LpARY OF CONGRESS. 1 
 
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 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
 
 
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TALES, ESSAYS, AND POEMS 
 
TALES 
 
 ESSAYS AND POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 \/a^/ '- ii>^ 
 
 JANE^ AND ANN TAYLOR 
 
 S^Ut 
 
 tIJSitfj a ifimoir 
 By grace a. OLIVER 
 
 BOSTON 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS 
 
 1884 
 

 Copyright, 1884, 
 By Roberts Brothers. 
 
 University Press: 
 John Wilson and Son, Cambridge. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 Biographical Sketch, by Grace A. Oliver ... ix 
 
 Display . i 
 
 A Day's Pleasure 126 
 
 Reflections on a Day's Pleasure 131 
 
 Lucy's Wishes 137 
 
 Every Man his own Fortune-Teller 142 
 
 The Life of a Looking-Glass 149 
 
 How IT STRIKES A STRANGER l6l 
 
 Soliloquies of the Old Philosopher and the 
 
 Young Lady 167 
 
 The Philosopher's Scales 171 
 
 "I CAN DO without IT.'* — I I74 
 
 IL . 180 
 
 The Sore Tongue 185 
 
 The Discontented Pendulum 190 
 
 Busy Idleness 194 
 
 Temper; or the Two Old Ladies 203 
 
 The Moth 209 
 
 The Wonderful Bird 213 
 
 A Curious Instrument 216 
 
 The Toad's Journal 220 
 
VI CONTENTS,* 
 
 Page 
 On Visiting Cowper's Garden and Summer-House 
 
 AT Olney 223 
 
 The Troublesome Friend 225 
 
 A Letter to Whomsoever it may Concern . . . 229 
 
 Government of the Thoughts . 234 
 
 Fashions for October 240 
 
 The Use of Biography -245 
 
 The Wise Man 251 
 
 The Clever Fool 257 
 
 To Madame De Stael. Written after Reading 
 
 " Corinne, ou l'Italie." . 264 
 
 To THE Moon 266 
 
 A Story 267 
 
 Recreation 269 
 
 The Church- Yard .... Ann Taylor .... 273 
 
 Spring Ann Taylor .... 275 
 
 Summer Ann Taylor .... 276 
 
 Autumn Ann Taylor .... 277 
 
 To a Little Girl that has Told a Lie 
 
 Ann Taylor .... 278 
 
 Meddlesome Matty .... Ann Taylor .... 280 
 
 The Worm 282 
 
 Fire 283 
 
 Air 284 
 
 Earth 285 
 
 Water 286 
 
 My Mother Ann Taylor .... 288 
 
eONTENTS. vii 
 
 Page 
 
 Reading 289 
 
 Idleness 290 
 
 The Pin 291 
 
 The Chatterbox 292 
 
 The Snowdrop 293 
 
 The Yellow Leaf 294 
 
 The Poppy 295 
 
 The Violet 296 
 
 The Way to be Happy 297 
 
 The Cruel Thorn . 297 
 
 The Notorious Glutton . . Ann Taylor .... 298 
 
 The Child's Monitor 300 
 
 The Butterfly 301 
 
 The Spider and his Wife 302 
 
 Never Play with Fire 303 
 
 The Lark 304 
 
 The Truant Boys 305 
 
 George and the Chimney-Sweeper 306 
 
 Sophia's Fool's-Cap 308 
 
 Washing and Dressing . . Ann Taylor .... 309 
 
 The Plum Cake Ann Taylor .... 310 
 
 Another Plum Cake ... Ann Taylor .... 311 
 
 The Cow Ann Taylor .... 312 
 
 Good Night 312 
 
 Getting Up 313 
 
 Baby and Mamma .* 314 
 
 The Star 315 
 
viii CONTENTS, 
 
 Page 
 
 The Flower and the Lady, about Getting Up . 316 
 
 The Baby's Dance .... Ann Taylor .... 316 
 
 For a Little Girl that did not like to be Washed 317 
 
 Questions and Answers 317 
 
 The Field Daisy 318 
 
 The Michaelmas Daisy . . Ann Taylor . . . . 318 
 
 The Little Child 319 
 
 The Sheep 320 
 
 A Fine Thing 321 
 
 A Pretty Thing Ann Taylor .... 322 
 
 The Snowdrop 323 
 
 Going to Bed 323 
 
 Time to Get Up 324 
 
 The LiiTLE Fish that would not do as it 
 
 WAS BID Ann Taylor .... 325 
 
 The Little Negro .... Ann Taylor .... 326 
 
 The LriTLE Lark 327 
 
 The Little Ants 328 
 
 The Meadows 329 
 
 The Wasp and the Bee 330 
 
MEMOIR. 
 
 THE Taylors of Ongar were a truly remarkable family. 
 Among the great number of writers of this name — 
 and Allibone gives more than three hundred in his Dic- 
 tionary of Authors — there are none more beloved, more 
 worthy of mention, than this family, so called to distin- 
 guish them from all the others. From the time of the 
 eloquent Jeremy Taylor, and his scurrilous contemporary, 
 the "Water Poet," noted for his pasquils and ballads on 
 the Royalist side, and the vast numbers of these effusions, 
 every department of literature has had the name on its 
 ijst. 
 
 " The most eloquent of divines ! had I said of men," of 
 whom Coleridge said, " Cicero would forgive this state- 
 ment and Demosthenes nod assent," worthily heads the 
 long list of Taylors. 
 
 Among the contemporaries of Ann and Jane were so 
 many noted names that some distinctive appellation was 
 really needed for them. 
 
 There was Taylor, the '* Platonist ; " John Taylor, of 
 Norwich, the friend of Mrs. Barbauld, noted for his great 
 learning ^s a Hebraist : Tom Taylor, the dramatist, is a 
 very popular name ; and WiUiam Taylor, of Norwich, one 
 of Mrs. Barbauld's scholars, takes rank as England's first 
 student of the literature of Germany. It was he who first 
 introduced modern German poetry to English readers by 
 his translations. 
 
X MEMOIR. 
 
 The eminent names of the Hebrew scholar and Pla- 
 tonist, the dramatist and poet, are still known to lovers of 
 literature, but they have not overshadowed the modest, 
 retiring, yet gifted Taylors of Ongar. 
 
 Theirs was not the fame of scholar, ballad-maker, or 
 divine; they were simple untrained poets, wild- wood 
 birds with a sweet, natural note peculiar to themselves. 
 A spirit of pure devotion, unworldly simplicity, and deep 
 religious aspiration, was their charm. A very tender chord 
 is touched in many hearts when recollections come of the 
 twilight hour, and the immortal lines, ** Twinkle, twinkle, 
 little star," repeated by the dear mother voice, as one by 
 one the stars shone in the darkening sky in the evening 
 shades. 
 
 Some mention should be made of the ancestry of these 
 women. They were born in the '* lower middle class," 
 which it has been the fashion of late years for the critic 
 and poet to decry. The apostle of " sweetness and light" 
 has spoken often of the " PhiHstinism " of England, and 
 the author of the operatic air, beginning, " Bow down, ye 
 lower middle classes," has the same class in mind. The 
 Taylor family, though gifted and of note, belong to this 
 very much abused set. Matthew Arnold would have doubt- 
 less made them an exception to his sweeping denuncia- 
 tions had their merits been placed before him. 
 
 While their poems had immense popularity, they were 
 also kindly welcomed by the critics. The " Quarterly 
 Review " said of them, ** The writers of these rhymes 
 have far better claims to the title of poet than many who 
 arrogate to themselves that high appellation.'' 
 
 Isaac Taylor, the grandfather of Ann and Jane, was 
 eminent in his day as an engraver. The son of a brass- 
 founder at Worcester, he early showed a talent for en- 
 graving. On the death of his father, who had fallen into 
 
MEMOIR, XI 
 
 poverty in his latter days, Isaac walked to London. Find- 
 ing employment in the cutlery works of Josiah Jeffreys, he 
 prospered so well that he married the daughter of Jeffreys. 
 Jeffreys meantime had retired from business, and settled 
 in Essex in a country home. 
 
 " Isaac Taylor had engraved crests and other devices at 
 Worcester, and so distinguished himself in that department 
 in Josiah Jeffreys's works, that it led to his adopting art engrav- 
 ing, then recently introduced, as a profession, to which he 
 added presently the business of an art publisher. His house 
 became in this way the resort of several personages of note in 
 art and literature. Goldsmith, the illustrations to whose works 
 are often signed * Isaac Taylor,' was frequently there, and 
 upon one occasion, when consulted upon the title of a book 
 with an apology for troubling him upon so trifling a matter, 
 replied, * The title, sir ! why, the title is everything.' Barto- 
 lozzi, Fuseli, and Smirke, were among his friends, and he was 
 one of the original founders of the Royal Incorporated Society 
 of Artists of Great Britain, from which sprang the Royal Acad- 
 emy. The celebrated Woollett was for many years secretary 
 to the Society, and Isaac Taylor eventually succeeded him in 
 that office. Thomas Bewick was his valued pupil, who in his 
 turn speaks of him in his autobiography, as * my warm friend 
 and patron Isaac Taylor.' And again says, ' He was in his 
 day accounted the best engraver of embellishments for books, 
 most of which he designed himself. The frontispiece to the 
 first edition of Cunningham's poems was one of his early 
 productions, and at that time my friend Pollard and myself 
 thought it was the best thing ever done.' The most important 
 work executed by this Isaac Taylor was a large plate, the 
 * Flemish Collation,' after Ostade." 
 
 Howard, the philanthropist, was a friend of his, and 
 took so much interest in one of his daughters that she 
 named a son for him. 
 
 Of the three sons of this Isaac Taylor, Charles, Isaac, 
 
XU MEMOIR. 
 
 and Josiah, the second was the father of Ann and Jane. 
 Charles was distinguished for his learning and peculiar 
 erudition, and some very dry editing. Isaac, the brother 
 of Ann and Jane, the third of his name, was the author 
 of a large number of philosophical works of a popular 
 character, which have excited considerable criticism and 
 notice. 
 
 He began to write early in life, and his sister Ann re- 
 cords the first appearance of the author of the " Natural 
 History of Enthusiasm " as " Imus," with the poetical solu- 
 tion of a charade on the word " consumption," at the 
 age of thirteen. The pubhshers of the " Minor's Pocket 
 Book," in which it appeared, were so pleased with the 
 answer that they awarded him a special prize for it, as 
 Ann under the name of "Maria" was judged the first in 
 rank for the answer she sent to the same charade. A year 
 or two later, she adds that he was in very ill health, and 
 for hours would stand leaning his head against the mantel- 
 piece where his mother was at work in the parlor. Years 
 after she asked him, in talking over early life and its events, 
 why he stood so, and if he remembered what he was think- 
 ing of at the time. ^' Yes, Ann," he replied, " I was, in 
 fact, meditating on the evils of society, and wondering 
 whether I could do anything to mitigate them.'* A con- 
 sideration well fulfilled in his case by his works on " En- 
 thusiasm," " Fanaticism," " Spiritual Despotism," and 
 "Ancient Christianity," which, with many other less noted 
 treatises, were his life work. 
 
 Sir James Stephen said his " History of Enthusiasm," 
 pubhshed anonymously in 1829, "gave him his literary 
 peerage." This was followed by the ** Fanaticism," in 
 1833, and "Spiritual Despotism," in 1835. He was 
 somewhat of a recluse, and his home at Stanford Rivers 
 was well calculated for the hfe of quiet meditation and 
 
MEMOIR. xiii 
 
 research- which gave him leisure to send forth his popu- 
 lar and powerful books. With some exceptions, the crit- 
 ics of his day place him high as a writer and thinker. 
 Somewhat lacking in originality, his manner was so popu- 
 lar and pleasing that in the mind of the great reading 
 public he will hold an enduring place as a philosophical 
 writer. The '^Edinburgh Review" of 1840 contains the 
 critique of Stephen on the " Natural History of Enthu- 
 siasm," long unacknowledged by its author, in which he 
 says, '^ His books exhibit a character, both moral and in- 
 tellectual, from the study of which the reader can hardly 
 fail to rise a wiser and a better man." In 1862 he received 
 the pleasant compliment of a civil service pension of ^100 
 from the government for *' his eminent services to litera- 
 ture, especially in the departments of history and philos- 
 ophy, during a period of more than forty years." 
 
 Another brother, Jeffreys, was also an author of more 
 than twenty works of a miscellaneous character, — some 
 for children, — and religious in their style. 
 
 We have somewhat anticipated in nodcing the career of 
 Isaac Taylor and his brother, and must retrace our steps, 
 and mention in this place the father and mother of this 
 remarkable family of workers, thinkers, and writers. 
 
 Isaac Taylor, the father, was a man of mark, full of 
 vital piety, and earnest in all he undertook. Early in life 
 he embraced his father's calling and became an engraver; 
 glad, as he said in his old age, to " engrave a dog-collar " 
 with the same hand that executed the noted print of 
 Stothard's great picture of the Meeting of Henry VIII. 
 and Anne Boleyn. He began life in a very humble manner, 
 as this remark will show, marrying very young on a very 
 limited and precarious income. He was the author of a 
 number of books, — we know of more than twenty, — 
 some on travel, juvenile, and on religious subjects ; 
 
XIV MEMOIR. 
 
 curiously enough none related to his own profession, in 
 which he was an expert, and which for years was the great 
 object of his daily thought and interest. His character 
 and life are so well traced by Ann in her reminiscences 
 of early days that the reader cannot fail to be interested 
 in their development. 
 
 He left London for Lavenham in Suffolk in 1786, and 
 after practising his calHng with great success for some 
 years, his zeal for the welfare of the Independents, which 
 led him often to supply the place of their minister, and 
 preach during his absence, gave him note as a teacher and 
 healer of souls. This deep feeling of religious devotion 
 made him accept a " call " from a dissenting society at 
 Colchester, where he ministered most acceptably for some 
 years, — a change of life greatly to his worldly disadvan- 
 tage. He left Colchester for Ongar, a village in the vi- 
 cinity, and continued his pastoral care of that parish till 
 his death in December, 1829. 
 
 Ann, in describing her father to her children, says : — 
 
 " My father was an unusually single-hearted man and Chris- 
 tian. His life till nearly thirty was spent in London, but he 
 caught not a taint from its atmosphere. So long as he re- 
 mained at home his father, a man of sense and ability, and a 
 well-known artist of the time, was not, it seemed, under the in- 
 fluence of Christian principle, though a strictly moral man; 
 and he exhibited towards his family an austere reserve which 
 was little calculated to awaken the domestic affections to genial 
 life. 
 
 " His mother, possessing no small share of practical good 
 sense, and real concern for the interests of her children, was 
 yet so more than occupied in the labors of rearing them, and 
 withal of a temper so heedless of the graces of life, that it 
 seemed scarcely possible for kind and tender dispositions to 
 expand under her influence ; but my father not only revered, 
 but as his nature could not help, loved her also. 
 
MEMOIR. XV 
 
 " At thirteen he commenced a life which became one of dif- 
 fusive piety. At sixteen he joined the church under the Rev. 
 Mr. Webb of Fetter Lane, and from those early years till 
 he went down to the grave, at seventy-one, his character 
 was one beautiful progress through the benignant graces of 
 Christianity. 
 
 " His love of knowledge was early, strong, and universal. 
 Nothing was uninteresting to him that he had opportunity to 
 acquire, and when acquired his delight was to communicate. 
 Apt to teach he certainly was, and ingenious as apt; all his 
 methods were self-devised, and the life of few men devoted to 
 teaching as a profession, would have accomplished more than 
 he attained by husbanding the half hours of his own. Early 
 hours, and elastic industry were the * natural magic ' by which 
 his multifarious objects were pursued, and labors performed. 
 
 " Whatever I possess of knowledge came from his treasury, 
 and far more than is now mine, for many engagements, and a 
 memory never good, and perhaps in childhood too little culti- 
 vated, have deprived me of much. Too little cultivated, I say, 
 because my dear mother having suffered from injudicious exac- 
 tions upon memory when a child, erred perhaps in training her 
 children in the other extreme. As far as I recollect, we were 
 never required to learn anything by heart ! 
 
 " It was my father's habit, whenever a question arose in con- 
 versation on points of science or history which we could not 
 accurately determine, to refer at the moment to some authority, 
 — the lexicon, the gazetteer, the encyclopaedia, or anything 
 from which the facts could be gained ; so that much was in 
 this way imbibed by his children without labor of any kind, and 
 at the expense only of some little impatience at a digression 
 with which they would at the time have been willing to dis- 
 pense. ' Line upon line,' was, however, in this way gradually 
 traced and deepened. Method, arrangement, regularity in 
 everything, were the characteristics of his mind; as were a 
 tranquil hoping for, and believing in the best, those of his 
 heart. 
 
 " As a youth, he had accustomed himself to rise early, but 
 
XVI MEMOIR. 
 
 the habit declined through disturbed nights during the infancy 
 of his children. After a few years, it was renewed and never 
 abandoned, and, if I am not mistaken, it was by the following 
 incident that he was induced to return to six o'clock as the 
 commencement of his day. He had received a call from some 
 poor minister, with a request that he would purchase from him 
 a small hymn-book, beautifully bound in morocco ; the price 
 was half a guinea, a larger sum than he could prudently afford, 
 but his open heart could not refuse the aid that was asked for 
 in this form, and the little volume proved, in the end, of incal- 
 culable value to him, for, sensible of his indiscretion, he re- 
 solved to cover the loss by making a longer day for labor. 
 This, though constitutionally disposed to sleep, he resolutely 
 accomplished, starting from his bed at a quarter before six 
 every morning, till within a short period of his death. It was 
 not managed without difficulty. At first, an alarm clock at the 
 head of his bed was sufficient, but becoming accustomed to the 
 monotony, he placed a pair of tongs across the weight of the 
 alarm, so disposed, that when it began to move, the sudden fall 
 of the tongs should surely move him also. 
 
 " My father's habits of devotion formed a valuable part of his 
 example. Rising thus early, the time from six to seven o'clock 
 was always spent in his closet — really a. closet, enclosed by 
 double doors. But though thus secluded, and in a remote 
 part of the house, we were, at times, near enough, in a room 
 below, to be aware of the earnestness of his prayers, which 
 were uttered aloud." 
 
 The aim of Isaac Taylor's early years had been devotion 
 to the Ministry ; but severe and continued ill health caused 
 him to abandon then the hope resumed in later years, as 
 we have seen. At twenty-two Mr. Taylor married, and 
 the income on which he made this venture for himself 
 and his young wife, *' on which he calculated he could 
 live" with comfort, was half a guinea certain for three 
 days' work in each week, supplied to him by his elder 
 
MEMOIR, xvu 
 
 brother, Charles, — then in business as a publisher, later 
 known as the editor of " Calmet's Dictionary of the 
 Bible," — and as much as he could earn the three re- 
 maining days on his own account. Thirty pounds of his 
 own, with a hundred pounds of his wife's and the furniture 
 given her by her mother, constituted the worldly posses- 
 sions of the young pair. 
 
 Ann Taylor, the wife, was a woman of unusual strength 
 of character and fortitude. She also courted literature ; 
 somewhat late in life appearing as an authoress. Her 
 books were on practical subjects, such as the duties of 
 Children and Parents, advice to Servants ; and some tales 
 of the homely scenes of EngHsh country life. With her 
 daughter Jane she wrote "The Correspondence between 
 a Mother and her Daughter at school." Her first book, 
 " Advice to Mothers," was published in 1814. Her books, 
 as well as all the Taylors' writings, were deeply tinged 
 with the most intense religious views. The whole atmos- 
 phere of the home was one of domestic virtue and relig- 
 ious fervor, and this sentiment is impressed strongly on 
 their books. 
 
 Ann says, after her reminiscences of her father, — 
 
 *' My dear mother was a character more peculiar, and her 
 disadvantages had been greater than those of my father. The 
 sensibility of her frame, both mental and bodily, was extreme ; 
 her affections were strong and lively, and her sufferings (irre- 
 spective of bodily pain) from the sorrows and bereavements of 
 her seventy-two years, proportionably intense. My mother was 
 the eldest of two children, and at six years old lost her father, 
 who died of fever at twenty-nine. Of him I know little except 
 that he was one of Mr. Whitfield's early converts, and thus 
 happily prepared for early death. But he was probably alone 
 in his religious preferences, for upon one occasion having 
 taken his little girl to hear Mr. Whitfield, she suddenly stood 
 
 h 
 
xviu MEMOIR, 
 
 up in the pew and exclaimed, * What have you brought mc 
 here for, among a pack of Whitfieldites ? ' 
 
 " His anxiety for my mother was more lively than discreet. 
 He thought it wise to exercise her infant patience by inflic- 
 tions which she recollected as producing paroxysms of anguish. 
 He once called her to see a new and favorite toy thrown on 
 the fire, hoping in this way to induce a salutary self-control ! " 
 
 The second marriage of Mrs. Taylor's mother made 
 her early years unhappy, and she was favored in the mar- 
 riage she herself made, for it took her into a congenial 
 atmosphere of love and sympathy. Ann, continuing her 
 narrative, says : — 
 
 "On their wedding day, April i8, 1781, my parents entered 
 their first home, in a house standing back from the street, and 
 exactly opposite Islington Church. It was a first floor only, 
 but from the back room, the best one, there was a view over an 
 extent of country, including the Highgate Hills, and on the 
 day of their marriage, though so early in the year, a vine was 
 in full leaf over their windows. There, on the 30th of January, 
 1782, on which day my youthful father reached his twenty-third 
 year, I was born ; and on the 23d of September the year follow- 
 ing, their second daughter, Jane Taylor, known, perhaps, I 
 might say, on the four continents, and known only for good, 
 came into the world ; but at this time they had removed for the 
 convenience of business to Red Lion Street, Holborn, then a 
 sufiiciently quiet place. 
 
 '' Here their first son, and third child, was bom and here, 
 scarcely allowing herself an hour of recreation either for body 
 or mind, practising the utmost economy, and with her children 
 filling every thought of her heart, my poor mother broke down 
 in health, and might have surrendered herself to be the mere 
 drudge of her family, had not a wise friend suggested to her 
 that it would be well if her husband found in her a companion^ 
 as well as a housekeeper and nurse. She took the hint imme- 
 diately, and resolved to secure the higher happiness that had 
 
MEMOIR, XIX 
 
 nearly escaped her. For this purpose she commenced the 
 practice of reading aloud at meals, the only time she could 
 afford for mental improvement, and for nearly half-a-century it 
 supplied her daily pleasure, while it sustained the native power 
 of her mind." 
 
 A rapidly increasing family, expenses consequent, ill 
 health and sufferings of the children shut up in the murky 
 London atmosphere, decided Mr. Taylor to look for a 
 country home for his little ones. Economy of course was 
 a first consideration in seeking the new home, and for his 
 business it must be near London. At last the little vil- 
 lage of Lavenham in Suffolk, sixty-three miles from Lon- 
 don, was found to have a vacant house suited to the very 
 empty pocket of the young father. 
 
 Ann tells of the exodus, and her mother's grief at leav- 
 ing early associations and friends, in her bright way. 
 She says of the departure : — 
 
 " It was in June 1786, the fine old-fashioned weather of the 
 eighteenth century, as my memory pictures it, that the little 
 colony set forth — I well remember the freshness of that six 
 o'clock on a summer's morning — in a hackney coach for the 
 stage. My father had gone before to Lavenham to receive and 
 arrange the furniture, and never was ' Queen's Decorator ' 
 more busy, more anxious (in some respects more capable), than 
 he that everything should appear in tempting order, and in the 
 best style of which it was susceptible. His materials, indeed, 
 were few, but his taste and contrivance inexhaustible. The 
 house, which a cottager described as 'the first grand house 
 in Shilling Street,' was indeed so, compared with former 
 residences. 
 
 " It was the property of, and had been inhabited by a clergy- 
 man. On the ground floor w^ere three parlors, two kitchens, 
 and a dairy, together with three other rooms never inhabited ; 
 and above them were six large bedrooms. An extensive gar- 
 den, well planted, lay behind. A straight broad walk through 
 
XX MEMOIR, 
 
 the middle was fifty-two yards in length, with an open summer^ 
 house on rising ground at one end, and ha-ha fence separating 
 it from a meadow, of which we had the use, at the other. 
 There was also a large yard, with a pig-sty, uninhabited, till 
 my sister Jane and I cleared it out for the purpose of dwelling 
 in it ourselves. It was a substantial little building of brick, but, 
 having no windows, and the door swinging from the top, it was 
 somewhat incommodious, yet there, after lessons, we passed 
 many a delighted hour. 
 
 *' For this spacious domain (house and garden I mean, not 
 the pig-sty), it will scarcely be credited that my father paid a 
 rent of only six pounds a-year, but by such a circumstance the 
 perfect out-of-the-wayness of the situation may be conceived. 
 Neither coach road nor canal approached it, though I remem- 
 ber that the advantage the latter would be to the little town 
 was often discussed. The postman's cart, a vehicle covered in 
 for passengers, made its enlivening entree every day from Sud- 
 bury, seven miles distant, about noon; and the London 
 wagon nodded and grated in, I forget how often, or rather 
 how seldom, — I believe about once a week. 
 
 *' My dear mother had always the strongest objection to leav- 
 ing her little girls to the care of servants, and seldom visited 
 where we were not invited, — we were but two, not trouble- 
 some, perhaps something of favorites, so that completely so- 
 cial as these and similar parties Were, we were often admitted 
 to them at an age when now we should scarcely have emerged 
 from the nursery. But nurseries at Lavenham, and at that 
 time of day, I do not remember. The parlor and the best 
 parlor were all that was known beside the kitchens, and thus 
 parents and children formed happily but one circle.'* 
 
 This garden was a perfect joy to the sisters. Isaac 
 Taylor remembered long after how the neighbors noticed 
 the little girls, then five and six years old, early com- 
 panions in song, pacing up and down the green walks and 
 alleys of the garden, hand in hand, lisping a little couplet 
 
MEMOIR. . XXI 
 
 of their joint composition. ^^ Nancy and Jenny," as the 
 town folk called them, became great favorites. Ann says : 
 ^' Jane was always the saucy, lively, entertaining little 
 thing, — the amusement and the favorite of all that knew 
 her. At the baker's shop she used to be placed on the 
 kneading-board, in order to recite, preach, narrate, &c., 
 to the great entertainment of his many visitors." 
 
 Mrs. Taylor was of a peculiar disposition ; ill health, a 
 large family, and the loss of little children, were very de- 
 pressing to her. She had lost one child in London, her 
 first boy, and before the year was out she lost another at 
 Lavenham. All the affectionate assiduities of her good 
 husband, and the charms of a country life, failed to make 
 her feel at home; but after a while the natural scenes and 
 pleasures of the new home touched and cheered her. 
 
 The first winter was a very sad time as her recent griefs 
 were fresh, and the frequent absence of her husband on 
 his professional work in London left her alone with the 
 little girls and a servant. One incident of this sad winter 
 was sufficiently startling for the strongest nerves. Mr. 
 Taylor was in London at the time. 
 
 " It was a dark and stormy winter's night, the wind roared 
 down the huge kitchen chimney, and screamed in the trees across 
 the road. * Ann and Jane ' had gone early to bed, the last dear 
 babe had recently found its resting-place in the churchyard, 
 and my poor mother sat in her grief beside the parlor fire. 
 Suddenly a dreadful crash was heard; the kitchen chimney 
 was exactly over the room in which we slept, and her instant 
 thought was that it had fallen, burying us in its ruins. 
 
 " She ran to the foot of the wide staircase and called. I was 
 always a wakeful sleeper, but now there was no answer, and 
 she felt no doubt of the terrible meaning of the silence. Her 
 sister jumped out of the parlor window, and, my mother and 
 servant following, fled up the dark street to Mr. Meeking's, the 
 
xxu MEMOIR, 
 
 nearest friend in need. She fell on the high steps leading 
 up to his shop-door, and his little dog, rushing out, tore off her 
 cap before she could regain her feet. ' Oh I Mr. Meeking, Mr. 
 Meeking, my children are both killed ! ' * Let 's hope not, 
 madam, let 's hope not,' and the worthy old man, with sons, 
 staves, and lanterns, hastened back with her to the scene of 
 disaster, first, of course, visiting our bed-room, where, holding 
 a lantern at the foot of the bed, * Nancy and Jenny ' were seen 
 sound asleep. 
 
 "That was enough; and when they had searched in vain 
 through all the upper rooms of the large house, they began to 
 smile at the alarm as one of imagination only, till entering the 
 kitchen a mound of bricks upon the floor, that had fallen down 
 the ample chimney, explained what had happened. The cracked 
 grate long remained to attest the peril. 
 
 " But my father returned, — returned with sufficient employ- 
 ment in his art for months to come. Spring returned also, the 
 winter had passed, the rain was over and gone, the time of the 
 singing of birds was come, and my dear mother awoke to the 
 beauties that surrounded her. Not that the style of country 
 was particularly attractive. Suffolk, or at least that part of it, 
 swells into shoulders of heavy corn land, with little wood, and 
 these undulations shut out extensive prospects ; a small river 
 creeps dully through a succession of quiet meadows, and I 
 think it must be partly owing to this tameness that a real taste 
 for the country was not sensibly awakened in me till ten or 
 twelve years later in my history. 
 
 " I can hardly otherwise account either for an impression of 
 gloom which, though it was seen under the sunlight of child- 
 hood, still hangs over that Lavenham scenery. Enthusiasm 
 must have been enthusiastic to be kindled among those flat 
 meadows and cold slopes, with their drowsy river. 
 
 *'And, whatever the surrounding country might be, there 
 was at Lavenham a large and beautiful garden. We lived not 
 in either of the big front parlors, but in a small pleasant room 
 opening into it. There my father's high desk, at which, dur- 
 ing his whole life, he stood, as the most healthy position, to 
 
MEMOIR, xxui 
 
 engrave, occupied the corner between the fire and a large win- 
 dow; my mother sat on the opposite side, and we had our 
 little table and chairs between them. One wing of the prem- 
 ises seen from this window was covered with a luxuriant tea 
 tree, drooping in long branches, with its small purple flowers ; 
 on a bed just opposite was a great cinnamon rose bush, cov- 
 ered with bloom ; a small grass plot lay immediately under the 
 window, and beyond were labyrinths of flowering shrubs, with 
 such a bush of honeysuckle as I scarcely remember to have 
 seen an5rwhere. Then there were beds of raspberries, goose- 
 berries, and currants, espalier'd walks, ample kitchen garden, 
 walls and palings laden with fruit, grass and gravel walks, a 
 honeysuckle arbor, and an open seated summer-house : flour- 
 ishing standard fruit trees, and no end of flowers and rustic 
 garden-seats. 
 
 " Here our habits and, to some degree, our tastes were 
 formed, and here began our education. In that little back 
 parlor we were taught the formal rudiments, and in the garden 
 and elsewhere, constantly under the eye of our parents, we fell 
 in with more than is always included in the catalogue of school 
 learning at so much per quarter. Books were a staple com- 
 modity in the house. From my mother's habit of reading aloud 
 at breakfast and at tea, we were always picking up something ; 
 to every conversation we were auditors, and, I think, quiet 
 ones, for, having no nursery, the parlor would have been 
 intolerable otherwise. 
 
 " There was a large room adjoining, having a glass door into 
 it, and there, or in the garden, we were at liberty to romp. A 
 closet in this room was allowed us as a baby-house, round the 
 walls of which were arranged our toys; but I must acknowledge 
 that here we were not the aborigines, an interminable race of 
 black ants had taken previous possession, and we could only 
 share and share alike with them. 
 
 " I do not know how far children so completely invent little 
 histories for themselves as we did. We most frequently per- 
 sonated two poor women making a hard shift to live ; or we 
 were ' aunt and niece/ Jane the latter and I the former ; or we 
 
XXIV MEMOIR, 
 
 acted a fiction entitled * the twin sisters/ or another, the * two 
 Miss Parks/ And we had, too, a great taste for royalty, and 
 were not a little intimate with various members of the royal 
 family. Even the two poor w^omen, ' Moll and Bet,' were so 
 exemplary in their management and industry as to attract the 
 notice of their Royal Highnesses the Princesses (Svhen George 
 the Third was King'). When these two estimable cottagers 
 were the subject of our personation, we occupied (weather per- 
 mitting) either the summer-house or the ci-devant pig-sty. On 
 the grassy ascent upon which the summer-house stood, termin- 
 ating the long walk, the grass was mixed with a small plant, I 
 fancy trefoil, but I have never been botanist enough to know ; 
 however, its name to us was Bob, why, I cannot imagine, unless 
 from the supposed similarity of the three letters to its three 
 small leaves. This we used to gather for winter food (so 
 hard bestead were we), and the seeds of the mallow we called 
 cheeses, and laid them up in store also. These were simple, 
 healthy, inexpensive toys and pleasures, and, having such re- 
 sources always at hand at home, and without excitements from 
 abroad, we were never burdensome with the teasing enquiry, 
 * What shall we play at } What shall we do ? ' Yet we had 
 always assistance at hand if needed. Both father and mother 
 were accessible, and many a choice entertainment did we owe 
 to their patient contrivances. My father, especially, was never 
 weary of inventing, for our amusement or instruction. I have 
 still a little glass case containing a cottage cut in cork, a few 
 trees of moss, a piece of looking-glass for pond, a cork hay- 
 stack, and so forth (a Suffolk idyll), which was one of these 
 productions. Another was a small grotto fitted up with spars 
 and minerals. But there was one of these home-made toys 
 which I can hardly think of now without pleasure ; it was a 
 landscape painted on cardboard, cut out and placed at different 
 distances, through the lanes of which, by means of a wire turn- 
 ing underneath, there slowly wound a loaded wagon and other 
 carriages ; it was contained in a box about seven inches by 
 twelve, and two in depth, with a glass in front. 
 
 " Of course my dear mother, with health never strong, and 
 
MEMOIR. XXV 
 
 all the needlework of the household on her hands, could not 
 undertake our entire instruction. Reading, the Needle, and the 
 Catechism, we were taught by her, and as my father was con- 
 stantly engraving at the high desk in the same room, it was 
 easy for him to superintend the rest. We were never severely 
 treated, though both my parents were systematic disciplina- 
 rians. But I record one instance of mistaken punishment only 
 to show how possible it is, when a child is confused or alarmed, 
 for parents to fall into that error. It must have been when I 
 was very young, for it was owing to a supposed obstinacy in 
 not spelling the word thy. I had been told it repeatedly, t-h-y, 
 in the same lesson, still at the moment it every time unaccount- 
 ably slipped from the memory. My mother could only attribute 
 it to wilful perverseness, though I believe that was a disposi- 
 tion I could not be charged with. She felt, however, so fully 
 persuaded that I knew, and would not say, that she proceeded 
 to corporal punishment, very rarely administered, but not so 
 entirely abandoned as is the fashion now." 
 
 Jane began as early as her eighth year to write more or 
 less. A year or two earlier, it was noticed by her parents 
 that she had furnished her memory with many historical 
 anecdotes in the course of the instruction given her, and 
 she used to recite these with such variations as the inspi- 
 ration of the moment or a passing mood might suggest. 
 As soon as she began to write at all, though the idea was 
 never suggested to her by her parents, and no other per- 
 sons had the confidence of the children who would have 
 thought of such a thing, she cherished the fancy of writ- 
 ing a book. These childish scribblings all appear to have 
 been prepared with a view to publication. Prefaces, 
 title-pages, introductions and dedications, are among the 
 MSS. preserved by the Taylor family, all the early spon- 
 taneous work of this untrained child. 
 
 The following preface appears to have been written in 
 her tenth year : — 
 
XXVI MEMOIR. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 To be a poetess I don't aspire. 
 
 From such a title humbly I retire ; 
 
 But now and then a line I try to write ; 
 
 Though bad they are, — not worthy human sight. 
 
 Sometimes into my hand I take a pen, 
 Without the hope of aught but mere chagrin , 
 I scribble, then leave off in sad despair, 
 And make a blot in spite of all my care. 
 
 I laugh and talk, and preach a sermon well ; 
 Go about begging, and your fortune tell : 
 As to my poetry, indeed *t is all 
 • As good and worse by far than none at all. 
 
 Have patience yet I pray, peruse my book ; 
 Although you smile when on it you do look : 
 I know that in 't there *s many a shocking failure ; 
 But that forgive — the author is Jane Taylor. 
 
 About a year later she addressed a poem to her father, 
 beginning : — 
 
 PETITION. 
 
 Ah, dear papa ! did you but know 
 
 The trouble of your Jane, 
 I 'm sure you would relieve me now, 
 
 And ease me of my pain. 
 
 Although your garden is but small, 
 
 And more indeed you crave, 
 There *s one small bit, not used at all, 
 
 And this I wish to have. 
 
 The garden was evidently a sacred spot as in olden 
 times, haunted by the Muses and Apollo : the little vota- 
 ries of poetry found all the prose and poetry of their young 
 lives in its sweet seclusion. 
 
MEMOIR. xxvii 
 
 Ann, in continuing her recollections of their early years, 
 says : — 
 
 " The precise hours allotted to our instruction I now for- 
 get, but they were regular, and regularly kept. I remember 
 pleading once in vain for some temporary deviation. We 
 breakfasted at eight, dined at half-past one, took tea at five ; 
 then at eight we went to bed, and my father and mother 
 supped at nine. On Sundays, however, we were indulged to 
 sit up to supper, a treat indeed. 
 
 " Of our Sunday habits I am thankful to remember that, 
 though never gloomy, they were after the olden fashion, — 
 strict. It was a day unlike to other days — a feeling I should 
 wish to preserve as a perpetual safeguard. I will not say how 
 much I was profited by accompanying my father, at seven 
 o'clock on a winter's morning, to the early prayer meeting, as 
 I conclude, to be out of the way during early duties at home. 
 The only vivid recollection now in my memory is of the aston- 
 ishing noise made by the blower in raising the vestry fire. 
 This, with the assiduities of Mrs. Snelling, the pew-opener, have 
 survived the friction of much more than half-a-century. As 
 Lavenham lies embedded in clay, and there was neither paving 
 nor lighting. Water Street, which frequently well deserv^ed its 
 name, offered sometimes difficulties to Sunday chapel-goers, 
 and not a few of the gentlemen wore pattens. 
 
 " Occasionally, when my mother was not well enough to go 
 from home on the Sunday, I have been left to stay with her, 
 and one of our quiet Sundays was signalized by an incident 
 that shook my nerves. She had fallen asleep in the little back 
 parlor, leaving me sole guardian of the premises. Suddenly 
 I heard a tremendous noise somewhere in the kitchen, a 
 knocking and a battering so long and loud, that nothing 
 less than determined burglars could account for. My mother 
 was so poorly that I dared not wake her, and even then so 
 deaf that she did not hear the noise. With inexpressible 
 terror I listened and watched to see the ruffians either enter 
 the room or emerge from the back door into the garden, and, 
 
xxviii MEMOIR. 
 
 only eight or nine years old as I might be, armed myself with 
 the poker for the worst. If I had not happened to catch sight of 
 the culprit at the precise moment of escape, the mystery might 
 have remained to this day unaccounted for. But I did; an 
 immense dog issued suddenly with prodigious speed from the 
 back door with the remains of a large, deep, stone milk-jar 
 about his neck ! Doubtless a small quantity of milk had been 
 left at the bottom, the poor fellow had unwittingly thrust in 
 his nose, the neck was narrow, the milk beyond his tongue tip ; 
 he thrust and thrust, till he found himself in dreadful custody. 
 Then began the sound that had chilled my blood as he banged 
 his portable prison about the kitchen floor, till the bottom giving 
 way, he made use of recovered daylight, though still with a 
 good portion of the pot about his neck, and decamped through 
 the garden, wearing, to my astonished eyes, something like a 
 close cottage bonnet. Whither his terror carried him I never 
 heard, though if he scampered through the town in such a 
 guise I think it would have made some stir. 
 
 " And another Sunday afternoon had its terror. From my 
 earliest childhood I had a nervous apprehension of the sudden 
 death of those about me, so that any inequality in the breath- 
 ing, if asleep, or anything unusual in appearance, excited my 
 alarm. This time, my father being slightly unwell, I was left 
 at home alone with him. For our mutual edification he read 
 aloud Wilcox's Sermons, not the liveliest volume in the world, 
 and after a time I perceived something very singular in his 
 pronunciation and tone, a confusion of syllables, a lengthening 
 and a pause ! I thought he was going to die ! He did not 
 die, but soon safely recovered ; yet it was years afterwards 
 that, recalling the symptoms of this appalling seizure, the 
 true character of it occurred to me, my good father had been 
 — almost asleep ! 
 
 " I had always a conscience, whether or not enlightened, 
 yet always a conscience, and especially with regard to the 
 Sabbath. One Sunday I was myself alone at home, from 
 some trifling ailment, and employed the morning in reading 
 a little book by the Rev. George Burder, containing the 
 
MEMOIR. XXIX 
 
 * History of Master Goodchild/ and various other strictly 
 Sunday readings. Towards the end is the fable of the kite 
 and the string, but this stopped me — 2. fable might not belong 
 to Sunday reading ? — and I left the book open at the place 
 till my father returned from Meeting, to know whether I 
 might proceed. He silenced my apprehensions, while approv- 
 ing the hesitation." 
 
 It is interesting to note the first stirrings of poetry in 
 the young mind. Ann says, — 
 
 " The time at which I began to string my thoughts (if 
 thoughts) into measure I cannot correctly ascertain. It could 
 not be after I was ten years old, and I think when only seven 
 or eight, and arising from a feeling of anxiety respecting my 
 mother's safety during illness. Not wishing (I conclude) to 
 betray myself by asking for paper at home, I purchased a 
 sheet of foolscap from my friend, Mr. Meeking, and filled it 
 with verses in metre imitated from Dr. Watts, at that time the 
 ' only poet on my shelves. What became of this effusion I do 
 not know, but I should be glad to exchange for it, if I could, 
 any of my later ones, — 
 
 * Not for its worth, we all agree, 
 But merely for its oddity,* 
 
 as Swift says of learning in ladies. 
 
 "The earliest stanza that dwells in my memory, whether 
 belonging to this production or not I cannot tell, is the 
 following : — 
 
 ' Dark and dismal was the weather, 
 Winter into horror grew ; 
 Rain and snow came down together, 
 Everything was lost to view.' 
 
 " Certain it is, anyway, that from about this date it became 
 my perpetual amusement to scribble, and some large literary 
 projects occupied my reveries. A poetic rendering of the fine 
 moral history of Master Headstrong; a poem intended as 
 antecedent to the Iliad ; a new version of the Psalms ; and an 
 
XXX MEMOIR. 
 
 argumentative reply to Winchester on Future Punishment, 
 were among these early projects, and more or less executed." 
 
 She adds : — 
 
 " I have certainly suffered by allowing the small disposable 
 time of my youth to expenfl itself in writing rather than in 
 reading. My mind was in this way stinted by scanty food. 
 Of that 1 am fully sensible, and leave it as a warning to whom- 
 soever it may concern. If I had not breathed a tolerably 
 healthy atmosphere it would have been lean indeed. But 
 there was always something to be imbibed; either from my 
 mother's reading at meals, or that in which we afterwards all 
 took turn in the workroom ; from my father's untiring aptness 
 to teach, his regular habit of settling all questions by reference 
 to authorities, and the books that were always passing through 
 the family. Wherever my father moved there soon arose a 
 book society, if there had not been one before. One word, 
 however, about the reading aloud at meals. I believe my 
 mother fostered thereby a habit of despatching hers too 
 quickly, by which her digestion was permanently injured ; 
 and, again, it hindered our acquiring readiness in conversa- 
 tion. To listen, not to talk, became so much a habit with us, 
 as rather to impair fluency of expression — at least in speech." 
 
 One can easily imagine the young Taylors must have 
 seemed marvels of genius to village people, where the gen- 
 try were so illiterate as Mrs. Gilbert says. The townsfolk 
 she thinks less ignorant. At a party among the upper cir- 
 cles of Lavenham, '' in honor of a bride who had belonged 
 to this higher grade, the lady addressed my father across 
 the room with, * Mr. Taylor, who wrote Shakespeare ? * 
 The husband, feigning an amused laugh, could only say, 
 ' Just hear my wife ! ' It was a question none of the 
 humbler folk there needed to ask." 
 
 Mrs. Gilbert claims for her father the honor of being the 
 originator of the Sunday school. She says he collected 
 
MEMOIR, XXXI 
 
 one at Lavenham as early as 1790. Robert Raikes of 
 Gloucester has always had the credit of founding the first 
 school, but Mrs. Gilbert's claim, which seems only just, 
 proves that there is nothing new under the sun. 
 
 Sometimes the busy household at Lavenham had a 
 little diversion. Ann says : — 
 
 " Quiet, and destitute of amusement as Lavenham was, we 
 yet had our holiday seasons and pleasures, all in keeping with 
 life in the country. In very fine weather, the tea, or even dinner, 
 in the garden, for which there was a choice of spots whether 
 in sunshine or in shade, was an occasion to the children. But 
 the great thing was a whole day's ramble, on what would now 
 be called a picnic excursion, — father, mother, children, and 
 servants ; my father with his pencil, my mother with a book, 
 the servant with provisions. And wherever there was a cottage, 
 a stump, or a tree, worth sketching, there we gathered round 
 him (those of us who did not prefer to hunt for violets), and 
 my mother read till the sketch was finished. Well I remem- 
 ber my father's signal for attracting our notice to any slip of 
 the * picturesque ' that might catch his eye : * Lookye, lookye 
 there ? ' 
 
 " But of all our rural holidays the most exciting was an 
 annual visit to Melford fair. Melford was, perhaps is, a very 
 pretty town of a single street, terminating at the upper end in a 
 large, open, and extremely pleasant green, with respectable 
 houses on one side, a fine old church at the top, and fringed on 
 the other by the park of Sir Harry Parker. On this green was 
 spread the fair, not, as my recollection serves, rude and riotous, 
 but attracting an assemblage of respectable country people 
 from several miles round. Yet the fair made but a part of the 
 pleasure, for on the return walk of about four miles was there 
 not tea at Mr. and Mrs. Blackadder's, a worthy couple, the per- 
 fect personification of farmer and wife far up in Suffolk, say a 
 hundred years ago, for they were still quite of the olden times. 
 Their little homestead was the very centre of old-fashioned 
 hospitality, and tea from the best china in the best parlor was 
 
xxxu MEMOIR. 
 
 no small delight. Best parlor, however, I should not call it, for 
 the ' House, or houseplace ' as it is called in Lincolnshire, on 
 the other side of the entrance, could not aspire to anything like 
 so genteel a name. There the ' min ' were admitted to regale 
 themselves, — master and men together after their daily labor, 
 unless there was * company.' 
 
 r ' '^ 
 
 The excitement of an annual fair was also to be had at 
 Lavenham. The little Taylors were able by peeping from 
 a dark, mysterious attic chamber, — a horror to them in the 
 daytime, — to gain a glimpse of the fire-works let off by the 
 boys at Mr. Blower's young gentlemen's school, on Guy 
 Fawkes day. They knew their father would order them 
 to bed ; so they braved the dangers of the dim chamber 
 haunted by their fancies, rather than let him see them. 
 Then too Guy Fawkes appeared in all his glory, making an 
 immense excitement for their young minds. 
 
 As we shall see by the description given of the house- 
 hold ways of the Taylors by Ann, ii was a very strictly 
 ordered, busy and methodical world into which these little 
 maidens, singing hand in hand, came. This work-a-day 
 world was early seen by them in its sternest aspect. Ann 
 really reproaches herself at length for building castles in 
 the air, to the extent of imagining how some poor people of 
 the village would feel if she helped them to a home. She 
 vividly relates the whole affair, and the singular pleasure 
 she took in breaking to them the secret. Then after 
 dressing them all in clean, new clothes, of which she had 
 even chosen the colors, she took them in procession, " two 
 and two to their new habitation." 
 
 What a strange, strange contrast between the inner 
 workings of such a poetic fancy, and the outside life which 
 encompassed and influenced it, so that the little creature 
 actually thought her pretty dreams wrong, and calls the 
 habit " ruinous, and an evil " ! Jane, too, unconsciously felt 
 
MEMOIR. xxxiu 
 
 her wings beat against the bars. The bright dreams of 
 childhood must have been sadly depressed in such a mental 
 and moral atmosphere. The hardest part of it is that the 
 father and mother were so kind, affectionate, and well- 
 meaning. The story of the hen who raised a brood of 
 young ducks, comes to mind as one reads of the regrets 
 and pain felt, as these bright young creatures tried to re- 
 press their natural gifts of poetry, and to banish the airy 
 dreams which visited them. Later in life, under the 
 increase of a very marked religious sentiment, never for- 
 eign to her but exaggerated by circumstances, Jane con- 
 fessed and lamented the tendency. *' I know,'' she said, 
 "that I have sometimes lived so much in a castle as 
 almost to forget that I lived in a house." 
 
 In June, 1789, Mrs. Taylor took her two little girls to 
 London. She had been in the country three years, and 
 had a great desire to visit her friends in town. This 
 fancy was increased by the expected visit of George IIL 
 to St. Paul's, to return thanks for his recovery from the 
 first attack of insanity. Ann says it was '* a scene of ex- 
 citement little calculated to continue a sane condition, but 
 there was probably some unacknowledged political reason 
 for amusing the public by the fearful venture. Among 
 the thousands who on that occasion flocked to the me- 
 tropolis were my mother and her two little girls. I was 
 then, June, 1789, somewhat more than seven, and Jane 
 not quite six years old. We were to travel by the Bury 
 coach, which passed through Sudbury, seven miles dis- 
 tant, as early as seven in the morning on its road to Lon- 
 don. Between one and two, therefore, that summer 
 morning we left our beds in order to start by ' Billy 
 East,* by which must be understood the postman's cart. 
 Loaded, and covered in as we were, behind our single 
 Rosinante, I soon began to feel very sick; and being 
 
xxxiv MEMOIR. 
 
 asked how I was, replied, * I am inclined for what I have 
 no inclination to.'" 
 
 She recalled very little of this early London visit ; but 
 here and there a trace hngered in her memory. She 
 says, — 
 
 " We had friends in Fleet Street, on the left-hand side, look- 
 ing up to St. Paul's, and there we were to take our stations. A 
 better position could scarcely have been selected from Avhich to 
 witness the cavalcade. We went to the house at five in the 
 morning of the 25th of June, the room, a first floor, being fitted 
 up with seats rising from the windows a considerable height 
 behind, but we as little folks were happily placed in front. 
 There we waited, oh, so long ! There was amusement, how- 
 ever, in watching the throngs below less fortunate than our- 
 selves, and the ladies in the room, many in full dress with their 
 hair curled and powdered, and head-dresses adorned with white 
 ribbons carr}^ing in gold letters the words, * God save the 
 king.* At length, towards noon, the splendid pageant ar- 
 rived, and fortunately for us a carriage with several of the 
 princesses was detained a considerable time under our windows. 
 They were dressed in white, and some sort of golden ornament 
 lay in the lap of one of them. Poor things ! I have thought 
 since, for the lot of English princesses has not always been 
 enviable. So the cavalcade passes into the mists of memory, 
 which refuses to produce more of that long forgotten day. 
 
 ** The evening of the following day London was splendidly 
 illuminated. We children saw a little of it in Holborn, but my 
 poor mother was induced reluctantly to accompany a party to 
 the India House, which was reported particularly brilliant, 
 and from that night dated much of her after life of suffering. 
 Whether from fear of fire, or some local accident, the plugs in 
 that neighborhood were up and the streets under water, while, 
 to make matters worse, in the midst of the overwhelming 
 crowd both my mother's shoes were trodden off. Many others 
 it seems were equally unfortunate, for in the course of the 
 night she met a woman with a barrowf ul of lost shoes, amongst 
 
MEMOIR. XXXV 
 
 which she had the strange luck to pick out first one, and then 
 the other of her own ! The cold thus taken, however, became 
 so threatening that my father was summoned to town, and 
 though she recovered the immediate effects, her health was 
 never sound afterwards." 
 
 Prosperity began to brighten the home of Mr. Taylor. 
 Some admirable work on an edition of Shakspeare, illus- 
 trated by him for his brother, caused Mr. Boydell to offer 
 him work for his great edition of Shakspeare. For his 
 plate of the death of Rizzio, by Opie, Mr. Taylor received 
 250 guineas. He exhibited it at the Society of Arts, and 
 it obtained the gold medal and a premium of ten guineas, 
 as the best engraving of the year. 
 
 The life of an engraver is full of anxious hours : who 
 but an engraver knows the meaning of a " touched proof ? " 
 says Ann. A few alterations made in as many moments 
 by the artist mean days or weeks of work for the engraver. 
 The parlor at Lavenham was quite a show place for the 
 townspeople when Stothard's " Henry VIII. meeting Ann 
 Boleyn," containing sixteen figures larger than life, filled 
 the side of the great room. Others came in rapid succes- 
 sion, and apprentices were taken in order to lighten .he 
 details of the work. A printing press was bought for 
 '' proving," and a young woman hired to work it. 
 
 Mr. Taylor seemed to be favored by fortune, and his 
 prospects of success appeared assured, when a most painful 
 rheumatic fever resulting from exposure confined him, 
 helpless and suffering, in his bed. For three months the 
 poor man was in his bed, and little hope was given of his 
 recovery. After ^v^ months he was able to appear 
 among his family; ''but there were large bills to pay, — 
 besides physicians' fees, ^30 to the surgeon, the cost of a 
 bushel of phials left as perquisites on our hands," — innu- 
 merable derangements to rectify, anxious work to resume, 
 
xxxvi MEMOIR. 
 
 and strength wasted all but to the grave to recover ; but, 
 nothing dismayed, he took his place among various and 
 pressing duties, with thankfulness, faith, and hope. 
 
 A new house for his little flock was necessitated by the 
 impossibility of longer hiring the first ; and by buying an 
 old house, and repairing and contriving and building, Mr. 
 Taylor contrived a home and plenty of room for his work- 
 shops. Ann says of this great event in a child's hfe : — 
 
 " At the mid-summer of 1793 ^^^ ^^"^ house was deemed 
 habitable, and thither, as to a new life, we were delighted to 
 remove. By his unfailing contrivance, the house was made to 
 suit us exactly, and the garden, beautiful and pleasant, to our 
 hearths desire. The best parlor (a * drawing-room ' was not 
 then known in Lavenham), till a little of the pecuniary pres- 
 sure was worked down, was left unfurnished at the disposal of 
 ' Ann and Jane ' to whip their tops in, but the common parlor 
 was as pretty and comfortable as it could be, with a door and a 
 large bay window into the garden, and a sliding panel for con- 
 venient communication with the kitchen. China closets and 
 store closets were large and commodious. The garden, too, 
 was an especially nice one. Happily there were several well- 
 grown trees already on the ground, and a trellis arbor covered 
 with honeysuckle, stood on a rising ground underneath a pic- 
 turesque old pear tree. A poultry yard, containing sometimes 
 seventy fowls of different sorts, w^as on the premises behind, 
 and an excavated and paved pond for ducks. 
 
 " We had, in our new house, a large room, running the entire 
 length of one part of the building; this was appropriated to 
 business. My father^s high desk was placed at the upper end ; 
 a row of windows facing the yard, was occupied by the appren- 
 tices, and another, overlooking the garden, was filled by the 
 children pursuing their education.'* 
 
 Pupils were taken, and apprentices also added to the 
 busy family circle ; yet the large household never boasted 
 
MEMOIR. xxxvu 
 
 but one maid of all work. Punctual, orderly habits were 
 inculcated, and methodical and regular supervision in 
 workshop, kitchen, and house, kept all running pleasantly 
 and smoothly. Mrs. Taylor was evidently a notable 
 housewife. The mother of eleven living children, her- 
 self an authoress, she yet found time to instruct her 
 daughters in all the feminine occupations suitable to their 
 station. 
 
 Ann made a visit with her father and mother in Isling- 
 ton, about this time, renewing friendships and making 
 some new friends ; among whom the Conders became life- 
 long intimates. Josiah Conder, the editor and author, 
 was one of the children of this family, and, with his sis- 
 ters, soon became very much attached to the Taylors. 
 
 During the exciting times in England, which accom- 
 panied the fearful scenes enacted in France during the 
 Reign of Terror, and the succeeding horrors of the Revo- 
 lution, dissenters were the objects of popular dislike. 
 Priestley was mobbed, his house destroyed, and many 
 others suffered. Even the quiet town of Lavenham, and 
 the inofFensive Taylors, shared the trials of the time. 
 They were only saved, once, by the coolness and courage 
 of the clergyman of the parish, who urged the mob to 
 leave Mr. Taylor's house, which they were about to de- 
 stroy, by the plea of his sister's ill-health. The Church 
 of England's authority probably saved them from a very 
 distressing calamity. 
 
 Mr. Taylor had long been a deacon of the Independent 
 meeting of Lavenham, and in the absence of the minister, 
 often held services in his own house. His earlv aspira- 
 tions had been directed to the ministry, only ill health 
 had barred the way. Mr. Hickman was called to another 
 charge, and he urged his society to ask Mr. Taylor to 
 assume the pastorate. Some jealousy was felt at the 
 
xxxvill MEMOIR. 
 
 elevation of one from among them, though many wished 
 his acceptance. Of course, he did not accept a divided 
 charge. This condition of affairs being made known, 
 neighboring clergymen called on him to relieve them, and 
 presently an Independent society at Colchester called him, 
 and he accepted their invitation. 
 
 Colchester was a gay garrison town, containing four- 
 teen parishes and twelve churches, some in a rather dis- 
 mantled condition, with dilapidations dating from the 
 rough work of the civil war, and especially from the siege 
 of the town by Fairfax. Many parts of the town wall 
 were then perfect, and the fine ruins of St. Botolph's 
 Priory and St. John's Gate, with the Castle which had 
 braved the storms of a thousand years in one or another 
 form, and the broken; ivied tower of St. Martin's Church, 
 made a very picturesque view, and gave historic interest 
 to a place full of association for artist and antiquary. 
 
 Dissent was not fashionable, intelligent, or popular in 
 Colchester. The " Round Meeting," which held a thou- 
 sand people when full, — and it was generally well filled, — 
 was presided over by a dull old man whose perfunctory 
 services interested no one. There were a few wealthy and 
 substantial families connected with the dissenting chapel 
 to which Mr. Taylor was called, but as a rule no young 
 people of education, position, or intelligence were to be 
 found among the ranks of Nonconformists in the town. 
 The dissenters of the place were too often without thought 
 or interest in their church, and habit only made them at- 
 tendant at chqpel or meeting. There was little hfe either 
 in the Established Churches, and religious feeling was at 
 a low ebb. 
 
 Mr. Taylor, who was a man full of life and spirit, threw 
 so much animation and vigor into his preaching and lec- 
 turing, that thronged houses soon gathered to enjoy his 
 
MEMOIR, xxxix 
 
 services. He still occupied his days with engraving, and 
 his evenings were passed in village preaching when not 
 engaged in his own parish. 
 
 Ann was fourteen at the time of this removal to Col- 
 chester, and Jane a year younger. So childlike were they, 
 that their earliest care was to fit up anew their doll's 
 house ; but Colchester life, and the rapid development 
 which new scenes and faces brought to their expanding 
 minds, drove the dolls into oblivion. Ann was much 
 liked, and received many attentions, as well as Jane. The 
 friendships and intimacies made at Colchester were very 
 gratifying. Several excellent offers were dechned by them, 
 and their presence was most welcome at social gatherings. 
 Ann had never cared for Lavenham outside the charmed 
 circle of home, but Colchester she loved for itself. 
 
 Years after, she said of it to her children : — 
 
 " It is a nice old town, and the country has just that cheerful 
 pleasantness about it which is inviting to the evening walk or 
 the social ramble. The town, clean, open, and agreeable, is 
 situated on a healthful gravelly hill, descending towards the 
 north and east, commanding from many points a view of the 
 Colne, the meadows through which it winds, and the horizon 
 fringed with wood, — 'the High Woods,' which formed the most 
 delightful portion of our longer evening excursions. Large 
 barracks adjoined the town on its southern side, and an air of 
 business and activity was given to the place as a great military 
 station, while the High Street was quite a gay promenade. The 
 music of the evening bugle is still a pleasant note in my ears, as 
 well as that of the eight o'clock curfew bell from the tower of 
 Old St Nicholas/' 
 
 She often spoke of the beauties of the town as seen 
 from the meadows, which lay to the north of it, and made 
 a delightful walk. 
 
 A sudden change in the state of the foreign market for 
 
xl MEMOIR. 
 
 engraving, closed by the continental wars, produced great 
 distress in the profession. Many young men were driven 
 from the practice of the art to other occupations, and 
 tried veterans like Mr. Taylor found a lucrative and ab- 
 sorbing employment sunk into a precarious and uncertain 
 business, in which they could not support a family. 
 
 The move made by Mr. Taylor to Colchester was in- 
 deed fortunate. What seemed a renunciation of some 
 worldly advantages, in becoming a minister and devoting 
 more precious time to that good work, instead of his art 
 in which he was earning large sums, was for a time a 
 great blessing. The moderate stipend of a dissenting 
 clergyman, eked out by taking pupils in engraving and 
 the help of his daughters, was barely sufficient to keep his 
 large family in comfort. Wants were limited to necessi- 
 ties, but even necessities were many in so large a circle of 
 little ones. 
 
 Ann records her engraving life as dating from July, 
 1797, when she was in her sixteenth year. Jane began 
 the study at the same time. In order that they might not 
 lose their taste for domestic employments, it was wisely 
 decided that they should work only on alternate weeks, 
 resuming each her household duties ; the one employed 
 in the work being known that week as '' Supra,'' the 
 housewife as '* Infra," — an improvement on the name 
 '' Betty," which had been bestowed before on the sister 
 keeping house. Washing and fine ironing, sweeping, 
 dusting, and cooking, all were expected of " Infra." And 
 sewing was in some way interpolated, for they made their 
 own clothes as soon as it was considered possible. 
 
 A large workroom joining the main house was the 
 scene of Ann and Jane's daily life for many years. Pupils 
 filled other tables, and there also their brothers, Isaac 
 and Martin, began a life of toil. Ann says : — 
 
MEMOIR. xli 
 
 " Happy days, — mornings, evenings, — Happy years ! — 
 have I spent in that shabby old room ! From the windows 
 we could just see over the garden, and beyond the roofs. Mile 
 End church and parsonage in the pretty distance, reminding 
 us of the evening walk by which the day's business was so 
 often closed. 
 
 " Our many callers in after years never thought of finding us 
 * in the parlor,' like other young ladies, but regularly turned 
 into a back yard from the street, ascended the short flight of 
 brick stairs, and placed themselves each on some wooden stool 
 beside Jane and myself, watching what they were sometimes 
 pleased to call our ' elegant art.' I must say we were never 
 ashamed of it, and why need we have been ? We had, I 
 might almost say, the honor of stepping first on a line now 
 regarded as nearly the one thing to be accomplished, the 
 respectable, remunerative, appropriate employment of young 
 
 Jane did not much enjoy the drudgery of this life. 
 Her more lively nature and literary aspirations made her 
 dislike the monotony of the work. 
 
 An article on " Female Industry,'^ in the " Edinburgh 
 Review" for 1859, in alluding to employments suitable 
 for women, named the Taylors, saying, *' The young wo- 
 men were incessantly at work, so as to be abundantly 
 weary of it, as Jane's letters plainly show." Ann re- 
 sented this statement, and said : — 
 
 " The life in that * shabby old room * was a happy one ; and 
 if Jane did at times dislike the monotony, it never reached 
 habitual weariness. For myself, what 1 have said, I have said, 
 and that most truly. Nay, the time has been, when I have 
 risen in the morning with exhilaration to put on the brown- 
 hoUand bib and apron, with sleeves to match, in preparation 
 for two or three days of * bitmg,' — this not very charming 
 employment frequently falling to my lot. 
 
xlii MEMOIR, 
 
 " Well, then, as to * biting.' A plate of polished copper (not 
 steel at that time), of the size intended for the print, having 
 been thickly covered with a sort of waxy ground, the subject to 
 be engraved is etched upon it with a steel point, as you might 
 say drawn with a strong needle, much as you might with a 
 pencil or pen, but cutting through the ground to the surface of 
 the copper. The lines, however, are of no depth, and of course 
 all alike, and to increase and vary both depth and width, the 
 work must be ' bit.* To effect this a wall of wax is raised 
 round the plate, with a spout, moulded at one corner, by which 
 to pour off the liquid, and a dilute preparation of aquafortis 
 (nitric acid) is poured on, which eats away the copper in the 
 exposed lines. It is now a delicate matter to watch the opera- 
 tion, ascertaining when the needful depth of the lightest por- 
 tion is attained ; at the moment, the acid is poured off, water 
 plentifully applied, and then dried out of the lines. A thin 
 coat of varnish is now painted over the parts that are suffi- 
 ciently deepened, technically speaking they are * stopped out,* 
 and the process of biting is recommenced. But all this is 
 subject to accidents ; and one trying misfortune is, when the 
 ground, from some defect in its composition, or from being laid 
 on under too great a heat, * blows up,' as it is called, and the 
 acid penetrates to the copper where it is not wanted, causing 
 innumerable specks which must be immediately stopped out, 
 and requiring a grievous amount of labor afterwards with the 
 * graver * to repair. An engraving after Ostade, the interior of 
 a Dutch kitchen, was etched by me, and covered almost en- 
 tirely with work, but in biting, the ground blew up largely, and 
 it was my business for three months afterwards to sit at the 
 patient repair of it, speck by speck. I should not wonder if 
 during this time I did feel ' abundantly weary.' So much for 
 weariness, and for * biting,' a part of the process for which it 
 will be seen there was good reason to be armed with bib, 
 apron, and sleeves." 
 
 Jemima Taylor, the youngest of this great family, on 
 reading this passage by Ann about the *' biting " and other 
 
MEMOIR. xliii 
 
 dull processes described with so much enthusiasm, gave 
 an insight into the good woman's character when she ex- 
 claimed, *' Ah ! Ann was always such a dog trot." 
 
 Ann and Jane were considered by a large number of 
 young friends very clever girls, and of the two Ann was 
 supposed to take the lead. Jane herself had this impres- 
 sion, when she addressed these lines to her sister: — 
 
 "My Ann, you had taken the lyre ; 
 
 And I, from the pattern you set, 
 Attempted the art to acquire ; 
 
 And often we play a duet. 
 But those who in grateful return, 
 
 Have said they were pleased with the lay, 
 The discord could always discern ; 
 
 And yet I continued to play.'* — Jane Taylor. 
 
 Curiously enough the public considered Jane as the 
 leader, and publishers, taking advantage of this, Ann said, 
 would often announce, "by * Jane Taylor,' when 'Ann 
 Taylor ' was the guilty person." '' Dear Jane never needed 
 to steal," she adds, '' while I could not afford to lose." 
 
 Ann's first published production was an election song, 
 for home reading only. It happened to be seen, and was 
 evidently valuable enough for one side to print for party 
 purposes. She was somewhat dazzled by her appearance 
 in print, and gives the date as 1797. 
 
 Sometime before a friend accused her of literary vanity, 
 and she felt the remark so keenly that she made " a mag- 
 nanimous conflagration '' of all her MSS., and " resolved to 
 go humbly " all her days. For a time her favorite amuse- 
 ment was laid aside ; but it could not be borne, and she 
 resumed her pen. The necessity of giving expression to 
 the emotions constantly roused by various objects of daily 
 life, was too strong ; she continued her poetical effusions. 
 
xliv MEMOIR. 
 
 'in 1798 the girls entered with great enjoyment into the 
 formation of a little literary society proposed by their 
 father. The title '* Umbelliferous Society " was intended 
 to indicate the buds, blossoms, and flowers so gathered 
 on one stem ; and it was suggested by Mr. Taylor. This 
 society, which was intended to stimulate the fancy, and 
 encourage the study of literature, lasted about two years. 
 Of the mode of life at this time, when full of business, and 
 also trying to save every moment for self-improvement, 
 Ann wrote : — 
 
 " We always breakfasted at eight o'clock, were allowed an 
 hour's interval for dinner, half-an-hour for tea, and closed the 
 daily routine in ' that dear old workroom' (as more than one 
 of our friends called it) at eight in the evening. It was chiefly, 
 therefore, or according to the letter of the law, only by rising 
 early and supping as late as half-past nine, that we could effect 
 anything. But I must confess to having had pencil and paper 
 generally so near at hand, that a flying thought could be caught 
 by a feather, even when engraving or biting was going on ; or, 
 in cases of extremity, when it was to be feared that all would 
 escape me before eight o'clock came. I have made a sudden 
 exit, and in honest haste and unintelligible scribble, pinioned 
 the fancy or the lines to the first slip of waste paper I could 
 find, there to abide till happy evening. Instead of engraving, 
 I was going to say etching, but this would be scarcely correct, 
 for while etching it was generally desirable to keep the * point ' 
 unchanged in the fingers from meal to meal. Only a very 
 beautiful point indeed would be so exquisitely true, that no 
 inequality of stroke would result from changing it. To render 
 the point perfect by grinding all the angles, was often not a* 
 little difiicult, and would cost much time ; as a hone for this 
 purpose, a fragment of Roman brick, picked up among the 
 ruins in the town, proved the finest and hardest substance we 
 could meet with. And if I have said ' bitings/ it must be under- 
 stood to mean, at times when the water was off, and the plate 
 safely dry." 
 
MEMOIR, xlv 
 
 About this time the indefatigable Mr. Taylor was urged 
 by some friends to invite the public to his lectures on as- 
 tronomy, illustrated by diagrams, which were rough and 
 picturesque, but very effective. He continued these lectures 
 to full rooms, for some time. He prepared successive 
 courses on astronomy, anatomy, geography, geometry, 
 mechanics, and general history. 
 
 The removal of some friends to Bergholt, — ** Con- 
 stable's Country," as it has been called, since his hand 
 made its rural scenes familiar, — caused an intimacy be- 
 tween the families Of the early introduction there is an 
 amusing anecdote, told by Ann with great good-nature : 
 ** We had been invited to walk over to Bergholt to see his 
 paintings, together with a portrait recently taken of him by 
 his friend Mr. Reinagle ; and availing ourselves of this, 
 one morning, we found his mother, Mrs. Constable, a 
 shrewd-looking, sensible woman, at home. There we 
 were, five girls, all ' come to see Mr. John Constable's 
 paintings,' and as we were about to be shown up into his 
 studio, she turned and said, dryly, * Well, young ladies, 
 would you like to go up all together to my son, or one at a 
 time ? ' I was simpleton enough to pause for a moment, 
 in doubt, but we happily decided upon going en masse?'' 
 
 Small events often lead to important results. Ann had 
 bought an annual known as the " Minor's Pocket Book," 
 in 1798 i and this chanced to rouse her fancy, as we shall 
 see by her own words : — 
 
 *'On reading the solutions of enigmas, and other poetic con- 
 tributions to which prizes were adjudged, it struck me that, 
 without great presumption, I might aim at as much literary dis- 
 tinction as these prizes conferred. With lively interest, there- 
 fore, I possessed myself of the prescribed conditions, unravelled 
 enigma, charade, and rebus, and forwarded the results under 
 the signature of * Juvenilia,' as directed, to 55 Gracechurch 
 
xlvi MEMOIR. 
 
 Street. I little thought that it was bread I thus cast on the 
 waters, or rather that it would return as bread after many days. 
 I had, indeed, to wait long, and as the interesting season 
 approached for the new pocket books to make their appear- 
 ance in the window of old Mr. Gibbs the bookseller, frequent 
 and anxious were my glances in passing by. At last they 
 arrived, and on turning them over on his counter with as much 
 indifference as could be assumed, I ascertained that the first 
 prize — six pocket books — had been awarded to * Juvenilia. ' " 
 
 The year 1799 may be fairly considered as the period 
 when Ann was launched on the sea of literature. For 
 some twelve or fourteen years she with Jane was a regu- 
 lar contributor, and latterly she had the editorial charge 
 for Darton and Harvey, who also became publishers of 
 some of their works. 
 
 Finding that plates were used in the *• Pocket Book," 
 the Taylors applied for work on the illustrations, and 
 were frequently employed in that department. Their 
 literary work was at this early period subordinate, and 
 only done for their own relaxation. Ann made a visit in 
 London when eighteen years old, and found much to 
 interest and stimulate her artistic and literary taste. She 
 met a young lady, Anna Forbes, who became the dearest 
 friend of a lifetime. She met Josiah Conder, who became, 
 in a few years, the editor of the *' Wreath." 
 
 Constant work in an overheated room left its mark on 
 the Taylors. They paid the penalty of close application, 
 and want of active exercise in the open air, in after years. 
 Ann happily was exempt ; but none of the others were 
 strong or w^ell. When Mr. Taylor finally allowed them 
 a run at dinner time, as their mother so strongly urged 
 it, the mischief was done. Isaac long felt the effects of 
 the close confinement, and Jane was prematurely cut off 
 in her prime. 
 
MEMOIR, xlvii 
 
 In 1800 the pressure of business was so great that 
 Mr. Taylor withdrew both Ann and Jane from the house- 
 work on alternate weeks, and they spent all their long 
 working days in the preparation of the portraits engaged 
 by him for " The Theological Magazine," with the ex- 
 ception of a day once in a fortnight for their own needle- 
 work. Jane thoroughly enjoyed all feminine accomplish- 
 ments, and the use of her pen, but there is abundant 
 evidence that she was very averse to en^^raving. Isaac 
 Taylor has recorded that Jane's " taste for the arts was 
 such as to make her excel in the lighter branches ; and 
 many of her drawings, still in possession of her family, 
 display a true feeling of the beautiful in nature, and a 
 peculiar niceness and elegance of execution ; but the 
 business of engraving was not altogether suited to her 
 talent, or taste, and it was relinquished without regret, 
 when other paths of exertion opened before her. In a letter 
 of an early date, she says, — * The more I see of myself, 
 and of the performances of others, the more I am con- 
 vinced that nature never intended me for an artist : . . . 
 no one can tell how my feelings are excruciated, when 
 I am referred to, or my opinion asked, as an artist. — 
 I look at the girls in the milliners' shops, with envy ; 
 because their business and their genius are on a level. I 
 think it is what I shall come to at last.' " 
 
 There was hope for Jane ; and the envy with which she 
 jokingly said she looked at the milliners' girls, soon was 
 forgotten, when her talent was discovered. She then 
 found her vocation ; and though she for a time contin- 
 ued the daily occupation of engraving, the interest and 
 inspiration of her new life cheered her daily round of 
 uncongenial labor. 
 
 Jane's first appearance in public was with the printing 
 of *' The Beggar Boy," in the " Minor's Pocket Book." 
 
xlviii MEMOIR. 
 
 The pathos, simplicity, and animation of this poem at- 
 tracted attention ; and the following note from the pub- 
 lishers will show that they saw the value of the sisters' 
 work. 
 
 London, ist 6 mo. 1803. 
 " Isaac Taylor. 
 
 "Respected Friend, — We have received some pieces of 
 
 poetry from some branches of thy family for the Minor's 
 
 Pocket Book, and we beg that the enclosed trifles may be 
 
 divided among such as are most likely to be pleased with them. 
 
 My principal reason for writing now, is to request that when 
 
 any of their harps be tuned, and their muse in good humor, 
 
 if they could give me some specimens of easy Poetry for 
 
 young children, I would endeavor to make a suitable return 
 
 in cash, or in books. If something in the way of moral 
 
 songs (though not songs), or short tales turned into verse, 
 
 or, — but I need not dictate. What would be most likely to 
 
 please little minds must be well known to every one of those 
 
 who have written such pieces as we have already seen from 
 
 thy family. Such pieces as are short, for little children would 
 
 be preferred. 
 
 " For self and partner, very respectfully, 
 
 *•' Darton and Harvey.*' 
 
 One can fancy the eager and delighted girls round their 
 father's desk as he read this kind note. His remark, " I 
 do not want my girls to be authors," was seconded by 
 their mother, whose watchful care and narrow views made 
 her dread any new departure from tlie old established 
 customs of her day. Female autliorship was long de- 
 cried by all ranks and many intelligent people. Like 
 many another fetich, it has been laid by patience and 
 tried skill. 
 
 The Taylors were both conscientious and poor. The 
 desire to be useful went hand in hand with a very laud- 
 able wish to add to the common store. Death had 
 
MEMOIR. xlix 
 
 several times visited the family; times were hard, and 
 mouths were many, in this large family. Mrs. Taylor 
 herself, as we have seen, appeared later in the field as an 
 author. 
 
 The field of poetry for children was almost an un- 
 trodden one when Ann and Jane took up their pens. Dr. 
 Watts was ths first in his work for the young. It was 
 true that Dr. Aikin, Mrs. Barbauld, and others, had be- 
 gun the good work of judicious, practical, and elevating 
 writing for the children, but the greater part of these 
 writers' work was done in prose. The beautiful '' Prose 
 Hymns," of Mrs. Barbauld, fill a very important place for 
 the use of little children ; but hymns and verses appeal 
 most powerfully to the young mind. There is something 
 in every child's nature, responsive and alive to poetry. 
 Poetry is the happiest way of communicating great truths 
 in a simple way to the young. 
 
 The '* Original Poems," published as the result of Dar- 
 ton and Harvey's note, appeared in 1804, and a second 
 edition was called for within the year. 
 
 The following extract from the preface will show the 
 ideas of the Authors : — 
 
 " If a hearty affection for that interesting little race, the race 
 of children, is any recommendation, the writers of the following 
 pages are well recommended ; and if to have studied in some 
 degree their capacities, habits, and wants, with a wish to adapt 
 these simple verses to their real comprehensions and probable 
 improvement, — if this has any further claim to the indulgence 
 of the public, it is the last and only one they attempt to make. 
 The deficiency of the compositions as poetry, is by no means a 
 secret to their authors ; but it was thought desirable to abridge 
 every poetic freedom and figure, and even every long-syllabled 
 word, which might give, perhaps, a false idea to their little 
 readers, or at least make a chasm in the chain of conception. 
 
 d 
 
I MEMOIR, 
 
 Images, which to us are so familiar that we forget their 
 imagery, are terrible stumbling-blocks to children, who have 
 none but literal ideas." 
 
 A few pieces by another hand were added to the " Orig- 
 inal Poems/' but after the second volume appeared the 
 authors always stood alone in their work. They received 
 ;^io for the Poems, and the "Rhymes for the Nursery" 
 brought them £20. Not large sums, but to their simple 
 ideas full of encouragement for the future. Thousands 
 were sold, and translations were made into many lan- 
 guages. 
 
 Work was constantly given them ; and among their 
 principal prose works, which are not so well known as 
 their poetry, were some translations and adaptations from 
 the French, -'City Scenes," ''Rural Scenes," ''Bible 
 Stories," "Limed Twigs," and many others. Among 
 other "jobs " given them was the revision and improve- 
 ment of a queer book, " The World turned Topsy-turvey." 
 The publisher, Sir Richard Philips, gave them twenty-four 
 guineas for adding some poems and working over the old 
 ones. 
 
 Ann attempted an imitation of Roscoe's " Butterfly's 
 Ball," in her "Wedding among the Flowers ; " and in a 
 happy fortnight, by availing herself of the extra hour of 
 daylight in the spring of 1808, when Jane was in London, 
 she completed her poem ; for which Darton and Harvey 
 sent her what she thought the " Munificent gift " of twelve 
 guineas. 
 
 "The Hymns for Infant Minds,'' printed in 1807, went 
 through forty-five editions before i860. Mrs. Gilbert her- 
 self corrected the thirty-fifth in 1844.' During the twenty- 
 four years since i860, the sale has continued, and the 
 works of the sisters are in no way superseded by more 
 modern productions. 
 
MEMOIR. li 
 
 The preparation of hymns for children's use was a 
 peculiarly difficult task. Jane wrote, in a letter of this 
 date, '* I think I have some idea of what a child's hymn 
 ought to be ; and when I commenced the task, it was 
 with the presumptuous determination that none of them 
 should fall short of the standard I had formed in my 
 mind. In order to this, my method was to shut my eyes, 
 and imagine the presence of some pretty little mortal ; 
 and then endeavor to catch, as it were, the very language 
 it would use on the subject before me. If, in any instan- 
 ces, I have succeeded, to this little imaginary being I 
 should attribute my success. And I have failed so fre- 
 quently, because so frequently I was compelled to say, — 
 ' Now you may go, my dear, I shall finish the hymn my- 
 self.'" 
 
 The Authors, in their preface to this volume, say very 
 truly, *' The Divine Songs of Dr. Watts, so beautiful, and 
 so justly admired, almost discourage, by their excellence, 
 a similar attempt; and lead the way, where it appears 
 temerity to follow." 
 
 The want of hymns of this kind has always been felt 
 by parents, and the immense sale of this book would seem 
 to imply that the Authors' success was all they could have 
 hoped or wished. Some years after, Ann's husband, Mr. 
 Gilbert, proposed a similar volume for the use of Sun- 
 day Schools ; and the sisters prepared it. Ann records, 
 shortly after her marriage, the singing of some of these 
 *' Hymns for Infant Minds," saying, — 
 
 ^^ May i8, 1815. — You would have enjoyed a scene we wit- 
 nessed last Monday. The Sunday schools of Sheffield, con- 
 taining six thousand children and thirteen hundred teachers, 
 assembled in an open space in the outskirts of the town, where 
 they formed into a hollow square, sang the " Old Hundredth,*' 
 and then marched in procession through the principal streets 
 
lii MEMOIR, 
 
 to a very large chapel, where a sermon was preached to them. 
 Our hymns were sung, and the first, which was the first in the 
 * Infant minds,' ^ had a beautiful effect from so many little En- 
 glish voices. Large hustings were erected round the pulpit, 
 where the principal ladies and gentlemen of the town were 
 placed, and in front a gentleman beat time with one of our 
 books. Montgomery told the committee in choosing the 
 hymns that the middle one — * Among the deepest shades of 
 night ' — was the finest hymn of the sort in the English lan- 
 guage. The last in the volume concluded. Mr. Gilbert enjoys 
 such incidents.'* 
 
 The intense excitement produced by the rumors of a 
 French Invasion made a great panic at Colchester, and 
 as a measure of safety, the younger children were sent in 
 charge of Jane and Isaac to Lavenham, where the unoccu- 
 pied house still owned by Mr. Taylor nicely accommo- 
 dated them. Mrs. Taylor, in writing to Jane, ** describes 
 to her children the rigors of the fast-day — no cloth 
 laid; halfa round of toast at breakfast, and no dinner! 
 She dwells, too, upon ^ the wonderful sermon ' of her hus- 
 band, of which she had chosen the text — David's words 
 to Goliath of Gath. ' Goliath, he said, had three signifi- 
 cations, Revolution, Captivity, and Passing over. People 
 came round him afterwards begging to have it printed.' 
 There was plain speaking in those plain days ; for he failed 
 not to set forth, * in most affectionate terms,* to the vol- 
 unteers present in their uniforms, that many might prob- 
 ably ^wallow in their blood.' " 
 
 Ann, being in London visiting, could speak only from 
 hearsay of all this, but she shared in the general commo- 
 tion. 
 
 In the year 1807, as before said, appeared the '* Rhymes 
 
 1 " I thank the goodness and the grace." 
 
MEMOIR. liii 
 
 for the Nursery,'* and "Hymns for Infant Minds." During 
 this year Ann says, in writing of a visit to London, — 
 
 *' Through the kindness of various friends, 1 gratified my in- 
 tense, but humble yearnings to see ' Poetry ' in the shape of 
 man or woman. " On this occasion I was introduced to both 
 Dr. Aikin and Mrs. Barbauld. A call 1 was privileged to 
 make at Newington upon the latter, I cannot forget, nor the 
 strange feeling of unearthly expectancy with which, in a small 
 parlor, I waited her appearance. At length the door opened, 
 — for she did not float in on a cloud or a zephyr, — and a 
 small, plain, lively, elderly lady made her appearance ; but it 
 was Mrs. Barbauld, aiid that was enough ! During the same 
 visit I was introduced to a literary nucleus of a different but 
 interesting description, consisting of Daniel Parken, then editor 
 of the * Eclectic Review ; ' Theophilus Williams, who succeeded 
 him ; and Ignatius Montgomery, a relative of the Poet. Of 
 James Montgomery himself, Kirke White, and others, we, 
 from time to time, heard a good deal from our now inti- 
 mate friend Josiah Conder, whose correspondence, through 
 the * monthly parcel,' was made intensely interesting to us by 
 the literary intelligence it conveyed." 
 
