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Title: Rich Boys and Poor Boys, and Other Tales
Author: Hofland, Barbara (1770-1844)
Illustrator: Williams, S.
Illustrator: Springsguth, S.
Date of first publication: 1833
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   London: Arthur Hall, Virtue & Co., ca. 1859
   [The Hofland Library]
Date first posted: 8 November 2010
Date last updated: 8 November 2010
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #652

This ebook was produced by:
David Edwards, Ross Cooling
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Team
at http://www.pgdpcanada.net

This file was produced from images generously made
available by the Internet Archive/University of California Libraries




  [Illustration: THE HOFLAND LIBRARY.]




  FRONTISPIECE.

  [Illustration: _As little William Foster the son of a small farmer was
  trudging homewards with a basket._

  _Page_ 85.]




  RICH BOYS and POOR BOYS,

  And other Tales.

  By

  Mrs. HOFLAND.

  AUTHOR OF

  _The Clergyman's Widow, &c._

  LONDON.
  ARTHUR HALL, VIRTUE & Co.
  25, PATERNOSTER ROW.




  RICH BOYS AND POOR BOYS,

  AND OTHER TALES.

  BY MRS. HOFLAND,

  AUTHOR

    THE CLERGYMAN'S WIDOW; YOUNG CRUSOE; BLIND FARMER; ELIZABETH;
    BARBADOES GIRL; AFFECTIONATE BROTHERS; THE SISTERS; ALICIA AND
    HER AUNT; GOOD GRANDMOTHER; YOUNG NORTHERN TRAVELLER; STOLEN
    BOY; PANORAMA OF EUROPE; MERCHANT'S WIDOW; WILLIAM AND HIS
    UNCLE BEN; DAUGHTER-IN-LAW; &c. &c.

Give instruction to a wise son, and he will be yet wiser; teach a just
son, and he will increase in learning. _Proverbs._

  New Edition.

  LONDON:
  ARTHUR HALL, VIRTUE AND CO.,
  25, PATERNOSTER ROW.




  TO

  MASTER STEPHEN WILLOUGHBY,

  AND

  MASTER FRANCIS LAWLEY,

  SONS OF

  PAUL BEILBY THOMSON, ESQUIRE, M.P.

  AND THE

  HON. MRS. BEILBY THOMSON.


MY DEAR YOUNG GENTLEMEN,

With the permission of your excellent parents, I dedicate to you the
following volume of Stories, in the hope that you will find a little
amusement in the perusal of them, and a little instruction from
reflecting upon them. You are so peculiarly happy in the superior
education which you are daily receiving, and the admirable examples
given by every branch of your family, that it is certain I can offer you
no new lesson either of piety towards God, or kindness and charity
towards mankind.

But as you are still very young, it is not less certain that "line upon
line, and precept upon precept," may be read with advantage; and since
the history of boys, as to their situation, feelings, and conduct, must
always possess great interest for boys, I flatter myself there will be
some of those now offered to your attention whom you can admire, or
love, or pity, and in the exercise of those gentle affections, you will
confirm the good dispositions which I know you already possess.

  I am, my dear young gentlemen,
      Your faithful servant
        And affectionate friend,
          BARBARA HOFLAND.

      6, Pembroke Square,
  Kensington, April 3, 1833.




CONTENTS.

                                                   Page

  Dedication                                        iii

  Rich Boys and Poor Boys, or the Birthday
  Bargain                                             9

  The Boys of Old Times, or Historical
  Recollections                                      44

  The Passionate Little Girl, or more
  than One in Fault                                  60

  William and his Story Books, or the
  Benefits of Experience                             84

  The Best Boy in the World, or the
  Best have room to Mend                            105

  The Riding-School, or a Cure for Conceit          136




  RICH BOYS AND POOR BOYS:

  OR,

  THE BIRTHDAY BARGAIN.


"You sit your horse uncommonly well, Arthur, I must say, and I have no
doubt will come in by and by with the best amongst us; but since this is
the first time you have been out with the hounds, I must remind you of
the great difference there is between the grounds in Derbyshire and
those to which you have been accustomed; a watchful eye and a ready hand
are continually wanted here."

These words were spoken by Sir Hugh Sterndale to a fine lively Harrow
boy, who had become his guest only a few days before, and who entered,
with all the zest natural to his years and his situation, into the
pleasure of the first day's hunting he had ever enjoyed. Though he
listened with affectionate respect to the caution thus given, yet on
casting his eyes around on the wide heathy common they were entering
upon, intersected by low stone fences, and dotted by fir copses and
patches of brushwood, he did not see any thing to be particularly
guarded against, and only hoped the hounds would soon _find_, in a place
where so good a run might be enjoyed.

The ground in question was full of old coal-pits, many of which had been
left in a very unsafe situation, and the sagacious animal on which he
rode had just discovered that he was stepping into a dangerous spot of
this description, when the loud halloo, he well understood, was heard.
Recovering himself by a violent jerk, he plunged forward, and leaped a
broken wall (meant to be a guard to the pit) before his rider was
prepared for the movement; in an instant he was thrown forward to a
considerable distance, and pitched upon one of those rocky projections,
to be found in every part of the wide common by which he was surrounded.

"My boy, my dear, dear boy!" cried the baronet, in agony, as he flew
towards the place where he was thrown, and whither several gentlemen,
his friends, also hastened, and immediately dismounting, began eagerly
to inquire what could be done? The shock had been so great, that, to the
afflicted baronet's apprehension, his young favourite (the son of his
earliest friend) was killed upon the spot; but as the power of breathing
returned, so did life and suffering; and one of the party remounting,
set out to the nearest town for a surgeon, recommending the rest to move
poor master Willoughby to the very nearest house.

"Alas! there is no house within a mile," said one; "and the Hall, which
is the only place proper for _him_, is nearly three miles off."

While this was passing, the unfortunate youth was writhing in agony, yet
earnestly entreating that he might not be moved; he believed that every
bone in his body was broken, from the violence of his fall, and the
contusions he had received; and Sir Hugh was certain that his leg at
least was fractured, and that in the most terrible manner.

During the time in which the baronet and his friends hung pitifully over
the sufferer, two little children had advanced towards them, and as
speedily retreated; but they now appeared again, accompanied by their
mother, who carried under her arm a coarse woollen counterpane, such as
forms the general covering of the poor in that neighbourhood.

The sight of the woman in some measure relieved the extreme distress of
the baronet, for she approached with a rapid, yet noiseless step, and
her countenance was full of compassion. She lost not a moment in
spreading the counterpane close beside the sufferer, and
saying--"Perhaps your honours would carry poor master into our house,
and lay him on my bed--I be sure he's heartily welcome."

"And where is your house, good woman?"

"Just past that clump o' trees; but it's very low; indeed, it's little
better nor a barn, but it does for me and mine."

Poor Arthur, now afflicted with cold, in addition to pain, signified his
desire of being thus assisted; and the baronet, with trembling haste,
placed him as well as he was able in the cloth, the woman so supporting
the broken limb, as to prove not only tenderness, but some degree of
skill; the children preceded them, and in a short time they reached a
low thatched cottage, of rather larger dimensions than usual, but
consisting of one room only, save a place above, which was called a
loft, and served as a bedchamber for the whole family, except the
mother, whose bed was at one end of the general abiding-room.

The place was evidently inhabited by a large family, from the number of
little three-legged stools it contained, as well as the hasty flight of
three or four urchins, who scampered away by a little outlet, evidently
made for their convenience exclusively, since only a child or a pig
could have used it. There was, however, no appearance of any such
visitant as the latter; on the contrary, an air of great neatness
pervaded the place, poor as it was, and the bed had very clean, though
very coarse sheets upon it. As they approached it, a pretty girl, about
twelve years old, stepped up first, and hastily removed, first one and
then another, of twin infants, which she deposited in a clumsy wooden
cradle, at the other end of the cottage.

This circumstance was scarcely noticed by the gentlemen, so intent were
they on laying the invalid in the easiest position; but when this
difficult task was accomplished, in the best manner they were able, one
of the party, with a look of considerable alarm, observed to the
woman--"You appear to have many children about the place?"

"Yes, indeed, sir, I have plenty of 'em, poor things; and the two little
ones were born only about six weeks since. It is very lucky for poor
master that I had not moved my bed back into the loft, for you see, sir,
he couldn't possibly have been carried up the ladder."

"True; but can you go there yourself?" said the gentleman.

"Oh, yes, sir; my husband does not come home to-night, and I can make a
shift; the poor young gentleman is little likely to be moved, I see.
Surely you have sent for a doctor?"

On hearing this was the case, the good woman lost no time in putting
water on the fire, and preparing to foment the broken limb, saying, she
knew that was necessary, the swelling was so frightful; and she
added--"Don't be afeard of my childer, sir, for you see I have so many,
I am obliged to keep them in order, 'specially as my husband is not at
home. He works in the coal-pits, and seldom comes here but on Saturdays;
so I makes 'em as good as I can, that he may have a quiet time on
Sundays; an' well he deserves it, for a better man never walked on
shoe-leather. Pray, sir, don't be flustrated about the poor young
gentleman; I know what a broken limb is, for I nursed my own father
through a bad accident like this'n. It will be long before he must
move."

The arrival of the surgeon confirmed this prediction, as the fractured
limb was injured in the most terrible manner, and it was a long time
before the bone could be replaced. Arthur was naturally a courageous
boy; his father, a brave officer, had lost his life in battle, and in
praising the heroism of this lamented parent, his mother had wisely
inspired him with a perception of the virtue of fortitude, in
distinction from that of enterprise, so that he was not deficient in the
courage of endurance, which was now called for. He bore this dreadful
trial very bravely, rarely suffering a groan to escape him; but Sir Hugh
heard some one near him cry and sob so much, that the moment he could
withdraw his eye from the patient, he looked round to see who had
entered during the operation, but perceived no one.

"It was my poor Ned, sir, that cried so," said Nanny Walton (the
mistress of the house); "but I motioned him to go out. He have a very
tender heart, poor thing, and most like he felt more, being, as it were,
a lad like himself were suffering; not but he is special kind to the
little ones, and so handy, he will wait on poor master here, both hand
and foot."

"I wish he would come in," said Arthur; "I should like very much to have
such a boy about me."

"You shall have _him_, certainly; and proper persons also to attend
you," said the baronet, who again looked round the place with great
anxiety, shocked with the idea of leaving the dear boy in a situation so
utterly devoid of all that might be termed to him the necessaries of
life. As, however, the surgeon determined to remain by him for an hour
or two, Sir Hugh hastened home, that he might send from his own house
whatever could be rendered useful to the patient, and more especially a
personal attendant.

For some days poor Arthur suffered continual pain, which was only
relieved by opium, which necessarily kept his head in a state of
confusion; but as his fever subsided, he became more awake to the
circumstances in which he was placed, and to a certain degree
interested in the people around him, particularly in the movements of
Nanny Walton, and the anxious regards of her son Edward, whom the
baronet had desired to remain on the premises, that he might run on
errands to the Hall, whenever the patient required him to do so.

In the mean time, his attendants had been as various as the inhabitants
were numerous. The lady's maid, who had been in the first place
dispatched by her anxious mistress, had been overdone in a few hours,
for "how could she exist in such a horrid place, among such wery wulgar
creatures?" The housekeeper, who succeeded, complained unceasingly,
"that the family would be ruinated by her absence, and as it was certain
she should be quite worn out, the sooner she returned the better." The
nursery damsel, who followed, like her prototype in Miss Edgeworth's
story, "wondered how people could be so poor;" and experienced
continual alarm, lest "she should carry some sort of distemper to the
dear little gentlefolks at the Hall, from the red-faced little brats
that kept swarming about." It was in vain that Nanny kept the children
quiet, the fire bright, and the hearth clean; there was no place in
which a "decent person" could sit down, although it was certain, both
the baronet and his lady spent many a half-hour there in tolerable
composure.

Regular nurses succeeded, but they too rapidly dropped off; no
submission could soften their contempt--no attention console their sense
of suffering, in such a "miserable sort of place;" neither plentiful
reward, the promise of future patronage, the solace of dainty viands,
and abundance of brandy and green tea, sufficed more than a day or two.
Such was the weariness occasioned to the invalid by their perpetual
complaints, and so sensible was he, that from Nanny and her son alone
did he ensure all the help his sad situation admitted, that after three
weeks his earnest request was acceded to by his medical attendants,
"that he might be left entirely to the care of the cottagers."

When Nanny Walton, to her great satisfaction, found herself once more
mistress of her humble habitation, she really proved a most excellent
nurse, for she was a woman of sound understanding, and great
observation, as well as good disposition, and no little experience. She
was the mother of thirteen children beside the twins, and of these seven
were constantly in the cottage, to whom she now appointed certain
offices, which her obedient children accepted with avidity, and
discharged with punctuality. To two girls, of seven and eight years old,
were given the care of the babies, whilst their former duties, of
feeding the pig, bringing water from the spring, and fetching milk from
a distant farm-house, fell on two younger boys, whose junior, small as
he was, fed the chickens and rocked the cradle. A girl turned of twelve
was the principal servant of the family; she baked the oat cakes, on
which, with potatoes, and a bit of bacon for mother, the family
principally subsisted: she swept the house, made the beds, washed the
bowls and trenchers, extended the same ablution to the faces and hands
of all the young ones, and by perpetual activity and cheerful industry,
well merited her mother's appellative of being her "own bonny bee."

It was Ned's share of business at this time, to attend to Arthur's
wishes, either in reaching what he wanted, adjusting his pillows, gently
bathing his bruises with lotion, or administering his medicines, during
the day-time and at night; a wisp of dry straw and a blanket constituted
his couch, which was laid close to the invalid's. A long tape, tied to
his hand, and held in that of Arthur, was the call upon his services;
and notwithstanding he was in the habit of sleeping very soundly, never
was the check-string pulled in vain. Moved with the deepest compassion
for the pain and helplessness of Arthur's pitiable state, accustomed to
exercise the tenderest care of his little brothers and sisters, and
gifted by nature with mild manners and a soft voice, he became, despite
of his uncouth dialect, a pleasant attendant. Kindness and
submissiveness rendered him adroit, gentle, quick, and skilful.

