen me, half so much as I ought to do. But another year, no doubt, I shall perceive it.

When I write again, you will hear tidings of the farce, for Charles is to go in a few days to the Managers to inquire about it. But that must now be a next-year's business too, even if it does succeed; so it's all looking forward, and no prospect of present gain. But that's better than no hopes at all, either for present or future times.

Charles has written Macbeth, Othello, King Lear, and has begun Hamlet; you would like to see us, as we often sit writing on one table (but not on one cushion sitting), like Hermia and Helena in the Midsummer Night's Dream; or, rather, like an old literary Darby and Joan: I taking snuff; and he groaning all the while, and saying he can make nothing of it, which he always says till he has finished, and then he finds out he has made something of it....

Martin [Burney] has just been here. My Tales (_again_) and Charles's Farce has made the boy mad to turn Author; and he has written a Farce, and he has made the Winter's Tale into a story; but what Charles says of himself is really true of Martin, for _he can make nothing at all of it_; and I have been talking very eloquently this morning, to convince him that nobody can write farces, &c., under thirty years of age. And so I suppose he will go home and new model his farce.

A little later, June 26, Lamb writes to Wordsworth:--

"Mary is just stuck fast in All's Well that Ends Well. She complains of having to set forth so many female characters in boy's clothes. She begins to think Shakspear must have wanted Imagination. I to encourage her, for she often faints in the prosecution of her great work, flatter her with telling how well such and such a play is done. But she is stuck fast and I have been obliged to promise to assist her."

Then we have Mary Lamb to Sarah Stoddart again (early in July, 1806): "I am in good spirits just at this present time, for Charles has been reading over the _Tale_ I told you plagued me so much, and he thinks it one of the very best: it is 'All's Well that Ends Well.'"

The work was finished in the autumn of 1806 and published at the end of the year, dated 1807. Lamb sent Wordsworth a copy on January 29, 1807, with the following letter:--

"We have book'd off from Swan and Two Necks, Lad Lane, this day (per Coach) the Tales from Shakespear. You will forgive the plates, when I tell you they were left to the direction of Godwin, who left the choice of subjects to the bad baby, who from mischief (I suppose) has chosen one from damn'd beastly vulgarity (vide 'Merch. Venice'), where no atom of authority was in the tale to justify it--to another has given a name which exists not in the tale, Nic Bottom, and which she thought would be funny, though in this I suspect _his_ hand, for I guess her reading does not reach far enough to know Bottom's Christian name--and one of Hamlet, and Grave digging, a scene which is not hinted at in the story, and you might as well have put King Canute the Great reproving his courtiers--the rest are Giants and Giantesses. Suffice it, to save our taste and damn our folly, that we left it all to a friend W.G. who in the first place cheated me into putting a name to them, which I did not mean, but do not repent, and then wrote a puff about their _simplicity_, &c., to go with the advertisement as in my name! Enough of this egregious dupery. I will try to abstract the load of teazing circumstances from the Stories and tell you that I am answerable for Lear, Macbeth, Timon, Romeo, Hamlet, Othello, for occasionally a tail piece or correction of grammar, for none of the cuts and all of the spelling. The rest is my Sister's.--We think Pericles of hers the best, and Othello of mine--but I hope all have some good. As You Like It, we like least.

"So much, only begging you to tear out the cuts and give them to Johnny, as 'Mrs. Godwin's fancy'.

"C.L.

"_Our love to all_.

"I had almost forgot, My part of the Preface begins in the middle of a sentence, in last but one page, after a colon, thus:--

":--_which if they be happily so done_, &c. (see page 2, line 7 from foot).

The former part hath a more feminine turn and does hold me up something as an instructor to young ladies: but upon my modesty's honour I wrote it not.

"Godwin told my Sister that the Baby chose the subjects: a fact in taste."

This letter not only tells us how the preface was written--the first part, I take it, by William Godwin--but what Lamb himself thought of the pictures; which I reproduce in the large edition. It is customary to attribute the designs to Mulready and the engraving to William Blake.

I have set up the _Tales_ from the second edition, 1809, because it embodies certain corrections and was probably the last edition in which the Lambs took any interest. The changes of word are few. I note the more important; Page 5, line 1, "recollection" was "remembrance" in the first edition; page 10, line 27, "voracious" was "ugly" in the first edition; page 15, line 21, "vessel" was "churn"; page 42, line 30, "continued" was in the first edition "remained"; page 108, foot, "But she being a woman" had run in the first edition, "But she being a bad ambitious woman." I leave other minute differences to the Bibliographer.

The second edition was issued in two forms: one similar to the first edition and one with only frontispiece, a portrait of Shakespear, and the following foreword from the pen, I imagine, of Mr. Godwin:--

ADVERTISEMENT TO THE SECOND EDITION

The Proprietors of this work willingly pay obedience to the voice of the public. It has been the general sentiment, that the style in which these Tales are written, is not so precisely adapted for the amusement of mere children, as for an acceptable and improving present to young ladies advancing to the state of womanhood. They therefore now offer to the public an edition prepared with suitable elegance. In the former impression they gave twenty prints, illustrative of the twenty tales which compose these volumes, for they knew that it was a grievous thing and a disappointment to a child, to find some tales without the recommendation of a print, which the others possessed. The prints were therefore made from spirited designs, but did not pretend to high finishing in the execution. To this edition they have annexed merely a beautiful head of our immortal Dramatist, from a much admired painting by Zoust.--They are satisfied that every reader of taste will thank them for not suppressing the former Preface, though not exactly applicable on the present occasion.

N.B.--A few copies have been worked off on the plan of the former impression, for the use of those who rather coincide in the original conception of the writer, than in the opinion above stated.

Lamb, we may be sure, had no hand in this manifesto, but whatever protest he may have made was unsuccessful. It reappears in the third edition, while the preface there has the general alteration of the first person singular to the first person plural: "our young readers" for "my young readers," and so forth. But this was probably Godwinian work.

The Godwins also issued some or all of the _Tales_ separately at sixpence each (the two ordinary volumes cost eight shillings) with three plates to each, of a different design from those in the two-volume edition. These little books are exceedingly rare, but copies have been discovered both plain and coloured. The plates are attributed to Blake.

The Lambs' _Tales from Shakespear_ were not, Mr. Bertram Dobell has pointed out, the first experiment of the kind. In 1783 was published in Paris _Contes Moraux, Amusans et Instructifs, à l'usage de la Jeunesse tirés des Tragédies de Shakespear_. Par M. Perrin. The Lambs did not, however, borrow anything from M. Perrin, even if they were aware of his work. The _Tales_ are peculiarly their own.

The _Tales from Shakespear_ are, and probably will continue to be, the most widely distributed of all the Lambs' work. In England it may be that _Elia_ has had as many readers; but abroad the _Tales from Shakespear_ easily lead. In the British Museum catalogue I find translations in French, German, Swedish, Spanish, and Polish. (No complete translation of _Elia_ into any language is known, not even in French, although a selection of the essays will be found at the end of Depret's monograph, _De L'Humeur Littéraire en Angleterre_, 1877.) In England almost every Christmas brings a new edition of the _Tales_ and often an imitation.

Although Mary Lamb was the true author of the book, as of _Mrs. Leicester's School_ and of _Poetry for Children_, her share being much greater than her brother's in all of these, she was not until many years later associated publicly with any of them. The _Tales_ were attributed to Charles Lamb, presumably against his wish, as we see from a sentence in the letter to Wordsworth quoted above, and the other two books had no name attached to them at all. Why Mary Lamb preserved such strict anonymity we do not now know; but it was probably from a natural shrinking from any kind of publicity after the unhappy publicity which she had once gained by her misfortune.