 Josiah Conder was a frequent visitor at the Taylors', 
 and he urged on the sisters the publication of some of 
 their more ambitious efforts at poetry. 
 
 In 1809 they collected several pieces and jointly printed 
 them, though rather reluctantly, by his advice. He was 
 editor as well as publisher. Ann's share of " The Asso- 
 ciate Minstrels " was quite large, being eleven poems. 
 The book was first called the " Wreath ; '■ but the editor 
 probably changed the title, for Jane wished the volume to 
 retain its original name, saying, '* Since I have had time 
 to think soberly about the ^ Wreath,' — for this must al- 
 ways be its title, — I have felt far less anxious about it." 
 She had not at this time displayed the vigor her writings 
 
liv MEMOIR. 
 
 later showed, and the poems, which were none of them 
 prepared for publication, are pleasing, simple, expressive 
 of feeling occasioned by various circumstances. They 
 show her natural tenderness of heart, and the playful 
 fancy always natural to her, but not the spirit later de- 
 veloped in her work. 
 
 The book, which was dedicated to Montgomery the 
 poet, included poems from Ann and Jane, and the elder 
 Mr. Conder, the lady afterwards Mrs. Josiah Conder, and 
 a friend of the Taylors, Mr. Jacob Strutt. It went to 
 a second edition soon, and received the kindly notice 
 and commendation of Sir Walter Scott, Maria Edge- 
 worth, Southey, James Montgomery, Hayley, and others. 
 Scott and Miss Edgeworth greatly liked the poems for 
 children. 
 
 Sir Walter Scott, writing to Josiah Conder, says, '* My 
 young people are busy with the ' Rhymes for the Nur- 
 sery,' and it is perhaps the highest proof of their being 
 admirably adapted for their benevolent purpose, that the 
 little students have most of them by heart already." 
 
 Miss Edgeworth, in thanking Ann- for something sent 
 her, says : ** In a book called * Original Poems for Chil- 
 dren,' there is a pretty little poem, ^ The Chatterbox,' 
 which one of my little sisters, on hearing your letter, re- 
 collected. It is signed Ann T . Perhaps, madam, it 
 
 may be written by you ; and it will give you pleasure to 
 hear that it is a favorite with four good talkers of nine, 
 six, five, and four years old." 
 
 When Southey received from Josiah Conder the " Asso- 
 ciate Minstrels," after some general remarks on the state 
 of poetry at that day in England, and the work under his 
 notice, adds : " The * Original Poems ' of your friends 
 and associates have long been in my children's library, 
 and equally favorites with them and with me. There is 
 
MEMOIR. Iv 
 
 a cast of feeling in them which made me suppose the 
 authors to be Quakers, a society with which I am almost, 
 yet not wholly in communion. Whoever these ladies are, 
 they have well and wisely employed their talents, and I 
 am glad to have this opportunity of conveying my thanks 
 to them through you, for the good which they are doing, 
 and will long continue to do." 
 
 Montgomery writes of it : — *^ Ann is to my mind the 
 Queen of the Assembly. She is a poet of a high order, 
 the first, unquestionably, among those who write for 
 children, and not the last, by hundreds, of those who 
 write for men. The ' Maniac's Song ' has not only the 
 melancholy of madness, but the inspiration of poetry." 
 
 In 1811 the sisters published the third edition of '' The 
 Hymns for Infant Minds," for themselves, with the entire 
 profit. They realized ^150 from the first edition, but all 
 their little savings were lost by the failure of their pub- 
 lisher, and this decided them to publish for themselves, 
 which produced very substantial returns. 
 
 In 18 10 Mr. Taylor resigned his pastoral charge in 
 Colchester, and the following year received a call to 
 Ongar, a pretty village near Epping Forest. 
 
 Fourteen years of workroom life for Ann and Jane was 
 at an end. It was decided that they should forever aban- 
 don this work, so distasteful to Jane. Great changes were 
 in store for them, and the projected school to take the 
 place of engraving was talked of, but soon dropped. Ann 
 gives a distant friend a picture of Castle House, Ongar, 
 her home till her marriage in 181 3. 
 
 " And now, how I wish I could show, instead of describe it 
 to you ! but, alas ! Ongar and Barnstaple ! Well, then, I must 
 e'en tell you of the pleasant places in which our lines are fallen. 
 The house was built upon the site of the ancient castle, in the 
 
Ivi MEMOIR, 
 
 reign of Queen Elizabeth, who once honored it with a visit 
 The hall-door, studded with clump-headed nails an inch in 
 diameter, measures 6 feet, by 4 feet 7. The front is covered 
 with a vine ; before it is a flower garden ; on the right, as 
 pretty a village church among the trees as you ever saw; and 
 close on the left the castle trees rising upon a high mount, with 
 a moat of deep water encircling it. From every window in 
 front we command a rich and beautiful valley, and behind see 
 the town just peeping through a line of elms on a terrace beside 
 an outer moat. Immediately adjacent is a farm-3^ard, and we 
 have not only the usual live stock of such a scene, but a fine 
 pair of swans, three cygnets, moorfowl, and solan geese upon 
 the moat ; rabbits running wild upon the mount ; a rookery, 
 wood doves, and, we are told, nightingales in the castle trees. 
 Now, you may fancy, perhaps, that with all this appropriate 
 scenery the house must be haunted, or, at least hauntible ; that 
 there are nooks and vaults, and niches at every turn ; and that 
 sitting, as I now do, a broad moon sliining in at my window, 
 and the village clock striking eleven, the next thing must be a 
 tall gliding figure patting down the stairs which wind from my 
 room door, within the northern turret. But I assure you we 
 are the picture of cheerfulness and comfort. The rooms are 
 light and pleasant, not in the least ghostly, and fitted up with 
 every modern convenience. We have a hall, two parlors, 
 kitchen, store-room, &:c., on the ground floor ; three chambers 
 above ; and a good workroom, study, two bed-chambers, and a 
 light closet on the attic floor. We had to sam the ivy from the 
 back parlor window before we could see it, but some still re- 
 mains to fringe the mullions ; we have beautiful walks in every 
 direction ; and we have placed our garden seat at the end of a 
 retired field, surrounded by the moats and the terrace elms 
 immediately behind the house.'* 
 
 After some very pleasant visits to friends in Lon- 
 don, the girls went home, in February of 18 12, looking 
 forward to a new era in their lives. This period was 
 of short duration for Ann, who passed but a few months 
 
MEMOIR. Ivii 
 
 there. Before leaving Colchester, Hannah More's pop- 
 ular tale of '-'- Ccelebs in Search of a Wife " was the 
 subject of a long letter from Ann to Josiah Conder. He 
 was intimate with Daniel Parken, the talented editor 
 of the " Eclectic Review," and probably showed him 
 this letter ; for Mr. Parken presently asked if Ann would 
 undertake an article, and he so far diverged from the 
 customary range of the *' Review " as to propose a 
 tale of the day by Mrs. West, "Self Control." This 
 ** Review " numbered several able writers on its list, 
 among them, Robert Hall, John Foster, and Olinthus 
 Gregory. In its pages the merits of Washington Irving 
 were first recognized in England, by an article contrib- 
 uted by Isaac Taylor, Jr. Ann says of this, her first 
 Review article : " With anxiety, excitement, and delight, 
 I undertook it. After writing every morning till about 
 weary, I used to take the MS. to a clump of trees a 
 little in the valley as seen from my v»nndow, and sitting 
 beneath them, read it aloud, for until able to judge from 
 the ear I could never form an opinion of what I had writ- 
 ten. It appeared in the ' Eclectic ' for June, and, being 
 favorably received, I was forthwith continually employed. 
 The next review was of Miss Edge worth's Tales, I forget 
 which series, sent up in August of the same year." 
 
 Their quiet life was little broken by company; but " a 
 visit about this time from Josiah Conder and James 
 Montgomery gave great pleasure to us. Few and far 
 between had been our glimpses into literary society, and 
 in Montgomery, from first admiring his poetry in the 
 * Athenaeum,' we had felt tlie most lively interest, — yes, 
 and notwithstanding the remark of a young lady belong- 
 ing to our higher circle in Colchester, who, hearing from 
 me that he was printer at Sheffield, exclaimed, ' La ! how 
 terrible.' It was scarcely worth while to remember it 
 
Iviii MEMOIR. 
 
 for half a century, but how can we get rid of anything 
 that chooses to stay ? On the afternoon of their visit, our 
 walk with the two poets across the meadows, and up the 
 winding lane to Stondon Church, was indeed delightful; 
 and yet the only shred of conversation that clings to my 
 memory was the simple remark of Montgomery, when I 
 mistook distant thunder for artillery (that of Woolwich 
 sometimes shook our windows). ' Yes, the artillery of 
 Heaven.' " 
 
 In 1812 Isaac Taylor, Jr.'s, health began to fail. His 
 occupation in London was abandoned, and it was con- 
 sidered absolutely necessary that he should seek a differ- 
 ent climate. Ilfracombe, in Devonshire, was chosen for 
 its soft climate ; and the family decided that Ann and Jane 
 should go with him. So, armed with their writing, and 
 he equipped with his materials for miniature-painting and 
 engraving, the little party set out. It was sad and anxious 
 time. The journey of three hundred miles was made by 
 stage, from the celebrated " Castle and Falcon," Inn in 
 Aldersgate Street, London, in three days and nights. 
 
 Jane wrote of the place of their six months' stay, after a 
 few weeks' study, — 
 
 " Ilfracombe is situated in a deep valley, surrounded on one 
 side by barren hills, and on the other by stupendous rocks, 
 which skirt the sea. Our lodgings very pleasantly overlook 
 the harbor, which affords us constant entertainment. The sea 
 is close behind the house \ and is so near a neighbor that, dur- 
 ing the last high tides, the waves rose in immense sheets of 
 foam, and fell over a high wall opposite our chamber windows : 
 it also flowed into the house in front, and kept us close pris- 
 oners. Our walks in every direction are so interesting that, 
 wh]le the weather permitted, we spent a great part of the day 
 abroad. Our rambles among the rocks I enjoy most ; though 
 at first they excited sensations of awe and terror, rather than 
 
MEMOIR, lix 
 
 of pleasure. But now we climb without fear amid a wilderness 
 of rocks, where nothing else can be seen, and nothing heard 
 but the roar of the distant sea : here the only path is over the 
 huge fragments which lie scattered in all directions, and which 
 it requires some courage as well as dexterity to scale. Besides 
 these, we have several cheerful walks, commanding the sea, 
 bounded to the north by a beautiful line of the Welsh moun- 
 tains. Their aspects are very various ; at times appearing 
 only like faint clouds in the horizon ; but when the weather is 
 clear, and the sun shines upon them, they exhibit an exquisite 
 variety of light and shade, and delicate coloring, finished, by 
 distance, like the finest miniature. From some of the highest 
 hills we have distinctly perceived the buildings on the nearer 
 part of the coast ; — to the west the wide ocean is before us, 
 
 ' Now sparkling with sunbeams, now dimpled with oars, 
 Now dark with the fresh-blowing gale.' 
 
 The rocky cliffs of Lundy island add beauty and interest to the 
 
 This new field of study, and the enlarged circle of 
 friends made by the sisters, was very desirable in many 
 ways. Jane was naturally of a retiring disposition. She 
 wrote a few years before this : " How many mortifica- 
 tions should we escape, if we were always more solicitous 
 to deserve the love of a few valued friends, than to excite 
 general admiration ! A proud indifference to the opinion 
 of the world is no amiable feeling. But to be independ- 
 ent of its smiles, by valuing chiefly the sweets of inward 
 tranquillity, is indeed a most desirable state of mind, — 
 only to be attained by cultivating the best principles, and 
 by seeking approbation from the ///^//^i"/ source." 
 
 She never fully threw off the extreme dififidence with 
 which she started on her literary career. She continued to 
 address herself to young people and children, because she 
 felt herself safe in that humble and less ambitious sphere. 
 
Ix MEMOIR. 
 
 Jane spent much of her time at Ilfracombe in rambling 
 about and gathering impressions for future work. Ann 
 and Isaac were fully occupied. Ann wrote for the " Eclec- 
 tic " several excellent reviews, — among them that pungent 
 one on Hannah More's "Christian Morals." She was 
 much stimulated in her new field of work by finding that 
 an article by Dr. Gregory was laid aside for her review 
 of Miss Edgeworth's book. But the chief event of the 
 winter at Ilfracombe, was the arrival of a visitor on a 
 peculiar errand. A minister, for a short time resident in 
 Essex, but now associated with Dr. Williams as classical 
 tutor in Rotherham Theological College, had been so 
 impressed with Ann Taylor's writings, and had heard 
 from those acquainted with her so much eulogium upon 
 her personal merits, that he took the singular step, with- 
 out having seen her, of writing to inquire, whether " any 
 peremptory reasons existed which might lead him to con- 
 clude that a journey, undertaken with the purpose of solicit- 
 ing her heart and hand, could not possibly be successful." 
 
 The Rev. Joseph Gilbert first visited Ongar, and took 
 the wise step of enlisting the sympathy of Ann's only 
 confidant and best friend, her mother, who wrote : *^ But 
 as to the man^ it would be vain and fruitless for me to 
 say — ' like or dislike him.' Your own observations, your 
 own eyes, your own heart, must be your directors. But I 
 may say, / like him^ and that he grows upon me most 
 rapidly. I soon discovered a vivacity, a gracefulness, 
 and even a fascination in his manner, which I thought 
 might in due time render him acceptable. Poor fellow ! 
 There was no place inside, and he had to travel on the 
 roof this bitter weather, and was so absorbed in love and 
 learning, that he had left behind his warm travelling cap, 
 and, but for your father, would have gone away again 
 without his overalls ! " 
 
MEMOIR, Ixi 
 
 At this time Mr. Gilbert was assistant classical Profes- 
 sor at Rotherham College. He was a widower of thirty- 
 three, without children. At the death, in a few months, 
 of the Principal of Rotherham, he was asked to take the 
 entire charge of the college. After several visits on the 
 way, the little family party returned to Ongar. Ann had 
 received Mr. Gilbert's visit with courtesy, but given him 
 no decided answer. She naturally was surprised, and it 
 would seem not quite pleased, by his abrupt wooing. 
 
 After ten months they reached Ongar in July, 1813. 
 Quite a correspondence had taken place between Mr. 
 Gilbert and Ann, and at last he arrived in August at On- 
 gar for a decisive answer to his offer. 
 
 Ann Taylor virtually closed her literary career when she 
 replied yes to this suitor. It gave her forty years of a 
 happy and useful life with one in all ways worthy of re- 
 spect and love. Her heart and hands were soon too full 
 for any but the practical duties of life. She lived that 
 **duty, praise and prayer," she had so well written of in 
 her verse. She was thirty-one when she took this impor- 
 tant step. She had already received attentions and good 
 offers, but this only touched that tender heart. 
 
 Jane was left alone by this event, and the last ten years 
 of her life were passed without the constant companion- 
 ship of her beloved Ann. She had written before this of 
 preparations for work, to a friend, during the Colchester 
 life : — 
 
 ** My verses have certainly one advantage to boast, beyond 
 any that ever before escaped from my pen ; — that of being 
 composed in my own study. Whether instigated by the sight 
 of your retired literarium, or what, I cannot exactly tell ; but 
 certain it is, that one of my first engagements on my return 
 home, was to fit up an unoccupied attic, hitherto devoted only 
 to household lumber ; this I removed by the most spirited 
 
Ixii MEMOIR. 
 
 exertions, and supplied its place with all the apparatus neces- 
 sary for a poet ; which, you know, is not of a very extensive 
 nature, — a few book-shelves, a table for my writing-desk, one 
 chair for myself, and another for my muse, is a pretty accurate 
 inventory of my furniture. But though my study cannot boast 
 the elegance of yours, it possesses one advantage which, as a 
 poet, you ought to allow surpasses them all : it commands a 
 view of the country, — the only room in the house, except one, 
 which is thus favored ; and to me this is invaluable. You may 
 now expect me to do wonders. But even if others should derive 
 no advantages from this new arrangement, to me, I am sure, 
 they will be numerous. For years I have been longing for such 
 a luxury ; and never before had wit enough to think of this con- 
 venient place : it will add so much to the comfort of my life, 
 that I can do nothing but congratulate myself upon the happy 
 thought ; and I demand a large share of your poetical sympathy 
 on the occasion. Although it is morning, and, I must tell you, 
 but little past six, I have half filled this sheet, which capability 
 I attribute, chiefly, to the sweet fields that are now smiling in 
 vernal beauty before me." 
 
 At Ongar, during her first years, she was hardly settled 
 enough to make a study. Isaac's health obliged her to 
 again leave home for Ilfracombe and Marazion. 
 
 In October the brother and sister left Ongar, and from 
 there she addressed Ann as follows on the occasion of 
 her approaching marriage : — 
 
 ** Ilfracombe, December i8, 1813. 
 " My dear Ann, — I cannot suffer this interesting morning 
 to pass without something of a salutation from Ilfracombe ; and 
 I dare say this letter will arrive in good company ; but I am sure 
 no one will address you who can feel on this occasion either so 
 glad, or so sorry as I do. So far as you only are concerned, I 
 think I am entirely glad, and feel as perfectly satisfied and happy 
 as one can do about untried circumstances. But I cannot forget 
 
MEMOIR. Ixiii 
 
 that this morning which forms one indissoluble partnership, dis- 
 solves another, which we had almost considered so. From the 
 early days of * Moll and Bett,' down to these last times, we 
 have been more inseparable companions than sisters usually 
 are ; and our pursuits and interests have been the same. My 
 thoughts of late have often wandered back to those distant 
 years, and passed over the varied scenes which chequered our 
 childhood and youth: — there is scarcely a recollection, in all 
 that long period, in which we are not mutually concerned, and 
 equally interested. If this separation had taken place ten 
 years ago, we might, by this time, have been in some degree 
 estranged from each other; but having passed so large and 
 important a portion of life in such intimate union, I think we 
 may confidently say it never will be so. For brothers and 
 sisters to separate, is the common lot; — for their affection 
 and interest to remain unabated is not common ; but I am sure 
 it is possible ; and I think the experience we have already had 
 proves that we may expect its continuance. Farewell, my dear 
 Ann ! and in this emphatical farewell I would comprehend 
 all the wishes, the prayers, the love, the joy, and the sorrow, 
 which it would be so difficult to express in more words. If 
 there is a dash of bitterness in the grief with which I bid you 
 farewell, it is only from the recollection that I have not been 
 to you the sister I might have been. My feelings have been so 
 strongly excited to-day, that I cannot bear more of it ; and must 
 leave you to imagine what more I would say on this occasion. 
 
 *' I cannot — no, I cannot realize the busy scene at the Cas- 
 tle House, nor fancy you in your bridal appearance. I intend 
 to place myself before the view of the house, about the time I 
 imagine you are walking down the gravel-walk, and stand there 
 while you are at church, and till I think you are coming 
 back again. How strange — how sad, that I cannot be with 
 you ! What a world is this, that its brightest pleasures are, 
 almost invariably, attended with the keenest heart-rendings." 
 
 Ann's wedding day was the 24th December, 18 13. It 
 was a bright winter's day ; and Ann wrote a friend she 
 
Ixiv MEMOIR. 
 
 should ** not soon forget the dearest group in all the world to 
 me, left at the garden gate to watch the chaise out of sight. 
 I had a last look as we ascenaed the hill. It was one of 
 those bitter pains which we sometimes have to pay for 
 pleasures of an earthly kind." Janeand Isaac were present 
 only in spirit, as his health had driven them away, even 
 in the weeks before the wedding. *' It was then che fash- 
 ion for ladies to travel in a riding-habit ; a friend had 
 undertaken to purchase the cloth for that required by the 
 bride at a wholesale warehouse in London, and she was 
 not a little gratified to learn, that when the proprietor 
 heard for whom the purchase was intended, though he only 
 knew Ann Taylor from her works, he begged her accept- 
 ance of the four guineas' worth of cloth as a token of 
 respect.*' 
 
 The quiet and retirement of the second winter in Devon- 
 shire were passed by Jane in writing the tale pubhshed 
 later, under the title, " Display." Her brother says : — 
 
 " She commenced it with a specific idea of the qualities she 
 designed to exhibit, but with no definite plan for its execution. 
 In pursuit of the same general object she followed, every day, 
 the suggestion of the moment; and this was, perhaps, the only 
 way in which she would ever have written. It was her custom, 
 in a solitary ramble among the rocks, for half an hour after 
 breakfast, to seek that pitch of excitement without which she 
 never took up the pen. This fever of thought was usually ex- 
 hausted in two or three hours of writing, after which she 
 enjoyed a social walk, and seldom attempted a second effort in 
 the day ; for she had now adopted the salutary plan of writing 
 in the morning only. To this plan she adhered ever after, 
 with only occasional exceptions." 
 
 Mrs. Barbauld, writing to Miss Edge worth in 1816, 
 criticises it somewhat. Miss Edgeworth had spoken of it 
 to her in a previous letter, saying, — 
 
MEMOIR, IxV 
 
 " We have just got a little book called * Display/ a tale for 
 young people, which we like much. It is written by the 
 daughter of a physician, a Miss Jane Taylor, who keeps a 
 school near Dublin. I am not acquainted with her. The 
 good people in this book, are more to my taste, than those in 
 Coelebs, because they are not so meddling. I only wish they 
 had not objected to young people going to balls. Before I 
 could finish my sentence, in praise of all the good sense and 
 excellent writing of this tale, a circle of young and old ladies 
 were open-mouthed with the question, — But why object to 
 balls.?" 
 
 To this pleasant recommendation from a sister author- 
 ess, Mrs. Barbauld replied : — 
 
 ** * Display ' we sent for on your recommendation, and are 
 much pleased with a good deal of it, but we are entirely of 
 your opinion with regard to balls, and indeed there is a great 
 deal in her system that I should object to, particularly the 
 doctrine, which I think a very pernicious one, that all, th« 
 innocent and good as well as the bad, must undergo a myste- 
 rious change before they are in a safe state. Emily was very 
 good for aught that I could see before her conversion. I 
 trembled, as I drew near the close, lest Elizabeth should have 
 a fine fortune left her by somebody, and was much pleased with 
 the author's good sense in handing her to her post behind the 
 counter. By the way, are you not mistaken in the Author ? 
 We take it to be th-e production oi Jane Taylor of Ongar^ 
 who has written several pieces, both verse and prose, for 
 children." 
 
 ** Display " went through many editions. TweWe were 
 printed in London, before 1835 ; and it was reprinted 
 elsewhere several times. The good sense and evident 
 sincerity of the writer are everywhere noticeable ; and the 
 plain unaffected' Eno^lish, the perfect simplicity of the 
 plot and incidents, all disarm criticism. Written with a 
 
Ixvi MEMOIR, 
 
 desire to inculcate religious and devotional sentiments, it 
 is neither sectarian nor bigoted, like too many stories of 
 similar style. One cannot help wishing that fate had 
 allowed Jane a wider scope for her playful fancy and 
 quick observation. '' Display " belongs to a very serious 
 class of stories, and is well calculated to awaken thought, 
 and assist the young to a better knowledge of their wants 
 and shortcomings. 
 
 For Mr. and Mrs. Gilbert, in Ann's own words, 
 
 " Life*s uncertain scope 
 In pleasant haze before them lay, 
 A land of Love and Hope." 
 
 Their first home was at Rotherham, in Yorkshire. 
 It was from the first a very busy life for both, made very 
 happy by mutual love and confidence. For a time Ann 
 attempted to keep up her writing. She gave Mr. Gilbert 
 assistance in his work. After his Greek instruction he 
 devoted some time to literary work each day ; and in this 
 his wife aided him. She had also engaged to review 
 Miss Hamilton's *' Popular Essays," and Miss Edge- 
 worth's '' Patronage.'^ 
 
 Her letters to her mother are full of questions as to 
 various housekeeping mysteries, showing her desire to 
 make an acceptable housekeeper in her new home. She 
 had to visit more or less, dining with the new friends 
 in Yorkshire frequently. Sheffield, where her husband 
 preached, was not distant, — six miles through pleasant 
 field and wood walks. There she often visited and, while 
 staying with James Montgomery, " witnessed the phenom- 
 enon of a poet smoking two pipes after supper." 
 
 She wrote of her new experiences, and the difficulty 
 she found in keeping up her literary work, — ** There 
 is always ' some bed or some border to mend, or some- 
 
MEMOIR. Ixvii 
 
 thing to tie or to stick.' I endeavor to get to writing 
 about eleven, and write during the morning, more or less, 
 as I am able." She says in another letter, — 
 
 " I am persuaded that many here are expecting to find me a 
 dawdle. Mr. G. says that people have been continually fishing 
 for information on this head, * Is Mrs. Gilbert always writing? ' 
 Mr. G. is very desirous that ' Mrs. Gilbert ' should be as well 
 known as * Miss Taylor ; ' but he has invested me with other 
 characters, and he does not feel, perhaps, that to be well 
 known at the expense of these, would be disgrace, rather than 
 fame. I hope, by prudence and activity, to be able in time to 
 unite the different occupations and characters, so as not 
 greatly to injure any ; but if one must suffer, it should certainly 
 be the literary.'* 
 
 Mrs. Taylor about this time made her first appearance 
 as a writer ; and soon after, with Jane, published the " Cor- 
 respondence between a Mother and Daughter at School." 
 Her little book on " Maternal Solicitude," was very- 
 popular, running through four editions immediately after 
 its publication. In October, 1814, Ann's first child, a boy, 
 was born : and to remonstrances about her unused pen, she 
 would answer, '* Never mind, the dear little child is worth 
 volumes of fame." Her heart overflowed with tender- 
 ness and a welcome for all the little ones sent her. Her 
 days and nights were full of thought and care for them. 
 She had eight children born to her. Of this, the first 
 born, there are many little anecdotes which run through 
 the family letters. It was her one topic for a while. 
 
 She describes the old nurse as talking to the newly 
 born baby : " I wish you could have heard her talk to 
 him ; it amused me many an hour in bed, for she speaks 
 the broadest Yorkshire I have heard, except from a coal 
 miner. * Wale, wale, ma little lud, wha d'ye mack sic a 
 
Ixviii MEMOIR, 
 
 din, an croy soa ? Oh, for shaam ! I mun whip ye, hap- 
 pen ye wornt loyke that. Coom, coom, I mun hap ye oop, 
 an lig ye int' bed for a soop a botde. Hoosh, hoosh, 
 thenna, an' dunna croye soa, ma little piggin, an' dunna 
 foight soa, an' tear ya screed.' " 
 
 Meantime Jane at Marazion was busy on <* Display" 
 and ''Essays on Rhyme." She was also meeting a new 
 set of friends, and enlarging her views of people and life. 
 She wrote of the place : *' Marazion is pleasantly situated 
 on the margin of Mount's Bay, which forms a fine sweep: 
 on the western side lies Penzance, nearly opposite to us, 
 at the distance of three miles : — it is a fine ride by the 
 sea-side. This morning we have been there : it is a large 
 and very pleasant town ; and being so near, we can have 
 many of the conveniences it affords. The views here are 
 open and agreeable : St. Michael's Mount is a fine object, 
 distant about half a mile, and Penzance and the adjacent 
 villages very prettily skirt the Bay." 
 
 Here she met with very agreeable people and saw 
 much of members of the Established Church and the 
 Wesleyan Methodists. Her father's position as an Inde- 
 pendent preacher had deprived the family of the free 
 social intercourse, so desirable for the young, and really 
 indispensable to the formation of a liberal mind and a 
 well-balanced literary judgment. Jane Taylor was much 
 hampered by the circumstances of her early life. The 
 humblest position could not have been more narrowing 
 than the isolation to which these children were doomed 
 by their father's pastorate. 
 
 The favorable reception accorded " Display," gave Jane 
 that confidence in herself so greatly needed. She had 
 always before persisted in attributing to Ann all the suc- 
 cess of the works published jointly with her. This tale 
 was all her own, in plan, execution, and style. She had 
 
MEMOIR, Ixix 
 
 long been urged to attempt a work of the kind, and this 
 showed her ability for such writing. She wisely confined 
 herself to a simple narrative, and her modest sketch is 
 the groundwork of as unambitious and natural a story 
 as one often finds. 
 
 The strictures of some critics on Jane's views were thus 
 answered by her, in a letter to a friend : — 
 
 " As to the dancing, I certainly did not think I had erred 
 on the strict side ; and I think I have observed the distinction 
 you mention, of not objecting to dancing in itself. The children 
 at Stokely, you may remember, were all dancing very merrily 
 one evening. But, in fact, except with mere children, there is 
 no such thing as * select Christian dances.' — Go where you 
 will, it is the world who dance ; and the serious who do not. 
 ... As to what Mr. Leddenhurst says about * dancing through 
 the world/ it is a remark I have heard made by those who are 
 very far from being puritanical in their manners, or narrow in 
 their views ; and I merely understand by it, that a person of a 
 contemplative and serious turn of mind, impressed with the 
 grand realities of religion, and intent upon remedying, as far as 
 possible, the sin and misery of the world, will not be much 
 disposed to go * dancing through it.' " 
 
 Being urged by many to continue her writing for the 
 general public, Jane, feeling her own judgment was best, 
 resumed her work in the " Essays in Rhyme." She pre- 
 ferred the form, and really enjoyed versification. She also 
 began, in 1816, her contributions, under the well-known 
 signature of Q. O., to the "Youth's Magazine : " among 
 these sketches are many old favorites, and some justly 
 celebrated. " Essays in Rhyme," were finished in 1816, 
 and Jane never wrote anything with so much enthusiasm 
 and interest as this book. She had received the just 
 praise to which her other works entitled her, and her health 
 was still fair ; she was then at the height of her maturity, 
 
Ixx MEMOIR, 
 
 and felt all the pleasure which capacity for work, and the 
 appreciation of that power expressed by others, give to 
 an earnest writer. 
 
 Her own consciousness of duty well done would have 
 sustained her through arduous labor, or unremitting drudg- 
 ery like that of the engraving shop, but for continuous 
 literary occupation she needed the stimulus of others, the 
 expression of the public that she was doing a good and 
 necessary work. 
 
 Children were born to Ann in rapid succession, and she 
 found little time for poetry ; now and then verses dropped 
 from her facile pen ; some hymns for the Sunday-school 
 were prepared by Jane and her, during the early years of 
 her marriage. The chan2:es of a dissenting minister's 
 life took the Gilberts from Rotherham to Hull, in 1817. 
 
 " Eight happy and successful, though truly laborious 
 years," says Ann, *' were spent at Hull by Mr. Gilbert, as 
 pastor of the Fish St. Chapel. What shall one say of her 
 own share of that life ? During those years six children 
 were added to the little ones she carried there, and the 
 mother was always ready for her part of her husband's 
 work, as well as her own household duties. Her corre- 
 spondence was very large and full, as all the Taylors were 
 scattered and distant from her. Visits to her father and 
 mother were rare pleasures to her, and long anticipated by 
 her affectionate heart. 
 
 Frequent and long visits from Jane also gladdened her 
 heart. Jane had become very serious in her feelings, and 
 with her own increasing ill health, and anxiety for her 
 father, who had a long illness, her mind was more than 
 ever drawn to the contemplation of the future. She was 
 naturally cheerful in temperament, but suffering and weak- 
 ness naturally somewhat affected her spirits. She wrote 
 less and less, under the pressure of pain and weakness. 
 
MEMOIR. Ixxi 
 
 and confined herself to short letters to friends. She 
 continued to the last the interest she had always ex- 
 pressed for her friends, and her devotional duties, Sunday- 
 school work, and active parish visiting. She calmly 
 anticipated the change ; and in January, the last time she 
 visited the Meeting House to meet her Sunday-school 
 class, she pointed out to a friend the spot where her 
 grave was to be. She never attended the Meeting a.ijain, 
 as all her symptoms were aggravated by the exposure of 
 the wintry day; and she gradually sunk, passing away the 
 nth of April, her last articulate words being, '* Well, I 
 don't think I shall now see Ann again ; I feel I am dying 
 fast," — and Ann on her way to Ongar arrived too late for 
 the sad parting. 
 
 One who knew her well described Jane's appearance 
 as follows : " In truth, the expression of her face was of 
 that kind which is the most difficult to be seized by the 
 pencil ; for it was the expression of the finest feelings, 
 habitually veiled from observation. Her features were 
 delicately formed, and regular, — her stature below the 
 middle size ; every movement bespoke the activity of her 
 mind ; and a peculiar archness and sprightliness of man- 
 ner gave significance and grace to all she did." 
 
 The mind was as alert and active as the body ; wit and 
 spirit enlivened her conversation, as well as her writings. 
 Her pensive fancy was relieved by playful yet genuine 
 feeling. She had a great dread of all literary affectations, 
 and often restrained herself for fear of appearing to be a 
 blue. Her seriousness of feeling developed more fully 
 as the years of youth passed, and never a trifler, she gave 
 her best efforts to her religious convictions. 
 
 Jane had so great a desire to escape the imputation of 
 hterary affectation that she often would omit gratifying 
 herself in matters of fancy. She was eminently practical . 
 
Ixxii MEMOIR. 
 
 in her ideas. She restrained her wit, frequently, from 
 the great earnestness which was the motive power ; the 
 under current of feeling was too deep to allow a light 
 touch. One traces this in many of her letters : '' Some 
 people," she says, "think it a great recommendation to 
 be able to write a clever letter ; but if there is any thing 
 I dislike to receive, or that I am unambitious of writing, 
 it is a clever letter; by which I mean a letter that ex- 
 hibits, obviously, an endeavor to be smart and pointed ; 
 or, worse still, fine and sentimental." 
 
 Carlyle expresses some tiling of the same feeling where 
 he says : *' A resolution to be piquant is the besetting 
 sin of innumerable persons of both sexes, and wofully 
 mars any use there might otherwise be in their writing or 
 speaking." 
 
 Ann, in writing her children after the funeral services 
 of Jane, says : " She was in her life kind, tender, active, 
 generous, and always anxious to be useful to others. 
 She was willing to deny herself of everything, and was 
 never so happy as when she was doing a kindness to her 
 brothers and sisters. Above all, she feared God from 
 her youth, and did not leave that great work till she came 
 to die." 
 
 In 1825 Mr. Gilbert removed to Nottingham, called 
 thither by a new charge. The only literary work we 
 -hear of there, was an address to the women of Notting- 
 ham by Ann on the subject of Infidelity. Sympathy with 
 her husband's work kept her mind fully occupied, and 
 every-day duties left little time for other work. She finally 
 became much interested in seeing so much of "' the then 
 popular, vulgar infidelity, — the deism and atheism, of 
 workshops ^,nd alehouses," as she herself expresses it, 
 that she wrote a poem, later enlarged, but never pub- 
 lished, "Tfie Prispngr Infidel." 
 
MEMOIR. Ixxiii 
 
 The year 1830 broke up the old Ongar home, always 
 dear to Mrs. Gilbert's heart, by the death of both Mr. and 
 Mrs. Taylor. Mrs. Gilbert had already been called to part 
 with one of her own little flock, a bitter grief to the 
 mother love. During a visit at Skegness she wrote the 
 '' Twelve letters on Recovery from Sickness." The MS. 
 was published in the following year under the title of 
 *' The Convalescent." A serious illness of one of her 
 daughters impressed her so deeply, that she answered 
 what she felt the needs of one re-entering the world, after 
 a long confinement in a sick room. 
 
 Mrs. Gilbert often employed her pen to celebrate local 
 events, and commemorate important occasions, for home 
 entertainment. The advent of the penny-post, and the 
 introduction of steam travelling, received her enthusiastic 
 praise; she called the first "the glorious penny post- 
 age," and made great use of the cheaper system. She 
 welcomed the rapid mode of travelling, dearly as she 
 loved all old associations ; and though the old coach made 
 a picture she enjoyed, as it passed along the road with 
 the horn, and the scarlet coat of the mail-guard, which 
 gave a bit of color and life she revelled in. Too many 
 weary hours had been passed by her on the way to her 
 friends in early years, for her not to rejoice in the new 
 force which shortened distance and united families. 
 
 " The enthusiasm of humanity " was always natural to 
 Ann. New books, new ideas were always welcomed by 
 her. She continued to grow and learn all her days. In 
 1849, one new movement which was brought to her no- 
 tice, the rights of women, as regarding the Elective Fran- 
 chise, elicited a reply from her which contained her views 
 on the political duties of women. I extract a few words 
 from it. After objecting to women's burdening themselves 
 more than they need with outdoor politics, she says: 
 
Ixxiv MEMOIR, 
 
 " Indoors she may do much, even politically, — that is, 
 I should say, it is her duty to instil principles into her 
 children, principles affecting all the great questions, — 
 Freedom ; Slavery ; Justice ; Humanity ; War ; Mono- 
 poly ; Private Judgment ; Voluntaryism, with as many 
 more as may be thought of ; and, supposing she do all 
 this well, wisely, effectively, and see to it at the same 
 time that dinners come secundum artem, that shirts 
 have buttons (and buttons shirts), — that everything, in 
 short, within the homestead is *done decently and in 
 order,' — she will have, to my thinking at least, enough 
 to do ! " 
 
 In 1853 came the death of Mr. Gilbert. The devoted 
 pastor, loving husband and father, was called, and his 
 wife with her daughters made themselves sadly a new 
 home. Several years were left her, and she tried to do 
 her best to occupy them. She prepared a sketch of her 
 husband's life and character, which was published, with 
 '* Recollections of his Discourses." 
 
 The breaking up of her home was very painful, and the 
 severance of the one dear tie left a great blank. Mr. 
 Gilbert was as tender and devoted in his family as he was 
 in his ministry. Isaac Taylor writes of him, and his influ- 
 ence on the listeners who came to him. After remarking 
 on his *' eminent faculty for clear, continuous, and sus- 
 tained abstract thought," he says, **but, as a preacher 
 and writer, Mr. Gilbert earnestly desired to be useful. 
 This desire manifestly was always paramount to the 
 ambition to shine or to win popular applause. He 
 scorned not to be intelligible to every one. He would 
 leave nothing untried that mi^jht avail to bring him close 
 home to the convictions of his hearers, — educated and 
 uneducated. Far from him was the arrogance that might 
 make him content to be wondered at as a philosopher by 
 
MEMOIR. Ixxv 
 
 a gaping crowd. He loved his hearers, he earnestly 
 desired to promote their highest welfare." 
 
 Something of the home life of Ann Gilbert as a minis- 
 ter's wife, may interest the reader. Witli a crowded nur- 
 sery, poor servants much of the time, all the details of a 
 minister's household to care for, one might fancy her liv- 
 ing in the midst of disorder, for limited means do not 
 make easy housekeeping; but such was not the case. 
 One who lived in her household some years wrote these 
 recollections of the home : — 
 
 " I can never forget the strong, clear, definite outlines of her 
 character, nor the delicate beautiful touches that gave such an 
 indescribable attraction to it. There was a firmness and 
 straightforwardness in her gait that was essentially indicative 
 of her moral strength ; while a clear, distinct, sonorous utter- 
 ance impressed one with the order, perspicuity, and justice of 
 her ideas. She was a lover of peace and order, and though I 
 lived with her for several years, I never saw her temper ruffled, 
 or heard her say a harsh or unreasonable word. . . . The 
 kitchen, the nursery, the library, the school-room, all felt the 
 gentle restraint of her never-varying propriety. 
 
 " Mrs. Gilbert was habitually an early riser. When I knew 
 her she rose at six, and was accustomed to do an hour's needle- 
 work before the rest of the family were out of bed. She was 
 indefatigable with her needle, and her love for keeping things 
 in repair must often have been at the great sacrifice of her love 
 of reading. Yet I have heard Mr. Gilbert good-humoredly 
 remark, * Though Ann seldom indulges herself in looking into 
 a book, I don't know how it is, she is always up to everything 
 that is going on in the literary world.' 
 
 "Her discipline with her children was gentle, yet very firm; 
 and her remonstrances had always a tone of earnest, tender 
 entreaty, that it was difiicult to resist, so that force or punish- 
 ment was seldom resorted 'to. 
 
 " Her manner was alike easy, affable, and kind to persons of 
 
Ixxvi MEMOIR, 
 
 every rank, and her sprightly repartees, interspersed through 
 all her conversation, constantly took you by surprise, and elic- 
 ited a laugh at the most unexpected moment, while she passed 
 it by with scarce a smile. Her puns were inimitable, so natu- 
 ral, easy, and adroit, that you wondered they had not struck 
 you before she uttered them. 
 
 ** One of her greatest charms was her charity, — not speaking 
 ill of any one, and always hearing, with regret, anything un- 
 favorable against any person. She was a true friend, and a 
 true woman, not lavish of endearments, but with a wealth of 
 love in her heart, ever ready in the service of all with whom 
 she had to do. Few women, with so elevated a poetic nature, 
 have combined so much practical utilitarianism, and energetic 
 self-abnegation ; for a strong and healthy conscientiousness 
 regulated every spring of her actions." 
 
 Of her own experiences as a minister's wife she wrote 
 a poem, showing that she fully felt the daily and hourly- 
 needs of the people, and their demands on the sympathy 
 and judgment of the pastor and his wife. She saw 
 worth in that lower middle class, the rank and file of Eng- 
 lish life, where many have latterly detected only *' Philis- 
 tinism." She says — 
 
 ....*** the folks in trade,' 
 Our pastor knew them, often gathered thence 
 Lessons of self-denial, patience, sense ; 
 The trust in Providence, the worth of prayer, 
 The energy of manly bearing there ; 
 Sore struggle 'twixt the dangers of the day, 
 A ruined prospect, or a crooked way ! " 
 
 The last years of Ann Gilbert's life were passed in a 
 peaceful and serene old age. Many pleasant little jour- 
 neys filled the milder season of the year. Her children 
 vied with each other in kind attentions, and loving friends 
 were not wanting to cheer and soothe her declining days. 
 
MEMOIR. Ixxvii 
 
 She survived her husband fourteen years, sinking gently 
 into rest, after some hours of insensibility, December 20, 
 1866. Her six surviving children were around her as she 
 passed calmly away. 
 
 The difference between the poetry of Ann and Jane was 
 quite marked. Ann loved the business of life, and the 
 social circle ; Jane, dreamy, shy and sensitive, sought 
 nature with its peace and pathos. Ann's '* My Mother," 
 perhaps the most quoted of her poems, will illustrate this. 
 Jane, who has written what her latest critic, Mrs. Oliphant, 
 calls *' immortal" "Twinkle, twinkle, little star," loved 
 the contemplative side of life ; Ann, the dramatic and prac- 
 tical. Yet Ann has left lovely bits of natural description, 
 — notably the " Michaelmas Daisy; " ''A Pretty Thing," 
 and the little nursery song which follows, is as perfect as 
 anything of its kind ; as good in its way is " My Mother," 
 termed by one eminent writer " the finest lyric of the 
 kind in the English language." 
 
 ** Dance, little baby, dance up high, 
 Never mind, baby — mother is by ; 
 Crow and caper, caper and crow, 
 There, little baby, there you go ; 
 Up to the ceiling, down to the ground, 
 Backwards and forwards, round and round; 
 Then dance, little baby, and mother shall sing. 
 With the merry gay coral, ding, ding-a-ding ! ding." 
 
 One will remember, in remarking on the perfect sim- 
 plicity, the drollery, and the truth of the poems. Gold- 
 smith's brilliant repartee to Dr. Johnson, who was amusing 
 himself about making animals talk in literature. *' The 
 skill," said he, '' consists in making the little fishes talk like 
 little fishes." Whereupon, observing Johnson shaking his 
 sides with laughter, he smartly added, " Why, Dr. Johnson, 
 
Ixxviii MEMOIR, 
 
 this is not so easy as you seem to think, for if you were 
 to make little fishes talk, they would talk like WHALES." 
 And so would many other writers besides old Sam John- 
 son. Goldsmith hit the keynote of the whole subject of 
 writing for children when he said this. There are few who 
 understand writing for children. It requires a clear and 
 eminently practical mind to divest itself of the worldly, 
 in the way of addressing the undeveloped mind. Old 
 Fuller long ago wrote truly, " Every boy can teach a man, 
 whereas he must be a matt who can teach a boy. It is 
 easy to inform them who are able to understand, but it 
 must be a masterpiece of integrity and discretion to de- 
 scend to the capacity of children." A worthy saying, and 
 to be well noted by writers for the young. To "descend " 
 well is a great art. Miss Yonge, in her paper on children's 
 literature, speaks of ^* the astonishing simplicity without 
 puerility, the pathos and arch drollery, of the secular 
 poems of the Taylors." 
 
 Dr. Arnold of Rugby said, in one of his sermons, " The 
 knowledge and love of Christ can nowhere be more readily 
 gained by young children, than from the hymns of these 
 most admirable women.'' 
 
 Archbishop Whately, also, bears testimony to the value 
 of the Taylor sisters' work, when he- says, in '' Essays 
 on Christian Faith," " A well-known little book, entitled 
 'Hymns for Infant Minds,' contains, Nos. 14, 15, a 
 better practical description of Christian humility, and its 
 opposite, than I ever met with in so small a compass. 
 Though very intelligible and touching to a mere child, a 
 man of the most mature understanding, if not quite des- 
 titute of the virtue in question, may be the wiser and 
 better for it." The poems here referred to are those en- 
 titled, " How to Find Out Pride," and '' How to Cure 
 Pride ; " and were written by Ann Taylor. 
 
MEMOIR, Ixxix 
 
 These poems exhibit a searching analysis of motive, 
 common to both the sisters' work. After some close in- 
 quiries, the poem says : — 
 
 " Put all these questions to your heart, 
 And make it act an honest part ; 
 And when they 've each been fairly tried, 
 I think you '11 own that you have pride." 
 
 On Ann's last birthday, Jan. 30, 1866, at the age of 
 eighty- four, she wrote in her diary, " Oh, what a length of 
 mercy ! " She addressed her only remaining brother in 
 that year, as follows ; showing that, always cheerful and try- 
 ing to interest herself in those around her, her thoughts 
 were busy, her mind was ready for the future life. 
 
 " I breathed a sigh that spake of tears 
 At thought of life's departing years ! 
 Well ! Speed they must, but oh, to stand 
 Equipped for that near — distant land 1 
 My soul stands trembling but to think 
 Of that unseen, that awful brink. 
 And for herself, and all, she prays, — 
 * Lord search our thoughts, and try our ways, 
 And see in that vain world within 
 Or error's blight, or hidden sin. ' " 
 
D I S P LAY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " I WISH we were not going this evening," said Eliz- 
 abeth; ''they say Mrs. Fellows is so clever, and so 
 satirical, that I shall be afraid of speaking a word.'* 
 
 ** Dear now, I am glad we are going," repKed Emily, 
 '* we have heard so much of Mrs. Fellows ; and I had 
 not thought about being afraid of her.'* 
 
 " I trust of all things they will not ask us to play. I 
 would not play before Mrs. Fellows for all the world," 
 added Elizabeth. 
 
 " I had rather not, certainly," said Emily ; " and 
 yet I do not think I should mind it so very much." 
 
 '' How I envy you having so much courage," said 
 Elizabeth ; " I am such a silly, timid creature ! " 
 
 It was true that the dispositions of these young 
 people differed essentially : they belonged to opposite 
 classes of character ; which — to borrow terms used 
 long ago in a different sense, in scholastic controversy 
 — might be called Nominalists and Realists. 
 
 Emily was a Realist, Whatever she did, said, or 
 looked, was in earnest : she possessed the grace of 
 SIMPLICITY, — a simplicity which appeared alike in her 
 virtues and her faults. It was neither from insensibility 
 nor self-conceit that she thought of her introduction to 
 this formidable lady with so much composure. Modest 
 people are not the soonest frightened. " I wonder 
 
 I 
 
2 DISPLA V, 
 
 what they will think of me?^^ is not the inquiry of 
 humility, but of vanity. 
 
 Now this inquiry Elizabeth was making perpetually. 
 To speak, to move, to weep, or to smile, were with her 
 but so many manoeuvres, which she was practising for 
 e^ecf, and to attract attention. The prospect, the pict- 
 ure, or the poem, which Emily admired with all her 
 heart, Elizabeth admired with all her eloquence^ — too 
 intent upon exhibiting her taste or sensibility, to be 
 truly the subject of either. 
 
 It was this disposition to display, that made her 
 anxious about the expected yisit Emily was going 
 that she might see Mrs. Fellows ; Elizabeth, that Mrs. 
 Fellows might see her. 
 
 From the conference with her friend, Elizabeth went 
 directly to her dressing-room. She would have given 
 away half her ornaments to know whether Mrs. Fel- 
 lows wore ornaments. '^ As she is a literary lady, I 
 dare say she despises dress," thought Elizabeth, as she 
 looked at her pearl bracelets ; and she clasped and 
 unclasped them several times ; but at last put them on 
 in a hurry, because there was no time left to deliberate. 
 
 Elizabeth and Emily went together to their friend's 
 house. Emily happened to take off her glove in the 
 hall. "You have no bracelets on!" said Elizabeth. 
 This was a comparison she could not bear : Mrs. Fel- 
 lows would think her a mere doll. *^Wait one mo- 
 ment," said she ; but in snatching one of the bracelets 
 from her arm it broke ; and the pearls wandered 
 deliberately to every corner of the hall. '^ Oh, your 
 beautiful pearls ! " said Emily. But just as she and the 
 footman were beginning the search, a rap, long and 
 loud, announced the arrival of other company. It was 
 Mrs. Fellows herself. " Oh, never mind, never mind," 
 cried Elizabeth, shocked at the idea of being caught 
 by a learned lady in the act of collecting beads ; 
 " Thomas will look for them." And, drawing on her 
 
DISPLA V. 3 
 
 glove still more eagerly than she had taken it off, she 
 hurried much discomposed to the drawing-room. 
 
 The first glance at Mrs. Fellows when she made her 
 appearance, convinced Elizabeth that this literary lady 
 was no despiser of dress ; and she now regretted the 
 misfortune that had befallen her bracelet. 
 
 Mrs. Fellows was reputed a universal genius : be- 
 sides excelling all the masters in all the usual accom- 
 plishments, she was a botanist, and a chemist, and an 
 anatomist. She had written sonnets, and a novel, and 
 a tragedy ; and appeared — at least among the noblesse 
 of an obscure country town — a prodigy of learning 
 and genius. 
 
 Nothing could be more ill founded than Elizabeth's 
 expectation of attracting the attention of this gifted 
 lady. Satisfied with being herself the object of at- 
 tention, and engrossed by the display of her own 
 accompUshments, she had little leisure or inclination 
 to observe those of others. She was presently engaged 
 in conversation with two or three gentlemen ; and the 
 whole evening would have passed without Ehzabeth's 
 being able to ascertain whether she had once attracted 
 her notice, if she had not happened to hear her say — 
 after catching her eye for a moment — '^ about the 
 height of that young lady." 
 
 How much anxiety and vexation do they escape, 
 who mix in society with a simple, unambitious tem- 
 per ! 
 
 The business which brought Mrs. Fellows from town, 
 was to dispose of an estate in this neighborhood to a 
 relation. 
 
 '' I understand we shall have a great acquisition in 
 this new family," observed a lady. 
 
 "Very much so, I assure you," replied Mrs. Fel- 
 lows ; " my cousin is a very sensible, excellent, clever, 
 worthy man ; and educates his family in a vastly 
 superior manner." 
 
4 DISPLA K 
 
 " Any of the young gentlemen grown up ? " inquired 
 a matron. 
 
 " Oh, no ; the eldest I think is but ten years old." 
 
 " Only ten years old ! " said three young ladies in a 
 breath. 
 
 " There is a tutor, and a governess, I suppose," re- 
 sumed the lady. 
 
 "No tutor ; my cousin at present superintends their 
 education entirely himself. Mrs. Leddenhurst has a 
 governess, I believe ; but really I can give you very 
 little information about them," said she ; " I have 
 scarcely seen anything of them of late ; indeed, my 
 cousin and his wife have some pecuHarities, which ren- 
 der them not altogether so entirely agreeable as one 
 could wish." And here she changed the conversation ; 
 leaving the company in a state of suspense about these 
 " pecuHarities : " but it was not insupportable suspense, 
 because the family was expected in six weeks ; " and 
 
 then we shall know all about it," thought Mrs. P , 
 
 and Mrs. M , and the three Miss C *s, and old 
 
 Mrs. G , and young Mrs. G , and Dr. W . 
 
 At length it was requested that Mrs. Fellows would 
 play. The lively terms in which Elizabeth expressed 
 her pleasure at this proposal were lost amid the general 
 din of solicitation. 
 
 ^* What taste ! what execution ! " she exclaimed re- 
 peatedly, during the performance. 
 
 When it was over, Mrs. Fellows insisted that some 
 of the company should take her place. 
 
 Elizabeth advanced a step or two within the line of 
 observation. 
 
 ** Miss Palmer, my dear," said the lady of the house, 
 turning towards her : but in the meantime another lady 
 had been prevailed upon. 
 
 " What an escape for you ! " whispered Emily. 
 
 " Yes, indeed," replied Elizabeth faintly, " what an 
 escape ! " 
 
DISPLA V. 5 
 
 When the party broke up, Elizabeth, as she wished 
 her friend Emily good night, added in a whisper, " How 
 much I am disappointed in Mrs. Fellows ! " 
 
 Elizabeth and Emily were friends, as it often hap- 
 pens, rather from accident than congeniality. They 
 had been playfellows from their infancy ; and when they 
 ceased to play, they had continued to associate. 
 
 Emily was affectionate, and she loved Elizabeth sin- 
 cerely. EUzabeth felt as much regard for Emily as for 
 any one she knew : but vanity chills the heart ; and in 
 proportion as she became conscious of the slightness 
 of her affection, she grew lavish in her professions of it. 
 Bat notwithstanding the difference in their tastes and 
 dispositions, there were some respects in which they 
 suited each other. Elizabeth could by no means have 
 tolerated a friend, who had been taller, or fairer, or 
 considered more clever than herself. Perhaps she was 
 not aware how much of her regard for Emily, and the 
 pleasure she felt in her society, depended upon her own 
 acknowledged superiority in these respects. 
 
 Elizabeth was now more than nineteen years old ; 
 Emily nearly a year younger ; and most people thought 
 ^' Elizabeth Palmer much handsomer than Emily Grey.'' 
 They had always lived among people who allowed their 
 full value to external advantages. Elizabeth's supe- 
 riority to her friend was a circumstance entirely taken 
 for granted between them ; and the deference natur- 
 ally claimed by the one was peaceably yielded by the 
 other. 
 
 As for Emily, a companion who would talk, and 
 leave her to think and feel as she pleased, suited her 
 better than one who had been disposed to interfere 
 with her thoughts and feelings. Yet she occasion- 
 ally sighed for something more like her own idea of 
 friendship than she had ever found in associating with 
 Elizabeth. 
 
DISPLA V. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 One morning Elizabeth and several others called 
 upon Emily. There was now an opportunity, they 
 said, of going over the house and grounds at Stokely, 
 as it was open to the workmen ; and a great many 
 people had been to see it. 
 
 It was a pleasant walk from the town : the house 
 stood on a rising ground, and, embosomed in fine trees, 
 was a picturesque object in all directions. 
 
 ** What a pity that such a pretty place should be 
 shut up ! " had been said year after year by many a 
 traveller. But now everything indicated that inhabit- 
 ants were expected. 
 
 " Let us go over the house first," said several of the 
 party, as they sprang nimbly up the steps to the hall 
 door. 
 
 " You must take care of the paint, young ladies," 
 said the workmen, as they flocked into the hall. 
 
 While they steered their way among work-tables and 
 scaffolding, and over heaps of shavings and sawdust, 
 and passed from one apartment to another, they ex- 
 pressed their opinions in various tones and terms of 
 admiration. " What a charming room f/n's is ! " and 
 '^ what a delightful room t/iis will be ! " 
 
 '^ What a sweet place this would be for a ball-room ! " 
 said one, bounding in upon a fine smooth floor, and 
 humming a few notes of a country dance. 
 
 '^ If I were Mrs. Leddenhurst, I would have this for 
 my dressing-room, or study, or something," said an- 
 other, as they passed on. 
 
 '' This is exactly such a kind of a room as I should 
 like for myself," cried a third. ^' I wonder what Ms is 
 to be ? I wish there was somebody to tell one what 
 the rooms are to be," said a fourth. '' I wonder 
 
D IS PL A V. 7 
 
 whether I shall ever live in such a nice house as this ! " 
 exclaimed a little girl. " Silly child ! " said her sister, 
 who was old enough not to wonder aloud. 
 
 They next attempted a door which they could not 
 open. " That room is locked up, and I can't part with 
 the key upon no account," said a person who seemed 
 to be a superintendent. 
 
 " Dear, I wonder what there can be so particularly 
 curious within," said Elizabeth, looking through the 
 key-hole. 
 
 " Nothing particularly curious within ; they are my 
 books, ladies, which I shall be very happy to show you 
 when they are in better order," said a gentleman who 
 at that instant appeared on the staircase, and passed 
 on. This was said with a graceful bow, and a very 
 good-natured smile. They were all silent in a mo- 
 ment ; and stood coloring, and looking silly at each 
 other. For when a party of* young ladies are rambling 
 at large over an empty house, it is highly probable that 
 some silly and impertinent things will be said ; and 
 each was now trying to recollect what she happened to 
 be saying when the stranger appeared. Elizabeth re- 
 membered her speech very distinctly. 
 
 " It must be Mr. Leddenhurst himself, I suppose," 
 said she, in a low voice. 
 
 " Oh, you may depend upon that, for you know he 
 said my books," replied one of her companions. 
 
 " I thought he was to go away with Mrs. Fellows ; I 
 had no idea he was here now," continued Elizabeth, in 
 a vexed whisper. 
 
 '' Don't you wish you had not been looking through 
 the key-hole? " said another of her friends. 
 
 " Oh, I don't believe he saw that ; I am certain he 
 could not possibly see that." said Elizabeth, sharply. 
 
 " Well," said Emily, '' I believe we have been all 
 over the house now." So the party returned quietly 
 home. 
 
8 D ISP LA K 
 
 The trees of Stokely were bright with the tints of 
 autumn, before it was in complete readiness for its new 
 inhabitants. 
 
 One fine evening in October, a travelling carriage, 
 covered with dust, was seen driving through the town ; 
 and it was observed to take the road leading to Stokely 
 Park. The travellers were fatigued with their journey ; 
 for they had come from a great distance. 
 
 ^* Where are we come to now?" said a little girl, in 
 a sleepy voice, who was roused by their stopping at a 
 turnpike. 
 
 '* Just coming into Broadisham," said her father ; 
 " and now, children, in a i^^N minutes we shall get a 
 sight of Stokely." 
 
 *' Of Stokely ! and is this Broadisham?" They were 
 all aUve in an instant, and looked out eagerly from one 
 side of the way to the other. " Ladies' Boot and Shoe 
 Warehouse ; Hodson, Dyer, and Hodson ; Eve's Fancy 
 Dress and Millinery Rooms ; Ladies' School ; Phoenix 
 Fire-office ; Pryke, Haberdasher," read little Lucy, as 
 they drove through the town. 
 
 " What a handsome bridge we are coming to now ! " 
 said Richard. "And there is Stokely," said Mr. Led- 
 denhurst ; "those dark trees just in the sunset." 
 
 The children now expected to stop every moment ; 
 but the road had many a tiresome sweep to make still. 
 At length it became shaded by a row of graceful elms ; 
 and a fir-grove with park-paling bespoke their near ap- 
 proach. And now the gate flew open, and they drove 
 straight up the avenue. 
 
 " What a different looking place it is to what I ex- 
 pected ! " said Richard. 
 
 " Yes," said Lucy, " but a great deal prettier." 
 
 While the father listened to their eager observations, 
 Mrs. Leddenhurst and her friend beside her sat in si- 
 lence. It was not the extent of the estate, nor the 
 beauty of the scenery, but life and its vicissitudes, that 
 
D IS PL A Y. 9 
 
 occupied her thoughts as she drove up to her new 
 residence. 
 
 In a short time Mr. and Mrs. Leddenliurst had been 
 visited by most of their neighbors. 
 
 Being people of good sense and discernment, they 
 were not particularly gratined by these specimens of 
 their new society. Nevertheless, their guests were re- 
 ceived with much courtesy and kindness ; for their 
 good sense was graced with good-breeding, and their 
 discernment was softened by benevolence. 
 
 It was generally agreed that Mr. and Mrs. Ledden- 
 hurst were very agreeable people ; and no one had de- 
 tected the peculiarities which had been hinted at. They 
 were well dressed and well bred ; they wondered what 
 Mrs. Fellows could mean. Emily was the first to un- 
 ravel the mystery. 
 
 On the morning that she and her father called. Miss 
 Weston — of whom nobody could determine whether 
 she was a friend or the governess — was inquiring if 
 there were any one in the town who took in needle- 
 work. Emily said there was a young woman who used 
 to work very neatly, but she remembered hearing of 
 her being ill, and did not know whether she could un- 
 dertake it at present. '^ But I will inquire about it 
 immediately," said she. Miss Weston said she intended 
 to be in the town the next morning ; and that if she 
 pleased they would go together. 
 
 Emily was glad of this proposal ; for there was some- 
 thing in Miss Weston — the expression of her counte- 
 nance, and the sweetness of her manner — that attracted 
 her attention. There was other company in the room, 
 and they did not sit near enough to converse together ; 
 but she could not help looking at her continually ; and 
 their eyes met so often that at last Emily felt quite 
 ashamed. 
 
 Miss Weston called the next day at the time ap- 
 pointed. They had to go a httle way out of the town ; 
 
lO DISPLAY, 
 
 and during their walk she engaged in such agreeable 
 conversation that Emily could not help wishing she 
 might have Miss Weston for a friend. 
 
 When they arrived at Eleanor Jones's, her mother 
 opened the door. " Does your daughter take in plain 
 work, Mrs. Jones?" said Emily. 
 
 " Yes, Miss ; that 's to say, she used to do," said the 
 widow Jones ; " but my poor child is so ill, ladies ! " 
 
 " Mother," said a feeble voice from within, " ask the 
 ladies to please to walk in." 
 
 " Yes, let us go in," said Miss Weston. 
 
 They found Eleanor Jones sitting by the fire in a tall 
 arm-chair. She looked extremely weak and ill, but her 
 cheeks were flushed at the entrance of strangers. She 
 spoke with difficulty. 
 
 " If it is not much in a hurry, ladies, I think I could 
 undertake a little job, " said she, coughing. 
 
 " I am afraid it would fatigue you too much," said 
 Miss Weston ; " you appear very unwell. Has your 
 daughter had advice, Mrs. Jones? " 
 
 " The doctor as 'tends the parish, ma'am, he sent 
 her some drops in the spring ; but he has n't been up 
 here o' some time now — only the young gentleman ; 
 and he says the cough 's of no consequence ; but dear 
 me ! she coughs sadly o 'nights." 
 
 "Can she take any nourishing things?" said Miss 
 Weston. 
 
 *' Oh, she 's no liking at all to her meat, ma'am," said 
 the mother ; " she takes nothing scarce but fruit, and 
 such like, and now the fruit is just over." 
 
 *^Do you think you should like some grapes?" said 
 Miss Weston. 
 
 " Yes, I should like some grapes very much, I think," 
 said Eleanor Jones ; " but my wants are very few now, 
 and I know that all the doctors in the world could do 
 me no good ; my time here is very short." 
 
 '' Oh, you will get better soon, I hope," said Emily ; 
 " you must not be so lowspirited." 
 
D IS PL A V. 1 1 
 
 "I am not lowspirited," she replied; ^^ I am very 
 happy, and if it was not for my poor mother I should 
 not have a wish or a want." 
 
 Emily looked rather puzzled at this, but Miss Weston 
 seemed to understand her. There was a Bible open 
 upon the table ; and Miss Weston, laying her hand 
 upon it, said, ^^ It is fAz's, I hope, that makes you happy ; 
 whether we are sick or well, there is no real happiness 
 but what is to be found here." 
 
 At this the invalid looked up with great animation, 
 saying, ^' O ma'am, I am glad to hear you say so ; I 
 am rejoiced to think you know that. Yes, yes, the 
 Bible made me happy when I was well ; and now that I 
 am ill and dying, it makes me still happier." 
 
 Emily listened in silence to the conversation which 
 now commenced ; and she was surprised and affected 
 at what she heard. She had often read in the news- 
 paper, and heard among her acquaintance, about " bear- 
 ing a long affliction with Christian fortitude;" and 
 about ^^ resignation to the will of Heaven;" but she 
 now heard sentiments expressed which were entirely 
 new to her. She was surprised that Miss Weston and 
 this poor girl, although entire strangers, and in very 
 different circumstances, seemed so completely to un- 
 derstand each other, and to think and feel so much 
 alike upon the subjects about which they were convers- 
 ing. 
 
 "You have talked long enough now," said Miss 
 Weston at length, in a kind voice ; and she took 
 leave, saying she would call again to see her in a 
 few days. 
 
 " Miss Weston, I have a favor to ask you," said 
 Emily, after they had walked a little way in silence. 
 
 "What is that?" 
 
 " I scarcely know what I mean, exactly," said she, 
 " but I did not understand several things poor Eleanor 
 Jones said just now ; indeed, I am afraid my religion 
 
1 2 DISPLA Y. 
 
 must be very different from hers; would you be so 
 good as to explain to me — '^ 
 
 '' My dear/' said Miss Weston, " you could not have 
 asked anything that would give half so much pleasure/' 
 
 Her countenance, as she said this, beamed with 
 benevolence ; and there was something so kind and 
 encouraging in the manner of her speaking that it 
 brought the tears into Emily's eyes. 
 
 ^^ If I were not such a stranger to you — " said she. 
 
 ^' We will be strangers no longer/" interrupted Miss 
 Weston ; " let us be friends, and talk to each other 
 without reserve ; and there is no subject of so much 
 importance, none that can afford such a rational and 
 interesting topic for conversation." 
 
 ^^And yet," said Emily, '' I have never been in the 
 habit of conversing upon it, nor of thinking about it 
 much ; but I am certain your religion must be very 
 different." 
 
 ''' You must not call it my religion," said Miss Wes- 
 ton, smihng ; " there is, there can be, but one true re- 
 ligion, which is that the Bible teaches ; and they who 
 most clearly understand, and most consistently practise 
 it, are the wisest and happiest people in the world." 
 
 " I read the Bible on Sundays," said Emily, " and 
 I hope I have always done my duty." 
 
 " That is saying a great deal," observed Miss Weston. 
 
 '' But I never knew the Almighty required anything 
 besides," continued Emily. 
 
 '^Certainly he. requires nothing more than that we 
 should do our duty," repHed Miss Weston ; " but that 
 is a very comprehensive phrase ; are you sure you en- 
 tirely understand it? " 
 
 " Not quite sure," said Emily. 
 
 '' You have read the Bible," continued Miss Wes- 
 ton, '' and so have many people ; who yet, from pride, 
 prejudice, or indifference, never appear to have under- 
 stood its meaning. Let me advise you now to read 
 
DISPLAY. 13 
 
 the New Testament with great attention and serious- 
 ness ; and, my dear, it must be with humility : it is 
 God's word, His own message to mankind ; and it be- 
 comes us to receive it humbly as His creatures. Did 
 you ever make it a subject of earnest prayer, that God 
 would teach you to understand the Scriptures ? With- 
 out this, there is the greatest danger of making some 
 important mistake about them ; for it is in this way that 
 He directs us to study His word ; and in which alone 
 He promises us instruction. And when you have read 
 it in this spirit," continued she, '' you will be better 
 able to judge whether there is not something in the 
 Christian religion beyond the observance of outward 
 forms and duties ; whether there be any tendency in 
 these alone to produce such effects at the near approach 
 of death as you have just witnessed ; the same willing- 
 ness lo resign Hfe, the same peaceful serenity at the 
 thought of death, and the same humble joy in the pros- 
 pect of a heaven of holiness." 
 
 Emily hstened with interest as her friend proceeded : 
 they parted at the turning of the road, having agreed 
 to renew the conversation in their future visits to Elea- 
 nor's cottage. She walked home musing on what had 
 passed ; her mind was affected and elevated ; a new 
 \yorld seemed to have opened to her view, notwith- 
 standing her very indistinct ideas as to its nature and 
 reality. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Leddenhurst, as well as their friend, 
 were intelligent Christians : they knew religion to be 
 the most important of all concerns, and they uniformly 
 acted as though they believed it. They felt the disad- 
 vantage of coming to reside in a neighborhood where 
 they had reason to fear its true nature was Httle under- 
 stood by those with whom they would be expected to 
 associate ; but the hope of being useful reconciled them 
 to the circumstance. There was a general consterna- 
 tion when it was discovered that the new family at 
 
14 DTSPLA V. 
 
 Stokely were, as f/iey called them, " quite Methodists : ** 
 all marvelled, many murmured, and some mocked. 
 There were a few poor and despised people in this 
 town who had generally borne that or similar names : 
 but then, as a lady observed, ^' It was all very well for 
 that sort of people ; but what could induce such a 
 family as the Leddenhursts to make themselves so re- 
 markable, was to her a complete mystery : though, to 
 be sure," said she, ^* people of property may do any- 
 thing." 
 
 Miss Weston was both " a friend and the governess." 
 A friendship had subsisted between her and Mrs. 
 Leddenhurst from their early youth, which time had 
 strengthened and matured ; but it was only of late that 
 she had become an inmate in her family. Though it 
 was perceptible to none but accurate observers of feel- 
 ings and faces. Miss Weston was a sufferer. It is easy 
 to wear a pensive smile, but hers was a smile of cheer- 
 fulness ; and she was generally spoken of as being 
 " remarkably cheerful." 
 
 As to the cause of her sorrow, only a conjecture can 
 be formed ; because Mrs. Leddenhurst, who was the 
 only person in whom she had confided, never betrayed 
 her confidence. Among the numerous sources of hu- 
 man woe, the reader may fix upon that which to her 
 may appear most difficult to endure with fortitude and 
 resignation. One may conclude she had lost her friend ; 
 another her heart ; and a third, her fortune ; but per- 
 haps, after all, it was something very different from any 
 of these. 
 
 Miss Weston's idea of resignatio7i was not as one 
 may see it in the print shops, — a tall figure, weeping 
 over an urn in the middle of a wood ; it was, in her 
 opinion, an active, cheerful, and social principle. It 
 was not, indeed, without an effort, that she resisted her 
 inclination to seek relief in rumination and seclusion ; 
 but strength of mind, that is, strength of principle, 
 
DISPLAY. 15 
 
 prevailed. Without waiting to confer with her inclina- 
 tions, she wrote to her friend Mrs. Leddenhurst, offer- 
 ing to assist her in the education of her little girls. 
 
 '' You know," said she, '"' how much I love children, 
 and that of all children none are so dear to me as 
 yours. I am quite in earnest in saying that I will come 
 and be the governess for whom you are inquiring. Do 
 not raise needless scruples ; some employment, that 
 will engage both my time and attention, is essential to 
 me just now ; and I think I should engage in the work 
 of education with an interest that would enable my 
 mind to recover its self-possession. Indeed, I am im- 
 patient to forsake this retirement, — sweet and soothing 
 as it is. Let me come, dear Caroline, and exchange 
 these dangerous indulgences for the more wholesome 
 pleasures of social intercourse and useful occupation." 
 
 Mrs. Leddenhurst, who understood enough of the 
 human heart, and of the character and feelings of her 
 friend, to know that her resolution was as ^vise as it was 
 courageous, gladly welcomed her to the bosom of her 
 family ; where she soon learned to " smile at grief," 
 without sitting '^ on a monument." 
 
 CHAPTER in. 
 
 Of all the young people who had been introduced 
 to the Leddenhursts, there was not one whose appear- 
 ance pleased them so much as Emily's. They observed 
 that in some important respects her education had been 
 defective ; but she seemed amiable, modest, and un- 
 affected ; and possessed of good sense and a strong 
 desire of improvement, which greatly encouraged them 
 in their wishes to serve her. 
 
 They perceived that Elizabeth was a less hopeful 
 
1 6 DISPLAY. 
 
 subject than her companion ; but this did not make 
 them less willing to attempt her improvement ; for they 
 were not accustomed to shrink from a duty because it 
 was unpleasant, nor to despair of one that was difficult. 
 They were both invited to join the family circle at 
 Stokely as often as they felt disposed. They were not 
 backward to accept this invitation ; and an early even- 
 ing was fixed upon to pay their first friendly visit. 
 
 Elizabeth and Emily set off on this occasion with 
 high expectations of gratification and enjoyment. Hith- 
 erto they had only seen them with other company ; 
 " but now," thought Emily, " we shall be alone, and 
 be able to enjoy their conversation." " Now," thought 
 Elizabeth, ''we shall be alone, and they must take no- 
 tice of mey 
 
 On their way, they met one of the servants from 
 Stokely, with a basket of grapes. 
 
 " There goes a present for somebody : who can it 
 be for, I wonder," said Elizabeth ; '' the Tomkinses, — 
 or the Davisons, perhaps." 
 
 " No, no," said Emily ; " I can easily guess who it is 
 for, — poor Eleanor Jones, who is so ill. I know they 
 send her fruit or jellies every day." 
 
 " Well, very likely," replied Elizabeth ; " for I heard, 
 — but really I can scarcely believe it, Mr. Leddenhurst 
 looks such a pleasant, different kind of a man, — they 
 say, however, that he and Mrs. Leddenhurst were there 
 the other day, and had such a strange conversation ! 
 Oh, I cannot remember half the extraordinary things 
 I heard they said to her." 
 
 '' I know they have been to see her," said Emily, 
 " and that she was very much pleased with their con- 
 versation ; I do not think she thought it strange." 
 
 " Well, I sincerely hope we shall have no such gloomy, 
 stupid doings to-night ! " exclaimed Elizabeth. 
 
 " Elizabeth," said Emily, " I have heard and thought 
 more about religion since I conversed with Miss Wes- 
 
DISPLA Y. 1 7 
 
 ton than I ever did before ; and I really think nothing 
 is so likely to prevent one from being gloomy and stu- 
 pid. Besides, do not the Leddenhursts appear re- 
 markably pleasant and cheerful? " 
 
 " Yes, in company ; people, you know, must be 
 agreeable in company : but I have heard those over- 
 religious kind of. folks are miserably dull when they 
 are alone." 
 
 " Well, we shall see," said Emily. 
 
 When they reached Stokely, and entered the room, 
 they found Miss Weston playing a lively tune, to which 
 the children were dancing by the light of the fire. 
 They were cordially welcomed; and Emily felt very 
 happy as the circle formed, and she took her seat by 
 the side of Miss Weston. She looked round, and saw 
 none but cheerful faces ; it did not appear to be that 
 kind of cheerfulness which is made at a moment's 
 warning by the rap at the door ; they looked as though 
 they had been cheerful and happy all day long. 
 
 Elizabeth appeared this evening dressed with taste, 
 but rather over-dressed for the occasion. And this did 
 not pass unobserved ; for in the simple action of walk- 
 ing from the door to her chair there was a manner that 
 asked for observation ; that is, it was not a simple action. 
 
 Mr. Leddenhurst was looking over a review. " Po- 
 etry ! poetry in abundance for you, ladies," said he, "if 
 you like it." 
 
 " Oh, indeed, I am passionately fond of poetry^," 
 said Elizabeth. 
 
 " Passionately fond, ' are you ? Here is an article 
 then, that, perhaps, you will do us the favor to read." 
 
 Elizabeth readily comphed, for she was fond of read- 
 ing aloud. 
 
 " We select the following passage," said the inju- 
 dicious critic, " for the sake of three lines which we 
 are persuaded no reader of sensibility will peruse with- 
 out tears." 
 
1 8 DISPLAY. 
 
 " No reader of sensibility ! " thought Elizabeth ; but 
 how should she discover for certain which they were in 
 that long quotation? To cry at the wrong place, she 
 justly calculated, would be a worse mistake than not 
 crying at the right ; but, fortunately, as she approached 
 the conclusion, the lines in question caught her eye, 
 considerately printed in Italics. She read them with 
 great pathos ; and, as she read, tears — two undeniable 
 tears — rolled deliberately down her cheeks. Having 
 succeeded in this nice hydraulic experiment, she looked 
 at Emily, and observed with some satisfaction that there 
 was no trace of tears on her cheeks ; but glancing round 
 at the rest of the company, she felt rather disconcerted 
 to see how perfectly composed everybody was looking. 
 "Are they not extremely affecting?" said she, appeal- 
 ing to Mrs. Leddenhurst. 
 
 " Really, I can scarcely tell," said Mrs. Leddenhurst ; 
 " I always find, that nothing more effectually drives 
 away my tears than having them bespoke. Pathetic 
 touches, to produce their effect, should take the reader 
 by surprise, I think." 
 
 " I question if those lines could have surprised me 
 into tears," said Mr. Leddenhurst. 
 
 " Oh, TiO\.you^ papa ! " said Richard, laughing ; ^^men 
 should never cry, should they, if they can help it?" 
 
 " Neither men nor women should cry, if they can 
 help it," answered his father. 
 
 " I can remember seeing papa cry, though," whis- 
 pered little Lucy, " when he was telling mamma how 
 glad the shabby looking gentleman looked at the sight 
 of the guinea ; I saw a tear in the corner of his eye, 
 just for a moment." 
 
 Elizabeth was so much absorbed by the little vexa- 
 tion she had just experienced, and by endeavoring to 
 ascertain the precise construction that had been put 
 upon her sensibility, that the conversation had taken a 
 different turn before she was aware, and she found Mr. 
 
DISPLAY. 19 
 
 Leddenhurst in the middle of a long story. He had 
 travelled ; and was giving an account of a night he 
 once spent in a Laplander's hut ; which the children 
 thought so very entertaining that they often begged 
 their father to tell it to them over again ; and they now 
 came from the further end of the room, where they 
 were quietly at play, saying, *^ Oh, papa is telling about 
 the little Laplanders 1 " 
 
 Elizabeth suddenly roused herself to the appearance 
 of lively attention. They who feel interest have no 
 need to feign it ; but it rarely happened that Elizabeth 
 was really interested by conversation to which she was 
 only a listener. The vain and selfish deprive them- 
 selves of most genuine pleasures. There was nothing 
 now for her but to wait till the recital was finished ; to 
 wait for her turn, with that sort of impatience which 
 good-breeding itself can sometimes scarcely conceal, in 
 those whose sole object in society is to make an impres- 
 sion. But Mr. and Mrs. Leddenhurst had seen the 
 little artifices of vanity practised by greater proficients 
 than Elizabeth. She was not the first person in whom 
 they had observed a greedy impatience to squeeze into 
 conversation every scrap of information that can be 
 collected upon the point in hand. Little do they im- 
 agine, who angle for admiration by this and similar 
 methods, how completely their end is defeated, at least 
 with respect to acute observers. They who are intent 
 upon being heard and seen, are not often observers ; 
 nor can they l^elieve how easily they are detected by 
 those who know how to hear and see. The involun- 
 tary admiration which is inspired by wit or beauty, and 
 especially the respect for talents and acquirements, are, 
 to say the least, neutralized, if but a suspicion be ex- 
 cited that they are used as articles of display. 
 
 Elizabeth would have been really agreeable, if she 
 could but have forgotten to be charming. Her form 
 was delicate ; her face handsome, — and it might have 
 
20 DISPLA V. 
 
 been interesting, if the constant effort to make it so 
 had not given a restlessness to her features which was 
 far from pleasing : her eye first shot its spark, and then 
 looked about for the damage. In her sensibiHty, espe- 
 cially, there was an appearance of artificialness, which 
 rendered it difficult to feel real sympathy with her. 
 
 '^ There is nothing I have ever wished for so much 
 as to travel," said Elizabeth, when Mr. Leddenhurst 
 had finished his narration ; " it must be so excessively 
 interesting, I should think, especially with an intelligent 
 companion." 
 
 ^' We who are obliged to stay at home," said Mrs. 
 Leddenhurst, '^ may, however, enjoy, by our firesides, 
 most of the information and a considerable share of 
 the entertainment of going abroad ; we are now so 
 abundantly supplied with the observations of trav- 
 ellers." 
 
 " Yes," replied Elizabeth ; " and there is no kind of 
 reading I am so partial to as voyages and travels ; they 
 are so uncommonly interesting." 
 
 ^^ Very interesting indeed," said Mrs. Leddenhurst ; 
 " though I cannot say there is no kind of reading that 
 I am so partial to." 
 
 " Oh, certainly not ; I did not mean to say no kind 
 of reading, but — but really I am surprised," continued 
 she, " that Mr. Leddenhurst was never prevailed upon 
 to publish his tour; it would, I am sure, have been 
 such an acquisition ! " 
 
 At this Mrs. Leddenhurst only smiled, and began 
 talking to Emily, who had fallen into a revery in /ler 
 turn ; but it was not about herself nor the company : 
 her imagination had been carried by Mr. Leddenhurst's 
 narrative to polar regions ; and was wandering over 
 fields of ice, and arctic snows, where 
 
 " the shapeless bear, 
 
 With dangling ice, all horrid, stalks forlorn," 
 
 when Mrs. Leddenhurst recalled her recollection. 
 
D IS PL A V. 2 1 
 
 The evening passed rapidly away ; and to Emily it 
 was passing very happily. But Elizabeth felt an un- 
 easiness which she would have been at a loss to define ; 
 there was nothing to complain of, but she was not 
 gratified. She had been brilliant, and arch, and playful ; 
 she had caressed Lucy, and admired CaroHne, but 
 without effect ; and there was a certain expression in 
 Mr. Leddenhurst's eye, when she happened to meet it, 
 that did not quite please her. The vexation she really 
 felt suggested a new experiment. Her animation gave 
 place rather suddenly to an air of pensiveness : she 
 was silent and thoughtful ; and started when spoken 
 to as though waked from an interesting revery. Not- 
 withstanding this, conversation went on very briskly, 
 and even became increasingly lively. As she appeared 
 disincHned to converse, she was suffered to be silent. 
 At length Mr. Leddenhurst observed it, and said, '' My 
 dear, cannot we think of anything that will entertain 
 Miss Palmer?" 
 
 " Here is a new botanical work, with colored plates : 
 perhaps you will like to look at it," said Mrs. Led- 
 denhurst ; and the book and the candles were placed 
 before poor Elizabeth, mortified beyond measure to be 
 treated like a child, dull for want of amusement. Her 
 assumed pensiveness now degenerated into real ill 
 humor, which was but ill disguised during the remain- 
 der of the evening. 
 
 The fresh air sometimes produces a surprising effect 
 in restoring people to their senses ; and EHzabeth, 
 when she had taken leave, and walked a few minutes 
 in the wind, began to repent of her behavior. How- 
 ever, they had bade her good night, and repeated their 
 invitation so kindly, that she hoped it had not been 
 particularly observed : and when Emily, who had been 
 too much occupied to remark her friend's disappoint- 
 ment, observed what a pleasant evening they had 
 passed, Ehzabeth assented, saying, " A delightful even- 
 ing, indeed ! " 
 
22 D ISP LA V. 
 
 Happy are they who do not go into company to 
 perform ; who can think an evening pleasantly spent, 
 that has been unproductive of comphment, and af- 
 forded no particular opportunity of displaying the 
 favorite quality, or talent, or acquirement. 
 
 There are some unfortunate persons who seem to 
 make little other use of conversation than as a means 
 of petty, personal aggrandizement ; and who, in con- 
 sequence of this wretched propensity, little as they 
 suspect it, subject themselves to the contempt or pity 
 of those whose opinions are most valuable. 
 