"'Tis a great pity such a cleanly quiet boy as you, Ned, should be a
collier: it is all very well for George and Dick, because they work with
their father, and seem to like their business; but you seem to me fitter
for a house than a coal-pit."

"I had rather be any thing else, master Arthur, sure enough, because I
hate coal dust, and I love daylight; but, you know, the Catechism
says--'We must do our duty in that state of life to which it pleases God
to call us.' Besides, father says if I work willingly, I shall learn to
read and write soon."

"I will teach you myself," said Arthur, eagerly.

This pursuit could, to a certain degree, be carried on even in the
present state of Arthur's convalescence, and it tended greatly to
diminish the sense of weariness his long and painful confinement
induced, especially amusing him, when the improvement of his vigilant
and clever pupil proved the advantage of his cares.

Joseph Walton, the really worthy father of this numerous family, could
not read, but he had an excellent memory, and after taking his elder
children to church--which was a duty in which he never failed--he would
frequently repeat to them and his wife much of the sermon, in order to
impress it more effectually on their minds and his own. His wife, being
better educated, and equally well disposed, read the Bible to them all
on Sunday evenings, and had so far instructed her daughter, that Betty
could get decently through a chapter. All the children could answer most
of the questions in the Catechism, in which their father examined them
on Sunday evenings; after which, they knelt around him, whilst he
offered up the Lord's Prayer, and the General Confession, in which all
his family followed the petitions in the most serious and earnest
manner.

Arthur had seen but little of his own father; but he had heard so much,
that few boys of his age had a better idea of the love and reverence due
to that dear relation than he possessed; therefore the respect evinced
for their head by this humble family endeared them all to him. Every
child in poor Walton's family was taught, from its cradle, to associate
love and pleasure, as well as duty, with the presence of their father;
and they looked to the seasons of his weekly return to them as to a kind
of gladsome holiday, in which all were to be busied in his service; and
even the hands which could do nothing else, gathered daisies and
buttercups, to lay on "daddy's knee."

Walton was a man of warm affections, and found, from this affectionate
and judicious conduct on the part of his wife, a sweet return for his
unremitting toil, in the love of his family. The pity of his neighbours
was misplaced, when they condoled with him on the number of his
children--for they were his pride, his wealth, his delight. Seeing the
pains taken by the stranger with Ned, whom he had always considered the
cleverest child he had, he manifested his grateful feelings, by bringing
Arthur, at every opportunity, choice specimens of spars and fossils,
found by himself or fellow-workmen, in the course of their labours; and
so soon as it could be safely done, he would carry him in his arms a
short distance for a little air, into the bit of cabbage-ground Nancy
called a garden. His manners were very homely, and some of his phrases
scarcely intelligible to Arthur; but his simple goodness of heart, and
soundness of understanding, rendered his returns almost of as much
consequence to him as to the rest of the family. This was more the case
the farther he advanced in amendment, because he grew the more sensible
of his captivity; besides, the baronet was gone to London, Lady
Sterndale could not leave home, on various accounts, and many persons
who had shewn him great attention during the beginning of his
confinement, had now ceased to render him the object of their cares.

There were times when Arthur felt this change painfully, since it must
be evident, that in time he must grow weary of a scene which could
afford nothing to his mind, beyond what it derived from conversing with
Ned. At these times he would, however, exert himself manfully; and
whilst he devoutly thanked God that he was so far recovered, would
rejoice also that his mother had been spared the pain of witnessing his
sufferings; and if on mentioning her name the tears gushed into his
eyes, would begin eagerly to expatiate on the future pleasure he should
enjoy on his _return_. At that word Ned would generally sigh profoundly;
and Nanny herself would give over her employment to say--"Well, for sure
and sartin, we shall have a great loss of you, Master Willoughby; little
Bob and Sam will miss you sadly, not only because you were always giving
them your own good white rolls, and such like, but because you had
always a kind word for them, even when you were at the worst. A patient
creature, and a good one, I'm sure I shall always say you were; and I
don't doubt you'll live to be a blessing to your mother. Little did I
think you would live, I promise you; but I have no fear now; and I shall
never grudge the tears, nor the prayers, you have cost me and mine."

Arthur was well aware that he had been a source of the greatest trouble
to these poor people in the beginning of his illness, and he felt the
value of this praise, as it seemed to prove that all the vexations Nanny
had borne, through the conduct of his various attendants, was forgotten,
in her approbation of his _own_ conduct. Whatever had been the deficient
comforts of his late dwelling, he could not fail to know, that for a
considerable period he should have experienced the same pain in a
palace; and he felt that in this poor cottage he had been so deeply
pitied, and even fondly loved, that its inhabitants had a claim upon him
beyond what money could repay. They had endured his complainings,
soothed his sufferings, and confirmed his virtues. Sincerely did he
wish, in after-life, to prove how deeply the sense of their goodness
rested on his heart.

One Sunday morning, whilst the larger part of Walton's family were at
church, a messenger from Sir Hugh Sterndale arrived, to announce his
return to the Hall, and to bring a large cake for the children, because
"it was Master Arthur's birthday."

"My birthday!" said Arthur, eagerly. "Ah! I had forgotten the day of the
month. I am thirteen this day. My dear mother will remember it joyfully,
and wish me at home; and my dear grand-papa, Lord Mount-Sorrel, will
have a large party. They will all drink my health."

"And will they have such handsome loaves as this to eat?" said Ned. "I
am fourteen to-day myself; but in all my life I never saw such a thing
as this till now."

"Is it _your_ birthday also?" said Arthur, in an agitated voice; "I
should like much to give you something that would make you happy. What
would you like best?"

"I should like, Master Arthur Willoughby, to be your own servant, an'
wait on you night and day."

"But, my good fellow, I shall not always be lame, and sick, and want
waiting on night and day. Nor am I a man, so I have no power of engaging
a servant. Pray think of some other thing."

"No, I thank 'ee, sir, I can think of nothing else, for it has run in my
head this monny a day."

The tears which stood in the boy's eyes, and the emotion which checked
all further speech, touched Arthur so acutely, that he was unable to
reason further on the matter, and he instantly answered--"In two or
three years, if I get forward at Harrow, I suppose I shall be a young
man, and be permitted to engage a servant of my own, like other people;
in that case, be assured I should prefer you a great deal to any other
person in the wide world. Improve yourself, in the mean time, in your
reading and writing, and keep this pencil-case, as a proof that I have
made you this promise; but for the _present_ say nothing about it; come,
cheer up and cut the cake for the children."

A happy group were standing around, and more of the family entering from
without, when Sir Hugh's family coach, in which was his own valet, drew
up, and Arthur was told, "that it was sent to take him to the Hall,
where his mother had arrived the night before." This was done as a
joyful surprise to him, but his removal had been effected a day sooner
than was intended, on account of Mrs. Willoughby's impatience to see her
son, and the desire the baronet and his lady felt to save her from the
pain of witnessing his residence in the cottage.

It had been, in their fear of thus adding to her trouble, a part of
their friendly plan to hide the accident from her knowledge, until he
was nearly well, when Sir Hugh made a journey to London, for the
purpose of breaking the affair gently to her, and escorting her back to
his own seat. He found her so much hurt by Arthur's apparent neglect,
and so dissatisfied with the excuses for his silence which she had
received, that the truth, painful as it was, might be termed a relief to
her; no wonder, when she actually found herself near a son so situated,
her anxiety to see him could no longer be restrained.

Not even the delight of this anticipated meeting could render Arthur
unmindful of the reiterated good wishes of Nanny and her spouse, or
unmoved by the tears of poor Ned, whom he repeatedly told to come to the
Hall, and rub his leg as he was wont, in the manner taught by the
surgeon. The poor boy struggled against the emotion which oppressed him
as well as he could, thinking it was wicked to be sorrowful when Arthur
was joyous; but he was unable to conceal his grief.

Being sent for on the morrow, he did indeed venture to the Hall; but the
sight of the "grand ladies," and the magnificent apartment and silken
sofa on which Arthur was laid, so bewildered him that he could be said
to have little pleasure in the visit; and the golden guinea which Mrs.
Willoughby put into his hand, appeared to him so much above the price of
his services, that as he held it, he looked reproachfully at Arthur, as
if he thought that this was presented in lieu of his fulfilment of his
promise; being, however, reassured, though silently, on this point, his
spirits rose, and he made an awkward bow and scrape, and said something
about "taking it to his mother."

"No, no, my good boy, that is for yourself; your good mother must and
shall be paid in a very different manner. As I find, however, from Sir
Hugh, that many things may be given to her more desirable than money, if
you know any thing really valuable that she would like, pray name it,
and my son shall send it."

"A cow," burst instantly from Ned's lips; but remembering how many times
his parents had wished for this acquisition, and how hopelessly they had
spoken of its attainment, he instantly added--"I mean, if you please,
something _towards_ a cow--maybe another pig would do."

"You shall have both," cried the mother eagerly.

"But how could you feed a cow?" asked Lady Sterndale.

"There are such heaps of childer at our house, some might be gathering
grass for it always: we would all of us be good to it, I hope, ma'am."

"That you would," cried Arthur, "for you are good to every creature
about you.--I am heartily glad, dear mamma, you thought of it, for I am
sure there will be the happiest of cows, and the happiest of women to
milk it, to remember me by at the cottage."

"My rewards then must be dictated by Sir Hugh, who knows much better
than I do how to essentially serve these good people, and will have them
in his eye when we are gone."

The word _gone_ was an afflictive sound to both the boys at this moment,
but it soon became much more so to poor Ned, who in a very short time
found that Arthur had departed, his mother being anxious to take him by
short stages to London, where she apprehended the best surgical
assistance for perfecting his recovery could alone be obtained.

In the course of the following summer Arthur was able to return to
Harrow, and as he could not yet join in the athletic exercises of his
companions, he applied himself, with unusual diligence, to his studies,
and soon made up for the time he had lost. Often would he describe his
accident, and the curious situation in which he had been placed; and
never did he write to Sir Hugh without kindly remembering Walton's
family, and expressing a deep sense of obligation to Nanny; but in the
course of time, new objects and occupations succeeded, his companions
became more dear, his acquaintance more extended; and although his mind
might frequently revert to the cottage, and his heart be touched by the
remembrance of those who inhabited it, he now rarely spoke of them to
those around him.

Time passed, and Arthur improved so much, that when he returned to keep
his sixteenth birthday, at home, his grandfather, Lord Mount-Sorrel, was
so well satisfied with his attainments, that he determined on entering
him at Oxford, and spoke of looking out for a tutor for him.

"I am satisfied with his conduct," replied his mother to this
observation; "but I am sorry to perceive that he retains a good deal of
lameness. That unfortunate leg was, I fear, ill managed by the country
surgeon, and will never be quite well."

"Indeed, mother, you wrong Mr. Favell, who made a very great cure of a
very bad business; but he told me the stiffness could not be removed
without constant friction."

"Then why have you not been rubbed properly, my dear?"

"Because the people about me either did it awkwardly, and gave me pain,
or I saw they were tired, and I dismissed them; so that, some way or
other----"

Arthur was interrupted by the entrance of a servant, who said, that
"there was a young fellow below, a kind of country hob, who wanted to
see Mr. Arthur, and could not be driven away by fair means or foul."

"Why should he?" said Arthur; "I suppose he has brought me a letter or
parcel from Harrow."

"Oh no, sir, he's quite away farther in the country than that; but he
has a kind of pencil of yours, that he says he won't give away to
nobody."

"It is Ned, my own poor Ned," cried Arthur, reddening, and hastening
down to the hall, whither his grandfather followed him in silence.

In another minute the rich boy and the poor boy saw each other once
more: both were much altered during the three years in which they had
been parted--both improved; but each saw only, at the first, those
traits in the countenance which they could alike recognise with
pleasure. Poor Ned was indeed in a pitiable situation; he had walked the
greatest part of the way from Derbyshire, had nearly expended his last
shilling, and had fully expected to be turned into the streets of
London, which he considered to be a misfortune and disgrace of the most
alarming kind. In this situation, the cheering sound of Arthur's voice
at once revived his heart, and insured the respect of the servants, who
were bustling around him; he was indeed warmly welcomed--his evident
wants adverted to--the improvement in his appearance praised (for Ned
was a handsome lad, and well clothed in a homely fashion), and he was
warmly recommended to the care of the housekeeper by Arthur, as "one of
his Derbyshire friends."

"Noa, noa, not _friend_" cried Ned, "I am your honner's _sarvant_, your
very _lowest_ sarvant."

"Ah! my good Edward, you remember my promise, and be assured I do
likewise; but I am not yet a man--I have no right to engage you _as
yet_."

"Thank ye, sir, that's quite enough for me; I can wait for ye seven
years, as well as Jacob did; and the sight of ye looking so brave and
tall, pays me right well for my journey. Besides, I really could not
live any longer, without thanking ye for all the good you have brought
on us. We live in a slated house with four rooms; and mother has two
cows, a big meadow, and a turnip-field. Sister Betty is come to be
nurse-maid to my lady; and Joe is under-gardener; and the little twins
are handy childer; and all our luck and our riches is owing to you and
Sir Hugh."

Arthur expressed his sincere pleasure, but could not forbear to smile at
this burst of grateful happiness, in a boy usually so silent and timid;
and Ned, blushing excessively, exclaimed--"I humbly beg pardon for
saying so much, but my heart was full, and my joy came on me sudden
like."

"Don't apologize, Edward--I know you to be as modest as you are
grateful. But it is time you should be eating instead of talking, so
good bye, for I have company up stairs. I will see you early in the
morning, and I shall then get my leg _properly_ rubbed."

"You must not, however, leave this young man, to-night," said Lord
Mount-Sorrel, advancing, "without receiving and communicating a
gratification I am sure you desire. Edward Walton, I engage you from
this night as my grandson's servant."

Ned startled with surprise, not unmingled with awe, for he instantly
comprehended that the fine-looking old gentleman before him was the
nobleman of whom he had heard, and the only lord he had ever beheld.
Three times he bowed reverently, if not gracefully; and at length said,
with difficulty--"God reward your worship! I am set up for ever."