* * * * *

Page 240. THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES.

Lamb must have been as busy in the years 1806-1808 as in any of his life; for he then not only had his India House work, but wrote his share of the _Tales from Shakespear_, _Mrs. Leicester's School_ and _Poetry for Children_, wrote all of _The Adventures of Ulysses_, and finally prepared his _Dramatic Specimens_. Moreover in 1806 he had the harassment of the alterations and impending production of "Mr. H."

On February 26, 1808, he tells Manning that he has just finished _The Adventures of Ulysses_ and the _Specimens_, describing _The Adventures of Ulysses_ as "intended to be an introduction to the reading of Telemachus! it is done out of the Odyssey, not from the Greek. I would not mislead you: nor yet from Pope's Odyssey, but from an older translation of one Chapman. The 'Shakspeare Tales' suggested the doing it." Many years after Lamb wrote to Barton (August 10, 1827): "Did you ever read my 'Adventures of Ulysses,' founded on Chapman's old translation of it? for children or _men_. Ch. is divine, and my abridgment has not quite emptied him of his divinity."

Chapman's _Homer_ was the folio which Leigh Hunt tells us he once saw Lamb kiss.

Writing to Coleridge on October 23, 1802, Lamb says:--

"I have just finished Chapman's Homer. Did you ever read it?--it has most the continuous power of interesting you all along, like a rapid original, of any; and in the uncommon excellence of the more finished parts goes beyond Fairfax or any of 'em. The metre is fourteen syllables, and capable of all sweetness and grandeur. Cowper's ponderous blank verse detains you every step with some heavy Miltonism; Chapman gallops off with you his own free pace....

"I will tell you more about Chapman and his peculiarities in my next. I am much interested in him."

A brief correspondence which passed between Godwin and Lamb just before the publication of _The Adventures of Ulysses_ may be given here.

WILLIAM GODWIN TO CHARLES LAMB

Skinner Street, _March_ 10, 1808.

Dear Lamb,--I address you with all humility, because I know you to be _tenax propositi_. Hear me, I entreat you, with patience.

It is strange with what different feelings an author and a bookseller looks at the same manuscript. I know this by experience: I was an author, I am a bookseller. The author thinks what will conduce to his honour: the bookseller what will cause his commodities to sell.

You, or some other wise man, I have heard to say, It is children that read children's books, when they are read, but it is parents that choose them. The critical thought of the tradesman put itself therefore into the place of the parent, and what the parent will condemn.

We live in squeamish days. Amid the beauties of your manuscript, of which no man can think more highly than I do, what will the squeamish say to such expressions as these,--'devoured their limbs, yet warm and trembling, lapping the blood,' page 10. Or to the giant's vomit, page 14; or to the minute and shocking description of the extinguishing the giant's eye in the page following. You, I daresay, have no formed plan of excluding the female sex from among your readers, and I, as a bookseller, must consider that if you have you exclude one half of the human species.

Nothing is more easy than to modify these things if you please, and nothing, I think, is more indispensable.

Give me, as soon as possible, your thoughts on the matter.

I should also like a preface. Half our customers know not Homer, or know him only as you or I know the lost authors of antiquity. What can be more proper than to mention one or two of those obvious recommendations of his works, which must lead every human creature to desire a nearer acquaintance.--Believe me, ever faithfully yours,

W. GODWIN.

CHARLES LAMB TO WILLIAM GODWIN

_March_ 11, 1808.

Dear Godwin,--The giant's vomit was perfectly nauseous, and I am glad you pointed it out. I have removed the objection. To the other passages I can find no other objection but what you may bring to numberless passages besides, such as of Scylla snatching up the six men, etc.,--that is to say, they are lively images of _shocking_ things. If you want a book, which is not occasionally to _shock_, you should not have thought of a tale which was so full of anthropophagi and wonders. I cannot alter these things without enervating the Book, and I will not alter them if the penalty should be that you and all the London booksellers should refuse it. But speaking as author to author, I must say that I think _the terrible_ in those two passages seems to me so much to preponderate over the nauseous, as to make them rather fine than disgusting. Who is to read them, I don't know: who is it that reads Tales of Terror and Mysteries of Udolpho? Such things sell. I only say that I will not consent to alter such passages, which I know to be some of the best in the book. As an author I say to you, an author, Touch not my work. As to a bookseller I say, Take the work such as it is, or refuse it. You are as free to refuse it as when we first talked of it. As to a friend I say, Don't plague yourself and me with nonsensical objections. I assure you I will not alter one more word.

As the reader will see, Lamb made only the one alteration; nor did he add a preface recommending the works of Homer.

I have set up _The Adventures of Ulysses_ from the second edition, 1819, because it probably contains Lamb's final revision of the text. The punctuation differs considerably from that of the first edition, but there are, I think, only four changes of words. On page 251, line 34, "and" was inserted before "snout"; on page 257, line g, "does" was substituted for "do"; on page 266, line 7 from foot, "over" was substituted for "above"; and on page 276, line 5 from foot, "it" was inserted after "keep."

The suggestion has been made that, since Lamb states in the preface that this work was designed as a supplement to _The Adventures of Telemachus_, he was also the author of one of the versions of Fénélon's popular tale. But this, I think, has no foundation in fact. We know from Lamb's letter to Godwin that the impulse to write _The Adventures of Ulysses_ came from Godwin, and it was natural that he, a bookseller, should wish to associate this new venture with a volume so well known and so acceptable as the _Telemachus_. Now and then in the story Lamb deliberately refers to Fénélon's work, as when in the fourth chapter he says:--

"It were useless to describe over again what has been so well told already; or to relate those soft arts of courtship which the goddess used to detain Ulysses; the same in kind which she afterwards practised upon his less wary son, whom Minerva, in the shape of Mentor, hardly preserved from her snares when they came to the Delightful Island together in search of the scarce departed Ulysses."

This is drawn not from Chapman or Homer, but from the Archbishop of Cambrai. Lamb introduced it in accordance with the first sentence of his preface.

Lamb adapted Chapman very freely. For the material in Chapter I. we must go to Chapman, Books IX. and X.; for Chapter II., to Books X. and XL; for Chapter III., to Book XII.; for Chapter IV., to the early books; for Chapters V., VI. and VII., to Chapman, Books V.-IX. and XIII.; for Chapter VIII., to Books XIII. and XIV.; and for Chapter IX. to the end, to Chapman, Book XVI. and onwards. It must be agreed that Lamb performed a difficult task with great skill and success, especially when we consider his want of interest, frequently admitted, in stories. But the pleasure of adding dignity and sweetness to the character of Ulysses seems to have been very considerable as he worked (or so I imagine), and he made practically a new thing, a very persuasive blend of ancient and modern. The book has not been so popular as the _Tales from Shakespear_, but it has, I think, finer literary merits and may perhaps be read by older intellects with more satisfaction.

* * * * *

Page 316. MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL.

This charming little book was published by Mrs. Godwin at the end of 1808, dated 1809, with no author's name attached. Besides, however, ample internal evidence as to its authorship, there are many references to it in Lamb's letters. Why it was issued anonymously we cannot now learn; probably, as I have suggested, from Mary Lamb's unwillingness to have her name in print. The _Tales from Shakespear_, it will be remembered, were described always as being by Charles Lamb, although Mary did far more than half, and it was at the outset her book. Her share of _Mrs. Leicester's School_ was equally great, and a sentence in one of her letters to Sarah Stoddart suggests that it was hers in inception also: "I have been busy making waistcoats, and plotting new work to succeed the _Tales_." Possibly it was because his share in the book was so small that Lamb refused to sign _Mrs. Leicester's School_ as he had the _Tales from Shakespear_; possibly he had other reasons, the title-page of his _Dramatic Specimens_ being one of them. When, a little while afterwards, the _Poetry for Children_ was published, it was stated to be "by the author of _Mrs. Leicester's School_," while several of the poems when reprinted by Mylius (see notes below) were signed Mrs. Leicester. Thus, Mary Lamb's last chance of seeing her name on a title-page vanished. But we may feel confident that her own wishes were consulted in the matter.