 There is a class of speechmakers^ who contrive by 
 ingenious aUusions, and hints casually dropped, to let 
 you know what they feared you might not otherwise 
 find out. They are letting off fireworks ; and when 
 it seems all over, and there are only a few pitiful sparks 
 dropping about — off goes another ! But it never 
 succeeds. For, whether it be ^^my uncle's carriage," 
 or "my friend the colonel," or "the general," or 
 " when I was on the Continent," or " only 2.jeii d'esprit 
 of mine, a very foolish thing," or " Latin ? Oh, scarce- 
 ly a word, I assure you," or " a cousin of mine knows 
 him intimately," or " when I write to Lady so and so," 
 or all these one after another, — such hints afford a 
 kind of information which is not intended to be con- 
 veyed. They prove, not only that her uncle keeps his 
 carriage, that she knows a colonel and a general, that 
 she has been on the Continent, that she writes poetry 
 (and foolish things), that she learns Latin, that her 
 cousin knows a learned man, that she corresponds with 
 Lady so and so, but they show that she is anxious you 
 should know it ; that she considers such things as dis- 
 tinctions ; and that they are to her new or rare ; for 
 people seldom boast of that which they have always 
 been accustomed to. And, what is worst of all, it 
 must create a suspicion that she has nothing more left 
 to boast of. For she who gives out that she reads 
 
DISPLA Y, 23 
 
 Latin, is not likely to conceal her knowledge of Hebrew 
 or Greek; and she who intimates that she writes to 
 Lady A., would assuredly let you know it if she had 
 any connection with Ladies B., C, or D. 
 
 But the symptoms of vanity are almost infinitely 
 various ; there is no genus comprehending a greater 
 variety of species. The silly girl, vain of her dress and 
 complexion, is really one of the least offensive and 
 most pardonable of all ; for in proportion to the value 
 of the thing boasted of is the meanness of the boast. 
 Hence a pedant is more contemptible than a coxcomb. 
 
 But whatever particular character it assumes, that 
 mind is in miserable bondage whose happiness is de- 
 pendent on the opinion, especially on the applause of 
 others. It is a bondage which seems always the con- 
 comitant of a general moral imbecility, whether that 
 imbecility be cause or effect. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Emily's introduction to her new friends at this period 
 of her Hfe was a more important circumstance than she 
 was aware of, highly as she felt disposed to value their 
 friendship. Notwithstanding her many good qualities, 
 she was not free from faults. She was sensible, modest, 
 and ingenuous, but she was — eighteen. 
 
 She lost her mother early ; and her father, although 
 desirous to do everything in his power for the welfare 
 of his only child, was not aware of the best means to 
 promote it. He was a man of business, and it did not 
 occur to him that anything more was requisite than to 
 send her for several years to an established school, from 
 whence he expected her to return completely educated. 
 He did not consider that it is often not until the time 
 
24 DISPLA V. 
 
 when young persons leave school, that the real ardor 
 for self-improvement is excited, which it is of so great 
 importance to direct and cultivate. 
 
 Girls of entirely common minds take leave of their 
 books, and often of the accomplishments which they 
 have acquired at such a vast expense of money and 
 time, at the conclusion of the last half year, — delighted 
 to exchange them for the pleasures from which they 
 had been reluctantly restrained during the tedious 
 periods from Christmas to Midsummer, and from Mid- 
 summer to Christmas. Revelling for a few giddy years 
 in vanity and idleness, they by and by settle in life ; 
 and, as the vigor and interest of youthfulness subside, 
 sink into those ordinary beings who, with thousands of 
 their kind, eat, drink, and sleep, dress, visit, and die ; 
 while young people in whom the spark of intelligence 
 has been enkindled are exposed to different dangers. 
 Pride, pedantry, romance, and many other evils, ac- 
 cording to the accidents of disposition and education, 
 are the frequent consequences of partial and uncor- 
 rected cultivation. 
 
 Emily's simplicity was her grand preservative from 
 many of these perils ; and she possessed a native deli- 
 cacy of taste, which defended her from others. With 
 the choice of all the volumes in the circulating library 
 of a country town, her reading had been tolerably se- 
 lect. When she left school, her father informed her 
 that " he did not approve of young girls reading nov- 
 els ; " but he had Httle hope that the prohibition would 
 be regarded, because he firmly believed that " young 
 girls wou/d resid novels." But in this instance, Emily 
 had less temptation to disobedience than many : from 
 whatever was common, low, or profane, she always 
 shrunk with dislike. Good taste had in some measure 
 suppHed the place of good principle ; and of all the 
 gifts of nature, that instinctive fineness of feeling is most 
 estimable, of which education itself can but produce an 
 imitation. 
 
DISPLAY. 25 
 
 Emily read and felt poetry, and lived in its atmos- 
 phere ; but as none of the beings around her did the 
 same, she shut herself up in her own world of enjoy- 
 ment ; neither desiring to interfere with the pursuits 
 and pleasures of other people, nor wishing them to par- 
 ticipate in hers. She loved her father tenderly, and 
 was obedient and attentive to him; but he was so 
 wholly incapable of entering into her feelings concern- 
 ing those things which she thought most interesting 
 that she never attempted to address him in a language 
 which she knew would have been quite unintelligible ; 
 while he, satisfied with her cheerful looks and dutiful 
 conduct, dreamed not of the ideal world his daughter 
 inhabited. He studied to make her happy by supply- 
 ing her with all the comforts and pleasures his circum- 
 stances would allow ; but it was not for these things 
 that Emily felt most obliged to her father. Having 
 never known the want of a constant supply of those 
 daily comforts which are as really necessary to the in- 
 tellectual as to the unrefined, she had not learned to 
 value them. It was the liberty she enjoyed to pursue 
 her own pleasures, the luxury of being alone, the inesti- 
 mable privilege of not being obliged to talk, &c. that 
 inspired her with gratitude, and made her think him 
 the best and kindest of fathers. And indeed this grati- 
 tude was not misplaced ; for that sort of kindness 
 which allows the object of it, as far as possible, to pur- 
 sue its own plan of happiness, is that alone which 
 makes the difference between gratitude and thanks. 
 It is but a selfish kind of generosity to load persons 
 with favors they do not value, and thwart them in the 
 very point on which their pleasure depends. 
 
 There was one standing trial of Emily's good nature ; 
 this was, that her father expected her to read the news- 
 paper to him every day after dinner. The sight of the 
 newspaper was disagreeable to her ; and politics were 
 worse than uninteresting. However, she thought of 
 
26 D IS PL A V. 
 
 Milton's daughters, and made the daily sacrifice with a 
 good grace ; and by degrees attained so great a pro- 
 ficiency in the art of reading and carrying on her own 
 train of thought at the same time, that it became less 
 burdensome. The kind ^^ Thank ye, dear," with which 
 her father always repaid her when she finished her task, 
 reproached her more than anything, if she had per- 
 formed it with reluctance. 
 
 The company of " uninteresting people," as Emily 
 secretly styled the whole circle of her acquaintance, 
 would have been grievously burdensome but for this 
 habit of abstraction, which enabled her to take some 
 apparent share in conversation, and to enjoy her own 
 delicious musings at the same time. It could not, 
 however, escape the observation of her friends, that her 
 own contemplations seemed more agreeable to her than 
 their company ; and she had sometimes been called 
 proud j but it was not by those who knew her, — those 
 who had opportunities of witnessing her invariable 
 sweetness and good-nature, and the obliging alacrity 
 with which, when once roused from a revery, she would 
 do anything, for anybody; though it sometimes hap- 
 pened that her services were required before her atten- 
 tion was excited. 
 
 Notwithstanding this indifference towards most of 
 those she had hitherto known, Emily had very sublime 
 notions about friendship ; and from her first conver- 
 sation with Miss Weston, she believed she had found 
 that concerning which, as yet, she had only speculated. 
 Her heart soon glowed and expanded with affection 
 and respect towards the whole family at Stokely. Al- 
 though the acquaintance was so recent, she felt more 
 at home there than in the circle of her old associates ; 
 for she was with beings who understood her, to whom 
 she could express her feelings without the dread of 
 being stared at for eccentricity. Not that her new 
 friends by any means coincided in all Emily's feelings 
 
DISPLAY. 27 
 
 and opinions ; but they were not misinterpreted, nor 
 ridiculed ; and when corrected, it was with a tender- 
 ness and reasonableness that made her quite sure she 
 had been in the wrong. 
 
 But it was not likely that a girl of Emily's age and 
 disposition should love such friends as the ' Ledden- 
 hursts — especially as they were new friends — with 
 entire sobriety and moderation. In comparison with 
 them, everybody appeared uninteresting and insignifi- 
 cant ; and everything belonging to Stokely appeared to 
 her to possess some peculiar excellence, incommuni- 
 cable to any other place or thing. The children seemed 
 more lively and engaging than all other children ; the 
 flowers more fragrant ; the trees more picturesque. 
 
 When she walked out with her father, she always 
 pleaded to go that road, or at least some walk where 
 the house was in view ; and it was a sort of pleasure if 
 they happened to meet even a greyhound belonging to 
 Stokely. For on such an occasion — perhaps after she 
 had been wondering that her father should seem so 
 much interested in what he was talking about — she 
 would exclaim with sudden animation, " There 's Leo- 
 pard ! pretty fellow ! See, papa, is not he a graceful 
 creature?" — and be disappointed that her father ap- 
 peared so little interested by the interview. But when 
 once affection, however well placed, exceeds the 
 bounds of reason, it becomes a source of at least as 
 much torment as delight. They who live on imaginary 
 pleasures must expect a balance of real pain. Emily 
 did not expect, and she thought she did not even w^ish, 
 for an equal return of affection from these friends ; but 
 she was too anxious about it : and although they gave 
 the most substantial proofs of their regard for her, she 
 tormented herself when any little expression of it was ac- 
 cidentally withheld. It is not until persons enter upon 
 the realities of life, that they learn to distinguish be- 
 tween what is essential and what is trifling, in friendship 
 
28 DISPLA V. 
 
 as well as other things ; and Emily had this and many 
 other lessons to learn, which are never effectually taught 
 but by experience. She possessed, however, a certain 
 nobleness of temper, which prevented her from feeling 
 jealous of Elizabeth. If ever she detected in herself 
 a tendency to that meanness, she instantly discarded it, 
 and thought, " Is not she m^ friendl " 
 
 As Emily became better acquainted with them, she 
 saw and heard many things at Stokely that surprised, 
 and even disappointed her. Mr. Leddenhurst, for in- 
 stance, appeared really interested about politics, or 
 rather pubHc affairs ; and Mrs. Leddenhurst engaged in 
 her domestic concerns, not so much as matters of dry 
 duty as Emily had generally considered them. 
 
 She observed, too, that they entered into conver- 
 sation with their guests, with a degree of interest that 
 exceeded, she thought, the requirements of politeness ; 
 instead of practising that dexterous conciseness of reply 
 which brings a tiresome subject to the quickest possible 
 termination. 
 
 But what surprised her most of all, and occasioned 
 her the most pain, was a confession one day from Miss 
 Weston, that she was by no means devoted to poetry. 
 She felt no higher delight in it than every cultivated 
 mind must derive froip the productions of the best 
 poets ; and she assured Emily, that she had more sat- 
 isfaction in reading works addressed to the understand- 
 ing than in the finest productions of imagination. 
 
 Observing that her young friend looked disappointed, 
 she added : '' But, Emily, you must not suppose that 
 I despise or undervalue the taste in others, because I 
 do not possess it myself. I not only tolerate, but I 
 admire it, where it is correct, and does not stand in 
 the place of better things." 
 
 " But yet," said Emily, " I wish you felt exactly as I 
 do about it." 
 
 Now Emily possessed more genuine poetical taste 
 
DISPLAY, 29 
 
 than many who talk a great deal about poetry. It was 
 not the fashionable admiration of the poem or poet of 
 the day ; nor the pedantic taste of the classic, or the 
 critic ; nor the indiscriminating rapture of youthful en- 
 thusiasm ; but she had an eye to see, a heart to feel, 
 and taste to select, the truly poetical, not only in books 
 — but in nature, in life, in sentiment. 
 
 She did not often yield to the temptation of scrib- 
 bling; when she did, it was to express and gratify some 
 feeling of the moment ; not to show about among her 
 acquaintance, nor to send to a magazine or a news- 
 paper. She was quite convinced that her own com- 
 positions were juvenile at best, and far inferior to the 
 productions of poets that she did not greatly admire. 
 This was one instance in which her good taste proved 
 of essential service to her. It saved her from the 
 unhappy mistake of those, who perceive no difference 
 between writing verses and writing poetry ; and who 
 accordingly go on writing verses, as many as you please 
 — or more : which is an art as easy of attainment as 
 that of doing cobble-stitch, or making patchwork, or 
 painting sprigs on a thread-paper. 
 
 They were just entering on a disquisition upon 
 poetical taste, when a morning call interrupted the 
 conversation. It was Miss Oliver, — one of the stand- 
 ing inhabitants of the town. 
 
 She belonged to a class of ladies, of whom it may be 
 said, that they are good for nothing but to be married. 
 Let no intellectual Cxlebs object to the expression ; it 
 is not intended to recommend her to him. 
 
 At eighteen she was tolerably pretty ; and about as 
 lively as mere youth will make those who have no 
 native spring of vivacity. Her education, like her 
 mind, was common. If she had married, she might 
 have performed the ordinary offices of domestic life as 
 well as they are ordinarily performed. Though she 
 had not cared much for her husband, she would 
 
so DISPLAY, 
 
 probably have loved her children ; and the maternal 
 duties and affections of themselves impart a degree of 
 interest to any character. But she did not marry, 
 although trained to consider marriage as the grand 
 object at which she was to aim. 
 
 Year after year passed away ; during which, her at- 
 tendance at the Christmas rout, the Easter ball, the 
 summer races, was tiresomely punctual. At, length it 
 became necessary, by extra attention to dress, and 
 studious vivacity, to show that she was still young ; but 
 even that time was gone by, and she now only labored 
 to prove that she was not old. Disappointment, and 
 the discontent occasioned by the want of an object in 
 life, had drawn lines in her face which time might still 
 have spared. It sunk down into dismal vacuity after 
 every effort at sprightliness ; for, without mind enough 
 to be pensive, she was habitually dull. 
 
 Her circumstances did not allow her the relief of 
 frequenting places of fashionable resort ; she contrived 
 to exist with no other air, and no better water, than 
 were to be obtained in her native parish. The few 
 families in the neighborhood with whom, in her youth- 
 ful days, she used to spend her Christmas or her Whit- 
 suntide were dead, or dispersed, or the acquaintance 
 was broken off: so that the routs and card-parties of this 
 little town were the only relief to her monotony ; where 
 she went to meet the same faces, and to say and hear 
 the same nothings as ever. 
 
 It was no wonder, therefore, that the veriest trifle — 
 a new stitch, or a new pattern — became to her an 
 affair of importance ; that the gossip of the neighbor- 
 hood seemed essential to her existence ; and that, with- 
 out malignity, scandal should become an entertainment, 
 and mischief a recreation. 
 
 Having conversed for a short time with Mrs. Led- 
 denhurst, in a strain of commonness that forbade the 
 supposition of an original thought having ever by any 
 
DISPLAY. 31 
 
 accident strayed into her brain, she took leave. As 
 Mr. Leddenhurst shut the door after her, Emily was 
 greatly surprised to hear him say, " Every human being 
 is interesting." Thinking her, and most other human 
 beings, uninteresting, she could not understand this at 
 all. But to Mr. Leddenhurst, who was an observer of 
 human nature, and studied it as the most important 
 and interesting of sciences, every specimen was valua- 
 ble, for every specimen presents some shade of variety. 
 But there was a still higher interest, which the meanest 
 of his fellow-creatures did not fail to excite. Chris- 
 tian benevolence was with him an active principle ; 
 and the earnest desire of doing good led him to seek 
 and cultivate the society of those whom the pride of 
 intellect, or the selfish indulgences of taste, would have 
 taught him only to shun. 
 
 " What an alteration," said he, " an interest in re- 
 ligion would make in such a countenance as that 
 lady's ! " 
 
 Nor was it uncharitable of him to apprehend that 
 she was one of the many who pay no decided regard 
 to it. There is a vulgar cant belonging to people of 
 the world, which as effectually betrays their frater- 
 nity, as any peculiar phraseology called rehgious cant 
 can do. 
 
 " I never remember," continued Mr. Leddenhurst, 
 " observing such an expression of listless vacuity in the 
 face of the meanest Christian. Habitual thoughts of 
 God, and of eternity, will impress some trace of mind 
 upon the countenance. What a new world of hope 
 and happiness might be opened to such a character ! 
 Caroline, let us cultivate her acquaintance." 
 
32 DISPLAY, 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Elizabeth and Emily accepted, with apparently- 
 equal eagerness, the offer of their friends at Stokely, 
 to assist them in their course of study and self- improve- 
 ment. They had free access to Mr. Leddenhurst's am- 
 ple library, and the advantage of his advice' to direct 
 their choice of books. The course of reading recom- 
 mended to Emily was calculated to inspire her with a 
 taste for solid acquirements and general information ; 
 and to correct, without impairing, the liveliness of her 
 fancy and the originality of her mind. 
 
 They found it more difficult to ascertain what plan of 
 study was most congenial to Elizabeth's taste, or most 
 likely to improve it. The pleasure she took in reading, 
 or in any kind of study, for its own sake, w^as but small. 
 It was less, perhaps, than she was herself aware of ; be- 
 cause she was not accustomed to analyze her motives ; 
 and she might possibly mistake the avidity with which 
 she often sat down to read a book in the morning, 
 ■ which she intended to talk about in the evening, for 
 the pure love of knowledge, or the gratification of gen- 
 uine taste. 
 
 How many books Elizabeth would have read, and 
 how many things she would have learned, if she had 
 been Robinson Crusoe^ she never inquired. 
 
 A very superficial kind of knowledge had been hith- 
 erto sufficient to answer all the purposes to which she 
 appHed it ; but now that she was associating with per- 
 sons who possessed, and evidently valued, more sub- 
 stantial acquisitions, she began to apply herself to them 
 with avidity : for Elizabeth could accommodate herself 
 to the different manners, tastes, and opinions of differ- 
 ent people — which she possessed some sagacity in . 
 discovering — in a way truly astonishing to simple be- 
 holders. 
 
DISPLAY. ZZ 
 
 There was now nothing so dry, so difficult, or so 
 wholly foreign to her real taste, which she would not 
 have set herself about if it had been recommended at 
 Stokely, or if Emily had been going to apply to it. 
 
 What a pity that so much labor should be lost ! — 
 lost, not only with respect to the particular end aimed 
 at, but as to any sterling advantage to her own mind ; 
 and her new friends were pained to perceive that, with 
 all her laborious efforts to obtain it, she missed the only 
 method of gaining solid approbation. They did not, 
 indeed, wish to discourage her in the pains she was 
 willing to take ; but above all they would have been 
 pleased to see her aiming to extirpate the radical 
 evil; and becoming simple, honest, unobtrusive, and 
 in earnest. 
 
 Elizabeth^s studies were interrupted one morning, 
 by revolving a scheme, which was suggested to her by 
 something she heard Mrs. Leddenhurst say the evening 
 before, about establishing a Sunday school for the poor 
 children of Broadisham ; and as soon as she had break- 
 fasted, she stepped into the disorderly cottage of a 
 neighboring cobbler, who had seven or eight dirty chil- 
 dren that were always either playing or fighting in the 
 street, and, to the great surprise of the whole family, 
 she offered to teach them all to. read. 
 
 At first they did not seem to understand her ; and 
 when they did, they appeared less struck with her gen- 
 erosity than she had expected. The father went on 
 with his work, with a proud sullen countenance. The 
 mother grinned stupidly ; and said, " I don't know as 
 they '11 choose to larn. Bill, boy, oo'll ye like to larn 
 to read ? Sal, do ye hear ? oo'll you choose to larn to, 
 read, child?" 
 
 Bill said " No ; " Sal said " Yes ; " while Elizabeth, 
 indignant at their rudeness and ingratitude, would have 
 left them to their ignorance ; but recollecting her ob- 
 ject, she condescended to expostulate, representing the 
 
 3 
 
34 DISPLA V. 
 
 importance of the acquisition; and ^^You know/' said 
 she, ^' you cannot get them taught for less than two- 
 pence a week anywhere in the town ; and I tell you I 
 will teach them all for nothing." 
 
 Finding, however, that she made no impression on 
 the parents, she turned to the children, saying, ^^ Well, 
 if you '11 come and let me teach you to read, I will 
 give you all a halfpenny apiece every Sunday morn- 
 ing." 
 
 These words, ^^ a halfpenny apiece," were the only 
 ones the children seemed to understand. 
 
 '^ I '11 come, if you like," said one of them ; '' And 
 so '11 I," '' And so '11 I," said some of the others. So, 
 in consequence of her liberal promise, she had four or 
 five dirty scholars the next Sunday morning. 
 
 But while the children were thinking of their half- 
 penny, and Elizabeth of her reputation, a b c was a 
 dull subject to both parties. 
 
 ^' B, I tell you, you stupid little creature ! " said she, 
 again and again; but at last her scholars were dis- 
 missed, with scarce any other notion about a, b, and c 
 than that there was some connection between them and 
 a halfpenny. 
 
 The very next day, as Elizabeth was walking with 
 Miss Weston and Emily, they met a party of young 
 ladies, who asked Ehzabeth what made her '' so un- 
 commonly late at church yesterday morning?" 
 
 " Why, I was detained rather longer than I intended 
 by my little scholars," said she. 
 
 ^^ Scholars ! " said Emily. 
 
 " What scholars have you? " said Miss Weston. 
 , " Only a few poor children, that I teach to read on 
 Sundays," answered Elizabeth, carelessly. 
 
 '' Indeed ! I am pleased to hear that : I did not 
 know there was any one here who — indeed I am 
 very much pleased to hear it," said Miss Weston ; and 
 as she spoke, she looked at Ehzabeth with such an 
 
DISPLA V. 35 
 
 expression of approbation as she was not accustomed 
 to receive. 
 
 For Miss Weston's was a charity that not only 
 "hoped all things," but "believed all things" in a 
 wider sense than would have been possible, had she 
 possessed a little more intuitive perception of character. 
 But it was not 
 
 " Her nature's plague to spy into abuses. " 
 
 Herself perfectly upright and sincere, any species of 
 dissimulation appeared to her almost impossible ; and 
 the actual discovery of artifice, at which the malignant 
 would be gratified and the sarcastic amused, filled her 
 only with grief and pity. 
 
 That evening Elizabeth was invited to Stokely, to 
 assist in forming a plan for a Sunday-school. 
 
 " We have certainly injured poor Elizabeth," said 
 Miss Weston, when she mentioned the circumstance to 
 Mr. and Mrs. Leddenhurst. " Not that I should think 
 so much of her having raised a httle school of her own 
 when no one else had thought of it, but she has never 
 told us, never boasted of it, even when we were speak- 
 ing on the subject ; Emily herself did not know of it." 
 
 " I am surprised at that," said Mrs. Leddenhurst. 
 
 As soon as Elizabeth arrived they began consult- 
 ing about the school. 
 
 "We have no wish, Elizabeth," said Mrs. Ledden- 
 hurst, " to interfere with your arrangements ; as you 
 were the first to begin, we shall be quite contented to 
 follow you. What plan, my dear, have you pursued 
 with your scholars hitherto? " 
 
 " Oh," said Elizabeth, coloring, " I have no very 
 particular plan ; I hear them read, you know, — and 
 so forth : but I am sure you and Miss Weston under- 
 stand these things much better than I do." 
 
 Mrs. Leddenhurst then described some of the ar- 
 rangements and methods of teaching which had proved 
 
36 DISPLAY. 
 
 successful in schools she had formerly been engaged 
 in : and as they entirely met Elizabeth's approbation, 
 it was determined to proceed without delay. 
 
 A convenient room was provided in the middle of 
 the town ; and EHzabeth and Emily, with a few other 
 young people, undertook to attend regularly, twice 
 every Sunday. The poor families around were not 
 all so insensible of the privilege as Elizabeth's cobbler ; 
 for a school of fifty children was presently raised, and 
 the numbers increased continually. More teachers 
 were soon wanted ; but of all the ladies who were ap- 
 plied to, few were found willing to lend a helping hand. 
 Many were too indolent ; and others were afraid of 
 having anything to do with what they thought a 
 Methodistical concern. There were some who ap- 
 peared very eager in it at first ; but as soon as the 
 novelty was over, they became irregular in their at- 
 tendance, and dropped off, one by one : for to submit 
 to the self-denial and exertion requisite to a regular 
 and persevering attendance at a Sunday school, requires, 
 in general, some stronger motive than mere caprice ; 
 although many motives beside the right one may be 
 strong enough. 
 
 In this exigence, they gladly accepted the assistance 
 of two or three young women of a lower class, who 
 came forward to offer their services. They appeared 
 quite competent to the undertaking, having been for- 
 merly engaged in a small Sunday school, which fell off 
 for want of the means to support it. 
 
 One of these, well known by the name of " Betsy 
 Pryke," was a person of some repute among her friends 
 and acquaintance. 
 
 She was a sharp, neat, compact, conceited-looking 
 person, who kept a little haberdasher's shop in the 
 market-place. By the aid of some quickness, a good 
 memory, and what was called a great taste for reading, 
 she had accumulated a curious mass of heterogeneous 
 
DISPLAY, 37 
 
 lore, with which she was accustomed to astonish, if not 
 to edify, her simple neighbors. She was particularly 
 fond of hard names and words of many syllables ; and 
 her conversation was frequently interspersed with quo- 
 tations from Young, Herv^ey, and Mrs. Rowe. 
 
 Her customers, in addition to their purchase, were 
 generally favored with a little learning, gratis, while she 
 was weighing the pins or measuring the tape ; and 
 even before those whom she could not venture to en- 
 tertain with famihar discourse, some fine* word, or 
 knowing remark, was dexterously dropped, to let them 
 know what she was; and her behavior to this class of 
 her customers was marked by that mixture of pertness 
 and servility which is commonly produced by self- 
 conceit in dependent circumstances. 
 
 To these qualifications. Miss Pryke added a flaming 
 profession of religion. She was one of the very few 
 inhabitants of this town who appeared to pay any 
 serious regard to it ; and among those pious, simple 
 people, who possessed little of the wisdom or knowl- 
 edge of this world, she passed for a pattern of zeal and 
 sanctity. Miss Pryke's creed was all creed : she was 
 fond of holding argumentations upon a few points on 
 which she considered herself to have attained more 
 light than the generality of plain Christians. She ap- 
 peared to take Httle interest in the practical parts of 
 Christianity, about which there is no controversy ; and 
 upon those who made anything more than a distant or 
 casual reference to these subjects, she readily bestowed 
 her enlightened pity. They were " persons in the 
 dark ; " and if they were ministers, they were " bhnd 
 leaders of the blind/' and knew nothing of the gospel. 
 She valued comfort much above consistency, and was 
 more observant of hex frames than of her temper. 
 
 She could quote Scripture with great facility; but 
 was fonder of hearing it allegorized than explained. 
 She had by rote the whole string of those phrases, 
 
3S D ISP LA V, 
 
 and particular modes of expression, which pass current 
 among some good people, and which, although fre- 
 quently used with the utmost sincerity, are very far 
 from being evidences of it. 
 
 Susannah Davy was a person of a very different 
 description : she was an humble, serious, and superior 
 young woman. Her father was an ale-house keeper, a 
 profane, violent man ; he scoffed at religion, and had 
 treated his daughter with great severity since she be- 
 came acquainted with its value. But she submitted to 
 his harsh treatment with patience and meekness, and 
 conducted herself in his riotous house with such strict 
 propriety that she was respected by the lowest who 
 frequented it. 
 
 Whenever she could be spared from the business 
 below, she took refuge from the disorderly company in 
 the kitchen, in her quiet chamber ; where, with her 
 Bible and a very few good books, she passed many a 
 tranquil and happy hour. 
 
 She had a pleasing, intelligent face ; and while her 
 manners were perfectly unassuming, there was a dignified 
 reserve in her deportment. Her dress was neat and 
 plain. She had that nice sense of propriety which 
 secured her from the vulgarity of dressing beyond her 
 station. 
 
 She showed that she respected herself by her uni- 
 formly respectful behavior towards her superiors ; and 
 the circumstance of the ladies she was now introduced 
 to being her fellow- Christians did not dispose her to 
 forget what was due to them. She had read that 
 superiors are "not to be despised because they are 
 brethren;''^ and she felt no inclination to practise that 
 unbecoming famiHarity which in some instances has 
 proved a hindrance to profitable Christian intercourse 
 between the brother of high and of low degree. 
 
 The fault, however, is not always on one side ; there 
 is a manner in which some good and very charitable 
 
DISPLA V, 39 
 
 people behave towards their inferiors in rank, which 
 must be grating to those who retain any independence 
 of mind. 
 
 It was not thus with the Leddenhursts ; they always 
 remembered and respected the natural rights of the 
 poor, — those rights which belong to them in common 
 with the rich, and which, in so many essential respects, 
 place all the ranks of mankind upon an equality. 
 They considered their services as voluntary, their 
 dwellings as sacred, and above all, their minds as free 
 as their own. 
 
 There were few families more beloved, and more 
 justly, by their poor neighbors, than the Leddenhursts-; 
 and few, perhaps, whose intercourse with their nee'dy 
 tenantry was so entirely free from the debasing spirit 
 oi feudalism, — that spirit which has so long survived 
 the system. They were the friends of the poor, 
 without calling themselves, or wishing to be called, 
 such names as patrons, benefactors, and the like. 
 Their offices of charity were never performed with that 
 superlative condescendingness of tone and manner, 
 which, though it may be thought excessively amiable, 
 is but a creditable way of being proud j and which 
 does, in fact, neither become nor belong to one being, 
 in its transactions with another of the same species. 
 Nor were their religious instructions and advice given 
 with an air of persons invested with the authority of 
 Church and State. They always used to reason^ as 
 well as to exhort; and to reason Jirst. They well 
 knew that authority can no more bind opinion than 
 chains can bind sunbeams. 
 
 They took particular care to instil proper notions on 
 this subject into the minds of their children ; that when 
 they were going about on little errands of kindness to 
 their cottages, they might not fancy themselves such con- 
 descending little cherubs as some foolish people might 
 call them. They were told that a child cannot conde- 
 
40 DISPLA V. 
 
 scend to a grown person : and the little Leddenhursts 
 were remarked for their modest, respectful behavior to 
 servants, and to the poor. Nor were the.y ever en- 
 couraged in anything that might make their charities 
 look picturesque : for their parents were aware that, 
 with every possible precaution, it is difficult enough to 
 prevent a frightful mixture of motives in the perform- 
 ance of any good work. 
 
 But all this time Susannah Davy is waiting to speak 
 to Mrs. Leddenhurst. Her appearance very much 
 prepossessed them in her favor ; and they accepted the 
 offer of her services with still more readiness than that 
 of her sagacious friend. They both, however, seemed 
 well qualified for the employment ; and Elizabeth and 
 Emily, to whom such engagements were entirely new, 
 appeared at first, in comparison with them, to some 
 disadvantage as teachers of a Sunday school. 
 
 Indeed, they both experienced some disappointment 
 in this concern. In itself it was wholly uninteresting 
 to Elizabeth : for what is there in a row of poor chil- 
 dren, to interest a vain, selfish mind ? And she found 
 it more unproductive in other respects than she had 
 expected. Although she would lose a great deal by 
 withdrawing her attendance, there was but little to be 
 gained by continuing it. She was but one of a number, 
 undistinguished among the other teachers, who were 
 too busy with their own classes to observe Elizabeth's 
 attention to hers. 
 
 Emily's disappointment was of a different kind. 
 She had surveyed the form of children allotted to her 
 
 — which consisted of the usual proportion of the 
 stupid, the brisk, the idle, the diligent, and the froward 
 
 — with sanguine expectations of what instruction 
 would do for them ; not calculating on the dull com- 
 prehensions, feeble powers, or perverse dispositions of 
 the little beings she had to deal with. She soon dis- 
 covered that the pleasant reward of immediate or cer- 
 
D ISP LA Y. 41 
 
 tain success was not that which could be depended 
 upon ; and Miss Weston told her that the only way not 
 to feel discouraged, was to be contented with the satis- 
 faction of endeavoring to do good to our fellow-crea- 
 tures. She knew better than Emily what consequences 
 to expect from such exertions ; and was contented to 
 perceive, that the children were tolerably regular in 
 their attendance ; that they made a^ real, though slow 
 progress in their learning; and that they gradually 
 became more decent and orderly in their appearance 
 and behavior. 
 
 It struck Miss Weston that the new teacher, Miss 
 Pryke, regarded her friends Elizabeth and Emily with 
 an evil eye. Some hints she occasionally dropped 
 confirmed this suspicion ; but she had not given her an 
 opportunity to explain herself fully, having rather 
 avoided entering into conversation with Miss Pryke. 
 Her manner of talking, especially upon religious sub- 
 jects, was not agreeable to Miss Weston. She had 
 much greater pleasure in conversing with Susannah 
 Davy. The poor in this world are often ^'rich in 
 faith ; " and many a lesson of patience, trust, and 
 cheerful suffering, may be learned from their " simple 
 annals." When this pious, humble girl told of the 
 peace and happiness she enjoyed during her hours of 
 retirement, even in the midst of hardships and insults, 
 Miss Weston felt that if her own sorrows were more 
 refined, her consolations were not more elevated. 
 
 The truth was, that Miss Pryke was not very well 
 pleased to find Elizabeth and Emily in office at the 
 school. She knew that they had always been num- 
 bered among the gay young people of the town ; and 
 she augured no good from admitting people of the 
 world to engage in such a servdce. Miss Pryke's 
 notions concerning this phrase, ^^ people of the world," 
 were neither liberal nor correct. It is a phrase which 
 cannot be particularly attached to wealth or station ; nor 
 
42 DISPLAY. 
 
 is there any condition of life, any creed, or party, from 
 which it must necessarily be excluded. They who 
 love God supremely, and serve Him faithfully, are fiot 
 of the world ; they who prefer anything before Him, 
 are of the world, though they may '^ call him Lord,'* 
 and " prophesy in his name." And it is of little conse- 
 quence whether the worldly mind be seeking its grati- 
 fication from a display of dress and beauty in the glitter 
 of a ball-room, or from a display of its gifts among a 
 few poor brethren at a prayer meeting : each is loving 
 "the praise of men more than the praise of God." 
 
 But this was not the view of the subject that Miss 
 Pryke was accustomed to take. With the exception of 
 herself and a few of her friends, she considered all the 
 inhabitants of Broadisham, especially those of the 
 higher class, emphatically, " the worlds And however 
 true this appeared to be with respect to the majority, 
 her charity would never stretch so far as to allow, no, 
 nor to hope, that there might be some among them, 
 who, humbled at heart, and essentially relying on their 
 unhonored Saviour, might grope their way to heaven, 
 through all the rubbish of ignorance, error, and 
 Pharisaic prejudice, which worldly connections, and 
 unfaithful instructions, must throw in their way. But 
 " God seeth not as man seeth." 
 
 One day, when Mrs. Leddenhurst and Miss Weston 
 remained after the school was dismissed, to make 
 some arrangements in the room, Miss Pryke seized the 
 opportunity she had been wishing for. Mrs. Ledden- 
 hurst remarked that the children were making as much 
 progress as could be expected. 
 
 " Yes, certainly, ma'am," said Miss Pryke, '^ as it 
 respects their temporal instruction; but for my part," 
 added she, sighing, " I could have wished to see the 
 work prospering in our hands in a different way to 
 what it does. It would be a great encouragement to 
 my mind, I must say, to see some of these dear chil- 
 dren enlightened." 
 
DISPLA Y. 43 
 
 "We are not to expect miracles," answered Mrs. 
 Leddenhurst ; '^ there are very few of them who can 
 read their Bibles at present." 
 
 ^^Oh," replied Miss Pryke, '^ we must have faith, and 
 nothing will be impossible ; but if I may speak my 
 sentiments, Mrs. Leddenhurst," said she, now resolving 
 to cast off the fear of man, " I do not wonder that 
 our labors are not blessed ; and I don't believe they 
 ever will be while we have so many people of the 
 world amongst us. What can be expected from such 
 poor, dear, deluded, young creatures ! and what an 
 example to set before these dear children, Mrs. Led- 
 denhurst ! " 
 
 Here Susannah Davy ventured to remark, that '^ per- 
 haps their attendance at the school might be made 
 useful to the young ladies ; she had heard of such 
 instances, and thought it would be a great pity to dis- 
 courage them." 
 
 To this Mrs. Leddenhurst assented ; and observed, 
 that " so far from disapproving of their assistance, she 
 lamented that no other ladies had joined them : she 
 knew not by what authority they should be justified in 
 forbidding any, who were wiUing to unite in a good 
 work ; " and silenced, but not satisfied. Miss Pryke by 
 adding that ^^ there was nothing in the character or 
 conduct of these ladies that, in her opinion, disquali- 
 fied them for the task they were at present required to 
 perform." 
 
 The conversation ended here ; for Miss Pryke was 
 not the kind of person with whom they chose to enter 
 into a further debate. She could not, however, be 
 more truly concerned for the religious welfare of the 
 children than they were. The grand object of all their 
 exertions, and of which they never lost sight, was to 
 train them for heaven; and they steadily pursued 
 those methods,' which, in their opinions, were most 
 likely to promote this end. They did not attempt to 
 
44 DISPLA V. 
 
 feed them with ^' strong meat/' but with " milk/* be- 
 cause they were " babes ; " and communicated the 
 simple ideas they could comprehend, in plain lan- 
 guage, and short sentences, such as they might easily 
 attend to and remember. They knew that most 
 children will not listen to a long discourse, however 
 excellent ; but that their attention may be excited by 
 a short, striking, personal address. 
 
 Such slow and simple methods did not satisfy Miss 
 Pryke's zeal for the conversion of her pupils. Not 
 considering the usual course of divine proceeding in 
 spiritual, as well as in natural things, she expected to 
 sow and reap at the same time. But instances of 
 Sunday-school children's appearing seriously impressed 
 are rare, and, generally speaking, doubtful; though 
 there have been hopeful exceptions. At any rate, 
 teachers may be satisfied with imparting that knowl- 
 edge, and forming those habits, which are so frequent- 
 ly followed in after life by the divine blessing. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 In the meantime Emily's friends witnessed with 
 great pleasure the hopeful, though gradual change that 
 appeared to be taking place in her mind. These 
 friends could make allowances for the prejudices of 
 education, the influence of early habits, and the 
 various disadvantages which must attend the dawnings 
 of religion in those who have not been taught to fear 
 God from their youth. 
 
 They were pleased to observe in her a deHcacy of 
 conscience which made her extremely guarded in 
 conversing on the subject, lest she should be led to 
 express more than she felt. Without sincerity she saw 
 
DISPLA Y. 45 
 
 that religion is but a name, and without earnestness, 
 a shadow. 
 
 As soon as she began reading the Bible with at- 
 tention and prayer, she perceived that she had never 
 before read it to purpose. She was surprised that she 
 had often passed over the same passages which now 
 struck her so forcibly, with such total inattention to 
 their obvious meaning. She began to feel that ^' one 
 thing IS needful ; " that the grand business of life, and 
 that to which all others must be secondary, is to pre- 
 pare for the hfe to come. Of the necessity and nature 
 of this preparation she became increasingly conscious 
 the more she thought of God, and of the nature of 
 heavenly happiness. She was convinced that "His 
 presence could not be fulness of joy " to any but those 
 who are, like Him, holy and spiritual. When she 
 compared the state of mind which the Scriptures call 
 "meetness for heaven " with the vanity and earthliness 
 of her present taste and pleasures, and with the distaste 
 she felt to those that are wholly spiritual, she began to 
 understand what is meant by being "born again," and 
 to feel the necessity of it ; although her ideas of the 
 way in which this change must be produced were still 
 indistinct and uncertain. 
 
 She had bowed at the name of Jesus, and spoken of 
 Him, and heard Him spoken of as "our Saviour," and 
 "our blessed Saviour;" but with notions the most 
 vague, and feelings the most indifferent. But when 
 she began to regard Him as a Saviour from sin and 
 misery, as the Friend of sinners^ a living and present 
 Friend, and to hope that He might be hers. His being 
 and His character appeared an astonishing reality, and 
 it seemed to her as though she had never heard of 
 Him before. 
 
 At first Emily set about becoming a Christian with 
 the same expectation of success as she would have ap- 
 plied herself to a language or a science. She saw that 
 
46 DISPLA V. 
 
 she had it all to learn, and she thought there was 
 nothing to be done but to learn it. She soon, how- 
 ever, began to experience some of the difficulties 
 which will be encountered by all who are in earnest. 
 She was sincerely asking, ^' What must I do to inherit 
 eternal life?" But, like him who once "went away 
 sorrowful," Emily found herself unwilhng to make that 
 entire surrender of the heart to God which he requires, 
 and without which religion is but an irksome bondage, 
 a fruitless effort to compromise between God and the 
 world. She complained of a secret reluctance and 
 disinclination to serious thought and engagements, and 
 of a disproportionate interest in her own pursuits and 
 pleasures. She sometimes expressed a fear to Miss 
 Weston, that her solicitude about religion arose more 
 from a dread of. the consequences of neglecting it, 
 than from a desire towards it for its own sake. 
 
 To these complaints her friend listened with sym- 
 pathy, and administered such encouragements as were 
 calculated, not to make her easy and satisfied with her 
 present attainments, but to stimulate her to persever- 
 ance and diligence. She explained to her that these 
 or similar obstacles ever oppose the entrance of real 
 religion to the human heart ; that all are naturally 
 indisposed to embrace it ; but that those who feel and 
 lament this indisposition have every encouragement to 
 expect assistance. 
 
 '"Strength," said she, "is promised to those, and 
 those only, who are sensible of weakness ; who, ac- 
 knowledging with deep humility and poverty of spirit 
 their mental impotence, are willing to receive help of 
 God." 
 
 " That change of heart which consists in new dis- 
 positions and affections, new pursuits and pleasures, 
 new apprehensions of things unseen, and without 
 which heaven could not be happiness, is," she said, 
 " the immediate operation of the Spirit of God. It is 
 
DISPLAY. . 47 
 
 that for which of ourselves we are absolutely insuffi- 
 cient. We must not, however," continued Miss Wes- 
 ton, ^' expect this assistance, unless we earnestly and 
 constantly seek it. ' Ask^ and ye shall receive ; ' this 
 is the invariable condition. And, Emily, we must 
 watch as well as pray ; and diligently use every means 
 that God has appointed for the promotion of religion 
 in the soul ; never relaxing from that strict system of 
 mental disciphne in which Christian self-denial chiefly 
 consists. It is to those who do the will of God that 
 the promise is offered." 
 
 While Miss W^eston was thus continually performing 
 the noblest offices of human friendship, Emily's love 
 for her became increasingly ardent ; for she assumed 
 no authority nor superiority in advising her : her man- 
 ner was so humble and affectionate, and displayed at 
 once such a delicate consideration of her feelings, and 
 anxious solicitude for her happiness, that Emily's 
 heart melted with grateful affection. 
 
 It has been said that there was nothing so dry, so 
 difficult, nor so wholly foreign to her real inclinations, 
 that Elizabeth would not have set herself about, if it 
 has been recommended — or rather, likely to recom- 
 mend her at Stokely. It was therefore less surprising 
 — as rehgion was the one thing most attended to and 
 valued there — that Elizabeth must now also become 
 religious, or at least appear to be so. 
 
 Without premeditated and consummate hypocrisy, 
 yet without sincerity, and wholly without earnestness, 
 she professed to view the subject in a new light, and 
 requested instruction upon it. She readily, and with- 
 out gainsaying, acquiesced in new opinions : to many 
 she might have appeared a more hopeful learner than 
 Emily. But surely there can be no bondage so irk- 
 some, no drudgery so base, as counterfeiting, or from 
 any mistake falling short of, that character which, when 
 genuine, brings with it freedom and independence, 
 pleasantness and peace. 
 
48 DISPLA V. , 
 
 Although they found it a difficult task to converse 
 on the subject with Elizabeth, no pains were spared to 
 give her right views, and to excite in her mind a real 
 concern about it. She assented readily to everything 
 that was said ; believed whatever was stated ; felt all 
 that was described — and more ; but they could not 
 feel satisfied with her professions. 
 
 Indeed, the manner in which the Christian character 
 was described and exemplified at Stokely rendered it 
 so difficult of imitation, — there was so little credit to 
 be gained by mere outward appearances or particular 
 expressions, while so much stress was laid upon sin- 
 cerity, humility, and spirituality of mind, that Elizabeth 
 soon began to feel the support of her new professions 
 almost intolerably irksome, and almost hopelessly 
 difficult : perhaps she might have abandoned the 
 attempt altogether, if she had not accidentally dis- 
 covered a style of religious profession far easier of 
 attainment. 
 
 Miss Pryke was confirmed in her suspicions of the 
 unsoundness of the new family by what had lately 
 passed, and she attended the next Sunday, determined 
 to make redoubled efforts at enlightening the school. 
 The instructions she addressed to the children were 
 indeed principally aimed at the teachers.; and Eliza- 
 beth's form being next to Miss Pryke's, she could not 
 avoid hearing a great deal of it. She listened to her 
 harangue, partly from curiosity, and partly from a desire 
 of becoming familiar with a language which she wished 
 to adopt. Perceiving from the whole strain of it that 
 it would be comparatively easy to be very religious after 
 Miss Pryke's manner, she determined to gain the notice 
 and good opinion of this enlightened teacher. So, as 
 soon as the school was dismissed, Elizabeth made up to 
 Miss Pryke, and shaking her by the hand, with a particu- 
 lar kind of smile, said, " I am sure I have reason to 
 thank you for what I have heard this morning." 
 
DISPLA K 49 
 
 Miss Pryke started at this very unexpected address : 
 however, it put her prejudices to flight in an instant. 
 Notwithstanding her jealousy of the gay or genteel, she 
 was doubly gratified at having proselyted one of this 
 class. Her answer was studiously seasoned with spirit- 
 ual flattery \ but that and the succeeding conversation 
 are not recorded, because it would be painful, and 
 equally offensive to right feeling and good taste, to 
 repeat a discourse in which expressions might occur, 
 which to use professedly in earnest, but without sincer- 
 ity and reverence, is the worst kind of profaneness. 
 
 The conversation was renewed in the afternoon, and 
 on the following Sunday : and Elizabeth was invited to 
 join a private meeting which was held once a week 
 in Miss Pryke 's parlor. She felt rather ashamed of 
 accepting this invitation, and scarcely knew why she 
 wished it ; however, as it was winter, she stole in one 
 evening. 
 
 Her entrance seemed for a time to distract the 
 devotions of the little assembly, the appearance of a gay 
 lady was so very unusual among them. There was 
 some bustle in dumb show, to make way for, and 
 accommodate her ; and she was beckoned and jostled, 
 and pointed, and pushed to the vacant arm-chair by the 
 fire-side. But Elizabeth with gracious bows declined 
 this distinction, and seated herself — for she was fond 
 of contrast — on one of the forms, between a very old 
 woman and a spare squalid-looking man, whose head 
 was tied up with a blue handkerchief. EHzabeth's lace 
 veil floated on his shabby shoulder, and her rich India 
 shawl spread over the old woman's red cloak, who shook 
 it off respectfully ; while the good man squeezed him- 
 self up to his narrowest compass, and drove at his next 
 neighbor to make more room. 
 
 When the service was over, Miss Pryke made up to 
 Elizabeth and shook hands with her ; and so did two 
 or three others, saying a word or two expressive of 
 
 4 
 
so DISPLA V. 
 
 their pleasure at seeing her there : and there were some 
 present whose hearts glowed with true Christian benevo- 
 lence when they did so. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 By this time Emily, without having studied for it, 
 had gained the love and esteem of the whole family at 
 Stokely. Elizabeth saw that she had ; and notwith- 
 standing their impartial attentions — for none but the 
 children appeared the fondest of Emily — Elizabeth 
 perceived that she was not loved, esteemed, and, what 
 to her was still worse, not admired so much. It was a 
 long time before she could believe this ; but when she 
 did, when she felt quite sure of it, her mortification 
 began to produce a degree of indifference to their 
 opinion, and distaste to their company ; and she won- 
 dered why she had taken so much pains to please 
 them. 
 
 From this time her visits to Stokely became gradu- 
 ally less frequent ; and as she felt Emily to be no longer 
 a foil, but a rival, her company also became irksome 
 to her ; and although her professions when they met 
 were the same as ever, Emily was hurt to perceive 
 that Elizabeth shunned her society. 
 
 Her connection with Miss Pryke tended much to 
 promote this coolness ; for it gave Elizabeth another 
 object and other engagements, — and such as were not 
 very compatible with her intercourse with the Ledden- 
 hursts. She continued to attend the weekly meeting 
 at Miss Pryke's, — for vanity is seldom dainty, — and 
 the notice she attracted, and the distinction she ob- 
 tained even there^ were agreeable to her. Her manners, 
 her accomplishments, her dress, excited little attention 
 
DISPLA V. 5 1 
 
 among persons of her own rank, who could display 
 much the same ; but in all these respects she stood 
 unrivalled in Miss Pryke's parlor, and they obtained 
 for her that consideration which she loved. 
 
 Well had it been for Elizabeth if she had made as 
 good use of these meetings as many, as most of those 
 did, who frequented them. But unfortunately, she only 
 imitated what was not worth imitating. She soon ac- 
 quired a facility in using the phrases current among 
 these poor people, and even caught something of their 
 particular looks and gestures. These peculiarities, 
 which, while they too easily pass among some as signs 
 of grace, among others, are with as little discrimination 
 concluded to be the symptoms of a canting hypocrisy ; 
 but whicn are, in fact, often, most often, the genuine 
 and natural expressions of earnest sincerity, uncontrolled 
 by the delicacy which teaches the educated to conceal 
 their feelings. 
 
 But, truly, the least agreeable excrescences which are 
 produced by earnestness in religion, are more reasona- 
 ble, and ought to be less offensive, than that finished 
 air of indifference which too often characterizes politer 
 worshippers. 
 
 When a poor Chi'istian turns the key upon her com- 
 fortless dwelling, and sets off with her lantern and her 
 Bible, to spend an hour in thinking and hearing of a 
 place where there will be no more want, it is not sur- 
 prising if she be more deeply interested and affected 
 than those, who leave a comfortable drawing-room, an 
 intelligent circle, or some interesting pursuit, and whose 
 "joy unspeakable " it costs them, perhaps, little effort 
 to conceal. 
 
 But it is best to avoid a/l extremes ; and those good 
 people who are prone to make stic/i " outward and 
 visible signs of their inward and spiritual graces," would 
 do well to observe the conduct which Jesus Christ 
 seems plainly to recommend on this subject, — that 
 
52 DISPLAY. 
 
 decent composure of countenance and manner, which, 
 while we are exposed to the eyes of others, answers the 
 purpose of *^ entering into the closet, and shutting to 
 the door.'* " Be ye not as the hypocrites, of a sad 
 countenance ; for they disfigure their faces that they 
 may appear unto men to fast : but anoint thy head, 
 and wash thy face," &c. When the repenting pub- 
 lican ^' smote upon his breast," he was not with the 
 throng of worshippers in the Temple, but standing " afar 
 off." 
 
 Elizabeth, however, found herself in high esteem 
 among this little company, especially with Miss Pryke, 
 by whom she was studiously flattered and extolled. 
 She had little opposition to encounter at home, on ac- 
 count of her new profession ; for her parents disliked 
 trouble too much to persecute ! and Mrs. Palmer con- 
 tented herself with exclaiming sometimes, when her 
 daughter was setting off for the market-place, ** Bless 
 me, Elizabeth, how can you make such a fool of your- 
 self! " 
 
 EKzabeth's fatlier and mother were people of the 
 world in the most complete sense ; they were '^ lovers 
 of pleasure, and not lovers of God." 
 
 Mrs. Palmer was clever ; and had a vast deal of 
 taste in laying out gardens, and fitting up rooms, and 
 setting out dinners. Her grand object in life was, to 
 enjoy herself; and her selfishness was refined, and 
 perfect in its kind. She was a good wife, a kind 
 mother, an obliging neighbor, as far as ever she could 
 be consistently with this object, but no further. She 
 had an easy, pleasing address ; and her politeness was 
 so unremittingly attentive that it looked almost like 
 friendship. Whatever did not demand any real sacri- 
 fice of her own pleasure or convenience, was done, and 
 done in the most obliging manner possible ; but really 
 to deny herself for the sake of another, was a species of 
 virtue which she left to be practised by such good sort 
 
DISPLAY. 53 
 
 of people as chose it. To her it appeared foolishness ; 
 especially as she could decline her services with such 
 masterly adroitness, with such a gentle, sympathizing 
 address, that the cold selfishness of her heart often 
 escaped detection. 
 
 Her feehngs were naturally violent; but she had 
 such an extreme dislike of being uncomfortable, that 
 she rarely suffered them to be very troublesome to her. 
 When the news arrived that her only and darling son 
 had died abroad of the yellow fever, many people 
 thought she would not long survive the intelhgence. 
 Her sorrow at first was ungovernable ; she said she 
 should never have another happy hour. But it is 
 easier to be distracted for a w^eek than to be sorrowful 
 for life ; and Mrs. Palmer discovered surprisingly soon, 
 that she was still in possession of all those good things 
 on which her daily pleasure depended. She had no 
 son, it was trae ; but she had her pleasant house, and 
 handsome furniture ; luxurious fare, and a healthy ap- 
 petite, a fine person and expensive ornaments. She 
 could still w^alk, and ride, and visit, and see company ; 
 and build her grotto, and attend her green- house, and 
 arrange her cabinet ; so that she recovered her cheer- 
 fulness rapidly. There was nothing in her mind with 
 which sorrow could amalgamate^ it was an unwelcome 
 and unintelligible foreigner. 
 
 By her son's dying at a distance she was spared 
 what were, to her, the most shocking circumstances 
 attending such an event. 
 
 Death, that one thing which the sceptic must be- 
 lieve, and to which the worldly must submit, was 
 that which she most disliked to think about ; and she 
 studiously avoided whatever was likely to remind her of 
 it. She shrunk from the survey of its gloomy appa- 
 ratus ; and was really glad that all that part of the affair 
 was transacted so far off as Jamaica. The opening of 
 the family vault was a circumstance she particularly 
 
54 D ISP LA Y. 
 
 dreaded ; that was a place she did not like to think of ; 
 and still less to recollect that she must herself one day 
 lie down in that dark chamber. Whenever the un- 
 welcome thought was forced upon her, she instantly- 
 recurred to the soundness of her constitution, and the 
 vigorous means she used to preserve it. Besides 
 which, she avoided perils by water and perils by land ; 
 was the first to foresee evil and hide herself j and to 
 flee from contagion and every form of danger, — thus, 
 by a common but strange kind of deception, feeling 
 as though to delay death were to escape it. 
 
 She thought it prudent, however, to make some 
 provision for the distant day ; and was, accordingly, 
 constant at church, and charitable to the poor : by 
 which means she concluded all . wpuld be safe, when- 
 ever she should be under the absolute necessity of 
 going to heaven. 
 
 Mr. Palmer was a gentleman of ordinary capacity; 
 but he could hunt, and shoot, and joke, and swear; 
 and contrived to do very well without thinking : for 
 with these accomphshments, a good table, and well 
 stocked cellar, he wanted neither for friends nor repu- 
 tation. 
 
 It suited the taste both of Mr. and Mrs. Palmer to 
 live expensively. Whether it suited their income as 
 well, they did not often inquire ; for they avoided 
 everything that was disagreeable, and to them it was 
 disagreeable to think about debts. and prudence. 
 
 A short time after Elizabeth had begun to estrange 
 herself from Stokely, Mrs. Leddenhurst received a 
 parcel of books from her, which they had lent her; 
 with a note thanking her for the loan of them, but 
 declining the offer of others that had been proposed ; 
 adding, that '' studies of this nature were too apt to 
 encroach upon pursuits of higher importance." 
 
 "This is very true indeed," said Mrs. Leddenhurst, 
 when she had read the note ; " and I wish Elizabeth 
 
DISPLAY, 55 
 
 may now find herself more disposed to engage in pur- 
 suits of higher importance. But I am afraid she is 
 making a mistake ; at least I should question whether 
 she will really employ the time she would have spent 
 in reading these books to more advantage. I have 
 known some good people," continued she, "who would 
 scruple taking up a volume of elegant literature, or of 
 philosophy or science, alleging that they had not the 
 time to spare from better reading, whose consciences 
 would yet allow them to spend months in working a 
 cap or a handkerchief; and who were in the habit of 
 employing themselves in such domestic affairs as, in 
 their circumstances, could be as well done by their 
 servants." 
 
 " Elizabeth has learned this from some of her new 
 friends," said Mr. Leddenhurst. " It is no uncommon 
 thing for persons of low education and contracted views 
 to entertain this kind of jealousy against general infor- 
 mation, — indeed, most things which their own circum- 
 stances will not permit them to enjoy. Whatever they 
 have not knowledge to understand, or taste to appre- 
 ciate, they are apt to consider as inconsistent with real 
 piety. Many very good people are subject to this 
 prejudice, and are apt to consider as dangerous symp- 
 toms of conformity to the world, pursuits and refine- 
 ments which a little more knowledge, and a little more 
 liberality, would convince them are, in their way and 
 in their place, aids and ornaments to Christianity." 
 
 " The opposite extreme is, however, so much the 
 most general and the most abused," said Miss Weston, 
 " and this is so much the safest of the two, that one 
 had need be cautious in censuring it. Where one 
 person abstains from general reading for conscience', 
 or rather for prejudice' sake, how many are there who 
 read bad books without any regard to conscience, and 
 who are prejudiced against good ones ! " 
 
 The Leddenhursts were sorry that Elizabeth had 
 
5 6 DISPLAY, 
 
 withdrawn herself so much from their society; espe- 
 cially as they did not feel perfectly satisfied with the 
 present style of her professions. They did not, how- 
 ever, venture to form so decided a judgment concerning 
 her as was declared of Emily by some of the good 
 people at Miss Pryke's. 
 
 Emily had no ambition to gain their favor ; indeed 
 she paid too little regard to public opinion ; and her 
 dread and abhorrence of imfelt professions led her to 
 avoid those very appearances and expressions which 
 might have induced them to form a more favorable 
 judgment of her piety. They shook their heads at her 
 youthful sprightliness ; while Elizabeth was pronounced 
 '' a gracious and growing character." 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 One spring evening, Elizabeth had taken her accus- 
 tomed seat by the side of Miss Pryke's counter. 
 While they were talking, she sometimes put aside the 
 shawls and ribbons that blinded the window with the 
 end of her parasol, to see what was passing without. 
 But there was nothing to be seen except some children 
 at play in the middle of the square, and Mr. Preston 
 standing in his usual position at his shop-door, and 
 old Mr. and Mrs. Parsonson returning from their eve- 
 ning walk, and the setting sun shining on the old 
 market- cross, just as it did a hundred years ago. 
 
 It was seldom that anything happened to disturb 
 the tranquillity of this remote place, — except that a 
 show, or a conjurer, or a company of strolling players, 
 sometimes stopped to amuse the inhabitants for a 
 night or two, in their way to the county town. But 
 suddenly their conversation was interrupted by the 
 
DISPLAY. 57 
 
 sound of distant music. Elizabeth started from her 
 seat, exclaiming : 
 
 " Hark, Miss Pryke ! what can that be ? The bass- 
 drum, I declare ! " 
 
 For now it came nearer and louder ; and presently 
 a full band, in gay green and white, playing a lively 
 march, followed by the regiment, and all the boys and 
 girls of Broadisham, crowded into the market-place. 
 
 *' How partial I am to military music ! " said Eliz- 
 abeth, as she stood nodding to the tune ; while rank 
 after rank passed the shop door. 
 
 This was a lively evening for Broadisham ; it was all 
 bustle and animation. Maids and mistresses, masters 
 and men, appeared at their doors and windows. 
 Trains of soldiers, stooping their tall caps, were seen 
 entering the lowly doors of the Angel, the King's 
 Arms, and the Red Lion ; while a party of officers 
 assembled before the gate of the new Hotel. 
 
 The teachers of the Sunday school had been em- 
 ployed for some time past in making a set of frocks 
 and tippets for the children ; and as soon as it was 
 completed, an evening was appointed for them to meet 
 in the school-room to receive them. This evening 
 being arrived, and the parties assembled, they were 
 about to proceed to business, when Emily proposed 
 waiting a little while for Elizabeth, who was not come ; 
 but at last they were obliged to go on without her. 
 
 It was a pleasant task to take off the patched, worn, 
 and torn, and fit on these new comfortable dresses. 
 The whole school soon appeared in a neat livery ; and 
 while the children in stiff attitudes kept surveying 
 themselves and each other, and looking almost as 
 much ashamed as they were pleased, the ladies, not 
 less pleased, stood beholding the happy crowd. Em- 
 
58 DISPLAY, 
 
 ily enjoyed it exceedingly, as with great animation she 
 stood rolling up the old tattered garments, and admir- 
 ing the new. 
 
 It was nearly dark before the children were dis- 
 missed; and just as the ladies were coming down 
 stairs, they observed a light dressy figure making her 
 way rather impatiently through the crowd of children 
 that was issuing from the school-room door. Till the 
 moment she passed, when the light from a chemist's 
 shop shone full upon her, they did not discover that it 
 was Elizabeth. Emily spoke to her, but she was look- 
 ing another way, and appeared not to observe any of 
 the party, who stood gazing at her as she passed 
 swiftly on. 
 
 ^' She is going to this officers' ball," said Mrs. Led- 
 denhurst ; " there is her mother, I see, just before." 
 
 " I am surprised at that ! " said Emily. 
 
 "And I am concerned," said Miss Weston. 
 
 " I am concerned, but not much surprised," said 
 Mrs. Leddenhurst. 
 
 " But I have heard her say so much against those 
 amusements lately," added Emily. 
 
 " I should have been more surprised if she had said 
 less," said Mrs. Leddenhurst ; " but we will not con- 
 demn her ; perhaps she is going against her incli- 
 nations. I only fear that if she once begin to break 
 through the restraints she has lately imposed upon 
 herself, she will return to these things with increased 
 avidity." 
 
 As they passed the assembly-room they saw the 
 chandeliers were ht up ; the dancing had commenced ; 
 and they could distinctly hear the sound of the 
 inspiring viol. Emily had trod many a measure there, 
 and she could scarcely forbear stepping to the well- 
 known air. She was really fond of dancing ; but the 
 company, the dissipation, were never very agreeable to 
 her. She had declined attending this ball without 
 
DISPLAY, 59 
 
 regret. Mr. and Mrs. Leddenhurst had explained to 
 her their reasons for abstaining from these diversions 
 in a way that convinced her of their propriety. With- 
 out shaking their heads, and speaking of dancing as 
 containing in itself some mysterious evil which could 
 not be explained, they simply stated the difficulty, if not 
 impossibility, of preserving that temper of mind in 
 such assemblies which a Christian should always main- 
 tain; that they were universally allowed to indispose 
 the mind to serious reflection and serious engagements, 
 and to expose young and old to many temptations. 
 
 The offence it would inevitably give to many pious 
 people, vAiO"^^ prejudices even we are expressly enjoined 
 to -consult, was mentioned as another reason, and a 
 sufficient one, for abstaining, independent of all other 
 considerations. 
 
 "And if resigning such paltry pleasures as these," 
 said Mr. Leddenhurst, "be considered too great a 
 sacrifice to be made for Christ's sake, what are we to 
 understand by forsaking all to follow him? But 
 even," said he, " if I could attend these places without 
 any injury to my own mind, or any offence to the 
 minds of others, I really should not feel disposed to go 
 dancing through a world so full of sin and misery as 
 this is." 
 
 Emily, however, needed not many arguments on 
 this subject. When she began to /^^/ religion, and to 
 think of eternity, she did not want to dance, nor to 
 mix much with people whose thoughts are all about 
 this world ; yet she had never before been so uniform- 
 ly cheerful as now. She returned to Stokely with her 
 friends, and spent the remainder of the evening so 
 pleasantly with them, that she quite forgot the assem- 
 bly-room. 
 
 How it happened that Elizabeth was at the officers' 
 ball, must now be explained. 
 
 One of these officers was an old acquaintance of her 
 
6o DISPLA V. 
 
 father*s; and he, with all the others, was invited to 
 dine at his house. 
 
 Elizabeth had not quite finished dressing herself for 
 this occasion, when she was called down stairs to Miss 
 Pryke, who waited to speak with her in the hall. 
 
 "I did not hear till just now," said she, glancing as 
 she spoke at the various parts of Elizabeth's dress, '' I 
 did not hear till this minute, that all these people were 
 coming to dinner here to-day ; and as I was convinced 
 you would not wish to be in the way of it, I came to 
 request the pleasure of your company to spend the day 
 at ours, and I hope — " 
 
 "Thank you," said Elizabeth, "you're extremely 
 good, I 'm sure, and I should enjoy it exceedingly, for, 
 you know, it is excessively distressing to me ; but, 
 indeed, I 'm afraid I could not get off anyhow, for, you 
 see, my mother would be so much displeased. So 
 thank you, good morning ^^^ said she, withdrawing rather 
 abruptly, and leaving Miss Pryke not quite satisfied 
 with the manner in which her invitation had been 
 declined. 
 
 There are ways of being irresistible without flirting : 
 and Elizabeth did not find it requisite on the present 
 occasion to throw off entirely the character she had 
 assumed. When she made her appearance, there was 
 a look of childish simplicity and timidity, with a becom- 
 ing expression of being distressed at the presence of 
 so many gentlemen. Hastening to take refuge among 
 the ladies, she seated herself beside Miss Oliver, who 
 was one of the party, with whom she began chatting 
 in an under voice, with playful familiarity. 
 
 During dinner the subject of the proposed ball was 
 introduced, and Lieutenant Robinson, a young officer 
 who sat next Elizabeth, began talking about the pleas- 
 ure of meeting her there. But Elizabeth acknowledged 
 she was not partial to these amusements. " There was 
 too much publicity in them," she said, " to suit her taste : 
 
DISPLAY. 6 1 
 
 she was aware she exposed herself to the imputation of 
 singularity, but, in fact, she preferred pleasures of a more 
 private and domestic kind." While the lieutenant was 
 expressing his grief, surprise, concern, and astonish- 
 ment at this declaration, a lady who sat opposite 
 exclaimed, 
 
 " Oh, we must not expect to see Miss Palmer at the 
 assembly-room ; she has quite forsaken our innocent 
 amusements since she has been such a saint." 
 
 At the word saint all the company laughed ; laughed 
 rather more than Ehzabeth liked, and dreading further 
 exposure, she joined in the laugh, saying, 
 
 " Oh, pray indeed, you must not call me a saint ! I 
 only wish I was more of one than I am." 
 
 ^' But, Mrs. Palmer, ma'am," said the Heutenant, 
 appealing to her mother, '' Miss Palmer surely cannot 
 be serious ; let me beg of you to intercede with her, 
 that we may have the honor of her company to-morrow 
 evening." 
 
 " I shall certainly endeavor to prevail with Elizabeth/' 
 said her mother. 
 
 " There," said he, " Mrs. Palmer takes our part ; 
 you will not refuse her, I 'm convinced." 
 
 " If my mother wishes it, certainly not," replied 
 Elizabeth, with a submissive smile. 
 
 Thus she had promised to go to the ball before she 
 recollected her pre- engagement at the school-room ; 
 and she could not break her promise. Besides which, 
 in the course of this evening Lieutenant Robinson had 
 rendered himself so agreeable that all prior considera- 
 tions rapidly gave way. 
 
 When she was alone in her room that night, she 
 began to speculate upon the posture of affairs. She 
 thought for a moment of the opinion that would be 
 entertained of her by her friends in the market-place 
 for going to the ball ; and she thought for two moments 
 of what would be thought of it at Stokely. But Eliza- 
 
62 DISPLAY. 
 
 beth now found herself engaged in business of impor- 
 tance, to which trifles must*be sacrificed ; and the tide 
 that was plunging her back into a world from which her 
 heart had never been alienated was but feebly stemmed 
 by principle or conscience. 
 
 Elizabeth had probably been deceiving herself as 
 well as others. They who are little accustomed to 
 self-examination, who look more at actions than at 
 motives, may go a great w^ay in false professions with- 
 out deliberate hypocrisy. Perhaps she was herself sur- 
 prised to find how easily her scruples were overcome, 
 and her professions laid aside. She felt less dread in 
 doing so, than shame at the idea of their being dis- 
 covered. Her mind was not indeed at this time in a 
 state for making cool calculations. 
 
 Religion, friends, reputation, were hastily thrown 
 into one scale and Lieutenant Robinson's gold epaulette 
 into the other — and thus the point was decided. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 For more than a fortnight after the night of the ball, 
 Elizabeth had not been seen by any of her old friends. 
 At length Emily was surprised by a call from her ; and 
 still more, by her proposing to accompany her that 
 evening on a visit to Stokely. 
 
 " It is so long since I have been," said she, ^^that 
 they must think me quite inattentive ; and if you would 
 like to go this evening, I shall be happy to attend 
 you.'* 
 
 Emily readily agreed to this unexpected proposal. 
 Indeed she was very glad of it; especially as she 
 remarked a certain thoughtfulness and pensiveness in 
 Elizabeth's manner, which made her hope she was 
 sorry for what had lately occurred. 
 
DISPLA Y. dz 
 
 During their walk Elizabeth was unusually silent and 
 absent; and she continued so after their arrival, 
 although she had received the same free and cordial 
 welcome as usual. Many ineffectual efforts were made 
 to enliven her ; and at last Mrs. Leddenhurst — who 
 had remarked that Elizabeth liked to be asked to play 
 — proposed that she should sit down to the instru- 
 ment. 
 
 "What shall I play?" said she, turning over the 
 leaves of the music-book. '^ ^ The Soldier's Adieu,' — 
 that 's a sweet thing ; shall I try it? " 
 
 "If you please," said Mrs. Leddenhurst. 
 
 Elizabeth played and began to sing ; but stopped 
 presently, as though unable to proceed. 
 
 " Why don't you sing? " said Emily. " Do sing 1 " 
 
 " I cannot sing very well this evening," said she, 
 looking distressed ; and added aside to Emily, " You 
 must ?iot ask me to sing those words." 
 
 After attempting a few more notes, she stopped 
 again, and leaning back upon Emily begged for air 
 and water. 
 
 The window was thrown open, and Mr. Ledden- 
 hurst led her to the sofa ; where, after a few hysterical 
 sighs, she found herself a little better. 
 
 " Emily, my love, lend me your arm," said she, 
 rising; "I shall soon recover in the air; it's nothing 
 but the heat of the room." 
 
 So Emily led her friend to an arbor in the garden ; 
 where, as soon as they were seated, Elizabeth leaned 
 her head upon Emily's neck, and burst into tears. 
 
 "What is the matter?" said Emily. "Are you ill, 
 dear Elizabeth ; or has anything grieved you? " 
 
 She continued to weep and sigh, but made no 
 answer. 
 
 " I am sure," resumed Emily, after a short silence, 
 " I do not desire to know anything you wish to con- 
 ceal ; but if I can guess why you are so unhappy — '* 
 
64 DISPLAY. 
 
 " Oh, then, I have betrayed myself ! '' exclaimed 
 Elizabeth, hiding her face. 
 
 '' Betrayed yourself ! what do you mean, Elizabeth ? 
 I only thought that perhaps you were sorry about 
 going to the ball and giving up the Sunday school; 
 and if—" 
 
 " Oh, my dear ! " interrupted Elizabeth, " you do 
 not know, you cannot guess, it is quite impossible that 
 any one should ever discover the cause of my uneasi- 
 ness. That must ever remain a secret in my own 
 bosom." 
 
 '' Then certainly I shall not inquire," said Emily. 
 "Will you like to walk?" 
 
 " No, stay a moment ; forgive my weakness, Emily, 
 and let me talk to you about my sorrow, although I 
 cannot reveal the source of it." 
 
 " As long as you please, but take care, or I shall find 
 it out." 
 
 " Oh dear ! oh dear ! oh dear me," said Elizabeth. 
 
 " Dear me," said Emily. 
 
 " Do you think Mr. Leddenhurst observed the words 
 of that song?" inquired Elizabeth. 
 
 " I can't tell, indeed," replied Emily. . 
 
 " How silly it was of me to attempt to play it ! " 
 
 "Why so?" 
 
 Elizabeth looked down, and sighed. 
 
 " How beautifully the sun is setting ! " observed 
 Emily, who found it difficult to maintain her part of 
 the conversation. 
 
 At length EHzabeth broke another silence by saying, 
 " Emily, I know I may confide in you ; will you prom- 
 ise faithfully never to betray me, if I tell you all my 
 heart?" 
 
 "Yes, you may depend upon me," said Emily. 
 
 " But how shall I confess my weakness ? " resumed 
 Elizabeth ; " cannot you guess ? — Oh, Emily, if you 
 had ever loved you would know how to feel. for me ! " 
 
DISPLAY, 65 
 
 " Dear ! are you in love ? " said Emily, simply. 
 
 '' Hush ! my dear creature ! " cried Elizabeth ; '' but 
 what/' continued she, in a low voice, "' what but this 
 fatal attachment could have led me to act as I have 
 done?" 
 
 " Do you know now," said Emily, after running over 
 in her mind the list of all the beaux and bachelors she 
 knew, " do you know I am entirely at a loss to think 
 who you can be at all attached to." 
 
 " Oh, my dear, that fatal regiment ! " cried Elizabeth. 
 
 ''Already ! " said Emily. 
 
 "You do not know him, or you would not be 
 surprised." 
 
 "Is it that tall, brave-looking officer that I have seen 
 walking with your father?" 
 
 "No, that's Captain Scot. He is not particularly 
 tall ; you 'd not be so much struck at first sight : but 
 indeed he has paid me such attentions ! though I know 
 he is only flirting with me," said Elizabeth, sighing. 
 
 " Then indeed, Elizabeth, I hope you will endeavor 
 to overcome it," said Emily, "and as it is so very 
 recent, I should think with a little effort — " 
 
 " A little effort ! O Emily, you know nothing about 
 it ; never, never ; it cannot be overcome 1 " 
 
 " How are you now, Elizabeth ? " said Miss Weston, 
 who appeared at that instant. 
 
 "Thank you, better," said Elizabeth, starting. 
 
 " She is a great deal better," said Emily, blushing. 
 
 " I feared you would stay too long in the evening 
 air," said Miss Weston ; and, supported by her tvyo 
 friends, Elizabeth returned to the company. 
 
 Elizabeth had long wished for an opportunity of 
 being a heroine ; for which nothing had been wanting 
 but a hero ; and this being so unexpectedly supplied, 
 it was no wonder that, mistaking ambition of conquest, 
 and partiality to scarlet cloth, for love, she should 
 presently exhibit its interesting phenomena. 
 
 S 
 
66 DISPLAY. 
 
 She had not, however, been guilty of any misrepre- 
 sentation in saying that Lieutenant Robinson had " paid 
 her such attentions ; " for this young man had fallen in 
 love with Ehzabeth ; and a short time after this arbor 
 scene, and after about a month's acquaintance, — dur- 
 ing which time he spent every morning at her work- 
 table, and every evening in her company, — he made 
 his proposals to her father, which meeting with the 
 approbation of the whole family, he became her ac- 
 knowledged lover. 
 
 Elizabeth would have been more gratified at making 
 a conquest of a man of sense ; and she would have 
 preferred altogether having a sensible man for her hus- 
 band. However, she had made a conquest, and she 
 was going to be Mrs. Robi7ison. 
 
 Sometimes, indeed, she felt a little dissatisfied dur- 
 ing the morning tete-a-tete with the strain of her lover's 
 conversation : for it was surprising what silly things he 
 would say rather than not say anything : but then Eliz- 
 abeth thought it was because he was in love ; and any 
 such unfavorable impression generally wore off during 
 evening parade, when the lieutenant was manoeuvring 
 at the head of his company ; and always while the band 
 was playing she was sure she was in love with him. 
 
 After evening parade the band was ordered to play 
 for an hour in the market-place, for the amusement of 
 the ladies, who were assembled on these occasions, and 
 promenaded up and down the square. 
 
 It was then that Elizabeth enjoyed the eclat of her 
 conquest. While she appeared laughing and talking 
 with her lover among her less fortunate acquaintance, 
 who were walking about in unattended rows, her pur- 
 pose was served as well, or better, by a blockhead than 
 a genius. 
 
 Sometimes she would stop awhile to chat with them, 
 and her nods and bows were dealt about lavishly, and 
 with unwonted cordiahty, to everybody. 
 
DISPLAY. 67 
 
 "Who are all these?" said Lieutenant Robinson, one 
 of these evenings, as a new party entered the square. 
 
 "Gracious me! all the Leddenhursts," said Eliza- 
 beth, who would rather have avoided the interview. 
 
 "x-lnd who is that pretty figure in the cottage bon- 
 net? " said he^ as they came nearer. 
 
 " It 's only Emily Grey," answered Elizabeth. 
 
 "' How d 'ye do, how d 'ye do, Emily, my love, how 
 are you?" said she, addressing her friends as they 
 advanced. 
 
 She now introduced Lieutenant Robinson, and 
 would have passed on, but they all seemed disposed to 
 stay and chat, and Mr. Leddenhurst entered into con- 
 versation with her lover. 
 
 Never had he appeared to so much disadvantage to 
 Elizabeth as at this moment ; now that she saw him, 
 not for herself, but for them, — saw him, too, by the 
 side of Mr. Leddenhurst. 
 
 Her hand had fallen from his arm as they approached, 
 and she now began talking as fast as possible to Mrs. 
 Leddenhurst, Miss Weston, and Emily, to divert their 
 attention from the conversation that was passing be- 
 tween the gentlemen. 
 
 Emily, who had raised her expectations rather un- 
 reasonably high, of a being whom it was possible to 
 love in three weeks, was nearly guilty of the rudeness 
 of starting when she first beheld the mean figure, and 
 fiercely vacant countenance, of her friend's admirer. 
 
 "Is it possible ! " said she to herself, and she looked 
 about to avoid meeting the eye of Elizabeth. 
 
 In the meantime the lieutenant continued running on 
 in his usual style of sprightly dulness to Mr. Ledden- 
 hurst, who stood looking down upon him with an eye 
 of keen but candid observation. 
 
 " What a monstrous curious old cross you 've got 
 here ! " said he, staring up, and tapping it with his 
 cane. 
 
68 DISPLAY. 
 
 " Well, good night ! '' said Elizabeth ; " it 's cold 
 standing in the wind ; " and she walked off with her 
 lover, feehng more uncomfortable than ladies always 
 do when they walk off with their lovers. 
 
 When they reached home, Elizabeth threw herself 
 on the sofa, saying, 
 
 " Don't talk to me ; I am tired this evening, Mr. 
 Robinson.'' 
 
 Thus repulsed, he walked backwards and forwards in 
 the room for some time, half whistling; till, stopping 
 on a sudden, he exclaimed, 
 
 " That Emily what d' ye call her is a confounded 
 pretty girl ! " 
 
 "Do you think so?" said Elizabeth, rousing up; 
 ^' well, she does look rather pretty in her bonnet." 
 
 Here the lieutenant resumed his walk and his whistle ; 
 but the remark had a fortunate effect upon EHzabeth. 
 The momentary jealousy made him appear surpris- 
 ingly more agreeable, and worth securing : and while 
 she sat watching him as he paced up and down in the 
 dusk, she said to herself, " He whistles uncommonly 
 well ! " 
 
 Very soon after Lieutenant Robinson's proposals 
 were accepted, the regiment, which was quartered at 
 Broadisham, received orders to remove to a distant 
 county. It was expected they would march in six 
 weeks ; and as both he and Mr. Palmer were anxious 
 to conclude the affair as soon as possible, it was agreed 
 that the marriage should take place accordingly. 
 
 Elizabeth, therefore, suddenly plunged in the agree- 
 able confusion of preparation, had little leisure to study 
 the character and qualifications of her intended husband. 
 He was but one of a great variety of important con- 
 cerns that now distracted her attention. Crapes and 
 sarcenets, laces and jewels, trunks and riding- dresses^, 
 her silver teapot, her satin workbag, and her scarlet 
 beau, were objects of alternate and equal interest. 
 
DISPLA V. 69 
 
 Wholly intent upon the edaf of her bridal, she had as 
 little inclination as opportunity to look forward to the 
 months and years when she would be a wife, but no 
 longer a bride. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 About this time, Eleanor Jones, the invalid men- 
 tioned early in this history, having lingered through 
 a painful winter, died peacefully. Miss Weston and 
 Emily had visited her frequently during her illness, 
 and they were present at the last scene. 
 
 Death, as personified and decorated by poetry, 
 Emily had frequently contemplated ; but she was unac- 
 quainted with the realities of a dying bed. 
 
 The moment they entered her room, they perceived 
 the altered expression of her countenance ; and al- 
 though Emily had never seen it before, she saw it 
 was deaf/i in her face. She felt the shock, but would 
 not turn away ; " for if I cannot bear to see it, how 
 shall I endure it? " thought she. 
 
 Soon after they entered she was seized with a convul- 
 sive spasm which lasted several minutes. 
 
 '* Oh, see ! " said Emily, ^' cannot we help her? Is 
 there nothing that would give her any relief? " 
 
 " Nothing, my dear," said Miss Weston, softly; " it 
 will soon be over." 
 
 ^^ Dear, dear creature ! " cried her distressed mother : 
 '^ please God to release her ! for I cannot bear this ! " 
 
 When the spasm was over, her features became 
 composed, and she looked round upon them with an 
 expression of joyful serenity. 
 
 ''These are only the struggles of nature," said Miss 
 Weston ; ^ the sting of death is sin ; ' she does not 
 feel that." 
 
70 DISPLA V. 
 
 At this she smiled, and her lips moved, but they 
 could not distinguish what was said. She then lay for 
 some time quite tranquil. They watched her in silence, 
 and at length perceived that she had ceased to breathe. 
 
 Miss Weston led the mother down stairs ; while 
 Emily remained fixed to the spot, gazing on the placid 
 corpse. She looked round on the low, tattered cham- 
 ber, and thought she should never again wish for the 
 vanities of so short a life. " This is how they must all 
 end," she thought; "and death would look just the 
 same if this poor bed were a state canopy." It seemed 
 but a moment3 not worth caring for, before she herself 
 must He down by her side. 
 
 Her contemplations were soon interrupted by the 
 entrance of Miss Weston. 
 
 " Come, Emily, my love," said she, " we can do 
 nothing more here, but we may still comfort her poor 
 mother." 
 
 " I should like to stay longer," said Emily ; " I never 
 saw death before ; how strange, and awful, and beautiful 
 it is ! " 
 
 "You have stayed long enough now," said her 
 friend, and she led her out of the chamber ; and as 
 soon as they saw that the mourning mother had said 
 and wept her utmost, they took leave, with many 
 assurances of continued friendship. 
 
 When they opened the cottage door, they found it 
 was noonday, and bright sunshine. Emily had not 
 shed a tear before, but they overflowed at the sight of 
 the bright fields and clear blue sky. They walked on 
 silently to the entrance of the town. 
 
 " Had not we better go the back way ? You will 
 not go through the town this morning, Miss Weston? " 
 said Emily. 
 
 " Why not, my dear? " 
 
 "I always avoid it when I can," replied Emily, 
 *^and just now especially." 
 
DISPLAY. 71 
 
 ^^Unfortunately I have an errand in the town/' said 
 Miss Weston, ''at Mrs. Eve's." 
 
 " At Mrs. Eve's ! " said Emily. 
 
 They went on; and Emily was obliged to endure 
 the sight of the shops and people, looking as busy as 
 usual. 
 
 Mrs. Eve's windows were set out with spring 
 fashions ; and when they went in, they found Elizabeth, 
 with her mother, and other ladies, making purchases, 
 and examining the new assortment. 
 