"Dear, _dear_ sir," cried Arthur, "I have no words with which to thank
you, so deeply am I obliged, and so grateful do I feel for the power of
fulfilling an engagement improperly made, but yet of great importance to
me. We shall soon drill Ned into a good servant, and to me he will be
an invaluable nurse. Never shall I repent my birthday bargain."

"Never, my dear boy, I really believe, if you do not fail in your duties
as a master, for Ned has been well educated in the best sense of the
word, being humble and docile without servility, and honest without
boldness; and building his sense of duty to his master on his higher
duties to his God. The conduct of his whole family, under the trial of
improving circumstances, is a guarantee for _his_; and I hope that you
will do credit to yours also, by proving that you know how to guide and
protect a favourite dependant, without degradation to yourself, or
injurious indulgence to him. The highest and lowest are linked together
in the great chain of society for mutual benefit, yet are they separate
parts, and have separate duties; remember _this_, and so will real
benefit accrue, both to the 'Rich Boy and the Poor Boy.'"




  THE

  BOYS OF OLD TIMES;

  OR,

  HISTORICAL RECOLLECTIONS.


"I have read the History of England all through with great attention,
mamma," said Francis Clifford, "and I now wish that you would tell me
how I am to learn something of the childhood of the remarkable persons
mentioned there. I want to know what sort of boys these people were, who
afterwards became warriors, and legislators, and men of learning."

"For this purpose," replied Mrs. Clifford, "you must read biography,
Frank; but you must not expect many particulars of the early lives of
great men, for people were not so diligent in collecting them formerly
as they are now."

"That is a great pity, for there must have been many things, even in the
lives of children, worth relating. When so many battles took place
between the Red Rose and the White Rose, and so many heads of houses
were slain, the children must have been left in a dreadful situation;
pray, mamma, what became of them?"

"In general, my dear, they were fed at the different convents, of which
there were many in our county of York, where, as you must remember, some
of the most sanguinary battles were fought. Have you no recollection of
boys engaged in these scenes?"

"I remember that Prince Lionel, when only twelve years old, accompanied
his mother, and fought against the Scots on the borders of the county,
and that a great victory was gained. I dare say the young Prince fought
bravely, mamma, because his father was a great warrior, and his
brother, the Black Prince, loved fighting so well, that he took up the
cause of Peter the Cruel in Spain. Now I think I should like to go into
a battle myself, but then it should be for my king and my country,
mamma, not for a bad man, and in a bad cause."

"You are quite right in your distinctions, Frank; but have you no
remembrance of unfortunate fighting, in which a boy of the same age was
concerned?"

"Oh yes! after the battle of Sandal, Edmund, Earl of Rutland, the Duke
of York's youngest son, was killed in cold blood, by Lord Clifford. I
can repeat some lines, written, my uncle says, by a poet called Drayton,
which are exactly true:--

  "Where York himself, before his castle gate,
    Mangled with wounds, on his own earth lay dead,
  Upon his body Clifford down him sate,
    Stabbing the corpse, and cutting off his head,
  Crown'd it with paper, and to wreake his teen,
  Presents it so to his victorious Queene.

  "The Earle of Rutland, the Duke's youngest son,
    Then in his childhood, and of tender age,
  Coming in hopes to see the battaile won,
    Clifford, whose wrath no rigour could assuage,
  Takes, and whilst there he doth for mercy kneel,
  In his soft bosom sheathes his sharpen'd steel."

"Dear mamma," added Frank, after musing a few moments, "I hope this
cruel Lord Clifford was no relation of ours? he was a wicked man."

"He was so in this instance, certainly; for although the Duke of York
had killed his father with his own hand, and he owed much to the House
of Lancaster, his conduct to poor little Rutland admits of no apology.
He was a hot-headed young man, and both parties were so ferocious, that
he probably considered it a merit to outstep his opponents in
brutality."

"Well, I am glad he was himself soon after killed at the battle of
Towton by an arrow--it kept him from murdering more boys perhaps. Papa
shewed me the little river Coc, which runs into the Wharfe, on the banks
of which the bodies of the slain were so heaped up, that they fell in,
and formed a kind of bridge; and the whole stream, though swollen by
heavy rains, ran purple with their blood. Clifford was killed early in
the day."

"_Early_ also in another sense, my dear; for although only twenty-six
years old, he left a widow and two sons, the elder of whom was in his
seventh year; and as I know of no boy whose memoirs are more
interesting, I will tell you all I have been able to collect respecting
him."

Francis, with a smile of grateful attention, drew his chair nearer to
the sofa where his mother sat, and she continued:

"You are aware that after the battle of Towton, the House of York gained
the complete ascendancy; and being altogether as blood-thirsty as
Clifford himself, their first inquiry, after his death was ascertained,
was for the residence of his innocent offspring. Their poor mother,
shocked as she must be by the fate of her husband (who in private life
was as amiable and affectionate as he was furious and barbarous in
battle), lost not an hour in conveying the boys to the sea side,
intending to send them for safety to the Low Countries. Being closely
watched, she was enabled only to effect the present safety of Richard,
the younger; and this little exile dying soon after his arrival in
Holland, she determined on secreting the eldest in her own neighbourhood
of Londesbury. Here he lived in the cottage of her herdsman, passing for
the son of a married servant, it being given out that he had died abroad
at the same time with his brother; and the deep retirement in which his
widowed mother lived, favoured the supposition that she had lost all she
held dear.

"In this situation, he was inured to the humblest occupations, and
neither taught to read nor write; for as such accomplishments were at
that time never given to the poor, his mother durst not risk discovery
by procuring teachers for him. It was found that success and prosperity
by no means soothed the revengeful spirit of Edward the Fourth, since
his accession to the throne; and as his partisans in this county
continued their system of espial on poor Lady Clifford, the life of her
unhappy boy could only be preserved by submitting to all the hardships
attendant on a state of poverty. It was the more necessary to keep a
continual guard upon him, because he grew up a tall, handsome youth, of
a commanding mien, and the features of his grandfather, who was well
remembered, and deeply regretted, by all the country round.

"I leave you to judge, my dear Frank, to what daily trials this innocent
boy was subject--how hard it was to be living in absolute want, whilst
lord of the soil over which he was wandering; and when, from habit, he
had learnt to feed on poor and scanty food, to wear coarse clothing, and
sleep on straw in a cold cottage, still the craving of his heart must
be unsatisfied. He must want his mother--his dear and only parent; for
her his aching breast was continually yearning; and well did he know how
severely she suffered in her sympathies for his privations, how
solicitous for his society, how anxious for his safety. If she crossed
his path with a companion or attendant, and her rank at that time
rendered them indispensable, her eyes must be averted from him; nor
could he dare to cast a glance at her, lest he should betray their awful
secret, and bring that destruction on his own head which would have
broken his mother's heart.

"Undoubtedly there were times when she contrived to see him for a few
minutes, to supply his wants, so far as it was prudent, and to give him
those wise counsels, it is to this day his honour that he obeyed so
well. He had a good understanding, was of gentle manners and benevolent
disposition; and although he inherited the spirit and courage of his
distinguished ancestors, his good sense and filial affection restrained
that temper, which might have plunged him into irremediable ruin. He
practised that quiet fortitude, which is most difficult to a young and
ardent mind; but, in spite of all his caution, when he was in his
thirteenth year, reports of his being alive were circulated, and his
mother became in a state of perpetual alarm, lest the woods of
Londesbury should prove no longer a place of safety for their banished
lord.

"At this period, happily for him, his mother formed a second marriage,
and in Sir Lancelot Threlkeld he obtained an excellent father-in-law,
who left no means untried to ensure his safety. This gentleman had
extensive manors in Cumberland, and to this place the young lord was
conveyed by his shepherds, across the tract of mountains which connects
the two counties. From that time he associated constantly with these
persons, and thereby obtained the name of the 'Shepherd Earl,' by which
he is frequently recognised in old writings."

"But, mamma," cried Frank, with much emotion, "though he might be safe
in Cumberland, he could not be happy, for he had lost his only comfort;
he could not get a little, _little_ peep at his mother, and remember
that she _was_ his mother. He could not creep into a corner of the
church where she was kneeling, and pray to the same God at the same
time. Oh! I am very sorry for him, _now_ he has not a single friend to
look at him."

"You are mistaken, my dear--Sir Lancelot was a man in great esteem, and
he could go to his estates in the north, and take his lady with him; and
in that thinly-inhabited country, they could and did meet him without
suspicion. By the assistance of their kindness and information, he
supported his hopes, fortified his mind, and by his acquaintance with
persons of piety and good sense, attained considerable knowledge of
natural history. He lived among a simple but sensible people, in the
midst of beautiful and magnificent scenery, which he was never weary of
exploring, and being truly devout, found his life pass calmly in the
adoration of his Maker, and admiration of his works."

"And so really remained there till he was a man?"

"Yes, my dear, in this state of proscription Lord Clifford lived for
twenty-five years, as he was thirty-two years of age when, by the death
of the tyrant, Richard the Third, he was delivered from his last enemy,
and enabled to reclaim his property, and assume his title. He appeared
at the court of Henry the Seventh, on the first meeting of Parliament,
and was fully restored to his baronies, lands, and castles. A sense of
his deficient education (for he now first learnt to write his name)
rendered him at this eventful epoch extremely timid; but when that
subsided, his conversation displayed the soundness of his understanding,
the simplicity, rectitude, and piety of his heart. He had even, under
the shadows of his past fate, married a lovely and virtuous wife, the
daughter of Sir John St. John; and after visiting with her his noble
castles of Brougham and Skipton, with Londesbury, the place of his
birth, and the scene of his early troubles, he chose Bardon Tower, in
the woods of Bolton, for his general residence. Here he eagerly pursued
the means of knowledge, so long denied to him, and here he dispensed a
noble fortune, with equal prudence and munificence. He did not therefore
forsake his public duties, for in the next reign we find him a principal
commander in the battle of Flodden-field, which was so fatal to
Scotland. He lived happy and beloved, and died in old age, lamented and
honoured; and his sons proved, in after life, how well he had instructed
them. His eldest was created Earl of Cumberland, his grandson was a
great naval commander in Elizabeth's time, and contributed principally
to the destruction of the Armada."

"I have no objection now, mamma, to think myself one of the Clifford
family."

"Probably not, my dear; but I cannot flatter you on that point, for the
last-named nobleman left only one daughter, to whom his property (now
immensely augmented) devolved. This lady, Anne, Countess of Pembroke,
being a widow, resided constantly at one or other of her noble mansions,
all of which she rebuilt or beautified; and by spending her princely
income upon her tenantry, became a blessing to an immense number of
persons. At her death, Brougham and Skipton Castles descended to the
Earls of Thanet; Hardwicke, Londesbury, Bolton, and Bardon, to the Dukes
of Devonshire, Charlotte, the last heiress of the Cliffords, marrying
the great-grandfather of the present Duke."

"I am much obliged to you, dear mamma, for telling me about this poor
boy, for he was poor once, though I dare say he never forgot that he was
a nobleman by birth, and that the feelings of a gentleman were proper
for him. I wish I had known him; I should have liked to go into the
woods to get a good game at trap-ball with him, to carry him some fruit
and biscuits, or teach him to read in some close dell, where no creature
in the world could see us. I would not have been careless, and exposed
him, nor I would not have betrayed him, no, not for Edward's crown,
mamma!"

"I am sure you would not, my dear boy; since, however, all his troubles
ended happily, there is no occasion for them to affect either you or me
too much."

"Very true, mamma," said Frank, shaking his head to get rid of his
tears; "but I shall think of him many a time, when I am riding about on
the banks of the Wharfe. I always like to know something of remarkable
persons; it makes the places where they lived much more valuable in my
sight. When papa took me to see Harewood House, the best of all the
grand things there was the monument of Judge Gascoigne, who reproved the
Prince of Wales, afterwards Henry the Fifth; and when I went with you to
Escrick Park, beautiful as every thing was, my head was continually
running on Baron Escrick."

"And pray, my little curious boy, who was he?"

"He was Sir Thomas Prime, gentleman of the bedchamber to King James the
First, the very person who was entrusted to search the vaults under the
Parliament house, at the time of the Gunpowder Plot, and there he
discovered thirty-six barrels of gunpowder, and the person who was to
have fired the train; and when we got to York, mamma----"

"Ah, my dear, _there_ we had indeed much to see and much to think of;
but for the present our recollections must conclude with this
observation--never forget that whilst it is both pleasant and
instructive to look back upon old times, that it is our special duty to
be thankful that we live in times that are much better, notwithstanding
we are subject to many cares and troubles now. The times of civil
warfare, caused by rival despots, will, I trust, never again return;
still less is it likely that the amiable heiress of the crown should box
the ears of a judge, or a faction be formed to blow up a popular king
and his parliament; so the new times must be better than the old times."




  THE

  PASSIONATE LITTLE GIRL;

  OR,

  MORE THAN ONE IN FAULT.


"What a passion Sophy will be in!"--"Oh, how very angry Sophy will
be!"--"What a little fury she will make of herself!" These words broke
simultaneously from the lips of two brothers and a sister of the girl in
question, at the moment when, in consequence of a removal of books
between their father and the footman, a china flower-vase, which was her
property, fell down, and was broken to pieces.

Mr. Daventree (their father) started in painful surprise, excited much
less from an accident which might soon be repaired, than grief at
hearing of the fault of Sophia. When an infant, he knew she was of a
violent temper, though otherwise of a good disposition; but as she was
now eleven years old, and had been for some time under the care of Miss
Harcourt, who was an excellent governess, he had naturally hoped that
the error in question was corrected, since he had not witnessed it
himself; these unpremeditated exclamations told him that he was
mistaken, and gave him a sense of pain and alarm, to which he had been
long a stranger.

His thoughts were interrupted by the observations of Emily, his eldest
daughter, a gentle girl, of very sound understanding, who was at this
time busily employed in gathering the flowers which had fallen from the
broken vase.--"Poor Sophia!" said she; "surely no one can wonder if she
should be a little fluttered and angry: she has been carefully
preserving all her roses and wall-flowers for weeks, to make an October
bouquet for mamma, on her return from Harrogate; and this beautiful
vase was given to her by her godmother, as a reward for her knowledge of
flowers; and _now_, on the very evening when she has gathered her last
bouquet, and arranged them so prettily, it _is_ hard that her pride and
pleasure should be dashed to the ground, as it were; I am really sorry
for her!"