Lamb's share in _Mrs. Leicester's School_ we know from a letter to Bernard Barton (January 23, 1824): "My Sister's part in the Leicester School (about two thirds) was purely her own; as it was (to the same quantity) in the Shakspeare Tales which bear my name. I wrote only the Witch Aunt, the first going to Church, and the final Story, about a little Indian girl in a ship."

The little book was well received, and was quietly popular for some years, running into eight editions by 1823. I imagine, however, that it was little known between 1830 and the end of the century. Latterly there has been a revival in interest. One or two critics have touched rapturous heights in their praise. Landor wrote to Crabb Robinson in April, 1831:--

It is now several days since I read the book you recommended to me, "Mrs. Leicester's School;" and I feel as if I owed you a debt in deferring to thank you for many hours of exquisite delight. Never have I read anything in prose so many times over within so short a space of time as "The Father's Wedding-day." Most people, I understand, prefer the first tale--in truth a very admirable one--but others could have written it. Show me the man or woman, modern or ancient, who could have written this one sentence: "When I was dressed in my new frock, I wished poor mamma was alive, to see how fine I was on papa's wedding day; and I ran to my favourite station at her bedroom door." How natural, in a little girl, is this incongruity--this impossibility! Richardson would have given his "Clarissa," and Rousseau his "Heloïse" to have imagined it. A fresh source of the pathetic bursts out before us, and not a bitter one. If your Germans can show us anything comparable to what I have transcribed, I would almost undergo a year's gargle of their language for it. The story is admirable throughout--incomparable, inimitable....

Landor wrote to Lady Blessington to the same effect. Praise of this book is so pleasant to read that I quote his second letter too:--

One of her tales is, with the sole exception of the _Bride of Lammermoor_, the most beautiful tale in prose composition in any language, ancient or modern. A young girl has lost her mother, the father marries again, and marries a friend of his former wife. The child is ill reconciled to it, but being dressed in new clothes for the marriage, she runs up to her mother's chamber, filled with the idea how happy that dear mother would be at seeing her in all her glory--not reflecting, poor soul! that it was only by her mother's death that she appeared in it. How natural, how novel is all this! Did you ever imagine that a fresh source of the pathetic would burst forth before us in this trodden and hardened world? I never did, and when I found myself upon it, I pressed my temples with both hands, and tears ran down to my elbows.

And Coleridge remarked to Allsop:--

It at once soothes and amuses me to think--nay, to know--that the time will come when this little volume of my dear and well-nigh oldest friend, Mary Lamb, will be not only enjoyed but acknowledged as a rich jewel in the treasury of our permanent English literature; and I cannot help running over in my mind the long list of celebrated writers, astonishing geniuses, Novels, Romances, Poems, Histories and dense Political Economy quartos which, compared with _Mrs. Leicester's School_, will be remembered as often and prized as highly as Wilkie's and Glover's _Epics_ and Lord Bolingbroke's _Philosophies_ compared with _Robinson Crusoe_.

I have set up the book from the second edition, 1809, because the Lambs' final text is probably to be found there. Although certain additional minor differences were made in the eighth and ninth editions, 1821 and 1825, I think it very unlikely that they were made by Mary or Charles Lamb. The principal alteration between the second and first editions is page 317, line 6, "your eyes were red with weeping," for "The traces of tears might still be seen on your cheeks." The other differences are very slight, mostly being in punctuation, but there are also a few changes of word. I leave these, however, to the Bibliographer.

The eighth edition was furnished with the following preface; which, though it is signed "The Author," is not, I think, from either Mary or Charles Lamb's pen. I rather suspect Mrs. Godwin.

"Tell me a story, Mamma," was almost the first request my own child made me when she understood the meaning of a story, and I soon discovered I had no easier method of managing a very difficult temper than by adapting my stories to the errors she committed, or the good qualities she announced; but as I found it a very difficult and troublesome task to repeat the same story precisely the same each time, and as a sensible child, even at so early a period as three years of age, will remember where the narrator forgets, and never fail to detect the mistakes of the second repetition, I came to the resolution to print a small collection of stories for very young children, composed merely of circumstances incidental to their age.

The great error of many juvenile books is their deviation from truth; and as so much is absolutely necessary to be taught, why add to the labour by impressing false ideas on the mind of an infant, and thus lose the opportunity of making amusement the vehicle to convey instruction? A Mother only is, perhaps, capable of adapting stories to the capacities of very young Children; for a Mother only watches the unfolding of their ideas, and the bent of their dispositions. If one good Mother finds these tales of service to her in her arduous but pleasing task, my purpose will be answered.

It is stated that a French version of _Mrs. Leicester's School_, under the title _Les Jeunes Pensionnaires_, was published. I have seen, however, only _Petits Conies à l'usage de la Feunesse traduits de l'Anglais par M'me M. D'Avot_, 1823, which contains "Elisabeth Villiers, ou l'Oncle marin," "Charlotte Wilmot," "Marguerite Green, ou la jeune Mahométane," and "Arabella Hardy, ou la Traversée."

_Mrs. Leicester's School_ calls for little annotation, except for the purpose of relating the stories to the lives of their writers; for it contains some very valuable autobiographical matter. But there are a few minor points too.

Page 316. _Dedication_.

In the choice of Amwell School as the name of Mrs. Leicester's establishment Mary (or Charles) returned after an inveterate Lamb habit to the old Hertfordshire days. Amwell, where the New River rises, is only a few miles from Widford and Blakesware. The signature to the dedication, "M.B.," may have been a little joke for the amusement of Martin Burney, who had taken such interest in the progress of the _Tales from Shakespear_ and was in those days a special favourite with Mary Lamb.

Page 319. I.--_Elizabeth Villiers_. "The Sailor Uncle."

By Mary Lamb. The story of the little girl learning her letters from her mother's grave may have belonged to Widford churchyard; otherwise there seems to be no personal memory here.

Page 328. II.--_Louisa Manners_. "The Farm House."

By Mary Lamb. Much of the description of the farm and country is probably from memory of the old days at Mackery End, where we know Mary Lamb to have gone with her little brother Charles some time about 1780, and perhaps herself earlier. It is, however, possible that Blakesware is meant, since Mary Lamb speaks of the grandmother: Mrs. Bruton of Mackery End was her great aunt. One feels that the grandmother's sorrow at not being remembered (on page 329) is from life; and also the episode with Will Tasker (on the same page), and the description (and probably the name) of Old Spot, the shepherd, on page 333.

Page 334. III.--_Ann Withers_. "The Changeling."

By Mary Lamb. In one of the later editions of this story certain small changes were made, not, I fancy, by Mary Lamb. For example, on page 349, line 19, the sentence was made to read: "Neither dancing, nor any foolish lectures, could do much for Miss Lesley, she remained _for some time_ wanting in gracefulness of carriage; but all that is usually attributed to dancing music _finally effected_." The italics indicate the additions of the nice editorial hand.

Page 350. IV.--_Elinor Forester_. "The Father's Wedding Day."

By Mary Lamb. It is this story which Landor so much admired (see above). The pretty song, "Balow, my babe," was probably "Ann Bothwell's Lament," beginning "Balow, my boy."