 " I was just wishing for you," said Elizabeth, " to 
 give me your opinion of these sarcenets. Which 
 should you prefer, Emily, this rose color, or the pale 
 blue?" 
 
 "They are both extremely pretty," said Miss Wes- 
 ton, " but the blue, I think, is the most delicate." 
 
 " I advise you to go up and see the millinery," said 
 Mrs. Palmer to Miss Weston and Emily ; " and really 
 you '11 be delighted. Mrs. Eve has some uncommonly 
 pretty things come down, I assure you." 
 
 '^ We have something quite new in flowers, ladies," 
 said one of the young milliners, taking down a tempt- 
 ing drawer. " That 's a sweet thing, ma'am ! " said 
 she, holding up a quivering spray before Emily ; who, 
 sickening at the sight, made her escape as soon as she 
 could to the opposite counter, where Elizabeth still 
 stood, wavering between the rose color and the blue. 
 
 " Yes, Elizabeth," she said, " they are very pretty ; 
 but we are just come from Eleanor Jones's, — and 
 have seen her die." 
 
 '' Die ! good gracious, have you ? She is gone at 
 last, poor soul ! is she ? " said Elizabeth. '' Dear me ! " 
 added she, perceiving that Emily expected her to say 
 something more. 
 
 "I wish you had been with us," said Emily; ''you 
 cannot think what a striking scene it was. I think I 
 shall not soon forget it." 
 
72 DISPLAY, 
 
 " It must indeed be very affecting^ I should think," 
 said Elizabeth, still glancing at the rival tints. 
 
 '' I will walk back with you now, if you would wish 
 to see her," continued Emily. "She is looking so 
 placid and tranquil. Would you like to go? " 
 
 ** My dear, you must excuse me,'* said Elizabeth; 
 " my spirits are so weak, I never could endure to see a 
 corpse." 
 
 " Why, she is only looking as we ourselves shall very 
 soon." 
 
 "La! my dear Emily!" cried Elizabeth; "but 
 really I have not a moment to spare — you know how 
 I 'm circumstanced. Besides," said she, looking up 
 and down the street, " I am expecting Frederick every 
 instant. He was to call here for us half an hour ago." 
 
 " Poor Elizabeth ! " said Emily, as soon as they had 
 got out of Mrs. Eve's shop, " how completely she is 
 absorbed again in these things ; and how trifling, how 
 disgusting they are ! I hope I shall never again waste 
 a thought, or a moment, about them ! " 
 
 "They are trifling certainly," said Miss Weston; 
 " but I think they are only disgusting when they are 
 made affairs of importance, and suffered to engage a 
 disproportionate share of time and attention. ' There 
 is a time for all things,' you know, — a little time, 
 even for attending to the trifles of life. It would not 
 pain me, I confess, to see EHzabeth just now busily 
 engaged in these affairs, if I were sure they were kept 
 in due subordination to better things : but there is the 
 danger." 
 
 " I wish she had been with us to-day," said Emily, 
 " that she might have felt, as I did, the transition from 
 that room to Mrs. Eve's exhibition." 
 
 " It is very desirable sometimes," said Miss Weston, 
 " to view the gayeties of life in such strong contrast ; 
 and we should be careful constantly to maintain such 
 an impression of these realities, as to counteract their 
 
DISPLA V. 73 
 
 undue influence. But it is not intended that we should 
 walk through the world only by a sepulchral light ; nor 
 that we should be always turning aside from its pleas- 
 ant fields, to wander among the tombs. Indeed, the 
 mind may take a melancholy pleasure in being famil- 
 iarized with such objects, without making real progress 
 in rehgion. It is far better for our thoughts to be ha- 
 bitually fixed on the world beyond the grave : that is 
 more likely to stimulate us to run the race that is set 
 before us, with patience, with vigor, and with cheerful- 
 ness j and to give us at last the victory over the grave/* 
 
 The first time Emily called upon the widow Jones 
 after her daughter's funeral, she found her in a great 
 deal of trouble. 
 
 The expenses of a long iUness had reduced her so 
 low that she was unable to pay her rent, which had 
 already run on several quarters. By Eleanor's deatb 
 she had also lost her chief means of support ; being 
 herself too feeble to go out to work as she used to do. 
 So that, with grievous lamentations, she told Emily 
 she must turn out of her cottage, and end her days in 
 the parish poor-house. 
 
 Emily, much concerned at this account, set off to 
 consult with her friends at Stokely. At the outskirts 
 of the park there was a little building covered with ivy, 
 which had formerly been a pleasure-house, but was 
 now disused, and falling into decay. It struck Emily, 
 as she passed, that with a little repair it might be made 
 a comfortable asylum for the poor widow. She went 
 in full of this scheme ; and before she had exhausted 
 half her arguments, obtained Mr. Leddenhurst's free 
 consent. He promised to have it put in proper repair, 
 and commissioned Emily to superintend the alterations, 
 — as she expressed much anxiety lest the workmen 
 should tear down the ivy, or lop the branches, which 
 spread so prettily over the thatch. 
 
74 DISPLAY. 
 
 Mrs. Leddenhurst engaged to supply it with furni- 
 ture ; and it was to be ready by Midsummer- day, — 
 the day on which Mrs. Jones had warning to quit her 
 cottage. To increase the pleasure, Emily proposed 
 that in the meantime it should be kept a profound 
 secret from the widow. But Mrs. Leddenhurst suggest- 
 ed whether, for the sake of that momentary surprise, 
 it would be right to keep her so long in uneasiness at 
 the thought of going to the poor-house. 
 
 " I forgot that," said Emily ; but she looked so much 
 disappointed, that Miss Weston proposed to hold out 
 only an indefinite hope, which might allay her anxiety, 
 without letting her know the actual good fortune that 
 awaited her. 
 
 Emily now went to work with alacrity. There was 
 much to be done which she undertook to execute 
 herself, besides giving directions to the workmen ; and 
 she had a great deal of trouble in persuading them 
 imphcitly to follow her orders. They had so little 
 notion of the picturesque that if she had not kept a 
 constant watch over them, the place would, in her 
 opinion, have been completely spoiled. 
 
 There was a little plot in front, overgi'own with net- 
 tles, which she had cleared and was converting into a 
 flower garden. The children were very much pleased 
 with being employed under Emily on this occasion. 
 They were permitted to weed and dig, and to do what- 
 ever services she required. To adorn the entrance, 
 she contrived to form a rustic porch, with a seat, of 
 mossy logs and branches ; and she led over it a wild 
 honeysuckle and a white jessamine, which had long 
 grown there, and crept over the front of the building. 
 
 One day, while Emily was busily employed in twining 
 the sprays of her favorite jessamine over this porch, 
 she was surprised by her friend Elizabeth. 
 
 " My dear Emily," said she, " I 'm just come to bid 
 you good-by — I am going to be married to-morrow." 
 
DISPLA K 75 
 
 "To-morrow ! " said Emily; and her hand fell from 
 the bough. 
 
 '' Yes, indeed," replied Elizabeth ; " I did not expect 
 it would be quite so soon ; but the regiment is ordered 
 off immediately, and Frederick is anxious we should 
 spend a few days at Cheltenham before we join it ; and 
 I assure you I am quite fagged with packing and pre- 
 paring. But I would not go on any account without 
 seeing you," said she, with a voice and look of apathy 
 that went to Emily's heart. She sat down in her porch, 
 and burst into tears. 
 
 • But Elizabeth was too busy^ and too happy, to weep. 
 Just come from, the important bustle of preparation, the 
 sight of Emily in her garden hat and gloves, so intent 
 upon fitting up a house for an old woman, excited 
 that kind of contemptuous pity, with which the simple 
 pleasures of simple people are commonly regarded by 
 such observers as Elizabeth. 
 
 After standing an awkw^ard minute, wishing Emily 
 had not cried, she added, 
 
 "Well, Emily, my dear, I must not stay." 
 
 " Stay one moment," said Emily; " I was thinking 
 of the old days when we were children, and used to 
 play together under the chestnut trees." 
 
 Elizabeth was touched by the sudden recollection, 
 and, without an effort, a tear came into her eye. She 
 sat dowm by her friend, and they embraced affection- 
 ately. 
 
 " EHzabeth, I hope you will be happy," said Emily; 
 " I hope Mr. Robinson is — " 
 
 " Oh, he is indeed," interrupted Ehzabeth ; " I have 
 no doubt I shall. He is the most pleasant, generous 
 creature in the world. I wish you had seen more of 
 him, Emily ; but really, of late, you know, I have been 
 so particularly occupied. But, indeed, I must be 
 gone 1 " said she rising ; and they parted with a hasty 
 embrace. 
 
76 DISPLAY. 
 
 Emily followed her to the gate, and watched her 
 with tearful eyes to the winding of the road, as she 
 went briskly on. 
 
 Elizabeth slept soundly in consequence of this day's 
 fatigue ; and awoke the next morning with only a con- 
 fused idea of what was before her. But the red beams 
 of the rising sun, shining full upon her white hat and 
 feathers, brought the strange reality to her recollection. 
 She started up, but the clock struck four — only four ! 
 So she lay down again ; fell into a wakeful doze, and 
 dreamed it was only a dream. 
 
 At six o'clock, the maid who had nursed her from 
 her infancy came to awaken her. She looked at her 
 young mistress as she lay asleep, and, brushing a tear 
 from her eyes, she said, " Come, Miss EHzabeth, dear, 
 it 's time to get up, ma'am ! " 
 
 At ten o'clock the chaise that was to take Elizabeth 
 away stood at her father's door. Soon after," she 
 appeared, covered with a splendid veil, and was handed 
 in by the smiling lieutenant; when, bowing and wav- 
 ing her hand to the party assembled at the street-door, 
 they drove off. 
 
 It was a beautiful morning ; the bells rang merrily, 
 and as it passed the end of Church Street they out- 
 noised the rattling of the -chaise. 
 
 Elizabeth, in passing through her native town, felt an 
 increased glow of satisfaction, from observing her friends 
 and neighbors going about the ordinary business of the 
 day. Some were washing, and some were brewing. 
 Parties of children, with their workbags, were sauntering 
 to school ; and there were the pale teachers, peeping 
 over the tall window-blinds, to see the bride ; and 
 there sat Miss Oliver with her hair in papers ; and the 
 row of young women at Mrs. Eve's all together raised 
 their heads from their work, at the sound of the chaise, 
 
DISPLAY, 77 
 
 — while she, a gay and youthful bride, was leaving 
 them all to their monotonous employments. She was 
 married ; and she was going to Cheltenham. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 " No, this way," cried Emily, as she was conducting 
 the widow Jones to her new dwelling. 
 
 " Dear miss ! where are you a fetching of me ? 
 'T was never worth a while to turn such an old woman 
 as me out of my house and home/' said she in a crying 
 tone, as she went hobbling after Emily. 
 
 " But I tell you," said Emily, " you should not be 
 thinking of your old cottage now." Yet, in spite of all 
 her remonstrances, the widow Jones went groaning and 
 grumbling all the way to Stokely. 
 
 Richard, and Caroline, and Lucy, were anxiously 
 waiting their arrival at the garden gate. Emily, as she 
 approached, called eagerly to them to stand out of the 
 way, that they might not intercept the view of the 
 dwelling; which, with the little white gate and rustic 
 porch peeping under the trees, had certainly a very 
 pretty effect. 
 
 "What do you think of that?" said she, looking 
 eagerly at the widow. 
 
 "Deary me ! " said she. 
 
 "Do you think it pretty? Then this is where you 
 are to live. So do not be fretting any more about your 
 old cottage, for you are to live here," repeated Emily. 
 " Is n't it a pretty little retired place for you, now? " 
 
 " I thank you, and his honor, and the ladies, a 
 thousand and a thousand times," said she, casting a 
 forlorn glance at the thick shade that environed her 
 dwelling. 
 
78 DISPLAY, 
 
 ^' What, don't you like it?" said Emily. 
 
 "Why, dear, I can't mislike it," said she, "here's 
 a power of trees, to be sure ! but 't will be more light- 
 some come winter." 
 
 " But that is the beauty of it," said Emily. '^ Come, 
 then, and see if it is not comfortable inside.", 
 
 Emily indeed had spared no pains to make it so. 
 The kettle was now boiling on the fire, and the little 
 deal table was set out ready for tea. The widow's 
 favorite cat had been dexterously conveyed away that 
 morning, and Caroline and Lucy had kept her in safe 
 custody all day. With indefatigable care and coaxing, 
 and after various obstinate attempts to escape, they at 
 last succeeded in making her He down to sleep upon 
 the hearth. 
 
 " Well-a-day, there 's our puss ! " exclaimed the 
 widow, now looking really pleased. 
 
 This was the only thing that did not look strange to 
 her ; and novelty, much as it charms the young, is itself 
 a grievance to the old. 
 
 Emily now only waited to point out some of the 
 principal beauties and conveniences of the new abode. 
 
 " See," said she, setting open the door, " I '11 tell 
 you what you should do these fine summer evenings. 
 You must bring your knitting, and sit here to work in 
 the porch ; you '11 look so pretty sitting to knit in the 
 porch ! And be sure," added she, " that you do not 
 tear down the ivy that grows over your little window." 
 
 The widow Jones having promised to do, and not to 
 do, all that she thought it reasonable to require, Emily 
 only stood a moment at the door, surveying with a 
 picturesque eye the group formed by the old woman, 
 her cat, and the tea-table ; and then took leave, saying, 
 she would ^^now leave her to enjoy herself." 
 
 The evening before this, Emily had put the finishing 
 stroke to her work ; and when it was done, she thought 
 it looked such a snug little seclusion, that she very 
 
DISPLA Y. 79 
 
 much longed to live there herself. It was a calm 
 summer evening, she was alone, and she sat down in 
 the porch to enjoy it, just at the time when the moon- 
 light began to prevail over the twihght ; and Emily 
 began to feel very poetically. 
 
 x\ scrap of paper that was left there rendered the 
 temptation irresistible : but she had written only a few 
 lines, when Mr. Leddenhurst appeared at the garden 
 gate. 
 
 " What are you about now, Emily? " said he. 
 
 Emily put by her verses, colored, and said, '^ Noth- 
 ing, sir ; *' and then took him in to admire her con- 
 trivances. He did' admire them, and she thought no 
 more about her verses till she got home again, and 
 found herself alone in her father's parlor. She then 
 read them over, merely to see if they were worth finish- 
 ing ; and she took a fresh piece of paper, and was just 
 getting into the spirit of it again, when she heard her 
 father's knock at the door, and he, with several other 
 gentlemen, came bustling in, talking all together, and 
 very earnestly, about a parish dispute which was to be 
 decided the next day at the county assizes. 
 
 " I tell you, sir, they must lose their cause," said 
 one of them, — " Miss Grey, how d 'ye do, ma'am ? 
 And I '11 give you my reasons, Mr. Grey — " 
 
 " Take off these things, child," said her father, 
 pushing away Emily's papers rather disrespectfully, and 
 laying a pile of law-books on tlie table, 
 
 Emily took them off, and made her escape as fast 
 as possible to her own room, thinking, as she went, 
 how foolish it was of her to write poetry. The verses 
 were put by in a folio with several similar effusions, of 
 which some were better, and some worse. They were 
 mostly in a strain that to the uninitiated might appear 
 inconsistent with Emily's lively and flourishing appear- 
 ance. But nothing could be more unreasonable than 
 requiring young writers of poetry to "prove their 
 
So DISPLA V. 
 
 words ; '* unless it were, inflicting upon them some of 
 the extraordinary things they sometimes wish for them- 
 selves when they are rhyming. 
 
 The verses Emily began writing this evening in the 
 widow's porch were as follows : — 
 
 Say, spirit, if thou wanderest nigh, 
 
 Of every sylvan dale ; 
 What forms, unseen by mortal eye, 
 
 Frequent this leafy vale. 
 
 Perchance 'twas once the flowery court - 
 
 Of merry elfin king.; 
 Where fairy people loved to sport, 
 
 And tread the nightly ring. 
 
 The sun, descending down the sky, 
 
 In floods of misty light, 
 Surveys it with his golden eye, 
 
 And makes the valley bright. 
 
 The moon, who rideth in her pride 
 
 At solemn midnight hour ; 
 And sheds her radiance far and wide, 
 
 On turret, dome and tower, 
 
 Here sleeps upon the checkered glade ; 
 
 Nor finds a softer rest 
 On myrtle bower, or classic shade. 
 
 Or ocean's silver breast. 
 
 And oft would I, alone, resort 
 
 To this seclusion dear ; 
 Unchecked to breathe the ardent thought, 
 
 Or shed th' unquestioned tear. 
 
 O Nature ! how thy charms beguile 
 
 Or soothe our cares to sleep ! 
 Thou seem'st to smile with those who smile, 
 
 And weep with those who weep ! 
 
 The vernal tint, the summer breeze. 
 
 E'en winter's aspect drear, 
 Thy woods, and vales, and skies, and seas. 
 
 Like friendship soothe and cheer. 
 
DISPLAY. 8 1 
 
 The soul in thy serene retreats 
 
 Communion sweet may find ; 
 But gay assemblies, crowded streets, 
 
 Are desert to the mind. 
 
 The throng where giddy mortals press, 
 
 Is solitude to me ; 
 But Nature, in her wildest dress, 
 
 Refined society. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Elizabeth had scarcely been married two months 
 when she received the news of her father's death. He 
 was taken off suddenly by a fit of apoplexy ; and his 
 affairs were found in so embarrassed a state that a nar- 
 row jointure alone secured his widow, and her recent 
 settlement his daughter, from absolute want. 
 
 In consequence of this change of fortune, Mrs. 
 Palmer immediately retired to a distance from Broadi- 
 sham : and about the same time, Elizabeth despatched 
 the following letter to Mr. Leddenhurst. 
 
 Chester, September 23. 
 
 My dear Sir, — It would be absolutely impossible 
 for me to attempt to describe the variety of painful 
 emotions I experience at this moment, in taking the 
 liberty of addressing you. Nothing indeed but a con- 
 viction of your extreme goodness could have embold- 
 ened me to undertake so awkward a task. 
 
 The poignant affliction occasioned by the loss of 
 my lamented parent needed no aggravation ; but I am 
 persuaded you cannot be a stranger to the very un- 
 pleasant embarrassments in which, in consequence of 
 his untimely decease, his affairs are involved. The 
 
 6 
 
32 DISPLAY. 
 
 result to us, as you may readily imagine, has been 
 particularly unfortunate. The truth is, my dear sir, 
 that Lieutenant Robinson, depending on those resour- 
 ces of which we have been so fatally disappointed, has 
 contracted some trifling debts, which it is, in fact, out 
 of his power immediately to discharge. He has, you 
 know, considerable expectations, but these are of no 
 present avail; and I am persuaded you would be 
 greatly concerned were I to relate the excessively 
 unpleasant circumstances to which we have been ex- 
 posed for some time past. In consequence of which 
 I have been induced to address you ; and encouraged 
 by a recollection of your former goodness, to request 
 the loan of two hundred pounds, if perfectly conven- 
 ient ; and which there is not the smallest doubt but 
 we shall in a very short time be able to return. 
 
 You may be surprised that Mr. Robinson does not 
 apply to his relations. The fact is, that the uncle to 
 whom he has repeatedly written on the subject, is a 
 low man, in trade, of very sordid and contracted 
 ideas ; who absolutely refuses the smallest assistance, 
 except on conditions with which it is absolutely im- 
 possible we should comply. 
 
 This determined me to trouble you with the present 
 application ; indeed there is no individual in the whole 
 circle of my friends on whose generosity and friend- 
 ship I could so firmly rely. And need I say, under 
 what infinite obligations we shall consider ourselves, 
 should you be induced to comply with the request ? 
 
 Lieutenant Robinson begs to join me in kindest 
 regards to yourself and Mrs. Leddenhurst ; and believe 
 me, my dear sir, with the greatest respect, your most 
 obliged friend and servant, 
 
 Elizabeth Robinson. 
 
 A tremendous secret was discovered to Elizabeth 
 a very short time after her marriage, in a letter from 
 
DISPLA V. Ss 
 
 this uncle. Lieutenant Robinson had been — a linen- 
 draper. 
 
 He was a weak, hot-headed young man. A dislike 
 to business, that is, to employment, and an opportu- 
 nity he once had of trying on a military hat, inspired 
 him with an ardent desire for the profession of arms. 
 And at the expiration of his apprenticeship to his 
 uncle, deaf to the remonstrances of his prudent friends, 
 he commenced the life of a gentleman. 
 
 In order to escape the ridicule of his brother-officers, 
 and to remove, if possible, the suspicions they evident- 
 ly entertained of his origin, he thought it requisite to 
 plunge into most of their extravagances. In conse- 
 quence of which — notwithstanding occasional supplies 
 from his uncle, and the convenient practice of leaving 
 every town at which they were stationed in debt — he 
 was kept in perpetual embarrassments. 
 
 His alliance with Miss Palmer, therefore, appeared 
 a very eligible measure. He had been confidently 
 assured that her father was a man of handsome 
 property, and this opinion everything he saw at his 
 house and table tended to confirm. 
 
 Elizabeth thought this discovery at once released 
 her from all obligation to love, honor, or obey her 
 husband. From that time she conducted herself 
 towards him with coldness and haughtiness, which he 
 bore with tolerable patience until the intelligence of 
 her father's death, and the unexpected state of his 
 affairs, gave him, as he said, '^a just right to resent 
 it." 
 
 Trained in habits of show and expense, and wholly 
 unaccustomed to economical calculation, Elizabeth 
 had soon made alarming demands upon her husband's 
 limited resources ; which, depending upon her prom- 
 ised but delayed portion, he had not thought it 
 necessary to check. 
 
 The news of Mr. Palmer's insolvency made an 
 
84 DISPLA V. 
 
 immediate alteration in this respect. Nor did Eliza- 
 beth fully comprehend the nature of her misfortune, 
 until the first time that, for want both of money and 
 credit, she was really obliged to deny herself some- 
 thing she wished for. With a strange feeling of 
 impatient astonishment, she then discovered that she 
 musf do without what she had said '^ it was absolutely 
 impossible to do without." A scene of mutual up- 
 braiding between herself and her husband was the 
 consequence of this first lesson in economy, or rather 
 in poverty. But they reproached each other, not for 
 their faults, but their misfortunes, — not for being im- 
 prudent, but for being poor. 
 
 EHzabeth, how^ever, had no sooner despatched her 
 letter to Stokely than she felt reheved of her difficulties. 
 She had witnessed so many instances of Mr. Ledden- 
 hurst^s generosity that she was confident of receiving 
 the requested supply. And she had not yet learned 
 to look beyond the narrow extent of two hundred 
 pounds. 
 
 She was engaged to dine at the colonel's, and had 
 just finished dressing for the occasion, when her hus- 
 band brought her the expected letter. 
 
 " This is fortunate indeed," said she. " Then, Mr. 
 Robinson, be so good, while I read it, to step over to 
 Levi's, and desire them to send the gold clasps. You 
 may say, you know, I shall call and settle the account 
 to-morrow morning." 
 
 They who have ever unfolded a letter, expecting at 
 every turn to behold the fine texture and expressive 
 features of a bank-note, which was really wanted, and 
 found it was only a letter, will know better what Eliza- 
 beth felt on this occasion, than others who never met 
 with such a circumstance. Having first turned it 
 about in all directions, she sat down and read as 
 follows : — 
 
DISPLA Y. 85 
 
 Stokely, September 28. 
 
 My dear Mrs. Robinson, — I should be sorry to 
 forfeit the opmion you are so good as to entertain of 
 my readiness to serve my friends by every means in 
 my power ; and shall be happy should I succeed in con- 
 vincing you, that I am sincerely desirous of doing so 
 in the present instance, — although it may not be in 
 the way that appears most expedient to you. 
 
 I should have been greatly at a loss to know how 
 most effectually to serve you, if I had not been favored 
 with an interview with Lieutenant Robinson's uncle, of 
 whose character I conceive you have formed a mistaken 
 idea. He appears to me to be a man of integrity, 
 good sense, and benevolence ; and highly deserving 
 the esteem and confidence of his relations. 
 
 He has undertaken a journey to Broadisham, with 
 the view of explaining to your friends the plan he had 
 suggested to his nephew, in hopes of obtaining their 
 concurrence, and influence with you. 
 
 Having himself been unsuccessful in former applica- 
 tions to you and Lieutenant Robinson, he has request- 
 ed me to address you on the subject ; a task which I 
 undertake the more cheerfully, since you have already 
 indulged me with your confidence. 
 
 Mr. Sandford informs me that Lieutenant Robinson 
 was not intended for the military profession, having 
 been trained to business ; but entered it very recently, 
 contrary to the advice of his friends. His uncle hoped, 
 however, that after having experienced some of the 
 inconveniences to which he would be exposed from 
 such a change of habits and circumstances, he w^ould 
 more readily listen to proposals for returning to his for- 
 mer pursuits ; and had determined, for a time, to urge 
 him no further on the subject. It w^as not till he heard 
 of his having formed an alliance, and with so young a 
 lady, ill qualified to brook the difficulties of her situa- 
 
S6 DISPLA K. 
 
 tion, that Mr. Sandford became solicitous to prevail 
 with his nephew to abandon his new profession imme- 
 diately. 
 
 With regard to those expectations you allude to, 
 Mr. Sandford requests me, as a friend, my dear madam, 
 to assure you that they must prove wholly^ fallacious, 
 unless Mr. Robinson founds them on his own diligent 
 exertions. Should he be willing to enter into the pru- 
 dent views of his uncle, he may depend upon every 
 support and encouragement it is in his power to afford ; 
 otherwise he must still submit to those distressing 
 embarrassments to which the expensive habits so 
 commonly contracted in his profession, and the limited 
 resources it affords, unite to expose him. 
 
 Justice to his other relations, Mr. Sandford directs 
 me to say, must forbid his continuing to answer Mr. 
 Robinson's repeated demands, even if there were a 
 probability of its proving of any ultimate advantage to 
 him ; but so far from this, he considers that it would 
 only be a means of encouraging those expensive habits, 
 and, in the end, of plunging him in deeper embarrass- 
 ments. 
 
 And now, my dear Mrs. Robinson, permit me to 
 assure you, that I am solely influenced by a tender 
 concern for your real welfare, when I earnestly recom- 
 mend you to use every endeavor to prevail upon Mr. 
 Robinson to accede to his uncle's proposals. I am 
 not surprised that, at first sight, they should appear to 
 you such as it was absolutely impossible to comply 
 with ; and I readily admit that nothing less than an 
 heroic effort can enable you to submit with a good 
 grace to such a change of circumstances. But in 
 making that effort you would find a noble satisfaction ; 
 and in descending cheerfully and gracefully to an hum- 
 bler sphere, more true independence and dignity of 
 mind would be exerted than would probably ever be 
 displayed throughout the whole of a gay life. 
 
DISPLAY. 87 
 
 Considering that it might not be agreeable to his 
 nephew to engage in business in his own immediate 
 neighborhood, Mr. Sandford has been making inquiries 
 in different directions, and has lately met with a very 
 eligible offer from a respectable tradesman retiring 
 from business. The only objection that I know of to 
 the situation is, that it is at the village of Hilsbury, not 
 more than fifteen miles distant from Broadisham ; but 
 as it is much secluded, and remote from any of your 
 connections, perhaps you would not consider that a 
 sufficient reason for declining it. The present pro- 
 prietor has realized a considerable property in the 
 concern, — it being the only one in that line in a 
 populous neighborhood ; and I should conceive a 
 retired situation of this nature would be more agreea- 
 ble to you than the publicity of a large town. 
 
 Should Mr. Robinson be willing to undertake this 
 concern, his uncle and I will cheerfully unite to advance 
 the capital ; and with regard to the remittance you 
 mention, it will be fonvarded to Chester by the same 
 day's post that informs us of his having agreed to this 
 proposal. 
 
 In case of your concurrence, Mr. Sandford pro- 
 poses to enter immediately upon the business at Hils- 
 bury, in his nephew's name ; where he would see 
 everything properly prepared for your reception, and 
 await your arrival. 
 
 After all, my dear friend, I am aware that no terms 
 can be employed in this affair that will not be harsh 
 and offensive to you ; nor will I attempt to represent 
 what might be called the pleasant side of it : for per- 
 haps you have not yet had sufficient experience of the 
 inconveniences of an unsettled hfe, nor of the miseries 
 of showy poverty, to estimate the value of a peaceful 
 home and a moderate competence. 
 
 I would rather remind you that we are never so 
 safe, nor so truly well off, as when following the obvious 
 
SS DISPLA V. 
 
 directions of providence. Our affairs are all ordered 
 by Him who is acquainted not only with our outward 
 circumstances, but most intimate with our hearts ; and 
 who knows by what means they will be most effectu- 
 ally subdued, and made willing to accept of real happi- 
 ness. And be assured, my dear friend, that by what- 
 ever circumstances we are taught the nature and value 
 of real rehgion, and led cordially to embrace it, then, 
 and not till then, we shall find happiness. 
 
 Believe me your very sincere friend, 
 
 C. L. Leddenhurst. 
 
 When Lieutenant Robinson returned from his com- 
 mission to the jeweller's, he found his lady in strong 
 hysterics in her room. 
 
 " Mercy upon us ! what 's the matter ? '* exclaimed 
 he, stopping in dismay at the door. ^^ Elizabeth ! 
 Betsy! why don't you speak, child? What's the 
 matter, I say? " continued he, advancing towards her. 
 
 But Elizabeth took no notice, except motioning with 
 her hand for him to stand further off. Presently a 
 servant came in, saying, 
 
 " If you please, ma'am, here 's Mr. Levi, with the 
 gold clasps for you to choose ; and here 's the bill he bid 
 me to bring up to you." 
 
 " I can't look at them now ; tell him to call another 
 time," said Elizabeth. '' There, Mr. Robinson, read 
 that ! " said she, pointing to the letter, and again falling 
 back in her chair. 
 
 When he had read it, he walked up and down 
 thoughtfully for some time ; at length, going towards 
 his wife, he said, timidly, 
 
 " I '11 tell you what, my dear, it does not signify ob- 
 jecting and objecting, we must, I know we must — " 
 
 '' Must what?" said Elizabeth. 
 
 '' Must do what Mr. Leddenhurst says, my dear." 
 
 " Do exactly as you think proper, " cried Elizabeth ; 
 
DISPLA V. 89 
 
 *' I am not in the least surprised, Mr. Robinson, that 
 you are so willing to acquiesce in it ; but I never will 
 — do you suppose I ever would submit to be the wife 
 of a tradesman? '' 
 
 " I '11 tell you what, Betsy ! " said her husband, flying 
 into a passion, ^^ I can't nor I won't submit to this any 
 longer ! You did n't bring me a penny, nor a halfpenny, 
 nor a sixpence ; and what business have yo7ij I should 
 be glad to know, to talk in this unbecoming manner 
 to 7ne ? " 
 
 " O heavens ! " cried Elizabeth, ^^ what a barbarian ! 
 Let me escape ! " and rising hastily, she flew down 
 stairs, and throwing herself tragically into the chair, 
 which had been long waiting for her at the door, ordered 
 to be taken to Colonel Harrison's. 
 
 While she was going there, EHzabeth, notwithstand- 
 ing her complicated misfortunes, was far from feeling 
 really unhappy. She remembered a great many her- 
 oines who had been in debt and had bad husbands. 
 Young, lovely, distressed, she was flying for protection 
 from his cruelty. Besides, she had fully determined to 
 open her whole heart to her frieitd Mrs. Harrison ; 
 and she was quite certain, that by some means or other, 
 she should be rescued from the threatened degrada- 
 tion. 
 
 Elizabeth made her entree at the Colonel's with an 
 air of interesting distress. There was nobody then 
 present but the lady of the house, and the major 
 of the regiment, with whom she was particularly in- 
 timate. 
 
 " My dear creature, how shockingly ill you look ! '* 
 exclaimed Mrs. Harrison. 
 
 " Indeed I am not very well," said she ; and throw- 
 ing herself upon the sofa, she burst into an agony of 
 tears. 
 
 While Mrs. Harrison was repeating her inquiries and 
 condolence, the graceful major seated himself beside 
 her, saying, tenderly, 
 
90 DISPLA K 
 
 ''My dear Mrs. Robinson, what has happened to 
 distress you ? Only tell me if there is any possible way 
 in which I can serve you." 
 
 Elizabeth could only reply by smiling on him grate- 
 fully through her tears, for other company entered at 
 that moment. But she whispered Mrs. Harrison, that 
 she would tell her all as soon as they were alone. 
 
 After dinner the ladies walked in the garden ; when 
 Ehzabeth contrived to take her friend aside for a few 
 minutes. She found it, however, an awkward task, 
 notwithstanding the vague and general terms she em- 
 ployed, to disclose those parts of her story which 
 related to her husband's connections. 
 
 " But, my dear child, what an unlucky thing you 
 should ever have liked him ! '^ said Mrs. Harrison. 
 " Upon my word, my dear, I feel quite distressed for 
 you." 
 
 '* Only tell me what steps I ought to take," said Eliz- 
 abeth ; *' I rely entirely on your friendship.'* 
 
 '' Indeed, my dear, I should be excessively happy to 
 advise you, and serve you, I 'm sure, in any way that 
 lies in my power, in this unpleasant affair ; but really 
 it 's an awkward thing to interfere between man and 
 wife. Indeed, I am not so much surprised that Lieu- 
 tenant Robinson should consider it altogether most 
 prudent to take the advice of his relations.'' 
 
 '' But what then will become of me? " cried Eliza- 
 beth, weeping passionately. 
 
 " Come, come, my dear Mrs. Robinson, let me beg 
 of you not to discompose yourself thus," said Mrs. Har- 
 rison. "To be sure," continued she, sighing. ''We 
 know it is our duty at all times to submit to what the 
 Almighty is pleased to appoint for us. But really, I 
 must insist upon it, that you do not distress yourself in 
 this manner; I can't endure to see you so unhappy. 
 Here are all our friends ! — for heaven's sake, my 
 dear, dry your tears. Shall I send you a glass of any- 
 thing?" 
 
DISPLAY, 91 
 
 " Nothing, thank you," said Elizabeth, who felt, at 
 this forlorn moment, the difference between a friend 
 and an acquaintance. The others now joined them ; 
 and as her eye wandered from one smiling, selfish face 
 to another — faces from which the unhappy had noth- 
 ing to hope — she involuntarily thought of Emily, and 
 Stokely. The major, however, was a friend nearer at 
 hand ; but she saw no more of him during the evening. 
 When she returned at ten o'clock to her comfortless 
 lodgings, she was surprised to find him in earnest con- 
 versation with her husband. 
 
 The major, who was very good-natured, had fre- 
 quently accommodated Lieutenant Robinson with 
 small sums of money ; which by this time had amounted 
 to a debt that he was anxious to have discharged. He 
 had been rather pressing on this subject of late j so 
 that the lieutenant came to the resolution of disclosing 
 to him the whole state of his affairs, and asking his 
 advice on the present emergency. No sooner did the 
 major understand that by resigning his commission he 
 would be able to pay his debts, than he warmly urged 
 him to comply : and it was not so difficult a matter to 
 persuade him as it would once have been. He began 
 to be weary of his present mode of life, of which the 
 novelty had already worn off; and of the misery of 
 being always in debt, and always short of money. 
 His objections to business were less insurmountable 
 than those of his lady. It was not pride, but idleness ; 
 and he now considered what a difference there would 
 be between master and man. 
 
 " But then there 's my wife," said he to the major. 
 ^' If you had but seen the piece of work we had this 
 morning ! Let me beg of you, my dear sir, to try 
 what you can do with her ; she will not listen to me, 
 that 's for certain." 
 
 This task the major undertook ; and when Elizabeth 
 entered, he addressed her with an air of friendly inter- 
 est, saying — 
 
92 DISPLAY. 
 
 " Mrs. Robinson, we have just been talking over 
 this awkward business of yours ; and I do assure you 
 very seriously, as I Ve been telling Robinson, I do not 
 see any other plan in the world that as a man of honor 
 he could adopt. In fact, if I were in his place, I 
 should not hesitate a single instant about the business. 
 Indeed, for my own part, I should not feel any partic- 
 ular reluctance to — to — engaging in mercantile con- 
 cerns ; upon my life I shouldn't. If he were a single 
 man," continued the major, observing the gathering 
 gloom in Elizabeth's countenance, " it would be wholly 
 a different affair ; but when a man is responsible for 
 the honor and happiness of a young and lovely wo- 
 man — " 
 
 "Oh, do not talk oi my happiness," cried Eliza- 
 beth, glancing expressively at her husband ; "' that is 
 sacrificed for ever ! " 
 
 " Heaven forbid I '' said the major, looking at his 
 watch. 
 
 "' So the major 's been advising of me to lose no time 
 about the business ; and he thought I had better wTite 
 to my uncle and Mr. Leddenhurst by return of post. 
 And so you see, my dear, it 's all settled," said Lieu- 
 tenant Robinson, anxious to make the whole confession 
 before his friend was gone. 
 
 " And I am extremely glad that everything is so hap- 
 pily adjusted," said he, rising ; and unwilling to wait 
 the issue either of fainting-fits or remonstrances, he 
 took leave. 
 
 As the door closed upon the gay, agreeable major, 
 Elizabeth felt herself abandoned to wretchedness. 
 She had no inclination to go into hysterics, nor to 
 remonstrate with her husband ; but sat silent and mo- 
 tionless, watching him, while he was sealing and direct- 
 ing the letters for Stokely. And now she felt really un- 
 happy. 
 
 The loss of rank is a misfortune : and Elizabeth 
 
DISPLAY. 93 
 
 felt its utmost poignancy. She had ahvays indulged 
 that senseless contempt for trade, and trades-people, 
 which is prevalent among the vulgar of her class ; and 
 she had not had opportunities of knowing that many 
 of the truly noble, the excellent of the earth — that 
 many persons of superior understandings, even of real 
 taste, and respectable information — are to be found 
 standing behind a country counter. 
 
 Having, however, no means of redress, Elizabeth 
 suffered the necessary arrangements for their departure 
 to take place undisturbed. During the few^ weeks 
 they still remained at Chester, she never allowed 
 herself to take any distinct view of the future, — only 
 indulging a kind of vague hope, that anything so in- 
 supportable as the condition w^hich threatened her, she 
 should never be actually permitted to endure. And 
 since nothing was now to be hoped from friends, 
 relations, or acquaintance, she began to think that 
 chance, or fate, or Providence, or something, would 
 certainly interfere to prevent it. 
 
 CHAPTER Xni. 
 
 Notwithstanding these hopes, the day actually 
 arrived on which EHzabeth and her husband took 
 leave of Chester, and set off for their new home. 
 
 For, in this interval, no distant relation had died 
 and left them a fortune ; not a single individual in all 
 the city of Chester had offered to lend them a thousand 
 pounds ; no banker, brewer, nor merchant, wanted a 
 partner ; no fashionable dowager a companion. In 
 short, neither luck nor accident prevented their driving 
 safely into the village of Hilsbury on the very day they 
 were expected. 
 
94 DISPLAY, 
 
 ROBINSON, in gold letters, over the door of a 
 smart country shop, pointed out to Elizabeth her 
 future residence. 
 
 "Is there no private door?*' said she to her new 
 uncle, as he handed her from the chaise. 
 
 "We have no other door; please to follow me, 
 ma'am, and I '11 show you the way," said he, conducting 
 her through the shop, into a light, pleasant parlor. It 
 was in reality far pleasanter than the dark and shabby 
 apartment which Elizabeth used to call her drawing- 
 room, in their lodgings at Chester. 
 
 "Welcome to Hilsbury, ma'am!" said the uncle, 
 courteously. 
 
 Elizabeth bowed; and returned laconic answers to 
 his repeated good-natured attempts to draw her into 
 conversation. 
 
 But Mr. Robinson, who felt more at ease, and more 
 in his element than he had done for two years past, 
 was in high good-humor, and very talkative. 
 
 " Bless my heart, uncle, what a nice snug little place 
 you 've got for us here ! " said he, rubbing his hands, 
 and looking round the room. 
 
 There were some neat flower-stands, set out with 
 autumn flowers ; and a very pretty painted work-table ; 
 and various little decorations; at which, however, 
 Elizabeth was rather surprised than pleased, when she 
 observed them. 
 
 Every part of the house wore the same appearance 
 of neatness and comfort ; and seemed adjusted by a 
 correct taste, careful to prevent an awkward contrast 
 between the shop and the dwelling. It was something 
 more than neat, and yet less than elegant. 
 
 Elizabeth, as she was conducted over it, could not 
 help wondering that the old man should have so good 
 a notion of doing things. For he had been strictly 
 forbidden to inform her to whose taste and activity 
 the credit really belonged. She was indebted to Mr. 
 
DISPLA V. 95 
 
 Sandford for the desire of having everything comfort- 
 able for her reception, and for the wiUingness to pay for 
 it, — but it was her friend Emily who had done the rest. 
 
 Emily, having heard Mr. Sandford expressing a wish 
 that things might be made as agreeable as possible to 
 the young lady, and lamenting his own ignorance of 
 these affairs, earnestly requested permission to attend 
 him to Hilsbury, to assist in making the requisite 
 preparations : which was agreed to, upon Miss Wes- 
 ton's offering to accompany her. And during the 
 time that Elizabeth was waiting at Chester, thinking 
 herself abandoned by all the world, her two friends 
 were busily employed in planning and executing those 
 little contrivances to make her comfortable which 
 would not occur to the genius of an upholsterer. 
 
 It was not till the morning of the very day on which 
 Elizabeth was expected, that all was in complete read- 
 iness. Mr. Leddenhurst's carriage stood at the door 
 to take them home. Miss Weston was quite ready to 
 go ; but Emily still lingered, to see if everything was 
 in exact order. She replaced the flowers ; then re- 
 turned to adjust the folds of the window curtains ; 
 and stood at the parlor door, to see how it would 
 strike Elizabeth when she first entered. She next 
 returned to that which was intended to be EHzabeth's 
 room, — which was fortunate ; for the wind had blown 
 up one corner of the white napkin on the dressing- 
 table. Emily laid it smooth, set the looking-glass in 
 precisely the proper angle, once more patted the 
 volumes on the book-shelves quite even, and after a 
 moment's thought took down the handsome new Bible 
 which had been provided, and laid it on the dressing- 
 table. She then went down stairs, and having repeated 
 sundry injunctions to Mr. Sandford, sprang nimbly into 
 the carriage and drove off. 
 
 When Elizabeth arose the next morning, refreshed 
 from the fatigue of her journey, and opened her 
 
96 DISPLA V. 
 
 pleasant window, which looked across the village street 
 - upon a fine hilly country, her spirits experienced a 
 momentary revival - a transient glow of comfort, such 
 as will occasionally beam out upon the deepest gloom. 
 But it was transient. The sight of Mr. Edwards, the 
 shopman, in the street below, taking down the shutters, 
 recalled her to a sense of her unhappiness. ' 
 
 Comfort sounds a dull word to those who are accus- 
 tomed to live upon enjoyment : to Elizabeth it had few 
 charms. In surveying her new situation, she was rather 
 provoked than pleased, to find there was anything to 
 render her discontent less, reasonable. She had neither 
 philosophy enough to ^e pleased, nor good-nature 
 enough to appear so. Indeed it is notliing less than 
 Christian humility, that can make persons willing to be 
 happy in any way that is not of their own choosing. 
 
 Old Mr. Sandford's was the only pleasant face that 
 was brought down to breakfast this morning ; for poor 
 Frederick Robinson found that the two idle years he 
 had spent in his Majesty's service had not had the 
 smallest tendency to lessen his dislike to useful em- 
 ployment. He sighed heavily, when, as soon as 
 breakfast was over, his uncle with the promptness of 
 an industrious man, hurried him away to the counting- 
 house ; while Elizabeth, who scrupulously avoided 
 engaging in anything that would seem like acquiescing 
 in her fate, shut herself up in her room, and employed 
 herself in unpacking her portmanteaus. When she had 
 done so, in spite of her reluctance, she found it most 
 expedient to put away the things in her new drawers. 
 With a heavy heart she put by the gay dresses and 
 ornaments, which were now useless to her ; but it was 
 with a deeper pang that she laid aside her husband's 
 discarded uniform. She gazed at' the faded scarlet, 
 and tarnished gold ; and felt, that that was all she had 
 ever admired in Lieutenant Robinson. 
 
 The reserve and coldness with whiich Elizabeth 
 
DISPLAY, 97 
 
 conducted herself towards Mr. Sandford could not 
 overcome his good-nature. He was particularly fond 
 of young people, and longed to express the kindness 
 of a relation ; but he was careful not to offend her by 
 unwelcome familiarity. He saw that she was placed 
 in a new and mortifying situation ; and while he re- 
 garded her with true pity and benevolence, he treated 
 her with such respectful tenderness as would have 
 dispelled the gloom from many a brow. 
 
 Emily loved the old man ; and he, while witnessing 
 her cheerful, disinterested zeal in the ser\dce of her 
 friend, and while receiving from her himself those 
 respectful attentions which she involuntarily paid to 
 age and worth in every station, often wished that his 
 nephew might have made as good a choice. 
 
 Mr. Sandford had been so long absent from his own 
 concerns, that he could only remain a few days longer, 
 to introduce his nephew to the business. During this 
 period he observed with some uneasiness the unpromis- 
 ing disposition they both discovered towards their new 
 duties. Elizabeth sat in state all day at her work-table, 
 leaving her domestic affairs to fate and a servant ; 
 while Mr. Robinson wished excessively to be allowed 
 to lounge about in the same gentlemanlike idleness he 
 had been lately used to. As to the business, his uncle 
 and Edwards, he thought, were quite sufficient at pres- 
 ent; but as soon as his uncle was gone, he declared 
 that he intended to give his mind to it — "upon his 
 word and honor he would.'* 
 
 Accustomed to revel at his ease at the luxurious 
 mess, he felt it a particular hardship to have to rise in 
 the midst of dinner to attend a customer. 
 
 "Frederick — the bell, Frederick!" his uncle used 
 to say ; but he would be so long preparing to go, that 
 his good-natured uncle usually went himself, — Freder- 
 ick contenting himself with pretending to rise, and say- 
 ing, " Don't you go, sir 1 " 
 
 7 
 
gS DISPLAY. 
 
 It was not, therefore, without anxiety that Mr. Sand- 
 ford took leave of his niece and nephew. Just before 
 he set off, he called the latter aside, and gave him 
 some good advice, particularly on the subjects of indus- 
 try and frugality. 
 
 " You know, Frederick," said he, " how handsomely 
 Mr. Leddenhurst has come forward ; and as for me, I 
 have done more than I ought, in justice to your poor 
 sister and your cousins. So that if you get into fresh 
 difficulties, you must look to others to help you out, for 
 I have done my utmost. And, Frederick," added he, 
 in a milder tone, '^ while we are speaking, let me beg of 
 you to treat poor Mrs. Robinson with as much respect 
 and delicacy as possible. You should consider that 
 you have brought her into a very different situation to 
 what she was brought up to, and it 's natural she should 
 feel it — quite natural. You should consider, too, 
 what a delicate young creature she is, and give her 
 every indulgence that 's prudent ; and make allow- 
 ances. A httle tenderness and consideration may do 
 a great deal in reconciling her to her circumstances." 
 
 To all this, and more, Mr. Robinson continued 
 saying, ^^ Certainly, sir; certainly, sir." As soon as 
 his uncle was gone, for which all the time he had been 
 rather impatient, he ran up stairs to unpack a new 
 vioKn which he had brought from Chester, but which 
 he had not thought fit to produce during his uncle's 
 stay. He always believed that he had a fine ear for 
 music ; and to scrape on this instrument, was one of 
 the accomplishments he had acquired during his life 
 of leisure. 
 
 The village of Hilsbury was remarkably secluded in 
 its situation and appearance. It consisted of a single 
 street, hidden amid the solitude of fine, but barren 
 hills ; and, with the exception of Mr. Robinson's house, 
 was formed entirely of stone cottages. The business 
 depended upon the custom of the neighboring farms, 
 
DISPLA V. 99 
 
 and of the poor inhabitants of many little hamlets that 
 were scattered among the hills. 
 
 In this sohtude EHzabeth's days passed with dreary 
 sameness. She used to sit by her fireside during the 
 dark afternoons of this November, and, watching the 
 sparks from the blacksmith's shed that was directly 
 opposite the house, muse upon scenes of past happi- 
 ness. This was her only solace ; except, indeed, that 
 she experienced a secret satisfaction from the contrast 
 between herself and her condition. When she sur- 
 veyed her delicate form, her white hands, her beautiful 
 hair, her dress, though unornamented, still elegant, she 
 felt that she was still a heroine in distress. But it was 
 a satisfaction too shght to be a real alleviation ; be- 
 cause there were so few to witness it, and those few so 
 insignificant. And she now discovered — what it re- 
 quired some experience to believe — that it is a far 
 pleasanter thing to be a heroine nof in distress. 
 
 Elizabeth had been some time in her new abode, 
 before she had once made her appearance in the shop. 
 The first time she did so, it was to procure some 
 articles she wanted herself. ''Pray do you sell silk 
 fringe?" she said, in the same tone and manner with 
 which she had been accustomed to make her pur- 
 chases. 
 
 While she was examining the box of fringes, and 
 turning over card after card with her delicate fingers, 
 some ladies from a seat at some miles' distance hap- 
 pened to stop at the door in a barouche. Elizabeth 
 took no notice of them as they entered, but continued 
 looking over the fringes, and withdrew as soon as she 
 had found some that suited her. But just as she was 
 quitting the shop, she had the satisfaction of hearing 
 one of them say to Edwards, in a tone of surprise, '' Is 
 t/iaf Mrs. Robinson?" Elizabeth was seen reading, 
 very intently, at the parlor window, when the barouche 
 drove past. 
 
lOO DISPLAY. 
 
 There was a green in the outskirts of the village, 
 where the neighboring young farmers used to assemble 
 to play at cricket. Mr. Robinson was fond of this 
 diversion ; and he soon became one of the most con- 
 stant attendants there. 
 
 One day, just as he had snapped to his fiddle-case, 
 and was reaching down his hat to go to this green, Mr. 
 Edwards walked into the counting-house. 
 
 " I just wish to say, Mr. Robinson," said he, "that 
 I shall be obliged to you to look out for some other 
 person to do your business, sir. It 's what I never 
 was used to, and what I can't undertake, to have 
 everything laying upon one pair of hands ; and unless 
 you think proper to give me some assistance, Mr. 
 Robinson, the sooner you suit yourself the better, 
 sir." 
 
 Much as Mr. Robinson was disturbed at this speech 
 he could not give up going to the cricket-ground ; but 
 he told Mr. Edwards he would take it into considera- 
 tion, and assured him he should have some help before 
 long. He felt, however, very much perplexed and 
 discomfited on this occasion. There were few afflic- 
 tions he dreaded so much as that of being obliged to 
 exert himself. 
 
 As he walked down the street, wishing Edwards 
 would not be so unaccountably lazy, and wondering 
 what he should do, some fine nuts caught his eye, that 
 were exposed for sale in a cottage window ; he bought 
 some — and was comforted. He was very fond of 
 good things in general, and of these in particular; 
 and while he sat on a seat upon the cricket-ground, 
 cracking his nuts, he forgot his troubles ; at least, they 
 did not oppress him. There were few of the evils of 
 life for which an apple, a nut, and especially a good 
 dinner, would not afford him temporary relief. And 
 if this real interest in the sweet and the savory were 
 peculiar to persons of no higher intellectual pretensions 
 
DISPLAY. lOl 
 
 than Mr. Frederick Robinson, it would not be at all 
 unaccountable. 
 
 But when both the feast and the sport were over, 
 and he was returning late in the afternoon through the 
 village street, the lights in his shop window brought 
 it again to his remembrance. At supper time he 
 appeared full of thought. Elizabeth did not take sup- 
 pers ; she was reading the newspaper, at the further 
 end of the room. 
 
 " I say, Elizabeth ! " said he, all on a sudden, as soon 
 as he had finished supper. 
 
 Elizabeth looked up from the newspaper. 
 
 '' There 's one thing that I have been going to speak 
 of ever since we have been here ; and it 's what I hope 
 you '11 not make any piece of work nor opposition 
 about, because it's absolutely, indispensably neces- 
 sary. " 
 
 " What is that, pray? " said Elizabeth. 
 
 " I must say, then, " continued he, " that this is the 
 first business I ever was in, in my life, where the mistress 
 — where the lady — did not use to go in sometimes 
 when she was wanted. " 
 
 " What do you mean, Mr. Robinson?" said Eliza- 
 beth. 
 
 " I mean what I say, " replied he, " I mean that it 
 is a sin and a shame to see a woman sitting all day long 
 in her parlor, doing of work and nonsense, when there 's 
 a shop full of customers that want to be waited on. 
 Why, there was Mrs. Jones, and Mrs. Johnson, and — '* 
 
 " Gracious goodness ! " exclaimed Elizabeth, ^' this 
 exceeds all — everything ! I really did not imagine — I 
 confess I had not the smallest idea that any one — that 
 you, even you, Mr. Robinson, would ever have thought 
 of proposing such a thing ! " 
 
 '* Bless my heart, Betsy ! what a riot for nothing ! I 
 say, then, whatever you may think of it, something 
 must be done. There 's Edwards this very day been 
 
102 DISPLAY, 
 
 giving of me warning, because he has so much upon 
 his hands, and nobody to help him. As for me, you 
 know very well that I am confined from morning to 
 night to the counting-house, and can't stir ; and I see 
 plainly the business is going to ruin. And my uncle 
 will lay all the blame upon me ; and all because of 
 your pride and nonsense." 
 
 " If there is so much business that one servant is not 
 sufficient, pray why cannot you keep another?" said 
 Elizabeth. " Oh ! " added she, falling into a violent fit 
 of weeping, ^' when I left my dear, dear father's house, 
 how little I thought of all I was to suffer ! " 
 
 Her husband was always frightened when she went 
 into hysterics, and he thought she was going^ into hyster- 
 ics now ; besides, he was really good-natured. So he 
 said, '' Well, well, child, I tell you what — I '11 see if I 
 can't get another man, or boy, or lad, or something. 
 So don't go and flurry yourself into those foolish fits 
 now, for mercy's sake ! " 
 
 Mr. Robinson, however, dared not venture to take 
 this step, without writing to consult his uncle. And 
 Mr. Sandford, in reply, strongly dissuaded him from 
 any such expensive proceeding ; but he added, that 
 in order to afford him some present relief, until he 
 became more accustomed to business, his sister Re- 
 becca -had offered, if he wished it, to come and stay a 
 month or two at Hilsbury, and render them all the 
 assistance in her power. " We can ill spare her," said 
 the good uncle, " but I am willing to do everything in 
 my power to encourage you : and in the meantime, as 
 it must be a few weeks before slje can be with you, I 
 shall expect, Frederick, that you make every possible 
 exertion yourself, with regard to business." 
 
 This offer Mr. Robinson very joyfully accepted ; and 
 Mr. Edwards was prevailed upon to stay, upon the 
 promise of an accomplished assistant in "my sister 
 Becky." 
 
DISPLAY. 103 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 But by this time Elizabeth's cheek had grown pale. 
 She was unhappy without eclat : there was none to 
 admire, none even to pity, none to wonder at her 
 hard lot ; and she was deprived of all that had the 
 power to gratify or to excite her. Irritated, impatient, 
 and comfortless — a stranger to the balm of resignation 
 — she sunk into despondency ; and the effect was soon 
 visible in her altered appearance. 
 
 After several days of feverish indisposition, she be- 
 came so ill as to be confined to her room. And there 
 she found herself alone indeed. Her husband was 
 very sony to see her so ill ; but nursing, he thought, 
 was women's business. He left that to the maid : 
 and she was an unfeeling, selfish woman, who brought 
 up her mistress's ill-made messes with gloomy looks, 
 and frequent murmurings. 
 
 It was towards the close of the third day Elizabeth 
 had passed on her bed, that as she was lying feverish 
 and comfortless — watching, in the dusk, the light of 
 the blacksmith's shop flashing on the ceiling — she 
 heard the door open gently ; so gently, that she was 
 sure it could not be her maid. And in an instant she 
 saw Emily at her bedside, her countenance glowing 
 with health and cheerfulness ; and she said, 
 
 '* Dear Elizabeth, I heard you were ill, and I am 
 come to nurse you." 
 
 Elizabeth started up without speaking a word ; and 
 throwing her hot arms around Emily's neck, continued 
 to weep a long time, with a plaintive, piteous weak cry, 
 upon her bosom. 
 
 '' Dear, dear Elizabeth 1 " said Emily. 
 
 It was so long since she had heard the accents of 
 kindness, that the soothing tones of Emily's voice 
 quite overwhelmed her. 
 
I04 D IS PL A Y. 
 
 " I did not think there was any one in the world that 
 cared for me now," she said, at length. 
 
 '' Oh, you have never been forgotten by yonr friends,''^ 
 said Emily. " I should have come to see you long 
 before this, if I had been sure you would have liked it. 
 But we will not talk much to-night, dear Elizabeth ; let 
 me try now to make you a httle comfortable," said she ; 
 and taking off her hat and peHsse, she proceeded quietly 
 to smooth the tumbled pillow, and restore the littered 
 room to neatness and comfort. 
 
 She next went, to prepare a cooling beverage for the 
 night, into the disorderly kitchen ; where the maid and 
 the shopman were carousing over a blazing fire. 
 
 EHzabeth took readily, and with confidence, what 
 Emily had made for her ; said it was *^ very pleasant ; " 
 and soon after she sunk into a quiet sleep. 
 
 Emily sat up with her friend that night j and when 
 she had done all that was requisite for her, she went to 
 the book-shelves for something to read. She first took 
 down Elizabeth's morocco Bible ; and she sighed to 
 see that it had the appearance of an unused book. 
 
 - Emily, since they last parted, was improved in her 
 appearance, but still more in her mind : it was now 
 under the settled, habitual influence of religion. 
 
 Her faults, though not extirpated, were subdued ; 
 and her once uncertain virtues shone out with the 
 steady light of Christian graces. Her good-nature was 
 now charity : her sensibiHty, benevolence ; her modesty, 
 humility ; her sprightliness, cheerfulness. 
 
 She found that in many of her intellectual indul- 
 gences there was much selfishness, and Httle use ; and 
 her frequent abstractions from the common affairs of 
 life had in great measure given place to a cheerful per- 
 formance of its quiet duties, and a ready attention to 
 the wants and interests of others. She had lost much 
 of her romance, but her taste was rectified : she had 
 fewer ecstasies, but more happiness. 
 
DISPLAY. 105 
 
 For several days after Emily's arrival, Elizabeth con- 
 tinued so ill that little conversation passed between 
 them but what related to her present wants and suffer- 
 ings. When she began to amend, the effects of her 
 disorder, and the returning remembrance of her misfor- 
 tunes, produced a state of irritable fretfulness, which 
 Emily's invariable tenderness was unable to soothe ; 
 and she repelled with peevishness, and almost \vith 
 asperity, every effort to enhven her, or to engage her 
 in conversation. 
 
 Emily's eyes filled with tears, whenever she contem- 
 plated the alteration that illness and unhappiness had 
 made in her late blooming and brilliant countenance ; 
 and she fervently wished and prayed, that her friend 
 might be led to seek for that consolation, of which she 
 still appeared to be wholly destitute. 
 
 Having once the Bible open in her hand, Emily 
 ventured to say, " Would you like me to read aloud 
 a little while? " But Elizabeth looked at her reproach- 
 fully, and said, " No, no, I cannot bear it ; pray do 
 not disturb me ! " Emily shut the book, and gazed at 
 her with heartfelt pity. 
 
 One morning, as soon as she arose, Elizabeth's spirits 
 revived on finding herself decidedly better ; for in spite 
 of other trials, the first feelings of returning health w^ill 
 be feelings of happiness. 
 
 When Emily came in, she found her for the first 
 time disposed to enter into conversation, and to tell 
 her of her troubles : for when people begin suddenly 
 to talk of their misfortunes, it is generally in consequence 
 of some temporary alleviation of their pressure. 
 
 " Oh, Emily ! " said she, '^ I have been too ill to talk 
 to you ; but you do not know how unhappy I am. 
 You see, indeed, what a situation I am in. What a 
 situation ! Oh ! my happiness is sacrificed — sacri- 
 ficed for ever ! " 
 
 " Indeed I feel for you deeply, dear Elizabeth,'' said 
 
io6 DISPLAY. 
 
 Emily, after hearing her expatiate upon her grievances. 
 '^ How glad I should be if I could comfort you ! " 
 
 " There is no comfort for me, Emily. Can there be 
 anything in my circumstances that could possibly afford 
 me the smallest degree of pleasure ? " 
 
 '^Ykot pleasure y perhaps," replied Emily; /'but is it 
 not possible to be happy — to be contented, at least — 
 without pleasure ? " 
 
 " Oh, do not take up my words," said Elizabeth ; 
 " I really don't understand those nice distinctions. If 
 you will not allow that I have cause to be miserable, it 
 is because you never knew what it is to be unfortu- 
 nate." 
 
 " I know you have much need of patience and of 
 resignation," said Emily;, "but, Elizabeth, I have my- 
 self seen instances of people being really happy, who 
 have had, perhaps, as much as you have to endure." 
 
 " Yes, I know very well what you mean ; but as to 
 rehgion, it would never, I am confident, make any 
 particular difference to me, if I were to give myself 
 ever so much concern about it. Now 5^ou are exactly 
 the kind of person to be very religious ; and I am noft 
 at all surprised that you view it in that particular kind 
 of way that some people do." 
 
 " Indeed you are mistaken," replied Emily ; " so 
 far from being naturally disposed to it, it is impossible 
 you should feel more averse to rehgion — real religion 
 — than I did, or more difficulty in it; and I should 
 always have remained as ignorant and as indifferent as 
 I used to be, if God had not made me willing, and 
 given me the desire to seek Him. And He will give 
 it you if you ask for it : and then — oh, do beheve it, 
 Elizabeth ! — then you would be happy ; happier a 
 thousand times here, in this humble solitude, than all 
 the splendors of the world could make you." 
 
 " But even if I were ever so — so devotional, and all 
 that," said Elizabeth, " I am persuaded it would only 
 
DISPLAY, 107 
 
 continue so long as I am deprived of other things. I 
 am certain I should never care particularly about 
 religion, if I had anything else to take pleasure in." 
 
 '' Yes, if you had once felt the happiness of loving 
 and serving God, you would prefer it to all other pleas- 
 ures," said Emily. 
 
 " It may make some people happy, and it does you, 
 I dare say," rephed EKzabeth ; " Sut as for me, I 
 really do not believe it ever would. Indeed I feel a 
 dislike to the thought of the thing ; and to confess the 
 truth, I always did, even at the time that I was hearing 
 and seeing so much of it." 
 
 " And so did I — and so does every one," replied 
 Emily, '' until a new heart and a right spirit is given ; 
 and this is what we must pray for. But oh 1 do not 
 let us talk of religion as a thing we may choose or 
 refuse like an accomplishment, according to our 
 particular taste. We must be religious, — we must 
 come to Jesus Christ for salvation, and love God and 
 His service, and learn not to love the world, — or we 
 must perish. And what should prevent you ? God is 
 not willing that any should perish." 
 
 "I do assure you," said Elizabeth, after a short 
 pause, " that sometimes since I have been in this 
 miserable place, I have wished I were rehgious ; but I 
 know that it is quite impossible I ever should be." 
 
 "" Impossible ! oh, no ; it is impossible that such 
 faint wishes should make you so ; but with God every- 
 thing is possible ; and if you sincerely desire, and 
 earnestly ask His help, you will receive it." 
 
 ''You do not know my heart," said Elizabeth; "it 
 is very different from yours." 
 
 *' If God had not promised to change the heart, I 
 must have despaired as well as you ; but He will." 
 
 " What, my heart? " said EUzabeth. 
 
 During the latter part of this conversation, there was 
 an appearance of sincerity and solicitude in Elizabeth 
 
io8 DISPLAY. 
 
 that Emily had never observed in her on any former 
 occasion. She did not, however, continue it much 
 longer at that time, lest she should be wearied; but 
 she was overjoyed to find that for the two or three fol- 
 lowing days Elizabeth appeared wilhng, and almost 
 anxious, to renew it. 
 
 During this visit, Emily had many opportunities of 
 observing the neglected and declining state of the busi- 
 ness. She had even heard Mr. Robinson making some 
 lazy complaints of the discouraging state of his affairs. 
 In writing to her father she had mentioned this, and 
 expressed an earnest wish that some situation could 
 be devised for them that would be less irksome to 
 Ehzabeth, and more likely to secure their permanent 
 comfort. Very soon after, she had the satisfaction of 
 receiving a letter from Mr. Grey, offering — provided 
 it met with Mr. Robinson's approbation — to use his 
 interest in endeavoring to procure for him the situation, 
 then vacant, of superior clerk in a concern with which 
 he was remotely connected. The salary, he said, was 
 handsome, and the place considered respectable. An 
 immediate answer was required, and Emily lost no 
 time in submitting it to Mr. Robinson's consideration. 
 
 Most people, and especially idle people, expect to 
 be better by a change of circumstances, and he ac- 
 cepted the offer without hesitation. 
 
 Emily found Elizabeth employed in reading the 
 Bible, when she entered her room to communicate the 
 contents of this letter. 
 
 " I am sorry to interrupt you," said she, " but here 
 is something" — offering her the letter — ^^ that per- 
 haps will give you a little pleasure." 
 
 '^ My dear girl ! " cried Elizabeth, when she had 
 hastily read it, " how shall I ever repay you and your 
 dear, good father for this kindness ? Why this is the 
 very thing for Robinson. Let me see — what does it 
 say ? ' the place considered respectable ; ' that means 
 
DISPLAY. 109 
 
 genteel of course. Oh, Emily/' said she, shutting the 
 Bible, and rising briskly from her chair, ''I feel quite 
 well and happy ! " 
 
 " But recollect, it is still very uncertain," said Emily. 
 
 " Not very uncertain, my dear, surely ; your father 
 here speaks confidently, almost, does not he ? — ' think 
 'it not unhkely my application may be successful.' " 
 
 '* Not unhkely, but he is not at all sure, you see," 
 said Emily. ^'I am almost sorry I told you now," 
 added she, as she looked at Elizabeth's animated and 
 eager countenance, in which the world had already 
 regained its recently banished expression. 
 
 " Dear, it would have been cruel not to have told 
 me," said Elizabeth. 
 
 " But if you should be disappointed," resumed 
 Emily, " you would fiow, I hope, know how to submit, 
 and where to seek consolation." 
 
 " Yes, indeed, I hope I should," rephed Ehzabeth. 
 
 "It is the only satisfaction," continued Emily, '^to 
 commit such concerns cheerfully to Providence, know- 
 ing they will be overruled for our real good ; it must, 
 I should think, prevent all distressing anxiety." 
 
 ^^Very true," answered Elizabeth. "Emily," said 
 she, after a short silence, " I wonder what your father 
 means by ' a handsome salary ' — have you any idea, 
 my dear, what it would be ? " 
 
 "No, indeed, I never heard," said Emily, sighing : 
 and she almost regretted that the appHcation had been 
 made. 
 
 Nothing was now talked of but the expected ap- 
 pointment ; and Emily found, with deep concern, that 
 it was in vain to attempt engaging Elizabeth in the 
 conversations which had lately seemed to interest and 
 affect her. She either answered with indifference, or, 
 — what was still more painful to Emily, and discour- 
 aged her most from attempting it, — she adopted her 
 old artificial manner, in talking about religion. 
 
no DISPLAY. 
 
 After only a week's suspense, a letter arrived from 
 Mr. Grey, to inform them that his application in behalf 
 of Mr. Robinson had been unsuccessful. 
 
 Elizabeth was busy at her drawers examining some 
 dresses, which till now had not seen the hght since she 
 came to Hilsbury, when Emily, with a heavy heart, 
 entered with her father's letter. She put it into her 
 hand, and withdrew in silence. 
 
 Mr. Robinson's disappointment was more vociferous, 
 but less acute, than Elizabeth's. In her mind a rehsh 
 for the world had been aroused too actively to subside 
 again with the hopes that excited it. She was first 
 stunned, then irritated, by the intelligence. She re- 
 ferred again and again to the unwelcome letter ; but 
 still the decisive words " unsuccessful application," left 
 her nothing to hope. 
 
 She had not learned to acquiesce in adversity, and 
 at first refused to believe that she must actually submit 
 to it. If this plan had failed, somethi7tg, she thought, 
 might be done ; and her mind ranged with impatient 
 ingenuity from scheme to scheme, as each appeared 
 more impracticable than the former, — till at last she 
 was compelled to believe, that there was nothing before 
 her but submitting to present circumstances. When 
 after a long train of thought she arrived at this conclu- 
 sion, she again burst into a passionate fit of impatient 
 sorrow. 
 
 When Emily joined her, she did not attempt to offer 
 ill-timed reflections ; they passed the greatest part of 
 the day in silence ; and it was not till Elizabeth had 
 recovered from the surprise of disappointment, that she 
 began to recollect there was still one way of being happy 
 that was not unattainable. How many are driven to 
 religion as a last refuge, who would never have chosen 
 it as the first good ! 
 
 As they were sitting together in the evening, Eliza- 
 beth broke a long silence by saying, in a voice between 
 penitence and peevishness, 
 
DISPLA V. Ill 
 
 *^ Is not this exactly what I told you — that I should 
 never care about religion if I had. anything besides to 
 take an interest in ? I have scarcely given it a thought 
 the last week, Emily, and now what is there but that to 
 comfort me? " 
 
 '^ Oh, Ehzabeth ! then is not this a happy disappoint- 
 ment? Be thankful that you were not abandojied to 
 prosperity." 
 
 ''But now,'' said Elizabeth, "now that I have been 
 again as unconcerned, and indifferent, and ungrateful 
 as ever — how can I hope to be forgiven? " 
 
 " God's ways are not like ours," answered Emily ; 
 '' His invitations are made to the unconcerned and the 
 ungrateful. But when we have refused to surrender 
 our hearts to Him till they have made trial of every 
 other object, it should make us more humble and more 
 thankful, that He will at last accept such a worthless, 
 ungenerous gift." 
 
 The tears were starting in Elizabeth's eyes w^iile 
 Emily was speaking ; and when a little more had passed, 
 she thought it best to leave her alone, and silently with- 
 drew. 
 
 Elizabeth had sometimes said her prayers, but she 
 had never p?'ayed ; and she now for the first time felt 
 a real desire to do so. As soon as Emily was gone, 
 she sunk down by the bedside ; she wept, but was un- 
 able to utter a word, — overwhelmed with the strange, 
 glowing feeling of sincerity, and with the new and 
 mighty effort to express a deep, inward sentiment, to 
 a Being invisible and hitherto wholly unknown. They 
 who do not know that prayer is an effort requiring all 
 the energies of body and mind, may question whether 
 they ever have prayed. 
 
 After a while, she knew not how long, Elizabeth rose 
 up from her knees, exhausted, but yet relieved. 
 
 When Emily returned to her, she was struck with an 
 expression of meekness and reality in her countenance, 
 that was not natural to it. 
 
112 DISPLAY. 
 
 '^ Emily," said she, in a faltering voice, " I have been 
 attempting to — pray ! but I cannot.'' 
 
 ^'Then I believe you have prayed, dear Elizabeth," 
 said Emily. ' " It is only in real prayer that there is 
 any difficulty. It was easy to say our prayers, as we 
 used to do ; but now you feel the difference between 
 that formal service and calling upon God in spirit and 
 in truth." 
 
 To EHzabeth, however, although a desire and a hope 
 had suddenly sprung up in her mind, that gave her a 
 new and strange sense of satisfaction, the difficulties in 
 her way appeared at first insurmountable. Nor was it 
 surprising that to a person of her character, religion, as 
 it now appeared to her — an inward, heartfelt, all- 
 pervading principle — should seem an almost unattain- 
 able good. 
 
 A single glance at its reality convinced her, that 
 those things must be sacrificed to it from which she 
 had ever derived her choicest gratifications. It was 
 not so much that any particular pursuits were to be 
 relinquished, — this had been the least and lightest 
 sacrifice, — but the inmost recesses of her heart must 
 yield up their long secreted idolatries. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. • 
 
 If EHzabeth's religion had expended itself in words 
 and emotions, it would have been, as before, of a very 
 doubtful character. But she soon gave the best evi- 
 dence of its reality, by her anxiety to bring her daily 
 conduct under its universal influence. She had, how- 
 ever, at present much to subdue, and much to learn. 
 She and Emily had many conversations on the subject 
 of her future conduct. 
 
DISPLAY, 113 
 
 " I believe/' said Elizabeth, as they were talking of 
 these things one evening, " that I could be happy now 
 in a cottage, almost in any situation, especially with a 
 companion I could love ; but the business — the trade 
 — I cannot tell you, Emily, how unpleasant it is to 
 me ; only I hope I am now willing — more willing at 
 least, to submit to what is unpleasant." 
 
 " But in time," said Emily, '' may not you become 
 almost reconciled even to this ? — especially if you 
 could so far overcome your reluctance as to take an 
 interest in it yourself; and you are so clever, and have 
 so much taste, that — " 
 
 " Dear, do you think so? " interrupted Elizabeth. 
 
 " That I am sure," continued Emily, " Mr. Robinson 
 would soon find an alteration in his affairs, if you were 
 once to attend to them." 
 
 " But then there 's Robinson ! Emily, you know I 
 can?iot love him." 
 
 " Cannot you? " said Emily. '^ But yet," added she, 
 after a long pause, '^ I have thought sometimes, you 
 might treat him with a little more respect and — kind- 
 ness ; and then perhaps — " 
 
 " I know it — yes, I know I ought ; and I will en- 
 deavor," said she. And here the conversation ended; 
 for the time was come which EHzabeth now regularly 
 devoted to her evening retirement. 
 
 She had learned the pleasure and privilege of daily 
 " entering into her chamber, and shutting to the door ; " 
 and it was there she could best fortify herself for any 
 self-denying resolution. But in doing so, she was a 
 wonder to herself. That she should find happiness in 
 'such engagements, — that an hour spent in meditation 
 and prayer should to her be the happiest of the day, — 
 
 " Strange were those tones, to her those tears were strange, 
 She wept, and wondered at the mighty change." 
 
 That night Mr. Robinson came in to supper with a 
 8 
 
114 DISPLAY. 
 
 gloomy countenance. Everything was going wrong. 
 Business dull, money scarce, Edwards saucy ; but what 
 really oppressed him most of all was the weight of his 
 own indolence. 
 
 When Elizabeth came down from her room, she had 
 evidently been in tears, but she did not look gloomy, 
 and going towards her husband, she said. - 
 
 " Are you tired to-night? " 
 
 '^ Rather, my dear — not very, though, thank you," 
 said he, unfolding his arms, and brightening up at the 
 unexpected attention. 
 
 While they were at supper, after two or three unsuc- 
 cessful efforts to speak, Elizabeth at length said, 
 
 ''Mr. Robinson, you spoke to me some time ago 
 about assisting you in the shop. I refused then, but 
 now I have determined to do it ; and I intend to 
 begin as soon " — and her voice faltered — ''as soon 
 as I am well enough to stand in the cold.'' 
 
 "Dear me! will you?" said her husband in un- 
 feigned astonishment. 
 
 But Elizabeth, overcome by the effort she had made, 
 burst into tears, and could not reply. 
 
 " But I would not have you to do it upon any ac- 
 count, if it frets you thus," added he. 
 
 " Oh, she is not fretting, " said Emily, " she likes it ; 
 only " — and here she stopped, at a loss how to make 
 Mr. Robinson comprehend why anybody should cry at 
 what they like. 
 
 " I shall be of very httle service at first," resumed 
 Elizabeth, in a firmer voice ; " but I hope I shall learn 
 in time ; and as your sister is coming, and you find 
 Edwards so inattentive and troublesome, I think it 
 would be best to part with him, and we will endeavor 
 to manage the business among ourselves." 
 
 " Well, I assure you I shall be glad enough to get rid 
 of that idle dog, — that is, if you really intend it, my 
 dear," said he. 
 
DISPLAY. IIS 
 
 " Yes, I really intend it/' said Elizabeth. 
 
 And she retired to rest this night, with a calm sense 
 of self-approval that she had seldom known. It was 
 the genuine pleasure with which most instances of self- 
 denial are rewarded — the pure satisfaction of sacriiic- 
 ing incHnation to principle. 
 
 The next day, while they were at dinner, the stage 
 coach, which once a week passed through the village, 
 drove by their window ; and Mr. Robinson started up, 
 exclaiming, 
 
 " There 's my sister Becky ! " — and immediately 
 set off to receive her. 
 
 " I wonder what sort of a being she is," said Eliza- 
 beth. 
 
 ^^ We shall soon see," said Emily. 
 
 In a few minutes Mr. Robinson returned, laden with 
 packages ; and introduced his sister to the ladies. 
 
 Elizabeth held out her hand to one of far less deli- 
 cate texture, and endeavored to receive her new 
 relation with cordiality : but Miss Rebecca's first 
 appearance was not prepossessing. She was a plain 
 person, much marked wdth the small-pox, and appeared 
 about forty years of age. Her dress was far from 
 untidy ; but it showed that total deficiency of taste 
 which is betrayed by some persons, w^ho without much 
 ambition to be smart, would yet fain appear a little 
 like other people : besides, she' was now in her travel- 
 ling deshabille. But when she spoke, there was a 
 softness in her voice, and a propriety in her mode of 
 expressing herself, that instantly made a favorable im- 
 pression. 
 
 For a person in Miss Rebecca's circumstances to 
 conduct herself with exact propriety towards such a 
 sister-in-law as EHzabeth, would not appear very easy ; 
 but she seemed to understand this secret to perfection. 
 There was a certain independence in her character, 
 that made her feel at ease, and enabled her to retain her 
 
Ii6 DISPLAY. 
 
 self-possession on every occasion. Although fulty con- 
 scious of her own inferiority in those respects, she was 
 not to be overawed by such things as w^ealth, beauty, 
 or elegance in others. Her behavior was uniformly 
 obliging, courteous, and respectful; but it was never 
 servile — never for a moment — to the grandest car- 
 riage customer that ever entered her uncle's shop. 
 
 EKzabeth took some pains to check the feeling of 
 contemptuous pity, which the first appearance of her 
 new relation had excited. 
 
 But she soon found that this effort was quite unnec- 
 essary. A person of good nature, sound sense, and 
 consistent piety — and who makes no absurd preten- 
 sions — is not so easily despised as people may imag- 
 ine. Miss Rebecca answered this description ; and 
 Elizabeth had not spent many hours in her society, 
 before she found that she absolutely commanded her 
 respect. 
 
 As they became better acquainted, Elizabeth and 
 Emily were surprised to perceive how far removed she 
 was from vulgar ignorance. This discovery, however, 
 was not made by her introducing the names of all the 
 books, and quoting all the authors she could recollect, 
 on the first day of her arrival, but by the general supe- 
 riority and intelligence of her conversation. 
 
 She had been in the habit of reading as much as her 
 engagements would permit, from the honest desire of 
 improving her mind, not with the most remote inten- 
 tion of making it a subject of vulgar boast. In the 
 course of her hfe she had waited upon many a well- 
 dressed superciHous customer, to whom it would have 
 been in her power to have imparted some useful in- 
 formation ; but she never felt disposed to make an 
 unbecoming advantage of her acquisitions. If her 
 mind was superior to her station, it did not disqualify 
 her for its duties, nor lead her to despise them ; for 
 her little stock of knowledge had been turned to the 
 
D IS PL A V. 117 
 
 best account ; it had made her not vain, but wise — 
 not ridiculous, but respectable. 
 
 There was no one who ever had so much influence 
 over Frederick Robinson as his sister. While he was 
 at his uncle's he was continually embroiled in some 
 dispute with his cousins, or the apprentices, or the 
 servants. A consciousness of his own weakness made 
 him exceedingly tenacious of his rights and privileges, 
 and jealous of his dignity : so that he was always imag- 
 ining the one invaded, and the other insulted. In 
 these disputes his sister Rebecca was the universal 
 peacemaker ; every one was willing to appeal to her ; 
 and even Frederick would submit to her decisions. 
 
 Since- her arrival he had been unusually attentive to 
 business ; and the scraping of the violin was rarely 
 heard till shop was shut in the evening. Indeed, in 
 three days after she came, everything wore a different 
 aspect. Without bustle or parade, her pervading man- 
 agement had restored order in the counting-house, the 
 shop, and the kitchen. Her attentive and obliging 
 manner to the customers w^as soon noised abroad ; 
 and ma.ny who had been offended by the neglect of 
 the master, and impertinence of the man, began to 
 return. 
 
 Elizabeth was not more agreeably disappointed in 
 her sister-in-law, than Miss Rebecca w^as in her. She 
 listened with tears of joy, while Emily related the 
 change which had recently taken place in her friend's 
 mind ; and Emily was rejoiced, when she became 
 acquainted with her character, to commit EHzabeth's 
 yet weak and fluctuating principles to her superinten- 
 dence. Young as she herself was in Christian knowl- 
 edge, she was glad to be relieved from the burden of 
 such responsibility, and to consign it to one on whose 
 experience and judicious management she could so well 
 rely. 
 
 When she had done this, Emily took leave of Hils- 
 
Ii8 DISPLAY, 
 
 bury ; her heart glowing with joy and gratitude, as she 
 contemplated the unexpected issue of her visit. 
 
 Elizabeth, who had dreaded the familiarity of a 
 vulgar relation, was the more touched by the true 
 dehcacy of Miss Rebecca's manner towards her. A 
 fair form and delicate complexion — much as one 
 might wish to beheve it — are not the invariable indica- 
 tions of a delicate mind ; while it often happens that this 
 jewel is concealed within a plain, ungraceful exterior. 
 
 When Elizabeth witnessed how much might be 
 effected by activity and management, she was strength- 
 ened in her determination to remain no longer a useless 
 incumbrance in her own household : and having made 
 an ingenuous confession of her ignorance, she requested 
 to be instructed in all the mysteries of domestic 
 economy. Miss Rebecca undertook this task with 
 perfect simpHcity. She took great pains in instructing 
 her, without suffering her to feel it a mortification to be 
 taught. 
 
 Emily had not flattered her, in saying that Elizabeth 
 was clever. Her talents had hitherto been exercised 
 to one unproductive end ; but now she felt the pleas- 
 ure of exerting them usefully and honorably ; and she 
 made rapid progress, not only in the attainment of 
 those things of which she might feel ashamed of being 
 ignorant, but also in her knowledge of the business, 
 her ignorance of which was no disgrace. 
 
 It required, however, an effort — and an effort of 
 something better than philosophy — on the morning 
 she went in to take her first lesson behind the counter. 
 Still pale from the effects of her recent illness, she 
 appeared, wrapped in a large shawl ; but as she entered 
 the shop, a deep glow passed over her cheeks. Miss 
 Rebecca did not feel less on this occasion than Eliza- 
 beth, but she contrived to be quite engaged at the 
 time with a customer, and did not seem to notice her 
 as she walked round and took her station by her side. 
 
DISPLAY. 119 
 
 A country girl happened to come in at the same in- 
 stant, who, addressing herself to Miss Rebecca, said, 
 
 "I want a yard and three-quarters of — your ser- 
 vant, miss," said she, perceiving Elizabeth, and drop- 
 ping a courtesy. 
 
 "What did you want, pray?" said Elizabeth, 
 graciously. 
 
 While she was showing the article inquired for, 
 Elizabeth observed that her customer's attention was 
 diverted from that to herself. She was glancing at 
 her, and at her dress ; and seemed admiring the white 
 hands that were unrolling the ribbons, still more than 
 the bright, glossy articles themselves. When Elizabeth 
 had dismissed her first customer, she whispered with a 
 smile to Miss Rebecca, " Really it 's not half so disa- 
 gi-eeable as I expected ! " 
 
 Elizabeth's good principles were too recently im- 
 planted to have attained the force of habits ; and she 
 found a constant reference to them necessary upon 
 every fresh occasion. The exercise of patience, self- 
 denial, forbearance, humility, was new and difficult. 
 Indeed, had other dispositions, or better education, 
 rendered them of easier attainment, the strength and 
 reality of her piety had been less apparent. It was in 
 no instance more so than in her conduct towards her 
 husband. She was solicitous not only to fulfil her 
 ordinary duties towards him, but to win him to partake 
 of that happiness which she herself enjoyed. 
 