"And so am I, sincerely sorry," said Miss Harcourt.

"I must watch the progress of this affair closely," said Mr. Daventree,
to himself; "it appears singular that apology should be offered for so
great a fault, by those on whose judgment there is most reliance."

Just then Sophia entered, and it was observed by her mamma, that her
cheek was flushed, and her eyes full of tears.--"Could she have heard of
the accident?" It appeared not; for she started on seeing the fragments,
and exclaimed--"Is my beautiful vase broken?"

"Yes, my dear," said Emily, with a sympathetic sigh.

Mr. Daventree at this moment perceived that his two sons, one of whom
was a year older, and the other a year younger than Sophia, and their
sister Ellen, a child of seven years old, gazed on her with looks of
high expectation, as if some kind of scene was about to take place, in
which there would be more to amuse than to wound them.

To the evident surprise and disappointment of the party, Sophia turned
from the fragments of the vase, and, in a voice which indicated deep
feeling, addressed her father--"Dear papa, just now I saw poor Sally
Morton go past the park fence, crying bitterly, sometimes stopping
suddenly, and then running, as if she were almost wild; so I said--'What
is the matter, Sally?' and she said--'Oh, Miss Sophy, I am out of my
senses; they tell me the market-boat was overset this morning in the
gale, and my poor son, my own good Thomas----' She could not say another
word, so I went round to her, and led her to the housekeeper's room.
Papa, what can be done to comfort her?"

"Indeed, child, if her excellent son be lost, I know not what can be
done; for he has long been every thing to her; but the boat might be
lost, and Thomas escape; I know he could swim."

"Yes, the butler said so; and Mrs. Jones tried to make out what she had
really heard; but we could not understand her, she cried so much; but
she said she would try to _master_ herself, and tell his honour."

"Poor creature! poor creature!" said Mr. Daventree, much affected. "I
will go to her this moment."

Mrs. Daventree was gone already; and Sophia, who was deeply interested,
flew after him; but Miss Harcourt begged the rest would remain,
observing--"That it would be cruelty, rather than kindness, to press
around the poor woman in her first agonies; the time would shortly come
in which they could show how sincerely they pitied her."

Every one obeyed, for their young hearts were sincerely penetrated with
sorrow for the loss of Thomas Morton, whom they had known all their
lives; and they grieved for his widowed mother, whom he had supported by
his industry, and rendered happy by his kindness. Each had something to
say on the sad occasion; but their remarks were suddenly checked by a
loud scream from the housekeeper's room, followed by a kind of shout.
Curiosity overcame every other feeling, and the whole party ran directly
to the place where it could be gratified.

It appeared, that while poor Sally Morton had been struggling with
herself, so as to relate intelligibly the story of her son's disaster,
as conveyed by a neighbour, the trampling of horses' hoofs had been
heard, and in another moment a groom had suddenly entered the
housekeeper's room, followed by young Morton himself, whose pale face
and drenched clothes presented such a ghastly spectacle, that the moment
his mother saw him she uttered a loud scream, and sunk senseless. When
the children entered, the poor fellow was holding her in his arms, and
calling her most piteously to speak to him; whilst the housekeeper and
Mrs. Daventree were taking more effectual means to restore her.

"Indeed, sir, I did all for the best," said the groom; "I met poor
Thomas, more dead than alive, being, as he was, half drowned, your
honour, and so, as I was airing the horses, I told him to ride the bay
mare; and when we got here, I brought him (though he was very loth to
stop, for fear his mother should hear before she saw him) to Mrs.
Jones's room, for a bit of bread and a drop of cordial, little thinking
to frighten his poor mother to death, as it were."

"You did very right, in every respect, James, and all will soon be
well." In fact, the poor woman gave signs of life, and Mr. Daventree
raised her head in such a manner that she could not again see her son,
in order that he might inform her, by degrees, that he was restored to
her.

"I have given your honour and madam a deal of trouble, but I shall not
be here long; I have seen my son--I am sure I have, and it is a sign I
shall soon follow him."

"My good woman, don't talk foolishly. You _have_ seen your good son, but
it was in life, not death: it has pleased God to save him, and send him
home safe and sound."

"Home! then please to leave hold of me, I am quite well; I can walk as
well as ever I did; don't hold me--don't."

"Mother, dear mother, it is my arms that hold you," cried Thomas,
bursting into tears.

"Thine! _thine!_ my own! my lost----" cried the poor woman, in an
ecstacy that might have endangered her senses, but for the controlling
presence of the heads of the family. There was not a dry eye in the
place; but no one was so much affected as Sophia, who, in her agitation,
danced, cried, and almost screamed, with alternate joy and pity; and it
was not till the mother and son were turned over to the housekeeper, and
the whole party had returned to the breakfast-parlour, that she regained
any thing like composure.

In order to give her mind time to recover its powers, Mr. Daventree
desired that no one would speak to her, and she had been sitting some
time in silence, whilst the rest of the young ones were arranging their
amusements after tea, when all at once, as if her recollection had
returned, Sophia started up, and said, in a severe tone--"I should be
glad to know who it was that broke my china vase, and scattered all my
flowers, that I had saved for my mamma, though they knew very well that
it was a present from Lady Langdale--I say, who was it that did it?"

"Why," said Ellen, laughingly, "it was done between two people."

"And you, Miss Pert, were one of them."

"No, that she was not," said her younger brother; "Ellen had nothing to
do with it; but you like to accuse every body when you are in your
airs."

"Then who did do it, Master William? Was it yourself?"

"No, Miss Sophia," said Edward, "he did not do it; you are as far from
being right as ever."

"Then you did it, sir; I knew you did, by your taunting tone: you take
yourself to be a man, and so you despise flowers and china, and every
thing that girls are fond of. But I say, Master Ned, that it was a cruel
thing, and a shameful thing, to break my vase, and ruin my poor
flowers, and a _wicked good-for-nothing thing_."

Sophia's voice at this moment was raised to its utmost pitch; her cheeks
glowed like crimson; and her hand was raised, as if she were about to
strike her brother; but the moment Emily spoke she was silent.

"Dear Sophy, the vase was broken by accident; but I have preserved the
flowers. I assure you we are all very sorry for your misfortune, which
was entirely caused by _accident_."

"But I don't like _accidents_ and misfortunes, Emily; and I cannot see
any reason why I should have more of them than other people, and I am
quite sure I have. It is not three days since I was so vexed about my
work-box being spoiled, and only a fortnight since my French grammar was
torn. I have no notion of submitting to so many injuries, and if I knew
how to punish the person who _did_ break the vase, I would do it
effectually--that I would."

Mr. Daventree, who had retired from the group, but carefully listened to
every word, and scanned every look, now came forward, and approaching
Sophia, said--"Benjamin, the footman, was perhaps of the two the more
blameable party in this unfortunate and really vexatious affair. You
know, Sophia, that I am a justice of the peace, and in that capacity I
can further your wishes for his punishment. I am also his master, and
can stop his wages, until he has paid the value of the vase, or at least
his share of it; in which capacity would you wish him to suffer?"

The calm gravity of Mr. Daventree in some degree restored the
self-possession of his daughter; she was silent for a considerable time,
and then said--"I hope, papa, I am incapable of oppressing a servant in
any case, but especially where, from their clumsiness or ignorance, they
might commit an error. I will not punish Benjamin, for it is not likely
he would try to injure my vase."

"Benjamin's partner in this unlucky affair you have already punished
severely--it was your father, Sophia."

Sophia gazed in her father's face in astonishment.

"I was indeed that guilty and unfortunate person, and I can truly say,
that I am very sorry for the accident, because I can fully estimate the
disappointment your kind cares and warm affections have received; but I
think you will own that my punishment exceeds my offence, when I say
that the fault you have exhibited has given a wound to my feelings, as a
father, not easy to be endured."

Mr. Daventree sat down with the air of a person oppressed and afflicted;
but he almost immediately began to speak again; whilst Sophia, with
blushing cheeks and panting bosom, stood like a conscious criminal
before him.

"Surely it is very painful for a father, who fondly loves his children,
to whom the development of their minds, or the formation of their
principles and affections, is of the highest importance, to witness such
an ebullition of temper as I have done. It shocked me the more, because
I was really enjoying the proofs of sensibility, consideration and
humanity, you had just displayed; and I could not expect to see in a
girl capable of better things, such degrading abandonment to
ungovernable passion--no self-control exerted--no obedience to God's
word--no recollection of a father's authority--no sympathy in a mother's
feelings."

"Dear, _dear_ papa!" cried Sophia, casting herself on her knees before
him, "I have been very wicked to grieve _you_. Oh, I am so sorry--my
heart--yes, my heart will--will----"

She would have said "break," but her anguish almost suffocated her; and
as she laid her head on her father's knees, and wept in very agony,
bitterly did that tender father grieve that he should be compelled to
afflict her.

When he perceived that this violent emotion had somewhat subsided, he
raised her up, and said--"Sophia, before I name any punishment for past
faults, I wish to guard you from future ones. You have confessed that
you are subject to these passions--have you never examined the rise and
progress of them in your own heart?"

"Oh yes, papa, I know it is, as Emily says, all owing to my being in so
great a hurry. I see something that vexes me--then I think I am injured,
and I become affronted, and I grow heated and fluttered, and that
increases till I become downright enraged, and then I say all kinds of
things."

"And wish to do all kinds of things?--even to commit murder?"

"Oh, no, no, no! I would not hurt any of them--nor even break their
playthings, not even when I am at the worst. Miss Harcourt knows I would
not; and _she_----Oh, papa, what trouble have I given to her!"

"Indeed, Sophia, I forgive you," said Miss Harcourt; "and it is only
justice to say, that when your silly pets are over, no one can be more
anxious to evince affection than you are; and I still hope you will be
able to conquer this blameable weakness."

"If I could but learn how to conquer it--if I could but keep it down
when it comes into my throat--or if I could do without speaking, perhaps
it would go off!" Sophia looked earnestly towards her father, as if
imploring his assistance.

"My dear child, as you have got rid of all these symptoms three times in
one evening, surely you need not despair. That which we have done
_once_, we can certainly do again; and we have this great motive for
exertion added to others, that with every effort the passion will grow
weaker, the reason stronger."

"Yes, if I could once conquer, I might go on conquering, till I was as
good as Emily herself--my dear sister Emily, who always pities me."

"Well, Sophia, I repeat it, you have done so to-night. When you first
came in, and saw what had happened (which was, I grant, a very provoking
circumstance), how was it that you did not fly into a violent rage?"

"Oh, papa, how could I think of a china jar, when my whole heart was
full of a fellow-creature's sorrows? when I believed that poor Thomas
Morton was drowned, that was no time to lament flowers."

"True, my child, a sense of the frailty of life, of the awful
responsibility of mortality, was on your mind, together with deep and
absorbing compassion, and you lost all selfish feelings. Now reason and
religion tell you, my dear, that you are always in the presence of God,
and therefore bound alike at all times to control your wrong
propensities. In the second instance, you checked yourself, when I
invited you to punish Benjamin, a proof that your nature was in itself
noble and generous, though debased, and that you did possess a power of
self-command. And, thirdly, it is certain all anger vanished from your
breast, when you found that your father had been the cause of its
arising. Now cannot you contrive to recal similar motives for repelling
the temptation to transgress, the next time you are subject to it?"

"I think so--I hope so; but, indeed, papa, I am sadly afraid of myself,
when I remember what a many, _many_ times I have erred; then I know, if
I am laughed at, the fit comes on such a great deal stronger."

"Leave us, Sophia, for a quarter of an hour, in which time try, my dear,
to meditate on this subject, and to look for help to that heavenly
Father, who will not reject the weakest penitent."

Sophia left the room, calm, but still weeping, and for some time all
remained silent.

At length Mr. Daventree said--"Poor girl! she is exceedingly to be
pitied, inasmuch as the error in her temper is, in a great degree,
constitutional. It can, and I trust will, be cured; but in order to
produce that good effect, the efforts of all who desire to merit my
approbation must combine. You, Emily, have, it appears, done your duty
as a good sister, and will, I trust, continue to bear with her, and to
check in kindness the first stirrings of her temper. Above all things,
guard yourself from making her an object of ridicule; let her weakness
be held in your eyes as a misfortune, on which it would be cruel to
jest, and one which it would ill become one of her own family to expose,
or to call into action."

Whilst Mr. Daventree spoke, the two boys fidgetted in their chairs, as
if they were extremely uneasy; and even little Ellen blushed
excessively; and at length, sidling up to her papa, said, in an
exculpatory tone--"I am sure I love Sophia very much--and I believe she
loves me dearly; she made my doll a new bonnet yesterday."

"She is always doing some good-natured thing for every body!" exclaimed
William; "and I'm sure," he added, in a voice somewhat impeded by the
rising in his throat, "yes, I am quite sure, that other people might
make confessions as well as poor Soph."

"Why, I know," said Edward, "I have teased her into many a passion, and
I am sorry for it now."

"So have I," resumed William; "which was the worse, because I was older
than her, and ought to have known better."

"But I was quite old enough to know I did wrong."

"So was I," said Ellen; "but I did it because--because it made us all
laugh."

"You have all been cruel children," said Mr. Daventree. "You have
practised the means of irritation upon one whom you all acknowledge to
be kind, generous, and affectionate, except at these particular times,
when she was subject to a species of insanity, which demanded your pity
and assistance. However, I am willing to consider your past faults as
those of children, if for the future you make an entire alteration in
your conduct, and become hence-forward as much the friends, as you have
hitherto been the enemies, of your sister."

To be considered _enemies_, each one felt to be a severe sentence; yet
self-conviction allowed them no power of objection; and in a few minutes
Sophia entered the room, bringing in her hand two bracelets, with which
she proceeded to Mr. Daventree.

"My dear mamma has given me these to wear constantly, in order that,
whenever I begin to fly out so improperly again, some one near may take
one of them off, which will put me in mind of all you have said to me.
Dear Emily I know will always help me."