Page 354. V.--_Margaret Green_. "The Young Mahometan."

By Mary Lamb, and perhaps her most perfect work. Here we have a description of Blakesware, the home of the Plumers, which for many years was uninhabited by the family, and left from 1778 to 1792 in the sole charge of Mrs. Field, Charles and Mary's maternal grandmother. Charles, since he was born in 1775, would on his visits have known no power superior to his grandmother; but Mary, who was born in 1764, would have occasionally encountered Mrs. Plumer, just as Margaret Green met Mrs. Beresford. Probably Mrs. Plumer and Mrs. Beresford were very like. Probably also Mrs. Field maintained silence with her grandchild, for we know that neither she nor her daughter rightly understood Mary Lamb. Mrs. Field used to speak of her "poor moythered brains." Mary's description of the old house should be compared with Charles's in the _Elia_ essays "Blakesmoor in H----shire" and "Dream-Children." In one point they are at variance; for Mary says that the twelve Cæsars "hung" round the hall, and her brother that they were life-size busts. I have the authority of a gentleman who remembers them at Gilston, whither they were removed, for saying that Charles Lamb's memory was the more accurate. The picture of the little girl with a lamb seems to have made an equal impression on both their minds; and both mention the shuttlecocks on the table.

Page 360. VI.--_Emily Barton_. "Visit to the Cousins."

By Mary Lamb. Possibly autobiographical in the matter of the first play. Charles Lamb's first play was the opera "Artaxerxes;" Mary's may quite well have been Congreve's "Mourning Bride." The book-shop at the corner of St. Paul's Churchyard would be Harris's (late Newbery's); that in Skinner Street (No. 41) was, of course, Godwin's, where _Mrs. Leicester's School_ was published and sold. This pleasant art of advertising one's wares in one's own children's books was brought to perfection by Newbery, and by Harris, his successor, whose tiny histories are full of reminders of the merits of the corner of St. Paul's Churchyard. By making Mr. Barton hesitate between the two shops and then go to Mrs. Godwin's, Lamb (for here it was probably he and not his sister) carried the joke a step farther than Newbery.

The following account of the figures on old St. Dunstan's Church (the children of to-day are taken to Cheapside to see Bennett's clock) is given in Hughson's _London_ (1805):--

On the outside of the church, within a niche and pediment at the south-west end, over the clock, are two figures of savages or wild men, carved in wood, and painted natural colour, as big as the life, standing erect, with each a knotty club in his hand, with which they alternately strike the quarters, not only their arms, but even their heads, moving at every blow.

Moxon tells us that when the old church was pulled down and the figures were removed, Lamb shed tears. The figures I am told still exist in the garden of the villa in Regent's Park--"St. Dunstan's"--that once belonged to the Marquis of Hertford and is now the Earl of Londesborough's London House.

Miss Pearson kept a toy-shop at No. 7 Fleet Street. The Lambs knew her through Charles's old schoolmistress, Mrs. Reynolds.

Page 368. VII.--_Maria Howe_. "The Witch Aunt."

By Charles Lamb. This story is peculiarly interesting to students of Lamb's life, for it describes, probably with absolute fidelity, his Aunt Hetty, and elaborates the passage concerning Stackhouse's _New History of the Bible_, which is to be found in the _Elia_ essay "Witches and other Night Fears." Aunt Hetty is described elsewhere by Lamb in his _Elia_ essays, "Christ's Hospital" and "My Relations;" and in the poem "Written on the Day of my Aunt's Funeral." In Mary Lamb's letter to Sarah Stoddart on September 21, 1803, is a short passage corroborative of Lamb's account of the relations subsisting between his aunt and his parents:--

My father had a sister lived with us--of course, lived with my Mother, her sister-in-law; they were, in their different ways, the best creatures in the world--but they set out wrong at first. They made each other miserable for full twenty years of their lives--my Mother was a perfect gentlewoman, my Aunty as unlike a gentlewoman as you can possibly imagine a good old woman to be; so that my dear Mother (who, though you do not know it, is always in my poor head and heart) used to distress and weary her with incessant and unceasing attention and politeness, to gain her affection. The old woman could not return this in kind, and did not know what to make of it--thought it all deceit, and used to hate my Mother with a bitter hatred; which, of course, was soon returned with interest.

Lamb told Coleridge, in a letter upon his aunt's death, "she was to me the 'cherisher of infancy.'"

In the _Elia_ essay on "Witches" no mention is made of Glanvil; but there is a passage in the unpublished version of _John Woodvil_ which mentions both it and Stackhouse:--

I can remember when a child the maids Would place me on their lap, as they undrest me, As silly women use, and tell me stories Of Witches--Make me read "Glanvil on Witchcraft," And in conclusion show me in the Bible, The old Family-Bible, with the pictures in it, The 'graving of the Witch raising up Samuel, Which so possest my fancy, being a child, That nightly in my dreams an old Hag came And sat upon my pillow.

That was written some eight or nine years earlier than "Maria Howe;" the essay on "Witches" some fifteen years later. Joseph Glanvill (1636-1680) issued his _Philosophical Considerations touching Witches and Witchcraft_, in 1666.

Page 375. VIII.--_Charlotte Wilmot_. "The Merchant's Daughter."

By Mary Lamb.

Page 378. IX.--_Susan Yates_. "First Going to Church."

By Charles Lamb. John Lamb, the father, came from Lincolnshire, but Charles did not know that county at all. The remark, "to see how goodness thrived," may well have been John Lamb's, or possibly his father's; and Lamb's own first impressions of church, probably acquired at the Temple (which he mentions here by comparison), were, it is easy to believe, identical with the imaginary narrator's. Church bells seem always to have had an attraction for him: he has a pretty reference to them in _John Woodvil_, and a little poem in _Blank Verse_, 1798, entitled "The Sabbath Bells."

Page 384. X.--_Arabella Hardy_. "The Sea Voyage."

By Charles Lamb. Nothing else that Lamb wrote is quite so far from the ordinary run of his thoughts; and nothing has, I think, more charm.

* * * * *

Page 389. The King and Queen of Hearts This is probably the first of Charles Lamb's books for children. Of its history nothing is known: the proof that Charles Lamb wrote it is to be found in a letter from Lamb to Wordsworth, now in America, dated February 1, 1806, the concluding portion of which, and the only portion that has been printed--beginning "_Apropos_ of Spenser"--will be found in most editions of the correspondence tacked on to the letter dated June, 1806. In the earlier part of this missive Lamb enumerates the books which he has just despatched to Wordsworth by carrier from London. Among these is an edition of Spenser, leading to the "_apropos_." Also: "there comes W. Hazlitt's book about Human Action for Coleridge; a little song book for Sarah Coleridge; a Box for Hartley ...; a Paraphrase on _The King and Queen of Hearts_, of which I, being the author, beg Mr. Johnny Wordsworth's acceptance and opinion. _Liberal Criticism_, as G. Dyer declares, I am always ready to attend to."

As Charles Lamb is not known to have written children's books for any one but the Godwins, who in 1806 were still publishing under cover of Thomas Hodgkins' name, in Hanway Street, it is reasonable to assume that if a paraphrase of _The King and Queen of Hearts_ nursery rhyme could be found, bearing Hodgkins' or Godwin's name, and dated 1805 or 1806, Lamb would be its author. That such a work did exist was proved by the advertisements at the end of other of Godwin's juvenile books. In the first edition of _Mrs. Leicester's School_, 1809, is this announcement:--

"Likewise, the following elegant and approved Publications, containing each of them the Incidents of an agreeable Tale, exhibited in a Series of Engravings, Price 1s. plain, or 1s. 6d. coloured.