 "If religion," she said, "w^ere to do as rnuch for 
 him as it has for me, we might be most happy to- 
 gether." And it was especially with this view that she 
 endeavored to subdue the constant propensity she felt 
 to treat him with harshness or indifference. 
 
 " That tiresome violin ! " said she, one evening, as 
 they caught its distant sound from the counting-house. 
 
 ''I must say, however," said his sister, "that he 
 does not suffer it to be very troublesome to us ; I do 
 not remember ever seeing it brought into the parlor." 
 
I20 DISPLAY. 
 
 " No, I confess he has never done that/' said Eliza- 
 beth. 
 
 " Do you think/' she resumed, after a long silence, 
 " do you think he would be pleased if I were some- 
 times to ask him to play to me ? " 
 
 " That he would, I am certain," said his sifter. 
 
 That her resolution might not have time to relax, 
 she went out immediately, and opening the door of 
 the counting-house, said, good-naturedly, 
 
 " Mr. Robinson, you keep it all to yourself; why 
 don't you come and play to us sometimes?" 
 
 " Dear me ! I am sure I had no idea you would 
 like to hear me play ; why it 's what I should like of 
 all things," said he, gathering up the music-books, and 
 proceeding briskly to the parlor. 
 
 ^' What shall I play to you now?" said he, in high 
 good- humor, "' anything you like, only say." 
 
 His sister chose something she thought Elizabeth 
 would prefer; and Elizabeth, pleased with herself, 
 found her spirits enlivened even by her husband's bad 
 fiddhng ; and the evening passed more cheerfully than 
 usual. 
 
 Accustomed to be despised, and to be thwarted, he 
 was always particularly gratified by any mark of atten- 
 tion or compliance ; and a little such kindness and 
 consideration produced the happiest effects upon his 
 temper. It was in this way — and it was the only one 
 practicable — that his sister recommended Elizabeth to 
 attempt to acquire an influence over him. He had 
 always been proud of his wife, and would have loved 
 her, after his manner, if she would have permitted it ; 
 and now that her conduct towards him was so much 
 altered, he began to be "very fond of her indeed." 
 
 Miss Rebecca did not offer to leave Hilsbury till she 
 had the satisfaction of seeing her brother's affairs in a 
 very different state to that in which she had found 
 them. The business was increasing; he himself ap- 
 
DISPLAY. 121 
 
 peared disposed to take some interest in it; and as 
 Tor Elizabeth, she was become both willing and able to 
 superintend and conduct their concerns. 
 
 But she had derived still more important advantages 
 from her sister's society. Herself an experienced 
 Christian, she had led Elizabeth on step by step, as 
 she' was able to bear it, till she saw her making real 
 progress both in the knowledge and practice of 
 religion. 
 
 Having thus spent three useful months with them, 
 she was at length obliged to take leave. They parted 
 with mutual affection and regret; and Elizabeth was 
 left alone to manage her house, her business, her hus- 
 band, and — herself 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 One morning in the spring, a carriage stopped at 
 Mr. Robinson's door. 
 
 Emily was the first who sprang out of it ; and she 
 was followed by the whole party from Stokely. 
 
 Elizabeth colored high as she advanced from behind 
 the counter to receive them. But their easy, affec- 
 tionate salutation quickly relieved her embarrassment. 
 She led the way to her little parlor. Mr. Leddenhurst, 
 as he followed her, looked neither to , the right hand 
 nor the left, but steered his way through the piles of 
 goods that stood in the shop, and stooped beneath the 
 festoons of drapery that decorated the passage door, 
 as though he saw them not. 
 
 As this narrative is so near its conclusion, it may be 
 imagined that the Leddenhursts were come to an- 
 nounce to Elizabeth some sudden change of fortune ; 
 or, perhaps, to make her a present of one : — but no ; 
 
122 DISPLAY. 
 
 they were only come for the pleasure of seeing her — 
 for the pleasure of seeing Elizabeth happy in obscurity.* 
 
 They were affected by the striking alteration in her 
 whole appearance since they last met, simple in her 
 dress, almost artless in her manner, the once restless 
 and ambitious turn of her countenance succeeded by a 
 subdued and tranquil expression. As Miss Weston sat 
 gazing on her, her eyes filled with tears, in spite of her 
 efforts to restrain them. 
 
 The good opinion Elizabeth had once so unsuccess- 
 fully practised to win^ was now spontaneously yielded. 
 She had never in former times received such gratifying 
 expressions of their regard. It was not, as she had 
 dreaded, the affability of condescension to her reduced 
 station, but the open, cordial aspect of friendship and 
 esteem. 
 
 Their visit was prolonged to several hours, and they 
 had much conversation with EHzabeth; who, when 
 the first feeling of constraint had worn off, spoke of 
 herself and her situation without reserve. This af- 
 forded them an opportunity of observing more minutely 
 the real change that had taken place in her character. 
 Their expectations were not disappointed, because 
 they were not raised unreasonably high. They did not 
 expect to find propensities and habits of twenty years' 
 growth completely extirpated in the course of a few 
 months, even under the influence of the most potent 
 of all principles. 
 
 In Elizabeth's present retirement, there was, indeed, 
 httle temptation or opportunity to display, if that 
 word be understood in its commonest import ; but 
 there is no retirement, except that of the grave, where 
 the infirmities of human nature may not find oppor- 
 tunity to exhibit themselves. 
 
 Pride is rather provoked than checked by degrada- 
 tion, and never was vanity cheated into humility by 
 being placed in the shade. Elizabeth still found no 
 
DISPLAY. 123 
 
 duty she had to perform was so difficult, no act of self- 
 denial so painful, as to watch, detect, and subdue it ; 
 especially in the new and more subtle forms in which 
 it now frequently assailed her. But it was no longer a 
 studied and cherished indulgence. Philosophy might 
 have enabled her to detect, and pride to conceal it : 
 but it was reHgion that had taught her to lament it as 
 a sin, and to resist it as an enemy. 
 
 They found her even more reconciled to her condi- 
 tion than they had hoped. Time had aheady worn off 
 the edge of mortification. She was no longer sur- 
 prised, or shocked, to find herself where, and what, 
 she was. She took an interest in her employments ; 
 and was alive to the honest pleasure of successful 
 management. Besides, she was occupied: and the 
 busy cannot, if they would, be as discontented as the 
 idle. Employment, that second grand secret of happi- 
 ness, had contributed more than anything, except the 
 first, to reconcile her to her circumstances. Above 
 all, she had inward peace ; and a hope, that was better 
 to her than either the vain pleasures or real comforts 
 of hfe. It was " a hope, full of immortality ; " and 
 enabled her " in whatever state she was, therewith to 
 be content." 
 
 During their visit, Elizabeth took her friends over 
 her neat, orderly house ; and into her pretty, retired 
 garden, which was now looking gay with spring flowers. 
 
 "You would be surprised," said she, "to see how 
 many little pleasures I have now ; — and that from 
 things which I never took any real pleasure in before. 
 Even my taste is improved by religion. I am not so 
 selfish — so engrossed in" — but here she checked 
 herself, and began to speak of something else. Talk- 
 ing of herself, she observed, was particularly hazardous ; 
 and she found it a good rule never to do so — not 
 even to speak of her faults unless it was unavoidable. 
 
 While Mr. Leddenhurst and Mr. Robinson were 
 
124 DISPLAY, 
 
 gone aside to transact some business, Elizabeth and 
 her friends conversed still more unreservedly. " I 
 assure you," said she, looking on the carpet, ''\ am 
 happier in all respects than I ever expected to be. 
 Mr. Robinson is really much more — much less — 
 much improved. Dear Emily," she added, " I often, 
 very often, think of that dreary, feverish night, when 
 you came to nurse and comfort me : from that I date 
 all my happiness ! " 
 
 ^' Let us rather both think, " said Emily, " of that 
 happy day that brought our friends to Stokely ; it is to 
 them we both owe everything that is good." 
 
 "We can all now," said Miss Weston, "look back 
 to the time when we were unacquainted with God, and 
 with ourselves, — when religion was uninteresting to 
 us ; and to whatever circumstances we may trace the 
 wondrous change, let us acknowledge Him as the sole 
 and gracious author of it." 
 
 " And now, sir," said Mr. Leddenhurst, when they 
 returned to the ladies, " we hope to prevail upon you 
 to part with Mrs. Robinson, before long, to pay us a 
 visit at Stokely." 
 
 "To be sure I will," replied he, " with a great deal 
 of pleasure, Mr. Leddenhurst; she deserves a Httle 
 recreation now, as well as any woman in the world ; 
 and I '11 be bound to say, that there 's no place what- 
 ever where it would give Mrs. Robinson so much 
 pleasure to pay a visit." 
 
 " It would, indeed, give me a great deal of pleasure," 
 said Elizabeth ; " I have nowhere such kind friends. 
 I should like, too, to visit Broadisham once again, — 
 if it were only to think of all that has passed since I 
 last drove out of it." 
 
 "Ah, that was on our wedding-day," said her 
 husband. 
 
 " Then you will come, my dear," said Mrs. Led- 
 denhurst. 
 
DISPLAY, 125 
 
 " Yes, she has promised," said Emily. 
 
 Her friends now took an affectionate leave of Eliza- 
 beth. Before the carriage drove off, they all looked 
 out at her as she stood by her husband's side at the 
 shop-door. There was a tear in her eye, but she 
 strove to conceal it ; and her countenance shone with 
 content. 
 
 "This is a sight," said Mr. Leddenhurst, "worth 
 coming more than fifteen miles to see : — the sub- 
 jugation of a propensity that I had almost thought 
 incurable ; and I believe that nothing but religion will 
 cure the love of — display." 
 
> 
 
 A DAY'S PLEASURE. 
 
 One fine May morning a large party of young 
 people, of which I was one, set off for the purpose of 
 viewing a nobleman's seat at some miles' distance. 
 This was an excursion to which we had for some time 
 been looking forward with much pleasure. It had 
 been long promised us, and the day fixed more than 
 once ; but the weather, or some other untoward cir- 
 cumstance, had hitherto disappointed us. But now 
 every obstacle was removed, the party assembled, and 
 when, after many presages of bad weather, with which 
 some of the least sanguine and more experienced of 
 our number had alarmed us the night before, — when, 
 after all these forebodings, the carriages drew up, and 
 we found ourselves safely seated and driving off, there 
 was not an eye that did not sparkle with pleasure. 
 
 The morning was bright and promising. Who does 
 not know — who, at least, does not remember — how 
 unusually blue and bright the sky appears on a 
 holiday morning? The fields were yet sparkling with 
 dew-drops. Some early husbandmen, going forth to 
 their work, saluted us as we passed. The lark sang 
 merrily over our heads. There was not a cloud — no, 
 not one, to be seen from east to west. Oh, it was a 
 lovely morning ! We were in open carriages ; which 
 was the more agreeable as the first part of our road, 
 especially, lay through a most delightful country, richly 
 
A DAY'S PLEASURE. 1 27 
 
 cultivated, and now all covered with the verdure of 
 spring. We were, as nciay be imagined, in the highest 
 spirits, and laughed we knew not why. When the first 
 glow of happiness, occasioned by setting off, had sub- 
 sided, we began to expatiate on the expected pleasures 
 of the day. The place of our destination was one of 
 the finest seats for many miles round. We had heard 
 it talked of very often ; but none of us young ones had 
 yet seen it. Most of the beauties and curiosities had 
 been described to us, and on these our imaginations 
 fixed with dehghted anticipation ; — the grotto ; the 
 hot-houses, with their rare collection of foreign plants ; 
 the picture-gallery ; and, above all, the curious old 
 tapestry hangings, w^hich decorated one of the apart- 
 ments, and which were esteemed the greatest curiosity 
 of the place. Then there was the fine Belvidere at the 
 top of the hill, which commanded, we were told, a 
 most extensive prospect. You might from thence see 
 five counties : and on a very clear day you might just 
 distinguish Gloucester Cathedral. '' Well, we could 
 not have a clearer day than this," said we : " so we 
 shall see five counties, and Gloucester Cathedral ! *' 
 Thus we went chatting along. 
 
 But we had scarcely reached the third mile-stone, 
 before our pleasure was greatly damped by the indis- 
 position of one of our party. She had risen with the 
 headache, but strove to conceal it. However, it be- 
 came so much worse with the motion of the carriage 
 that she was quite unable to proceed : so with great 
 reluctance we were obliged to leave her at a friend's 
 house, which stood by the roadside. This misfortune 
 cast a gloom upon us during the gi-eater part of the 
 ride. She was one of the most lively and intelligent of 
 our whole party ; there was not one but could have been 
 better spared. However, as we drew near the end of 
 our journey our spirits revived, and our regret for the 
 loss of our companion gradually subsided. 
 
128 A DAY'S PLEASURE, 
 
 But now a new cause of uneasiness arose. A few 
 rather threatening clouds had for some time been gath- 
 ering in the southwest, which the elder part of the 
 company regarded with an anxious eye. We young 
 ones, however, were persuaded they would soon pass 
 off; and as they began to gather overhead, we declared 
 that we should prefer it being cloudy .during the heat 
 of the day. " Yes, it would be much pleasanter ! " 
 Just as I said the word, I felt a large drop of rain upon 
 my cheek, which was quickly followed by many more ; 
 and now the most sanguine of us took the alarm. When 
 we were yet a mile from the place of our destination, a 
 soaking shower came on, to which, being without any 
 shelter, we were completely exposed. Still, we tried 
 to laugh at our misfortunes, — • till, upon approaching 
 the place, the rain fell with redoubled violence ; and as 
 we galloped up the avenue, it ran streaming off in 
 spouts and torrents from our hats and parasols. We 
 had, therefore, little inclination to look about us. The 
 first thing, as soon as we arrived, was to beg the charity 
 of the servants ; and we were completely occupied, for 
 a full hour, in drying our clothes, and refitting, before a 
 large fire in the housekeeper's parlor. By the time 
 this was done, and we had partaken of some refresh- 
 ments, we began to make ourselves so merry with the 
 adventure that some of us thought we gained as much 
 in fun as we lost in sunshine. 
 
 It still rained ; so giving up all thoughts of an excur- 
 sion without, for the present, we proceeded to view the 
 apartments. They were splendid indeed, and we were 
 delighted. For my own part, the only thing that pre- 
 vented my being quite as much so as I expected was, that 
 my exposure to the rain had brought on a slight tooth- 
 ache ; it was not violent, but yet just enough to take off 
 the edge of my enjoyment. I went about holding a 
 handkerchief to my face ; and when any of my com- 
 panions pointed me to anything remarkable, I could 
 
A DAY'S PLEASURE. 129 
 
 only nod assent, and smile somewhat piteously. Upon 
 inquiring for the tapestry hangings, we were informed 
 that they were always taken down when the family was 
 absent ; they had been removed only the day before. 
 
 The continuance of the rain, while it prevented our 
 expected ramble about the grounds, yet afforded us an 
 opportunity of examining more at leisure the curiosities 
 within. With this consideration we consoled ourselves. 
 When we had viewed every apartment, and fully satis- 
 fied our curiosity, we were joined in the picture-gallery 
 by the old house-steward, a venerable man, who, as he 
 told us, had served the family for upwards of fifty years. 
 He presently began recounting to us some of the family 
 history, and many amusing anecdotes, pointing with 
 his staff to the portraits of those to whom they related. 
 "This," said he, " is poor Lady Susan, who died when 
 she was only seventeen. And there is old Sir James, 
 taken when he was a child, playing with his favorite 
 spaniel. He was the present Earl's great-grandfather." 
 We were much amused with this antiquated man and 
 his stories j and agreed it compensated to us for not 
 seeing the tapestry. 
 
 It was now grov/ing late in the afternoon. We had 
 given up all hope of reaching the Belvidere, and view- 
 ing the gardens ; and were still lingering about the 
 picture-room, when suddenly a bright golden beam of 
 sunshine broke into the apartment. It streamed down 
 the long gallery, and lighted up the pale faces and 
 faded draperies of the old brown portraits, from one end 
 to the other. An exclamation of joy burst at the same 
 instant from the whole party. We hastened to the 
 windows ; already a broad line of bright sky appeared 
 along the horizon ; the clouds were dispersing in all 
 directions ; the rain had nearly ceased ; and the heavy 
 clouds that were rolHng off on the opposite side exhib- 
 ited a brilliant rainbow. By the time we were equipped 
 for our ramble, all was clear overhead ; it was a beauti- 
 
130 A DAY'S PLEASURE, 
 
 ful evening. The grass was wet to the foot, and the 
 trees were yet dropping with rain ; but all was fresh, 
 green, and sparkling. Once again our spirits revived : 
 it was not, indeed, the lively, bounding joy with which 
 we set off in the morning, but a more serene and 
 chastened feeling. 
 
 We now visited the grotto, the gardens, and hot- 
 houses. It was but a hasty inspection, as the ground 
 was so wet that we were fearful of lingering ; we were 
 anxious, too, to reach the Belvidere before sunset. At 
 length, with wet shoes and weary steps, we climbed the 
 hill. The exhalations which were now rising in conse- 
 quence of the heavy rain, in a great degree obscured 
 the prospect, but at the same time added to its bril- 
 liancy ; for, being illumined by the setting sun, the 
 whole wide expanse of country which the height com- 
 manded, was, as it were, one flood of golden mist. The 
 five counties we had thought so much of, were not 
 indeed so distinctly discernible as we had seen them 
 on the map ; however, our attendant pointed to each, 
 and we believed that there they were. As for the 
 Cathedral, we were obliged to take it for granted that it 
 lay in the direction of the guide's walking stick. We 
 waited a few minutes to see the sun set behind the 
 distant hills ; it was a splendid scene ; and, as he assured 
 us, was almost as fine a sight as the Cathedral. 
 
 We now descended the hill, very well satisfied ; and, 
 being by this time considerably fatigued, were not sorry 
 to find ourselves reseated in the carriages, and on our 
 way home. The evening continued fine, but chilly ; 
 and the latter part of the way it was very dark. At 
 first we talked over our adventures ; but some of the 
 party soon dropped to sleep, and conversation flagged 
 with the rest. We were weary, and our heads ached. 
 I question if anything we had seen during the whole 
 day afforded us more real pleasure than the sight of 
 the cheerful lights in our own house, as we approached 
 
A BAY'S PLEASURE. 131 
 
 it. We were certainly pleased with our excursion, not- 
 withstanding its misfortunes ; and yet I believe, had it 
 been proposed to us to set off on a similar expedition 
 the next day, we should none of us have been disposed 
 to comply. The friend we left ill by the way, we found 
 quite restored. She had spent the day at home very 
 happily ; and when she heard of our misfortunes, was 
 glad she had escaped them. We were all thankful to 
 retire to rest that night. The next morning at break- 
 fast, at grandpapa's request, I related the adventures of 
 the day. His reflections upon our excursion — to in- 
 troduce which is my only reason for troubling the 
 reader with this recital — shall be the subject of a fol- 
 lowing paper. 
 
 REFLECTIONS ON A DAY'S PLEASURE. 
 
 Grandpapa, having listened with great attention to 
 the foregoing recital, and to our various animadver- 
 sions upon it, began as follows : — 
 
 " I am an old man, children ; and my day's pleasure 
 is so nearly over that I am well able to compare it with 
 yours. Our short life is but like a long day ; and when 
 I recollect the alternations of hope and fear, of success 
 and disappointment, of pleasure and of pain, that have 
 checkered the greater part of it, — the storms that I 
 have seen blow up, and blow over, — the serenity of 
 its decline, and the hopes I entertain of arriving, before 
 long, at a safe and comfortable home, — I must say 
 that my day has so much resembled yours, that what 
 you have related has seemed like a relation of my own 
 history. And since there has been nothing remarkable 
 to distinguish my life from that of other men ; since I 
 have, undoubtedly, had my full share of success, pros- 
 
132 REFLECTIONS ON 
 
 perity, and enjoyment, I think I may fairly regard it, 
 not only as a counterpart to my own life in particular, 
 but to life in general. Or, to come to the conclusion 
 I intended, that you, dear children, may consider your 
 excursion as a fair specimen of what you have to expect 
 in the day of life ; — so that the experience of this one 
 day, may serve as a sample of all the rest. ' 
 
 " Here you are, all in fine spirits, just setting out on 
 your journey. It is yet early morning with you ; the 
 sun is up, and the sky clear ; the road fine and flow- 
 ery j and yet, pleasures in prospect rather than those 
 at present possessed, are the chief sources of your 
 felicity. The first circumstance that occurred yester- 
 day to damp your pleasure was the loss of one of 
 your party. Now, this is a misfortune which may be 
 certainly expected early in the journey of life. Of 
 a company of young people beginning life together, 
 and hoping to pursue their course hand in hand, how 
 commonly does it happen that one and another are 
 stopped in their career, leaving their companions to 
 pursue the journey without them ! And as it was 
 with you, so it generally happens, that those who 
 are taken are the loveliest, the liveliest, — those 
 whose society can be least spared, and who must 
 be the most regretted. Such a breach spoils our 
 pleasure for a time ; but time, as you found it, and 
 the new scenes that present themselves at every turn, 
 reconcile us to the loss ; till at length it is httle felt, 
 perhaps, rarely remembered. 
 
 ^^The place of your destination, and its various 
 curiosities, which you were so eager to see, may repre- 
 sent those favorite schemes and projects which we are 
 apt to lay out for ourselves in life, and to which our 
 chief hopes and efforts are directed. All goes on fair 
 for a time ; we are in the direct road to our wishes ; 
 but just as we come within sight of them, the clouds 
 begin to gather, and down comes the storm, when, 
 
A DAY'S PLEASURE. 133 
 
 perhaps, we are driving straight up to their accom- 
 plishment. They who have marked well the ways 
 of Providence, must have observed, that our earthly 
 aims and wishes are oftener thus damped and embit- 
 tered to us, than entirely frustrated. We are suffered 
 to attain the object, but something unforeseen occurs 
 to check the satisfaction we had expected in it. Now 
 it is that our spirits sink, and we are ready to think 
 our day's pleasure quite spoiled. But, like yours, 
 it frequently happens that some unexpected alleviation, 
 some little unforeseen circumstance attending our 
 calamities, renders them supportable. Our very sur- 
 prise ' at finding things not so bad to bear as we 
 had expected, often amounts to positive pleasure. 
 
 " Well, you saw the apartments, and were upon the 
 whole very well pleased. And thus it is, that we are 
 generally indulged with a moderate share of the com- 
 mon comforts and enjoyments of life. We do not, per- 
 haps, see the tapestry. That is, some particular gratifi- 
 cation on which our hearts were most set is withheld. 
 Now, while walking through the apartments, is the busy 
 part of life ; and, notwithstanding some disappoint- 
 ments, our satisfaction would be considerable, if it 
 were not for a something, like your toothache, my 
 dear, to take off its edge. Nothing could more 
 aptly represent the continual uneasiness occasioned 
 by the little daily crosses of life, too trifling to be 
 seriously complained of. And this is not my testi- 
 mony alone ; the accumulated experience of ages 
 will attest that some such nameless sources of dis- 
 satisfaction ever attend upon all our pursuits and 
 undertakings, and mingle even with our holiday 
 pleasures. 
 
 '^ It was a fine morning ; but it rained all day. Ah ! 
 this is like life. You may not think it, children ; but 
 I know it. Yet this very circumstance, it seems, was 
 productive of some advantage. Thus every wise and 
 
134 REFLECTIONS ON 
 
 good man will look back on seasons of adversity, and 
 acknowledge that it was good for him to have passed 
 through them. When you had given up all hope of 
 fine weather, you were suddenly surprised with a ray 
 of sunshine. Thus are some of the heaviest storms 
 of life suddenly dispersed; not in the time and 
 manner that we had expected, but in such a way 
 as we could not have calculated upon. You did, 
 therefore, at last, view the grounds, and climb the hill ; 
 but it was late in the day, with wet shoes and in 
 haste. Just as we are often not permitted to arrive 
 at the summit of our desires until the decline of Hfe, 
 when it can be possessed but for' a short time, and 
 when our capacities for enjoyment are greatly weak- 
 ened. You reached the Belvidere, and had an 
 indistinct view of the five counties ; but that circum- 
 stance, which you had so long anticipated, disappointed 
 your expectations ; and as for the cathedral, it was 
 not to be seen at all. Thus when we are permitted 
 to reach the height of our wishes, the result is sure to 
 disappoint us. Our imaginations had painted it too 
 gayly ; and our chief satisfaction arises, not so much 
 from the success of our scheme, as from some simple 
 circumstance attending it, which, like the fine glowing 
 sunset, was unthought of in our calculation. 
 
 '' You were cheered by the sudden fineness of the 
 evening, and the late accomplishment of your hopes ; 
 but, like the chastened tranquillity of age, your cheer- 
 fulness was of a very different character from the 
 lightsome, joyous spirits of the morning. 
 
 " After all, though you had some entertainments upon 
 the whole, yet, if you had the offer of going over the 
 same events to-day, you would not feel disposed to 
 accept it. Now, this is what I, and every one, I be- 
 lieve, of my age, must say of our day's pleasure. 
 Could our youth be renewed like the eagle's, yet we 
 should decline the offer, if it must be upon the con- 
 
A DAY'S PLEASURE. I3S 
 
 dition of living over again all the vicissitudes and anx- 
 ieties, all the sorrows and sins of the past. Wearied 
 even with pleasure, you were glad to set off on your 
 return home. The evening was chilly and dark ; and 
 you were more disposed to sleep than to converse. 
 This, as you see in your poor old grandfather, is not 
 unlike the condition and infirmities of old age. 
 
 ^' Thus far our comparison is pretty exact ; and well 
 will it be for us if it need not stop here. The sight of 
 home at last, gave you, perhaps, more true pleasure 
 than anything you had seen in the day. And there 
 are some who can say the same of the long home to 
 which they are hastening. All are, more or less, 
 weary of life and need rest : yet, how many shrink 
 from, and at last come short of it. You had a kind 
 father to receive you, and a comfortable home; and 
 the companion you dropped at the commencement of 
 your journey was ready to welcome your return. And 
 if it should be thus with us at the end of the day of 
 life, it will signify little, indeed, what accidents befall 
 us by the way. ' In our Father's house are many 
 mansions.' * There is a rest remaining for the people 
 of God.' And there, many dear friends who are gone 
 before await our arrival. They regret not that they 
 were stopped short in their course, but, like your friend, 
 rejoice that they got safe home so early, and thus 
 escaped all the misfortunes of the road. 
 
 '^ Your day's pleasure is now over : and you all feel 
 that the little accidents which disconcerted you yester- 
 day, are of no consequence at all to-day. You can 
 now smile at its misfortunes ; and as for its pleasures, 
 they are past^ and are now nothing to you. But 
 suppose you had found no home to return to ; or an 
 uncomfortable one, exposed to the weather, and filled 
 with bad, quarrelsome company ! Of how much 
 greater value is the smallest convenience and comfort 
 you enjoy here, because it is to last for years, than all 
 
13^ REFLECTIONS ON A DAY'S PLEASURE, 
 
 the pleasures of that one day, put together ! Or sup- 
 pose that from morning to night it had been one con- 
 tinued storm ; suppose you had not been able to reach 
 the place of your destination at all ; that niany^ instead 
 of one, of your company had been left behind ; that 
 your carriages had broken down, and every other mis- 
 fortune had befallen you that can be imagined, — what 
 then? Your day's pleasure would have been spoiled, 
 it is true ; but it was only a day, and now all is over. 
 Now, this is just the state of the case with regard to 
 time and eternity ; only the comparison falls far short 
 of the truth. They who, devoted to the pleasures of 
 this life, take no care to ensure an entrance into that 
 rest, act infinitely more unwisely than you would have 
 done, if, for the sake of enjoying that one day's recrea- 
 tion, you had left your house to be overrun with rob- 
 bers, or destroyed by fire ; knowing that upon your 
 return at night, you would have no shelter, no home, 
 no father to receive you. 
 
 '' But is it true that our youthful hopes are so falla- 
 cious ; that there are so many drawbacks to our pleas- 
 ure ; and that there is so large a mixture of pain ? 
 What does this teach us ? First, not to give life a wrong 
 name. After all, it is not a day of pleasu7'e^ but a day 
 of business. We came into life, not to please ourselves, 
 but to do the will of Him that sent us ; and especially, 
 ' to work out our salvation with fear and trembling. ' 
 Again, we should learn hereby ' not to set our affec- 
 tions on things below.' It is to teach us this lesson, 
 which we are slow to learn, that so many trials are al- 
 lotted us. Our Heavenly Father does not wilHngly 
 afflict and disappoint us. He does it in mercy, to 
 wean us from the world to which we cling. We 
 should also learn, by the disappointments attending our 
 schemes, not to desire to order our own lot in life ; 
 since we cannot foresee how they will succeed, nor 
 what will most promote our welfare. Let us leave it 
 
LUCY'S WISHES, 137 
 
 to Him, who sees the end from the beginning, and 
 who will then cause ' all things to work together for 
 our good.' Above all, let us learn to care less for 
 the things of time, and more for those of eternity. Do 
 not our years pass like ' a tale that is told ' ? Let us 
 therefore fear, lest a promise being given us of enter- 
 ing into His rest, any of us should seem to come short 
 of it." 
 
 Thus grandpapa concluded his discourse ; which, 
 thinking it might prove instructive to others as well as 
 to ourselves, I have, as I promised, transcribed for the 
 perusal of the reader. 
 
 LUCY^S WISHES. 
 
 Lucy had been standing one afternoon for nearly an 
 hour at the parlor window, watching the carriages and 
 passengers in the street. Idleness ever begets discon- 
 tent : but instead of laying the blame upon herself, she 
 felt disposed to complain of her condition. Almost 
 every stranger that passed, she concluded was in hap- 
 pier circumstances than herself. She observed stages 
 and carriages of various kinds, driving up to the great 
 inn on the other side of the way. She watched the 
 passengers as they alighted and set off again ; won- 
 dered who they were, whence they came, whither they 
 were going, and envied them because they were not 
 staying at home. A travelling chaise, with ladies in 
 pretty riding dresses, stopped to change horses. " Ah," 
 thought she, " how happy they are ! going some de- 
 lightful journey — hundreds of miles perhaps, and to 
 see thousands of curiosities ; or to live at some elegant 
 country seat : at any rate they are not staying at home 
 
138 LUCY'S WISHES. 
 
 like me. How long have I been confined to this dull 
 town, and this one house 1 " She then cast a forlorn 
 glance around the room, every object in which had 
 been familiar to her from her infancy. Then looking 
 over to her opposite neighbors, she saw a blazing fire, 
 and the family seated round it. " How comfortable 
 they are ! " thought she ; " so cheerful, so sociable : 
 telling some interesting story, perhaps; not all alone 
 in a dull room like me 1 " 
 
 When it grew too dark to see distinctly what was 
 passing in the street, Lucy slowly moved from the 
 window and seated herself by the fire ; where, fixing 
 her eyes upon the red cinders, she fell into a deep 
 revery; and began to consider what situation she 
 would choose for herself, if she might but change her 
 condition. Her imagination still followed the travel- 
 ling party she had seen stop at the inn ; and she first 
 thought she should like to be a companion to those 
 ladies ; to read to them, walk with them, and attend 
 them wherever they went. " But how foolish ! " 
 thought she ; ^^ while I am wishing, why not wish my- 
 self one of the ladies themselves? Yes, yes, a rich 
 heiress, very handsome, fortune at my own disposal ; 
 a thousand a year — no, five, — or suppose ten thou- 
 sand a year. Should my father and mother be alive ? 
 Perhaps they would not allow me to travel and do as 
 I pleased ; so they should have been dead some years 
 and I would have a very agreeable young person for a 
 companion. But poor papa and mamma 1 " thought 
 Lucy, " no no, they should not be dead then ; but 
 still I should have the fortune in my o\^ti hands, and 
 do just what I pleased with it. And I would be an 
 only child, and not have any brothers or sisters to 
 tease me." She next proceeded to settle the number 
 of her servants, the color of her carriages and liveries j 
 in what counties she would have her country seats, and 
 in what square her town house : till the number of her 
 
LUCY'S WISHES. 139 
 
 wants, and the splendor of her establishments, in- 
 creased so surprisingly, that she began to fear her 
 means would be insufficient, and she found it expedient 
 at once to increase her income from ten to twenty 
 thousand a year. 
 
 Just as Lucy had arrived at this conclusion, her 
 mother entered the room, and put a stop to her med- 
 itations. She was beginning to converse with her 
 daughter about the book they had been reading to- 
 gether in the morning ; but Lucy, finding that subject 
 very dry in comparison with her late brilliant specu- 
 lations, soon interrupted it by relating' as much as she 
 thought proper of what had been just passing in her 
 mind. Her mother, when she had finished, endeav- 
 ored to prove that she would probably not be at all 
 happier for such a change of circumstances. Lucy 
 knew not what to say to her representations ; yet she 
 did not feel convinced, and said, '' Well, then, mamma, 
 if wishing were of any use, and if you were exactly in 
 my place, what would you wish for ? What is the hap- 
 piest situation in all the world that you can think of ? " 
 
 ^' If wishing were of any use, then," said her mother, 
 *^ I might, in the first place, wish to be about that age 
 when the dangers of infancy and the follies of child- 
 hood are past ; but when the opportunities and advan- 
 tages of youth are yet to come. I would not wish to 
 be grown up, because then the character is fixed ; and 
 I should lose the unspeakable advantage of having it 
 yet in my power to form a good one. I might also 
 wish for a sound, vigorous constitution. With regard 
 to personal beauty, as there are some disadvantages 
 connected with it, and as many who do not possess it 
 make greater proficiency in the things most important 
 to happiness than those who do, I would not wish 
 about it j but make up my mind to be contented with 
 whatever external appearance I happened to have. I 
 should certainly wish to have kind parents ; not such 
 
I40 LUCY'S WISHES. 
 
 as would indulge my follies and spoil my tem.per ; but 
 parents able and willing to train me up in the way I 
 should go, to impart useful instruction, and correct 
 my perverse dispositions. I would also wish for 
 brothers and sisters, some of them nearly of my own 
 age ; as it would not only render my life miore social 
 and cheerful, but give m.e an opportunity, of culti- 
 vating amiable and generous feehngs, instead of grow- 
 ing selfish and self-important, as is scmiCtimes the case 
 with an only child. I might further wish my parents 
 to be in easy circumstances, such as would allow them 
 to give me a good, useful education, to supply m^y 
 common wants, and to afford me a few rational pleas- 
 ures. But I would by no means wish to be very rich, 
 nor in the highest ranks of society, because it is uni- 
 versally allowed by men of the greatest wisdom and 
 experience, that persons in the middle ranks of hfe 
 are the most advantageously circumstanced for the at- 
 tainment of virtue and happiness. Nor would I by 
 any means wish for a fortune in my own hands till I 
 was well qualified to manage it; for there cannot be a 
 greater misfortune than for a person to be left to his 
 own guidance at the early age we are supposing. I 
 would only wish, therefore, for a moderate allowance 
 firom my parents, such as would enable me to indulge 
 a few reasonable wishes, and that I might have a mite 
 of my own to give to the poor, and to contribute 
 towards some of the institutions for doing good to my 
 fellow-creatures. In addition to all this, I might, if it 
 were worth while, wish to live in an agreeable neigh- 
 borhood, where there were a few young people of my 
 own age and rank, with whom I might occasionally 
 associate. I might also desire to live in a pleasant 
 convenient house, with a garden; perhaps I might 
 wish my parents to allow me a little garden of my own, 
 to cultivate at my leisure hours ; and that my own 
 room should be furnished with a suitable library, and 
 
LUCY'S WISHES, 141 
 
 Other means of instruction and amusement ; and I 
 would have regular hours for business and recreation." 
 
 '' O how delightful ! " exclaimed Lucy ; " I can 
 fancy exactly what kind of a house and garden it is, 
 and what kind of people they are. I think you are a 
 very good wisher indeed. Now that is exactly what I 
 should like." 
 
 " Indeed !" said her mother; *^and who do you 
 think is the fortunate young person I have been think- 
 ing of all the time, with whom you would so much like 
 to change places? " 
 
 Lucy thought for a moment, and then exclaimed, 
 
 " O mamma ! you have been playing me a trick. 
 You have been thinking of me, I do believe ! Yes, for 
 I am just the age that you said ; and I have kind par- 
 ents to instruct me, and they are not very rich ; and I 
 have brothers and sisters of my own age to associate 
 with, and a few young friends besides ; and I have an 
 allowance to do what I please with ; and I am not very 
 handsome ; and I Hve in a convenient house, tolerably 
 pleasant, with a garden, and have a garden and room 
 of my own, and books and globes, — dear, how foolish 
 I was not to find it out at first ! Well, but how is it 
 then that I am not as happy as I thought I should be 
 with all those things ? Why was I so dull and uncom- 
 fortable this afternoon, that I thought everybody better 
 off than myself ? " 
 
 "I'll tell you the reason, my dear," replied her 
 mother ; " we have still left something out. The ' 
 situation I have described, and in which precisely you 
 yourself are placed, is certainly, as far as outward 
 things can go, one of the happiest in the world ; and in 
 such a world as this, a change for you would almost 
 certainly be for the worse ; but then we must remem- 
 ber that no situation, no possible combination of 
 circumstances, can make us perfectly happy in this 
 world, because it is a sinful world. When we fancy 
 
142 EVERY MAN HIS 
 
 Others better off than ourselves, it is only because we 
 know our own circumstances, but do not know theirs. 
 Those ladies whom you imagined to be so happy only 
 because they were travelling, and wore pretty riding 
 dresses, have, very probably, some outward trial, or 
 some secret uneasiness, which makes them less so than 
 you. But besides this, there are, as I said, some 
 things which we have forgotten to include in our list of 
 desirables ; and they possess this great advantage 
 above all the rest, that if we wish for them aright, 
 wishing will not be vain. I would therefore, in addi- 
 tion to all we have mentioned, wish for an amiable, 
 obliging disposition ; a cheerful, open temper ; a 
 peaceable and contented spirit. I would wish also, for 
 industry and activity, which are the best securities 
 against languor and discontent ; and without which, no 
 circumstances can make us happy. Above all, I 
 would desire a good conscience, and a heart right 
 towards God. These are things, my dear Lucy, 
 which, if we wish for, not feebly and lazily, but seri- 
 ously and earnestly, may certainly be obtained. With 
 these, in any circumstances, we shall be happy ; and 
 without them, we should not be contented, even with 
 twenty thousand a year ! " 
 
 EVERY MAN HIS OWN FORTUNE-TELLER. 
 
 There is a strong propensity in the human mind to 
 look forward to distant years, and to penetrate the 
 secrets of futurity. This desire, in the minds of the vul- 
 gar and ignorant, has given rise to the foolish and 
 wicked practice of consulting pretended fortune-tellers. 
 In these enlightened days, I have little fear that any of 
 my readers should wish to have recourse to such absurd 
 
OIVJV FORTUNE-TELLER. 143 
 
 and sinful means of information ; and yet as. it is very 
 likely they may sometimes feel curiosity respecting their 
 future destiny, they will I hope listen to the plan I have 
 to propose, — which, without incurring either guilt or 
 disgrace, will enable them, each for himself, to foretell 
 with considerable accuracy, what they may have to ex- 
 pect in future life. 
 
 To prevent disappointment, I here candidly confess 
 that I do not pretend to enable them to divine the 
 amount of their fortunes, what connection they may 
 form, in what parts they may reside, nor at what period 
 they will die. Nor do I regret this ; nor need they : 
 since these are circumstances which it is better for us not 
 to know beforehand. But with regard to things of still 
 greater importance than these, such as the degree of 
 success and of happiness they may reasonably expect 
 in their undertakings and situations in the world, they 
 will find the proposed method may be depended on. 
 
 I shall, then, suppose myself to be consulted by a 
 number of young persons, wishing to be initiated in my 
 secret ; but they will not find me commencing my in- 
 structions with any mystical ceremony, nor pronouncing 
 any unintelligible charm. I do not even wish to ex- 
 amine the palms of their hands, although I may perhaps 
 take the liberty to notice the expression of their faces ; 
 all I require is, some insight into their present charac- 
 ters and past conduct. 
 
 Suppose one of them, for instance, should appear to 
 be a lad of an indolent, inactive disposition ; to w^hom 
 exertion, whether of body or mind, was always irksome 
 and burdensome, performed as a task, and by compul- 
 sion ; he is looking forward anxiously to the time when 
 coercion will cease, and when he shall be free from the 
 necessity of exertion. In this case, I do not hesitate 
 to shake my knowing head, and in the technical lan- 
 guage of my profession to pronounce " bad luck to 
 him." I need not ask, nor can I guess, what may be 
 
144 EVERY MAN HIS 
 
 his line of business, nor what the extent of his capital ; 
 but I can foretell, with great confidence, that he will be 
 neither successful, respectable, nor happy. That w^hen 
 restraints are removed, and he is thrown upon himself, 
 life will be burdensome to him ; and that it will, very 
 probably, end in poverty and disgrace. 
 
 I shall suppose my next apphcant to be a- gay young 
 lady, desirous of knowing how soon she shall be her 
 own mistress, and how large her fortune will be ; as she 
 is in want of a thousand things that she is not allowed 
 to purchase. She is very fond of jewels and laces, and 
 of all that is showy and expensive ; and wishes ex- 
 tremely to be able to gratify her desires. Here again, 
 I could augur no good ; so many husbands and fathers 
 have been ruined by expensive wives and daughters. 
 For, as poor Richard says, " silks and satins put out 
 the kitchen fire." What could I see in her destiny but 
 bills and bailiffs, a husband in prison, children in want, 
 and herself in indigence ? 
 
 Another approaches with his pockets stuffed with 
 gingerbread, and his hands full of macaroons ; he pro- 
 fesses himself to be so fond of good things that he 
 spends the greater part of his pocket money at the 
 pastry-cook's ; his parents allow Inm to partake of every 
 dish that comes on the table, and to stuff as long as he 
 pleases ; and he owns that he considers dinner-time the 
 best part of the day. I need not feel this young 
 gentleman's pulse in order to predict to him an im- 
 paired constitution, and an early decay of his mental 
 powers. Complicated disease, and premature old age 
 are the invariable rewards of indulgence. These habits 
 will increase with his years ; a Hstless, burdensome life, 
 and early death is his probable destiny. 
 
 The next applicant appears with a frowning brow, 
 and a discontented, clouded aspect. His temper is 
 sullen and obstinate, or fretful and irritable. He wishes 
 to know if anything agreeable will ever befall him, for at 
 
OWN FORTUNE-TELLER. 145 
 
 present he has known only unhappiness. Alas, nothing 
 but unhappiness can I predict to him. He may grow 
 rich and prosper in the world, but he will ever " dwell 
 in Meshech : '* his family will dread, and his neighbors 
 dislike him ; and his gold, if he has it, will never pur- 
 chase that ease and content which is the reward of 
 good-nature only. 
 
 Another inquirer I shall suppose to be an undutiful 
 son, who has ever rewarded his parents' care and kind- 
 ness with neglect, disrespect and disobedience. Now, 
 on this case I can pronounce with a greater degree of 
 .certainty than on any of the preceding. Some faults 
 never appear to meet their proper punishment in this 
 world ; but it is a common remark, founded on long 
 observation, that unkindness to parents, above all other 
 crimes, reaps its reward even here. This youth then, 
 if he becomes a parent, will be taught by refractory, 
 rebellious children the anguish he has inflicted on his 
 own parents. A rebellious son, an ungrateful daughter, 
 must expect in due time to become an unhappy father, 
 or despised mother. 
 
 Another informs me he has had a religious education, 
 and that he is in a great degree aware of the importance 
 of religion, and of the value of his soul ; moreover, he 
 intends before long to give it the attention it demands ; 
 but hitherto he has delayed to do so, from time to 
 time, hoping it would be less difficult at some future 
 period than it appears now j so that, at present, he is 
 as far from being truly rehgious, as he was when first 
 he began to think upon the subject. Now it requires 
 little sagacity to foresee the probable consequences of 
 this temper. I solemnly warn him that the same indis- 
 position that has hitherto prevailed, will, unless strongly 
 counteracted, continue and increase ; while he is in- 
 tending and purposing, his heart will grow harder and 
 harder, until it will finally be said of him, '^ Cut it 
 down, why cumbereth it the ground ? ** 
 
146 EVERY MAN HIS 
 
 I fear I shall be regarded as a gloomy pro.gnosticator ; 
 but I dare not depart from the rules of my art, which 
 are founded on universal experience, and on the es- 
 tablished laws of cause and effect. However, lest I be 
 thought too discouraging, I am happy to proclaim 
 that these destinies are, by no means, at present, to be 
 considered as unchangeable. On the contrary, if the 
 indolent should be roused, by a dread of the conse- 
 quences awaiting his disposition, to become active and 
 industrious ; the extravagant, moderate and frugal ; the 
 indulgent, self-denying and abstemious ; the ill-tem- 
 pered, mild and amiable ; the undutiful, affectionate and 
 tractable ; and if the procrastinator resolves at once 
 that he will serve the Lord, then it is obvious that all 
 my dark predictions will be immediately reversed. 
 
 For instance, let us suppose an inquirer of a different 
 description to any of the foregoing. A modest, ingen- 
 uous youth now approaches, wishing to know what en- 
 couragement he may expect in his exertions. He 
 confesses that he is not gifted with superior talents, and 
 therefore does not hope to arrive at any distinguished 
 eminence. It appears, however, that he early acquired 
 habits of attention and industry ; that he has courage 
 and perseverance to press forward in his undertakings 
 in spite of difficulties, till he has conquered them ; that 
 although his real wants are amply supphed, he has been 
 trained in frugality and self-denial ; therefore his wishes 
 are few and moderate, so that he has always his mite to 
 spare for the poor and the destitute. He cannot boast 
 of rich or powerful patrons, but his temper is sweet, and 
 his manners obliging, by which he obtains the good-will 
 of his neighbors. Moreover, he is a good son and a 
 kind brother ; and having been taught that " the fear 
 of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom," he has already 
 found " His ways to be pleasantness, and his paths 
 peace." Now, without presuming to guess whether 
 this will be a rich man, I hesitate not to pronounce 
 
OPVJV FORTUNE-TELLER. 147 
 
 him a happy one. He may encounter difficulties, and 
 pass through trials, but " his bread will be given him, 
 and his water will be sure," especially " that bread 
 which he casts upon the waters will return " to him, 
 when it is wanted, though " after many days." It is, 
 besides this, more than probable that he will eventually 
 he successful even in his temporal affairs ; that he will 
 be '' blessed in his basket and his store ; " rear an 
 affectionate family ; be beloved by his friends, and 
 respected by all ; finally, he will die in peace, and at 
 last " enter into the joy of his Lord." 
 
 It is not unusual for fortune-tellers to predict the day 
 of death ; and although, as I said, I make no such pre- 
 tensions, it may yet be expected that I should not be 
 totally silent on the subject. And while they who pre- 
 sume to do so are miserable deceivers, I can with the 
 most absolute certainty foretell what it is much more 
 important to know, namely, that '' it is appointed unto 
 all men once to die ; " the day and hour is indeed 
 unknown ; and yet each one may, for himself, look 
 forward to a period not very distant, when he may be 
 quite certain that he shall have reached his " long 
 home." To know that we must die one day is a far 
 more interesting fact than to know what day ; and this 
 is a circumstance which, surely, we may all foretell for 
 ourselves. 
 
 Is it not strange, that the grandest event of our exist- 
 ence — that part of our fortunes which it is of infinitely 
 greater consequence we should foreknow than whether 
 we are to be princes or beggars — we should so seldom 
 inquire about, although it is more easily ascertained 
 than any question respecting our temporal affairs ? I 
 mean, whether we are going to heaven or hell. Now, 
 to know this, we have only to ask whether or not we 
 are Christians. If conscience allows us humbly to hope 
 that we are so, in the Scriptural sense of the word, then 
 we are sure that the Lord is gone " to prepare a place 
 
14^ HIS OWN FORTUNE-TELLER. 
 
 for us" among the "many mansions in his Father's 
 house.'* But if we know that we are not true Chris- 
 tians, nor earnestly striving to become such, then, the 
 awful probability is, that we are doomed to the place 
 " prepared for the devil and his angels." 
 
 Thus, having explained and exemphfied my method, 
 so as to render it clear to their comprehensions, I trust 
 that every one of my readers will be able to predict all 
 that is good for them to know concerning their future 
 lives ; and I doubt not they will find it profitable to do 
 so. Should any think it an unsatisfactory and uncertain 
 plan, or flatter themselves, that although they may an- 
 swer some of the above descriptions, yet, that they shall 
 escape the appropriate punishment, I must tell them 
 that it is for want of knowing the world and themselves, 
 and for want of considering the natural and inevitable 
 consequences of things. 
 
 Anew year is 'now commencing. Let every one in- 
 quire how they have begun it. Is it with a resolution 
 to make renewed efforts to overcome their bad habits, 
 and to improve their manners and characters ; and have 
 they actually begun to make such efforts? Then I 
 prophesy a happy nev\^ year to them ; and that if they 
 persevere in their resolutions, it will be the happiest 
 they have ever known. But if, on the contrary, they 
 are beginning it in the old way, not more attentive to 
 business, nor watchful of their tempers and conduct, 
 not more concerned for their intellectual and rehgious 
 improvement than heretofore ; then, although they may 
 very likely have had a merry Christmas, I cannot wish 
 them a happy new year, because I know it would be in 
 vain to do so. For the saying is as true as it is trite, that 
 to be happy we must be good. The knowledge of this 
 is, in fact, the grand secret of my art ; and it is by con- 
 sulting this simple rule, that every man may be his own 
 fortune-teller. 
 
THE LIFE OF A LOOKING-GLASS, 149 
 
 THE LIFE OF A LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 To the Editor of the " Youth's Magazine " : 
 
 Sir, — It being very much the custom, as I am in- 
 formed, even for obscure individuals to furnish some 
 account of themselves, for the edification of the pubHc, 
 I hope I shall not be deemed impertinent for caUing 
 your attention to a few particula 's of my own history. 
 I cannot indeed, boast of any very extraordinary inci- 
 dents ; but having, during the course of a long life, had 
 much leisure and opportunity for observation, and 
 being naturally of a reflecting cast, I thought it might 
 be in my power to 'offer some remarks that may not be 
 wholly unprofitable to your readers. 
 
 My earliest recollection is that of a carver and gilder's 
 workshop ; where I remained for many months, leaning 
 with my face to the wall ; and having never known any 
 livelier scene, I was very well contented with my quiet 
 condition. The first object that I remember to have 
 arrested my attention was what I now believe must have 
 been a large spider, which, after a vast deal of scamper- 
 ing about, began, very deliberateb^ to weave a curious 
 web all over my face. This afford 3cl iTi ^ great amuse- 
 ment; and not then knowing w'lea f.i: >rvelier objects 
 were destined to my gaze, I did nc. ..esent the in- 
 
 At length, when little dreaming of any change of 
 fortune, I felt myself suddenly removed from my sta- 
 tion ; and immediately afterwards underwent a curious 
 operation, which at the time gave me considerable 
 apprehensions for my safety. But these were suc- 
 ceeded by pleasure, upon finding myself arrayed in a 
 broad, black frame, handsomely carved and gilt; for 
 
150 THE LIFE OF A LOOKING-GLASS, 
 
 you will please to observe that the period of which I 
 am now speaking was upwards of fourscore years ago. 
 This process being finished, I was presently placed, 
 very carefully, in a large packing-case, and sent a long 
 journey, by wagon, to London. That I may not be 
 tedious, I will not here stay to relate the surprise and 
 terror I endured during this transportation ; nor the 
 serious apprehensions I entertained that my delicate 
 frame would never survive the jolts and jars it under- 
 went in the course of it. Indeed, I have reason to 
 beheve that I was in imminent danger many times ; 
 not to mention the extreme darkness and dreariness of 
 my situation. How sincerely did I then wish to be 
 replaced in my old quiet corner; which appeared 
 cheerfulness itself, compared with my present forlorn 
 condition. So little are we capable of judging what 
 circumstances will eventually prove most conducive to 
 our happiness ! At last, after many, to me, unintelli- 
 gible movements, I found to my great joy that my 
 prison was being unbarred. The cheerful light once 
 again shone upon me ; and a person, whom I after- 
 wards found to be my new master's apprentice (and 
 with whom I soon became well acquainted) lifted me 
 carefully out. No sooner had he cleared away from 
 my face the straw and paper with which I had been 
 well nigh suffocated, than, as I observed, he gave me 
 a very significant look ; which, to confess the truth, I 
 took, at the time, for a compliment to myself; but I 
 have since learned to interpret such comphments more 
 truly. Striking, indeed, was the contrast between my 
 late mode of life and that to which I was now intro- 
 duced. My new situation was in the shop Window, 
 with my face to the street, — which was one of the 
 most public in London. Here my attention was at 
 first quite distracted by the constant succession of 
 objects that passed before me. But it was not long 
 before I began to remark the considerable degree of 
 
THE LIFE OF A LOOKING-GLASS. 151 
 
 attention I myself excited ; and how much I was dis- 
 tinguished, in this respect, from my neighbors, the 
 other articles, in the shop window. I observed that 
 passengers, who appeared to be posting away upon 
 urgent business, would often just turn and give me a 
 friendly glance as they passed. But I was particularly 
 gratified to observe, that while the old, the shabby, 
 and the wretched, seldom took any notice of me, the 
 young, the gay, and the handsome, generally paid me 
 this compliment ; and that these good-looking people 
 always seemed the best pleased with me ; which I at- 
 tributed to their superior discernment. I well remem- 
 ber one young lady, who used to pass my master's shop 
 regularly every morning in her way to school, and who 
 never omitted to turn her head to look at me as she went 
 by ; so that, at last, we became well acquainted with each 
 other. I must confess, that at this period of life, I 
 was in great danger of becoming insufferably vain, from 
 the attentions that were then paid me ; and, perhaps, 
 I am not the only individual to whom a sudden re- 
 moval from retirement to a more public mode of life, 
 has proved a hazardous and trying event to the charac- 
 ter ; nor the only one who has formed mistaken notions 
 as to the attentions they receive in society. 
 
 My vanity, however, received a considerable check 
 from one circumstance ; nearly all the goods by which 
 I was surrounded in the shop window, though many 
 of them much more homely in their structure, and 
 humble in their destinations, were disposed of sooner 
 than myself. I had the mortification of seeing one 
 after another bargained for and sent away, while I re- 
 mained, month after month, without a purchaser. At 
 last, however, a gentleman and lady from the country, 
 who had been standing some time in the street, in- 
 specting, and, as I perceived, conversing about me, 
 walked into the shop ; and after some altercation with 
 my master, agreed to purchase me : upon which I 
 
152 THE LIFE OF A LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 was once more packed up, and sent off on a longer 
 journey than before. I was far less disconcerted, this 
 time, by my unpleasant circumstances, than during my 
 first journey ; concluding they would terminate, as be- 
 fore, in a change for the better, — another proof of our 
 incompetence to judge of the real tendency of passing 
 events. I was very curious, you may suppose, upon 
 arriving at my new quarters, to see what kind of life I 
 was likely to lead. I remained, however, some time 
 unmolested in my packing case, and very flat I felt 
 there. Upon being, at last, unpacked, I found myself 
 in the stone hall of a large, lone house in the country. 
 My master and mistress, I soon learned, were new- 
 married people, just setting up house-keeping; and I 
 was intended to decorate their best parlor; to which 
 I was presently conveyed ; and after some little dis- 
 cussion between them in fixing my longitude and lat- 
 itude, I was hung up opposite the fire-place, in an 
 angle of ten degrees from the wall, according to the 
 fashion of those times. I felt, at first, very well pleased 
 with my new situation, and looked with complacency 
 upon the various objects before me, which, like myself, 
 were then new and handsome. But perhaps I should 
 have experienced some dismay, if I could have known 
 that I was destined to spend fifty years in that spot 
 without undergoing, any change myself, or witnessing 
 any in the things that surrounded me, except, indeed, 
 that imperceptibly produced by time. 
 
 Yes, there I hung, year after year, almost in perpet- 
 ual solitude. My master and mistress were sober, 
 regular, old-fashioned people ; they saw no company 
 except at fair time and Christmas day ; on which 
 occasions only, they occupied the best parlor. My 
 countenance used to brighten up, when I saw the 
 annual fire kindled in that ample grate ; and when a 
 cheerful circle of country cousins assembled round it. 
 At those times, I always got a little notice from the 
 
THE LIFE OF A LOOKING-GLASS, 153 
 
 young folks ; but those festivities over, and I was con- 
 demned to another half year of complete loneliness. 
 How familiar to my recollection at this hour, is that 
 large, old-fashioned parlor ! I can remember, as well 
 as if I had seen them but yesterday, the noble flowers 
 on the crimson-damask chair-covers and window- 
 curtains j and those curiously carved tables and chairs. 
 I could describe every one of the stories on the Dutch 
 tiles that surrounded the grate ; the rich china orna- 
 ments on the wide mantel-piece ; and the pattern of 
 the paper-hangings, which consisted alternately of a 
 parrot, a poppy, and a shepherdess — a parrot, a pop- 
 py, and a shepherdess. The room being so little used, 
 the window-shutters were rarely opened, but there 
 were three holes cut in each, in the shape of a heart, 
 through which, day after day, and year after year, I 
 used to watch the long, dim, dusty sunbeams, stream- 
 ing across the dark parlor. I should mention, however, 
 that I seldom missed a short visit from my master and 
 mistress on a Sunday morning, when they came down 
 stairs, ready dressed for church. I can remember how 
 my mistress used to trot in upon her high-heeled 
 shoes, unfold a leaf of one of the shutters, then come 
 and stand straight before me ; then turn half round 
 to the right and left ; never failing to see if the comer 
 of her well-starched handkerchief was pinned exactly 
 in the middle. I think I can see her now, in her 
 favorite dove-colored lustring (which she wore every 
 Sunday in every summer for seven years at the least), 
 and her long full ruffles, and worked apron. Then 
 followed my good master ; who, though his visit was 
 somewhat shorter, never failed to come and settle his 
 Sunday wig before me. 
 
 Time rolled away : and my master and mistress, 
 with all that appertained to them, insensibly suffered 
 from its influence. When I first knew them, they 
 were a young, blooming couple as you would wish to 
 
154 THE LIFE OF A LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 see: but I gradually perceived an alteration. My 
 mistress began to stoop a little ; and my master got a 
 cough, which troubled him, more or less, to the end 
 of his days. At first, and for many years, my mistress's 
 foot upon the stairs was light and nimble, and she 
 would come in as blithe and as brisk as a lark ; but at 
 last, it was a slow, heavy step ; and even my master's 
 began to totter. And, in these respects, everything 
 else kept pace with them. The crimson damask that 
 I remembered so fresh and bright, was now faded and 
 worn; the dark polished mahogany was, in some 
 places, worm-eaten ; the parrot's gay plumage on the 
 walls grew dull ; and I myself, though long unconscious 
 of it, partook of the universal decay. The dissipated 
 taste I acquired, upon my first introduction to society, 
 had long since subsided ; and the quiet sombre life I 
 led, gave me a grave, meditative turn. The change 
 which I witnessed in all things around me, caused me to 
 reflect much on their vanity; and when, upon the 
 occasions before mentioned, I used to see the gay, 
 blooming faces of the young saluting me with so much 
 complacency, I would fain have admonished them of 
 the alteration they must soon undergo; and have 
 told them how certainly their bloom, also, must fade 
 away as a flower. But, alas ! you know, sir, looking- 
 glasses can only reflect. 
 
 After I had remained in this condition, to the best 
 of my knowledge, about five and forty years, I sudden- 
 ly missed my poor old master. ^ He came to visit me 
 no more ; and by the change in my mistress's apparel, 
 I guessed what had happened. Five years more 
 passed away ; and then I saw no more of her. In a 
 short time after this, several rude strangers entered my 
 room; the long, rusty screw, which had held me up 
 so many years, was drawn out ; and I, together with 
 all the goods and chattels in the house, was put up at 
 auction, in that very apartment which I had so long 
 
THE LIFE OF A LOOKING-GLASS. 155 
 
 peaceably occupied. I felt a good deal hurt at the 
 very contemptuous terms in which I was spoken of by 
 some of the bidders \ for, as I said, I was not aware 
 that I had become as old-fashioned as my poor old 
 master and mistress. At last I was knocked down for 
 a trifling sum, and sent away to a very different 
 destination. 
 
 Before going home to my new residence, I was 
 sent to a workman to be refitted in a new gilt frame ; 
 which, although it completely modernized my appear- 
 ance, I must confess, at first, set very uneasily upon 
 me. And now, although it was not till my old age, I 
 for the first time became acquainted with my natural 
 use, capacity, and importance. My new station was 
 no other than the dressing-room of a young lady, just 
 come from school. Before I was well fixed in the 
 destined spot, she came to survey me, and with a look 
 of such complacency and good-will, as I had not seen 
 for many a day. I was now presently initiated in all 
 the mysteries of the toilet. Oh, what an endless 
 variety of laces, jewels, silks, and ribbons ; pins, combs, 
 cushions, and curling-irons ; washes, essences, pow- 
 ders, and patches, were daily spread before me ! If I 
 had been heretofore almost tired with the sight of my 
 good old mistress's everlasting lustring, I really felt 
 still more so with this profusion of ornament and prep- 
 aration. I was indeed, favored with my fair mistress's 
 constant attentions. They were so unremitting as 
 perfectly to astonish me, after being so long accus- 
 tomed to comparative neglect. Never did she enter 
 her room, on the most hasty errand, without just 
 vouchsafing me a kind glance ; and at leisure hours I 
 was indulged with much longer visits. Indeed, to 
 confess the truth, I was sometimes quite surprised at 
 their length ; but I don't mean to tell tales. During 
 the hour of dressing, when I was more professionally 
 engaged with her, there was, I could perceive, nothing 
 
156 THE LIFE OF A LOOKING-GLASS, 
 
 fti the room, in the house, nay, I believe nothing in the 
 world, of so much importance in her estimation as my- 
 self. But I have frequently remarked, with concern, 
 the different aspect with which she would regard me at 
 those times, and when she returned at night from the 
 evening's engagements. However late it was, or how- 
 ever fatigued she might be, still I was sure of a greet- 
 ing the moment she entered ; but instead of the bright, 
 blooming face I had seen a few hours before, it was 
 generally pale and haggard, and not unfrequently 
 bearing a strong expression of disappointment or 
 chagrin. 
 
 My mistress would frequently bring a crowd of her 
 young companions into her apartment : and it was 
 amusing to see how they would each in turn come to 
 pay their respects to me. What varied features and 
 expressions in the course of a few minutes I had thus 
 an opportunity of observing ! — upon which I used to 
 make my own quiet reflections. 
 
 In this manner I continued some years in the service 
 of my mistress, without any material alteration taking 
 place either in her or in me. But, at length, I began 
 to perceive that her aspect towards me was consider- 
 ably changed, especially when I compared it with my 
 first recollections of her. She now appeared to regard 
 me with somewhat less complacency ; and would fre- 
 quently survey me with a mingled expression of 
 displeasure and suspicion, as though some change had 
 taken place in me^ though I am sure it was no fault of 
 mine ; indeed, I could never reflect upon myself for 
 a moment. With regard to my conduct towards any 
 of my owners, I have ever been a faithful servant ; nor 
 have I once, in the course of my whole life, given a 
 false answer to any one I have had to do with. I am, 
 by nature, equally averse to flattery and detraction ; 
 and this I may say for myself, that I am incapable of 
 misrepresentation. It was with mingled sensations of 
 
THE LIFE OF A LOOKING-GLASS, 157 
 
 contempt and compassion, that I witnessed the efforts 
 my mistress now made in endeavoring to force me to 
 yield the same satisfaction to her as I had done upon 
 our first acquaintance. Perhaps, in my confidential 
 situation, it would be scarcely honorable to disclose all 
 I saw. Suffice it then to hint that to my candid tem- 
 per it was painful to be obliged to connive at that 
 borrowed bloom, which, after all, was a substitute for 
 that of nature ; time, too, greatly baffled even these 
 expedients, and threatened to render them wholly 
 ineffectual. Many a cross and reproachful look had I 
 now to endure ; which, how^ever, I took patiently, 
 being always remarkably smooth and even in my tem- 
 per. Well remembering how sadly Time had spoiled 
 the face of my poor old mistress, I dreaded the 
 consequences if my present owner should experience, 
 by and by, as rough treatment from him ; and I be- 
 lieve she dreaded it too. But these apprehensions 
 were needless. Time is not seldom arrested in the 
 midst of his occupations ; and it was so in this in- 
 stance. I was one day greatly shocked by beholding 
 my poor mistress stretched out in a remote part of the 
 room, arrayed in very different ornaments to those I 
 had been used to see her wear. She was so much 
 altered that I scarcely knew her; but for this she 
 could not now reproach me. I watched her thus for 
 a few days, as she lay before me, as cold and motion- 
 less as myself But she was soon conveyed away; 
 and I, shortly aftenvards, was engaged in the service 
 of another mistress. 
 
 My new station was, in some respects, very similar 
 to my last; that is, I was again placed in a young 
 lady's apartment, where I did not doubt but I should 
 be called to witness the same appearances and opera- 
 tions as before ; but in this I was mistaken. The 
 first circumstance that made me suspect my new 
 mistress differed from my late one, was, that when she 
 
158 THE LIFE OF A LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 first entered her chamber after my arrival, I observed 
 that she remained there for a considerable time, and 
 at last went out again without taking the least notice 
 of me. This surprised me exceedingly. The first 
 time I had a full view of her, was the next morning as 
 soon as she arose, when she came and spent a very 
 few minutes in my company, adjusting a neat morning 
 dress, and combing out some pretty, simple ringlets 
 upon her fair forehead. It was not such a fine formed 
 face as I remember my last mistress's was, when I 
 first entered her service ; but having, by this time, 
 from the nature of my studies, acquired considerable 
 skill in physiognomy, I confess it pleased me much 
 better. And although I soon found I should meet with 
 much less attention here than I had lately been accus- 
 tomed to, I was now too old, and knew too well how to 
 estimate those attentions, to feel at all mortified at the 
 neglect. The visits my new mistress paid me were very 
 regular. About thrice in the day she used to avail her- 
 self for a short time of my services ; and while on these 
 occasions I never remember to have received a cross 
 or discontented look from her, so I never, on the 
 other hand, witnessed that expression of secret satis- 
 faction, or anxious inquiry, which I had often hereto- 
 fore had occasion to remark. 
 
 My mistress spent much time alone in her chamber ; 
 but it was rarely indeed, that she took any notice of 
 me, except at those times when I was really wanted. 
 I have known her sit many a time, for two or three 
 hours, working or reading at the table over which I 
 hung, without once lifting up her head to look at me ; 
 though I could see her all the time. I have observ^ed 
 her light figure pass and repass twenty times before 
 me, without her once glancing at me as she went by. 
 Thus we lived together very good friends ; neither of 
 us making any unreasonable demands upon the other. 
 Time, as usual, passed away; but I was particularly 
 
THE LIFE OF A LOOKING-GLASS. 159 
 
 Struck in observing the different effect of his operations 
 on the countenance of Iny present possessor, and that 
 of my last. There was, of course, in a few years some 
 visible alteration ; but although the bloom of youth 
 began to fade, there was nothing less of sweetness, 
 cheerfulness, and contentment in her expression. She 
 retained the same placid smile, the same unclouded 
 brow, the same mildness in her eye (though it was 
 somewhat less sparkling), as when it first beamed upon 
 me ten years before. 
 
 I saw here but few fine things and little variety, — 
 except such as the changing seasons, and a moderate 
 attention to changing fashions occasioned, — but then, 
 I was never annoyed, as I had been in my last place, 
 with that heterogeneous mixture of fragments of lit- 
 tered finery with which the room and dressing-table 
 used to be scattered in all directions, after the grand 
 operation was over ; and which lay full in my view for 
 hours, till my mistress's return at night, or more often 
 till the next morning. All here was neat and orderly ; 
 which to me was a very great accommodation ; having 
 acquired, in early Ufe, from the orderly habits of my 
 poor old mistress, such a love of neatness, that any- 
 thing untidy was particularly offensive to me. I be- 
 came, as you may easily imagine, much attached to 
 my present employer, and wished for nothing better 
 than to pass the remainder of my days in her service ; 
 but herein I was disappointed. 
 
 One morning early, she appeared before me, sur- 
 rounded by several fair attendants, and devoted to me 
 a little more time and attention than was usual with 
 her. I shall never forget the expression of her 
 countenance, as she stood arrayed all in white, and 
 gave me one more pensive look, which I little thought, 
 at the time, would be the last I should ever receive 
 from her ; but so it was. There was a great bustle in 
 
i6o THE LIFE OF A LOOKING-GLASS, 
 
 the house that morning (whafever was the reason), and 
 I saw my fair mistress no more ! 
 
 Ever since, I have continued in quiet possession of 
 her deserted chamber ; which is only occasionally visit- 
 ed by other parts of the family. Sometimes my dear 
 mistress's favorite cat will steal in, as though in quest 
 of her; leap up upon the table, purr, and- sweep her 
 long tail across my face ; then, catching a glimpse of 
 me, jump down again, and run out as though she was 
 frightened. I feel that I am now getting old, and 
 almost beyond further service. I have an ugly crack 
 occasioned by the careless stroke of a broom, all 
 across my left corner ; my coat is very much worn in 
 several places ; even my new frame is now tarnished 
 and old-fashioned ; so that I cannot expect any new 
 employment. 
 
 Having now, therefore, nothing to reflect on but the 
 past scenes of my life, I have amused myself with 
 giving you this account of them. I said I had made 
 physiognomy my study, and that I had acquired some 
 skill in this interesting science. The result of my 
 observations will, at least, be deemed impartial, when 
 I say, that I am generally least pleased with the char- 
 acter of those faces, which appear the most so with 
 mine. And I have seen occasion so far to alter the 
 opinions of my inexperienced youth, that, for those 
 who pass the least time with me, and treat me with 
 little consideration, I conceive the highest esteem ; and 
 their aspect generally produces the most pleasing re- 
 flections. 
 
HOW IT STRIKES A STRANGER. i6l 
 
 HOW IT STRIKES A STRANGER. 
 
 In a remote period of antiquity, when the supernat- 
 ural and the marvellous obtained a readier credence 
 than now, it was fabled that a stranger of extraordinary 
 appearance was observed pacing the streets of one of 
 the magnificent cities of the East, remarking with an 
 eye of intelhgent curiosity every surrounding object. 
 Several individuals gathering around him, questioned 
 him concerning his country and his business ; but they 
 presently perceived that he was unacquainted with 
 their language, and he soon discovered himself to be 
 equally ignorant of the most common usages of soci- 
 ety. At the same time, the dignity and intelli- 
 gence of his air and demeanor forbade the idea of his 
 being either a barbarian or a lunatic. When at length 
 he understood by their signs that they wished to be 
 informed whence he came, he pointed with great signi- 
 ficance to the sky ; upon which the crowd, concluding 
 him to be one of their deities, were proceeding to pay 
 him divine honors. But he no sooner comprehended 
 their design than he rejected it with horror ; and 
 bending his knees and raising his hands towards 
 heaven in the attitude of prayer, gave them to under- 
 stand that he also was a worshipper of the powers 
 above. 
 
 After a time, it is said that the mysterious stranger 
 accepted the hospitalities of one of the nobles of the 
 city ; under whose roof he applied himself with great 
 diligence to the acquirement of the language, in which 
 he made such surprising proficiency, that in a few days 
 he was able to hold intelligent intercourse with those 
 around him. The noble host now resolved to take an 
 early opportunity of satisfying his curiosity respecting 
 
1 62 HOW IT STRIKES A STRANGER. 
 
 the country and quality of his guest ; and upon his ex- 
 pressing this desire, the stranger assured him that he 
 would answer his inquiries that evening after sunset. 
 Accordingly, as night approached, he led him forth upon 
 the balconies of the palace, which overlooked the weal- 
 thy and populous city. Innumerable lights from its busy 
 streets and splendid palaces were now reflected in the 
 dark bosom of its noble river ; where stately vessels 
 laden with rich merchandise from all parts of the known 
 world, lay anchored in the port. This was a city in 
 which the voice of the harp and of the viol, and the 
 sound of the mill-stone were continually heard ; and 
 craftsmen of all kinds of craft were there ; and the light 
 of a candle was seen in every dwelling ; and the voice of 
 the bridegroom and the voice of the bride were heard 
 there. The stranger mused awhile upon the glittering 
 scene, and listened to the confused murmur of ming- 
 ling sounds. Then suddenly raising his eyes to the 
 starry firmament, he fixed them with an expressive 
 gaze, on the beautiful evening star which was just sink- 
 ing behind a dark grove that surrounded one of the 
 principal temples of the city. " Marvel not," said he 
 to his host, '^ that I am wont to gaze with fond affec- 
 tion on yonder silvery star. That was my home. Yes, 
 I was lately an inhabitant of that tranquil planet ; from 
 whence a vain curiosity has tempted me to wander. 
 Often had I beheld with wondering admiration, this 
 brilliant world of yours, ever one of the brightest gems 
 of our firmament ; and the ardent desire I had long 
 felt to know something of its condition, was at length 
 unexpectedly gratified. I received permission and 
 power from above to traverse the mighty void, and to 
 direct my course to this distant sphere. To that, per- 
 mission, however, one condition was annexed, to which 
 my eagerness for the enterprise induced me hastily to 
 consent ; namely, that I must thenceforth remain an 
 inhabitant of this strange earth, and undergo all the 
 
HOW IT S TRUCES A STRANGER. 163 
 
 vicissitudes to which its natives are subject. Tell me 
 therefore, I pray you, what is the lot of man ; and ex- 
 plain to me more fully than I yet understand all that 
 I hear and see around me." 
 
 ^^ Truly, sir," replied the astonished noble, *' al- 
 though I am altogether unacquainted with the manners 
 and customs, products and privileges of your country, 
 yet methinks I cannot but congratulate you on your 
 arrival in our world ; especially since it has been your 
 good fortune to alight on a part of it affording such 
 various sources of enjoyment as this our opulent and 
 luxurious city. And be assured it will be my pride and 
 pleasure to introduce you to all that is most worthy 
 the attention of such a distinguished foreigner." 
 
 Our adventurer, accordingly, was presently initiated 
 in those arts of luxury and pleasure which were there 
 well understood. He was introduced by his obliging 
 host to their public games and festivals ; to their theat- 
 rical diversions, and convivial assemblies ; and in a short 
 time he began to feel some relish for amusements, the 
 meaning of which, at first, he could scarcely compre- 
 hend. 
 
 The next lesson which it became desirable to impart 
 to him, was the necessity of acquiring wealth as the 
 only means of obtaining pleasure, — a fact which was 
 no sooner understood by the stranger than he grate- 
 fully accepted the offer of his friendly host to place 
 him in a situation in which he might amass riches. To 
 this object he began to apply himself with diligence ; 
 and was becoming in some measure reconciled to the 
 manners and customs of our planet, strangely as they 
 differed from those of his own, w^hen an incident oc- 
 curred which gave an entirely new direction to his 
 energies. 
 
 It was but a few weeks after his arrival on our earth, 
 when, walking in the cool of the day with his friend in 
 the outskirts of the city, his attention was arrested by 
 
1 64 HOW IT STRIKES A STRANGER. 
 
 the appearance of a spacious enclosure near which they 
 passed. He inquired the use to which it was appro- 
 priated. 
 
 '^It is," replied the nobleman, "a place of public 
 interment." 
 
 '' I do not understand you," said the stranger. 
 
 "It is the place," repeated his friend,' ''where we 
 bury our dead." 
 
 "- Excuse me, sir," replied his companion, with some 
 embarrassment, " I must trouble you to explain your- 
 self yet further." 
 
 The nobleman repeated the information in still 
 plainer terms. 
 
 " I am still at a loss to comprehend you perfectly," 
 said the stranger, turning deadly pale. "This must 
 relate to something of which I was not only totally igno- 
 rant in my own world, but of which I have, as yet, had 
 no intimation in yours. I pray you, therefore, to satisfy 
 my curiosity ; for if I have any clue to your meaning, 
 this, surely, is a matter of more mighty concernment 
 than any to which you have hitherto directed me." 
 
 " My good friend," replied the nobleman, " you 
 must be indeed a novice amongst us, if you have yet to 
 learn that we must all, sooner or later, submit to take 
 our place in these dismal abodes. Nor will I deny 
 that it is one of the least desirable of the circumstances 
 which appertain to our condition ; for which reason it 
 is a matter rarely referred to in polished society, and 
 this accounts for your being hitherto uninformed on 
 the subject. But truly, sir, if the inhabitants of the 
 place whence you came are not liable to any similar 
 misfortune, I advise you to betake yourself back again 
 with all speed ; for be assured there is no escape here ; 
 nor could I guarantee your safety for a single hour." 
 
 " Alas," rephed the adventurer, " I must submit to 
 the conditions of my enterprise ; of which, till now, I 
 little understood the import. But explain to me, I 
 
HOW IT STRIKES A STRANGER. 165 
 
 beseech you, something more of the nature and conse- 
 quences of this wondrous metamorphosis, and tell me at 
 what period it most commonly happens to man." 
 
 While he thus spoke, his voice faltered, and his 
 whole frame shook violently ; his countenance was pale 
 as death, and a cold dew stood in large drops upon his 
 forehead. 
 
 By this time his companion, finding the discourse 
 becoming more serious than was agreeable, declared 
 that he must refer him to the priests for further informa- 
 tion ; this subject being very much out of his province. 
 
 '^ How ! " exclaimed the stranger, " then I cannot 
 have understood you. Do the priests only die ? — are 
 you not to die also ? " 
 
 His friend, evading these questions, hastily conducted 
 his importunate companion to one of their magnificent 
 temples, where he gladly consigned him to the instruc- 
 tions of the priesthood. 
 
 The emotion which the stranger had betrayed when 
 he received the first idea of death, was yet slight in 
 comparison with that which he experienced as soon as 
 he gathered from the discourses of the priests, some 
 notion of immortality ; and of the alternative of happi- 
 ness or misery in a future state. But this agony of 
 mind was exchanged for transport when he learned, 
 that by the performance of certain conditions before 
 death, the state of happiness might be secured. His 
 eagerness to learn the nature of these terms, excited 
 the surprise and even the contempt of his sacred teach- 
 ers. They advised him to remain satisfied for the 
 present with the instructions he had received, and to 
 defer the remainder of the discussion till the morrow. 
 
 " How ! " exclaimed the novice, '^ say you not that 
 death may come at any hour ? — may it not then come 
 this hour ? And what if it should come before I have 
 performed these conditions ! Oh ! withhold not this 
 excellent knowledge from me a single moment ! " 
 
1 66 HOW IT STRIKES A STRANGER. 
 
 The priests suppressing a smile at his simplicity, then 
 proceeded to explain their theology to their attentive 
 auditor. But who shall describe the ecstasy of his 
 happiness when he was given to understand that the 
 required conditions were, generally, of easy and pleas- 
 ant performance ; and that the occasional difficulties or 
 inconveniences which might attend them, would entirely 
 cease with the short term of his earthly existence. '' If 
 then, I understand you rightly," said he to his instruc- 
 tors, ^^ this event which you call death, and which seems 
 in itself strangely terrible, is most desirable and blissful. 
 What a favor is this which is granted to me, in being 
 sent to inhabit a planet in which I can die ! " The 
 priests again exchanged smiles with each other; but 
 their ridicule was wholly lost upon the enraptured 
 stranger. 
 
 When the first transports of his emotion had sub- 
 sided, he began to reflect with sore uneasmess on the 
 time he had already lost since his arrival. 
 
 " Alas, what have I been doing ! " exclaimed he. 
 ^' This gold which I have been collecting, tell me, 
 reverend priests, will it avail me anything when the 
 thirty or forty years are expired which, you say, I may 
 possibly sojourn in your planet ! " 
 
 ^' Nay," replied the priests, '' but verily you will find 
 it of excellent use so long as you remain in it." 
 
 " A very little of it shall suffice me," rephed he ; 
 '^ for consider, how soon this period will be past. What 
 avails it what my condition may be for so short a sea- 
 son ? I will betake myself from this hour to the grand 
 concerns of which you have charitably informed me." 
 
 Accordingly, from that period, continues the legend, 
 the stranger devoted himself to the performance of 
 those conditions on which, he was told, his future wel- 
 fare depended ; but in so doing, he had an opposition 
 to encounter wholly unexpected, and for which he 
 was even at a loss to account. By thus devoting his 
 
SOLILOQUIES. 167 
 
 chief attention to his chief interests, he excited the sur- 
 prise, the contempt, and even the enmity of most of 
 the inhabftants of the city ; and they rarely mentioned 
 liim but with a term of reproach, which has been 
 variously rendered in all the modern languages. 
 
 Nothing could equal the stranger's surprise at this cir- 
 cumstance ; as well as that of his fellow- citizens appear- 
 ing, generally, so extremely indifferent as they did to 
 their own interests. That they should have so little 
 prudence and forethought as to provide only for their 
 necessities and pleasures for that short part of their 
 existence in which they were to remain in this planet 
 he could consider only as the effect of disordered in- 
 tellect; so that he even returned their incivilities to 
 himself with affectionate expostulation, accompanied by 
 lively emotions of compassion and amazement. 
 
 If ever he was tempted for a moment to violate any 
 of the conditions of his future happiness, he bewailed 
 his own madness with agonizing emotions ; and to all 
 the invitations he received from others to do anything in- 
 consistent with his real interests, he had but one answer : 
 '' Oh," he would say, " I am to die 1 — I am to die ! " 
 
 SOLILOQUIES OF THE OLD PHILOSOPHER 
 AND THE YOUNG LADY. 
 
 "Alas!" exclaimed a silver-headed sage, "how 
 narrow is the utmost extent of human knowledge ; how 
 circumscribed the sphere of intellectual exertion ! I 
 have spent my life in acquiring knowledge, but how 
 little do I know ! The farther I attempt to penetrate 
 the secrets of nature, the more I am bewildered and 
 benighted. Beyond a certain Hmit all is but confusion 
 
1 68 SOLILOQ UIES. 
 
 or conjecture ; so that the advantage of the learned 
 over the ignorant consists greatly in having ascertained 
 how little is to be known. 
 
 " It is true that I can measure the sun, and compute 
 the distances of the planets ; I can calculate their pe- 
 riodical movements ; and even ascertain the laws by 
 which they perform their subUme revolutions. But with 
 regard to their construction, to the beings which inhabit 
 them, — of their condition and circumstances, whether 
 natural or moral, what do I know more than the clown ? 
 
 " Delighting to examine the economy of nature in 
 our own world, I have analyzed the elements ; and have 
 given names to their component parts. And yet, should 
 I not be as much at a loss to explain the burning of 
 fire, or to account for the liquid quality of water, as 
 the vulgar who use and enjoy them without thought or 
 examination ? 
 
 " I remark that all bodies, unsupported, fall to the 
 ground ; and I am taught to account for this by the 
 law of gravitation. But what have I gained here more 
 than a term ? Does it convey to my mind any idea of 
 the nature of that mysterious and invisible chain, which 
 draws all things to a common centre ? I observe the 
 effect, I give a name to the cause, but can I explain or 
 comprehend it? 
 
 " Pursuing the track of the naturalist, I have learned 
 to distinguish the animal, vegetable, and mineral king- 
 doms, and to divide these into their distinct tribes and 
 families ; but can I tell, after all this toil, whence a single 
 blade of grass derives its vitality? Could the most 
 minute researches enable me to discover the exquisite 
 pencil that paints and fringes the flower of the field ? 
 Have I ever detected the secret that gives their brilhant 
 dye to the ruby and the emerald, or the art that enam- 
 els the delicate shell? 
 