"We will all help you, dear Sophy," said William, eagerly; "but you will
need little help when we no longer tease and provoke you. We have been
all unkind, _very_ unkind, but we will never be so again."

Kisses, tears, and smiles, concluded this happy agreement. Sophia put on
the bracelets; and an account was kept by Miss Harcourt of the number of
times in which there had been a necessity, either to remove them, or
begin to do so, which generally answered the purpose. Happily, before
the year came round, all occasion for this curb on her temper had
ceased; and as her disposition and abilities were no longer obscured by
this defect, she was every way improved, and become the delight of her
family and friends. On that day twelvemonth she received from her father
a pair of china vases for her flowers, and from her brothers and
sisters a pair of bracelets, which, although merely neat ones, were
given to her as a badge of honour, and intended to banish the memory of
those which served a good purpose, but were, in fact, the mark of
disgrace.

To these presents was added a very interesting one, brought for her by
Sally Morton, who had reared for her a beautiful little piping
bullfinch, which her son had taught to whistle "God save the King."

"I have brought it," said the good old woman, "because of the great
mercy I received a year ago, in the preservation of my dear son; and I
give it you, Miss Sophy, because, though every body was good to me, you
were the _first_ to pity me, and comfort me. Ah, Miss, it is a day I
shall never forget."

"Neither ought I to forget it, dame Morton, for it was of great
importance to me also; and when I hear this pretty bird singing, it will
also remind me of my own restored happiness. My dear parents now
approve my conduct; my brothers and sisters love me, and never laugh at
me; and my good governess declares that I am no longer a 'passionate
little girl.'"




  WILLIAM AND HIS STORY BOOKS;

  OR,

  THE BENEFIT OF EXPERIENCE.


As little William Foster, the son of a small farmer, was trudging
homewards with a basket, in which lay an empty tin bottle and his
spelling-book, he was met by two youths, the sons of a neighbouring
gentleman, one of whom inquired, in a kind manner, if he had been to
school?

"Yes, master Charles, I have been there all day."

"I thought as much from your empty milk-bottle; it is a very good plan
to take your dinner with you; it gives more time both for work and play.
What book are you in?"

"This is my spelling-book--but I read in the Testament every day."

"I am glad you are so forward, my little fellow; and if you will come to
the Park to-morrow evening, and go to Mrs. Willis's room, I will give
her some of my old story books, for you to read at home, on winter
nights, to your sisters."

William's eyes glistened with delight as he expressed his simple thanks;
and he was quickening his pace, when a gentleman, who had been walking
with the youths, observed, in rather a stern tone--"You are going to do
a very foolish thing, Charles, in giving that poor boy story books, as
they will certainly do him more harm than good. They can answer no end,
except to depict pleasures he can never share, raise hopes it is
impossible for him to realize, or awaken ambition it would be wrong for
him to feel."

"I am certain, sir," said the elder brother, who had not yet spoken, "no
bad effects can arise from our old story books, since every one of them
was read by our parents, before they were put into our hands. My father
says they are very different things from the fairy tales, and Jack the
Giant Killer stories, that boys used to read when you and he were
young."

"They may be very different, yet no better; they may be less silly, but
equally mischievous, since they communicate no useful knowledge, and
consume much valuable time. They may perhaps excite a poor child like
this to learn to read, it is true, when nothing else would do it, but
never could employ boys like you properly, because the education of a
gentleman calls for much laborious attention; _your_ studies leave no
time to throw upon books that do not contribute to your improvement."

"My father," replied Henry, with great modesty, "says, that in early
life the heart requires educating, not less than the understanding; and
whilst we were children, and under my mother's care, our reading was
directed to the formation of our dispositions, in order that when we
went into the world (I mean of course when we went to a large school),
we should have got something like fixed notions of right and wrong in
our heads. I really believe, if I had not read with great attention Miss
Edgeworth's Parents' Assistant, I should have been just such a boy as
'Lovel, the good-natured Boy,' and become a mere shuttlecock among my
schoolfellows, for want of courage to say _no_ to the boy I despised, or
the scheme I hated. I should have made myself ridiculous, from fear of a
fool's laughter, and complied against my conscience with many a wrong
action, because a leader commanded me."

"And I," cried Charles, "if papa had not made me read and understand
'Eyes or no Eyes,' in Dr. Aikin's Evenings at Home, should have been as
stupid a dog as ever was born, instead of meriting the praise you gave
me for knowing so much of natural history. Indeed, I should have been a
perfect Lazy Lawrence, if my mother had not made me see myself in his
character, and taught me to dread coming to his end."

"As I know nothing at all of the books of which you speak, I can make no
observation in point, nor can I find fault, with propriety, on any
feature in your education, sanctioned by your parents; but this little
fellow has his bread to gain, and no time to spare for mere amusement,
which is all I can be brought to believe any one derives from story
books. Now, if I visit you next year, I will give him copy-books, and
useful books, and if he has the sense to profit by them, we shall see in
time whether you or I have done him the most good."

The little boy had been so pent up by the parties, that he could not
move without disturbing them till the argument was over, when he walked
on, wondering as he went what the story books would be about, whether
he could get the back way into so grand a house as that of Hazeldine
Park, without seeing a great dog or a rough groom; and then recurring
again to what the gentleman had said, "how could it be possible that
people should read to no good purpose--did not his master tell the boys
continually, to mind their books--did not his father often lament his
own want of learning as a great misfortune?"

The books were got with little difficulty, for servants generally take
the tone of their master, and the Honourable Henry Hazeldine was the
friend of the poor in the truest sense of the word; for he encouraged
the industrious, relieved the sick and unfortunate, held the idle and
dissolute in such awe, that they could not injure others, and was in
every respect what a country gentleman ought to be. Farmer Foster had
not the happiness of being one of "his honour Hazeldine's tenants;" but
the family had not the less a kind word or action for him or his
family, if they came in his way; and this little present of Charles to
poor Will was highly estimated by all the little circle at poor
Foster's.

The books were read with so much pleasure, that the mother of William
took them into her own keeping, and allowed him to read them only at
such times, and under such circumstances, as were consistent with his
duties, and a reward for his good conduct. Young as he was, there were
many ways in which our little boy could be useful in the evenings and
mornings; and it was not until the pig had been fed, the cow watered,
the gates around all carefully closed, and certain little matters in the
house performed by his hand, that the tired, but happy little boy, could
sit down to read the history of boys of his own age, and frequently of
his own condition, in the welcome little books.

Greatly was his pleasure enhanced, when milking being finished by his
mother, and the cattle foddered by his father, they too could sit down
and listen to that which he had already conned, and could therefore read
with fluency. Many a pause was filled up with just, though rustic
observations, as they dwelt on the efforts of simple Susan to pay her
father's debt, or the sorrows of the Blind Farmer. As the following year
advanced, this pleasure extended to his little sisters, who became old
enough to understand the subject, and enter into the instruction
conveyed by the conduct of the tale, and were extremely anxious to learn
to read in such a clever way as William did, in order that they also
might give pleasure to their parents.

Mr. Maynard did not, as he was wont, visit his friends at the Park
during the following shooting season, but he was not unmindful of his
promise. Through the medium of Mrs. Hazeldine, he sent him some
copy-books, a slate, and account-books; and as he had now made some
progress in his learning (though it was only during the winter that he
could be spared to attend school), he began to teach his sisters that
which he had learnt himself, at a place too distant for them to go to.

As William grew taller and stronger, his labours became of course more
extended, and having read much on the duty of children to their parents,
and thought much on the subject, no one could be more desirous than he
was to contribute to the benefit and the happiness of his beloved father
and mother. Far from looking down upon them, because they could not do
that which he did, he was truly grateful to them for having bestowed on
him the time and money necessary for his humble attainments; and as his
father was a sensible man, and like many persons in his station,
practically master of much natural history, William was exceedingly fond
of conversing with him, and gaining knowledge from his experience, and
of inquiring from him how far the books he might happen to see were
right in what they said on such subjects.

In pursuance of his wish to show especial regard to his parents, William
undertook the particular care of the garden, which had hitherto been
merely a cabbage ground, and this he added to his general allotment of
work on the farm. In the management of this bit of ground, his sisters
greatly helped him, and they were never more happy than when he was
digging, and they were weeding near him, and comparing themselves with
some of the children they had read about in the story-books, who toiled
for their parents or each other. Labour was to them more sweet than
play, because it was the medium of displaying affection, and it never
failed of reward, for the earth always repays that labour we bestow upon
her.

Economy and industry produced in the humble dwelling of farmer Foster
such an improvement of circumstances, that five or six years after the
commencement of our story, a neighbour being about to throw up his farm
and remove to a distant county, the honest man thought he might venture
to take it, aided as he now was by an active son, and two girls who were
as good as their mother. The farm was Mr. Hazeldine's, who was the best
of landlords; but then he would undoubtedly expect a richer tenant, one
who could do more justice to his land, so far as money was concerned.

"Had the sons of Mr. Hazeldine been at home, seeing they were so kind to
William when he was a little one, they might have been so good as to
speak to their father, but they were now gentlemen out in the world, and
his honour himself very poorly, so that madam never went out of the
house;" and with those cogitations in his head, the farmer knew not how
he could get the recommendation he wanted. All his thoughts were
revealed to William, who was equally puzzled, and, in fact, more
anxious, since he saw more of their neighbours than his father, and knew
that many persons were anxious to add this farm also to their own.

When the shooting season arrived, William heard, by accident, that Mr.
Maynard, after travelling some years on the Continent, had come back,
and was again visiting at the Park. It struck him that it would be only
right for him to go thither, and thank him for his present, which he
held to be particularly kind, since he lived more than two hundred miles
from thence, and had recollected him after two years had passed since he
saw him in the lane.

William was fortunate in meeting this gentleman in the pleasure-grounds,
walking in advance of a gay party, before whom he should have found it
awkward to speak, especially as he was conscious that his mind was
labouring to find the means of rendering Mr. Maynard so far favourable
to himself, that he might be made propitious to his father's wishes, by
opening the affair of the farm to Mr. Hazeldine.

On accosting him, and thanking him, Mr. Maynard immediately recollected
not only the books, but every circumstance connected with them, and he
adverted to it with so much good-nature, that the poor boy took courage
to speak of the wishes of his father and family, respecting the farm,
that was so soon likely to be unoccupied. The manner in which he laid
down his father's plans for making it answer, and his candid confession
of their narrow means of stocking it, at once shewed the good sense and
the honesty of himself and his parents, and disposed Mr. Maynard greatly
in his favour; but he answered his application as if there were certain
preliminaries to be attended to first.

"I perceive, my boy, the little education you have got has not been
thrown away upon you, therefore I hope you will gladly and freely
acknowledge how much more useful the books were that I sent you, than
the childish things given you by my young friends, who have come down to
see their parents at this time, and are now advancing towards us. Here
they come; and if you will own to them what you must know to be the
truth, as regards the story-books, I will immediately speak to _their_
father in behalf of _yours_, and it will, most probably, be with good
effect."

William was exceedingly troubled by this request, on account of the
obligation he felt to both parties, and the more embarrassed by reason
of the condition annexed to the opinion he was expected to give. He
knew, however, that the first great point was to speak the _truth_; and
in order to do that simply and exactly, he began eagerly to recal to
mind his obligations to each particular present, in order that he might
do justice to both.

"You gave me writing copies, sir, by which I improved my writing very
much; and an account-book, which was still better, since the knowledge I
gained from it has saved my poor father many a pound; but then it was
reading Lazy Lawrence that made me determined to learn, because I saw
that only idle, gluttonous, and mischievous boys, are ignorant by
choice. I am sure, sir, I can never thank you enough for sending me such
a many nice copy-books, for I was enabled through them to teach both my
sisters to write; but _then_ it was the story-books that made me wish to
learn, and be desirous of doing my duty--it was owing to _them_ that I
ever tried to work for my poor father out of love for him, and that I
made the garden both beautiful and profitable--they laid the foundation
of every thing I ever did that was right. They who expect harvest must
not despise seed-time, you know, sir."

"But you are not taking the way to get your father the farm, William. I
did not ask you to praise my gift, but I claimed from you a declaration
of its _preference_, and on that condition promised to befriend your
father; and, depend upon it, that my recommendation will go farther with
Mr. Hazeldine than even that of his sons, because he will rely on my
experience. Think again on the matter, for it is to you and your family
very important."

William was silent, and so absorbed in thought, that he did not perceive
that the two young Hazeldines and their invalid father, with three other
gentlemen, had now reached them, and were standing in a circle round
them. After a long pause, he looked at Mr. Maynard with a deprecating
air, and in a low but distinct voice observed--"Every one of the
story-books the young gentlemen gave me, taught me to despise a lie,
both as a wicked and foolish thing; and that book which has more good
in it than all other books put together, forbids all lying as a _sin_;
therefore I dare not say that in my heart I think your present was
_more_ valuable to me than the other, though I am willing to say it was
as _good_. I may be wrong in my judgment, but I am but a lad of
fourteen; but when I recollect the good the story-books did in my
family, I can say no less for them, without being downright ungrateful.
Why, sir, many's the time they kept father at home when he would have
gone out, and that made my mother happy: my sister Sally, who was once
proud and pettish, was taught by _them_ to be humble and obedient; and
Nancy, who was indolent, became industrious; and as for myself, why
I----"

Poor William could not make this long exculpatory speech longer, by
dilating on his own merits, and was conscious that he had already taken
a liberty. He was moving away in some confusion, that he might hide his
grief and mortification, when Mr. Maynard laid his hand on his shoulder
to detain him, whilst he thus addressed the young gentlemen, who were
now first seen by William.

"Well, my young friends, I now confess _freely_ that my former prejudice
against 'Tales for Children' was founded on ignorance of their tendency
and effects. In this boy I have a decisive proof, not only that they
pave the way for useful knowledge, but that they really inculcate sound
principles. Having said so much by way of recantation, I must now
proceed to my office of recommendation, for which purpose I must address
your father."

"That is unnecessary," said Mr. Hazeldine, "for I have intended for some
months to offer my farm, of the Green Lea, to Foster, whose industry and
good management of his land, and his family, have been long under my
eye, although, seeing he has not required my assistance, I have had
little personal acquaintance with him. He shall not be left without the
means of stocking it, for I know him to be as honest a man as he is a
good labourer. And now, William, run home as fast as you can with the
good news; and tell your mother that we shall call for a slice of her
brown loaf, and a pat of fresh butter, as we return from to-morrow's
shooting."