"1. _The King and Queen of Hearts: showing how notably the Queen made her Tarts, and how Scurvily the Knave stole them away._ &c."

This series was called the Copperplate Series. In due course a copy of No. 1, _The King and Queen of Hearts_, was found in the library of Miss Edith Pollock, bought by her at the sale of the late Mr. Andrew W. Tuer, an authority upon old children's literature and the publisher to whose enterprise we owe the facsimile editions of _Prince Dorus_ and _Poetry for Children_. Mr. Tuer, however, had not suspected Lamb's authorship. The cover of Miss Pollock's copy bears the date 1809, which means that the little book was re-bound as required with the date of the current year upon it. Copies of the first edition have since been discovered and sold for enormous sums. The date is 1806.

In a copy of _The Looking Glass_, another of Godwin's books, _The King and Queen of Hearts_ is thus advertised, with a new quatrain, probably also from Lamb's pen:--

"Price 1s. Plain; or 15. 6ed. Coloured, The King and Queen of Hearts, With the Rogueries of the Knave who stole away the Queen's Pies. Illustrated in Fifteen elegant Engravings: Agreeably to the famous Historical Ballad on the Subject.

"I write of Tarts; how sweet a tale! You'll lick your lips to hear it told: I show you mighty Kings and Queens, Robes of scarlet, Crowns of gold."

This little book, _The Looking Glass_, which relates the early life of William Mulready (1786-1863), was issued in facsimile by Mr. F.G. Stephens in 1885, with an interesting account of its history. Therein Mr. Stephens wrote: "Mr. Linnell told me that the cuts to the once well-known _Nongtong Paw_ [Vol. 6 of "The Copperplate Series;" see above], _The Sullen Woman and the Pedlar_ [Vol. 2 of the same series], _Think before you speak_, and _The King and Queen of Hearts_, were designed by Mulready." We thus discover who was the illustrator. My own feeling is that the plates came first and Lamb's verses later.

_The King and Queen of Hearts_ cannot be said to add anything characteristic to the body of Lamb's writings. But its discovery is historically valuable in establishing--by the date 1805 on the engraved title-page--the fact that before the _Tales from Shakespear_, which are usually thought to be the brother and sister's first experiment in writing for children, Charles at any rate had tried his hand at that pastime. _The King and Queen of Hearts_ thus becomes his first juvenile work.

* * * * *

Page 404. POETRY FOR CHILDREN.

This little book, attributed on the title-page merely to the author of _Mrs. Leicester's School_, was published in two minute volumes at three shillings by Mrs. Godwin in 1809.

Robert Lloyd, writing from London to his wife in April, 1809, says of Charles and Mary Lamb: "If we may use the expression, their Union of affection is what we conceive of marriage in Heaven. They are the World _one_ to the _other_. They are writing a Book of Poetry for children together." Later: "It is _task_ work to them, they are writing for money, and a Book of Poetry for Children being likely to sell has induced them to compose one." Writing to Coleridge of the _Poetry for Children_, in June, 1809, Lamb says: "Our little poems are but humble, but they have no name. You must read them, remembering they were task-work; and perhaps you will admire the number of subjects, all of children, picked out by an old Bachelor and an old Maid. Many parents would not have found so many." Charles Lamb, by the way, was then thirty-four, and Mary Lamb forty-four. In sending the book to Manning, Lamb said that his own share of the poems was only one-third.

The little book seems to have been quickly allowed by its publisher to pass into the void. Possibly the two-volume form was found to be impracticable: at any rate _Poetry for Children_ disappeared, many of its pieces at various times reappearing with the signature Mrs. Leicester in _The Junior Class-Book_ (two pieces), in _The First Book of Poetry_ (twenty-two pieces) and _The Poetical Class Book_ (three pieces), all compiled by William Frederic Mylius, a Christ's Hospital master, and published by Mrs. Godwin. Hence the extreme rarity of _Poetry for Children_, which seemed to be completely lost until, in 1877, a copy was found in Australia. Two or three other copies of the English edition have since come to light. Mylius used also the frontispieces to the two volumes. As I have not seen all the editions of these compilations, it is possible that my figures may not be complete.

An American edition of _Poetry for Children_ was published in 1812 at Boston. The poems "Clock Striking," "Why not do it, Sir, To-day?" and "Home Delights," were omitted.

I have placed against the poems, in the notes that follow, the authorship--brother or sister's--which seems to me the more probable. But I hope it will be understood that I do this at a venture, and, except in a few cases, with no exact knowledge.

Page 404. _Envy_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 404. _The Reaper's Child_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 405. _The Ride_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 406. _The Butterfly_.

(?) Mary Lamb. The poet referred to was William Roscoe, author of _The Butterfly's Ball_, 1807.

Page 407. _The Peach_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 408. _Chusing a Name_.

By Charles Lamb; as we know from a letter from Lamb to Robert Lloyd.

Page 408. _Crumbs to the Birds_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 409. _The Rook and the Sparrows_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 410. _Discontent and Quarrelling_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 411. _Repentance and Reconciliation_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 412. _Neatness in Apparel_.

(?) Charles Lamb.

Page 412. _The New-born Infant_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 413. _Motes in the Sun-beams_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 413. _The Boy and Snake_.

(?) Mary Lamb. This poem was the subject of the frontispiece to Vol. I. of the original edition. According to a letter from Jean D. Montgomery printed in _The County Gentleman_ in August, 1907, there is extant in Kirkcudbrightshire a legend on which this poem is probably based. She writes thus:--

"At the farm of Newlaw, in the parish of Rerrick, in Kirkcudbrightshire, Scotland, some people named Crosbie lived about the year 1782--at least, they had a son, Douglas, who was born there in that year. When the child grew old enough to trot about by himself his mother was in the habit of giving him his plate of porridge and milk to take outside the farm and eat every morning. He had probably done so for long enough, when one day, his mother, happening to go out, saw him seated on the ground eating his porridge in company with an adder, who, however, instead of hurting the child, merely supped up the milk. When the reptile edged a little nearer to the boy than was quite equal, Douglas slapped the adder on his head with his horn spoon, saying, "Keep yer ain side o' the plate, Grey Bairdie."

The mother was, of course, terrified, but waited until the boy had finished his meal, when she called in the neighbours and killed the adder.

Curiously enough a precisely similar story turned up in Hungary in 1907 and was telegraphed to the London press from Budapest.

Page 415. _The First Tooth_.

Mary Lamb. The last line was quoted by Lamb in his Popular Fallacy "That Home is Home": "It has been prettily said, that 'a babe is fed with milk and praise.'"

Page 416. _To a River in which a Child was Drowned_.

By Charles Lamb. It was reprinted by him in the _Works_, 1818, the text of which is here given. I imagine Lamb to have found the metre and manner of the poem in the ballad "Gentle River, Gentle River" (translated from the Spanish "Rio Verde, Rio Verde"), which is printed in the _Percy Reliques_. Reprinted by Mylius in _The Junior Class-Book_.

Page 416. _The First of April_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 417. _Cleanliness_.

(?) Charles Lamb. In the little essay "Saturday Night," written in 1829, Lamb disputes the truth of the adage "Cleanliness is next to Godliness."

Page 418. _The Lame Brother_.

(?) Mary Lamb. John Lamb, Charles's elder brother, was lamed when a young man (much older than the brother in the verses) by a falling stone. In "Dream-Children" Lamb states that he himself was once lame-footed too, and had to be carried by John. Somewhere between the two brothers the historical truth of this poem probably resides.

Page 419. _Going into Breeches_.

(?) Charles Lamb.

Page 420. _Nursing_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 421. _The Text_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 422. _The End of May_.