 " I observe the sagacity of animals ; I call it instinct, 
 and speculate upon its various degrees of approxima- 
 
SOLILOQUIES. 169 
 
 tion to the reason of man. But after all, I know as 
 little of the cogitations of the brute as he does of mine. 
 When I see a flight of birds overhead, performing their 
 evolutions, or steering their course to some distant 
 settlement, their signals and cries are as unintelligible 
 to me as are the learned languages to the unlettered 
 mechanic. I understand as little of their policy and 
 laws as they do of Blackstone's Commentaries. 
 
 " But leaving the material creation, my thoughts have 
 often ascended to loftier subjects, and indulged in 
 metaphysical speculation. And here, while I easily 
 perceive in myself the two distinct qualities of matter 
 and mind, I am baffled in every attempt to comprehend 
 their mutual dependence and mysterious connection. 
 When my hand moves in obedience to my will, have I 
 the most distant conception of the manner in which 
 the voHtion is either communicated or understood? 
 Thus in the exercise of one of the most simple and 
 ordinary actions, I am perplexed and confounded, if 
 I attempt to account for it. 
 
 '' Again, how many years of my life were devoted to 
 the acquisition of those languages by the means of 
 which I might explore the records of remote ages, and 
 become familiar with the learning and literature of other 
 times ! And what have I gathered from these but the 
 mortifying fact, that man has ever been struggling with 
 his own impotence, and vainly endeavoring to overleap 
 the bounds which limit his anxious inquiries. 
 
 " Alas, then, what have I gained by my laborious 
 researches but a humbling conviction of my weakness 
 and ignorance ? Of how little has man, at his best estate, 
 to boast ! What folly in him to glory in his contracted 
 powers, or to value himself upon his imperfect acqui- 
 sitions ! " 
 
 " Well ! " exclaimed a young lady, just returned 
 from school, " my education is at last finished. Indeed 
 
170 SOLILOQUIES. 
 
 it would be strange, if, after five years' hard application, 
 anything were left incomplete. Happily that it is all 
 over now ; and I have nothing to do but to exercise 
 my various accomplishments. 
 
 '' Let me see, as to French, I am mistress of that, 
 and speak it, if possible, with more fluency^ than Eng- 
 lish. Italian I can read with ease, and pronounce very 
 well, — as well at least, and better, than any of my 
 friends ; and that is all one need wish for in ItaHan. 
 Music I have learned till I am perfectly sick of it. But, 
 now that we have a grand piano, it will be delightful to 
 play when we have company. I must still continue to 
 practise a little, — - the only thing, I think, that I need now 
 to improve myself in. And then there are my ItaHan 
 songs, which everybody allows I sing with taste ; and 
 as it is what so few people can pretend to, I am par- 
 ticularly glad that I can. 
 
 " My drawings are universally admired, — especially 
 the shells and flowers ; which are beautiful, certainly. 
 Besides this, I have a decided taste in all kinds of 
 fancy ornaments. 
 
 " And then, my dancing and waltzing ; in which our 
 master himself owned that he could take me no further — 
 just the figure for it certainly ; it would be unpardonable 
 if I did not excel. 
 
 '^ As to common things, geography, and history, and 
 poetry, and philosophy, — thank my stars, I have got 
 through them all ; so that I may consider myself not 
 only perfectly accomplished, but also thoroughly well 
 informed. 
 
 " Well, to be sure, how much I have fagged through ! 
 The only wonder is that one head can contain it all ! " 
 
THE PHILOSOPHER'S SCALES. I 71 
 
 THE PHILOSOPHER'S SCALES. 
 
 In days of yore, as Gothic fable tells, 
 When learning dimly gleamed from grated cells, 
 When wild Astrology's distorted eye 
 Shunned the fair field of true philosophy, 
 And wandering through the depths of mental night, 
 Sought dark predictions 'mid the worlds of light ; 
 When curious Alchemy, with puzzled brow. 
 Attempted things that Science laughs at now, — 
 Losing the useful purpose she consults. 
 In vain chimeras and unknown results, — 
 In those gray times there lived a reverend sage, 
 Whose wisdom shed its lustre on the age. 
 A monk he was, immured in cloistered walls, 
 Where now the ivied ruin crumbling falls. 
 'T was a profound seclusion that he chose ; 
 The noisy world disturbed not that repose. 
 The flow of murmuring waters, day by day. 
 And whistling winds, that forced their tardy way 
 Through reverend trees, of ages' growth, that made 
 Around the holy pile a deep monastic shade ; 
 The chanted psalm, or solitary prayer — 
 Such were the sounds that broke the silence there. 
 
 'T was here, when his rites sacerdotal were o'er. 
 In the depths of his cell, with its stone-covered floor, 
 Resigning to thought his chimerical brain, 
 He formed the contrivance we now shafl explain. 
 But whether by magic or alchemy's powers, 
 We know not, indeed 't is no business of ours. 
 Perhaps it was only by patience and care. 
 At last that he brouo^ht his invention to bear. 
 
172 THE PHILOSOPHER'S SCALES. 
 
 In youth 't was projected ; but years stole away, 
 And ere 't was complete he was wrinkled and gray ; 
 But success is secure unless energy fails ; 
 And at length he produced The Philosopher* s Scales, 
 
 What were they, you ask. You shall presently see 
 These scales were not made to weigh sugar and tea ; 
 Oh, no ; for such properties wondrous had they, 
 That quaHties, feelings, and thoughts they could 
 
 weigh ; 
 Together with articles small or immense. 
 From mountains or planets to atoms of sense. 
 Nought was there so bulky but there it could lay ; 
 And nought so ethereal but there it would stay ; 
 And nought so reluctant but in it must go ; 
 All which some examples more clearly will show. 
 
 The first thing he tried was the head of Voltaire, 
 Which retained all the wit that had ever been there. 
 As a weight, he threw in a torn scrap of a leaf, 
 Containing the prayer of the penitent thief; 
 When the skull rose aloft with so sudden a spell, 
 As to bound like a ball on the roof of the cell. 
 
 Next time he put in Alexander the Great ^ 
 With a garment that Dorcas had made — for a 
 
 weight ; 
 And though clad in armor fi*om sandals to crown, 
 The hero rose up, and the garment went down. 
 
 A long row of alms-houses, amply endowed. 
 By a well-esteemed pharisee, busy and proud. 
 Now loaded one scale, while the other was prest 
 By those mites the poor widow dropped into the 
 
 chest. 
 Up flew the endowment, not weighing an ounce, 
 And down, down, the farthing's worth came with a 
 
 bounce. 
 
THE PHILOSOPHER'S SCALES. 173 
 
 Again he performed an experiment rare ; 
 A monk, with austerities bleeding and bare, 
 CHmbed into his scale ; in the other was laid 
 The heart of our Howard, now partly decayed ; 
 When he found, with surprise, that the whole of his 
 
 brother 
 Weighed less, by some pounds, than this bit of the 
 
 other. 
 
 By further experiments (no matter how) 
 He found that ten chariots weighed less than one 
 
 plough. 
 A sword, with gilt trappings, rose up in the scale, 
 Though balanced by only a ten-penny nail ; 
 A shield and a helmet, a buckler and spear. 
 Weighed less than a widow's uncrystaUized tear. 
 A lord and a lady went up at full sail. 
 When a bee chanced to light on the opposite scale. 
 Ten doctors, ten lawyers, two courtiers, one earl, 
 Ten counsellor's wigs full of powder and curl. 
 All heaped in one balance, and swinging from thence. 
 Weighed less than some atoms of candor and 
 
 sense ; — 
 A first-water diamond, with briUiants begirt. 
 Than one good potato, just washed from the dirt. 
 Yet not mountains of silver and gold would suffice. 
 One pearl to outweigh — 't was " the pearl of great 
 
 price." 
 
 At last the whole world was bowled in at the grate. 
 With the soul of a beggar to serve for a weight ; 
 When the former sprang up with so strong a rebuff, 
 That it made a vast rent, and escaped at the roof; 
 Whence, balanced in air, it ascended on high, 
 And sailed up aloft, a balloon in the sky ; 
 While the scale with the soul in so mightily fell, 
 That it jerked the philosopher out of his cell. 
 
174 I CAN DO WITHOUT IT. 
 
 MORAL. 
 
 Dear reader, if e'er self-deception prevails, 
 We pray you to try The Philosopher's Scales. 
 But if they are lost in the ruins around, 
 Perhaps a good substitute thus may be found : 
 'htt Judgment and conscie7ice in circles be cut, 
 To which strings of thought may be carefully put ; 
 Let these be made even with caution extreme, 
 And impartiality use for a beam ; 
 Then bring those good actions which pride overrates, 
 And tear up your motives to serve for the weights. 
 
 "I CAN DO WITHOUT IT." 
 
 This is one of the best mottos in the world, or one 
 of the worst, according to the meaning attached to it : 
 which will appear from the conduct of two young 
 people who were acquainted with each other ; each of 
 whom happened to take the above sentence into fre- 
 quent use. Eliza disliked and ridiculed the manner 
 in which it was apphed by Ruth ; and Ruth could not 
 but disapprove of the way in which it was used by 
 Eliza. The purpose to which Ruth appropriated the 
 words, and the way in which she came to adopt them 
 as her motto, shall be explained in the present paper. 
 
 Her parents were persons of superior education, but 
 their income was limited and narrow ; so that they were 
 compelled by their circumstances, as well as inclined 
 by their good sense, to study economy. Ruth entered 
 into the prudent and sensible views of her parents at 
 an early age ; and her general conduct gave them so 
 
/ CAN DO WITHOUT IT 1 75 
 
 much satisfaction, that on the day she was fourteen, 
 her mother informed her that from that time she should 
 be intrusted with the purchase and entire management 
 of her own dress, and that her annual allowance would 
 be increased accordingly. The sum now allotted to 
 her was such as her mother considered sufficient, with 
 prudence and management, to meet all her real wants 
 and reasonable wishes. 
 
 When Ruth received her first quarterage, the posses- 
 sion of a sum of money so much larger than she had 
 ever been mistress of before, made her feel a little 
 giddy. However, she deposited it safely in her desk, 
 resolving not to touch it till it was really wanted. 
 Economy, her mother told her, did not consist in 
 grudging to supply our wants, but in restraining the 
 desires for superfluities. Not many days after she had 
 entered upon this new responsibility, Ruth accom- 
 panied her father and mother to a neighboring market 
 town, where they frequently went to make purchases, 
 as they lived in the country. She had often been with 
 them on former occasions ; but it was with sensations 
 entirely new that she now walked through the busy 
 streets of this town, and passed its long rows of well- 
 furnished shops. Heretofore she had surveyed the 
 various tempting articles they exhibited merely as an 
 amusing spectacle ; and with no more idea of possess- 
 ing any of them than one has of purchasing the curi- 
 osities of a museum. But now circumstances were 
 altered. Here were things, and pretty things too, that 
 she might have if she pleased. And this thought, not- 
 withstanding Ruth's prudent temper and good resolu- 
 tions, presented itself to her mind temptingly. 
 
 The first thing that struck her as a real desideratum 
 was a steel purse, of which she saw several glittering in 
 a jeweller's window. There w^ere also silver ones, but 
 of these she did not allow herself to think. A new 
 purse, now that she had so much more to do with 
 money, appeared very suitable for a first pujrchase. 
 
176 I CAN DO WITHOUT IT. 
 
 "Mamma," said she,^ touching her mother's elbow, 
 " would you stop one minute ? I think I should like 
 one of those purses." Her mother, who was aware 
 that this day's excursion would prove rather trying to 
 her daughter's prudence, replied, " Yes, I will stop a 
 minute ; but we will wait here, that you may have time 
 to consider, before you go in, whether you want a new 
 purse." "To be sure," said Ruth, after a moment's 
 thought, " I have my old silk one ; but then, — ah 
 well, I can do without it," she added ; and without 
 giving another look at the shop window, she hastened 
 on. " Now," said her mother, " you have saved five 
 or six shillings, by that moment's consideration." 
 
 At this time beaver hats, trimmed with satin, were 
 much worn. There was a capital hatter's in the town ; 
 where two large bow windows, furnished with every 
 variety of shade and shape, to suit all fancies, caught 
 the eye of the fair passenger, — some loaded with nod- 
 ding plumes, others with most becoming pink satin 
 linings, and trimmings to match, and some with broad 
 embossed bands, and dangling tassels. 
 
 " Mamma," said Ruth again, as they passed this shop, 
 " would you stop one minute ? Don't you think a bea- 
 ver hat would be very warm and comfortable for me 
 this winter ? And besides how it would save my straw ! 
 This is a very pretty one, is it not ? — just my size, I 
 should think. Shall we go in and inquire the price? " 
 
 " If you wish it, we will," replied her mother. So 
 they entered the shop, where a genteelly dressed lady 
 was then in the act of purchasing one of the very 
 same shape. Ruth seeing this, jogged her mother, 
 that she might notice such a sanction to her own choice. 
 They now inquired the price of the article in question. 
 " That hat, ladies, is one guinea, only," said the shop- 
 keeper. 
 
 Ruth darted an inquiring look at her mother, to know 
 whether she thought it cheap or dear. " You recollect 
 
/ CAN DO WITHOUT IT 177 
 
 your straw hat, I suppose, my dear," said her mother. 
 " Straws, ma'am," interrupted the shopkeeper, " are now 
 considered uncommonly common, — quite oiit^ in fact. 
 We have a surprising demand for beavers at the present 
 time ; our manufacturer assures me he cannot get them 
 made up fast enough." 
 
 Ruth's respect for beavers and contempt of straws 
 were wonderfully heightened by this speech. 
 
 "Allow me, ma'am," continued he, "to recommend 
 the young lady to try it on." Ruth knowing this would 
 be a hazardous experiment, again looked at her mother. 
 She then reflected a moment (which it must be con- 
 fessed is a difficult thing to do dispassionately in a 
 room full of hats and bonnets), and then whispered to 
 her mother, " I wish we had not come in, for after all 
 I could do without it." " I am very sorry we have 
 given you any trouble, sir," said her mother to the shop- 
 keeper, "I believe we shall not purchase one this 
 morning." The shopkeeper bowed coldly ; and whether 
 he or Ruth felt most disappointed it would be hard to 
 determine. 
 
 Soon afterwards her mother had occasion to go to 
 the stationer's. This shop displayed a great variety of 
 articles of different sorts and value, from toys to tele- 
 scopes. After looking about for some time, Ruth said 
 to her mother, "I am very glad I did not buy a beaver 
 hat, how much better it would be to have something 
 that would last I See, are not these pretty?" added 
 she, pointing to some small plated inkstands, " they 
 are only fifteen shillings, I find." Her mother smiled. 
 " Ah, you are thinking of my writing-desk. Very 
 true I can certainly do without it," continued Ruth; 
 and with this consideration she got safely out of the 
 shop. 
 
 Her mother had now finished her business in the 
 town ; but as they were returning to the inn, a pastry 
 cook's window reminded Ruth of a new want. 
 
178 / CAAT DO WITHOUT IT 
 
 ^' Mamma/' said she, " are not you hungry ? I am, ver}' ; 
 had not we better go in and have something? " 
 
 " I thought you brought some biscuits in your bas- 
 ket," said her mother. ^'True, so I did," said Ruth, 
 '' so we can do without it." 
 
 When they reached the inn, the chaise not being 
 ready, Ruth's mother drew out her pencil, and . wrote 
 something on the back of a bill ; which she then handed 
 to her daughter, saying, " See my dear, if I have cast this 
 up right." Ruth took the paper, and read the follow- 
 ing account. 
 
 A steel purse 056 
 
 Beaver hat i 10 
 
 Plated inkstand ....0150 
 
 Sundry tarts 0010 
 
 Total, saved by doing without it . . £2 2 4 
 
 Ruth smiled, and said, " Yes, mamma, it is quite right ; 
 and if it had not been for you I should have been quite 
 wrong." '' Nay, Ruth," rephed her mother, '' I must 
 give you some credit this morning, for having yielded 
 so easily to my suggestion. Prudence does not consist 
 in not being tempted, but in not yielding to temptation. 
 Yes, you have saved at least 2/. 2s, 4^. this morning 
 by the timely use of those few simple . words ; and I 
 think they would form an excellent motto for you, now 
 that you are intrusted with the disposal of money." 
 "Yes," said Ruth, quite delighted, "I can do without 
 it : this shall be my motto ; I will write it on the Hd of 
 my money box.; it is an excellent motto, mamma ! " 
 
 When Ruth returned home, she was pleased to think 
 not only that she had saved her money, but that not 
 one of the articles she had wished for was really wanted. 
 She now congratulated herself that, to the mere pleas- 
 ure of novelty, which would have lasted but a few 
 hours, she had not sacrificed a sum which would, by 
 
/ cajV do without it. 179 
 
 and by, purchase things that she would really want, 
 and that she could 7iot do without. Unnecessary ex- 
 penses always rob either ourselves or others. We 
 either deprive ourselves of something essential to our 
 comfort afterwards, or defraud the poor and destitute 
 of their just claims. Economy and liberality go hand 
 in hand. 
 
 Ruth found, during many future years, that the 
 motto thus early adopted, was of excellent use as a 
 check upon her expenditure. Indeed, it led her to 
 form habits of self-denial which were of essential impor- 
 tance to her during life. She was always dressed with 
 a graceful simplicity, far more pleasing to persons of 
 good sense and good taste than a more studied style ; 
 and thus, by purchasing only such things as she could 
 not with comfort and propriety do without, she had 
 always a little overplus with which to relieve her poor 
 neighbors, and for other useful purposes. '^ Ah," said 
 she to her mother, as she was making up a flannel gown 
 for an old " goody " who was " sadly bad of the rheuma- 
 tize,*' " poor Betty Brown would have been obHged to 
 do without this, if I had not sometimes recollected — 
 I can do without it^ 
 
 There is no danger of economy degenerating into 
 covetousness, when what is saved from our needless 
 gratification is devoted to the real wants of others. 
 
 " If I had not remembered my motto," thought she, 
 on another occasion, " when the man called yesterday 
 with his box of lace, I should not have had three and 
 six pence to spare for this Bible to-day. And oh, 
 how much better I can do without a piece of lace to 
 my frock, than my poor neighbor can do without a 
 Bible!'' 
 
 How many a superfluous article of dress, how many 
 a trifle that wearies or disgusts almost as soon as pos- 
 sessed, how many a needless and injurious dainty to 
 please the palate, would be dispensed with, and how 
 
l8o / CAN DO WITHOUT IT. 
 
 many more of the destitute might be relieved, if persons 
 would but recollect, and recollect in time, Ruth's excel- 
 lent motto — " lean do without it'^ N 
 
 . II. 
 
 This, we remarked, was one of the best mottos in 
 the world, or one of the worst. Its excellence has 
 appeared in the use made of it by Ruth, the econo- 
 mist. We shall now, according to promise, proceed to 
 show it in its opposite appropriation. This sentence, 
 with some variations, though not professedly adopted 
 as a motto, was frequently employed by Eliza, by way 
 of excuse for the negligence to which the indolence of 
 her disposition continually inclined her. She dishked, 
 beyond everything, that patient care which is essential 
 to success ; which is requisite in order to do anything 
 properly ; and which experience proves to be the best, 
 and, in the end, the shortest way in all the concerns of 
 life. 
 
 This temper manifested itself in Eliza at an early 
 age. Suppose, for example, she was writing an exer- 
 cise with a bad pen that spirted, or blotted, or scratched 
 like a pin ; rather than take the trouble of mending it, 
 she would say to herself, " It will do without it," or " I 
 can manage without ; " and thus her writing was rarely 
 fit to be seen. 
 
 In like manner, if a slide broke in her frock, or if the 
 string came out of her shoe, instead of replacing them 
 immediately, she would exclaim, '' How provoking ! 
 there 's that tiresome slide gone ! " adding "ah, well, I 
 can do without it," and then she would beg somebody 
 to pin it for her, — a most untidy thing certainly ; or 
 she would go half a day slip-shod for want of a shoe- 
 string. It was just the same if a stitch came undone 
 
/ CAN DO WITHOUT IT l8l 
 
 in any part of her dress, or if she had torn a small rent 
 in her frock. Instead of recollecting that true saying 
 — ^^ a stitch in time \ saves nine," she would let it go, 
 upon the strength of her favorite saying, till it became a 
 long job to mend it ; so that her mother used often to 
 declare that she had more trouble with Eliza's clothes 
 in one month, than Ruth's mamma had with hers in a 
 whole year ; and no wonder. 
 
 Eliza met with such frequent instances of the mis- 
 chievous tendency of her favorite excuse that one 
 would have thought she might have been induced to 
 discard it. Scarcely a day passed but she, or those 
 around her, suffered more or less from it. Not to 
 mention such misfortunes as the frequent falls and 
 bruises which occurred from loose shoe-strings, and 
 the like. 
 
 One time she sustained a considerable loss for want 
 of replacing a button to her pocket. She found it 
 was come off one morning ; and saying, as usual, '' I 
 can do without it," she substituted a pin. Pins, 
 though very useful things in their way, are certainly 
 made most use of by lazy, untidy people. Things went 
 thus for two or three days ; but at last, as she was 
 returning from a long walk, upon feeling for her hand- 
 kerchief, she discovered that the pocket with all its con- 
 tents, had escaped. Eliza felt this loss considerably ; 
 for besides her thimble, a silver knife, a pencil case, 
 and a purse with seven and sixpence in it, her pocket 
 that day unfortunately contained a beautiful coral neck- 
 lace which had lately been presented to her. A very 
 improper place for a necklace, it will be said. Very 
 true ; but the case was this : Eliza, being fond of 
 ornaments, came down that day, prepared for her 
 walk, with this necklace slipped over her tippet. To 
 this her mother very properly objected, as having a 
 tawdry and ungenteel appearance, and desired her to 
 take it off. Eliza complied reluctantly ; but instead of 
 
1 82 / CAJV DO WITHOUT IT 
 
 replacing it safely up stairs, she indolently slipped it 
 into her pocket, and thus lost it, as related above. 
 
 Another time, one of her bonnet-strings coming 
 unstitched, she fastened it on, as usual, with a pin, and 
 going out with it in this state, it came undone when 
 she was walking by the river side. The wind being 
 high, it blew her bonnet off into the water, and there 
 she saw it sailing irrecoverably down the river, like a 
 swan. One day her mother gave her a small phial 
 containing an acid for taking out ink spots, and other 
 stains ; and desired her to write a label for it. 
 " Dear ! " said Eliza, when her mother was out of 
 hearing, " it will do just as well without it ; " so she 
 left it as it was. Soon after, her mother feeling unwell, 
 desired Eliza to give her a few drops of sal volatile. 
 She went carelessly to find the phial, andi snatching up 
 this in mistake, gave her mother a dose of the poi- 
 sonous fluid. Being aware of her daughter's careless 
 habits, she fortunately tasted a little, before taking the 
 w^hole, and so discovered the mistake. Thus it was 
 that indolent habits, sanctioned by a foolish saying, 
 endangered even the life of her mother. Eliza felt 
 these things ; -but she considered them as accidents 
 and misfortunes, not as the natural consequences of her 
 faults, so that they made no useful impression upon 
 her. 
 
 It too often happened that she varied her motto by 
 the alternate use of all the personal pronouns. He, 
 she, they, or you, can do without it, was as commonly 
 heard as it. This was usually the case when any little 
 service was required of her by those around ; in which 
 case, the struggle between her inactive habits and a 
 sense of duty was quickly decided by the use of this 
 unfriendly sentence. Her father and mother, her 
 brothers and sisters, as well as her neighbors, missed 
 many a kind service by this means. 
 
 It must also be observed, that Eliza rarely applied 
 
/ CAN DO WITHOUT- IT. 183 
 
 these words to herself in the way of restraint. When 
 there was anything that she wished for, it was seldom 
 indeed that she said, '' I can do without it ; '* for, to 
 exercise self-denial, requires an effort of mind much 
 more painful to the indolent than any bodily exertion. 
 Eliza accordingly treated herself with everything she 
 liked that she could by any means get the money to 
 purchase ; at the same time laughing at the frugal 
 habits of her friend Ruth ; and often prophesying that 
 she would die a miser. 
 
 The inactivity and carelessness of Eliza's disposition 
 extended to everything in which she was called to 
 engage, and lamentably retarded the progress of her 
 education. Her father and mother were anxious to 
 furnish her with every useful acquirement in their 
 power, with a view to her future respectability, useful- 
 ness, and independence. But to Eliza the acquisition 
 of knowledge, of whatever kind, was extremely irk- 
 some. Nothing is to be attained without trouble ; 
 and trouble was the thing she could not endure. 
 Whatever was proposed to her as a desirable study, 
 she used to think, if not to say, that she could do 
 without it. Therefore, notwithstanding the cost and 
 pains that were bestowed upon her, she grew up ill- 
 informed and unfurnished. Even reading was a toil 
 which she thought she could do as well without, unless 
 a book happened to be merely entertaining. 
 
 It will not be imagined that a person so slothful in 
 business should be " fervent in spirit," or active in 
 '' serving the Lord." The concerns of the soul, in- 
 deed, are the first to suffer from an indolent temper. 
 If ^* the kingdom of heaven must suffer violence," and 
 if even the violent can only " take it by force," how 
 shall the feeble and languid efforts of indolence pre- 
 vail? Alas, religion was one of the things that poor 
 Eliza was contented to do without. In spite of a pious 
 education, and occasional impressions, she too often 
 
1 84 / CAN DO WITHOUT IT. 
 
 excused her neglect of prayer, and other means of 
 grace, by the secret application of her favorite sen- 
 tence. 
 
 At length a time arrived, long anticipated by her 
 parents, when their circumstances rendered it neces- 
 sary that Eliza should do something for her own main- 
 tenance ; and now, notwithstanding all the pains that had 
 been bestowed upon her education, the utmost that 
 could be said of her, in an advertisement drawn up by 
 her disappointed father, was to this effect : 
 
 " Wants a situation as governess to the younger 
 children in a private family, or as under teacher in a 
 school, a young person of respectable connections who 
 is qualified to teach the rudiments of English grammar, 
 to superintend plain work, or to make herself useful in 
 any way that may be required." 
 
 How different an account would have been given of 
 Eliza's qualifications, and in how different a sphere 
 might she have moved, if she had not so often thought 
 and said of this attainment, and of that pursuit, '' I can 
 do without it ! " 
 
 In these humbling circumstances, she amused her- 
 self with fruitless wishes for a fortune, in order that she 
 might not be obliged to exert herself; not considering 
 that the same inactive temper which makes a poor 
 person helpless and dependent, renders the rich dis- 
 contented and miserable. 
 
 We cannot stay to detail the subsequent misfortunes 
 of EHza. It is sufficient to say that a time arrived 
 when she had some practical experience of the virtues 
 of her motto, in a way little desired. Instead of saying, 
 as formerly, '' I can do without it," she was compelled 
 very often to say, " I must do without ; " and that, not 
 in reference to the luxuries of life, but to some of its 
 most essential wants. How much better it is to say, 
 " I can do without it," of a superfluity, than to say, " I 
 must do without it," of a comfort ! Let those who would 
 
THE SORE TONGUE. 1 85 
 
 avoid all danger of the latter, early enter into the spirit 
 of the former ; and let them learn nicely to distinguish 
 between those things which, without any real privation 
 may be done without, and those which cannot be 
 neglected but by the sacrifice of respectability, useful- 
 ness, and happiness. 
 
 THE SORE TONGUE. 
 
 There was a little girl called Fanny, who had the 
 misfortune one day to bite her tongue as she was eat- 
 ing her breakfast. It hurt her so much that she could 
 scarcely help crying ; and even when the first smart 
 was over, it continued so sore that whenever she spoke 
 it pained her considerably. Finding this to be the 
 case, she said very pitifully to her mother, '' Mamma, 
 you can't think how it hurts me w^ien I speak ! " 
 " Does it ? " replied her mother ; '•' then I '11 tell you 
 what I would advise you to do. Resolve all this day 
 to say nothing but what is either necessary or useful ; 
 this will give your tongue a fine holiday, and may 
 answer more purposes than one." 
 
 Fanny, knowing that she had the character of being 
 somewhat loquacious, could not help laughing at this, 
 and said, '' Well, I \\ill try for once ; so, mum ! I am 
 going to begin now, mamma." 
 
 Mother. Do so ; and whenever you are beginning 
 to speak, be sure you ask yourself whether what you 
 were going to say was likely to be of any use, or whether 
 it was necessar}'. 
 
 Faxx\'. Yes, yes, I \^all ! but don't talk to me, 
 mamma, for fear. So saying, she screwed up her lips, 
 and taking her work, sat for about five minutes as still 
 as a mouse. She then looked up, smiled, and nodded 
 
1 86 THE SORE TONGUE, 
 
 at her mother, as much as to say, " See how well I 
 can hold my tongue/' still screwing her lips very tight 
 for fear she should speak. Soon however she began 
 to feel a great inclination to say something ; and was 
 glad to recollect that if she could but think of anything 
 either useful or necessary, she might speak. Where- 
 upon she endeavored to find something to say that 
 would come " within the act." To aid her invention, 
 she looked all round the room. 
 
 Fanny. Mamma, don't you think the fire wants stir- 
 ring? (This question, she thought, savored of both 
 qualifications.) 
 
 Mother. Not at present, my dear. 
 
 Then followed another long silence ; for Fanny found 
 it vastly more difficult than she had any previous idea 
 of, to think of anything useful to talk about ; and she 
 knew her mamma would laugh at her if she said what 
 was obviously idle or silly, just now. She was beginning 
 to repent having made such an agreement, when her 
 three elder sisters entered the room. She now thought 
 it quite reasonable, if not absolutely necessary, to tell 
 them of her misfortune ; which she did at considerable 
 length, and with many needless digressions (the usual 
 custom with great talkers) ; upon which they all laughed, 
 prophesying that her resolution would not last half an 
 hour, and rallying her for telling such a long story with 
 a sore tongue. 
 
 Soon after, some ladies called to pay their mother a 
 morning visit. This gave Fanny's tongue such a long 
 rest, that the moment they were gone it seemed irre- 
 sistibly to resume its wonted functions. 
 
 Fanny. What a while old Mrs. W. has had that 
 brown satin pelisse ! Really, poor old lady, I am 
 quite tired of seeing her in it ! 
 
 Mother. How is your tongue, Fanny? 
 
 Fanny. Oh, better, mamma, thank you, almost 
 well. 
 
THE SORE TONGUE. 187 
 
 Mother. I am sorry for it : I was in hopes it 
 would have been sore enough at least to prevent your 
 making impertinent remarks upon anybody all this 
 day. 
 
 Fanny. No, but really, mamma, is it not an old 
 rubbishing thing ? 
 
 Mother. I don't know, indeed. It is no business 
 of mine ; therefore I took no notice of it. 
 
 A silence ensued after this ; but conversation re- 
 vived when Caroline, who had stood for some time 
 with her eyes fixed on their opposite neighbor's win- 
 dow, suddenly exclaimed, ^^ I do beheve the Jones's 
 are going to have company again to-day ! The ser- 
 vant has just been lighting the fire in the drawing- 
 room ; and there is Miss Jones now gone up to dress. 
 I saw her draw down the blinds in her room this 
 instant." '' So she is," said Lucy, looking up : "I 
 never knew such people in my Ufe ! they are always 
 having company." 
 
 " I wonder who they are expecting to-day ! " said 
 Eliza, "dinner company, I suppose." 
 
 The proceedings of their neighbors, the Jones's, 
 continued to furnish matter for various sagacious con- 
 jectures and remarks for a considerable time. At 
 length Caroline exclaimed with the eagerness of dis- 
 covery, " Look ! look ! there 's the baker now at the 
 door, with a whole tray full of tarts and things. Make 
 haste, or he '11 be gone in." 
 
 Lucy. So he is, I declare ; it is a dinner-party 
 then. Well, we shall see presently, I hope, who are 
 coming. 
 
 Caroline. O no, they never dine till ^w^ when 
 they have company. 
 
 Eliza. And it will be dark then ; how tiresome ! 
 
 Lucy. If Miss Jones is not dressed already ! She 
 is this instant come into the drawing-room. 
 
 Caroline. Stand back, stand back ! Don't let her 
 
l88 THE SORE TONGUE, 
 
 see us all staring. Ah, there she is, — got on her pink 
 sarcenet body and sleeves to-day. How pretty that 
 dress is, to be sure ! 
 
 Eliza. And how nicely she has done her hair ! 
 Look, Caroline — braided behind. 
 
 Lucy. There, she is putting down the sash. That 
 chimney smokes, I know, with this wind. 
 
 Fanny. And there is that little figure, Martha 
 Jones, come down now. Do look, — as broad as she 
 is long ! What a httle fright that child is, to be sure ! 
 
 Mother. Pray, Fanny, was that remark useful or 
 necessary ? 
 
 Fanny. Oh, but mamma, I assure you, my tongue 
 is quite well now. 
 
 Mother. I am sorry for it, my dear. Do you 
 know, I should think it well worth while to bite my 
 tongue every day, if there were no other means of 
 keeping it in order. 
 
 At this the girls laughed ; but their mother resum- 
 ing her gravity, thus continued : 
 
 " My dear girls, I should before now have put a 
 stop to this idle gossipping, if I had not hoped to con- 
 vince you of the folly of it. It is no wonder, I confess, 
 that at your age you should learn to imitate a style of 
 remark which is but too prevalent in society. Nothing, 
 indeed, is more contagious. But let me also tell you, 
 that girls of your age, and of your advantages, are 
 capable of seeing the meanness of it, and ought to 
 despise it. It is the chief end of education to raise 
 the minds of women above such trifling as this. But if 
 a young person who has been taught to think, whose 
 taste has been cultivated, and who might therefore 
 possess internal resources, has as much idle curiosity 
 about the affairs of her neighbors, and is as fond of 
 retailing petty scandal concerning them, as an unedu- 
 cated woman, it proves that her mind is incurably 
 mean and vulgar, and that cultivation is lost upon 
 her. 
 
THE SORE TONGUE. 189 
 
 ^^This sort of gossipping, my dear girls, is the dis- 
 grace of our sex. The pursuits of women lying nec- 
 essarily within a narrow sphere, they naturally sink, 
 unless raised by refinement, or by strong principle, 
 into that littleness of character, for which even their 
 own husbands and fathers (if they are men of sense) 
 are tempted to despise them. The minds of men, 
 from their engagements in business, necessarily take a 
 larger range ; and they are, in general, too much occu- 
 pied with concerns comparatively important, to enter 
 into the minute details w^hich amuse women. But 
 women of education have no such plea to urge. 
 When your father and I direct you to this or that 
 pursuit, it is not so much for the sake of your possess- 
 ing that particular branch of knowledge ; but that by 
 knowledge m general you may become intelligent and 
 superior ; and that you may be furnished with resources 
 which will save you from the miserable necessity of 
 seeking amusement from intercourse wath your neigh- 
 bors, and an acquaintance with their affairs. 
 
 "Let us suppose, now, that this morning you had 
 been all more industriously inclined ; and had been 
 engaged in any of your employments with that ardor 
 which some happy young people manifest in the 
 acquisition of knowledge ; would you, in that case, 
 have felt any desire to know the date of Mrs. W.'s 
 pelisse ; or any curiosity in the proceedings of our 
 neighbors the Jones's? No, you would then have 
 thought it a most impertinent interruption, if any one 
 had attempted to entertain you with such particulars. 
 But when the mind is indolent and empty, then it can 
 receive amusement from the most contemptible 
 sources. Learn, then, to check this mean propensity. 
 Despise such thoughts whenever you are tempted to 
 indulge them. Recollect that this low curiosity is the 
 combined result of idleness, ignorance, emptiness and 
 ill-nature; and fly to useful occupation^ as the most 
 
190 THE DISCONTENTED PENDULUM. 
 
 successful antidote against the evil. Nor let it be 
 forgotten that such impertinent remarks as these come 
 directly under the description of those " idle words ^^^ 
 of which an account must be given in the day of judg- 
 ment. Yes, this vulgar trifling is as inconsistent with 
 the spirit of Christian benevolence, and with the grand 
 rule of ' doing to others as we would that they should 
 do to us,' as it is with refinement of taste and dignity 
 of character." " Who would have thought," said little 
 , Fanny, " that my happening to bite my tongue this 
 morning, would have led to all this? " 
 
 " It would be a fortunate. bite for you, Fanny," said 
 her mother, " and for your neighbors, if it should make 
 you more careful in the use of it. If we were liable 
 to such a misfortune whenever we use our tongues 
 improperly, some persons would be in a constant 
 agony. Now, if our consciences were but half as sensible 
 as our nerves, they would answer the purpose much 
 better. Foolish talking pains a good conscience, just 
 as continual speaking hurts a sore tongue ; and if we 
 did but regard one smart as much as the other, it 
 would act as a constant check upon the unruly mem- 
 ber." 
 
 THE DISCONTENTED PENDULUM. 
 
 An old clock that had stood for fifty years in a far- 
 mer's kitchen without giving its owner any cause of 
 complaint, early one summer's morning, before the 
 family was stirring, suddenly stopped. 
 
 Upon this, the dial-plate (if we may credit the fable) 
 changed countenance with alarm ; the hands made an 
 ineffectual effort to continue their course ; the wheels 
 remained motionless with surprise; the weights hung 
 
THE DISCONTENTED PENDULUM. 19 1 
 
 speechless ; each member felt disposed to lay the blame 
 on the others. At length, the dial instituted a formal 
 inquiry as to the cause of the stagnation ; when hands, 
 wheels, weights, with one voice, protested their in- 
 nocence. But now a faint tick was heard below, from 
 the pendulum, who thus spoke : 
 
 " I confess myself to be the sole cause of the present 
 stoppage ; and am willing, for the general satisfaction, 
 to assign my reasons. The truth is, that I am tired of 
 ticking." Upon hearing this, the old clock became so 
 enraged that it was on the point of striking. 
 
 " Lazy wire ! " exclaimed the dial-plate, holding up 
 its hands. 
 
 " Very good ! " replied the pendulum, '' it is vastly 
 easy for you, Mistress Dial, who have always, as every- 
 body knows, set yourself up above me, — it is vastly 
 easy for you, I say, to accuse other people of laziness ! 
 You, who have had nothing to do all the days of your 
 life but to stare people in the face, and to amuse your- 
 self with watching all that goes on in the kitchen ! 
 Think, I beseech you, how you would like to be shut 
 up for life in this dark closet, and wag backwards and 
 forwards, year after year, as I do." 
 
 "As to that," said the dial, "is there not a window 
 in your house on purpose for you to look through? " 
 
 " For all that," resumed the pendulum, " it is very 
 dark here ; and although there is a window, I dare not 
 stop, even for an instant, to look out. Besides, I am 
 really weary of my way of life ; and if you please, I '11 
 tell you how I took this disgust at my employment. 
 This morning I happened to be calculating how many 
 times I should have to tick in the course only of the 
 next twenty- four hours. Perhaps some of you above 
 there, can give me the exact sum." 
 
 The minute hand, being quick at figures, instantly 
 replied, " Eighty-six thousand, four hundred times." 
 
 " Exactly so," replied the pendulum. " Well, I ap- 
 
192 THE DISCONTENTED PENDULUM, 
 
 peal to you all, if the thought of this was not enough 
 to fatigue one ! And when I began to multiply the 
 strokes of one day by those of months and years, really 
 it is no wonder if I felt discouraged at the prospect. So, 
 after a great deal of reasoning and hesitation, thinks I 
 to myself — I'll stop." 
 
 The dial could scarcely keep its countenance during 
 this harangue ; but, resuming its gravity, thus replied : 
 
 " Dear Mr. Pendulum, I am really astonished that 
 such a useful, industrious person as yourself should have 
 been overcome by this sudden suggestion. It is true 
 you have done a great deal of work in your time. So 
 we have all, and are likely to do ; and although this 
 may fatigue us to think of, the question is, whether 
 it will fatigue us to do; would you now do me the 
 favor to give about half a dozen strokes, to illustrate my 
 argument? " 
 
 The pendulum complied, and ticked six times at its 
 usual pace : — " Now," resumed the dial, " may I be 
 allowed to inquire, if that exertion was at all fatiguing 
 or disagreeable to you? " 
 
 " Not in the least," replied the pendulum ; " it is 
 not of six strokes that I complain, nor of sixty, but of 
 millions y 
 
 '' Very good," replied the dial. ^* But recollect that 
 although you may think of a million strokes in an in- 
 stant, you are required to execute but one ; and that 
 however often you may hereafter have to swing, a 
 moment will always be given you to swing in." 
 
 " That consideration staggers me, I confess," said 
 the pendulum. 
 
 "Then I hope," resumed the dial-plate, "we shall all 
 immediately return to our duty ; for the maids will lie 
 in bed till noon if we stand idling thus." 
 
 Upon this, the weights, who had never been accused 
 of light conduct, used all their influence in urging him 
 to proceed; when, as with one consent, the wheels 
 
THE DISCONTENTED PENDULUM, 193 
 
 began to turn, the hands began to move, the pendulum 
 began to wag, and, to its credit, ticked as loud as ever ; 
 while a beam of the rising sun that streamed through a 
 hole in the kitchen shutter, shining full upon the dial- 
 plate, it brightened up as if nothing had been the matter. 
 When the farmer came down to breakfast that morn- 
 ing, upon looking at the clock he declared that his 
 watch had gained half an hour in the night. 
 
 MORAL. 
 
 It is said by a celebrated modem writer, " Take care 
 of the minutes and the hours will take care of them- 
 selves." This is an admirable hint; and might be very 
 seasonably recollected when we begin to be " weary in 
 well doing," from the thought of having a great deal to 
 do. T\\^ present is all we have to manage. The past 
 is irrecoverable ; the future is uncertain ; nor is it fair 
 to burden one moment with the weight of the next. 
 Sufficient unto the mome7it is the trouble thereof. If 
 we had to walk a hundred miles, we still need set but 
 one step at a time, and this process continued would 
 infallibly bring us to our journey's end. Fatigue gen- 
 erally begins, and is always increased by calculating in 
 a minute the exertion of hours. 
 
 Thus, in looking forward to future life let us recollect 
 that we have not to sustain all its toil, to endure all its 
 sufferings, or to encounter all its crosses at once. One 
 moment comes laden with its own little burden, then 
 flies, and is succeeded by another no heavier than the 
 last ; if 07ie could be sustained, so can another, and 
 another. 
 
 Even in looking forward to a single day, the spirit 
 may sometimes faint from an anticipation of the duties, 
 the labors, the trials to temper and patience that may 
 be expected. Now this is unjustly laying the burden 
 of many thousand moments upon one. Let any one 
 
 13 
 
194 BUSY IDLENESS. 
 
 resolve to do right now, leaving then to do as it can, 
 and if he were to live to the age of Methuselah, he would 
 never err. But the common error is to resolve to act 
 right to-morrow, or next ttme^ but now, just this once, 
 we must go on the same as ever. 
 
 It seems easier to do right to-morrow than to-day, 
 merely because we forget that when to-morrow comes, 
 theji will be now. Thus life passes, with many, in reso- 
 lutions for the future which the present never fulfils. 
 
 It is not thus with those who, '^hy patient contimi- 
 ance in well doing, seek for glory, honor and immortal- 
 ity." Day by day, minute by minute, they execute 
 the appointed task to which the requisite measure of 
 time and strength is proportioned ; and thus, having 
 worked while it was called day, they at length rest from 
 their labors, and their ''works follow them." 
 
 Let us then, " whatever our hands find to do, do it 
 with all our might ; " recollecting that now is the proper 
 and the accepted time. 
 
 BUSY IDLENESS. 
 
 Mrs. Dawson being obliged to leave home for six 
 weeks, her daughters, Charlotte and Caroline, received 
 permission to employ the time of her absence as they 
 pleased. That is, she did not require of them the 
 usual strict attention to particular hours, and particular 
 studies, but allowed them to choose their own employ- 
 ments, — only recommending them to make a good 
 use of the hcense, and apprising them, that, on her 
 return, she should require an exact account of the 
 manner in which the interval had been employed. 
 
 The carriage that conveyed their mother away was 
 
BUSY IDLENESS. 1 95 
 
 scarcely out of hearing, when Charlotte, delighted with 
 her freedom, hastened up stairs to the school-room, 
 where she looked around on books, globes, maps, 
 drawings, to select some new employment for the 
 morning. Long before she had decided upon any, her 
 sister had quietly seated herself at her accustomed 
 station, thinking that she could do nothing better than 
 finish the French exercise she had begun the day 
 before. Charlotte, however, declined attending to 
 French that day, and after much indecision, and 
 saying, " I have a great mind to," three several times 
 without finishing the sentence, she at last took down a 
 volume of Cowper, and read in different parts for about 
 half an hour. Then throwing it aside, she said she 
 had a great mind to put the book shelves in order, — 
 a business which she commenced with great spirit. 
 But in the course of her laudable undertaking, she met 
 with a manuscript in short-hand ; whereupon she ex- 
 claimed to her sister, " Caroline, don't you remember 
 that old Mr. Henderson once promised he would teach 
 us short-hand? How much I should like to learn ! 
 Only, mamma thought we had not time. But now, this 
 would be such a good opportunity. I am sure I could 
 learn it well in six weeks ; and how convenient it would 
 be 1 One could take down sermons, or anything ; and 
 I could make Rachel learn, and then how very pleas- 
 ant it would be to write to each other in short-hand ! 
 Indeed, it would be convenient in a hundred ways." 
 So saying, she ran up stairs, without any further delay, 
 and putting on her hat and spencer, set off to old Mr. 
 Henderson's. 
 
 Mr. Henderson happened to be at dinner. Never- 
 theless, Charlotte obtained admittance on the plea of 
 urgent business ; but she entered his apartment so 
 much out of breath, and in such apparent agitation, 
 that the old gentleman, rising hastily from table, and 
 looking anxiously at her over his spectacles, inquired in 
 
196 BUSY IDLENESS. 
 
 a tremulous tone, what was the matter. When, there- 
 fore, Charlotte explained her busmess, he appeared a 
 little disconcerted ; but having gently reproved her for 
 her undue eagerness, he composedly resumed his knife 
 and fork, though his hand shook much more than 
 usual during the remainder of his meaL However, 
 being very good-natured, as soon as he had dined he 
 cheerfully gave Charlotte her first lesson in short-hand, 
 promising to repeat it regularly every morning. 
 
 Charlotte returned home in high glee. She at this 
 juncture considered short-hand as one of the most 
 useful, and decidedly the most interesting of acquire- 
 ments ; and she continued to exercise herself in it all 
 the rest of the day. She was exceedingly pleased at 
 being able already to write two or three words which 
 neither her sister nor even her father could decipher. 
 For three successive mornings Charlotte punctually 
 kept her appointment with Mr. Henderson ; but on the 
 fourth she sent a shabby excuse to her kind master ; 
 and, if the truth must be told, he from that time saw 
 no more of his scholar. Now the cause of this deser- 
 tion was two-fold : first, and principally, her zeal for 
 short-hand, which for the last eight- and-forty hours 
 had been sensibly declining in its temperature, was, on 
 the above morning, within half a degree of freezing 
 point ; and, second, a new and far more arduous and 
 important undertaking had by this time suggested itself 
 to her mind. Like many young persons of desultory 
 incHnations, Charlotte often amused herself with writing 
 verses ; and it now occurred to her that an abridged 
 history of England in verse was still a desideratum in 
 literature. She commenced this task with her usual 
 diligence ; but was somewhat discouraged in the outset 
 by the difficulty of finding a rhyme to Saxon, whom 
 she indulged the unpatriotic wish that the Danes had 
 laid a tax on. But, though she got over this obstacle 
 by a new construction of the line, she found these diflfi- 
 
BUSY IDLENESS. 197 
 
 culties occur so continually that she soon felt a more 
 thorough disgust at this employment than at the pre- 
 ceding one. So the epic stopped short, some hundred 
 years before the Norman conquest. Difficulty, which 
 quickens the ardor of industry, always damps, and 
 generally extinguishes, the false zeal of caprice and 
 versatility. 
 
 Charlotte's next undertaking was, to be sure, a rapid 
 descent from the last in the scale of dignity. She now 
 thought, that, by working very hard during the re- 
 mainder of the time, she should be able to accomplish 
 a patch- work counterpane, large enough for her own 
 little tent bed ; and the ease of this employment formed a 
 most agreeable contrast in her mind with the extreme 
 difficulty of the last. Accordingly, as if commissioned 
 with a search-warrant, she ransacked all her mother's 
 drawers, bags, and bundles in quest of new pieces ; and 
 these spoils proving very insufficient, she set off to tax 
 all her friends, and to tease all the linen-drapers in the 
 town for their odds and ends ; urging that she wanted 
 some particularly. As she was posting along the street 
 on this business, she espied at a distance a person 
 whom she had no wish to encounter; namely, old 
 Mr. Henderson. To avoid the meeting she crossed 
 over. But this manoeuvre did not succeed ; for no 
 sooner had they come opposite to each other, than, to 
 her great confusion, he called out across the street, in 
 his loud and tremulous voice, and shaking his stick at 
 her, " How d' ye do, Miss Shorthand ] I thought 
 how it would be ! Oh, fie ! Oh, fie ! " 
 
 Charlotte hurried on ; and her thoughts soon re- 
 turned to the idea of the splendid radiating star which 
 she designed for the centre-piece of her counterpane. 
 While she was arranging the different patterns, and 
 forming the alterations of light and shade, her interest 
 continued nearly unabated ; but when she came to the 
 practical part of sewing piece to piece with unvarying 
 
19S BUSY IDLENESS. 
 
 sameness, it began, as usual, to flag. She sighed sev- 
 eral times, and cast many disconsolate looks at the 
 endless hexagons and octagons, before she indulged 
 any distinct idea of relinquishing her task. At length, 
 however, it did forcibly occur to her that, after all, 
 she was not obliged to go on with it ; and that, really, 
 patch- work was a thing that was better done by de- 
 grees, when one happens to want a job, than to be 
 finished all at once. So, with this thought (which 
 would have been a very good one if it had occurred 
 in proper time), she suddenly drew out her needle, 
 thrust all her pieces, arranged and unarranged, into a 
 drawer, and began to meditate a new project. 
 
 Fortunately, just at this juncture some young ladies 
 of their acquaintance called upon Charlotte and Caro- 
 line. They were attempting to establish a society 
 amongst their young friends for working for the poor, 
 and came to request their assistance. Caroline very 
 cheerfully entered into the design ; but as for Char- 
 lotte, nothing could exceed the forwardness of her 
 zeal. She took it up so warmly that Caroline's ap- 
 peared, in comparison, only lukewarm. It was pro- 
 posed that each member of the society should have 
 an equal proportion of the work to do at her own 
 house ; but when the articles came to be distributed, 
 Charlotte, in the heat of her benevolence, desired that 
 a double portion might be allotted to her. Some of 
 the younger ones admired her industrious intentions, 
 but the better judging advised her not to undertake 
 too much at once. However, she w^ould not be satis- 
 fied till her request was complied with. When the 
 parcels of work arrived, Charlotte with exultation 
 seized the larger one, and without a minute's delay 
 commenced her charitable labors. The following 
 morning she rose at four o'clock, to resume the em- 
 ployment ; and not a little self-complacency did she 
 feel, when, after nearly two hours' hard work, she still 
 
BUSY IDLENESS. 1 99 
 
 heard Caroline breathing in a sound sleep. But, alas ! 
 Charlotte soon found that work is work^ of whatever 
 nature, or for whatever purpose. She now inwardly 
 regretted that she had asked for more than her share ; 
 and the cowardly thought that after all she was not 
 obliged to do it next occurred to her. For the present, 
 therefore, she squeezed all the things, done and undone, 
 into what she called her '' Dorcas bag ; " and to banish 
 unpleasant thoughts, she opened the first book that 
 happened to lie within reach. It proved to be " an 
 Introduction to Botany." Of this she had not read 
 more than a page and a half before she determined to 
 collect some specimens herself; and having found a 
 blank copy-book she hastened into the garden, where, 
 gathering a few common flowers, she proceeded to dis- 
 sect them, not, it is to be feared, with much scientific 
 nicety. Perhaps as many as three pages of this copy- 
 book were bespread with her specimens before she 
 discovered that botany was a dry study. 
 
 It would be too tedious to enumerate all the subse- 
 quent ephemeral undertakings which filled up the re- 
 mainder of the six weeks. At the expiration of that 
 time Mrs. Dawson returned. On the next morning after 
 her arrival she reminded her daughters of the account 
 she expected of their employments during her absence ; 
 and desired them to set out on two tables in the school- 
 room everything they had done that could be exhib- 
 ited, together with the books they had been reading. 
 Charlotte would gladly have been excused her part of 
 the exhibition ; but this was not permitted ; and she 
 reluctantly followed her sister to make the preparation. 
 
 When the two tables were spread, their mother was 
 summoned to attend. Caroline's, which was first 
 examined, contained, first, her various exercises in the 
 different branches of study, regularly executed, the 
 same as usual. And there were papers placed in the 
 books she was reading in school hours, to show how far 
 
200 BUSY IDLENESS. 
 
 she had proceeded in them. Besides these, she had 
 read in her leisure time, in French, Florian's '' Numa 
 Pompihus ; " and in English, Mrs. More's " Practical 
 Piety," and some part of Johnson's '' Lives of the 
 Poets." All the needle-work which had been left to 
 do or not, at her option, was neatly finished ; and her 
 parcel of linen for the poor was also completely and 
 well done. The only instance in which Caroline had 
 availed herself of her mother's license, was, that she 
 had prolonged her drawing lessons a little every day, 
 in order to present her mother with a pretty pair of 
 screens, with flowers copied from nature. These were, 
 last of all, placed on the table with an affectionate 
 note, requesting her acceptance of them. 
 • Mrs. Dawson, having carefully examined this table, 
 proceeded to the other, which was quite piled up with 
 different articles. Here, amid the heap, were her 
 three pages of short-hand ; several scraps of paper 
 containing fragments of her poetical history ; the 
 piece (not large enough for a doll's cradle) of her 
 patchwork counterpane ; her botanical specimens ; 
 together with the large unfinished pile out of the Dor- 
 cas bag, — many of the articles of which were begun, 
 but not one quite finished. There was a baby's cap 
 with no border, a frock body without sleeves, and the 
 skirt only half hemmed at the bottom ; and slides, tapes, 
 and button-holes, were all, without exception, omitted. 
 After these, followed a great variety of thirds, halves, 
 and quarters of undertakings, each perhaps good in 
 itself, but quite useless in its unfinished state. 
 
 The examination being at length ended, Mrs. Dawson 
 retired, without a single comment, to her dressing- 
 room ; where, in about an hour afterwards, she sum- 
 moned the girls to attend her. Here also were two 
 tables laid out, with several articles on each. Their 
 mother then leading Caroline to the first, told her that, 
 as the reward of her industry dcn^ perseverance, the con- 
 
BUSY IDLENESS. 20I 
 
 tents of the table were her own. Here, with joyful 
 surprise, she beheld, first, a little gold watch, which 
 Mrs. Dawson said she thought a suitable present for 
 one who had made a good use of her time ; a small 
 telescope next appeared ; and lastly, Paley's '^ Natural 
 Theology," neatly bound. Charlotte was then desired 
 to take possession of the contents of the other table, 
 which were considerably more numerous. The first 
 prize she drew out was a very beautiful French fan ; 
 but upon opening it, it stretched out in an oblong shape, 
 for want of the pin to confine the sticks at bottom. 
 Then followed a new parasol ; but when unfurled there 
 was no catch to confine it, so that it would not remain 
 spread. A penknife handle without a blade, and the 
 blade without the handle, next presented themselves 
 to her astonished gaze. In great confusion she then 
 unrolled a paper which discovered a telescope appar- 
 ently like her sister's ; but on applying it to her eye, 
 she found it did not contain a single lens, — so that it 
 was no better than a roll of pasteboard. She was, how- 
 ever, greatly encouraged to discover that the last re- 
 maining article was a watch ; for, as she heard it tick, 
 she felt no doubt that this at least was complete, but 
 upon examination she discovered that there was no 
 hour-hand, the minute-hand alone pursuing its lonely 
 and useless track. 
 
 Charlotte, whose conscience had very soon explained 
 to her the moral of all this, now turned from the 
 tantahzing table in confusion, and burst into an agony 
 of tears. Caroline wept also, and Mrs. Dawson, after 
 an interval of silence, thus addressed her daughters : — 
 
 " It is quite needless for me to explain my reasons 
 for making you such presents, Charlotte. I assure you 
 your papa and I have had a very painful employment 
 the past hour in spoiling them all for you. If I had 
 found on your table in the school-room any one thing 
 that had been properly finished^ you would have re- 
 
202 BUSY IDLENESS. 
 
 ceived one complete present to answer it ; but this you 
 know was not the case. I should be very glad if this 
 disappointment should teach you what I have hitherto 
 vainly endeavored to impress upon you, — that as all 
 those things, pretty or useful as they are in themselves, 
 are rendered totally useless for want of completeness^ so 
 exertion without perseverance is no better than busy 
 idleness. That employment does not deserve the name 
 of industry which requires the stimulus of novelty to 
 keep it going. Those who will only work so long as 
 they are amused will do no more good in the world, 
 either to themselves or others, than those who refuse 
 to work at all. If I had required you to pass the six 
 weeks of my absence in bed or in counting your fingers, 
 you would, I suppose, have thought it a sad waste of 
 time ; and yet I appeal to you whether (with the ex- 
 ception of an hour or two of needle-work) the whole 
 mass of articles on your table could produce anything 
 more useful. And thus, my dears, may life be squan- 
 dered away, in a succession of busy nothings. 
 
 " I have now a proposal to make to you. These 
 presents, which you are to take possession of as they 
 are, I advise you to lay by carefully. Whenever you 
 can show me anything that you have begun, and volun- 
 tarily yf/^/i-/^^^, you may at the same time bring with you 
 one of these things, beginning with those of least value, 
 to which I will immediately add the part that is defi- 
 cient. Thus, by degrees, you may have them all com- 
 pleted ; and if by this means you should acquire the 
 wise and virtuous habit oi perseverance^ it will be far 
 more valuable to you than the richest present you could 
 possibly receive.'* 
 
TEMPER; OR THE TWO OLD LADIES. 203 
 
 TEMPER; OR THE TWO OLD LADIES. 
 
 In a huge old-fashioned red brick house, with a great 
 many tall narrow windows in front, and a high flight of 
 stone steps up to the door, lived two old ladies, com- 
 monly called Mrs. Abigail and Mrs. Dorothy. They 
 had lived there for many and many a year. They never 
 altered the fashion of their dress, and were very exact 
 and regular in all their habits and customs. Every day 
 of the week they were driven out at the same hour, 
 in their old-fashioned coach, by their old-fashioned 
 coachman ; and at the same hour they returned home ; 
 so that when the coach passed through the town, either 
 going or returning, everybody knew what was o'clock. 
 They neither paid visits nor received company at their 
 house ; and the few servants they kept had lived with 
 them so many years that none but the aged people of 
 the place could remember the least alteration in the 
 household. 
 
 The old ladies dressed exactly alike ; and were nearly 
 of the same age. Their customs, also, were quite 
 similar ; so that to observe them at a distance, it might 
 be supposed there was scarcely any difference between 
 them. And yet there was a difference. Mrs. Abigail 
 was very rich, though nobody knew how rich ; but not 
 so Mrs. Dorothy, although she was her own sister. For 
 having in her youth in some way displeased the old 
 gentleman, her father, he left all his fortune to his eldest 
 daughter ; so that Mrs. Dorothy depended almost en- 
 tirely upon the bounty — or rather upon the justice — of 
 her sister. But this was not the greatest difference be- 
 tween them ; for Mrs. Abigail was ill-natured, and Mrs. 
 Dorothy was good-natured, — and it is this kind of thing 
 that makes the greatest real difference between persons, 
 
204 TEMPER; OR THE TWO OLD LADIES. 
 
 in the mind of all those with whom they have to do. The 
 consequence of this, in the present instance, was, that all 
 the old servants loved Mrs. Dorothy better than they 
 loved their mistress ; and waited upon her, not only 
 with more affection, but with more respect. And as re- 
 spect and affection are things which can neither be con- 
 cealed where they are felt, nor successfully imitated where 
 they are not, Mrs. Abigail saw as plainly how it was as if 
 they had told her so in the most express terms. Now, 
 this aggravated her temper beyond anything. She 
 thought it so very strange, and hard, and ungrateful, that 
 she to whom they were indebted for all they had, who 
 paid them such handsome wages and made them such 
 generous presents, should be in less esteem than her 
 poor sister Dorothy, who had nothing of that sort in 
 her power. No ; but *^ such as she had she gave them," 
 — and that happened to be of more sterling value than 
 their mistress's silver and gold. At first, Mrs. Abigail 
 was so impatient under the grievance, that she turned 
 away several faithful servants for no other real reason 
 than this private one ; but finding that the new comers 
 regularly fell into the same fault, she was soon glad to 
 recall her old domestics. 
 
 Mrs. Abigail's temper did not soften as she grew 
 older. She was vexed and tormented that she could 
 not purchase, with all her money, that of which every 
 human bosom feels the need ; and every year increased 
 both the cause and the effect of her disquietude. There 
 was not a tradesman, nor a tenant, nor a neighbor, but 
 would touch his hat with more cordiality to Mrs. Dorothy 
 than to Mrs. Abigail ; for nobody could help seeing the 
 difference. It was even perceptible as they passed 
 along in the old coach ; for, while Mrs. Abigail used 
 always to sit back in an erect posture, looking neither 
 to the right nor the left, the round, good-natured face 
 of Mrs. Dorothy might always be seen, sometimes 
 smiling at the children, and sometimes nodding to 
 the neighbors as she passed their doors. 
 
TEMPER; OR THE TWO OLD LADIES. 205 
 
 Mrs. Abigail used perpetually to complain of her 
 wrongs and grievances to Mrs. Dorothy ; who always 
 heard her very patiently, and said what she could to 
 soften and console her. She very rarely ventured to 
 hint either at the reason or the remedy ; for that irri- 
 tated Mrs. Abigail beyond anything, and always brought 
 forth the whole Ust of her benefactions to witness that 
 the fault was not in her. 
 
 After a long succession of years, a circumstance 
 occurred in the family which made a greater alteration 
 in its aspect than if the China images on the best parlor 
 mantel-piece had been transported to the sitting-parlor 
 mantel-piece, — which would, however, have been con- 
 sidered a most memorable innovation. This was Mrs. 
 Abigail's taking it into her head to adopt a little orphan 
 girl, — a child scarcely five years of age, the daughter 
 of a poor minister lately deceased. 
 
 Little Mary was a very pretty, artless, engaging child. 
 Full of spirits, and unconscious of her misfortunes, she 
 entered the great house without any adequate idea of 
 its dignity, and felt herself quite at home the moment 
 she found something to play with. At first, the old 
 ladies could not exactly say whether they were most 
 amused or most put out by the noisy frolics of their 
 new inmate. Mrs. Abigail, at least, felt considerable 
 uncertainty on the subject. But Mrs. Dorothy soon 
 found that it added materially to her happiness. For 
 although she certainly was fidgeted at the unwonted 
 sight of doll's clothes strewed upon the carpet, and to 
 see the covers to the crimson damask chair-bottoms 
 unceremoniously pulled up and left in wrecks and 
 wrinkles, and, above all, that the cat's back was some- 
 times stroked the wrong way, — yet the innocent smiles, 
 the playful gambols, and engaging prattle of the child 
 went to her heart and awoke sensations of delight and 
 tenderness, which must needs languish, even in bene- 
 volent minds, when it is long since they were called 
 
206 TEMPER; OR THE TWO OLD LADIES, 
 
 into exercise. So much were the good ladies some- 
 times amused that the wind might shift from southeast 
 to northwest without its being noted by either of them, 
 — a thing unprecedented heretofore. And often Mrs. 
 Abigail herself was so much diverted by her little 
 protegee that she had been observed not to gape more 
 than seven times during a whole afternoon. 
 
 But, notwithstanding all this, things did not go on 
 quite so smoothly as may be imagined. Mrs. Abigail's 
 grand object in adopting the little girl was, that she 
 might train up somebody to love her; and having 
 heard that you may teach a child anything, she thought 
 by taking one so young she should be sure to succeed 
 in her design. Accordingly, she resolved to instil it 
 into her youthful mind as her highest duty to love her 
 benefactress ; and she did not fail by reiterated instruc- 
 tions^ to give the child to understand, that, for every- 
 thing she eat and wore and played with, she was 
 indebted to her alone. Now it was a little strange that, 
 after sixty years ^ experience, this good lady did not 
 know any better way of securing her object ; and that 
 she should imagine that so very small a sacrifice as that 
 of giving out a little money from an ample store would 
 alone procure so invaluable a blessing as that of the 
 affection of a fellow- creature. 
 
 Children are excellent physiognomists, and little 
 Mary soon learned to whom to apply for any assistance 
 or sympathy in her play; and she never failed, when 
 she was tired or sleepy, to run and lay her head on 
 Mrs. Dorothy's lap. It happened not unfrequently 
 that she was very noisy in her mirth ; so much so, that, 
 to use her own expression, " it absolutely went through 
 and through Mrs. Abigail's head," and even Mrs. 
 Dorothy's did not escape with impunity. Now on 
 these and similar occasions, when her patience was 
 quite exhausted (which generally happened pretty 
 early), Mrs. Abigail would begin to scold; but in spite 
 
TEMPER; OR THE TWO OLD LADIES. 207 
 
 of this, and of Mrs. Dorothy's repeated admonitions of 
 *' softly ! softly ! my little dear," the Httle dear would 
 continue romping about till she got such a thorough 
 trimming from Mrs. Abigail as made her cry sadly, and 
 wish that her own mamma would come again. When 
 the storm was over, the old lady often relented ; and 
 trotting to her china closet she would take a sweet 
 queen cake or macaroon (articles on which she placed 
 her chief dependence in the management of the child) 
 and hold it out to her with a beneficent smile, which 
 seemed to say, ^' Sure you must love me now." On 
 one of these occasions, as soon as Mary had devoured 
 the bribe, Mrs. Abigail called her, saying, " Come 
 hither, my dear, come to me, and tell me now, don't 
 you love me? " Retaining a lively remembrance of her 
 recent scolding, the child hesitated ; and on the ques- 
 tion being repeated, she answered, " No." 
 
 " Then you are the most ungrateful little creature 
 that ever was," exclaimed the old lady \ "- and you may 
 take that for your pains." So saying, she gave her a 
 smart box on the ear. Mary ran off roaring, and hid 
 her face in Mrs. Dorothy's lap. Mrs. Dorothy know- 
 ing that would not do, raised her up, saying, — 
 
 " Oh, now you are a very naughty little Miss ! 
 What, not love poor Mrs. Abigail, that gives you so 
 many pretty things, and such nice cakes ! Oh, fie ! I 
 am quite ashamed of you ! Sure, you love her, don't 
 you?" 
 
 " I love you,"" said the child, '' because you don't beat 
 me." 
 
 " Well, to be sure," exclaimed Mrs. Abigail, " there 
 is nothing but ingratitude in this world ! Nothing 
 else ; old and young, all alike. Such a little creature 
 as that too, — who could have thought it? " 
 
 Thus little Mary had her troubles, Hke other people, 
 in the midst of her apparent prosperit}^ However, she 
 had a never-failing friend and solace in Mrs. Dorothy ; 
 
2o8 TEMPER; OR THE TWO OLD LADIES, 
 
 and when they were alone she would often throw her 
 little arms round her neck, and kiss her repeatedly, 
 saying,— 
 
 " I do love you ; I do love you very much, Mrs. 
 DorotyT In return, Mrs. Dorothy used to kiss her 
 fondly, and say, — 
 
 '' And I love you, my darling ! my jewel ! my pretty 
 one ! '' never failing to add, " but you know you must 
 love poor Mrs. Abigail too ; because she is so good to 
 you, and gives you such nice things." At which little 
 Mary used to slide off her lap, and run away to play. 
 
 One day Mrs. Abigail was taken very ill, and could 
 not leave her bed ; and kind-hearted Mrs. Dorothy 
 came down to breakfast with the tears in her eyes. 
 
 "What are you crying for? " says little Mary. 
 
 " Because, my dear, poor Mrs. Abigail is very ill, and 
 cannot come down stairs." 
 
 "Why then, you know, we shall have nobody to 
 scold us all day; so why do you cry for thati " said 
 little Mary. 
 
 In the spring little Mary was attacked with the mea- 
 sles, and had them very severely. Notwithstanding her 
 ill-nature, Mrs. Abigail was really fond of the child ; 
 and she attended her in her illness with much solici- 
 tude, took her on her lap, and rocked her to and fro. 
 Once, when she was very restless, she spoke to her in 
 soothing tones ; and when little Mary, in taking some 
 barley water, spilt a little of it over her silk go\vn, and 
 began to cry from the apprehension of being punished 
 for it, Mrs. Abigail said, " Never mind, love, I '11 not 
 be angry with you now^ Upon which little Mary 
 raised her head, looked up in her face for a moment 
 with surprise, and then said, " I love vou, now, Mrs. 
 Abigail." 
 
 Mrs. Abigail looked surprised in her turn. She 
 pressed the child to her bosom with unwonted fond- 
 ness ; the tears came in her eyes ; for those few words. 
 
THE MOTH. 209 
 
 uttered by a little child, gave her more real pleasure than 
 anything that had happened to her for many a day. 
 Being alone, she fell into a deep revery; but the 
 thoughts of a person unaccustomed to reflection are 
 too indistinct and crude for repetition. However, the 
 sense and the substance of her meditation was some- 
 thing like this : — 
 
 " What ! will one kind word, one act of forbearance 
 and good-nature, do more than all the favors I have 
 bestowed ? Oh, if I had considered this in early life, 
 
 — if I had but seen that it is not money but kindness, 
 not gifts, but good-nature, that purchases affection, 
 
 — how differently would my life have passed. Ah, 
 sister Dorothy ! Sister Dorothy ! I have had all the 
 money, but you have had all the happiness ! " 
 
 THE MOTH. 
 
 A MILD September evening ; twilight already steal- 
 ing over the landscape shades yonder sloping cornfield, 
 whence the merry reapers have this day borne away 
 the last sheaf. A party of gleaners have since gathered 
 up the precious fragments. Now all are gone. The 
 harvest moon is up ; a low mist rising from the river 
 floats in the valley. There is a gentle stirring amongst 
 the leaves of the tall elm that shades our roof; all 
 besides is still. The gray and quiet scene invites 
 reflection. 
 
 Wishing the reader to participate in our meditations, 
 we were in the very act of committing to paper some 
 sage considerations on the departure of another sum- 
 mer. But a very small and elegant moth, attracted by 
 the candles, has this moment descended on the sheet, 
 
 14 
 
2IO THE MOTH. 
 
 within an inch of our pen, and with the light stroke of 
 his wing has broken our thread of thought. Will the 
 reader excuse it if it break his also ? 
 
 The delicacy and perfection of its form, the exqui- 
 site lace-work of its airy wing, its swift and noiseless 
 movements, a body nearly as ethereal and unincum- 
 bered as if it were a soul, its independence, its inno- 
 cence, awaken admiration; and (contrasted with the 
 inertness and languor with which our cumbrous frames 
 are often oppressed) might excite envy too. 
 
 Who can guess what are its imaginings concerning 
 the extensive plain on which it has just arrived ? Is it 
 a field of dazzling light, an enchanted region of pleas- 
 ure and brightness ? He flutters his wings as though 
 his dreams of joy were at length realized. From the 
 dun shades of the evening without, he has suddenly 
 launched into a new world of magic splendor, illumined 
 with radiant suns. How little does he think (of this 
 at least we may be sure) that this shining plain is no 
 other than a sheet of foolscap ; that those glorious 
 suns are inglorious candles ! Such are the illusions of 
 moths ! 
 
 It would be very desirable, some young reader may 
 think, if it were possible, to undeceive him ; and 
 supposing him capable of understanding it, to rectify 
 all his mistakes, by addressing him in some such lan- 
 guage as this : " You are only a moth ; and you have 
 no idea what insignificant things moths are ! You know 
 nothing at all ; you can't imagine what an astonishing 
 number of things there are that you have not even 
 heard of. We think nothing of you ; tve are really of 
 importance ;n but you are of no importance, — you are 
 only an insect. You sometimes do us mischief by eat- 
 ing holes in our clothes, and very tiresome it is that 
 such little creatures as you should be able to do us 
 mischief. Having this opportunity, I must desire you 
 not to do so any more, for what you eat is not at all 
 
THE MOTH. 211 
 
 nice ; it is cloth, not food ; why should you eat doth ? 
 I wish you would mention this to all your relations. 
 And as to the place that you now are upon, it is nothing 
 in the world but a sheet of paper that a person is writ- 
 ing on. But you don't know what writing means, I 
 dare say. Indeed, it is no use talking to you, you are 
 so extremely ignorant, moth." 
 
 With a few variations, how suitable would be such 
 an address to some things that are 7iot moths ! And to 
 beings a little higher than ourselves in the scale of 
 reason, how similar to those of the moth must appear 
 the illusions of men ! How many of the objects of 
 our ardent pursuit are as destitute of intrinsic excel- 
 lence, as empty of happiness, as we know the glare of 
 the light to be in which an insect so joyously flutters 
 its wings ! It does not, indeed, require the intellect 
 of an angel to know this j experience teaches it, at 
 last, even to dull scholars. Children can laugh at the 
 folly of an insect; youths soon learn to ridicule the 
 toys and sports of children ; men smile at the vanities 
 of youth ; wise men at the pleasures of weak men — 
 and not seldom at their own ; while angels look down 
 with surprise and pity on all — smiling most at the 
 mistakes of the man, and least at those of the moth ! 
 
 Fortunately enough for our moral, the little hero of 
 the piece has this moment expired in the flame of the 
 candle ; and that in spite of the most praiseworthy 
 exertions on our part to deter him from the rash ad- 
 venture. In vain we whisked our quill in every dis- 
 suasive attitude (an employment, by the way, to which 
 we are but too much accustomed), he was resolved — 
 and could he have given utterance to his feelings, no 
 doubt he would have expressed his certain persuasion 
 — that it must be a desirable and a delightful thing 
 to sport in that elegant flame. Who can witness this 
 common catastrophe without observing the analogy, 
 and reading the oft-told moral? Even if it had not 
 
212 THE MOTH'S SONG, 
 
 scorched a single feather, if he could have lived there, 
 still, we could assure him, he could not Jind happiness 
 in a candle. He would have been a thousand times 
 more comfortable, as well as more safe, hid in the dark 
 folds of the curtain, or fixed within the protection of 
 some -broad shadow on the wall, or in any of the nat- 
 ural and customary haunts of his species. So is it with 
 all unsanctioned pleasures. Even if they were not 
 dangerous they would be disappointing. But we know 
 they are both the one and the other. 
 
 How quickly was that most complete and dehcate 
 machine destroyed ! — an engine which not the united 
 sagacity and ingenuity of man could restore ! No 
 wonder that so fine and fragile a creature should be 
 liable to swift destruction. But let not the strong glory 
 in their strength, for behold " we are crushed before 
 the moth." 
 
 THE MOTH'S SONG. 
 
 Ah ! what shall I do, 
 
 To express unto you 
 
 What I think, what I feel, what I know and pursue ! 
 
 With my elegant face, 
 And my wing of lace. 
 How lightly the motes of the evening I chase ! 
 
 Though I am but a moth, 
 And feed upon cloth. 
 To me it is pleasant and nourishing both. 
 
 And this region of light. 
 So broad and so bright. 
 It makes my heart dance with a strange delight ! 
 
THE WONDERFUL BIRD. 213 
 
 If dismal to you, 
 'T is the best of the two, 
 For oh ! it is pleasant, this wide -shining view ! 
 
 There are lights afar, 
 More bright than a star. 
 You say they are candles — I '11 see if they are. 
 
 I go, and I fly. 
 And so good-by ! — 
 Ah me ! what is it ? — I die ! I die ! 
 
 THE WONDERFUL BIRD. 
 
 SiGNOR Pasqualini, just arrived from the Continent, 
 announced to the inhabitants of a certain village his 
 intention of amusing them, for one evening only, with 
 a variety of entertaining exhibitions and performances, 
 of unrivalled excellence and ingenuity ; amongst these, 
 the manoeuvres of *' The Learned Bird," an ac- 
 complished German bullfinch, were particularly speci- 
 fied, and largely described in his advertisement. What 
 this bird could do seemed not so much to be the ques- 
 tion, as what it could not do ; so rare were its professed 
 attainments. It could, for instance, go through the 
 military exercise with a straw ; bow to the company at 
 the word of command ; sing different tunes, when called 
 for ; articulate some words ; draw a triangle with its 
 beak ; and spell certain names by pointing to the let- 
 ters with its claw. 
 
 Amongst the spectators of this entertainment were t^vo 
 lads, upon whom it made a strangely different impression. 
 One of them, having read the ^advertisement in the 
 
214 THE WONDERFUL BIRD. 
 
 morning, had his imagination wrought upon all day by 
 the glowing descriptions of Signor Pasqualini's hand-bill. 
 It was not so much those attributes of the bird that 
 were particularly specified as the undefined intimations 
 of its sagacity over which his fancy hovered, and which in- 
 spired him with so much respect that it is a question if he 
 felt more veneration for the learning of the parish school- 
 master than for that of this gifted biped. Full of these 
 expectations, when evening was come, Edward paid his 
 willing sixpence, and entered with trembling eagerness 
 from behind the curtain of green baize that formed the 
 entrance of the show. As the company thickened, and 
 various preliminaries appeared to be going on behind the 
 scenes, his impatience increased to a degree that was 
 almost painful. At length Signor Pasqualini made his 
 appearance and his bow, and after sundry performances, 
 not necessary here to specify, a cage with golden wires 
 was introduced, out of which solemnly stepped the won- 
 derful bird, and immediately hopped upon a perch that 
 was raised for the purpose on the table. This bullfinch, 
 as to its outward appearance, looked much more like 
 other bullfinches than Edward expected. Indeed, the 
 hard discipline and solitary life to which its profession 
 had subjected it had rendered its plumage less glossy 
 and brilHant, and its movements less natural and grace- 
 ful, than those of most of its species. Edward was a 
 little disappointed at this ; however, he concluded that 
 its mental endowments would abundantly compensate 
 for any external deficiencies. The first thing required 
 of the hapless performer was to bow three times to the 
 company. This Edward thought was not very grace- 
 fully done. Indeed, the poor little bird, though for 
 some time accustomed to practise in private, had but 
 newly been introduced at public exhibitions, and it ap- 
 peared to be half frightened and half ashamed at per- 
 forming before so large a company. Some of its tricks 
 were diverting enough ; but many mistakes and blun- 
 
THE WONDERFUL BIRD. 215 
 
 ders were detected. When, for instance, it was required 
 to point to the letters that spell King George, it stum- 
 bled upon the last word first, and thus produced only 
 the inglorious name of George King, And when asked 
 where it was that Lord Wellington gained his great 
 victory, whether the bird replied Waterloo or water 
 gruel could only be guessed by the question. Edward 
 could not help laughing at this ; yet on the whole 
 he felt no small degree of disappointment, — so much 
 so as to be weary of the performance some time before 
 it was over. 
 
 Very different was the impression made by the 
 exhibition on another spectator above alluded to. This 
 lad had not happened even to see the advertisement ; 
 moreover, he had never in all his life heard of such a thing 
 as a learned bird. He only stepped in as he was passing, 
 attracted by the lights, with no idea of what nature the 
 amusement was to be. When therefore the little per- 
 former commenced its operations, this boy felt as much 
 pleasure and entertainment as the thing was capable 
 of affording. He laughed out several times, and pro- 
 tested it was " wonderful, really wonderful for such a 
 Httle creature ! " He observed indeed some failures 
 and mistakes, but for these he made the most charita- 
 ble allowances j because, as he said, '' it was but a 
 bird ; " and because he had expected nothmg. 
 
 Such were the opposite effects produced by the same 
 spectacle on these differently circumstanced observers : 
 and yet, perhaps, both would agree, when they came 
 to think about it afterwards, that it was a prettier sight 
 to see the sparrows and robins hopping about in their 
 natural haunts, in gardens and orchards, and pleasanter 
 to hear their simple notes, than to stare at the perform- 
 ances of the most accomplished finch that ever 
 exhibited. 
 
2i6 A CURIOUS INSTRUMENT, 
 
 MORAL. 
 
 But Stay ; methinks before we part, 
 
 A moral may be heard, — 
 A hint to many a sanguine heart 
 
 From this accomplished bird ; 
 The truth impressed on every brow, , 
 Where time has passed his noiseless plough. 
 
 Just thus from life, and what it yields, 
 
 Hope steals the zest away : 
 We never tread the Elysian fields 
 
 Through which we thought to stray ; 
 Of all the joys on which we seize. 
 The more we hope, the less they please. 
 
 Our pleasures rather seem to spring 
 
 From things too low that lie 
 For fancy there to sweep her wing. 
 
 Or hope to glance an eye ; 
 These humbler gifts, of all on earth, 
 Alone surprise us with their worth. 
 
 Reader, while eager hope arrays 
 
 In flowers the youthful year. 
 Think too what storms and rainy days 
 
 Will follow his career : 
 Expect these storms and clouds to lower, — 
 'T will brighten every sunny hour. 
 
 A CURIOUS INSTRUMENT. 
 
 A GENTLEMAN, just returned from a journey to Lon- 
 don, was surrounded by his children, eager, after the first 
 salutations were over, to hear the news ; and still more 
 
A CURIOUS INSTRUMENT. 217 
 
 eager to see the contents of a small portmanteau, which 
 were one by one carefully unfolded and displayed to 
 view. After distributing amongst them a few small 
 presents, the father took his seat again, saying that he 
 must confess he had brought from town, for his own 
 use, something far more curious and valuable than any 
 of the little gifts they had received. It was, he said, 
 too good to present to any of them ; but he would, if 
 they pleased, first give them a brief description of it, 
 and then perhaps they might be allowed to inspect it. 
 The children were accordingly all attention, while the 
 father thus proceeded : — 
 
 " This small instrument displays the most perfect 
 ingenuity of construction, and exquisite nicety and 
 beauty of workmanship. From its extreme delicacy, 
 it is so liable to injury that a sort of light curtain, 
 adorned with a beautiful fringe, is always provided, and 
 so placed as to fall in a moment on the approach of 
 the slightest danger. Its external appearance is always 
 more or less beautiful ; yet in this respect there is a 
 great diversity in the different sorts. But the internal 
 contrivance is the same in all of them, and is so ex- 
 tremely curious, and its powers so truly astonishing, 
 that no one who considers it can suppress his surprise 
 and admiration. By a slight and momentary movement, 
 which is easily effected by the person it belongs to, 
 you can ascertain with considerable accuracy the size, 
 color, shape, weight, and value of any article whatever. 
 A person possessed of one is thus saved from the neces- 
 sity of asking a thousand questions, and trying a variety 
 of troublesome experiments, which would otherwise be 
 necessary; and such a slow and laborious process 
 would, after all, not succeed half so well as a single 
 application of this admirable instrument." 
 
 George. If they are such very useful things, I won- 
 der that everybody that can at all afford it does not 
 have one. 
 
2l8 A CURIOUS INSTRUMENT, 
 
 Father. They are not so uncommon as you may 
 suppose ; I myself happen to know several individuals 
 who are possessed of one or two of them. 
 
 Charles. How large is it, father, — could I hold it 
 in my hand? 
 
 Father. You might ; but I should be very sorry to 
 trust mine with you. 
 
 George. You will be obliged to take very great care 
 of it, then? 
 
 Father. Indeed I must ! I intend every night to 
 enclose it within the small screen I mentioned ; and it 
 must besides occasionally be washed in a certain color- 
 less fluid kept for the purpose. But this is such a 
 delicate operation, that persons, I find, are generally 
 reluctant to perform it. But notwithstanding the ten- 
 derness of this instrument, you will be surprised to 
 hear that it may be darted to a great distance without 
 the least injury, and without any danger of losing it. 
 