"And we have a barrel of capital ale, sir; and mother makes beautiful
curds," cried William, his eyes sparkling with joy, from a sense of
honour conferred, as well as obligation received.

Never sprang a lighter pair of heels, or a happier heart, over the green
turf, than poor William's, as he ran home to make those most dear to him
as happy as himself; nor could there be a pleasanter consultation than
that between the young Hazeldines and Mr. Maynard, as to the useful
presents they determined on giving to a youth who had made such a good
use of their former gifts. One brother determined on giving him a sow,
with a large litter of pigs, thinking he could feed them on the produce
of his garden; the other said he would buy him a donkey, as he would
live on the common, and be extremely useful in carrying products of
every kind to market; and Mr. Maynard said he would purchase for him a
complete set of garden tools, and implements of husbandry.

"Then," said Mr. Hazeldine, "it shall be my turn now to furnish him with
books. In addition to the Society's best Bible and Prayer Book, I will
give him the Gardener's Calendar, a work on Natural History, written in
a plain manner, and a large bound volume of the Cottager's Friend; for
well does he deserve the recreation such works will afford him, and good
use will he make of the information they will communicate to him. We
should never forget that the poor have minds to provide food for, as
well as mouths to fill, and that if we do not give them that which is
good, they may find that which is bad. Many a man in low life, who is at
this moment an idle sot, a dissolute poacher, or an useless pauper,
might have been rendered active, steady, and worthy, by the proper
application of as much money as would support a village schoolmaster,
and as much consideration for a child's wants as was shown by my son
Charles, when he gave William his own half-worn story books, and thereby
gave you and me, my good friend, the benefit of experience."




  THE

  BEST BOY IN THE WORLD;

  OR,

  THE BEST HAVE ROOM TO MEND.


Great was the distress of Lady Harriet Elmore, when she received a
letter from Colonel Elmore, her husband, earnestly entreating her to
meet him in Italy, (whither he was travelling from India by the overland
route), not only because she found that her beloved partner was in poor
health, and low spirits, but because the idea of leaving Edward, their
only child, was exceedingly afflicting to her. He had been the sole
object of her unceasing care, during more than seven of those long years
in which his father had been absent, a period which constituted
two-thirds of his life, and as he could not recollect that his mamma
had ever left him for a single day, she dreaded the effect of her
absence upon his mind, and could not sustain the idea of his grief.

Mrs. Bellaire, who had been her friend from infancy, and who lived
within thirty miles, hastened to her on this emergency, and having read
the letter, and calculated the time in which it was probable that the
colonel would reach Naples, urged her to proceed immediately for London,
from whence some friends of hers were at that time setting out for Rome,
from whom she could insure her every attention. In addition to this
kindness, she likewise proposed taking her son home to her own house,
where he would have the advantage of sharing the cares of an excellent
tutor, with her own two youngest sons, one of whom was the same age with
himself, and the other a year younger.

The tender mother was also the affectionate wife: she saw clearly that
it was her duty to take Mrs. Bellaire's advice, and accept her offer,
which she well knew to be that of a most admirable mother, and excellent
woman, in every sense of the word; and after warmly thanking her, though
with many tears, she proceeded to expatiate on the good qualities of
Edward--to mention the progress he had made in his learning--to assure
her friend that he would repay her kindness by the example he would
afford her children; and that, in short, "he was the best boy in the
world."

"Frank and Sinclair are tolerably good children," said Mrs. Bellaire;
"they will, I am certain, be very kind to him; and I can say still more
for the rest of the establishment, so that I am sure you may leave him
to us safely; and as to fretting yourself so much about a child's
sorrow, believe me (who know children better than you do) it is very
unnecessary."

Lady Harriet only shook her head in reply; she felt assured that Edward
was more attached to her than Mrs. Bellaire's children could be to
either of their parents, for this plain reason, that his affections had
been all concentred on one object, whereas they had many to love, and
could therefore not be expected to love intensely.--"Besides, it was not
in the nature of things, that persons of large fortune, and numerous
connections, who spent a part of every year in London, and were engaged
with all the cares and pleasures of political and fashionable life,
could cultivate the affections, and take part in the feelings of their
numerous family, in the same way she had done with her single darling.
No, they would not estimate him justly--not understand him thoroughly."

Happily, with these thoughts came the recollection that at Bellaire Park
he would find all the pleasures which fortune could bestow on a large
scale, and which could hardly fail to surprise and delight him, as
contrasting with the small and quiet establishment to which prudence
and inclination had hitherto confined her ladyship; and with this idea
full upon her mind, she ventured to break the matter to the astonished
boy, and prepare him for departing with her friend, who now undertook to
arrange every thing in the most speedy manner for her own far-distant
journey.

Edward heard with great satisfaction about "companions of his own age,"
"pretty little ponies," on which he was to ride, "gardens full of all
kinds of fruit," and even of a "good gentleman," who would teach him
Latin, and shew him on the map all the places where his dear papa
travelled: he was ready to assure his mamma that he would never forget
"to say his prayers, nor to give his pocket-money to poor old people,
and get his lessons diligently;" but he could form no idea of doing any
thing without mamma being present to see him, and to praise him. The
shock of parting with her was so great, that it seemed to overwhelm the
poor child's faculties; and this misfortune at last took place under
such a paroxysm of sorrow, that it required not only all the true
friendship, but all the strength of mind Mrs. Bellaire possessed, to
witness it, and consider what an awful and troublesome office she had
undertaken.

Sensible that sorrow, like all violent passions, must in time exhaust
itself, she suffered the poor boy to cry on for the first twenty miles,
and to sleep for the remainder of the way. Nor was she sorry to find
that her own young ones were gone to rest on their arrival, as she hoped
a good night, and the novelty of all things around him in the morning,
would divert Edward's mind, so far as to soothe the acuteness of his
feelings, without therefore lessening the affection he felt for his
mother, and the regret natural to his situation.

Dejected and drowsy, the child, whose manners were at all times gentle,
took quietly the food that was offered to him, and departed, with
unresisting steps and equal inattention to the kindness shewn him; but
as this could be accounted for by the mental excitement he had suffered,
neither Mr. nor Mrs. Bellaire considered it as a fault, and they were
happy in thinking that they should give their dear children a pleasant
companion, whilst they materially assisted a suffering friend, who would
never have had the courage to place her weeping boy in a school, or with
any less considerate persons.

"Have you not seen Edward Elmore yet?" said Mrs. Bellaire to her son
Francis, as he entered her dressing-room the next morning, to inquire
after her health, and receive her caresses.

"Yes, mamma, I _have_ seen him; he is a pretty boy, but very odd; he
won't let Susan wash him, nor wash himself, till you come. He says you
are to be his mamma till his own comes home again?"

"So I am, my dear; but surely Lady Harriet did not act as nurse-maid to
such a great boy as Edward?"

"He says she always stood by when he was dressed--and he cries so, you
can't think; it grieves me to see him cry."

"I dare say it does, Frank, therefore I would have you go back and
persuade him to be more of a man in his conduct. He is in great trouble
from his mamma's absence; therefore, if he should be cross and wayward,
it is your duty to pity him, and be patient with him, and do your utmost
to amuse him, recollecting that he has never had a good papa to instruct
him and control him, as you have."

Frank so far stimulated Edward's pride, as to overcome his sullenness
and grief for the present, a circumstance Mrs. Bellaire rejoiced to
learn, being aware that many faults are best cured by companions, and
many habits best inculcated by example. But she had scarcely heard this
good news, when Sinclair entered, saying--"Dear mamma, Edward Elmore
has brought all his playthings into my own place, and turned all my
books out, and my drawing things, and every thing I have; he says,
mamma, that----"

"What does he say? you may speak the exact truth."

"He says, that he always puts his things exactly where he likes at home,
and that every body does what he bids them. I did not like to tell you
this at _first_, because it seemed so like a story."

"Your conclusion was very natural, my dear; but I am afraid Edward has
had a good deal of indulgence; nevertheless, as his own mamma assured me
he was a very good boy (indeed the best in the world), I expect to find
him amiable; but we must make great allowance for him--he has had no
little brother or sister to share his playthings, or the place where he
used them."

"He says he had all the house to play in at home."

"Perhaps he had, for I remember seeing the same things in the
drawing-room, which afterwards annoyed me in the coach."

"But that was not proper, mamma, surely?"

"Indeed, Sinclair, it was _not_; and I hope, before he has been long
with us, he will cure himself of those bad habits which led to it: in
the mean time we must pity him, and persuade him to think of other
people as well as himself."

A third entrance from a servant, who said, "Master Elmore was crying
dreadfully," hastened Mrs. Bellaire's visit to the children's apartment,
where she found the sobbing child in great distress, because he was left
_alone_, in consequence of Francis and Sinclair having gone to attend
their studies.

"I will take you to their school-room, my dear, and introduce you to Mr.
Fairthorne, their tutor."

"But I don't choose to go! I won't learn of any body but my own mamma. I
told the boys so when they teased me to go with them."

"What can I do with this poor child?" said Mrs. Bellaire to herself, as
she perceived the paleness of his cheeks, and the redness of his eyes.
"If I give way to his self-will, the example will be ruinous to my own
children--to oppose him thus early may injure his health, which is
evidently not robust--his sorrow is so deep and silent, so unlike that
of a violent and obstinate-tempered child, that I am really not more
grieved than puzzled by him."

At length Edward rose from his chair, wiped his eyes, and said, in a
tone of quiet condescension--"You may take me into the garden."

"I have not breakfasted yet," said Mrs. Bellaire.

"That makes no difference that I know of: I got my breakfast long
since."

"And did your mamma always go out with you when you asked her, my dear?"

"To be sure she did. I wish she were here now."

"I am very glad she is not, for she could not be happy if she were: she
would see your red eyes, and know that you had been naughty, and that
would grieve her: do you think you love her?"

"To be sure I love her dearly."

"I think _not_--for I have observed that boys who love their mothers try
to oblige them. Sinclair and Francis know that I should be very unhappy
if they were rude to others, disobedient to their tutor, or negligent in
their lessons; and I am sure they love me, because they save me from
pain. I would not believe any thing they _said_, if their actions
disagreed with their words; nor would I yield to their wishes, if I saw
that they desired their own pleasure, but did not value mine."

"I am not naughty--I always speak the truth, and I don't hurt anybody."

As Edward spoke, his eye fell on those things which he had placed on a
chiffonier, by ejecting the property of Sinclair Bellaire; he stopped,
coloured, and began hastily to remove them; in which employment Mrs.
Bellaire left him, and in the course of time her sons found him, as
there was a struggle in his breast, which rendered the employment very
indecisive in its effects--one minute he was on the point of resigning
that which he had no right to usurp; the next, he resumed his imagined
right of doing that which it was his pleasure to do.

Under the influence of pity for his present affliction, the young
Bellaires suffered him to take the lead in all those movements dictated
by themselves; but since their rides and walks were necessarily under
the control of their parents or tutor, some difficulties were for
several days constantly presented by Edward Elmore's desire to go some
other way than the one fixed upon, take any person's pony to which he
had a fancy, and make a regular complaint against Mrs. Bellaire, if she
were not of the party.

The good-natured boys bore every thing well, save this complaint; but
even little Sinclair could not forbear to exclaim, one day--"Really,
Edward, you seem to think my mamma should be your constant attendant,
and had nothing to do but what you wished for."

"Well, so I do. Did she not promise to supply my own poor mamma's place
to me, and did not my mamma do every thing I asked her to do?"

"She must have been very silly to do what a boy like you bade her
do--you must be joking; who ever heard of a parent obeying a child?"

"Or who," cried Frank, "ever heard of a child being so wicked as to
think of _ordering_ his parent?"

Poor Edward was on the point of weeping, but he had already found that
the long fits of crying to which he was wont to have recourse, had no
effect on any one in his present circle; and in his anxiety to justify
himself, he appealed to Mr. Fairthorne, "whether it were not Mrs.
Bellaire's duty to fulfil her promise?"

"It is doubtless her duty to act as a kind mother to you, my dear; and
in giving you the same pleasure, and offering you the same advantages
she does to her own children, every body will think she fulfils her
duty. Surely you must know that she has many much more pressing duties
to fulfil than attending to boys of your age? Mrs. Bellaire has a large
circle of poor persons, to whose sorrow and sickness she gives constant
care; she has (as you know) a great number of friends in the house, for
whose comfort and amusement she is anxious; and surely her own sweet
little girls must claim a portion of her time, to say nothing of the
school she has instituted for the children of the village. As you are
undoubtedly a thoughtful boy, it appears strange that you have not
considered this matter."

"I only thought that I wanted her, because I love her."

"So do we love to have mamma with us," cried Frank, "and dear papa too;
but we like that she should be happy with her guests, and also like very
much that he should be busy with the election, because, when he is again
made a member, he will do a deal of good in the parliament, I dare say.
You are a very generous boy, Edward, you would give any thing away to
help your fellow-creatures; but you don't seem to know, that a great
deal of good may be done distinct from charity; it is the duty of such
men as my papa to do it, and not to be always riding about with his own
sons."

"Yes, I do know _that_, or why should my father risk his life in the
East Indies? but I always thought _ladies_ should give up every thing in
the world for their children. I am sure my mamma did so; she would not
dine out with her nearest neighbour, for fear that I should want her at
home again."

"In consequence of which," said Mr. Fairthorne, "with many good
qualities, and great abilities, you have become unmanly and selfish,
incapable of self-denial, and unequal to any act of magnanimity; and
although you may never commit a great error, yet you will be a constant
subject of trouble to your friends."

This was perhaps the first direct reproof the poor boy had ever met
with, and it was therefore no wonder that his heart swelled for a moment
with indignation, and the tears twinkled in his eyes; but as Mr.
Fairthorne spoke in a tone of the utmost pity and kindness, and the boys
forbore not only to make any comment, but even to look towards him, this
angry emotion soon subsided, and he pondered in his mind on all that had
been said, beginning to suspect that he was not quite so perfect as he
had imagined himself to be, and much ashamed at being less manly and
independent than boys of his age ought to be, more especially one who
was the son of a brave soldier.