Mary Lamb. Talfourd writes, apparently with reference to this poem: "One verse, which she did not print--the conclusion of a little poem supposed to be expressed in a letter by the son of a family who, when expecting the return of its father from sea, received news of his death,--recited by her to Mr. Martin Burney, and retained in his fond recollection, may afford a concluding example of the healthful wisdom of her lessons:--

'I can no longer feign to be A thoughtless child in infancy; I tried to write like young Marie, But I am James her brother; And I can feel--but she's too young-- Yet blessings on her prattling tongue, She sweetly soothes my mother.'"

Page 424. _Feigned Courage_.

(?) Charles Lamb.

Page 425. _The Broken Doll_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 426. _The Duty of a Brother_.

(?) Mary Lamb, amended by Charles Lamb.

Page 427. _Wasps in a Garden_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 428. _What is Fancy?_

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 429. _Anger_.

(?) Charles Lamb.

Page 429. _Blindness_.

(?) Charles Lamb.

Page 430. _The Mimic Harlequin_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 430. _Written in the First Leaf of a Child's Memorandum Book_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 431. _Memory_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 432. _The Reproof_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 432. _The Two Bees_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 434. _The Journey from School and to School_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 435. _The Orange_.

(?) Charles Lamb.

Page 436. _The Young Letter-writer_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 437. _The Three Friends_.

By Charles Lamb. Reprinted by him in his _Works_, 1818, with the text now given, which differs very slightly from that of 1809.

Page 442. _On the Lord's Prayer_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 443. "_Suffer little Children_ ..."

(?) Mary Lamb. With this poem ended Vol. I. of the original edition of _Poetry for Children_. With the following poem Vol. II. began.

Page 445. _The Magpye's Nest, or a Lesson of Docility_.

(?) Mary Lamb. In this poem some trace of John Lamb senior's poetical manner may be seen. Fables drawn from bird life stand at the beginning of his _Poetical Pieces on Several Occasions_ (see Vol. II.).

Page 447. _The Boy and the Sky-lark_.

(?) Charles Lamb. The frontispiece to Vol. II. of _Poetry for Children_ took its subject from this poem.

Page 449. _The Men and Women, and the Monkeys_.

(?) Charles Lamb.

Page 449. _Love, Death, and Reputation_.

(?) Charles Lamb. Mr. Swinburne contributed to _The Athenæum_ of February 2, 1878, a note on this poem:--

At the 96th page of the new edition of Charles and Mary Lamb's '_Poetry for Children_' is a little poem of which the authorship can hardly be doubtful, done into rhyme from the blank verse of Webster; a translation by no means to its advantage. The original is to be found in the third act of the "Duchess of Malfi," in the magnificent scene where the privacy of the wedded lovers is invaded by Ferdinand; in whose mouth the apologue transferred or "conveyed" by Lamb into the quaint and delightful little book over the recovery of which all the hearts of his lovers are yet warm with rejoicing, has a tragic and terrible significance. It may be worth remark that the _Poetry for Children_ appeared the year after that--most fortunate of years for all students of the higher English drama--which was made nobly memorable by the appearance of the matchless and priceless volume of '_Specimens of English Dramatic Poets who Lived about the Time of Shakespear_,' in which the fratricide's apologue is translated at length; so that while some part of Lamb's too rare leisure was given to the gentle "task work" of making rhymes for little children, the first strong savour of a fierce delight in his new intimacy with the third and most tragic of English tragic poets must have been fresh and hot upon him.

Page 450. _The Sparrow and the Hen_.

(?) Charles Lamb. Mrs. Glasse would be Hannah Glasse, of _The Art of Cookery made Plain and Easy_, 1747.

Page 451. _Which is the Favourite?_

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 451. _The Beggar-Man_.

By John Lamb, Charles and Mary's brother; as we know from a letter from Charles Lamb to Robert Lloyd.

Page 452. _Choosing a Profession_.

By Mary Lamb, as we know on the evidence of Robert Lloyd.

Page 453. _Breakfast_.

This also, on Robert Lloyd's evidence, is by Mary Lamb.

Page 454. _Weeding_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 455. _Parental Recollections_.

(?) Charles Lamb. The first line was quoted by him in the _Elia_ essay "The Old and the New Schoolmaster." The poem may be considered as the poetical correlative of the beautiful _Elia_ essay "Dream-Children."

Page 455. _The Two Boys_.

By Mary Lamb. Quoted by Lamb, as by "a quaint poetess," in his _Elia_ essay "Detached Thoughts on Books and Reading."

Page 456. _The Offer_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 456. _The Sister's Expostulation on the Brother's Learning Latin_.

(?) Charles Lamb. Many years later Mary Lamb wrote a sonnet in _Blackwood_ on a kindred subject, addressed to Emma Isola. Mary Lamb taught Latin to Mary Cowden Clarke (when Mary Victoria Novello) and to William Hazlitt's son, also to Miss Kelly.

Page 457. _The Brother's Reply_.

(?) Charles Lamb.

Page 459. _Nurse Green_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 460. _Good Temper_.

(?) Charles Lamb.

Page 460. _Moderation in Diet_.

(?) Mary Lamb. The "splendid shilling" (borrowed from Phillips' parody of Milton) suggests a touch of Charles Lamb.

Page 462. _Incorrect Speaking_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 462. _Charity_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 463. _My Birth-day_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 464. _The Beasts in the Tower_.

(?) Charles Lamb. There is a hint of Blake's "Tiger, tiger burning bright" (which Lamb so greatly admired) in--

That cat-like beast that to and fro Restless as fire doth ever go.

Page 466. _The Confidant_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 466. _Thoughtless Cruelty_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 467. _Eyes_.

(?) Charles Lamb.

Page 468. _Penny Pieces_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 469. _The Rainbow_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 470. _The Force of Habit_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 470. _Clock Striking_.

(?) Charles Lamb. The late R.H. Shepherd, in his edition of Lamb, remarks upon the resemblance between lines 10 and 11 and the couplet in "Hester"--

if 'twas not pride It was a joy to that allied--

as proving Charles Lamb to be the author.

Page 471. _Why not do it, Sir, To-day?_

(?) Charles Lamb.

Page 471. _Home Delights_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 472. _The Coffee Slips_.

(?) Charles Lamb.

Page 473. _The Dessert_.

(?) Charles Lamb.

Page 474. _To a Young Lady, on being too fond of Music_.

(?) Mary Lamb. Melesinda also was the name of the heroine in "Mr. H."

Page 475. _Time spent in Dress_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 476. _The Fairy_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 476. _Conquest of Prejudice_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 478. _The Great Grandfather_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 479. _The Spartan Boy_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 480. _Queen Oriana's Dream_.

By Charles Lamb. Reprinted by him in his _Works_, 1818, the text of which is here given.

Page 481. _On a Picture of the Finding of Moses, etc_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 483. _David_.

(?) Mary Lamb.

Page 486. _David in the Cave of Adullam_.

Reprinted by Lamb, with Mary Lamb's name to it, in the _Works_, 1818, the text of which is here given. This was the last poem in _Poetry for Children_.

* * * * *

Page 488, _Summer Friends_.

By Mary Lamb. This poem was sent by Robert Lloyd to his wife in April, 1809, as being one of the poems which Mary Lamb was writing for _Poetry for Children_. It was not, however, included in that collection.

Page 488. _A Birth-day Thought_.

This poem is printed by Mylius in his _First Book of Poetry_. In the edition of 1811 the initials M.L. are appended; in later editions, C.L. Hence it is included here. But we have no proof that M.L. stands for Mary Lamb, or C.L. for Charles Lamb; although the coincidence would be very striking if they did not.

Page 489. _The Boy, the Mother, and the Butterfly_.