 Charles. Indeed ! And how high can you dart it ? 
 
 Father. I should be afraid of telling you to what 
 a distance it will reach, lest you should think I am 
 jesting with you. 
 
 George. Higher than this house, I suppose ? 
 
 Father. Much higher. 
 
 Charles. Then how do you' get it again ? 
 
 Father. It is easily cast down by a gentle move- 
 ment, that does it no injury. 
 
 George. But who can do this? 
 
 Father. The person whose business it is to take 
 care of it. 
 
 Charles. Well, I cannot understand you at all; 
 but do tell us, father, what it is chiefly used for. 
 
 Father. Its uses are so various that I know not 
 which to specify. It has been found very serviceable 
 in deciphering old manuscripts; and, indeed, has its 
 use in modern prints. It will assist us greatly in ac- 
 quiring all kinds of knowledge ; and without it some of 
 
A CURIOUS INSTRUMENT. 219 
 
 the most sublime parts of creation would have been 
 matters of mere conjecture. It must be confessed, 
 however, that very much depends on a proper appli- 
 cation of it; being, possessed by many persons who 
 appear to have no adequate sense of its value, but who 
 employ it only for the most low and common purposes, 
 without even thinking, apparently, of the noble uses 
 for which it is designed, or of the exquisite gratifications 
 it is capable of affording. It is, indeed, in order to 
 excite in your minds some higher sense of its value 
 than you might otherwise have entertained, that I am 
 giving you this previous description. 
 
 George. Well then, tell us something more about 
 it. 
 
 Father. It is of a very penetrating quality; and 
 can often discover secrets which could be detected by 
 no other means. It must be owned, however, that it 
 is equally prone to reveal them. 
 
 Charles. What ! can it speak, then ? 
 
 Father. It is sometimes said to do so, especially 
 when it happens to meet with one of its own species. 
 
 George. What color are they? 
 
 Father. They vary considerably in this respect. 
 
 George. What color is yours ? 
 
 Father. I believe»of a darkish color ; but, to con- 
 fess the truth, I never saw it in my life. 
 
 Both. Never saw it in your life ! 
 
 Father. No, nor do ^ I wish ; but I have seen a 
 representation of it, which is so exact that my curios- 
 ity is quite satisfied. 
 
 George. But why don't you look at the thing it- 
 self ? 
 
 Father. I should be in great danger of losing it if 
 I did. 
 
 Charles. Then you could buy another. 
 
 Father. Nay, I believe I could not prevail upon 
 anybody to part with such a thing. 
 
2 20 THE TOAD'S JOURNAL. 
 
 George. Then how did you get this one ? 
 
 Father. I am so fortunate as to be possessed of 
 more than one : but how I got them I really cannot 
 recollect. , 
 
 Charles. Not recollect ! why, you said you 
 brought them from London to-night ! 
 
 Father. So I did ; I should be sorry if I had left 
 them behind me. 
 
 Charles. Tell, father, do tell us, the name of this 
 curious instrument ! 
 
 Father. It is called — an eye. 
 
 THE TOAD'S JOURNAL. 
 
 It is related by Mr. Belzoni, in the interesting nar- 
 rative of his late discoveries in Egypt, that having 
 succeeded in clearing a passage to the entrance of an 
 ancient temple which had been for ages buried in the 
 sand, the first object that presented itself, upon enter- 
 ing, was a toad of enormous size ; and, if we may 
 credit the assertions of some naturalists respecting the 
 extraordinary longevity of these creatures when in a 
 state of solitary confinement, we may believe that it 
 was well stricken in years. 
 
 Whether the subjoined document was intrusted to 
 our traveller by the venerable reptile as a present to the 
 British Museum, or with the more mercantile view of 
 getting it printed in London, in preference to Alexan- 
 dria, on condition of receiving one per cent on the 
 profits, after the sale of the five hundredth edition 
 (provided the publisher should by that tirne be at all 
 remunerated for his risk and trouble), we pretend not 
 to say. Quite as much as can be vouched for is the 
 
THE TOAD'S JOURNAL. 221 
 
 manuscript's being faithfully rendered from the original 
 hieroglyphic character. The dates are omitted. 
 
 " Crawled forth from some rubbish, and winked 
 with one eye ; 
 Half opened the other, but could not tell why ; 
 Stretched out my left leg, as it felt rather queer, 
 Then drew all together and slept for a year. 
 Awakened, felt chilly, — crept under a stone ; 
 Was vastly contented with living alone. 
 One toe became wedged in the stone like a peg ; 
 Could not get it away, — had the cramp in my leg ; 
 Began half to wish for a neighbor at hand 
 To loosen the stone, which was fast in the sand. 
 Pulled harder, — then dozed, as I found 't was no 
 
 use ; 
 Awoke the next summer, and lo ! it was loose. 
 Crawled forth from the stone, when completely awake ; 
 Crept into a corner, and grinned at a snake. 
 Retreated, and found that I needed repose ; 
 Curled up my damp limbs and prepared for a doze. 
 Fell sounder to sleep than was usual before, 
 And did not awake for a century or more ; 
 But had a sweet dream, as I rather believe. 
 Methought it was light, and a fine summer's eve ; 
 And I in some garden deliciously fed. 
 In the pleasant moist shade of a strawberry bed. 
 There fine speckled creatures claimed kindred with me^ 
 And others that hopped, most enchanting to see. 
 Here long I regaled with emotion extreme ; 
 Awoke — disconcerted to find it a dream ; 
 Grew pensive ; discovered that life is a load ; 
 Began to be weary of being a toad. 
 Was fretful at first, and then shed a few tears." 
 Here ends the account of the first thousand years. 
 
2 2 2 THE TOAD'S JO URNAL. 
 
 MORAL. 
 
 To find a moral where there 's none 
 Is hard indeed, yet must be done ; 
 Since only morals sound and sage 
 May grace this consecrated page. 
 Then give us leave to search a minute 
 Perhaps for one that is not in it. 
 
 How strange a waste of life appears 
 This wondrous reptile's length of years ! 
 Age after age afforded him 
 To wink an eye, or move a limb, 
 To doze and dream, — and then to think 
 Of noting this with pen and ink ; 
 Or hieroglyphic shapes to draw, 
 More likely, with his hideous claw ! 
 Sure, length of days might be bestowed 
 On something better than a toad ! 
 Had his existence been eternal, 
 What better could have filled his journal? 
 
 True, we reply ; our ancient friend 
 Seems to have lived to Httle end. 
 This must be granted ; nay, the elf 
 Seems to suspect as much himself. 
 Refuse not then to find a teacher 
 In this extraordinary creature ; 
 And learn at least, whoe'er you be, 
 To moralize as well as he. 
 It seems that life is all a void. 
 On selfish thoughts alone employed ; 
 That length of days is not a good, 
 Unless their use be understood ; 
 While if good deeds one year engage, 
 That may be longer than an age. 
 But if a year in trifles go. 
 Perhaps you 'd spend a thousand so. 
 
ON VISITING COWPER'S GARDEN. 223 
 
 Time cannot stay to make us. wise ; 
 We must improve it as it flies. 
 The work is ours, and they shall rue it 
 Who think that time will stop to do it. 
 
 And then, again, he lets us know 
 That length of days is length of woe ; 
 His long experience taught him this, — 
 That life affords no solid bliss. 
 Or if of bHss on earth you scheme, 
 Soon you shall find it but a dream ; 
 The visions fade, the slumbers break, 
 And then you suffer wide awake. 
 What is it but a vale of tears. 
 Though we should live a thousand years ? 
 
 ON VISITING COWPER'S GARDEN AND 
 SUMMER-HOUSE AT OLNEY. 
 
 Are these the trees ? Is this the place ? 
 These roses, did they bloom for him ? 
 Trod he these walks with thoughtful pace ? 
 Massed he amid these borders trim ? 
 
 Is this the bower ? — an humble shed 
 Methinks it seems for such a guest ! 
 Why rise not columns, dome bespread, 
 By art's elaborate fingers drest ? 
 
 Art waits on wealth, there let her roam, 
 Her fabrics rear, her temples gild ; 
 But Genius, when he seeks a home. 
 Must send for Nature's self to build. 
 
 This quiet garden's humble bound, 
 This homely roof, this rustic fane, 
 
2 24 ON VISITING COWPER'S GARDEN 
 
 With playful tendrils twining round, 
 And woodbines peeping at the pane ; 
 
 That tranquil tender sky of blue, 
 Where clouds of golden radiance skim, 
 Those ranging trees of varied hue, — 
 These were the sights that solaced him. 
 
 We stepped within. At once on each 
 A feeling steals, so undefined, 
 In vain we seek to give it speech, — 
 'T is silent homage paid to Mind. 
 
 They tell us here he thought and wrote ; 
 On this low. seat — reclining thus : 
 Ye garden breezes, as ye float. 
 Why bear ye no such thoughts to us ? 
 
 Perhaps the balmy air was fraught 
 With breath of heaven. Or did he toil 
 In precious mines of sparkHng thought 
 Concealed beneath the curious soil? 
 
 Did zephyrs bear on golden wings 
 Rich treasures from the honeyed dew ? 
 Or are there here celestial springs 
 Of living waters, whence he drew ? 
 
 And here he suffered ! This recess, 
 Where even Nature failed to cheer. 
 Has witnessed oft his deep distress. 
 And precious drops have fallen here ! 
 
 Here are no richly sculptured urns 
 The consecrated dust to cover ; 
 But Nature smiles and weeps, by turns, 
 In memory of her fondest lover. 
 
THE TROUBLESOME FRIEND, 225 
 
 THE TROUBLESOME FRIEND. 
 
 To the Editor of the " Youth's Magazine " ; 
 
 Sir, — In the hope that some of your correspon- 
 dents may offer a few remarks on the subject on which 
 I am about to address you, I have been induced to lay 
 before you certain grievances under which I have long 
 privately groaned. And as it is possible that others 
 besides myself may have similar things to complain of, 
 you may, by the insertion of my letter, be rendering a 
 public service while conferring a private obligation. 
 
 You must know that the house adjoining my father's 
 is occupied by a family with whom we are on terms of 
 intimacy. The eldest daughter especially, being a girl 
 of my own age, I have always considered as a particu- 
 lar friend ; and notwithstanding the complaints I am 
 about to lay before you, I really feel a sincere regard 
 for her ; although I will not deny that the warm affec- 
 tion which I at first entertained is greatly damped by 
 the continual vexations to which her conduct exposes 
 me. In short, sir, she is one of those good sort 
 of people whose misfortune it is to be very soon 
 aifronted. 
 
 Now it is needless to state how many occasions will 
 perpetually occur, between such near neighbors, of 
 'taking offence where there is a disposition to do so ; 
 and that, notwithstanding the most sincere and diligent 
 efforts on one part to avoid them. Being myself one 
 of a large family, my time is very much occupied by 
 domestic affairs ; besides, my attention to those pur- 
 suits which are necessary to the completion of my 
 education. Now it unfortunately happens that our 
 neighbor, although in circumstances apparently similar 
 to my own, has, or makes, a much larger portion of 
 
 15 
 
226 THE TROUBLESOME FRIEND. 
 
 leisure than I can command ; and hence arises one of 
 the principal sources of uneasiness between us. She 
 is so much " hurt/' as her phrase is, that I am not 
 ready and willing at all times of the day ''to step in/' 
 or to have a gossip over the garden wall. Now, 
 although no one can enjoy the pleasures of society 
 more than I do at proper seasons, yet I must say it is 
 no enjoyment to me to have the regular and agreeable 
 routine of my daily avocations hable to perpetual in- 
 terruption. It is, however, on this account that my 
 troublesome friend is perpetually reproaching me with 
 being "2. bad neighbor," "unsociable," ''proud;" 
 and with being indifferent to her society. 
 
 I do assure you that I cannot pace up and down 
 our garden walk with a book in my hand, but at the 
 hazard of giving offence ; for if she should happen to 
 be within sight, and if I should not happen to raise 
 my head to nod to her, and say " Good morning," it 
 will take her a week to pardon the neglect. Then, it 
 would surprise you to hear the plausible manner she has 
 of representing her grievances ; so that when her com- 
 plaints have been repeated to me by some mutual 
 friend, I have really begun to fancy myself quite in the 
 wrong. And yet upon the coolest reflection I can- 
 not accuse myself of misconduct in this matter. 
 
 My friend is wont, with a very resigned, pathetic, 
 and reasonable sort of look and manner, to make such 
 complaints as the following : — 
 
 " I do feel a little hurt, I must confess, — so much 
 attention as I have shown to her, and so much regard 
 as, I can truly say, I feel for her. Why, I have known 
 her pass our parlor window twenty times in a day, 
 when she knows I have been sitting there, without 
 once giving herself the trouble to turn her head to nod 
 to me ! Is not this a little strange, so intimate as we 
 are?" 
 
 " Certainly, it is/' says our mutual friend. 
 
THE TROUBLESOME FRIEND. 227 
 
 " Well, and then she makes an excuse of being so 
 vastly busy. For my part, I 've no notion of being too 
 busy to speak to a friend, — have you? " 
 
 ^* Certainly not." 
 
 " Well, one can never step in there but one seems 
 to be interrupting them ; and it is quite a favor to get 
 her to bring her work, and sit an hour with one in the 
 morning. In short, I have done asking her. I don't 
 deny that she is willing to come in and do one a kind- 
 ness, when it is needed. But I Uke a friend to be a 
 friend at all times ; and in my opinion there 's nothing 
 so charming as a sociable disposition. For my own 
 part, this is so much 7ny temper that, as I often say, I 
 feel these slights the more ; and certainly at times I 
 cannot help feeling a little hurt." 
 
 In this style, as I have been repeatedly informed, 
 she makes out a case against me. But as I never take 
 any other notice of such charges than by doing all in 
 my power to show her real friendship, we might go on 
 tolerably, if it were not that sometimes, owing to some 
 unforeseen occurrence or mistake, which it is impossible 
 always to guard against, my friend takes more serious 
 offence, — so much so, at times, that during many 
 weeks she has refused to speak to me. I should be 
 ashamed to call the attention of your readers to the 
 detail of affairs so trifling, if it were not for the sake of 
 illustrating my meaning. With this view, I will men- 
 tion an instance or two of the kind. 
 
 The last time that she appeared so much offended, 
 it was in consequence of my having omitted to send 
 her a formal invitation to spend the evening with me. 
 Wishing to see several of my young friends, I had 
 previously consulted with her about the day; and, 
 having fully agreed together when it should be, I sat 
 down to write the notes to my other friends, without 
 its even occurring to me that she would expect any 
 further notice. However, to my great surprise, she 
 
228 THE TROUBLESOME FRIEND, 
 
 did not join our party ; and when I sent in to inquire 
 the reason, she returned me only a cold and formal 
 excuse. It was in vain that I endeavored to recollect 
 anything I had done or left undone that could have 
 vexed her; and it was not till weeks afterwards that 
 she condescended to explain the cause of her dis- 
 pleasure. Now really, if I had thought of writing her a 
 note of invitation, I should have been in equal danger 
 of giving offence ; for then, it is probable, she would 
 have accused me of being too ceremonious with her. 
 
 I should be more ready to suspect that the blame 
 was on my part, if it were not that others of her ac- 
 quaintance make the same complaints. We are both 
 of us teachers in our Sunday School ; and there is no 
 situation, as you may be aware, in which a quarrel- 
 some or peevish dispositibn is more likely to show 
 itself. You will not be surprised, therefore, when I 
 say that my poor neighbor is continually taking um- 
 brage with some of her fellow-teachers. When any 
 fresh arrangement takes place in the classes, she sel- 
 dom fails to complain that all the most stupid children 
 are selected for her. Her attendance at the school is 
 not the most regular ; yet no one can offer her the 
 kindest remonstrance on this subject, or suggest the 
 smallest improvement in her method of teaching, with- 
 out the certainty of her being highly offended. If any 
 new plans are projected without consulting her, that is 
 sure to be considered as a personal aifront ; and- if, on 
 the other hand, she is consulted, we are equally sure 
 of her objecting to what is proposed. She is always 
 complaining that she has so little to do with the man- 
 agement of the school ; and indeed she is so constantly 
 dissatisfied that her services are much less acceptable 
 than they would otherwise be ; for there is, you know, 
 trouble and difficulty and fatigue enough in a Sunday 
 School, without having our embarrassments increased 
 by disagreements among the teachers. 
 
TO WHOMSOEVER IT MAY CONCERN. 229 
 
 Having been so long used to the peculiarity of my 
 friend's temper, I was really scarcely aware of the 
 degree of bondage and restraint which it imposed upon 
 me, until lately when she was absent from home on a 
 visit of some months. I cannot adequately describe 
 to you how much I felt at Hberty as soon as she was 
 gone. I could now walk in the garden without looking 
 fifty ways to see if she was within sight. I could go 
 out or come in, read or write, or take a walk with any 
 other friend, — and all with a degree of freedom and 
 comfort unknown heretofore. And the glow of sincere 
 pleasure with which I should otherwise have welcomed 
 her return was (I do not deny it) damped exceedingly 
 by the recollection of the trouble it would inevitably 
 bring upon me. 
 
 Now, surely that must be a serious fault in a per- 
 son's character which, in spite of many good qualities, 
 renders her company burdensome and her absence a 
 deliverance ; and if anything could be suggested that 
 might successfully represent the weakness and unrea- 
 sonableness of such a disposition, it would at once do a 
 real service to all such troublesome friends, and inspire 
 with the warmest gratitude all their troubled acquaint- 
 ance. 
 
 I am, sir, your obedient servant, 
 
 Penelope. 
 
 A LETTER TO WHOMSOEVER IT MAY 
 CONCERN. 
 
 Dear Reader, — Happening to glance my eye upon 
 the title of a paper in the last number of the " Youth's 
 Magazine," I was induced to put on my spectacles, 
 and give it a reading. And although many of those 
 
230 A LETTER TO ' 
 
 who contribute to its pages are doubtless better pre- 
 pared in most respects than myself to reply to it, yet on 
 one account I feel peculiarly qualified to accept the 
 challenge there given : it is that I myself, for a con- 
 siderable portion of my life was one of the society of 
 " troublesome friends." 
 
 I can assign more reasons than one for my having 
 long withdrawn from that society ; but must frankly 
 acknowledge that the primary cause was my having 
 few friends left to be troublesome to. This circum- 
 stance at once afforded me leisure for reflection and 
 roused me to it. For, observing that my society was 
 shunned, first by one, and then by another of my asso- 
 ciates, I began to employ many solitary hours in en- 
 deavoring to discover the cause ; and after various . 
 unsuccessful attempts to trace it to the misconduct of 
 others, I was at last compelled to suspect that, after 
 all, the fault might be in myself. 
 
 Without troubling you with the long course of exper- 
 iment and observation by which I was led to this 
 unpleasant conclusion, I shall content myself with 
 stating it to be my settled conviction that an excessive 
 sensibility to injury — a readiness to take offence on 
 small occasions, a disposition to jealousy — proceeds 
 from nothing so much as a tendency to overrate our 
 own worth and consequence. Hence it is that we 
 entertain unreasonable expectations of the attentions 
 due to us from others ; and the inevitable disappoint- 
 ment which ensues mortifies our vanity and self-love, 
 and produces that fretful, complaining, or resentful 
 temper which gives so much trouble to our neighbors 
 and tenfold more uneasiness to ourselves. 
 
 Persons whose misfortune it is to magnify their own 
 consequence, instead of making a liberal allowance for 
 similar infirmities in their neighbors, expect that every- 
 body should regard them in the same disproportionate 
 view; and are first astonished, and then hurt, when 
 
WHOMSOEVER IT MAY CONCERN, 231 
 
 they discover how far this is from being the case. 
 She who is ahvays thinking of herself imagines that 
 others must be ahvays thinking of her; at least she 
 thinks it ought to be so ; though of all persons, such a 
 one is the least likely to excite a lively interest in those 
 around her. 
 
 Another cause of the disposition in question I dis- 
 covered to be, in my own case, the want of a sufficient 
 interest in the useful employments of life, which left 
 me at leisure to indulge that idle and gossiping turn 
 of mind from whence mischief of one sort or another 
 is sure to arise. When, as a resource from the pain- 
 fulness of my reflections, I began to engage more 
 heartily in my pursuits, it was astonishing how much 
 less inclination I felt to watch the motions and arraign 
 the conduct of my neighbors. Being fully occupied 
 myself, I often quite forgot to notice whether they paid 
 me proper attentions or not; and a thousand little 
 things passed unnoticed at which I should most cer- 
 tainly have taken offence, had I been on the look out 
 for it. I also acquired by this means a little more 
 charity in judging of the conduct of my neighbors ; for 
 it could not but occur to my mind that whereas, while 
 I was busily engaged in my own occupations, I had 
 little leisure to think of them, so they, for a reason equally 
 good, might sometimes lose a lively recollection even 
 of me. That very common admonition, to mind 07te's 
 oivn business, is really an excellent one ; for while an 
 energetic attention to one's own affairs effectually checks 
 an impertinent and mischievous curiosity about the 
 conduct of other people, it by no means prevents a 
 benevolent concern for their welfare or activity in their 
 service, when they may happen to require it. Thus I 
 found that while I became less and less inchned to break 
 off an interesting employment in order to watch whether 
 one neighbor went by without calling, or whether another 
 paid me some expected attention, I was yet much more 
 
232 A LETTER TO 
 
 willing than heretofore to give up some portion of my 
 time to them when I could do them any good by that 
 means. 
 
 There was another consideration which had great 
 efficacy in curing me — if I am cured — of my trouble- 
 some propensities ; and that was the utter unavailingness 
 of my resentments. When I was affronted/ and deter- 
 mined to show it, I soon discovered that nobody cared 
 much whether I was pleased or angry. People in general 
 seemed perfectly contented to wait till my anger was 
 over. A few more good-tempered ones, who endeav- 
 ored to explain and to conciliate, I could see smiled 
 secretly at my infirmity; while the more ill-natured 
 laughed at it without disguise. So that I found I was 
 always the chief sufferer and the chief loser by my ill- 
 humor. When from motives of pique I absented myself 
 from any company, the circumstance, as I have had 
 opportunities enough of discovering, excited no regret, 
 but very often the reverse ; so that I began to be 
 thoroughly tired of indulging resentments which pun- 
 ished no one but myself. 
 
 As it is common to pass from one extreme to another, 
 so I am suspected by some of having now become too 
 insensible to this sort of injury. Whether that be the 
 case I will not determine ; but this I know, that if I err 
 on this side it is the most peaceful and comfortable 
 fault I ever fell into. In fact it is so difficult a thing to 
 offend me now, that those — if there are any such — 
 who would wish to do so, must I am sure give up the 
 attempt in despair. I am far from being ignorant that 
 I occasionally experience, Hke other people, little slights 
 and neglects from the carelessness, selfishness, or ill- 
 nature of my neighbors ; but as this rarely happens 
 from those whom I love and esteem, I must confess 
 that it gives the smallest possible disturbance to my 
 tranquillity. If any one treats me with rudeness or 
 neglect, I perceive that that person knows not how to 
 
WHOMSOEVER IT MAY CONCERN, 233 
 
 behave ; and I feel the same sort of compassion and 
 indulgence towards the party that one does on remark- 
 ing any other species of awkwardness in ill-bred people. 
 
 As to my happiness, that is so greatly independent 
 of others — so much regulated by my own conduct and 
 internal tranquillity — that it cannot be moved by such 
 things. It is, indeed, since I have learned the happy 
 art of looking within for entertainment and satisfaction, 
 and depended on my own resources, that I have be- 
 come so much less troublesome to others than formerly. 
 And it is well for me that this change has taken place ; 
 for as I am now growing old, and have nothing to re- 
 commend me to the notice of any one, being neither 
 rich, nor witty, nor entertaining, think, I beseech you, 
 what an unhappy and forlorn creature I should be if 
 my happiness still depended upon the flattering atten- 
 tions of my neighbors. I assure you if that were the case, 
 I should have little enough ! And while I am upon 
 this subject I will take the liberty to say that it does 
 appear to me that much of the dissatisfaction, fretful- 
 ness, and uneasiness visible in persons in the decline of 
 life, especially in those who are solitary, is owing to their 
 not having independence of mind enough to make 
 them indifferent to the neglect which is too often the lot 
 of age. The most obscure and despised individual who 
 thus rises above her circumstances and finds content 
 within, is far more respectable, and enjoys a much more 
 permanent and sterling species of happiness, than the 
 most admired coquette, or the most richly bedizened 
 dowager, who depends for the maintenance of her 
 happiness, like the meanest mendicants, on the crumbs 
 of admiration and respect that are thrown to her by the 
 surrounding crowd. 
 
 But I perceive that, like other old folks, I have 
 wandered from my subject, and, forgetting that I am 
 writing for the young, have been lecturing the old. 
 However, I am well persuaded that the same disposi- 
 
234 GOVERNMENT OF THE THOUGHTS. 
 
 tions that are necessary to respectability and happiness 
 at one period of Ufe are equally so at another ; and she 
 or he who would have a cheerful, peaceful, and respecta- 
 ble old age, must learn in youth to build happiness on 
 a true foundation. 
 
 To return to the subject on which I set put, I will 
 just say that, while I am so remarkably backward in 
 taking offence, I hope I am equally reluctant to give it ; 
 and I should be sincerely sorry if any remarks I have at 
 present made should have such an effect on any of my 
 readers. If, however, I may have unintentionally hurt 
 any. one, I humbly hope that they will prove that my 
 advice has not been quite lost upon them, by a generous 
 act of forgiveness towards the unknown offender, and 
 that in future, as often as occasion may require, the 
 same indulgence may be extended towards others. 
 For truly, when one comes impartially to consider the 
 degrees of uneasiness that the temper of which we 
 have been speaking occasions, I doubt if one should 
 find a very great deal to choose between a troublesome 
 friend and a troublesome enemy. 
 
 I am, my dear reader, your humble servant, 
 
 Dorothy. 
 
 ! GOVERNMENT OF THE THOUGHTS. 
 
 There is a prevailing desire in the minds of many 
 young people to be freed from the restraints of authority, 
 — an impatience for that period to arrive when they 
 shall be at liberty to direct their own actions. It is not, 
 perhaps, very uncommon for them to imagine that they 
 should be more willing even to do right, — that it would 
 be easier, and far more agreeable, — if it were no longer 
 a matter of constraint, but of choice. 
 
GOVERNMENT OF THE THOUGHTS. 235 
 
 To any who may have entertained such ideas, I 
 would propose a method by which they may akeady 
 ascertain their powers of self-government, and direct 
 them to a sphere of action which, whatever their pre- 
 sent circumstances may be, is subject to no external 
 control ; where parents, tutors, friends, have no domi- 
 nion ; where they are already emancipated from every 
 outward restraint. Here, then, they may try their 
 strength and prove their skill ; and if they fail here, it 
 is but reasonable to conclude that they would be, at 
 least, equally unsuccessful if intrusted with the direction 
 of their own conduct. 
 
 But in what way, it may be asked, are persons whose 
 time, pursuits, actions — whose very recreations — are 
 in a measure regulated by others, at liberty to com- 
 mand themselves ? There are, indeed, several ways in 
 which this question might be profitably answered ; but 
 we shall at present confine ourselves to one, and reply. 
 Thought is free. Here is a boundless field, over 
 which the youngest and most strictly guarded possesses 
 unlimited dominion. Here the eye of the most watch- 
 ful friend cannot penetrate. At the very moment that 
 a child is gratifying a parent's feehngs by some act of 
 obedience, the thoughts may be so employed as would 
 incur his severest displeasure. There is but One whose 
 eye discerns '' the thoughts and intents of the heart ; " 
 and a lively recollection of that eye being ever present, 
 beholding and recording all that passes within, would 
 indeed supersede every other consideration. 
 
 Here then let the proud spirit, impatient of control 
 and confident of his strength to resist temptation and 
 avoid danger, begin to exercise his self-command. 
 And here let the modest and ingenuous, who cheerfully 
 submit to wholesome restraint and parental guidance, 
 give double diligence in guarding and regulating that 
 to which parental authority cannot extend. 
 
 All self-government begins here. He who cannot 
 
236 GOVERNMENT OF THE THOUGHTS. 
 
 command his thoughts, must not hope to control his 
 actions. The smallest attention to our own minds 
 must convince us that the thoughts require restraint. 
 If left to pursue their own course, they will assuredly 
 take a wrong one. Three different descriptions of 
 thought might be mentioned, closely indeed connected 
 with each other, but which generally, perhaps, occur in 
 the following order : idle thoughts, vain thoughts, and 
 wicked thoughts. 
 
 Idle thoughts are those which ramble wantonly 
 about the mind, ranging from one object to another, 
 just as they will, without any effort being made to 
 divert them into a useful channel. It might afford a 
 profitable illustration of our meaning, if the train of 
 thought passing through the mind of a young lady, for 
 instance, while sitting for an hour alone at her work- 
 table, could be taken down as it occurs. Perhaps she 
 would herself be startled to peruse the motley record. 
 Or, should she be disposed to plead in her excuse that 
 it was rather silly than sinful, let her remember that 
 " the thought of foolishness is sin." It is not said the 
 thought of wickedness^ but the thought of foolishness. 
 And it is so, because it wastes time and talents which 
 might be profitably employed, and for which we must 
 render an account. It is not sufficient that the hands 
 are occupied, — the mind may be idle whilst they are 
 busy; and how much mischief and misery may be 
 traced to indolence of mind ! Thought is the chief 
 prerogative of our being, the great means of ennobling 
 and reforming it ; it makes the grand distinction be- 
 tween the man and the brute. And yet, would it be 
 paying too high a compliment to the capacities of the 
 linnet or the lapdog (who we may suppose to be the 
 aforesaid young lady's companions at her work-table), 
 to presume that the train of ideas or sensations passing 
 through their brains at the same time would be at 
 least as well worthy of note as those of their mistress ? 
 
GOVERNMENT OF THE THOUGHTS. 237 
 
 I would gladly amuse my readers with the alternate 
 cogitations of the lapdog, the linnet, and the lady ; but 
 being unwilling to hazard a conjecture with regard to 
 the two former, I leave them to furnish those of the 
 latter for themselves. If '' Satan finds some mischief 
 still for idle hands to do," it is no less true of idle 
 thoughts. They are the first means he employs to 
 ensnare us. Of them we are not much afraid ; and 
 therefore are easily led on to the next step, which is 
 short and easy indeed. 
 
 By vain thoughts, we may understand those wilful 
 excursions of the imagination, those airy visions of 
 future happiness (as improbable as they are indeed 
 undesirable), which, it is to be feared, are by many 
 not only admitted but encouraged. If any young 
 persons should yield to this kind of mental indulgence, 
 under the idea of its being a harmless amusement, it 
 can only be for want of observation of their own minds, 
 or for want of sufiicient experience of its consequences. 
 Its effects on the mind are much the same as those 
 of intemperance on the body, — enfeebling its powers, 
 rendering every present occupation insipid, every duty 
 dry, and creating a distaste for all mental improve- 
 ment ; at the same time that it cherishes the love of 
 self, and blunts every benevolent and generous senti- 
 ment. Nor is it too much to say, that an habitual 
 indulgence of these visionary pleasures ^ is absolutely 
 incompatible with rehgious improvement. The mind, 
 whose favorite employment is forming plans and wishes 
 for possessing the pleasures, honors, riches, vanities 
 of this world, cannot be seeking, ''first, the kingdom 
 of God;" cannot be ^'hungering and thirsting after 
 righteousness ; " cannot have " fixed its affections on 
 things above." Well, then, might David exclaim, 
 " I hate vam thoughts, but thy law do I love." He 
 knew that to love both was impossible, for he sets 
 them in direct opposition to each other. 
 
238 GOVERNMENT OF THE THOUGHTS. 
 
 It is not necessary to describe, and we hope not 
 needful to warn our readers against, the last mentioned 
 kind. Indeed, if the two former be carefully guarded 
 against, and dismissed from the mind as soon as they 
 enter, there will be little danger that wicked thoughts 
 should gain admission. But let none hope to escape 
 even from these, if license be given to the others. 
 The distance and difference between vain and 
 wicked thoughts, is much less than may be imag- 
 ined ; it is but another step, a step soon and easily and 
 often unconsciously taken. Who, then, will dispute 
 that "the thought of foolishness is sin?'' Who but 
 has need to watch and pray that they enter not into 
 this temptation ! 
 
 If a habit of indulging vain and sinful thoughts be 
 so injurious to the moral and intellectual powers, how 
 healthful, how desirable is a well-regulated mind, which 
 has acquired such a command over it^self as to be able 
 to call off the thoughts instantly from unprofitable 
 wanderings, and fix them on useful and important 
 subjects ! Youth is the time for forming this habit. 
 If neglected then, it will in after life be by painful 
 laborious efforts only that the mind can be brought to 
 profitable reflection and meditation ; from which it 
 will be ever Hable to be diverted by every trifle that 
 presents itself to the senses. 
 
 All mental ^superiority originates in habits of thhik- 
 ing, A child indeed, like a machine, may be made to 
 perform certain functions by external means ; but it is 
 only when he begins to think that he rises to the 
 dignity of a rational being. Are we at a loss for sub- 
 jects of improving and interesting thought? Oh, look 
 around ; regard the heavens above and the earth 
 beneath ! The wonders and beauties of nature are of 
 themselves inexhaustible sources of delightful contem- 
 plation. That must be a low, frivolous mind, in which 
 a glance at the starry heavens excites no interest, no 
 
GOVERNMENT OF THE THOUGHTS. 239 
 
 curiosity, no admiration, no reverence for the great 
 Creator. Many of our employments (and this remark 
 especially applies to female employments) are happily 
 of such a nature as to leave the mind at liberty. Let 
 no one imagine that she is not responsible for the 
 manner in which that liberty is used. While the use- 
 ful needle is performing its humble functions, what a 
 noble privilege it is, that the mind may be engaged in 
 the grandest pursuits that can occupy an intelligent 
 being ! 
 
 Why is it that so many who acknowledge generally 
 the supreme importance of religion, yet from year to 
 year neglect that great salvation? It is for want of 
 thought. Idle and vain thoughts are the ^Sveeds 
 which spring up and choke " every good impression, 
 and prevent all serious reflection. Oh, we should be 
 ashamed to mention the trifles that, it is to be feared, 
 occupy hours and years of eager, anxious thought, and 
 cause such subjects as death, heaven, and eternity, to 
 appear dull, insipid, and unimportant ! Let our young 
 readers inquire for themselves to what themes their 
 thoughts most gladly and naturally recur. And happy, 
 happy they who after such an investigation can sin- 
 cerely exclaim, " Oh, how love I Thy law ; it is my 
 meditation all the day ! " 
 
 Let none be discouraged from attempting to ac- 
 quire the right regulation of their thoughts by the diffi- 
 culties they may have to encounter. Habit will render 
 that easy and delightful which at first appears dry and 
 difficult. The mind will gradually become enlarged 
 and ennobled ; will feel disgusted at the trifles which 
 used to satisfy it, and aspire to pursuits and pleasures 
 of the highest order. To be prepared for the great 
 change — meetened for a world of intellectual and 
 spiritual enjoyment — will then appear to us the grand 
 concern of life, the "one thing needful." Then shall 
 we be able to say with the Psalmist, " I thought on my 
 ways, and turned my feet unto Thy testimonies.'* 
 
240 FASHIONS FOR OCTOBER. 
 
 FASHIONS FOR OCTOBER. 
 
 " Be clothed with humility," and have " the ornament of a 
 meek and quiet spirit, which is in the sight of God of great 
 price.'* 
 
 This is the most graceful, becoming, and at the 
 same time novel costume that has ever solicited pub- 
 lic patronage. The mantle is of the most exquisite 
 hue and delicate texture, tastefully decorated with the 
 above-mentioned costly brilliants, and will be found to 
 unite every advantage of utility and elegance. This 
 dress is suitable to all seasons, and is considered 
 equally becoming to the young and the old. it pos- 
 sesses extraordinary durability, is less liable to take a soil 
 than any other material, and retains its freshness and 
 novelty to the last. It falls over the person in the 
 most graceful folds, and is so adjusted as to veil every 
 blemish and set off the least favorable figure to the 
 best possible advantage. The color usually preferred 
 for this costume is invisible green; which casts the 
 most delicate shade upon the whole form, and produces 
 an effect indescribably agreeable and prepossessing. 
 Nothing can be more tastefully imagined than the 
 ornament with which this mantle is finished ; and 
 although this jewel is pronounced by the best judges 
 to be of immense value, it may be obtained upon very 
 reasonable terms. It is so delicate in its hue, and so 
 chaste and simple in its workmanship, that it has been 
 mistaken by unskilful observers for an ordinary pebble ; 
 but connoisseurs instantly recognize it, and allow it to 
 be "more precious than rubies.'^ Notwithstanding 
 the many recommendations it possesses, this dress has 
 never become common, although universally approved. 
 It was once worn as a royal robe, and has ever 
 
FASHIONS FOR OCTOBER. 24 1 
 
 since been held in high estimation and general use 
 amongst the subjects of the great Prince who first intro- 
 duced it. 
 
 The figurative language of the Bible will always 
 allow of the most plain and practical interpretation. 
 When our Lord, for instance, relates the parable of the 
 merchantman seeking goodly pearls, who sold all that 
 he had to obtain one of great price, we are not to 
 regard it as an entertaining fable. Its meaning is plain- 
 ly this, — that eternal life is of such incalculable value 
 that it is infinitely worth while to part with everything 
 which must be sacrificed to its attainment. The mer- 
 chant sold his all to gain one pearl ; for by this 
 means he would abundantly enrich himself. He acted 
 wisely, therefore ; for ^' the children of this world are, 
 in their generation, wiser than the children of light.'* 
 In like manner, whatever we may resign of present 
 pleasure or advantage with a view to our eternal wel- 
 fare, will prove so unspeakably advantageous in the 
 end that nothing but the grossest blindness and inat- 
 tention to our own interests could make us unwilling 
 to do so. 
 
 The language of the apostle Peter, quoted above, is 
 no less plain and practical in its import. The apparel 
 he recommends is no fancy dress which we are not 
 really expected to wear. On the contrary, we may — 
 we must^ if we are Christians — be thus clothed with 
 humility, and have this ornament of a meek and quiet 
 spirit. Some of our young readers would probably 
 hear with considerable interest that the most becoming 
 dress and the most brilliant jewels ever worn were 
 offered for their acceptance. Now, this is truly the 
 case. Clothed with humility and adorned with a 
 meek and quiet spirit, they would be more richly 
 attired than in the most costly array. Who then will 
 turn away disappointed from such a gift, and think 
 
 16 
 
242 FASHIONS FOR OCTOBER, 
 
 some sparkling bauble more desirable ? Oh, remem- 
 ber in whose sight this ornament is of " great price ! " 
 It is well to pause and reflect closely upon such an 
 assertion. Many such passages of Scripture are, it 
 is to be feared, passed over with slight attention, 
 so that their force and beauty are little perceived. 
 Many, perhaps, who spend some precious hours every 
 day in reflection upon their outward decorations have 
 never stopped to meditate upon this striking declara- 
 tion, — in the sight of God of g7'eat price. He who 
 forms the most accurate and impartial estimate of the 
 true and comparative value of all things. He who 
 formed and gave their lustre to those shining gems we 
 so greatly admire, is fully aware of whatever beauty 
 and value they possess. Yet He says '\7iot with gold, 
 and pearls, and costly array," but "with the ornament 
 of a meek and quiet spirit." 
 
 It is not our present intention to enter upon that 
 part of the subject to wdiich the words just quoted 
 would afford so suitable a text ; nor to inquire how far 
 the expression " not with gold and pearls " &c., may 
 be supposed to imply a direct prohibition of a showy 
 style of attire. That they condemn that excessive 
 attention paid to appearance which so greatly prevails 
 among professing Christians cannot, however, be 
 doubted. But our present purpose is to recommend 
 " that inward adorning of the mind," which is here 
 described. Indeed, there is little fear that they who 
 eminently shine with these internal graces will be 
 prone to excess in external decoration. HumiHty, 
 whose chief characteristic it is to be contented to pass 
 without attracting observation, will surely seldom be 
 found excessively arrayed in those ornaments which 
 expressly invite it. There may be some, however, 
 who, though not destitute of this Christian grace, yet 
 conform too much to the customs of those around 
 them, merely from the want of a due consideration of 
 the subject. 
 
FASHIONS FOR OCTOBER. 243 
 
 " Be ye clothed with humiUty." There is grace in 
 the very word ; an attraction which they who feel not 
 must be as destitute of true taste as of right principle. 
 There is no age to which it does not belong ; but to 
 the young, how eminently becoming ! HumiHty is 
 the very foundation of Christianity. We must be 
 abased, before we can be exalted ; and our highest 
 exaltation must, at last, consist in the depth of our 
 humiliation. He who is the '• High and lofty One 
 that inhabiteth eternity," exhibited, during the whole 
 period of his abode on earth, a perfect pattern of this 
 virtue. He not only " was found in fashion as a man," 
 but " took upon Him the form of a servant ; " and let 
 us remember that He set us this example in order 
 "that we might follow His steps." When we are 
 conscious of the swelHngs of pride, or the risings of 
 vanity, let us think of the Lord Jesus Christ, — en- 
 deavor to realize His appearance. His manner, and to 
 ascertain what conduct or feelings He would display or 
 recommend on the present occasion. Above all, let 
 us remember, — however we may imagine the secret 
 workings of our vain hearts to be concealed from 
 those around us (though even this is rarely the case), 
 — that His eye beholds them all, and with what sen- 
 timents we are fully informed. " The Lord resisteth 
 the proud ; " '^ the proud He knoweth afar off." 
 
 Be ye clothed with humility : there is a peculiar 
 beauty in this figure. It is to cover us completely, 
 like a garment, and without it we must never appear. 
 This simple attire need fear no injury. A person 
 w^alking the streets in dehcate and costly clothing is 
 perpetually in danger of its being soiled and torn ; 
 while another in plain garments may go about without 
 fear of inconvenience from the common accidents to 
 which he is exposed. So a vain, showy mind is 
 continually exposed to pain and mortification, from 
 which one of a humble unassuming temper is per- 
 
244 FASHIONS FOR OCTOBER. 
 
 fectly secure. The freedom, ease, and tranquillity he 
 enjoys can, indeed, scarcely be conceived of by those 
 of an opposite spirit. And the garments of humiHty 
 are armor as well as clothing. They form an invul- 
 nerable covering, which malice itself cannot penetrate. 
 
 *' He that is down need fear no fall ; 
 He that is low no pride. 
 He that is humble ever shall 
 Have God to be his guide." 
 
 Bunyan's shepherd boy sang sweetly when he sang 
 thus. 
 
 And what is this ornament on which we ought to 
 set so high a value ? A meek and quiet spirit. Oh, 
 what a different world ours would be, if this heavenly 
 jewelry were to become fashionable ! But alas, how 
 rarely do we see it worn ! We hear much outcry of 
 wrong, insult, ingratitude ! The peace of every pri- 
 vate circle is interrupted, more or less, by some petty 
 contention, — and here is a simple means which would 
 heal every breach, calm every storm, allay every irri- 
 tation. There is a certain temper called spirit in 
 some young people, which is altogether opposed to 
 meekness and quietness. The very terms, indeed, 
 would probably excite in them a smile of contempt. 
 But this would only prove them to be unacquainted 
 with the nature of true dignity and real manliness. 
 That the most perfect dignity of character and man- 
 ner is consistent with these virtues was eminently 
 manifested in Him who was, beyond all others, " meek 
 and lowly in heart." That spirit which is by some so 
 greatly admired, would upon investigation be found 
 to be made up of the most mean and pitiful qualities, 
 and to proceed from a contemptible species of vanity. 
 But can it be necessary to insist on the excellence of 
 those tempers which the Bible itself recommends? 
 Can that be mean, unmanly, or of small value, which 
 in the sight of God is of great price ! 
 
THE USE OF BIOGRAPHY, 245 
 
 Every word of God is true. It is therefore true, 
 however reluctantly we may be disposed to admit it, 
 that even a child who subdues a rising fit of passion, 
 or submits patiently to some little grievance that he 
 felt disposed to resist, is " greater than he that taketh 
 a city." 
 
 Do we need other inducements to cultivate this tem- 
 per ? Let us make the trial for one day ; let us be 
 peaceable, meek, forbearing, submissive ; determining 
 not to be provoked by provocation ; and remark if that 
 day will not be more productive of happiness to our- 
 selves, as well as to all around us, than another in 
 which rights have been maintained, privileges asserted, 
 insults returned, and wrongs (ever so successfully) re- 
 venged. This, indeed, must be the case ; because 
 holiness and happiness, our duty and our interest, are 
 inseparably connected. 
 
 Let our young readers, then, while they wisely repress 
 that inordinate attention to external decoration which 
 so generally prevails, be ambitious to \^dn and wear this 
 choice array, these precious ornaments. Let them 
 " learn of Him who was meek and lowly in heart, and 
 they shall find " peace in their consciences, '' and rest to 
 their souls." 
 
 THE USE OF BIOGRAPHY. 
 
 TiL\T " what man has done man may do " is a most 
 stimulating and encouraging truth. It is this considera- 
 tion chiefly that renders the lives of individuals who 
 have distinguished themselves in their day and genera- 
 tion so interesting to their fellow- creatures ; and it is a 
 remark which should be borne in mind, whether we are 
 studying the actions of great good men or of clever bad 
 
246 THE USE OF BIOGRAPHY. 
 
 men. In the former case, we should inquire whether 
 we are not possessed of the same quahties, powers, and 
 opportunities — generally speaking — with which they 
 were favored ; and in the latter, that we partake of the 
 same depraved nature, and are liable to the same tempta- 
 tions that led them astray. It is not the history of other 
 beings, — of those above or below us in the scale of 
 intelligence ; it is neither of angels nor of brutes, but of 
 men like ourselves that we read. 
 
 It is a common remark, that biography is one of the 
 most useful studies to which we can apply ; but we 
 must remember that its usefulness to us entirely depends 
 upon our right application of it. It is idle, indeed, to 
 take up a book of any kind, merely with a view to 
 entertainment : we hope our readers are all of them, by 
 this time, above so childish a practice ; but it is possi- 
 ble to read with a general desire to derive benefit, and 
 yet without that close, personal application of it to our- 
 selves which alone is likely to do us good. We would 
 therefore recommend, especially to the reader of biog- 
 raphy, to keep one grand object in view, and to make 
 this close inquiry whenever such a volume is opened : 
 In what respects is this appHcable to me? How can 
 I make it subservient to my own improvement? 
 We shall endeavor to offer some suggestions that may 
 assist the reader in this inquiry. 
 
 Suppose that a young person in the quiet and hum- 
 ble walks of life should meet with the annals of some 
 great warrior or statesman. He would probably say, 
 " This is nothing to me, except as mere amusement. 
 I have no ambition, at least I have no talents or oppor- 
 tunities to distinguish myself in public life ; I am quite 
 contented with my humble lot ; I seek not great things 
 for myself." Herein, indeed, he would show his wis- 
 dom ; and yet it might not be true that such a history 
 was nothing to him. Whatever is in itself excellent is 
 worthy of our attention and more or less of our imi- 
 
THE USE OF BIOGRAPHY, 247 
 
 tation, however widely our circumstances may differ. 
 Great talents and splendid achievements are neces- 
 sarily confined to a few ; and as we may be virtuous 
 and happy without them, this is not to be regretted. 
 But it is the duty and interest of every individual to 
 aim at excellence in his own sphere, however humble ; 
 and w^hile it may be the farthest from our wishes or our 
 duty to engage in public services, it may still be highly 
 to our advantage to trace the steps and to mark the 
 progress by which great men have arrived at eminence. 
 Many of the very same qualities are requisite to make 
 a good tradesman or skilful mechanic, which are 
 needed to form a great statesfnan or general. 
 
 We ^shali probably find that such a man was early 
 distinguished from the frivolous or dissolute around 
 him by devotedness to his object ; that he made it his 
 study, his pleasure, — not merely engaging in it as a 
 matter of course, or of necessity. We shall find that he 
 was not discouraged by difficulties, but rather stimu- 
 lated by them to more vigorous efforts ; that he never 
 consulted his own ease or gratification, when they stood 
 in the way of his grand design ; that he was character- 
 ized by a disregard to trifles of all sorts, and by a steady 
 aim at the most important ends. Now as these, among 
 other good qualities, insured to him success and distinc- 
 tion, so we may be assured that the same causes will 
 produce the same effects, in whatever situations they are 
 applied. Thus far a little apprentice-boy may learn of 
 Peter the Great ; and become, by and by, as distinguished 
 in his trade as the Czar was in his empire. 
 
 When we read the lives of distinguished persons, we 
 are generally struck with the lamentable mixture of mean 
 qualities and bad actions which sullied the glory of their 
 highest achievements. In the whole history of man- 
 kind there are but a very few exceptions to this remark. 
 From which we may learn not to envy that eminence of 
 rank or talent which so peculiarly exposes to temptation. 
 
248 THE USE OF BIOGRAPHY, 
 
 At the same time it should make us watchful of our- 
 selves j since, if men thus eminently gifted, and pos- 
 sessed of such gigantic powers, had not wisdom suffi- 
 cient to govern their passions, nor strength to resist 
 temptation, what need must there be for us to guard 
 against the danger ! For although it frequently appears 
 that clever men are wicked men, it by no means follows 
 that to be wicked one must needs be clever ; on the 
 contrary, it is often seen that persons of the weakest 
 intellect sink into the lowest degrees of vice. 
 
 From the lives of distinguished bad men we may see 
 the small value, in themselves, of those shining quali- 
 ties which dazzle mankind. What is genius without 
 virtue ? It is but a splendid curse ; proving still more 
 baneful to the individual himself than to those within 
 the sphere of his influence. But in tracing the career 
 of men distinguished alike by their talents and their 
 vices, it is especially profitable to observe the gradual 
 steps by which they arrived at the height or rather the 
 depth of their notoriety. There was a time when Nero 
 appeared amiable and humane. Let us not, therefore, 
 conclude that we shall never be guilty of a crime 
 because we now shrink from the thought of it; but 
 rather, if we find that we have not resolution to resist 
 the small temptations of the present moment, let us 
 remember that we are in the high road to vice, 
 although as yet but at its commencement. It is pre- 
 sumption and ignorance of ourselves, to imagine that 
 the power of resistance will increase with the strength 
 of temptation. By such self-deception some once 
 promising characters have become the tyrants and 
 scourges of society. From their example we should 
 learn, " when we think we stand, to take heed lest we 
 fall" 
 
 But if so much improvement may be derived from 
 the history of bad men, and of others who have emi- 
 nently possessed '' the wisdom of this world," how 
 
THE USE OF BIOGRAPHY. 249 
 
 much more profitable must it be to study the lives of 
 those who became "wise unto salvation;" who were 
 good and great in the truest sense of the words ? Our 
 libraries are richly furnished with such profitable rec- 
 ords ; and the young reader is amply supplied with 
 animating accounts of those of his own age who had 
 the courage to "come out and be separate " from a 
 vain world. But are we not too apt to read the lives 
 of eminent Christians with the same feeling of distance 
 as those of heroes and philosophers ? — as though the 
 higher attainments of holiness were as much beyond 
 our reach as the gifts of genius. This is a common 
 but lamentable mistake, proceeding not from humility 
 but indolence. Although perseverance and industry 
 will in a great degree supply the want of great abilities, 
 yet genius, it must be acknowledged, is so far a gift of 
 nature that it cannot be acquired by our own endeav- 
 ors ; but this is not the case with regard to " the 
 wisdom which is from above." Hence Christian biog- 
 raphy is all encouragement ; and it is only sinful sloth 
 which tempts us to say, " I can never hope to make 
 such attainments in religion as others." Here ambi- 
 tion is sanctified ; and here to be contented with medi- 
 ocrity is dangerous indeed. By what means does it 
 appear that these " burning and shining lights " arrived 
 at such eminence in their profession? Were they not 
 such as are in the power of every reader, however 
 humble in station, mean in intellect, or young in years ? 
 Is it not invariably by watchfulness and diligence, by 
 self-denial, fer\^ent prayer, and giving up the world, — in 
 other words, by being deeply in earnest in religion, — 
 that these " best gifts " are attained? Let us not then 
 merely envy the attainments of those we read of, but 
 with a holy ambition resolve to emulate their graces. 
 There is no obstacle in the way but our own unwilling- 
 ness. It is true, that, like every other good, this 
 degree of growth in grace must be given from above ; 
 
250 THE USE OF BIOGRAPHY. 
 
 but this surely is not a hindrance, but the highest 
 possible advantage. " He giveth more grace " to 
 those who desire more ; and they who ask '' will 
 assuredly receive." To young readers the encourage- 
 ments and inducements are especially great ; because 
 their course is but beginning, and it is yet for them to 
 determine in what way to direct it. Now they may 
 either become like stars of the first magnitude, or 
 sink to the level of those common, careless, doubtful 
 characters, who live in worldliness and die without 
 comfort. 
 
 Closely connected with this subject is that depart- 
 ment of religious reading which has proved very edify- 
 ing to many, and with which our young readers are 
 frequently presented ; we refer to obituaries. In read- 
 ing of the lives of individuals, we observe various 
 situations wherein they are placed, in which it is highly 
 improbable we shall ever follow them. But in accounts 
 of the deaths oi OMx fellow- creatures, we are intimately 
 interested ; since it is a scene through which we must 
 certainly ourselves pass, — and to read such records 
 without a deep, thoughtful impression of that fact is 
 folly indeed. We too must die ; and as we know not 
 how soon, it behooves us immediately to inquire what 
 reason there is to suppose that we should enjoy the 
 same tranquillity and hope on a dying pillow as we 
 frequently read of. The agonizing doubts of a death- 
 bed repentance call loudly to those yet in health 
 to ^'remember their Creator before those evil days 
 come ; " while the cheerful hope of those whose youthful 
 and healthful days were devoted to Him, — whom sick- 
 ness and death found " watching, " — should stimulate 
 us to '' be also ready." Especially, as the many early 
 deaths that are continually recorded prove that we know 
 not at what hour the angel of death may come : with 
 some it is "at cock-crowing and in the morning." 
 
THE WISE MAN. 251 
 
 THE WISE MAN. 
 
 Frederic and Philip, with their sisters Julia and 
 Kate, were amusing themselves together one evening 
 while their father and mother were engaged in conver- 
 sation. The children paid no attention to what passed, 
 till Philip (who was very lively and inquisitive) hap- 
 pened to hear his father say of some person he was 
 speaking of, that he might be truly called a wise ma7i ! 
 These last words, which were uttered emphatically, 
 struck his attention. 
 
 "A wise man ! " said he to his brother and sisters ; 
 "who is that, I wonder, that papa can be talking 
 - about? " '' Nobody that we know, you may be sure,'* 
 replied Kate. 
 
 " No, but papa knows him, and I should like to 
 know him very much," said Philip ; and he began to 
 conjecture what kind of a person this wise man must 
 be. He thought of the seven wise men of Greece ; 
 but he did not imagine there were any of that sort in 
 England. As soon as there was a pause in the conver- 
 sation, he asked his papa what this wise man's name 
 was, and where he lived. 
 
 ''He lives," replied his father, ''not very far off; 
 and his name is Johnson." 
 
 " Johnson ! Oh, some relation to Dr. Johnson, no 
 doubt," said Frederic. 
 
 "That is more than I know," answered his father; 
 "but if you are so curious to see a wise man, I will 
 promise to take you all to call upon him to-morrow 
 morning." 
 
 Philip and the rest thanked their papa for this prom 
 ise ; and very much pleased were they at the thought 
 of it. 
 
252 THE WISE MAN. 
 
 The next morning the children talked much of their 
 expected visit ; and wondered they did not hear their 
 father give orders for the chaise. 
 
 '' How many miles off is it, papa?" said Philip. 
 
 " Not half a mile," said his father. 
 
 Philip. Not half a mile ! Well, now, I had no 
 idea that there was what one could call a wise man 
 living anywhere hereabouts. 
 
 Frederic. No more had I. 
 
 Julia. I think I know where he lives. Don't you 
 remember that old-fashioned looking house, just off 
 the common, with tall narrow windows, and a high 
 wall all around it, where they say a very old gentleman 
 lives all alone? That is the place, I dare say. 
 
 Philip. I wonder whether he wears a long beard ! 
 
 Kate. No, no ; most likely nothing but a huge 
 wig. 
 
 Julia. A wig ! no such thing ! depend upon it he 
 has his own white locks, waving about his temples. 
 
 Philip. We shall find him up to his elbows in old 
 dusty books, I '11 engage. 
 
 Frederic. Or perhaps with globes and glasses, 
 and all sorts of apparatus. 
 
 Philip. He will not be very well pleased, I am 
 afraid, to be interrupted in his studies by us; 
 
 Julia. For my part, I shall take care not to speak 
 one word while we are in the room. 
 
 Kate. And so shall I. 
 
 Philip. I hope he will not ask us any questions 1 
 
 Frederic. Oh, as to that, you may depend upon 
 it he will not notice one of us ; perhaps not so much 
 as know we are there. 
 
 Kate. I am afraid I shall laugh. 
 
 Philip. Laugh ! if you do though, we shall get 
 turned out, every one of us, depend upon it. 
 
 On these remarks their papa made no comment; 
 he only smiled occasionally, and at length bade them 
 
THE WISE MAN, 255- 
 
 make ready to accompany him on his visit to the wise 
 man. When they set off, Julia was much surprised 
 that he passed the turning leading to the common, 
 and kept straight on towards the town. " Now I have 
 no idea who in the world it can be," said she. When 
 they entered the town, they looked at most of the 
 principal houses as they passed, expecting to stop 
 every instant. " Doctor Somebody^'' said Philip, en- 
 deavoring to read the name on a brass plate ; " this is 
 it, I dare say." But no ; his father passed on, and 
 soon turned down a narrow street, where the dweUings 
 were of a humbler description ; and knocked at the 
 door of a mean-looking house. A plain, middle-aged 
 man opened it, and courteously invited them to enter. 
 " Papa has to call here first, for something," whispered 
 the children to each other. He ushered them into a 
 small parlor, where his wife was sitting at needle-work ; 
 while three girls, her daughters, were seated on a form 
 before her, reading their lessons. The room was in 
 perfect order ; and the mother and her children were 
 neatly dressed. The only decorations of the apart- 
 ment were two or three maps ; and a few portraits of 
 some of the old divines, and other pious ministers, on 
 the wall. 
 
 The young folks listened to the conversation which 
 their father entered into \vith these persons ; and they 
 quickly perceived (for these children were well taught, 
 and could discriminate) that they conversed sensibly ; 
 and that their father, although much their superior in 
 education, regarded them with respect. After a few 
 minutes thus spent, their papa told the master of the 
 house that he would not detain him any longer from 
 his employment ; but that he had taken the liberty 
 of bringing his children with him, in the hope that 
 he would allow them to look on for a little time while 
 he was at work. It would be, he said, both amusing 
 and instructive to them, as they had never had an 
 
254 THE WISE MAN, 
 
 opportunity of seeing that operation before. To 
 this request he most obligingly acceded ; and, with a 
 look of great good nature at the young folks, immedi- 
 ately conducted them to the uppermost room in the 
 house, in which he carried on his business. It was 
 a light, airy apartment; and there was a pleasant 
 view of the adjacent country from its long low window. 
 The children were much interested in watching the 
 process, and in listening to the intelligent explanation 
 he gave them of his trade, for he was a very ingenious 
 mechanic, and he told them many things which they 
 had never heard before. 
 
 When their curiosity was a little satisfied, they be- 
 gan to look around the room, where their attention 
 was attracted to a few shelves, containing his small 
 library. Upon examining the titles of the books, they 
 found that several of them treated of subjects more or 
 less connected with his own line of business. There 
 were, however, a few of a more general nature, and 
 such as the children were surprised to see in the pos- 
 session of so plain a man. But the greater part of the 
 collection were well-chosen books of divinity, with a 
 Bible, which had the appearance of being well read. 
 They now again listened to the stranger's discourse 
 with their father ; and were struck with the mild and 
 pleasing expression of his countenance, when he was 
 telling him how happily his hours passed in that soli- 
 tary chamber. 
 
 " I often think, sir," said he, " that I cannot be suffi- 
 ciently thankful that my calling is of a nature that 
 allows me so much retirement and opportunity for 
 thinking ; so that while I am laboring for the meat that 
 perishes, I am also able to seek after that which will 
 endure to everlasting life. Indeed, sir," continued he, 
 *^ I am a happy man. The cheerful hope of another 
 life is surely enough to make a man unspeakably 
 happy. In addition to this, God is pleased to give me 
 
THE WISE MAN. 255 
 
 many comforts to render this life pleasant to me. I 
 have a wife like-minded with myself: and when my 
 working hours are over, I want no other recreation 
 than that of going down to her and our dear children, 
 whom it is our delight to train up, as far as we are 
 able, to wisdom and virtue. I have great pleasure in 
 reading to her and to them such books as we possess ; 
 and thus we increase our little stock of knowledge, as 
 opportunity allows. But, sir, though I mention these 
 things, m.y happiness, I trust, does not depend upon 
 them ; but is fixed upon that good hope which sweet- 
 ens every comfort, and softens every trial." 
 
 The father and his children were pleased with their 
 visit; which for some time after they took leave 
 formed the subject of their conversation ; until Philip, 
 suddenly perceiving that they were on their return 
 home, exclaimed, '^But are not we going to see the 
 wise man? " 
 
 " My dear," said his father, '' we have but just left 
 him." 
 
 "What, was that the wise man?" said all the chil- 
 dren at once. 
 
 Father. That was the .person of whom you heard 
 me say last night, that he was a truly wise man. 
 
 Philip. But, papa — I thought — 
 
 Father. Well, what did you think? 
 
 Philip. Why although he appears very good, and 
 happy, and industrious, and all that, yet he certainly 
 is not at all the kind of person we expected to see. 
 
 Frederic. No, not at all. 
 
 Father. I cannot help that ; and I still think that 
 what I said of him was perfectly correct. What kind 
 of a person did you expect to see ? 
 
 Philip. Why, papa, we thought he would at least 
 be a scholar, you know, with his head stuffed full of 
 Latin and Greek; or a philosopher, or an author, or 
 something of that sort. 
 
25 6 ' THE WISE MAN. 
 
 Father. You mean that you expected to see a 
 learned man, or a clever man. But that was your own 
 fault ; I promised you no such thing. Are you not 
 aware, children, that a man may be learned, or clever, 
 or both, without being wise ; and that a man may be 
 wise who is neither the one nor the other ? 
 
 Frederic. Yes, wise in some things. 
 
 Father. Wise in everything with which he has to 
 do. Can you recollect, Frederic, that definition of 
 wisdom we met with the other day ? 
 
 Frederic. Something of this sort, was it not, — 
 that " wisdom consists in employ i?ig the best means for 
 the attainmeiit of the ?nost important eiid " 2 
 
 Father. Very well. Then I think we have unques- 
 tionably seen a wise man this morning. You heard 
 from himself the grand object of this good man's 
 pursuit ; and this must by every one be allowed to be 
 the most important of all objects. He aims at nothing 
 less than eternal life ; and to this end he appears to 
 employ the best means, such as God himself pre- 
 scribes. And this wisdom, which is from above, teaches 
 him to conduct himself wisely in all the relations of life. 
 He is wise as a tradesman, — being honest and indus- 
 trious, and exerting his ingenuity in his calling, as a 
 talent which God has given him ; so that he is one of 
 the most ingenious mechanics in the neighborhood. 
 He is wise as a neighbor, — living in peace and char- 
 ity with all around him. He is wise as the master of a 
 family, — being contented with such things as he has ; 
 never attempting to vie with his superiors, nor aiming 
 to be thought what he is not. He showed himself to 
 be a wise man, by choosing for a partner a wise wo- 
 man ; that is, a pious and prudent woman ; and he 
 conducts himself wisely as a husband and a father, — 
 guiding his house with discretion, and training his 
 children to tread in his own steps. He eminently 
 displays also one of the invariable characteristics of 
 
THE CLEVER FOOL, 257 
 
 true wisdom, by his modest and unassuming deport- 
 ment. But above all, and as the cause of all, this man 
 is wise^ in making it his chief concern to be a Christian ; 
 not merely by profession, but in earnest. His religion, 
 you see, is of the true sort. It not only gives him a 
 hope of being happy hereafter, but it makes him happy 
 710W, It shines in his face, and reigns in his dwelling. 
 In that solitary room where many would think it a 
 punishment to pass an hour, he enjoys daily the high 
 honor and happiness of holding communion with his 
 Maker, while the noisy world below are disquieting 
 themselves in vain with every passing vanity. And in 
 his daily walk and conversation he has this testimony, 
 that he pleases God. 
 
 Now, children, have I not performed my promise? 
 Tell me, if you have not seen, according to the strictest 
 sense of the word, A Wise Man ? 
 
 THE CLEVER FOOL. 
 
 Not very long after the father and his children had 
 paid their visit to the wise man, the effects of a gentle- 
 man lately deceased in that neighborhood were adver- 
 tised for sale by auction. As it was well known that 
 his house contained many curiosities, persons from 
 miles round flocked to attend the sale ; and amongst 
 the rest this gentleman and his children, for he was so 
 good a father that he suffered no opportunity to escape 
 that might afford instruction or rational amusement to 
 his family. 
 
 " Children," said he to them, as they were driving to 
 the place, "you remember that some time ago I took 
 you to see a wise man. You were surprised by that 
 visit ; perhaps you will be still more so when I tell you 
 that we are going this morning to the late residence of 
 
 17 
 
258 THE CLEVER FOOL. 
 
 a man who, according to all that appeared of his char- 
 acter, might with equal propriety have been called a 
 clever fool r 
 
 Philip. A clever fool ! 
 
 Julia. It seems a contradiction. 
 
 Frederic. Papa will explain it, I dare say. 
 
 Kate. A clever fool, — how droll ! 
 
 Father. As this poor gentleman was a stranger to 
 you, and as our opinions can now do him neither good 
 nor harm, I do not scruple, with a view of its being 
 useful to ourselves, to relate to you what appeared 
 unfavorable in his character. But let us, at the same 
 time,, indulge a charitable hope that we may, after all, 
 be mistaken in our judgment. Indeed, I could wish 
 as much as possible to keep him, as an individual, out 
 of sight. I only mean to explain to you that a person 
 living and acting, as it is commonly reported he did, 
 can claim no higher appellation than that of a clever 
 fool. 
 
 Children. Well, papa, now tell us how it was. 
 
 Father. Nay, stay till we arrive at his house and 
 have looked about us, and then you shall judge for 
 yourselves. 
 
 Upon their arrival at the destined spot, they were 
 charmed with the beauty of the situation and the 
 pleasant aspect of the residence. The house and 
 grounds were rather compact and elegant than exten- 
 sive or magnificent ; but there was a symmetry and 
 beauty of design which at once pleased the eye, and 
 conveyed an idea of the good taste of the possessor. 
 And as the general view was striking, the detail, when 
 examined, excited still greater admiration. Our party 
 at first amused themselves with walking through the 
 park and gardens, which exhibited at every turn some 
 ingenious contrivance for pleasure or utility. The 
 gardens displayed a variety of the most beautiful flow- 
 ers, in the greatest perfection. The greenhouses were 
 
THE CLEVER FOOL. 259 
 
 of themselves thought worth going many miles to see, 
 they contained so rare a collection of exotics and other 
 curious plants, disposed in the most exact order ; while 
 fruits, in and out of season, yielded their tempting 
 fragrance in rich profusion. Stately swans adorned the 
 river that wound through the park ; while shady al- 
 coves, rosy bowers, classic temples, baths and fountains, 
 at every turn surprised the admiring visitor. The 
 recesses of a shady grove conducted to a cool and 
 beautiful grotto, which was enriched with some of the 
 most rare and curious specimens in mineralogy. 
 Lastly, they visited a small botanical garden, which 
 afforded them much instruction as well as amusement ; 
 for the late possessor was a man of science, and took 
 particular pains with this well-arranged collection. 
 
 The children were dehghted ; and not less surprised 
 when they were assured that of these various embelHsh- 
 ments and contrivances he was himself the designer and 
 inventor, and that it was his own taste and ingenuity that 
 was displayed in every part. 
 
 Upon entering the mansion, the effect was not less 
 striking. The apartments were disposed and furnished 
 with great taste and elegance, and continually exhibited 
 some novel invention for promoting ease or pleasure, 
 or for avoiding inconvenience. But what were the 
 most interesting were the valuable collections in the 
 various departments of art and science with which this 
 house was embelhshed. A capital collection of old 
 pictures, by the best masters, occupied the long gallery. 
 The library was extensive, and contained a well-ar- 
 ranged assemblage of the works of the most cele- 
 brated authors of every age and in every language. 
 
 They were next shown a cabinet, containing a valua- 
 ble assortment of ancient coins and medals ; after which 
 they visited the laboratory, for it appeared that the 
 deceased possessed a thorough knowledge of chemistry, 
 and had himself made some ingenious discoveries in 
 
26o THE CLEVER FOOL, 
 
 that interesting science. Another room was devoted to 
 mechanism, and exhibited models of many of the most 
 useful and ingenious machines of modern invention, 
 some of them displaying improvements of his own. Last 
 of all, ascending to the highest story, they reached the 
 observatory, which was furnished with its appropriate 
 apparatus, and contained the largest telescope these 
 children had ever seen. The gentleman, it was said, 
 frequently passed whole nights in this place ; astronomy 
 was his favorite study. For all these things were not 
 collected by him (as is frequently the case in the houses 
 of the rich) as mere appendages to wealth. The curi- 
 osities of science, art, and literature, are commonly 
 enough to be seen in the possession of persons of trifling 
 and vulgar minds, wholly incapable of deriving any other 
 gratification from them than as articles of show, and 
 who value them merely as they do the other expensive 
 ornaments of their dwelHngs. But in this instance they 
 were possessed by a man of taste and science, who 
 derived genuine pleasure from the pursuits in which he 
 was engaged, and who was therefore so far happy, use- 
 ful, and respectable. When the party descended to 
 the lower part of the house they found it filled with 
 company, and the great hall exhibited a scene of noise, 
 bustle, and confusion. The auctioneer was at that 
 moment expatiating on the value of an article before 
 him, which some were cautiously examining ; others 
 were marking their catalogues, — each was intent on his 
 own interests, and nothing was less thought of than he 
 to whom all had so lately belonged. 
 
 "Let us leave this noisy place, papa," said Julia, 
 "it makes me melancholy." 
 
 They soon made their way through the crowd ; and 
 leaving the mansion, their father led them through a 
 fine plantation to the outskirts of the park, where they 
 soon discovered a little ivy-clad steeple, embowered in 
 dark chestnut trees, surrounded by a few lowly graves, 
 
THE CLEVER FOOL, 26 1 
 
 and adorned with one or two stately monuments. 
 ^' Here," said the father, pointing to one of these, " lie 
 the remains of this accompHshed person." 
 
 " Now then, papa," said Philip, ^' pray tell us — 
 though I partly guess — why you called such a clever 
 man a fool." 
 
 " Because," replied his father, " of his whole existence, 
 which he knew would be endless, he apparently pro- 
 vided for no more than the exceedingly small propor- 
 tion of sixty-eight years. It is true that to make these 
 sixty-eight years pass pleasantly he spared no pains; 
 and we will allow that he so far succeeded as to enjoy, 
 during that time, more rational pleasure than most men 
 who live only for this world. But, granting this, is it 
 not still the lowest degree of folly for a man to devote 
 all the energies of his mind to securing the comfort and 
 entertainment of so short a period, and to make no 
 provision for an eternal existence ? There he Hes ! All 
 that he ever appeared to care for he has lost forever ! 
 Those curious collections which he made with so much 
 pains and cost, — all those fruits of his patient and 
 laborious studies, which we have been admiring, — will 
 in a few hours be disposed of and dispersed ; the cheer- 
 ful mansion will be empty and deserted, other inhabi- 
 tants will occupy it ; in a few years his name will be no 
 more remembered ! So that the only thing that was of 
 any real consequence to him is that which, it is greatly 
 to be feared, he totally neglected. 
 
 '' But the extremity of his folly was this, — that this 
 change which he has undergone, this loss of all that he 
 valued, was what he was well aware must somewhere 
 about this time befall him. He knew as well as all 
 other men that he must die. He knew, too, that the 
 great Creator, whose works he spent his life in investigat- 
 ing and admiring, had by an express revelation informed 
 him, in common with others, of the only way of secur- 
 ing everlasting life and happiness. Of these things he 
 
262 THE CLEVER FOOL, 
 
 could not be ignorant, nor did I ever understand that 
 he professed to doubt them ; yet, strange to say, that 
 divine volume stood unopened on his shelves. It is 
 said this unhappy man rarely read the Bible ; that he 
 who could spend whole nights in gazing on the heavens, 
 bent not his knee to the Former of them all; that 
 while so plenteously partaking the bounties of His provi- 
 dence, he never (unless with the utmost formality) ac- 
 knowledged his obligation, or appeared to feel his 
 dependence. Even of late, when he knew he must be 
 drawing towards the close of life, he appeared to 
 engage with as much avidity as ever in his favorite 
 pursuits. Though he loved conversation, and dehghted 
 to discourse on other subjects, yet he was never known 
 to talk about the life to come, upon which he was so 
 soon to enter. Thus he deliberately chose to enjoy 
 these few poor years, and to neglect his concerns for 
 immortahty. Now if this clever man had purposely 
 set fire to his beautiful house, and had calmly seen all 
 his valuable collections consumed by the flames, every- 
 body would have exclaimed, ' What a fool ! ' As it 
 was, he was extolled and applauded by most men, 
 although guilty of incomparably greater madness than 
 this. 
 
 '' Children, endeavor to conceive (though it is 
 impossible you should fully comprehend it) the tre- 
 mendous folly of neglecting a book which God has sent 
 us to read ! It is only because it is so very common 
 for men to disregard their Bibles, that we are not more 
 struck with the strange absurdity of it. This gentleman 
 was particularly admired for the universality of his tal- 
 ents ; and it was always spoken to his praise that, while 
 so much engaged in scientific pursuits, he attended 
 equally to the elegances and refinements of hfe ; he was 
 as cheerful a companion, and as finished a gentleman, 
 as he was a sound philosopher. But, alas, how very 
 far, it is to be feared, he was from being universally 
 
THE CLEVER FOOL. 263 
 
 sagacious ! How very partial and limited even was 
 his cleverness ! He not only knew that in a few years 
 he must die, but, in some ways, he deliberately prepared 
 for the event. He made his will ; he gave particular di- 
 rections as to what should take place after his decease ; 
 he even caused this vault to be built, left directions for 
 his funeral, and wrote an inscription for his monument. 
 So that, you see, he left nothing undone but that one 
 thing which, alone, was of real consequence to him. 
 This poor clever fool had no forethought, made no 
 provision for his soul ! 
 
 " I have been told that the last thing that occupied 
 his attention was an improved method of raising pine- 
 apples. By a great deal of thought and ingenuity, he 
 succeeded in raising them some weeks earlier, and of 
 a finer sort, than any that were grown in the neighbor- 
 hood. Yes, children, here was a man of nearly seventy, 
 really interested dhont pine- apples, while the great busi- 
 ness of his eternal welfare was still unattended to ! A 
 party of friends was invited to dine with him, in order 
 to partake of this rich dessert ; but on the eve of this 
 intended entertainment it was said to him, ' This night 
 thy soul shall be required of thee.' He was found 
 the next morning dead in his bed ; and now, whose 
 are those things that he possessed? " 
 
 Julia. Oh, papa ! 
 
 Father. Now, children, let us leave this melancholy 
 spot ; remembering that whether or not our fears of this 
 individual are well founded, we are but too well assured 
 that the world abounds with men and women who if 
 not as clever are quite as foolish as we have supposed 
 him to have been. Let it be 07ir chief concern that 
 we may not be of the number. But never, never, till 
 that day when this sepulchre shall be torn open by the 
 voice of the archangel, will any human mind be fully 
 able to comprehend the dreadful difference between a 
 plain wise mart, and a clever fooL 
 
POEMS. 
 
 TO. MADAME DE STAEL. 
 
 WRITTEN AFTER READING " CORINNE, OU L'iTALIE." 
 
 O WOMAN, greatly gifted ! why 
 Wert thou not gifted from on high ? 
 What had that noble genius done, 
 That knew all hearts — all things, but one^ 
 Had that been known ? Oh, would it might 
 Be whispered, here she took her flight ! 
 Where, where is that fine spirit hurled, 
 That seemed unmeet for either world ? 
 
 While o*er thy magic page I bend, 
 I know thee, claim thee for my friend ; 
 With thee a secret converse hold. 
 And see my inmost thoughts unfold. 
 Each notion crude, defined, expressed ; 
 And certain, what I vaguely guessed. 
 And hast thou taught, with cruel skill, 
 The art to suffer better still ; 
 Griefs finest secret to explore. 
 Though understood too well before ? 
 Ah, well ! I 'd thank thee if I might ; 
 Although so wrong, thou art so right ! 
 While I condemn, my heart replies, 
 And deeper feelings sympathize. 
 
TO MADAME DE STAEL, 265 
 
 Thy view of life, that painful view, — 
 How false it is ! and yet how true ! 
 " Life without love — a cheerless strife ; 
 Yet love so rarely given to life." 
 And why must truth and virtue, why, 
 This mighty claim of love deny ? 
 What was this earth, so full, so fair ? 
 A cheerless desert, bleak, and bare — 
 God knew it was — till love was there. 
 Say, has the heart a glance at bliss — 
 One — till it glance or gaze at this ? 
 Ah, no ! unblessed, unsoothed the lot. 
 Fair though it seem, that knows it not ! 
 'T is true ! and to the truth replies 
 A thousand joyless hearts and eyes, — 
 Eyes beamless, hearts that do not break — 
 They cannot — but that always ache ; 
 And slowly wither, day by day, 
 Till life at last is dried away. 
 
 " Love, or Religion ; " yes, she knew 
 Life has no choice but 'twixt the two. 
 But when she sought that balm to find, 
 She guessed and groped, but still was blind. 
 Aloft she flew, yet failed to see 
 Aught but an earthly deity. 
 The humble Christian's holy love. 
 Oh, how it calmly soars above 
 These storms of passion ! Yes, too much 
 I Ve felt her talent's magic touch. 
 Return, my soul, to that retreat 
 From sin and woe — thy Saviour's feet I 
 There learn an art she never knew, 
 The heart's own empire to subdue : 
 A large, but willing sacrifice ; 
 All to resign that He denies ; 
 To him in meek submission bend, 
 
266 TO THE MOON. 
 
 Own Him an all-sufficient friend ; 
 Here, and in holy worlds above, 
 My portion — and my only love ! 
 
 September 23, 1822, 
 
 TO THE MOON. 
 
 What is it that gives thee, mild Queen of the Night, 
 
 That secret intelligent grace ? 
 Oh, why should I gaze with such tender delight 
 
 On thy fair, but insensible face ? 
 
 What gentle enchantment possesses thy beam. 
 
 Beyond the warm sunshine of day? 
 Thy bosom is cold as the glittering stream. 
 
 Where dances thy tremulous ray. 
 
 Canst thou the sad heart of its sorrow beguile. 
 
 Or griefs fond indulgence suspend ? 
 Yet where is the mourner but welcomes thy smile. 
 
 And loves thee almost as a friend ? 
 
 The tear that looks bright in thy beam as it flows 
 
 Unmoved thou dost ever behold ; 
 The sorrow that loves in thy light to repose. 
 
 To thee it has never been told. 
 
 And yet thou dost soothe me, and ever I find. 
 
 While watching thy gentle retreat, 
 A moonlight composure steal over the mind. 
 
 Poetical, pensive, and sweet. 
 
 I think of the years that forever are fled ; 
 Of follies by others forgot ; 
 
A STORY. 267 
 
 Of joys that are vanished, of hopes that are dead, 
 Of friendships that were, and are not. 
 
 I think of the future — still gazing the while, 
 
 As thou couldst those secrets reveal ; 
 But ne'er dost thou grant an encouraging smile, 
 
 To answer the mournful appeal. 
 
 Those beams which so bright through my casement 
 appear, 
 
 To far distant scenes they extend ; 
 Illumine the dwellings of those that are dear, 
 
 And sleep on the grave of ray friend. 
 
 Then still I must love thee, mild Queen of the Night, 
 
 Since feeling and fancy agree 
 To make thee a source of unfailing delight, 
 
 A friend and a solace to me. 
 
 x8ii. 
 
 A STORY. 
 
 There once was a man who contrived a balloon, 
 To carry him whither ? — why, up to the moon. 
 One fine starlight night he set sail for the sky, 
 And joyfully bid our poor planet good-by. 
 He mounted aloft with incredible speed, 
 And saw the green earth every moment recede. 
 " Farewell," he exclaimed, '^ to thy pride and conceit, 
 Oppression and injury, fraud and deceit ; 
 Thy flagrant abuses, thy luxury too, 
 And all thy gay pageants, — forever adieu. 
 
268 A STORY. 
 
 Thy festivals, spectacles, learning and lore ; 
 My share in thy pleasures I gladly restore, — 
 Thy kings and thy nobles, lords, ladies, and squires. 
 And all the poor world in its dotage admires. 
 From its factions and parties and politics free, 
 The statesmen and heroes are nothing to me ; 
 Bonaparte in his cage, on Helena's wild shore, 
 And all his devices, to me are no more. 
 Farewell to thy valleys, in verdure arrayed ; 
 Farewell to thy merchandise, traffic and trade ; 
 Thy wide- swelling rivers that roll to the seas ; 
 Thy dark waving forests, that sigh to the breeze, — 
 From Britain to China, or Ganges' wide stream ; 
 All fades on my sight like a vanishing dream." 
 
 He spoke, and with pleasure soon darted his eyes on 
 The moon, just appearing above the horizon ; 
 And sitting upright with his hand in his pocket, 
 Shot up the dark sky into space, like a rocket. 
 But the swiftness with which his light vehicle sped 
 Brought on such a giddiness into his head. 
 That he lay a long time in his boat without knowing 
 How long he had been or which way he was going. 
 At length he aroused from his stupor, when, lo 1 
 The beautiful planet was shining below ! 
 Already so near was he come, as to see 
 Its mountains and valleys, as plain as could be. 
 With feehngs no language could well represent, 
 He quickly prepared his machine for descent. 
 A fine open plain, much resembling, he said. 
 Some spots in old England, before him was spread. 
 Whose smoothness and verdure his presence invited ; 
 And there, all amazement, our traveller alighted. 
 What thrillings of rapture, what tears of delight, 
 Now melted this signally fortunate wight ; 
 And thus he expressed his astonishment soon : 
 ^' Dear me, what a wonder to be in the moon ! " 
 
RECREATION. 269 
 
 'T was now early morning, the firmament clear ; 
 For there the sun rises, the same as down here. 
 He took out his pocket-book, therefore, and wrote 
 Whatever he saw that was worthy of note. 
 For instance^ the soil appeared sandy and loose ; 
 The pasture much finer than we can produce. 
 He picked up a stone, which he wished he could hand 
 To some Jearned geologists down in our land. 
 A blue little weed next attracted our writer, 
 Not very unlike to our hare-bell, but brighter, 
 And looked, as he said, most decidedly lunar, — 
 He wished he had come on this enterprise sooner. 
 But still he was far more impatient to trace 
 What sort of inhabitants lived in the place. 
 Perhaps they were dragons, or horrible things, 
 Like fishes with feathers, or serpents with wings. 
 Thus deeply engaged in conjectural thought, 
 His eye by an object was suddenly caught ; 
 To which, on advancing, he found, you must know, 
 *T was just such a mile-stone as ours are below. 
 And he read, ail amazed, in plain English this line, 
 ^^ Twelve miles to old Sarum, to Andover nine." 
 In short, the whole wonder at once to explain, 
 The man had alighted on Salisbury Plain. 
 