On returning home he could not rest till he had found Mrs. Bellaire;
when, seizing her hand, he drew her away from her party, saying--"Pray
tell me, what is the meaning of 'being selfish;' is it being covetous?"

"No, my dear, for very extravagant people are generally the most selfish
of all others. The sin of selfishness consists of----"

"Is it a _sin_?" cried the boy, in great agitation.

"Selfishness consists in not only loving yourself better than any other
person, but in seeking your own ease, pleasure, or profit, at any other
person's expense. It is of course a great sin against others, and also a
sin against God, who has given us this commandment, that we should love
our neighbours as ourselves, and do unto others as we would have them do
unto us; and selfish people never do these things."

"I now remember one night, when Frank and me were going to play at
nine-pins in the nursery, and Susan was sitting there, looking very
pale, with a bad head-ache, he went away directly, saying--'We would not
make a noise to disturb her;' I suppose that was being unselfish--was it
not?"

"It certainly arose from an opposite principle, my dear."

"And when Sinclair hurt his hand with the trap-ball, and gave over
crying suddenly, because little Emma was so sorry, I suppose he
conquered his selfishness?"

"He might be said to do more; such conduct at his age is magnanimity; it
combines fortitude with humanity."

"But you did not praise him for it--you only took care of his hand."

"I was really alarmed at the moment, the blood flowed so freely;
therefore my first cares were for the hand. I could rely on my dear
boy's disposition, and had seen too many proofs of its goodness to spoil
him by applause; he knew, that in my heart I must approve his conduct."

Edward had much to say still; but he cast his eyes towards a group of
ladies, and thought to himself, "perhaps they want Mrs. Bellaire as much
as I do," and he silently made his first effort of self-denial, by
relinquishing her hand, and retiring to the study, where he instantly
requested Mr. Fairthorne to give him a task, to which he applied with as
much diligence as the anxious frame of his mind would admit.

The next day there were no school duties attended to, for a joyful
holiday took place, not only through the house, but the country, Mr.
Bellaire being elected for the county; and the company, together with
the family, and a great number of the neighbouring nobility and gentry,
proceeded to the city in a magnificent cavalcade, to be present at his
chairing. In addition to the rich who came to do honour to the friend
they esteemed, were a numerous company of his tenants on horseback, well
dressed, with gay nosegays, and bunches of ribbon in their hats; and
after these came a multitude of decent poor men, women, and children,
most of whom were similarly decorated, and, to use their own phrase,
"putting the best foot foremost," with joyful faces and gay tongues,
that they might "see his honour in all his glory." All were proud and
happy, all sympathized in the delight and the triumph of the day; and
even Edward Elmore's pretty, but pensive countenance, was dressed in
smiles, when he received his hat, adorned like those of his companions
with ribbons.

There were many ladies to accommodate, all of whom wanted to be as near
Mrs. Bellaire as possible; she therefore, though with evidently some
pain, told her sons and Edward that they could not share her carriage,
but should go in the next barouche with Mr. Fairthorne.

"It is all the same to us, mamma," said Francis; but his late cheerful
open countenance shewed an inward struggle.

"It is not all the same to _me_, though," cried Edward, poutingly; but
he, too, checked himself, and mounted the steps of the carriage with
hilarity, which increased as he proceeded. The novelty of every thing
around him on entering the city, and proceeding to the hustings, where
bands of music were stationed, banners displayed, and immense crowds
assembled, whose loud reiterated hurrahs welcomed the advancing
carriages of their new member's family, operated on his mind as by a
happy contagion, and he became as merry, if not as noisy, as any boy in
that numerous assemblage.

Hitherto the slave of an ill-regulated sensibility, it was no wonder
that as the scene advanced in interest, the poor boy's spirits became
too highly exhilarated, especially as he could not forbear considering
himself immediately connected with the honours of the day, and the
mingled emotions of pride and timidity which affected him by turns,
added to the loud shouting, and the pealing of the bells, deprived him
of all self-possession; and as he stood up in the carriage waving his
handkerchief, those around were repeatedly obliged to warn him of
danger, lest he should fall out.

He became quiet and attentive during the time he listened to Mr.
Bellaire, whilst he addressed his constituents; but when the
acclamations of applause were again poured forth, his spirits rose with
the general feeling, and in the act of throwing up his arms, he lost his
equilibrium in such a manner, that he would have had a violent fall upon
the ground, head foremost, if Frank Bellaire had not grasped his legs,
and held him by main strength, until Mr. Fairthorne was enabled to
assist him.

Mrs. Bellaire having witnessed the circumstance with great terror,
caused him to be instantly removed to the carriage which she occupied,
where he was obliged to sit still, and soon became sensible that he had
not been ill used, when circumstances induced his excellent friend to
place him in his late situation.

They all departed home in the most joyful disposition imaginable, Mr.
Bellaire being then on horseback amongst his happy and grateful
tenantry; but as his fatigue had been very great, when they were about a
mile out of the city, Mrs. Bellaire and her friends so earnestly
entreated that he would take a seat in the carriage, that he consented,
observing,--"That Edward could now return safely to his companions--the
excitement was over."

Edward was indeed glad to go, for his heart overflowed with gratitude to
Francis, whose hands, though trembling with their burden, had held him
so kindly and so effectively: his troubles, however, on this eventful
day were not over; for as Mr. Bellaire dismounted, a young man begged
"to take his honour's horse, till the groom got up to the place;" and
most unfortunately, in the thoughtless hilarity of the hour, attempted
to mount him. The noble animal, conscious of the change, plunged and
flounced in such a manner, that in a few moments the young man was
flung into the very midst of the advancing carriage, which was coming at
a brisk rate to take up Edward Elmore.

Every one was terrified and grieved, expecting some very dreadful
catastrophe, especially as they saw the boy, usually so fearful, run
directly into the teeth of danger, by running to the spot where the
young man was exposed to the risk of being trampled to death by the
horses, if he were not already killed by the fall. All was for a minute
confusion; but as the coachman was clever and sober, the horses were
checked; the poor fellow crawled out dusty, frightened, and a little
bruised, but able to drag away Edward, who hung upon him, crying in
agony--"Where are you hurt? oh! where are you hurt?"

Thankful for the escape of both parties, Mr. Fairthorne took Edward into
the carriage, soothed his alarm, and pointed out the utter insufficiency
of any assistance he could have given to the poor young man, and the
increased agitation he had occasioned to his friends; but not in a tone
of blame, but kindness; so that the boy was fully convinced of the truth
of his observations, and really sorry that he had been, twice in one
day, the cause of so much alarm to that dear though temporary mamma,
whose pleasure he now sincerely wished to enhance. On their arrival at
home, so strong was his impression, that he could not rest till he got
up to her, and said, "he was extremely sorry he had been so foolish, and
alarmed her so much."

Mrs. Bellaire readily accorded him a kiss of forgiveness, saying, at the
same time--"How happened you to be so near falling?"

"I had quite forgotten myself with joy, and so I suppose I jumped up, or
something of that kind; all I know is, that Frank saved me--yes, saved
my life, by catching hold of me just at the right moment."

Mrs. Bellaire gave Frank a look, at once conveying that praise sweet to
the heart of a good child, and full of inquiry about the circumstances;
to which he replied--"I saw very plainly, mamma, that Edward could not
take care of himself; and knowing that he had never been used to it,
poor fellow, I never took my eye off him, by which means I caught him.
You know it was altogether a great confusion, though I never was so
pleased with any thing in my life."

"I am glad, my dear boy, to find that the confusion neither prevented
your head nor your heart from performing their proper functions. But,
Edward, my boy, though I can account for your adventure in the first
instance, I cannot in the second; you really ran under the horses' legs,
as if you meant to be killed."

"I quite forgot myself--I thought of nothing in the world but the poor
man that was thrown. I did not remember that I was only a child, and
could not help him, which I ought to have done."

"Well, my dear, don't be troubled about it," said Mr. Bellaire; "if you
were a foolish boy, at any rate you were not a selfish one, which is
much the worse character."

Edward's countenance brightened for a moment; but he recollected that
this kind gentleman had seen very little of him, and he looked eagerly
towards Mrs. Bellaire, to see if she seconded the observation.

"My dear boy," said she, "I sincerely rejoice that you have been able so
entirely to forget your own dear self, as you have done to-day--first,
in your joy, which certainly sprang from your love to me and my family,
however little you have hitherto shewn it; and secondly, in the ardent
compassion you felt for a suffering stranger. If you can carry these
good feelings into daily and hourly use, we shall soon see you a lively
amiable boy, improving in your learning, that you may make your dear
parents happy on their return, and possessing such a love for that which
is right, that you will not require the stimulant of praise, and much
too manly and self-possessed to hang helplessly on any one; above all,
you will be desirous of obeying your Heavenly Father, and being good and
pleasing to your fellow-creatures, for his sake."

"And shall I then be like Frank and Sinclair, and the brothers they talk
of, who are at Eton?"

"Undoubtedly you will, my dear."

"I will try--_indeed_ I will try," cried the boy, with extreme
animation; "for I am sure it is very foolish for any boy to go whining
about the house like a great pet, and very wicked to be a continual
trouble to the mamma who loves him too well, as mine has done. Oh! what
a happy thing it is that I came here to be improved, before my dear
papa came home to blush for me, and perhaps to blame my good mamma, for
calling me the best boy in the world!"

Edward tried with good effect; by degrees he became active, energetic,
independent, and yet modest, obedient, and every way tractable. When his
parents arrived in England, his fond and anxious mother was astonished
by his improvement, and particularly by that part of it which related to
his temper and disposition, which it was certain her blameable
indulgence had rendered a source of misery to them both. She now saw
clearly that her friend was a far better manager than herself, and had
performed more of the duties of her station, without neglecting any
other; and often would she say, whilst confessing her past errors, that
"the best have room to mend."




  THE

  RIDING-SCHOOL;

  OR,

  A CURE FOR CONCEIT.


Every school is an epitome of the world; large ones resemble the bustle
and mixture to be found in the metropolis; small societies of ten or
twelve young gentlemen may be compared to the narrow circle of a
village. The smaller family is frequently found to be a good preparative
for the larger; but hard indeed is the fate of that boy who plunges at
once from the indulgence and retirement of his father's house, into the
bustling, anxious turmoil attendant on so new a state of existence, as
a large community of schoolboys presents.

Mr. and Mrs. Appleby did not apprehend that their fondly-petted and only
son could experience any difficulties, when they agreed (from the warm
advice of a true friend) to send him to a far-distant school in the
neighbourhood of London; nor did the boy himself experience that
repugnance to the scheme which the friend had fully expected. He was
courageous by nature, and having been praised for all that he did, and
much that he did _not_ do, became naturally desirous of exhibiting his
powers beyond the circle of his admirers at home. The principal of these
were the groom and the stable-boy, who were never weary of extolling his
abilities, descanting on his future greatness, and assuring him that
"sitch gentlemen as he was need not bother their heads about larnin;"
and with this flattery he was so well satisfied, that he never minded
the assertion of the old gardener, when he said--"There might be little
learning, with great conceit."

When all was prepared for the expedition, and the youth had been
extolled for his resolution, obedience, talents, and what not, the
finishing stroke was put to the system by a maiden aunt of his father,
when she rode over to take leave of the hope of the family.--"My dear
Joey," said she, "I am quite grieved to tell you, that Captain Tresham
has the presumption to send his son James to the very same school that
you are going to, for no reason whatever but that he turns out a sharp
boy. What a fool he must be, to venture on such an expense, with three
girls to portion, and his property not to be named with your papa's! But
I hope, my dear, you will take care to let all the young gentlemen know
who he is, and who you are too. Never forget, my dear, that you may hold
up your head with any body. You are come of one of the oldest families
in Craven, and one of the richest too; remember that."

This precious nonsense, being backed by presents of various kinds,
besides three new sovereigns, was held so valuable by the poor boy, that
the kind advice of his travelling companion, during their long journey,
was entirely thrown away upon him; and he at length arrived at the gates
of Mapleton House, under the full persuasion that no person of equal
importance had lately passed them, and at any rate, that his late
neighbour, James Tresham, was decidedly his inferior. This was the case,
not only because his father was poorer, and therefore, in his opinion,
less of a gentleman; but the boy, though of the same age, was not so
tall as him, and certainly his inferior both as a huntsman and a shot.

It so happened that our travellers arrived just as Captain Tresham was
bidding his son farewell--an affair equally painful to both. The moment
his father was out of sight, James sprang forward to hail the arrival of
his young neighbour, with that cordial joy natural to boys so situated.
His overtures were repelled by Appleby with such haughtiness, that
James, though a mild boy, instantly recoiled, and determined to seek his
friends among strangers; he had been to school before, and knew how to
make acquaintances.

When in the evening the boys all sallied into the play-ground, Tresham
was soon engaged, whilst Appleby stood alone unnoticed, and of course
melancholy, for no flattering dependant was at hand to soothe and cheer
him. It was not long, however, before a good-humoured boy came up to
him, and inquired "if he would like to join his friend's set of
cricketers?"

"I have no friend here, I am sure."

"I mean Tresham--I did not know there was any difference between you."

"But there be a good deal of difference; I be the eldest son, and the
only son, of Joseph Appleby, Es-qui-er, of Appleby Hall, an' the oldest
family, or thereabouts, in the county of Craven; an' his father's nobbut
a second son, with four childer."

Whilst this speech was making, more than a score of auditors had
gathered round the speaker, and partly from the pompous tone, partly
from the provincialisms (which are inevitable to a gentleman's son who
is much with servants) of poor Joe, the whole group burst into laughter,
except one, and he was a very leading person in the community; stepping
forward, with a look of pompous gravity, he thus commenced acquaintance.

"Squi-er Joe, I be the son and heir of Sir Giles Gobbletop Greenhorn, of
Gosling Great-house, in the county of Gloucester, Knight and Barrownite,
and I hopes for the honour of being your friend--give me your fist,
boy."

Appleby mechanically held out his hand, and the peals of laughter were
redoubled; but the boys soon ran off to different sports, leaving Frank
Vivian, his new acquaintance, to amuse himself with what he called
"cutting up the Yorkshire goose-pie."