These verses, which have not before been collected with Lamb's writings, exist in an album which belonged probably to Thomas Westwood, son of the Lambs' providers at Enfield. They are signed Charles Lamb and dated October 9, 1827, at Enfield Chase.

* * * * *

Page 490. PRINCE DORUS, OR FLATTERY PUT OUT OF COUNTENANCE.

Apart from the internal evidence, which is very strong, I think, the only reason for attributing this tale to Charles Lamb is an entry in Crabb Robinson's diary for May 15, 1811: "A very pleasant call on Charles and Mary Lamb. Read his version of _Prince Dorus, the Long-Nosed King_." In his reminiscences of Lamb and others (in MS.) Robinson said, under 1811: "C. Lamb wrote this year for children a version of the Nursery Tale of Prince Dorus. I mention this, because it is not in his collected works and like two vols. of Poems for Children likely to be lost. I this year tried to persuade him to make a new version of the old Tale of Reynard the Fox. He said he was sure it would not succeed--sense for humour, said L., is extinct." What particular version of the story was used by Lamb we cannot tell, but in a little book called _Adventures of Musul; or, The Three Gifts_, printed for Vernor & Hood and E. Newbery in 1800, "The Prince that had a Long Nose" is one of the tales. Lamb's version does not call for annotation.

INDEX

A

"Adventures of Ulysses," 240, 505. "All's Well that Ends Well," 115. Allsop, Thomas, and Coleridge, 509. Amwell and the Lambs, 510. "Anger," 429, 518. "Ann Withers," 334, 511. _Anti-Jacobin and Review, The_, 499. "Arabella Hardy," 384, 513. "As You Like It," 44.

B

Baldwin, Edward (Godwin's pseudonym), 500. Barbauld, Mrs., Lamb on, 500. Barton, Bernard, Lamb's letters to, 505, 508. "Beasts in the Tower, The," 464, 520. "Beggar Man, The," 451, 520. Bells and Lamb, 513. "Birthday Thought, A," 488, 522. Blake, William, 503, 520. Blakesware and the Lambs, 511. "Blindness," 429, 518. "Boy and the Sky-lark, The," 447, 519. "Boy and the Snake, The," 413, 516. "Boy, Mother, and Butterfly, The," 489, 522. "Breakfast," 453, 520. "Broken Doll, The," 425, 518. "Brother's Reply, The," 457, 520. Burney, Martin, and the Lambs, 502, 510, 518. "Butterfly, The," 406, 516.

C

"Changeling, The," 334, 511. Chapman, George, his _Homer_, 505, 507. "Charity," 462, 520. "Charlotte Wilmot," 375, 513. "Choosing a Profession," 452, 520. "Chusing a Name," 408, 516. Clairmont, Mrs. (afterwards Mrs. Godwin), 499. "Cleanliness," 417, 517. "Clock Striking," 470, 521. "Coffee Slips, The," 472, 521. Coleridge, S.T., Lamb's letters to, 500, 505, 515. ---- on _Mrs. Leicester's School_, 509. "Comedy of Errors," 136. "Confidant, The," 466, 521. "Conquest of Prejudice," 476, 521. "Crumbs to the Birds," 408, 516. "Cymbeline," 81.

D

"David," 483, 521. "---- in the Cave of Adullam," 486, 522. "Dessert, The," 473, 521. "Discontent and Quarrelling," 410, 516. "DORUS, PRINCE," 490, 522. "Duchess of Malfi," Lamb's paraphrase from, 449, 519. "Duty of a Brother, The," 426, 518.

E

_Elia_ in translation, 504. "Elinor Forester," 350, 511. "Elizabeth Villiers," 319, 510. "Emily Barton," 360, 511. "End of May, The," 422, 518. "Envy," 404, 516. "Eyes," 467, 521.

F

"Fairy, The," 476, 521. "Farmhouse, The," 328, 310. "Father's Wedding Day, The," 350, 511. "Feigned Courage," 424, 518. Fénélon, his _Telemachus_, 507. Field, Mary, the Lambs' grandmother, 511. "First Going to Church," 378, 513. "---- of April, The," 416, 517. "---- Tooth, The," 415, 517. "Force of Habit, The," 470, 521.

G

Gillray, James, his caricature of Lamb, 499. Glanvill, Joseph, on witchcraft, 513. Godwin, Mrs., Lamb's hostility to, 500. ---- her choice in pictures, 502. ---- her preface to _Mrs. Leicester's School_ (?), 509. -- William, his meeting with Lamb, 499. ---- becomes a publisher, 500. ---- his influence on Lamb's career, 500. ---- his preface to _Tales from Shakespear_, 503. ---- his criticism of _The Adventures of Ulysses_, 506. ---- Lamb's reply to him, 506. "Going into Breeches," 419, 517. "Good Temper," 460, 520. "Great Grandfather, The," 478, 521.

H

"Hamlet," 199. Hazlitt, Sarah. _See_ Sarah Stoddart. Hazlitt, William, 500, 501. Hodgkins, Thomas, Godwin's manager, 500. "Home Delights," 471, 521. Homer, in Chapman's translation, 505, 507.

I

"Incorrect Speaking," 462, 520.

J

"JOHN WOODVIL" quoted, 513. "Journey from School and to School, The," 434, 518. Juvenile literature, Lamb on, 500.

K

"King Lear," 92. "KING AND QUEEN OF HEARTS," 389, 513.

L

Lamb, Charles, and books for children, 499. ---- and William Godwin, 499, 505. ---- and Mrs. Godwin, 500, 502. ---- on Mrs. Barbauld and Mrs. Trimmer, 500, 501. ---- and _Tales from Shakespear_, 501. ---- and the Godwins' illustrator, 502. ---- and _The Adventures of Ulysses_, 505. ---- kisses Chapman's _Homer_, 505. ---- commends it to Coleridge, 505. ---- on publishers and authors, 506. ---- and Mrs. _Leicester's School_, 508. ---- his affection for St. Dunstan's giants, 512. ---- and Stackhouse's picture of the witch, 513. ---- his father and Lincolnshire, 513. Lamb, Charles, and church bells, 513. ---- his first children's book, 513. ---- and _The King and Queen of Hearts_, 513. ---- and _Poetry for Children_, 515. ---- his union with his sister, 515. ---- and _Prince Dorus_, 522. -- Elizabeth, the Lambs' mother, 512. -- John, the Lambs' father, 513. ---- the Lambs' brother, his poem, 451, 520. ---- his lameness, 517. -- Mary, and _Tales from Shakespear_, 501. ---- her difficulty with "All's Well that Ends Well," 502. ---- her anonymity, 504. ---- and _Mrs. Leicester's School_, 508. ---- her "new source of the pathetic," 509. ---- a preface in her name, 509. ---- her memory of Mackery End (?), 510. ---- her recollections of Blakesware, 511. ---- her relations with her grandmother, 511. ---- her first play, 511. ---- on her aunt Hetty and her mother, 512. ---- and _Poetry for Children_, 515. ---- her union with her brother, 515. "Lame Brother, The," 418, 517. Landor, Walter Savage, on _Mrs. Leicester's School_, 508. "LEICESTER, MRS., HER SCHOOL," 316, 508. Lloyd, Robert, and the Lambs, 515. _Looking Glass, The_, 514. "Louisa Manners," 328, 510. "Love, Death, and Reputation," 449, 519.