 RECREATION. 
 
 We took our work, and went, you see, 
 To take an early cup of tea. 
 We did so now and then, to pay 
 The friendly debt, — and so did they. 
 Not that our friendship burnt so bright 
 That all the world could see the light ; 
 'T was of the ordinary genus , 
 
270 RECREATION, 
 
 And little love was lost between us. 
 We loved, I think, about as true 
 As such near neighbors mostly do. 
 
 At first, we all were somewhat dry ; 
 Mamma felt cold, and so did I. 
 Indeed, that room, sit where you will, 
 Has draught enough to turn a mill. 
 " I hope you 're warm," says Mrs. G. 
 ^* Oh, quite so," says mamma, says she ; 
 " I '11 take my shawl off by and by." 
 " This room is always warm," says I. 
 
 At last the tea came up, and so 
 With that our tongues began to go. 
 Now in that house you 're sure of knowing 
 The smallest scrap of news that 's going. 
 We find it there the wisest way 
 To take some care of what we say. 
 
 Says she, " There 's dreadful doings still 
 In that affair about the will ; 
 ' For now the folks in Brewer's Street 
 Don't speak to James's, when they meet. 
 Poor Mrs. Sam sits all alone, 
 And frets herself to skin and bone. 
 For months she managed, she declares. 
 All the old gentleman's affairs ; 
 And always let him have his way, 
 And never left him night nor day ; 
 Waited and watched his every look, 
 And gave him every drop he took. 
 Dear Mrs. Sam, it was too bad ! 
 He might have left her all he had." 
 
 " Pray, md'am," says I, " has poor Miss A. 
 Been left as handsome as they say? " 
 
RECREATION. 271 
 
 ^' My dear/' says she, " 'tis no such thing, 
 She 'd nothing but a mourning ring. 
 But is it not uncommon mean, 
 To wear that rusty bombazine ! " 
 ^' She had,'' says I, " the very same. 
 Three years ago, for — what 's his name ? " 
 ** The Duke of Brunswick ; very true, 
 And has not bought a thread of new, 
 I 'm positive," said Mrs. G. 
 So then we laughed, and drank our tea. 
 
 ^' So," says mamma, " I find it 's true 
 What Captain P. intends to do, — 
 To hire that house, or else to buy — " 
 ^* Close to the tan-yard, ma'am," says I. 
 ^' Upon my word it 's very strange, 
 I wish they may n't repent the change ! '* 
 ^* My dear," says she, " 't is very well 
 You know, if they can bear the smell.** 
 
 " Miss F.," says I, " is said to be 
 A sweet young woman, Mrs. G." 
 ^' Oh, excellent ! I hear," she cried ; 
 " Oh, truly so ! " mamma replied. 
 " How old should you suppose her, pray ? 
 She 's older than she looks, they say." 
 " Really," says I, ''' she seems to me 
 Not more than twenty- two or three." 
 " Oh, then you 're wrong," says Mrs. G. 
 " Their upper servant told our Jane, 
 She '11 not see twenty-nine again." 
 " Indeed, so old ? I wonder why 
 She does not marry, then," says I ; 
 " So many thousands to bestow, 
 And such a beauty, too, you know.** 
 " A beauty ! Oh, my dear Miss B., 
 You must be joking now," says she. 
 
272 RECREA TlOJSr. 
 
 " Her figure *s rather pretty," — ^* Ah ! 
 That 's what I say/' replied mamma. 
 
 " Miss F./' says I, " I Ve understood, 
 Spends all her time in doing good. 
 The people say her coming down 
 Is quite a blessing to the town." 
 At that our hostess fetched a sigh, 
 And shook her head ; and so says I, 
 " It 's very kind of her, I 'm sure, 
 To be so generous to the poor." 
 " No doubt," says she, " 't is very true ; 
 Perhaps here may be reasons too, — 
 You know some people like to pass 
 For patrons with the lower class." 
 
 And here I break my story's thread. 
 Just to remark that what she said, 
 Although I took the other part, 
 Went like a cordial to my heart. 
 
 Some innuendoes more had passed, 
 Till out the scandal came at last, 
 ^' Come, then, I '11 tell you something more," 
 Says she, — " Eliza, shut the door. 
 I would not trust a creature here, 
 For aU the world, but you, my dear. 
 Perhaps it 's false, — I wish it may, — 
 But let it go no further, pray ! " 
 " Oh," says mamma, ^^you need not fear; 
 We never mention what we hear." 
 " Indeed we shall not, Mrs. G.," 
 Says I, again, impatiently : 
 And so we drew our chairs the nearer, 
 And, whispering, lest the child should hear her, 
 She told a tale, at least too long 
 To be repeated in a song ; 
 
THE CHURCH^YARD. 273 
 
 We panting every breath between, 
 With curiosity and spleen. 
 And how we did enjoy the sport, 
 And echo every faint report, 
 And answer every candid doubt. 
 And turn her motives inside out, 
 And each reputed virtue hide, — 
 Till we were fully satisfied 1 
 
 Thus having brought it to a close. 
 In great good humor we arose. 
 Indeed, 't was more than time to go, 
 Our boy had been an hour below. 
 So, warmly pressing Mrs. G. 
 To fix a day to come to tea. 
 We muffled up in cloak and plaid. 
 And trotted home behind the lad. 
 
 THE CHURCH-YARD. 
 
 The moon rises bright in the east. 
 
 The stars with pure brilliancy shine ; 
 The songs of the woodland have ceased. 
 
 And still is the low of the kine. 
 The men, from their work on the hill, 
 
 Trudge homeward with pitchfork and flail ; 
 The buzz of the hamlet is still. 
 
 And the bat flaps his wings in the gale. 
 
 And, see ! from those darkly green trees 
 
 Of cypress, and holly, and yew, 
 That wave their black arms in the breeze, 
 
 The old village church is in view. 
 18 
 
2 74 THE CHURCH-YARD. 
 
 The owl, from her ivied retreat, 
 
 Screams hoarse to the winds of the night ; 
 And the clock, with its solemn repeat, 
 
 Has tolled the departure of light. 
 
 My child, let us wander alone. 
 
 When half the wide world is in bed, 
 And read o'er the mouldering stone, 
 
 That tells of the mouldering dead. 
 And let us remember it well. 
 
 That we must as certainly die ; 
 For us, too, may toll the sad bell. 
 
 And in the cold earth we must lie. 
 
 You are not so healthy and gay, 
 
 So young, so active and bright. 
 That death cannot snatch you away, 
 
 Or some dreadful accident smite. 
 Here lie both the young and the old, 
 
 Confined in the coffin so small. 
 And the earth closes over them cold. 
 
 And the grave-worm devours them all. 
 
 In vain were the beauty and bloom 
 
 That once o'er their bodies were spread ; 
 Now still, in the desolate tomb. 
 
 Each rests his inanimate head. 
 Their hands, once so active for play, 
 
 Their lips, which so merrily sung, 
 Now senseless and motionless lay. 
 
 And stiff is the chattering tongue. 
 
 Then seek not, my child, as the best. 
 
 Those things which so shortly must fade ; 
 
 Let piety dwell in thy breast. 
 And all of thine actions pervade. 
 
SPRING. 275 
 
 And then, when beneath the green sod 
 
 This active young body shall lie, 
 Thy soul shall ascend to its God, 
 
 To live with the blest in the sky. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 Ah ! see how the ices are melting away ! 
 
 The rivers have burst from their chain ; 
 The woods and the hedges with verdure look gay 
 
 And daisies enamel the plain. 
 
 The sun rises high, and shines warm o'er the dale, 
 The orchards with blossoms are white ; 
 
 The voice of the woodlark is heard in the vale, 
 And the cuckoo returns from her flight. 
 
 Young lambs sport and frisk on the side of the hill, 
 The honey-bee wakes from his sleep ; 
 
 The turtle-dove opens her soft-cooing bill, 
 And snowdrops and primroses peep. 
 
 All Nature looks active, delightful, and gay ; 
 
 The creatures begin their employ ; 
 Ah ! let me not be less industrious than they, — 
 
 An idle or indolent boy. 
 
 Now while in the spring of my vigor and bloom, 
 In the paths of fair learning I '11 run ; 
 
 Nor let the best part of my being consume, 
 With nothing of consequence done. 
 
276 SUMMER. 
 
 Thus while to my lessons with care I attend, 
 And store up the knowledge I gain, 
 
 When the winter of age shall upon me descend, 
 'T will cheer the dark season of pain. 
 
 SUMMER. 
 
 The heats of summer come hastily on, n 
 
 The fruits are transparent and clear ; 
 The buds and the blossoms of April are gone, 
 
 And the deep-colored cherries appear. 
 
 The blue sky above us is bright and serene. 
 
 No cloud on its bosom remains ; 
 The woods and the fields and the hedges are green, 
 
 And the haycock smells sweet from the plains. 
 
 Down far in the valley where bubbles the spring 
 Which soft through the meadow-land glides, 
 
 The lads from the mountain the heavy sheep bring, 
 And shear the warm coat from their sides. 
 
 Ah ! let me lie down in some shady retreat. 
 
 Beside the meandering stream ; 
 For the sun darts abroad an unbearable heat. 
 
 And bums with his over-head beam. 
 
 There all the day idle my limbs I '11 extend. 
 
 Fanned soft to delicious repose ; 
 While round me a thousand sweet odors ascend 
 
 From ev'ry gay wood-flower that blows. 
 
AUTUMN. 277 
 
 But, hark ! from the woodlands what sounds do I hear? 
 
 The voices of pleasure so gay ; 
 The merry young haymakers cheerfully bear 
 
 The heat of the hot summer's day. 
 
 While some with bright scythe, singing shrill to the tone, 
 
 The tall grass and buttercups mow, 
 Some spread it with rakes, and by others 't is thrown 
 
 Into sweet-smelling cocks in a row. 
 
 Then since joy and glee with activity join, 
 
 This moment to labor I '11 rise ; 
 While the idle love best in the shade to recline, 
 
 And waste precious time as it flies. 
 
 To waste precious time we can never recall, 
 
 Is waste of the wickedest kind ; 
 An instant of life has more value than all 
 
 The gold that in India they find. 
 
 Not diamonds, that brilliantly beam in the mine. 
 For one moment's time should be given ; 
 
 For gems can but make us look gaudy and fine. 
 But time can prepare us for heaven. 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 The sun is far risen above the old trees. 
 His beams on the silver dew play ; 
 
 The gossamer tenderly waves in the breeze, 
 And the mists are fast rolling away. 
 
278 TO A LITTLE GIRL 
 
 Let US leave the warm bed and the pillow of down ; 
 
 The morning fair bids us arise, 
 Little boy ; for the shadows of midnight are flown, 
 
 And sunbeams peep into our eyes. 
 
 We '11 pass by the garden that leads to the gate, — 
 
 But where is its gayety now? 
 The Michaelmas daisy blows lonely and late, 
 
 And the yellow leaf whirls from the bough. 
 
 Last night the glad reapers their harvest-home sung, 
 And stored the full garners with grain ; 
 
 Did you hear how the woods with their merry shouts 
 rung. 
 As they bore the last sheaf from the plain? 
 
 But, hark ! from the woodlands the sound of a gun ! 
 
 The wounded bird flutters and dies. 
 Ah ! surely 't is wicked, for nothing but fun, 
 
 To shoot the poor thing as it flies. 
 
 The timid hare, too, in afliright and dismay. 
 Runs swift through the brushwood and grass ; 
 
 How she turns, how she winds ! and she tries every way, 
 But the cruel dogs won't let her pass. 
 
 TO A LITTLE GIRL THAT HAS TOLD 
 A LIE. 
 
 And has my darling told a lie ? 
 Did she forget that God was by ? 
 That God, who saw the thing she did, 
 From whom no action can be hid, — 
 
THAT HAS TOLD A LIE. 279 
 
 Did she forget that God could see, 
 And hear, wherever she might be ? 
 
 He made your eyes, and can discern 
 Whichever way you think to turn ; 
 He made your ears, and he can hear 
 When you may think nobody 's near. 
 In every place, by night or day. 
 He watches all you do and say. 
 
 You thought, because you were alone, 
 Your falsehood never could be known. 
 But liars always are found out. 
 Whatever ways they wind about ; 
 And always be afraid, my dear. 
 To tell a lie — - for God can hear ! 
 
 I wish, my dear, you 'd always try 
 To act as shall not need a lie. 
 And when you wish a thing to do 
 That has been once forbidden you, 
 Remember that, nor ever dare 
 To disobey — for God is there ! 
 
 Why should you fear to tell me true ? 
 Confess, and then I '11 pardon you. 
 Tell me you 're sorry, and will try 
 To act the better by and by. 
 And then, whate'er your crime has been. 
 It won't be half so great a sin. 
 
 But cheerful, innocent, and gay, 
 As passes by the smiling day. 
 You '11 never have to turn aside 
 From any one your faults to hide ; 
 Nor heave a sigh, nor have a fear, 
 That either God or I should hear. 
 
28o MEDDLESOME MATTY, 
 
 MEDDLESOME MATTY. 
 
 Oh, how one ugly trick has spoiled 
 
 The sweetest and the best ! 
 Matilda, though a pleasant child, 
 
 One ugly trick possessed, 
 Which, like a cloud before the skies, 
 Hid all her better qualities. 
 
 Sometimes she 'd lift the teapot lid, 
 
 To peep at what was in it ; 
 Or tilt the kettle, if you did 
 
 But turn your back a minute. 
 In vain you told her not to touch, 
 Her trick of meddling grew so much. 
 
 Her grandmamma went out one day. 
 
 And by mistake she laid 
 Her spectacles and snuff-box gay 
 
 Too near the little maid : 
 "Ah ! well,'' thought she, " I '11 try them on, 
 As soon as grandmamma is gone.'' 
 
 Forthwith she placed upon her nose 
 
 The glasses, large and wide ; 
 And looking round, as I suppose. 
 
 The snuff-box too she spied. 
 " Oh, what a pretty box is this ! 
 I '11 open it," said little miss. 
 
 " I know that grandmamma would say, 
 
 ' Don't meddle with it, dear 1 ' 
 But then, she 's far enough away. 
 
 And no one else is near. 
 
MEDDLESOME MATTY, 281 
 
 Besides, what can there be amiss 
 In opening such a box as this ? '* 
 
 So thumb and finger went to work 
 
 To move the stubborn lid ; 
 And presently a mighty jerk 
 
 The mighty mischief did ; 
 For all at once, ah ! woful case, 
 The snuff came pufiing in her face ! 
 
 Poor eyes and nose, and mouth and chin, 
 
 A dismal sight presented ; 
 And as the snuff got further in 
 
 Sincerely she repented. 
 In vain she ran about for ease, 
 She could do nothing else but sneeze ! 
 
 She dashed the spectacles away, 
 
 To wipe her tingling eyes ; 
 And as in twenty bits they lay. 
 
 Her grandmamma she spies. 
 " Hey-day ! and what 's the matter now? " 
 Cried grandmamma, with lifted brow. 
 
 Matilda, smarting with the pain, 
 
 And tingling still, and sore. 
 Made many a promise to refrain 
 
 From meddling evermore ; 
 And 't is a fact, as I have heard, 
 She ever since has kept her word. 
 
282 THE WORM. 
 
 THE WORM. 
 
 No, little worm, you need not slip 
 
 Into your hole, with such a skip ; 
 
 Drawing the gravel as you glide 
 
 On to your smooth and slimy side. 
 
 I 'm not a crow, poor worm, not I, 
 
 Peeping about your holes to spy, 
 
 And fly away with you in air. 
 
 To give my young ones each a share. 
 
 No ; and I *m not a rolling-stone. 
 
 Creaking along with hollow groan ; 
 
 Nor am I of the naughty crew 
 
 Who don't care what poor worms go through, 
 
 But trample on them as they lay, 
 
 Rather than step the other way ; 
 
 Or keep them dangling on a hook. 
 
 Choked in a dismal pond or brook, ^ 
 
 Till some poor fish comes swimming past. 
 
 And finishes their pain at last. ^ 
 
 For my part, I could never bear 
 
 Your tender flesh to hack and tear. 
 
 Forgetting that poor worms endure 
 
 As much as I should, to be sure. 
 
 If any giant should come and jump 
 
 On to my back, and kill me plump ; 
 
 Or run my heart through with a scythe, 
 
 And think it fun to see me writhe ! 
 
 Oh no, I 'm only looking about 
 To see you wriggle in and out. 
 And drawing together your slimy rings. 
 Instead of feet, like other things. 
 So, little worm, don't slide and slip 
 Into your hole, with such a skip. 
 
FIRE. 283 
 
 FIRE. 
 
 What is it that shoots from the mountains so high, 
 
 In many a beautiful spire ? 
 What is it that blazes and curls to the sky ? 
 
 This beautiful something is Fire. 
 
 Loud noises are heard in the caverns to groan, 
 
 Hot cinders fall thicker than snow ; 
 Huge stones to a wonderful distance are thrown, 
 
 For burning fire rages below. 
 
 When Winter blows bleak, and loud bellows the storm. 
 
 And frostily twinkle the stars ; 
 Then bright burns the fire in the chimney so warm. 
 
 And the kettle sings shrill on the bars. 
 
 Then call the poor traveller, covered with snow, 
 
 And warm him with charity kind ; 
 Fire is not so warm as the feelings that glow 
 
 In the friendly, benevolent mind. 
 
 By fire rugged metals are fitted for use, — 
 
 Iron, copper, gold, silver, and tin ; 
 Without its assistance we could not produce 
 
 So much as a minikin pin. 
 
 Fire rages with fury wherever it comes, 
 
 If only one spark should be dropped ; 
 Whole houses, or cities, sometimes it consumes. 
 
 Where its violence cannot be stopped. 
 
 And when the great morning of judgment shall rise. 
 
 How wide will its blazes be curled ! 
 With heat, fervent heat, it shall melt down the skies, 
 
 And burn up this beautiful world. 
 
284 AIR. 
 
 AIR. 
 
 What is it that winds about over the world, 
 
 Spread thin like a covering fair? 
 Into each crack and crevice 't is artfully curled ; 
 
 This sly little fluid is Air. 
 
 In summer's still evening how peaceful it floats, 
 
 When not a leaf moves on the spray, 
 And no sound is heard but the nightingale's notes, 
 
 And merry gnats dancing away. 
 
 The village bells glide on its bosom serene, 
 
 And steal in sweet cadence along ; 
 The shepherd's soft pipe warbles over the green, 
 
 And the cottage girls join in the song. 
 
 But when winter blows, then it bellows aloud. 
 
 And roars in the northerly blast ; 
 With fury drives on the snowy blue cloud, 
 
 And cracks the tall, tapering mast. 
 
 The sea rages wildly, and mounts to the skies 
 
 In billows and fringes of foam ; 
 And the sailor in vain turns his pitiful eyes 
 
 Towards his dear, peaceable home. 
 
 When fire lies and smothers, or gnaws thro' the beam, 
 
 Air forces it fiercer to glow ; 
 And engines in vain their cold torrents may stream. 
 
 Unless the wind ceases to blow. 
 
 In the forest it tears up the sturdy old oak. 
 
 That many a tempest had known ; 
 The tall mountain's pine into splinters is broke, 
 
 And over the precipice blown. 
 
EARTH. 285 
 
 And yet, though it rages with fur>' so wild, 
 
 On the solid earth, water, or fire. 
 Without its assistance the tenderest child 
 
 Would struggle, and gasp, and expire. 
 
 Pure air, pressing into the curious clay, 
 
 Gave life to these bodies at first ; 
 And when in the bosom it ceases to play, 
 
 We crumble again to our dust. 
 
 EARTH. 
 
 What is it that 's covered so richly with green, 
 
 And gives to the forest its birth ? 
 A thousand plants bloom on its bosom serene ; 
 
 Whose bosom ? — the bosom of Earth. 
 
 Hidden deep in its bowels the emerald shines. 
 
 The ruby, and amethyst blue ; 
 And silver and gold glitter bright in the mines 
 
 Of Mexico rich, and Peru. 
 
 Large quarries of granite and marble are spread 
 In its wonderful bosom like bones ; 
 
 Chalks, gravel, and coals, salt, sulphur, and lead, 
 And thousands of beautiful stones. 
 
 Beasts, savage and tame, of all colors and forms. 
 Either stalk in its deserts, or creep ; 
 
 White bears sit and growl to the northerly storms, 
 And shaggy goats bound firom the steep. 
 
286 WATER, 
 
 The oak and the snowdrop, the cedar and rose, 
 
 Alike on its bosom are seen ; 
 The tall fir of Norway, surrounded with snows, 
 
 And the mountain-ash scarlet and green. 
 
 Fine grass and rich mosses creep over its hills, 
 A thousand flowers breathe in the gale ; 
 
 Tall water-seeds dip in its murmTiring rills. 
 And harvests wave bright in the vale. 
 
 And when this poor body is cold and decayed, 
 And this warm throbbing heart is at rest. 
 
 My head upon thee, mother Earth, shall be laid, 
 To find a long home in thy breast. 
 
 WATER. 
 
 What is it that glitters so clear and serene, 
 
 Or dances in billows so white ? 
 Ships skimming along on its surface are seen, — 
 
 'T is water that glitters so bright. 
 
 Sea-weeds wind about in its cavities wet. 
 
 The pearl oyster quietly sleeps ; 
 A thousand fair shells, yellow, amber, and jet, 
 
 And coral, glow red in its deeps. 
 
 Whales lash the white foam in their frolicsome wrath, 
 While hoarsely the winter wind roars ; 
 
 And shoals of green mackerel stretch from the north. 
 And wander along by our shores. 
 
WATER, 287. 
 
 When tempests sweep over its bosom serene, 
 
 Like mountains its billows arise ; 
 The ships now appear to be buried between, — 
 
 And now, carried up to the skies. 
 
 It gushes out clear from the sides of the hill, 
 And sparkles right down from the steep ; 
 
 Then waters the valley, and roars through the mill, 
 And wanders in many a sweep. 
 
 The traveller that crosses the desert so wide. 
 
 Hot, weary, and stifled with dust, 
 Longs often to stoop at some rivulet's side, 
 
 To quench in its waters his thirst. 
 
 The stately white swan glides along on its breast. 
 
 Nor ruffles its surface serene ; 
 And the duckling unfledged waddles out of its nest, 
 
 To dabble in ditch-water green. 
 
 The clouds blown about in the chilly blue sky 
 
 Vast cisterns of water contain ; 
 Like snowy white feathers in winter they fly. 
 
 In summer stream gently in rain. 
 
 When sunbeams so bright on the falling drops shine. 
 
 The rainbow enlivens the shower, 
 And glows in the heavens a beautiful sign. 
 
 That water shall drown us no more. 
 
288 MV MOTHER, 
 
 MY MOTHER. 
 
 Who fed me from her gentle breast, 
 And hushed me in her arms to rest, 
 And on my cheek sweet kisses pressed ? 
 
 My Mother. 
 
 When sleep forsook my open eye, 
 
 Who was it sang sweet lullaby. 
 
 And rocked me that I should not cry? 
 
 My Mother. 
 
 Who sat and watched my infant head, 
 When sleeping on my cradle bed, 
 And tears of sweet affection shed ? 
 
 My Mother. 
 
 When pain and sickness made me cry, 
 Who gazed upon my heavy eye. 
 And wept for fear that I should die? 
 
 My Mother. 
 
 Who dressed my doll in clothes so gay, 
 And taught me pretty how to play. 
 And minded all I had to say ? 
 
 My Mother. 
 
 Who ran to help me when I fell, 
 And would some pretty story tell, 
 Or kiss the place to make it well ? 
 
 My Mother. 
 
 Who taught my infant lips to pray. 
 And love God's holy book and day, 
 And walk in wisdom's pleasant way? 
 
 My Mother. 
 
READING, 289 
 
 And can I ever cease to be 
 Affectionate and kind to thee, 
 Who wast so very kind to me ? 
 
 My Mother. 
 
 Ah ! no, the thought I cannot bear ; 
 And if God please my Hfe to spare, 
 I hope I shall reward thy care, 
 
 My Mother. 
 
 When thou art feeble, old, and gray. 
 My healthy arms shall be thy stay. 
 And I will soothe thy pains away. 
 
 My Mother. 
 
 And when I see thee hang thy head, 
 'T will be my turn to watch thy bed, 
 And tears of sweet affection shed. 
 
 My Mother. 
 
 For God, who lives above the skies. 
 Would look with vengeance in his eyes. 
 If I should ever dare despise 
 
 My Mother. 
 
 READING. 
 
 " And so you do not like to spell, 
 Mary, my dear ? Oh, very well ; 
 T is dull and troublesome, you say, 
 And you had rather be at play. 
 
 " Then bring me all your books again, ■ 
 Nay, Mary, why do you complain ? 
 
 19 
 
290 IDLENESS. 
 
 For as you do not choose to read, 
 You shall not have your books, indeed. 
 
 '' So, as you wish to be a dunce, 
 Pray go and fetch me them at once ; 
 For as you will not learn to spell, 
 'T is vain to think of reading well. 
 
 ^' Now don't you think you '11 blush to own, 
 When you become a woman grown, 
 Without one good excuse to plead, 
 That you have never learned to read? " 
 
 ^' O dear mamma," said Mary then, 
 ^^ Do let me have my books again, 
 I never more will fret, indeed. 
 If you will let me learn to read.'* 
 
 IDLENESS. 
 
 Some people complain they have nothing to do, 
 
 And time passes slowly away ; 
 They saunter about with no object in view. 
 
 And long for the end of the day. 
 
 In vain are their riches, or honors, or birth, 
 
 They nothing can truly enjoy ; 
 They 're the wretch edest creatures that live on the earth, 
 
 For want of some pleasing employ. 
 
 When people have no need to work for their bread, 
 
 And indolent always have been, 
 It never so much as comes into their head 
 
 That wasting their time is a sin. 
 
THE PIN. 291 
 
 But man was created for some useful employ, 
 
 From earth's first creation till now ; 
 And 't is good for his health, his comfort, and joy, 
 
 To live by the sweat of his brow. 
 
 And those who of riches are fully possessed 
 
 Are not for that reason exempt ; 
 If they give themselves up to an indolent rest. 
 
 They are objects of real contempt. 
 
 The pleasure that constant employments create. 
 
 By them cannot be understood ; 
 And though they may rank with the rich and the great. 
 
 They never can rank with the good. 
 
 THE PIN. 
 
 " Dear me ! what signifies a pin, 
 Wedged in a rotten board ? 
 
 I 'm certain that I won't begin 
 At ten years old to hoard ! 
 
 I never will be called a miser, 
 
 That, I 'm determined," said Eliza. 
 
 So onward tripped the little maid 
 
 And left the pin behind, 
 Which very snug and quiet laid. 
 
 To its hard fate resigned ; 
 Nor did she think (a careless chit) 
 'T was worth her while to stoop for it. 
 
 Next day a party was to ride 
 To see an air balloon y 
 
292 THE CHATTERBOX, 
 
 And all the company beside 
 
 Were dressed and ready soon ; 
 But she a woful case was in, 
 For want of just a single pin ! 
 
 In vain her eager eye she brings 
 To every darksome crack ; 
 
 There was not one ! and all her things 
 Were dropping off her back. 
 
 She cut her pincushion in two, 
 
 But, no ! not one had slidden through. 
 
 At last, as hunting on the floor 
 
 Over a crack she lay. 
 The carriage rattled to the door, 
 
 Then rattled fast away ; 
 But poor Eliza was not in. 
 For want of just — a single pin. 
 
 There 's hardly anything so small, 
 
 So trifling, or so mean. 
 That we may never want at all 
 
 For service unforeseen. 
 And wilful waste, depend upon 't, 
 Is, almost always, woful want ! 
 
 THE CHATTERBOX. 
 
 From morning till night it was Lucy's delight 
 To chatter and talk without stopping ; 
 
 There was not a day but she rattled away. 
 Like water forever a-dropping ! 
 
THE SNOWDROP. 293 
 
 As soon as she rose, while she put on her clothes, 
 
 T was vain to endeavor to still her ; 
 Nor once did she lack to continue her clack, 
 
 Till again she lay down on her pillow. 
 
 You '11 think now, perhaps, that there would have been 
 gaps, 
 
 If she had not been wonderful clever ; 
 That her sense was so great, and so witty her pate, 
 
 That it would be forthcoming forever. 
 
 But that 's quite absurd, for have you not heard 
 That much tongue and few brains are connected ; 
 
 That they are supposed to think least who talk most, 
 And their wisdom is always suspected ? 
 
 While Lucy was young, if she 'd bridled her tongue 
 
 With a little good sense and exertion. 
 Who knows but she might now have been our delight. 
 
 Instead of our jest and aversion? 
 
 THE SNOWDROP. 
 
 I SAW a snowdrop on the bed, 
 Green taper leaves among ; 
 
 Whiter than driven snow, its head 
 On the slim stalk was hung. 
 
 The wintry winds came sweeping o'er ; 
 
 A bitter tempest blew ; 
 The snowdrop faded — never more 
 
 To glitter with the dew. 
 
294 THE YELLOW LEAF, 
 
 I saw a smiling infant laid 
 In its fond mother's arms ; 
 
 Around its rosy cheek there played 
 A thousand dimpling charms. 
 
 A bitter pain was sent to take 
 
 The smiling babe away ; 
 How did its little bosom shake, 
 
 As in a fit it lay ! 
 
 Its beating heart was quickly stopped, 
 
 And in the earth so cold 
 I saw the little coffin dropped, 
 
 And covered up with mould. 
 
 Dear little children, who may read 
 This mournful story through, 
 
 Remember death may come with speed 
 And bitter pains for you. 
 
 THE YELLOW LEAF. 
 
 I SAW a leaf come tilting down 
 From a bare, withered bough ; 
 
 The leaf was dead, the branch was brown, 
 No fruit was left it now. 
 
 But much the rattling tempest blew 
 
 The naked boughs among ; 
 And here and there came whirling through 
 
 A leaf that loosely hung. 
 
THE POPPY. 295 
 
 This leaf, they tell me, once was green, 
 
 Washed by the showers soft ; 
 High on the topmost bough 't was seen, 
 
 And flourished up aloft. 
 
 I saw an old man totter slow, 
 
 Wrinkled, and weak, and gray ; 
 He 'd hardly strength enough to go. 
 
 Ever so short a way. 
 
 His ear was deaf, his eye was dim, 
 
 He leaned on crutches high ; 
 But while I stayed to pity him, 
 
 I saw him gasp and die. 
 
 This poor old man was once as gay 
 
 As rosy health could be ; 
 Yes, and the youngest head must lay, 
 
 Ere long, as low as he ! 
 
 THE POPPY. 
 
 High on a bright and sunny bed 
 A scarlet poppy grew ; 
 
 And up it held its staring head, 
 And held it out to view. 
 
 Yet no attention did it win 
 By all these efforts made, 
 
 And less offensive had it been 
 In some retired shade. 
 
296 THE VIOLET. 
 
 For though within its scarlet breast 
 No sweet perfume was found, 
 
 It seemed to think itself the best 
 Of all the flowers around. 
 
 From this may I a hint obtain, 
 And take great care indeed, 
 
 Lest I should grow as pert and vain 
 As is this gaudy weed. 
 
 THE VIOLET. 
 
 Down in the green and shady bed 
 
 A modest violet grew ; 
 Its stalk was bent, it hung its head 
 
 As if to hide from view. 
 
 And yet it was a lovely flower. 
 
 Its colors bright and fair ; 
 It might have graced a rosy bower, 
 
 Instead of hiding there. 
 
 Yet there it was content to bloom, 
 
 In modest tints arrayed ; 
 And there it spreads its sweet perfume 
 
 Within the silent shade. 
 
 Then let me to the valley go. 
 
 This pretty flower to see ; 
 That I may also learn to grow 
 
 In sweet humility. 
 
THE CRUEL THORN. 297 
 
 THE WAY TO BE HAPPY. 
 
 How pleasant it is at the end of the day 
 
 No follies to have to repent ; 
 But reflect on the past, and be able to say 
 
 That my time has been properly spent ! 
 
 When I Ve done all my business with patience and care, 
 And been good, and obliging, and kind ; 
 
 I lie on my pillow, and sleep away there, 
 With a happy and peaceable mind. 
 
 But instead of all this, if it must be confessed, 
 
 That I careless and idle have been ; 
 I lie down as usual to go to my rest, 
 
 But feel discontented within. 
 
 Then as I don't like all the trouble I Ve had, 
 
 In future I '11 try to prevent it ; 
 For I never am naughty without being sad. 
 
 Or good without being contented. 
 
 THE CRUEL THORN. 
 
 A BIT of wool Sticks here upon this thorn, — 
 Ah, cruel thorn, to tear it from the sheep 1 
 
 And yet, perhaps, with pain its fleece was worn. 
 Its coat so thick, a hot and cumbrous heap. 
 
298 THE NOTORIOUS GLUTTON. 
 
 The wool a little bird takes in his bill. 
 
 And with it up to yonder tree he flies ; 
 A nest he 's building there with matchless skill. 
 
 Compact and close, that cold and rain defies. 
 
 To line that nest, the wool so soft and warm 
 Preserves the eggs which hold its tender young ; 
 
 And when they 're hatched, the wool will keep fi-om 
 harm 
 The callow brood, until they 're fledged and strong. 
 
 Thus birds find use for what the sheep can spare. 
 
 In this, my child, a wholesome moral spy \ 
 And when the poor shall crave, thy plenty share, — 
 
 Let thy abundance thus their wants supply. 
 
 THE NOTORIOUS GLUTTON. 
 
 A DUCK, who had got such a habit of stuffing 
 That all the day long she was panting and puffing, 
 And by every creature who did her great crop see. 
 Was thought to be galloping fast for a dropsy, — 
 
 One day, after eating a plentiful dinner. 
 
 With full twice as much as there should have been in 
 
 her. 
 While up to her eyes in the gutter a-roking, 
 Was greatly alarmed by the symptoms of choking. 
 
 Now there was an old fellow, much famed for dis- 
 cerning, — i 
 A drake, who had taken a liking for learning, j 
 
 i 
 
THE NOTORIOUS GLUTTON. 299 
 
 And, high in repute with his feathery friends, 
 Was called Dr. Drake : for this doctor she sends. 
 
 In a hole of the dunghill was Dr. Drake's shop, 
 Where he kept a few simples for curing the crop ; 
 Some gravel and pebbles, to help the digestion. 
 And certain famed plants of the doctor's selection. 
 
 So, taking a handful of comical things. 
 And brushing his topple and pluming his wings, 
 And putting his feathers in apple-pie order, 
 Set out, to prescribe for the lady's disorder. 
 
 '' Dear sir," said the duck, with a delicate quack, 
 Just turning a little way round on her back, 
 And leaning her head on a stone in the yard, 
 " My case. Dr. Drake, is exceedingly hard. 
 
 " I feel so distended with wind, and oppressed, 
 So squeamish and faint, such a load at my chest ; 
 And day after day, I assure you it is hard, 
 To suffer with patience these pains in my gizzard." 
 
 " Give me leave," said the doctor, with medical look, 
 
 As her flabby cold paw in his fingers he took ; 
 
 " By the feel of your pulse — your complaint, I Ve 
 
 been thinking. 
 Is caused by your habit of eating and drinking." 
 
 '^ Oh no, sir, believe me," the lady replied 
 (Alarmed for her stomach as well as her pride), 
 *^ I am sure it arises from nothing I eat. 
 For I rather suspect I got wet in my feet. 
 
 " I 've only been roking a bit in the gutter, 
 Where the cook had been pouring some cold melted 
 butter ; 
 
300 THE CHILD'S MONITOR. 
 
 And a slice of green cabbage, and scraps of cold 
 
 meat, 
 Just a trifle or two, that I thought I could eat." 
 
 The doctor was just to liis business proceeding, — 
 By gentle emetics, a blister, and bleeding, — 
 When all on a sudden she rolled on her side. 
 Gave a horrible quackle, a struggle, and died ! 
 
 Her remains were interred in a neighboring swamp 
 By her friends, with a great deal of funeral pomp ; 
 But I Ve heard this inscription her tombstone was put on, 
 " Here lies Mrs. Duck, the notorious glutton.'* 
 And all the young ducklings are brought by their 
 
 friends. 
 To learn the disgrace in which gluttony ends. 
 
 THE CHILD'S MONITOR. 
 
 The wind blows down the largest tree, 
 
 And yet the wind I cannot see. 
 
 Playmates far off, that have been kind, 
 
 My thought can bring before my mind ; 
 
 The past by it is present brought, 
 
 And yet I cannot see my thought. 
 
 The charming rose perfumes the air. 
 
 Yet I can see no perfumes there. 
 
 Blithe Robin's notes — how sweet, how clear ! 
 
 From his small bill they reach my ear ; 
 
 And whilst upon the air they float, 
 
 I hear, yet cannot see a note. 
 
THE BUTTERFLY. 301 
 
 When I would do what is forbid, 
 
 By something in my heart I 'm chid ; 
 
 When good I think, then quick and pat. 
 
 That something says, " My child, do that." 
 
 When I too near the stream would go, 
 
 So pleased to see the waters flow, 
 
 That something says, without a sound, 
 
 " Take care, dear child, you may be drowned/* 
 
 And for the poor whene'er I grieve. 
 
 That something says, " A penny give." 
 
 Thus Spirits good and ill there be, 
 
 Although invisible to me ; 
 
 Whate'er I do, they see me still, 
 
 But oh, good Spirits, guide my will ! 
 
 THE BUTTERFLY. 
 
 The butterfly, an idle thing. 
 
 Nor honey makes, nor yet can sing, 
 
 Like to the bee and bird ; 
 Nor does it, like the prudent ant, 
 Lay up the grain for time of want, 
 
 A wise and cautious hoard. 
 
 My youth is but a summer's day. 
 Then, like the bee and ant, I '11 lay 
 
 A store of learning by ; 
 And though from flower to flower I rove, 
 My stock of wisdom I '11 improve, 
 
 Nor be a Butterfly. 
 
302 THE SPIDER AND HIS WIFE, 
 
 THE SPIDER AND HIS WIFE. 
 
 In a little dark crack half a yard from the ground 
 
 An honest old spider resided ; 
 So pleasant and snug and convenient 't was found, 
 That his friends came to see it from many miles round. 
 
 It seemed for his pleasure provided. 
 
 Of the cares, and fatigues, and distresses of life 
 
 This spider was thoroughly tired ; 
 So leaving those scenes of contention and strife, 
 His children all settled, he came with his wife, 
 
 To live in this cranny retired. 
 
 He thought that the little his wife would consume 
 
 T would be easy for him to provide her ; 
 Forgetting he lived in a gentleman^s room. 
 Where came every morning a maid and a broom, — 
 Those pitiless foes to a spider. 
 
 For when — as sometimes it would chance to befall — 
 
 Just when his neat web was completed, 
 Brush would come the great broom down the side of 
 
 the wall, 
 And perhaps carry with it web, spider, and all, — 
 
 He thought himself cruelly treated. 
 
 One day, when their cupboard was empty and dry, 
 
 His wife (Mrs. Hairy-leg Spinner) 
 Said to him, " Dear, go to the cobweb and try 
 If you can't find the leg or the wing of a fly, 
 
 As a bit of a relish for dinner." 
 
 Directly he went, his long search to resume 
 (For nothing he ever denied her), 
 
NEVER PLAY WITH FIRE, 303 
 
 Alas ! little guessing his terrible doom, — 
 Just then came the gentleman into his room, 
 And saw the unfortunate spider. 
 
 So while the poor fellow, in search of his pelf, 
 
 In the cobwebs continued to linger, 
 The gentleman reached a long cane from the shelf 
 (For certain good reasons best known to himself, 
 
 Preferring his stick to his finger). 
 
 Then presently poking him down to the floor, 
 
 Not stopping at all to consider, 
 With one horrid crush the whole business was o'er ; 
 The poor Httle spider was heard of no more, 
 
 To the lasting distress of his widow ! 
 
 NEVER PLAY WITH FIRE. 
 
 My prayers I said, I went to bed. 
 
 And soon I fell asleep : 
 But soon I woke, my sleep was broke, 
 
 I through my curtains peep. 
 
 I heard a noise of men and boys. 
 
 The watchman's rattle too ; 
 And " Fire ! " they cried — and then cried I, 
 
 " Oh dear, what shall I do? " 
 
 A shout so loud came from the crowd, 
 
 Around, above, below ; 
 And in the street the neighbors meet, 
 
 Who would the matter know. 
 
3^4 THE LARK. 
 
 Now down the stairs run threes and pairs 
 
 Enough to break their bones, 
 The firemen swear, the engines tear 
 
 And thunder o'er the stones. 
 
 The roof and wall, and stair and all, 
 
 And rafters tumble in ; 
 Red flames and blaze .now all amaze, 
 
 And make a dreadful din ! 
 
 And horrid screams, when bricks and beams 
 
 Came tumbling on their heads ; 
 And some are smashed, and some are crashed ; 
 
 Some leap on feather beds. 
 
 Some burn, some choke, with fire and smoke ! 
 
 And, oh, what was the cause ? 
 My heart 's dismayed, last night I played 
 
 With Tommy, lighting straws ! 
 
 THE LARK. 
 
 From his humble grassy bed 
 
 See the warbling lark arise ! 
 By his grateful wishes led 
 
 Through those regions of the skies. 
 
 Songs of thanks and praise he pours, 
 
 Harmonizing airy space. 
 Sings, and mounts, and higher soars. 
 
 Towards the throne of heavenly grace. 
 
THE TRUANT BOYS. 305 
 
 Small his gifts compared to mine ; 
 
 Poor my thanks with him compared, — 
 I Ve a soul almost divine ; 
 
 Angels' blessings with me shared. 
 
 Wake, my soul ! to praise aspire. 
 
 Reason, every sense, accord ; 
 Join in pure seraphic fire ; 
 
 Love, and thank, and praise the Lord. 
 
 THE TRUANT BOYS. 
 
 The month was April, and the morning cool. 
 
 When Hal and Ned, 
 To walk together to the neighboring school, 
 
 Rose early from their bed. 
 
 When reached the school, Hal said, " Why con your task 
 
 Demure and prim ? 
 Ere we go in, let me one question ask : 
 
 Ned, shall we go swim? " 
 
 Fearless of future punishment or blame, 
 
 Away they hied 
 Through many verdant fields, until they came 
 
 Unto the river side. 
 
 The broad stream narrowed in its onward course. 
 
 And deep and still 
 It silent ran, and yet with rapid force 
 
 To turn a neighboring mill. 
 20 
 
3o6 GEORGE AND THE CHIMNEY-SWEEPER. 
 
 Under the mill an arch gaped wide, and seemed 
 
 The jaws of death ! 
 Through this the smooth deceitful waters teemed 
 
 On dreadful wheels beneath. 
 
 They swim the river wide, nor think nor care ; 
 
 The waters flow, 
 And by the current strong they carried are 
 
 Into the mill-stream now. 
 
 Through the swift waters, as young Ned was rolled, 
 
 The gulf when near, 
 On a kind brier by chance he laid fast hold, 
 
 And stopped his dread career. 
 
 But luckless Hal was by the mill-wheel torn, 
 
 A warning sad ! 
 And the untimely death all friends now mourn, 
 
 Of this poor truant lad ! 
 
 GEORGE AND THE CHIMNEY-SWEEPER. 
 
 His petticoats now George cast off, 
 
 For he was four years old ; 
 His trousers were nankeen so fine. 
 
 His buttons bright as gold. 
 " May I," said little George, " go out 
 
 My pretty clothes to show? 
 May I, papa? may I, mamma?" 
 
 The answer was, " No, no ! 
 
GEORGE AND THE CHIMNEY-SWEEPER. 307 
 
 " Go, run below, George, in the court, 
 
 But go not in the street, 
 Lest naughty boys should play some trick, 
 
 Or gypsies you should meet." 
 Yet, though forbade, George went unseen, 
 
 The little boys to see. 
 And all admired him when he lisped, 
 
 " Now who so fine as me? " 
 
 But while he strutted to and fi-o. 
 
 So proud, as I Ve heard tell, 
 A sweep-boy passed, whom to avoid 
 
 He slipped and down he fell. 
 The sooty lad was kind and good, 
 
 To Georgy boy he ran j 
 He raised him up, and kissing said, 
 
 " Hush, hush, my little man ! " 
 
 He rubbed and wiped his clothes with care, 
 
 And hugging said, " Don't cry ! 
 Go home, as quick as you can go ! 
 
 Sweet little boy, good-by." 
 Poor George looked down, and, lo ! his dress 
 
 Was blacker than before ; 
 All over soot, and mud, and dirt. 
 
 He reached his father's door. 
 
 He sobbed, and wept, and looked ashamed, 
 
 His fault he did not hide ; 
 And since so sorry for his fault. 
 
 Mamma she did not chide. 
 That night when he was gone to bed. 
 
 He jumped up in his sleep, 
 And cried, and sobbed, and cried again, 
 
 *^ I thought I saw the sweep ! " 
 
3o8 SOPHIA'S FOOrS-CAF. 
 
 SOPHIA'S FOOUS-CAP. 
 
 Sophia was a little child, 
 Obliging, good, and very mild, 
 Yet, lest of dress she should be vain, 
 Mamma still dressed her well, but plain. 
 Her parents, sensible and kind. 
 Wished only to adorn her mind ; 
 No other dress, when good, had she, 
 But useful, neat simplicity. 
 
 Though seldom, yet when she was rude. 
 Or ever in a naughty mood. 
 Her punishment was this disgrace, — 
 A large fine cap adorned with lace, 
 With feathers and with ribbons too ; 
 The work was neat, the fashion new ! 
 Yet, as a fool's-cap was its name. 
 She dreaded much to wear the same. 
 
 A lady, fashionably gay. 
 Did to mamma a visit pay. 
 Sophia stared, then whispering said, 
 " Why, dear mamma, look at her head ! 
 To be so tall and wicked too, 
 The strangest thing I ever knew ! 
 What naughty tricks, pray, has she done, 
 That they have put a fool's-cap on? " 
 
WASHING AND DRESSING. 309 
 
 WASHING AND DRESSING. 
 
 Ah ! why will my dear little girl be so cross, 
 
 Aiid cry, and look sulky, and pout ? 
 To lose her sweet smile is a terrible loss, 
 
 I can't even kiss her without. 
 
 You say you don't like to be washed and be dressed. 
 
 But would you be dirty and foul ? 
 Come, drive that long sob from your dear little breast, 
 
 And clear your sweet face from its scowl. 
 
 If the water is cold, and the comb hurts your head, 
 
 And the soap has got into your eye. 
 Will the water grow warmer for all that you Ve said ? 
 
 And what good will it do you to cry ? 
 
 It is not to tease you, and hurt you, my sweet, 
 
 But only for kindness and care 
 That I wash you, and dress you, and make you look 
 neat. 
 
 And comb out your tanglesome hair. 
 
 I don't mind the trouble, if you would not cry, 
 
 But pay me for all with a kiss. 
 That 's right, take the towel and wipe your wet eye, 
 
 I thought you 'd be good after this. 
 
3IO THE PLUM CAKE. 
 
 THE PLUM CAKE. 
 
 " Oh, I Ve got a plum cake, and a rare feast I '11 make \ 
 
 I '11 eat, and I '11 stuff, and I '11 cram : 
 Morning, noontime, and night, it shall be my delight, — 
 
 What a happy young fellow I am ! " 
 
 Thus said little George, and, beginning to gorge, 
 
 With zeal to his cake he applied ; 
 While fingers and thumbs, for the sweetmeats and plums, 
 
 Were hunting and digging beside. 
 
 But — woful to tell 1 — a misfortune befell, 
 
 Which ruined his capital fun ; 
 After eating his fill he was taken so ill 
 
 That he trembled for what he had done. 
 
 As he grew worse and worse, the doctor and nurse 
 
 To cure his disorder were sent ; 
 And rightly, you '11 think, he had physic to drink. 
 
 Which made him his folly repent. 
 
 And while on his bed he rolled his hot head, 
 
 Impatient with sickness and pain. 
 He could not but take this reproof from his cake, 
 
 " Don't be such a glutton again." 
 
ANOTHER PLUM CAKE, 31 1 
 
 ANOTHER PLUM CAKE. 
 
 " Oh, I \^e got a plum cake, and a feast let us make ! 
 
 Come, school-fellows, come at my call ! 
 I assure you 't is nice, and we '11 each have a slice, 
 
 Here 's more than enough for us all.'* 
 
 Thus said little Jack, as he gave it a smack, 
 
 And sharpened his knife for the job ; 
 While round him a troop formed a clamorous group, 
 
 And hailed him the king of the mob. 
 
 With masterly strength he cut through it at length, 
 
 And gave to each playmate a share. 
 Dick, William, and James, and many more names. 
 
 Partook his benevolent care. 
 
 And when it was done, and they 'd finished their fun. 
 
 To marbles or hoop they went back, 
 And each little boy felt it always a joy 
 
 To do a good turn for good Jack. 
 
 In his task and his book his best pleasures he took ; 
 
 And as he thus wisely began. 
 Since he 's been a man grown, he has constantly shown 
 
 That a good boy will make a good man. 
 
NURSERY RHYMES. 
 
 THE COW. 
 
 Thank you, pretty cow, that made 
 Pleasant milk to soak my bread. 
 Every day, and every night. 
 Warm, and fresh, and sweet, and white. 
 
 Do not chew the hemlock rank, 
 Growing on the weedy bank ; 
 But the yellow cowslips eat. 
 They perhaps will make it sweet. 
 
 Where the purple violet grows, 
 Where the bubbling water flows, 
 Where the grass is fresh and fine, 
 Pretty cow, go there and dine. 
 
 GOOD NIGHT.' 
 
 Little baby, lay your head 
 On your pretty cradle-bed ; 
 Shut your eye-peeps, now the day 
 And the light are gone away. 
 
GETTING UP. 313 
 
 All the clothes are tucked in tight \ 
 Little baby dear, good night ! 
 
 Yes, my darling, well I know 
 How the bitter wind doth blow ; 
 And the winter's snow and rain 
 Patter on the window-pane. 
 But they cannot come in here, 
 To my little baby dear ; 
 
 For the window shutteth fast, 
 Till the stormy night is past ; 
 Or the curtains we may spread 
 Round about her cradle-bed. 
 So till morning shineth bright, 
 Little baby dear, good night 1 
 
 GETTING UP. 
 
 Now, my baby, ope your eye, 
 For the sun is in the sky. 
 And he 's peeping once again 
 Through the frosty window-pane. 
 Little baby, do not keep 
 Any longer fast asleep. 
 
 There now, sit in mother's lap, 
 That she may untie your cap ; 
 For the little strings have got 
 Twisted into such a knot. 
 Yes, you know you 've been at play 
 With the bobbin as you lay. 
 
314 BABY AND MAMMA. 
 
 There it comes, now let us see 
 Where your petticoats can be. 
 Oh ! they 're in the window-seat, 
 Folded very smooth and neat. 
 When my baby older grows, 
 She shall double up her clothes. 
 
 Now one pretty little kiss, 
 For dressing you so nice as this. 
 But before we go down stairs, 
 Don't forget to say your prayers ; 
 For 't is God who loves to keep 
 Little babies while they sleep. 
 
 BABY AND MAMMA. 
 
 What a little thing am I ! 
 
 Hardly higher than the table. 
 I can eat, and play, and cry. 
 
 But to work I am not able. 
 
 Nothing in the world I know, 
 
 But mamma will try and show me. 
 
 Sweet mamma, I love her so. 
 She 's so very kind unto me. 
 
 And she sets me on her knee, 
 Very often, for some kisses. 
 
 Oh ! how good I '11 try to be. 
 
 For such a dear mamma as this is. 
 
THE STAR. 315 
 
 THE STAR. 
 
 Twinkle, twinkle, little star, 
 How I wonder what you are ! 
 Up above the world so high, 
 Like a diamond in the sky. 
 
 When the blazing sun is gone, 
 When he nothing shines upon, 
 Then you show your little light, — 
 Twinkle, twinkle, all the night. 
 
 Then the traveller in the dark 
 Thanks you for your tiny spark. 
 He could not see which way to go. 
 If you did not twinkle so. 
 
 In the dark blue sky you keep. 
 And often through my curtains peep ; 
 For you never shut your eye 
 Till the sun is in the sky. 
 
 As your bright and tiny spark 
 Lights the traveller in the dark. 
 Though I know not what you are, 
 Twinkle, twinkle, little star. 
 
3l6 THE BABY'S DANCE, 
 
 THE FLOWER AND THE LADY, ABOUT 
 GETTING UP. 
 
 Pretty flower, tell me why 
 All your leaves do open wide, 
 
 Every morning, when on high 
 The noble sun begins to ride. 
 
 This is why, my lady fair. 
 
 If you would the reason know, 
 
 For betimes the pleasant air 
 Very cheerfully doth blow. 
 
 And the birds on every tree 
 
 Sing a merry, merry tune. 
 And the busy honey-bee 
 
 Comes to suck my sugar soon. 
 
 This is, then, the reason why 
 
 I my little leaves undo. 
 Little lady, wake and try 
 
 If I have not told you true. 
 
 THE BABY'S DANCE. 
 
 Dance, little baby, dance up high ! 
 
 Never mind, baby, mother is by ; 
 
 Crow and caper, caper and crow. 
 
 There, little baby, there you go ! 
 
 Up to the ceiling, down to the ground. 
 
 Backwards and forwards, round and round ; 
 
 Then dance, little baby, and mother shall sing, 
 
 While the gay merry coral goes ding-a-ding, ding ! 
 
QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS. 317 
 
 FOR A LITTLE GIRL THAT DID NOT 
 LIKE TO BE WASHED. 
 
 What ! cry when I wash you ! not love to be clean ! 
 Then go and be dirty, not fit to be seen. 
 And till you leave off, and I see you have smiled, 
 I can't take the trouble to wash such a child. 
 
 Suppose I should leave you a figure like this, 
 Do you think you could ask dear papa for a kiss, — 
 Or to sit on his knee and learn pretty great A, 
 With fingers that have not been washed all the day ? 
 
 Ay, look at your fingers, you see it is so. 
 Did you ever behold such a black Httle row ? 
 And now you may look at yourself in the glass ; 
 There 's a face to belong to a good httle lass ! 
 
 Come, come then, I see you 're beginning to clear, 
 You won't be so foolish again, will you, dear ? 
 
 QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS. 
 
 Who showed the little ant the way 
 
 Her narrow hole to bore, 
 And spend the pleasant summer day 
 
 In laying up her store? 
 
 The sparrow builds her nice, warm nest 
 Of wool, and hay, and moss. 
 
 Who told her how to weave it best, 
 And lay the twigs across ? 
 
3l8 THE MICHAELMAS DAISY. 
 
 Who taught the busy bee to fly 
 Among the sweetest flowers, 
 
 And lay his feast of honey by, 
 To eat in winter hours ? 
 
 *T was God who showed them all the way, 
 
 And gave their little skill ; 
 He teaches children, if they pray, 
 
 To do His holy will. 
 
 THE FIELD DAISY. 
 
 I 'm a pretty little thing, 
 Always coming with the spring. 
 In the meadows green I 'm found, 
 Peeping just above the ground ; 
 And my stalk is covered flat 
 With a white and yellow hat. 
 
 Little Mary, when you pass 
 Lightly o'er the tender grass. 
 Skip about, but do not tread 
 On my bright but lowly head ; 
 For I always seem to say, 
 " Surly winter 's gone away." 
 
 THE MICHAELMAS DAISY. 
 
 I AM very pale and dim, 
 With my faint and bluish rim. 
 Standing on my narrow stalk. 
 By the littered gravel walk ; 
 
THE LITTLE CHILD, 3 19 
 
 And the withered leaves aloft 
 Fall upon me very oft. 
 
 But 1 show my lonely head 
 When the other flowers are dead, 
 And you 're even glad to spy 
 Such a homely thing as I ; 
 For I seem to smile and say, 
 " Summer is not quite away." 
 
 THE LITTLE CHILD. 
 
 I 'm a very little child, 
 
 Only just have learned to speak ; 
 So I should be very mild, 
 
 Very tractable and meek. 
 
 If my dear mamma were gone, 
 Oh, I think that I should die, 
 
 When she left me all alone, 
 Such a little thing as I. 
 
 Now what service can I do, 
 To repay her for her care ? 
 
 For I cannot even sew, 
 Nor make anything I wear. 
 
 Well, then, I will always try 
 To be very good and mild ; 
 
 Never now be cross or cry. 
 Like a fretful little child. 
 
32 O THE SHEEP, 
 
 How unkind it is to fret, 
 
 And my dear mamma to tease, 
 
 When my lesson I should get, 
 Sitting still upon her knees ! 
 
 Oh, how can I serve her so. 
 Such a good mamma as this? 
 
 Round her neck my arms I '11 throw, 
 And her gentle cheek I '11 kiss. 
 
 Then I '11 tell her that I will 
 Try not any more to fret her, 
 
 And as I grow older still. 
 
 Try to show I love her better. 
 
 THE SHEEP. 
 
 Lazy sheep, pray tell me why 
 In the pleasant fields you lie. 
 Eating grass or daisies white, 
 From the morning till the night? 
 Every thing can something do. 
 But what kind of use are you ? 
 
 Nay, my little master, nay. 
 Do not serve me so, I pray. 
 Don't you see the wool that grows 
 On my back to make your clothes ? 
 Cold, and very cold, you 'd be, 
 If you had not wool from me. 
 
 True, it seems a pleasant thing 
 To nip the daisies in the spring ; 
 
A FINE THING, 321 
 
 But many chilly nights I pass 
 On the cold and dewy grass, 
 Or pick a scanty dinner where 
 All the common 's brown and bare. 
 
 Then the farmer comes at last, 
 When the merry spring is past, 
 And cuts my woolly coat away, 
 To warm you in the winter's day. 
 Little master, this is why 
 In the pleasant fields I He. 
 
 A FINE THING. 
 
 Who am I with noble face, 
 Shining in a clear blue place ? 
 If to look at me you try, 
 I shall blind your little eye. 
 
 When my noble face I show, 
 Over yonder mountain blue, 
 All the clouds away do ride, 
 And the dusky night beside. 
 
 Then the clear wet dews I dry 
 With the look of my bright eye ; 
 And the little birds awake, 
 Many a merry tune to make. 
 
 Cowslips, then, and hare -bells blue, 
 And lily-cups their leaves undo ; 
 For they shut themselves up tight, 
 All the dark and foggy night. 
 
322 A PRETTY THING, 
 
 Then the busy people go, 
 Some to plough, and some to sow ; 
 When I leave, their work is done, — 
 Guess if I am not the Sun. 
 
 A PRETTY THING. 
 
 Who am I that shine so bright 
 With my pretty yellow light, 
 Peeping through your curtains gray ? 
 Tell me, little girl, I pray. 
 
 When the sun is gone, I rise 
 In the very silent skies ; 
 And a cloud or two doth skim 
 Round about my silver rim. 
 
 All the little stars do seem 
 Hidden by my brighter beam ; 
 And among them I do ride. 
 Like a queen in all her pride. 
 
 Then the reaper goes along, 
 Singing forth a merry song. 
 While I light the shaking leaves 
 And the yellow harvest sheaves. 
 
 Little girl, consider well, 
 Who this simple tale doth tell ; 
 And I think you '11 guess it soon, 
 For I only am the Moon. • 
 
GOING TO BED. 323 
 
 THE SNOWDROP. 
 
 Now the spring is coming on, 
 Now the snow and ice are gone, 
 Come, my little snowdrop root, 
 Will you not begin to shoot ? 
 
 Ah ! I see your pretty head 
 Peeping on the flower-bed. 
 Looking all so green and gay 
 On this fine and pleasant day. 
 
 For the mild south wind doth blow, 
 And hath melted all the snow, 
 And the sun shines out so warm, 
 You need not fear another storm. 
 
 So come up, you pretty thing, 
 Just to tell us it is spring, 
 Hanging down your modest head 
 On my pleasant flower-bed. 
 
 GOING TO BED. 
 
 The moon is up, the sun is gone. 
 Now nothing here he shines upon ; 
 The pretty birds are in their nest, 
 The cows are lying down to rest. 
 Or wait, beneath the farmer's shed. 
 To hear the merry milkmaid's tread. 
 
324 TIME TO GET UP. 
 
 The pleasant flowers that opened wide, 
 
 And smelt so sweet at morning-tide, 
 
 Fold up their leaves, as if to say, 
 
 " Good-by, we '11 come another day ; 
 
 And now, dear litde lady, you 
 
 Must sleep, as we shall seem to do." . 
 
 Yes, — here 's my pretty bed, and I 
 Will kiss mamma, and say " by, by ! " 
 So nice and warm, so smooth and white, 
 So comfortable all the night ! 
 And when my little prayer is said. 
 How could I cry to go to bed ? 
 
 TIME TO GET UP. 
 
 The cock, who soundly sleeps at night. 
 Rises with the morning light ; 
 Very loud and shrill he crows ; 
 Then the sleeping ploughman knows 
 He must rise and hasten too, 
 All his morning work to do. 
 
 And the little lark does fly 
 To the middle of the sky. 
 You may hear his merry tune. 
 In the morning very soon ; 
 For he does not like to rest 
 Idly, in his downy nest. 
 
 While the cock is crowing shrill, 
 Leave my litde bed I will, 
 
THE FISH THAT WOULD NOT DO AS BID. 325 
 
 And I '11 rise to hear the lark, 
 Now it is no longer dark. 
 T would be a pity there to stay, 
 When 't is bright and pleasant day. 
 
 4 
 
 THE LITTLE FISH THAT WOULD NOT 
 DO AS IT WAS BID. 
 
 " Dear mother," said a little fish, 
 
 " Pray is not that a fly ? 
 I 'm very hungry, and I wish 
 
 You 'd let me go and try."' 
 
 " Sweet innocent," the mother cried, 
 
 And started from her nook ; 
 ^' That horrid fly is put to hide 
 
 The sharpness of the hook." 
 
 Now as I 've heard, this little trout 
 
 Was young and foolish too, 
 And so he thought he 'd venture out, 
 
 To see if it were true. 
 
 And round about the hook he played, 
 
 With many a longing look, 
 And — "Dear me," to himself he said, 
 
 " I 'm sure that 's not a hook. 
 
 " I can but give one little pluck, — 
 
 Let 's see, and so I will." 
 So on he went, and, lo ! it stuck 
 
 Quite through his little gill. 
 
326 THE LITTLE NEGRO, 
 
 And as he faint and fainter grew, 
 With hollow voice he cried, 
 
 " Dear mother, had I minded you, 
 I need not now have died." 
 
 THE LITTLE NEGRO. 
 
 Ah ! the poor little blackamoor, see, there he goes, 
 And the blood gushes out from his half-frozen toes, 
 And his legs are so thin you may almost see the 
 
 bones, 
 As he goes shiver, shiver, all along upon the stones. 
 
 He was once a merry boy, — yes, a merry boy was he, 
 Playing outlandish plays by the tall palm-tree. 
 Or bathing in the river like a brisk water-rat, 
 And at night sleeping soundly on his little piece of 
 mat. 
 
 But there came some wicked people, and they stole 
 
 him far away. 
 And then good-by to palm-tree tall, and i^erry, merry 
 
 play; 
 For they took him from his house and home, and 
 
 everybody dear. 
 And now, poor Uttle negro boy, he 's come a-begging 
 
 here. 
 
 Oh, fie upon those wicked men, who did this cruel 
 
 thing ! 
 I wish some mighty nobleman would go and tell the 
 
 king. 
 
THE LITTLE LARK. 327 
 
 For to steal him from his house and home must be a 
 
 crying sin, 
 Though he was a little negro boy and had a sooty 
 
 skin. 
 
 THE LITTLE LARK. 
 
 I HEAR a pretty bird, but hark ! 
 
 I cannot see it anywhere. 
 Oh ! it is a little lark. 
 
 Singing in the morning air. 
 Little lark, do tell me why 
 You are singing in the sky ? 
 
 Other little birds at rest 
 
 Have not yet begun to sing ; 
 
 Every one is in its nest. 
 With its head behind its wing. 
 
 Little lark, then, tell me why 
 
 You 're so early in the sky? 
 
 You look no bigger than a bee, 
 In the middle of the blue ; 
 
 Up above the poplar tree, 
 I can hardly look at you. 
 
 Little lark, do tell me why 
 
 You are mounted up so high ? 
 
 " *T is to watch the silver star, 
 Sinking slowly in the skies ; 
 
 And beyond the mountain far, 
 To see the glorious sun arise. 
 
 Little lady, this is why 
 
 I am mounted up so high. 
 
^28 . THE LITTLE ANTS. 
 
 " 'T is to sing a merry song 
 To the pleasant morning light ; 
 
 Why stay in my nest so long, 
 When the sun is shining bright ? 
 
 Little lady, this is why 
 
 I sing so early in the sky. 
 
 " To the little birds below, 
 Here I sing a merry tune ; 
 
 And I let the ploughman know 
 He must come to labor soon. 
 
 Little lady, this is why 
 
 I am singing in the sky." 
 
 THE LITTLE ANTS. 
 
 A LriTLE black ant found a large grain of wheat, 
 
 Too heavy to lift or to roll ; 
 So he begged of a neighbor he happened to meet, 
 
 To help it down into his hole. 
 
 " I Ve got my own work to see after,'* said he ; 
 
 " You must shift for yourself, if you please." 
 So he crawled off, as selfish and cross as could be. 
 
 And lay down to sleep at his ease. 
 
 Just then a black brother was passing the road, 
 
 And seeing his neighbor in want 
 Came up and assisted him in with his load ; 
 
 For he was a good-natured ant. 
 
 Let all who this story may happen to hear. 
 Endeavor to profit by it ; 
 
THE MEADOWS. 329 
 
 For often it happens that children appear 
 As cross as the ant, every bit. 
 
 And the good-natured ant, who assisted his brother, 
 May teach those who choose to be taught. 
 
 That if little insects are kind to each other, 
 Then children most certainly ought. 
 
 THE MEADOWS. 
 
 We 'll go to the meadows, where primroses grow, 
 And buttercups, looking as yellow as gold ; 
 
 And daisies and cowslips, beginning to blow, — 
 For it is a most beautiful sight to behold. 
 
 The Httle bee humming about them is seen ; 
 
 The butterfly merrily dances along ; 
 The grasshopper chirps in the hedges so green, 
 
 And the linnet is singing his liveliest song. 
 
 The birds and the insects are happy and gay, 
 
 The beasts of the field they are glad and rejoice ; 
 
 And we will be thankful to God every day, 
 And praise His great name in a loftier voice. 
 
 He made the green meadows, He planted the flowers, 
 He sent his bright sun in the heavens to blaze ; 
 
 He created these wonderful bodies of ours, 
 
 And as long as we live we will sing of His praise. 
 
330 THE WASP AND THR BEE, 
 
 THE WASP AND THE BEE. 
 
 A Wasp met a Bee that was just buzzing by, 
 
 And he said, " My dear cousin, can you tell me why 
 
 You are loved so much better by people than I? 
 
 " Why, my back is as bright and as yellow as gold. 
 And my shape is most elegant, too, to behold ; 
 Yet nobody likes me for that, I am told ! " 
 
 Says the Bee, " My dear cousin, it 's all very true ; 
 But indeed they would love me no better than you. 
 If I were but half as much mischief to do ! 
 
 ^' You have a fine shape and a delicate wing. 
 
 And they own you are handsome ; but then there 's 
 
 one thing 
 Which they cannot put up with, — and that is your 
 
 sting. 
 
 '^ Now I put it at once to your own common-sense. 
 
 If you are not so ready at taking offence 
 
 As to sting them on even the slightest pretence ? 
 
 "Though my dress is so homely and plain, as you 
 
 see, 
 And I have a small sting, they 're not angry with me, 
 Because I 'm a busy and good-natured Bee ! '* 
 
 From this, pray, let ill-natured people beware ; 
 Because, I am sure, if they do not take care. 
 That they '11 never be loved, if they 're ever so fair. 
 
 THE END. 
 
Messrs. Roberts Brothers' Publications. 
 
 jfauious aEomcn .Series. 
 
 MARGARET^ FULLER 
 
 By JULIA WARD HOWE. 
 
 " A memoir of the woman who first in New England took a position of moral 
 and intellectual leadership, by the woman who wrote the Battle Hymn of the 
 Republic, is a literary event of no common or transient interest. The Famous 
 Women Series will have no worthier subject and no more illustrious biographer. 
 Nor will the reader be disappointed, — for the narrative is deeply interesting and 
 full of inspiration." — IVonian^s Jourjial. 
 
 " Mrs. Julia Ward Howe's biography of Margaret Fuller, in the Famous 
 Women Series of Messrs. Roberts Brothers, is a work which has been looked for 
 with curiosity. It will not disappoint expectation. She has made a bnlliant and 
 an interesting book. Her study of Margaret Fuller's character is thoroughly 
 sympathetic ; her relation of her life is done in a graphic and at times a fascinating 
 manner. It is the case of one woman of strong individuality depicting the points 
 which made another one of the most marked characters of her day. It is always 
 agreeable to follow Mrs. Howe in this ; for while we see marks of her own mind 
 constantly, there is no inartistic protrusion of her personality. The book is always 
 readable, and the relation of the death-scene is thrillingly impressive.*' — Satur^ 
 day Gazette. 
 
 ** Mrs. Julia Ward Howe has retold the story of Margaret Fuller's life and 
 career in a very interesting manner. This remarkable woman was happy in 
 having James Freeman Clarke, Ralph Waldo Emerson, and William Henry 
 Channing, all of whom had been intimate with her and had felt the spell of her 
 extraordinary personal influence, for her biographers. It is needless to say, of 
 course, that nothing could be better than these reminiscences in their way." — 
 New York World. 
 
 *'The selection of Mrs. Howe as the wTiter of this biography was a happy 
 thought on the part of the editor of the series ; for, aside from the natural appre- 
 ciation she would have for Margaret Fuller, comes her knowledge of all the 
 influences that had their effect on Margaret Fuller's life. She tells the story of 
 Margaret Fuller's interesting life from all sources and from her own knowledge, 
 not hesitating to use plenty of quotations when she felt that others, or even 
 Margaret Fuller herself, had done the work better." — Miss Gilder^ in Philadel- 
 phia Press. 
 
 * 
 
 Sold by all booksellers. Mailed^ post-paid., on receipt of 
 the price, by the publishers^ 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, 
 
 Boston, Mass. 
 
Messrs. Roberts Brothers Publications. 
 
 jfamous SHomen .Series. 
 
 MARIA EDGEWORTH. 
 
 By HELEN ZIMMERN. 
 
 " This little volume shows good literary workmanship. It does not weary the 
 reader with vague theories ; Dor does it give over much expression to the enthu- 
 siasm — not to say baseless encomium — for which too many female biographers 
 have accustomed us to look. It is a simple and discriminative sketch of one of 
 the most clever and lovable of the class at whom Carlyle sneered as ' scribbling 
 women.' ... Of Maria Edgeworth, the woman, one cannot easily say too 
 much in praise. That home life, so loving, so wise, and»so helpful, was beautiful 
 lo 'ts end. Miss Zimmern has treated it with delicate appreciation. Her book 
 is refined in conception and tasteful in execution,— all, in short, the cynic might 
 say, that we expect a woman's book to be." — New York Tribune. 
 
 " It was high time that we should possess an adequate biography of this orna- 
 ment and general benefactor of her time. And so we hail with uncommon pleas- 
 ure the volume just published in the Roberts Brothers' series of Famous Women, 
 of which it is the sixth. We have only words of praise for the manner in which 
 Miss Zimmern has written her life of Maria Edgeworth. It exhibits sound 
 judgment, critical analysis, and clear characterization. . . . The style of the 
 volume is pure, limpid, and strong, as we might expect from a well-trained Eng- 
 lish writer." — Margaret J. Preston, in the Home JournaL 
 
 ** We can heartily recommend this life of Maria Edgeworth, not only because it 
 is singularly readable in itself, but because it makes familiar to readers of the 
 pre:-ent age a notable figure in English literary history, with whose lineaments 
 ■we suspect most readers, especially of the present generation, are less familiar 
 than they ought to be." — Eclectic. 
 
 " This biography contains several letters and papers by Miss Edgeworth that 
 have not before been made public, notably some charming letters written during 
 the latter part of her life to Dr. Holland and Mr. and Mrs. Ticknor. The author 
 had access to a life of Miss Edgeworth written by her step-mother, as well as to a 
 large collection of her private letters, and has therefore been able to bring forward 
 many facts in her life which have not been noted by other writers. The book is 
 wiitten in a pleasant vein, and is altogether a delightful one to read." — Utica 
 Herald. 
 
 Sold by all booksellers. Mailed^ post-paid^ by the pub-^ 
 Ushers, 
 
 RORERTS BROTHERS, 
 
 FosTON Mass. 
 
Messrs. Roberts Brothers Publications. 
 FAMOUS WOMEN SEEIES. 
 
 EMILY BRONTE. 
 
 By a. MARY F. ROBINSON. 
 One vol. 16mo. Clothi. Price, $1.00. 
 
 " Miss Robinson has written a fascinating biography. . . . Emily Bronte is 
 interesting, not because she wrote ' VVuthering Heights,' but because of her 
 brave, baffled, human life, so lonely, so full of pain, but with a great hope shining 
 beyond all the darkness, and a passionate defiance in bearing more than the 
 burdens that were laid upon her. The story of the three sisters is infinitely sad, 
 but it is the ennobling sadness that belongs to large natures cramped and striving^ 
 for freedom to heroic, almost desperate, work, with little or no result. The author' 
 of this intensely interesting, sympathetic, and eloquent biography, is a young lady 
 and a poet, to whom a place is given in a recent anthology of living English poets, 
 which is supposed to contain only the be^t poems of the best writers." — Boston 
 Daily Advertiser. 
 
 •'Miss Robinson had many excellent qualifications for the task she has per- 
 formed in this little volume, among which may be named, an enthusiastic interest 
 in her subject and a real sympathy with Emily Bronte's sad and heroic life. *To 
 represent her as she was,' says Miss Robinson, 'would be her noblest and most 
 fitting monument.' . . . Emily Bronte here becomes well known to us and, in one 
 sense, this should be praise enough for any biography," — New York Times. 
 
 "The biographer who finds such material before him as the lives and characters 
 of the Bronte family need have no anxiety as to the interest of his work. Char- 
 acters not only strong but so uniquely strong, genius so supreme, misfortunes so 
 overwhelming, set in its scenery so forlornly picturesque, could not fail to attract 
 all readers, if told even in the most prosjtic language. When we ndd to this, that 
 Miss Robinson has told their story not in prosaic language, but with a literary 
 style exhibiting all the qualities essential to good biography, our readers will 
 understand that this life of Emily Bronte is net only as interesting as a novel, but 
 a great deal more interesting than most rovels. As it presents most vividly a 
 general picture of the family, there seems hardly a reason for giving it Emily's name 
 alone, except perhaps for the masterly chapters on ' Wuthering Heights,' which 
 the reader will find a grateful condensation of the best in that powerful but some- 
 what forbidding story. We know of no point in the Bronte history — their genius, 
 their surroundings, their faults, their happiness, their misery, their love and friend- 
 ships, their peculiarities, their power, their gentleness, their patience, their pride, 
 — which Miss Robinson has not touched upon with conscientiousness and sym- 
 pathy." — The Critic. 
 
 "* Emily Bronte ' is the second of the ' Famous Women Series,* which Roberts 
 Brothers, Boston, propose to publish, and of which ' George Eliot ' was the initial 
 volume. Not the least remarkable of a very remarkable family, the personage 
 whose life is here written, possesses a peculiar interest to all who are at all familiar 
 with the sad and singular history of herself and her sister Charlotte. That the 
 author. Miss A. Mary F. Robinson, has done her work with minute fidelity to 
 facts as well as affectionate devotion to the subject of her sketch, is plainly to be 
 seen all through the book." — Washitigto7i Post. 
 
 Sold by all Booksellers, or mailed, post-paid, on receipt of 
 price, by the Publishers, 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, Boston. 
 
Messrs. Roberts Brothers' Publications. 
 
 FAMOUS WOMEN SERIES. 
 
 GEORGE SAND. 
 
 By bertha THOMAS. 
 
 One volume. i6mo. Cloth. Price, Ji.oo. 
 
 ** Miss Thomas has accomplished a difficult task with as much good sense a« 
 good feeling. She presents the main facts of George Sand's life, extenuating 
 nothing, and setting naught down in malice, but wisely leaving her readers to 
 form their own conclusions. Everybody knows that it was not such a life as the 
 women of England and America are accustomed to live, and as the worst of men 
 are glad to have them live. . . . Whatever may be said against it, its result on 
 George Sand was not what it would have been upon an English or American 
 woman of genius." — New York Mail and Express. 
 
 '* This is a volume of the * Famous Women Series,' which was begun so well 
 with George Eliot and Emily Bronte. The book is a review and critical analysis 
 of George Sand's life and work, by no means a detailed biography. Amantine 
 Lucile Aurore Dupin, the maiden, or Mme. Diidevant, the married woman, is 
 forgotten in the renown of the pseudonym George Sand. 
 
 *' Altogether, George Sand, with all her excesses and defects, is a representative 
 woman, one of the names of the nineteenth century. She was great among the 
 greatest, the friend and compeer of the finest intellects, and Miss Thomas's essay 
 will be a useful and agreeable introduction to a more extended study of her life 
 and works." — Knickerbocker. 
 
 " The biography of this famous woman, by Miss Thomas, is the only one in 
 existence. Those who have awaited it with pleasurable anticipation, but with 
 some trepidation as to the treatment of the erratic side of her character, cannot 
 fail to be pleased with the skill by which it is done. It is the best production on 
 George Sand that has yet been published. The author modestly refers to it as a 
 sketch, which it undoubtedly is, but a sketch that gives a just and discriminating 
 analysis of George Sand's life, tastes, occupations, and of the motives and impulses 
 which prompted her unconventional actions, that were misunderstood by a narrow 
 public. The difficulties encountered by the writer in describing this remarkable 
 character are shown in the first line of the opening chapter, which says, ' In nam- 
 ing George Sand we name something more exceptional than even a great genius.* 
 Tiiat tells the whole story. Misconstruction, condemnation, and isolation are the 
 penalties enforced upon the great leaders in the realm of advanced thought, by 
 the bigoted people of their time. The thinkers soar beyond the common herd, 
 whose soul-wings are not strong enough to fly aloft to clearer atmospheres, and 
 consequently they censure or ridicule what they are powerless to reach. George 
 Sand, even io a greater extent than her contemporary, George Eliot, was a victim 
 to ignorant social prejudices, but even the conservative world was forced to recog- 
 nize the matchless genius of these two extraordinary women, each widely different 
 in her character and method of thought and writing. . . . She has told much that 
 is good which has been untold, and just what will interest the reader, and no more, 
 ''n the same easy, entertaining style that characterizes all of these unpretentious 
 jographies." — Hartford Times. 
 
 Sold everywhere. Mailed^ post-paid, on receipt of price^ by the Publishers, 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS. Boston. 
 
Messrs. Roberts Brothers^ Publications. 
 FAMOUS WOMEN SERIES. 
 
 MARY LAMB. 
 
 By ANNE GILCHRIST. 
 One volume. 16mo. Cloth. Price, $1.00. 
 
 ** The story of Mary Lamb has long been familiar to the readers of Elia, but 
 never in its entirety as in the monograph which Mrs. Anne Gilchrist has just 
 contributed to the Famous Women Series. Darkly hinted at by Talfourd in his 
 Final Memorials of Charles Lamb, it became better known as the years went on 
 and that imperfect work was followed by fuller and franker biographies, — became 
 so well known, in fact, that no one could recall the memory of Lamb without 
 recalling at the same time the memory of his sister." — New York Mail and Ex- 
 cess. 
 
 " A biography of Mary Lamb must inevitably be also, almost more, a biogra- 
 phy of Charles Lamb, so completely was the life of the sister encompassed by 
 that of her brother ; and it must be allowed that Mrs. Anne Gilchrist has per- 
 formed a difficult biographical task with taste and ability. . . . The reader is at 
 least likely to lay down the book with the feeling that if Mary Lamb is not famous 
 she certainly deserves to be, and that a debt of gratitude is due Mrs. Gilchrist for 
 this well-considered record of her life." — Boston Courier. 
 
 ** Mary Lamb, who was the embodiment of everything that is tenderest in 
 woman, combined with this a heroism which bore her on for a while through the 
 terrors of insanity. Think of a highly intellectual woman struggling year after 
 year with madness, triumphant over it for a season, and then at last succumbing to 
 It. The saddest lines that ever were written are those descriptive of this brother and 
 sister just before Mary, on some return of insanity, was to leave Charles Lamb. 
 ijQn one occasion Mr. Charles Lloyd met them slowly pacing together a little 
 feot-path in Hoxton Fields, both weeping bitterly, and found, on joining them, 
 that they were taking their solemn way to the accustomed asylum.* What pathos 
 is there not here ? " — New York Times. 
 
 I* This life was worth writing, for all records of weakness conquered, of pain 
 patiently borne, of success won from difficulty, of cheerfulness in sorrow and 
 affliction, make the world better. Mrs. Gilchrist's biography is unaflfected and 
 simple. She has told the sweet and melancholy story with judicious sympathy, 
 showing always the light shining through darkness." — Philadelphia Press, 
 
 Sold by all Booksellers. Mailed, post-paid, on receipt of 
 the price, by the Publishers, 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, Boston. 
 
MESSES. EOBEETS BEOTHEES' PUBLIOATIONS. 
 
 jFamous mamtn Series. 
 GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 By MATHILDE BLIND. 
 One vol. i6mo. Cloth. Price, $i.oo. , 
 
 " Messrs. Roberts Brothers begin a series of Biographies of Famous 
 Women with a life of George Eliot, by Mathilde Blind. The idea of th4 
 series is an excellent one, and the reputation of its publishers is a guarantee 
 for its adequate execution. This book contains about three hundred pages in 
 open type, and not only collects and condenses the main facts that are known 
 in regard to the historjj of George Eliot, but supplies other material from 
 j)ersonal research. It is agreeably written, and with a good idea of propor 
 tion in a memoir of its size. The critical study of its subject's works, which 
 is made in the order of their appearance, is particularly well done. In fact, 
 good taste and good judgment pervade the memoir throughout." — Saturday 
 Evening Gazette. 
 
 " Miss Blind's little book is written with admirable good taste and judg- 
 ment, and with notable self-restraint. It does not weary the reader with 
 critical discursiveness, nor with attempts to search out high-flown meanings 
 and recondite oracles in the plain 'yea' and * nay * of life. It is a graceful 
 and unpretentious little biography, and tells all that need be told concerning 
 one of the greatest writers of the time. It is a deeply interesting if not 
 fascinating woman whom Miss Blind presents," says the New York 
 Tribune. 
 
 ** Miss Blind's little biographical study of George Eliot is written with 
 sympathy and good taste, and is very welcome. It gives us a graphic if not 
 elaborate sketch of the personality and development of the great novelist, is 
 particularly full and authentic concerning her earlier years, tells enough of 
 the leading motives in her work to give the general reader a lucid idea of the 
 trae drift and purpose of her art, and analyzes carefully her various writings, 
 with no attempt at profound criticism or fine writing, but with appreciation, 
 insight, and a clear grasp of those underlying psychological principles which 
 are so closely interwoven in every production that came from her pen." — 
 Traveller, 
 
 " The lives of few great writers have attracted more curiosity and specula- 
 tion than that of George Eliot. Had she only lived earlier in the century 
 she might easily have become the centre of a mythos. As it is, many of the 
 anecdotes commonly repeated about her are made up largely of fable. It is, 
 therefore, well, before it is too late, to reduce the true story of her career to 
 the lowest terms, and this service has been well done by the author of the 
 present volume." — Philadelphia Press. 
 
 Sold by all booksellers, or mailed, post-paid, on receipt of 
 price, by the publishers, 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, Boston. 
 
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