"These be very odd boys to my thinking," said Appleby.

"And you are a very odd one to theirs; but you will know each other
better by and by."

"Who are those two that are running so fast?"

"The one in green is Osborne, the other Seymour; but we generally
distinguish them as Lord Doodle and Lord Noodle. They are, in fact, both
noblemen, and were so silly, when they came here, as to think their
titles worth something, which was the cause of my dubbing them Tom
Thumb's heroes; but they are very good fellows now, and will lose their
appellatives for ever next holidays."

"Who is that tall boy? he is very handsome."

"That is Pelham, the head of the school--the very cleverest fellow we
have, in doors or out: he can drive four-in-hand as well as any coachman
on the road, and make fifty Latin verses before breakfast."

"And is he a lord, or a lord's son?"

"Not he truly; but the boy who carries his cricket-bat is the son of the
Marquis of Chaloner--of course, Lord Oglethorpe."

Appleby's spirits sank very low for a few minutes, in consequence of
perceiving how little he was likely to obtain distinction, from his
claims of family and fortune, seeing those whose pretensions were so far
above his were so effectually crushed. His habitual love of boasting
returned on the strength of his personal prowess; and he dilated on his
hunting and shooting, spoke of the admiration of the groom, the terror
of his mamma, and the astonishment of every creature in the village,
until Vivian's assumed gravity was completely put to the rout; yielding
to a fit of ungovernable laughter, he ran off to his companions, leaving
the hero of his own tale to mortification and disappointment.

The next day, alas! exhibited him in the school-room in a still more
humiliating situation; for although he had wearied out three private
tutors, he had scarcely gained the rudiments of Latin. The kind and
judicious manner in which his new instructor pitied his deficiencies,
and pointed out the necessity for overcoming them, only piqued him into
anger--he felt himself ill used on every side, and determined not to
remain any longer with such abominable company.--"No, he could write to
his mother, and he would; she would not let him stay in a place where he
was made both a laughing-stock and a slave."

His resolution gave way a little, when he saw the great Pelham advancing
towards him, for he was already aware that his notice would soon promote
him to honour.

"They tell me," said Pelham, "that you are of an old family?"

"So I am; both my aunt Mercy and my mamma said so."

"Did your forefathers distinguish themselves in the fields of Cressy and
Poictiers?"

Poor Appleby was exceedingly puzzled by this question.--"Surely," said
he to himself, "this Pelham must mean cresses and potatoes; but he has a
London tone in twanging his words." Unable to comprehend what was meant,
yet dreading a repetition of the laugh which had wounded him the
preceding evening, he answered doggedly--"My father's fields are the Lea
closes, and the Cowslip meadows, and the Gosling green, and the----"

Peals of laughter again rent the air; and so bitter was the vexation he
experienced, that his rage overcame him, and he began to pull off his
jacket, as if for the purpose of fighting all around him.

"Ha! ha!" cried one, "the Es-qui-er is peeling; he will soon come to the
scratch!"

"Never fear!" said another; "he'll spill no claret!"

"No," cried a third; "Don Pomposa is craven by confession. The
Gosling-green! ha, ha, ha, ha! ha, ha, ha!"

Though boiling in every vein with useless rage, Appleby heard at this
moment Tresham, in a voice much above its usual gentle pitch, explaining
the circumstance of Craven being a district in Yorkshire, where many
great battles had been fought, and many brave men might be found. His
heart was a little touched by this generosity, in one whom he had
treated so improperly; and his shame for the ignorance he had been
conscious of was properly awakened, since he now became sensible that
Pelham's questions related to passages in the history of England, which
his mamma had vainly solicited him to read.

Quitting his companions, he betook himself to his lesson, and, to get
rid of uneasy reflections, learned his task with so much care, that on
the following morning the doctor praised his diligence; and this praise
was so sweet, that for some days he abandoned his design of leaving the
school; but as he was now either consigned to solitude or ridicule,
during those play-hours which ought to have been the happiest in his
life, the idea was soon revived; and when he found that the following
Monday was a holiday, as being the doctor's birthday, he determined to
use the leisure it offered, and put his design into execution.--"I shall
have the school-room to myself, and I shall manage to write unseen by
any of them, for I won't stay with such a pack of untamed terriers, that
I won't."

When, however, the long wished-for Monday came, it was impossible for
Appleby to refrain entirely from joining in the sports of the day,
especially as the amusement proposed was immediately connected with
those animals amongst whom he had hitherto spent the greatest part of
his time; nor could he have any rational doubt but that his judgment in
all that respected _them_ was equal to that of his tormentors.

Mapleton House, like many others now appropriated to schools, had
formerly been a nobleman's mansion, and amongst other vestiges of former
days, had a large separate building, used in old times as a
banqueting-room, but of late more frequently as a fencing, or riding
school. To this spot every quadruped used about the establishment, or
which could be borrowed for money or good-will, from the neighbouring
tradespeople and farmers, was brought for the use of the young
gentlemen.

It was agreed, that the whole body should sally forth as the heroes of
Waterloo, in all the hurry, confusion, trepidation, and valour, which
belonged to that eventful hour, when, called on the instant from the gay
dance and splendid festival at Brussels, men and officers plunged at
once into the awful duties and terrific conflict of that field, whose
glorious results the youth of Britain do well to remember, even in their
sports.

Pelham was of course to enact the Duke of Wellington, Vivian the Marquis
of Anglesea; Oglethorpe was declared aid-de-camp to the former; and
candidates innumerable started up for the same office to the latter.
Indeed it was found that no one had a taste for being a private; and the
field-marshal distributed colonelcies and majorities with a lavish
hand, yet stern, imperturbable countenance. Tresham presented himself,
begging to hold his own father's rank on the field of Waterloo, and this
claim could not be refused, although he was "a new boy;" and it had been
already agreed, that as not more than a fourth of the party could be
mounted, those of the longest standing should be preferred as cavalry.

In consequence of this law, several boys, utterly ignorant of the
management of a horse, or even a donkey, were mounted, and as quickly
floored, to the great amusement of the infantry, who never failed to set
up a shout of derision, when a dragoon officer had a misfortune; nor
were there wanting several wags, who tried to increase the number of
such accidents, under the idea that no serious mischief could arise, so
long as the doctor's groom superintended their proceedings. All were
busy, bustling, and happy, save poor Appleby, who, while he looked with
contempt on the steeds assembled, and declared that not one was worth
mounting, yet suffered far greater mortification than those who were
spilled by the asses, from perceiving that not a single place was
offered to him, even among the little-boy squad of privates. Just as he
was about to retreat, for the purpose of collecting his thoughts, and
writing his important letter, he saw Vivian enter, with a cap and cloak
_en militaire_, beckoning with his sword the lovers of fun around him,
and taking from his pocket what appeared to be a letter, from which, in
a snuffling tone, he began to read.

"Here you shall have a full, true, and particular account and history of
Mister Marmaduke Milksop, shewing how the tender pretty little dear was
tied to his mamma's apron-strings for above twelve long years, and rode
on a little Highland pony as big as a Welsh goat--here we go up, up,
up, and here we go down, down, downy; and telling as how he went to
school a great way off, where the naughty boys all laughed at him, and
went for to say they were as good as he was, which every body knows to
be quite an impossible thing; and how he sent his mamma the following
beautiful and pathetic epistle, all written in rhyme, which may be said
or sung."

"I didn't do any such thing--and I won't hear such lies--and I'll tell
the doctor," roared out Appleby, with stentorian lungs.

"Sing it, Vivian, do sing it, that's a good fellow," cried a score of
voices as they closely hemmed in the provoking guesser of the treasured
secret, who, now springing on the horse-block, began to drawl out in
recitative the following lines:--

      Oh! mother most dear,
      I cannot stay here,
  For the boys are such mischievous elves,
      That instead of respect,
      I find nought but neglect,
  As if I were a scrub like themselves.

      Nay, I give you my word,
      That if I were a lord,
  And, alas! I am only a squire,
      Without learning and spirit,
      And stuff they call merit,
  I never could get a step higher.

      Then come, mother, come,
      And take your boy home,
  To chicken, and custard, and cake,
      Or the scholars so bluffy,
      The doctor so huffy,
  The heart of your Joey will break.

"'Tis false, I say, all false," cried Appleby, in an ecstacy of
indignation, the moment he could be heard; "I love the doctor, and I
scorn chickens and custard as much as any body; and I'm no more of a
Miss Nancy than any boy here."

"No, that he is not," bawled Tresham, as he pushed into the circle; "so
far from that, he is the best rider in his neighbourhood, a capital
shot, a generous boy, too, and good-natured enough. My papa always said
he would be a very good boy, if it were not for a little--a little----"

"A little pride, a little ignorance, and not a little self-conceit,"
said Pelham, advancing on an old grey horse, chosen for its colour as
his charger. "However, let him be what he may, you are an honour to your
county; and whilst I am at the head of affairs here, you shall never
want a friend."

"In that case, dear Pelham, let us make every one happy to-day at
least," said Tresham.

"Vivian, give me that paper," said Pelham; "I conclude you have no
copy."

"None, upon the honour of a general; my effusions are unfortunately
doomed to die in their birth."

"Here, Master Appleby, is the paper; I need not tell you to destroy it
immediately."

Appleby sprang forward to receive the scrawl; but ere he reached Pelham,
he threw his arms round Tresham's neck, and sobbed out in great
emotion--"Pray forgive me, dear James--pray do forgive me."

"Hurra! hurra!" shouted Vivian, "we shall make a man of him yet."

"I should be very, _very_ glad that you would make _any thing_ of me,"
said the humbled boy, struggling with his tears; "yes, any thing, so
that you would not laugh at me, and put 'Mister' before my name, and
turn me into fun, and leave me to myself."

"No more we will," said his late tormentor, "if you drop your
nonsensical airs of self-importance. I don't doubt but you were thought
highly of in your father's house, but we have no great men here, till
they have fairly earned their fame, which, I must tell you, is usually
up in the school, before it travels into the play-ground; and I need not
tell you how low you stand in the first-mentioned place. If you are
industrious and modest, and merry withal, you will find Mapleton House a
pleasant home; but if you play braggadocia----"

"But I won't do it. I did not mean to do it. I only just wanted you all
to know who I was, and what I could do."

"And you began by undervaluing your neighbour, though he was the son of
a brave officer, a _real_ Waterloo soldier--the very character every
schoolboy honours, next to the king himself: and so will you, when your
head is clear of the nonsense with which nurses, dependants, and
sycophants have filled it. But cheer up; you are not a fool, therefore
will not long remain a dunce. Osborne, my man, can you take Appleby into
your set?"

"Most willingly," said the young scion of nobility; but just as he
spoke, he was thrown head-foremost from the braying animal to which he
had been appointed. Appleby helped him up with the utmost alacrity, and
inquired after his injuries with equal tenderness. Happily they were
very slight; but Appleby added, with much humanity--"You had better not
mount him again: he has hurt the fetlock joint, poor thing! and is
therefore restive."

"I think my charger is little better than his donkey," said Pelham, in a
kind and familiar tone; "is any thing the matter with him?"

"Your groom, my Lord Duke, would tell you that he is not right in the
foreleg pastern, and is altogether spavined; but being blood, he carries
it off handsomely. To my mind, the butcher's black mare is far the best
tit in the whole muster."

"Then mount her, and follow me as Sir Thomas Picton."

Appleby, proud and joyful, instantly obeyed, and by his rapid movement
and good action, shewed that he had been indeed accustomed to ride; but
he was so afraid of being accused of exhibition, that he hung down his
head, blushed excessively, and was altogether seen to disadvantage,
until the floundering of the donkeys near put his steed to his mettle,
and proved that he had all the characteristics of a good sitter.

Tresham, anxious to support his own assertion, and kindly disposed
towards his regained companion, failed not to call the attention of
Vivian, and even Pelham, to the management and prowess of Appleby.

"Let him alone; he knows what he's about. Look how square he sits! His
breast out--his legs easy--hand firm--touch delicate! Ah, ah! you may
frisk and plunge, Mrs. Blackey, but you will soon find your master!
There he comes to easy, easy. Now trot her round, Appleby; and then we
shall be all right, and ready to obey orders."

Happy in the consciousness that he had wiped off the opprobrium of being
a milksop, and determined that he would prove himself capable of being a
scholar, Appleby's good humour returned; whilst his assumption of
superiority was for ever discarded; and in a short time it appeared
surprising to himself, how he could ever have entertained for a moment,
in idea, such an ignoble line of conduct as that of quitting the school,
where alone he could be rendered wise and manly, in order to live at
home in ignorance and stupidity, the shame of his parents, and the jest
of the neighbourhood.

When, a year afterwards, he passed the Midsummer vacation at Appleby
Hall, every one was alike struck by his improved manners, and his
increased affections; and they observed, with great truth, "that the
acquisitions of his mind were at least equalled by those of his heart."
They were not previously aware, that vain conceited children are rarely
of an amiable and loving nature, because their pride forbids the growth
of gratitude in them, by inspiring the belief that all kindness is
merely the proper tribute to their own superiority.

So sensible was Appleby of the change in himself, and the increased
pleasure derived from it, that he was never weary of praising Mapleton
House, and all connected with it; but dearer, far dearer, than all
besides, was the kind Tresham, who had rewarded good for evil, and
delivered him from the bitterest sorrow he had ever experienced. Many a
time, in the hours of their happy holiday intercourse, he would remind
him of those obligations which would otherwise have been entirely
forgotten, by saying, emphatically--"Dear Tresham, surely I shall never
again become such a silly spoiled boy as I once was, let the people
about me flatter as they may? Do pray watch over me, like a true friend,
as you are; and if ever I am again likely to play the fool, remind me of
the Riding-School, and I am certain the recollection will serve as a
'Cure for Conceit.'"


  THE END.


  J. BILLING, PRINTER, WOKING.


  =Transcriber's Notes:=
  original hyphenation, spelling and grammar have been preserved as in
    the original
  Page 30, "this till now?" changed to "this till now."




[End of _Rich Boys and Poor Boys, and Other Tales_
by Mrs. Hofland]