M

"Macbeth," 106. Mackery End and the Lambs, 510. "Magpye's Nest, The," 445, 519. Manning, Thomas, Lamb's letters to, 501, 505. "Margaret Green," 354, 511. "Maria Howe," 368, 512. "Measure for Measure," 148. "Memory," 431, 518. "Men and Women, and the Monkeys, The," 449, 519. "Merchant of Venice, The," 69. "Merchant's Daughter, The," 375, 513. "Midsummer Night's Dream," 13. "Mimic Harlequin, The," 430, 518. "Moderation in Diet," 460, 520. "Motes in the Sunbeams," 413, 516. "MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL," 316, 508. ---- in translation, 510. "Much Ado About Nothing," 33. Mulready, William, 500, 503, 515. "My Birthday," 463, 520. Mylius, W.F., his gleanings from Lamb, 516.

N

"Neatness in Apparel," 412, 516. Newbery's art of advertisement, 512. "New-born Infant, The," 412, 516. "Nurse Green," 459, 520. "Nursing," 420, 518.

O

_Odyssey, The_. _See_ Chapman. "Offer, The," 456, 520. "On a Picture of the Finding of Moses," 481, 521. "On the Lord's Prayer," 442, 519. "Orange, The," 435, 518. "Othello," 213.

P

"Parental Recollections," 455, 520. "Peach, The," 407, 516. Pearson, Miss, 512. "Penny Pieces," 468, 521. "Pericles," 225. Plumer, Mrs., and Mary Lamb, 511. "POETRY FOR CHILDREN," 404, 515. "PRINCE DORUS," 490, 522.

Q

"Queen Oriana's Dream," 480, 521.

R

"Rainbow, The," 469, 521. "Reaper's Child, The," 404, 516. "Repentance and Reconciliation," 411, 516. "Reproof, The," 432, 518. "Ride, The," 405, 516. Robinson, Crabb, and Lamb, 522. ---- and Landor, 508. "Romeo and Juliet," 184. "Rook and the Sparrows, The," 409, 516.

S

"Sailor Uncle, The," 319, 510. St. Dunstan's giants, 512. "Sea-Voyage, The," 384, 513. "SHAKESPEAR, TALES FROM," 1, 501. Shakespeare, William, and the Lambs, 1, 501. "Sister's Expostulation on the Brother's Learning Latin, The," 456, 520. "Sparrow and the Hen, The," 450, 519. "Spartan Boy, The," 479, 521. Stoddart, Sarah, Mary Lamb's letters to, 501, 502, 508, 512. "Suffer Little Children...," 443, 519. "Summer Friends," 488, 522. "Susan Yates," 378, 513. Swinburne, Mr. A.C., on Lamb, 519.

T

"TALES FROM SHAKESPEAR," 1. ---- how written, 501. ---- how illustrated, 502. ---- Godwin's preface, 503. ---- translation, 504. "Taming of the Shrew," 126. _Telemachus, The Adventures of_, 507. "Tempest, The," 3. "Text, The," 421, 518. "Thoughtless Cruelty," 466, 521. "Three Friends, The," 437, 519. "Time Spent in Dress," 475, 521. "Timon of Athens," 173. "To a River in which a Child was Drowned," 416, 517. "To a Young Lady, on being Too Fond of Music," 474, 521. Translations of Lamb's work, 504, 510. Trimmer, Mrs., Lamb on, 501. "Twelfth Night," 161. "Two Bees, The," 432, 518. "---- Boys, The," 455, 520. "---- Gentlemen of Verona," 58.

U

"ULYSSES, ADVENTURES OF," 240, 505.

V

"Visit to the Cousins," 360, 511.

W

"Wasps in a Garden," 427, 518. Webster, Thomas, and Lamb, 519. "Weeding," 454, 520. "What is Fancy?" 428, 518. "Which is the Favourite?" 451, 519. "Why not do it, Sir, To-day?" 471, 521. "Winter's Tale, The," 23. "Witch Aunt, The," 368, 512. Wollstonecraft, Mary, 499. "WOODVIL, JOHN," quoted, 513. Wordsworth, William, Lamb's letters to, 502, 514. "Written in the First Leaf of a Child's Memorandum-Book," 430, 518.

Y

"Young Letter-Writer, The," 436, 519. "---- Mahometan," 354, 511.

INDEX OF FIRST LINES

A bird appears a thoughtless thing, 408. A child's a plaything for an hour, 455. A Creole boy from the West Indies brought, 452. A dinner party, coffee, tea, 453. A dozen years since in this house what commotion, 463. A little boy with crumbs of bread, 409. A little child, who had desired, 470. A Sparrow, when Sparrows like Parrots could speak, 450. A wicked action fear to do, 447. Abject, stooping, old, and wan, 451. After the tempest in the sky, 469. An infant is a selfish sprite, 425. Anger in its time and place, 429. Anna was always full of thought, 466. As busy Aurelia, 'twixt work and 'twixt play, 454. Brothers and sisters I have many, 451. But a few words could William say, 432. Can I, all gracious Providence, 488. Come my little Robert near, 417. David and his three captains bold, 486. _Dear Sir, Dear Madam, or Dear Friend_, 436. Did I hear the church-clock a few minutes ago, 470. Do, my dearest brother John, 406. For gold could Memory be bought, 431. Henry was every morning fed, 413. High on a Throne of state is seen, 390. Horatio, of ideal courage vain, 424. I am to write three lines, and you, 429. I have got a new-born sister, 408. I have taught your young lips the good words to say over, 442. I keep it, dear Papa, within my glove, 468. I saw a boy with eager eye, 455. I'll _make believe_, and fancy something strange, 430. If you go to the field where the Reapers now bind, 404. In a stage-coach, where late I chanc'd to be, 429. In days of yore, as Ancient Stories tell, 490. In many a lecture, many a book, 475. In whatsoever place resides, 460. In your garb and outward clothing, 412. Incorrectness in your speech, 462. It is not always to the strong, 483. Joy to Philip, he this day, 419. Lately an Equipage I overtook, 405. Lucy, what do you espy, 467. Mamma gave us a single Peach, 407. Mamma heard me with scorn and pride, 432. Mamma is displeased and look very grave, 411. Miss Lydia every day is drest, 410. My father's grandfather lives still, 478. My neat and pretty book, when I thy small lines see, 430. My parents sleep both in one grave, 418. O hush, my little baby brother, 420. O what a joyous joyous day, 434. O why your good deeds with such pride do you scan, 462. On a bank with roses shaded, 480. Once on a time, Love, Death, and Reputation, 449. One Sunday eve a grave old man, 421. Our Governess is not in school, 422. Said Ann to Matilda, I wish that we knew, 476. Shut these odious books up, brother, 456. Sister, fie, for shame, no more, 457. Smiling river, smiling river, 416. Tell me what is the reason you hang down your head, 416. Tell me, would you rather be, 456. The drunkard's sin, excess in wine, 460. The month was June, the day was hot, 435. The motes up and down in the sun, 413. The Swallow is a summer bird, 488. The wall-trees are laden with fruit, 427. There, Robert, you have kill'd that fly, 466. This Picture does the story express, 481. This rose-tree is not made to bear, 404. Three young maids in friendship met, 437. Through the house what busy joy, 415. To Jesus our Saviour some parents presented, 443. To operas and balls my cousins take me, 471. Unto a Yorkshire school was sent, 476. When beasts by words their meanings could declare, 449, When I the memory repeat, 479. When the arts in their infancy were, 445. Whene'er I fragrant coffee drink, 472. Whether beneath sweet beds of roses, 412. Why is your mind thus all day long, 474. Why on your sister do you look, 427. Why so I will, you noisy bird, 471. With the apples and the plums, 473. Within the precincts of this yard, 464. Young William held the Butterfly in chase, 489. Your prayers you have said, and you've wished Good night, 459.

End of Project Gutenberg's Books for Children, by Charles and Mary Lamb