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LonNDON
DEAN & SON. LUDGATE HILL
FANNY AND ARTHUR:
OR,
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
A TALE OF INTEREST.
By MISS WINNARD,
AUTHOR OF
*‘ Pippie’s Warning,â€â€™ ** Arbell,’? &c.
WITH FOUR COLOURED ENGRAVINGS.
Wonvow 3
DEAN & SON, 11, LUDGATE HILL.
FANNY AND ARTHUR.
NET LL RRS IL,
Chanter i
oo 0D NN 2M 8.
ARTHUR § TROUBLE.
ANNY anp Artuur were the two
eldest children of Mr. and Mrs. _
Reynolds. Fanny was rather more than
eleven years old, and Arthur was just
ten. They had also several little brothers
and sisters, Walter and Tom, and Lucy,
and Carey, the baby; but it is of Fanny
and Arthur that I wish to speak particularly
in this little book. ‘ You must understand,
that although Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds
lived in London, yet their eldest child
B | 5
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
Fanny, had been brought up for the chief
part of her short life at Fairdown-court,
a large old-fashioned farm-house, in a
beautiful part of Kent, belonging to her
grandpapa Chester. Here. there were a
great many uncles and aunts, her
mamma's brothers and sisters, who were
very kind to Fanny, besides grandpapa
and grandmamma, who were so fond of
her, that they wished her to live there
always, and never called her anything but
“the little darling.â€
Fanny was a very araty: little girl;
strong and healthy,—a little of a romp, a
Tittle spoiled and wilful, but very affection-
ate, and gentle to all those whom she loved
and respected. She was very fond of read-
ing, and would sit, for hours together, as
quiet as a mouse, if you gave her a pretty
bock. This is all I shall say just now
about Fanny. She had some faults,—really
great faults, which you will find out for
yourselves as you go on with this story.
Fanny had been at home in London .
6
THE **GOOD NEWs.â€
several months; and she and Arthur had
been doing their lessons regularly with Miss
Maitland, their governess, without having
had ‘a holiday for a long time.
It was past one o'clock, one day, and
Miss Maitland had just gone, when Fanny
and Arthur were called out of the play-room
hy their mother, who said she had something
to tell them.
“Oh! what is it, mamma?†they both
exclaimed, as they ran after her into the
drawing-room.
“Bide a wee,—and you shall see;
Sit down near,—and you shall hear,â€
Sang their mamma, in a merry tune; for
she was a very cheerful lady, and made
every one lively and good-tempered who
came into her company. Fanny used to
think her mamma was like the larks at
Fairdown, when they sang in the sun-light.
But though Mrs. Reynolds laughed and
sang so merrily, yet her children all knew.
that she expected them to do what she
7
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
desired, if it were ever’ so trifling a thing;
so, on the present occasion, Fanny sat
down on an ottoman at her mother’s feet,
and Arthur, with his.top in his hand, ready
strung, stood still by her chair to listen.
“TI have just had a letter from your uncle
Tom, and he is coming here to morrow.â€
‘Hurrah! hurrah!†cried Arthur, flou-
rishing his top over ise head. ‘“That’s
capital news, mamma.â€
“But that is not all, my bik What
do you think he is coming for.â€
“For business, I suppose, mamma; and
to see you and papa. If I were uncle Tom,
and lived in such a beautiful place as Fair-
down, with woods and fields, and horses
and dogs, and so many other things, I would
not come into dirty noisy London, I know.â€
“Think again, Arthur.—Is there nothing
else you would like to come to London for ?
No new and curious machines? No
_ Polytechnic Institution? No Panoramas
and Dioramas of foreign places? No lec-
tures to hear on chemistry and mechanics ¢
38
WHY PEOPLE COME TO LONDON.
No learned and clever masters to teach
you? No shops, where you can buy books
and mathematical instruments, and all
things wanted. for boys who mean to be
cultivated and useful men, as well as first-
rate engineers ? Is there nothing but dirt
and noise in London? Eh! Arthur?â€
«Why you see, mamma,†began Arthur,
crossing one little leg over the other, in an
argumentative manner, while both hands
(the top in one) disappeared in the pockets
of his trousers. ‘* You see, mamma, I was
thinking just then, how very nice it would
be to live in the country, and so I forgot all
about the useful things there are in London.
That is just my way. It is very stupid of
me, Fanny says. No, not stupid, she did
not say stupid, because that would have
been unkind; but very slow and dull, not
to be able to consider two things at once.
Fanny says it makes me wnfair; and the
other day papa was talking about some one
who could not see two sides to a question,
and he said that his judgment was worth
9
PERSEVEKE AND PROSPER.
nothing. Now, mamma that is like me.
[ have been wanting to speak to you about
this. Fanny thinks that it is only because
I am a little boy; and that when I am
grown up, I shall be almost as sensible as
you and papa, and nobody will say my
judgment is worth nothing. Now, I think,
and it makes me so miserable, mamma,â€
here his little face was contracted slightly,
and tears came into his honest blue eyes,—
“YT am very much afraid that I was born
rather stupid, and shall never be clever, and
understand things rightly and quickly, as
Fanny does. I should like to know what
you think about it, mamma.â€
Fanny jumped up, and threw her arms
round her brother’s neck, and kissed him,
at the end of this speech, which was a long
speech for Arthur, who was by no means a
talkative boy. Mrs. Reynolds knew by his
looks, and by what he had said, that his
thoughts must have been much occupied
- with this subject ; and although she felt very
much inclined to kiss him too, and tell him
AO
A MOTHER'S ADVICE.
he was quite clever enough for her to love
him and listen to him at all times, yet she
thought it would be best to try and satisfy
his mind on the matter. So she looked
quite grave, and said: —
“T will tell you what I think, Arthur.
You are only ten years old; and at that age
the portion of your mind, called the reason-
ing power, is not developed, that is grownup.
Things that are very plain and simple, you
can understand ; things that are not plain
and simple, you cannot understand. Butif
you continue strong and healthy in body,
and strive to learn all the useful things that
are taught you, and persevere in your pre-
sent desire to be true and just, you will, by
degrees, become a sensible fellow; and, in
due time, a man, upon whose reasoning and
judgment most people will rely—lI for one.â€
“You, mamma? You are so clever.â€
“Yes, Arthur. It would not be very
clever in me, you know, not to value the
judgment of a well-informed, sensible man,
because he was once my little sonny.â€
11
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
Here his mother drew him to her, and kissed
his relaxing forehead.
«But am I not very slow in understand-
ing, mamma?—Fanny learns and under-
stands everything in a moment.â€
“Yes, Arthur, my dear, you are rather
slow at present; but you will not always
be slow, I think. You must not think
yourself stupid, because you cannot learn as
fast as your sister. Remember, she is a
year older than you, and that she is a girl.
I do not know why God has made it so, but
little girls generally learn much faster and
better than little boys; but, when they are
older, about seventeen or eighteen, boys
learn more, and faster than girls, and
much more difficult things. So if you wait
patiently, you will do better than Fanny in
a great many things.â€
“Tf I can only do half as well, mamma,â€
said Arthur beginning to take courage. “I
am so glad you think I am not really
stupid,†and he kissed his mother atlection-
ately.
a2
ARTHUR’S COURAGE REVIVES.
* He need not make himself miserable
about that,—need he, mamma?†inquired
Fanny, with a sweet-loving smile. “He fears
he shall be a silly, useless man, just because
he cannot work a sum all right, at first, and
spell long words, like concatenation.â€
‘“‘T think the only chance he has of being
a silly, useless man, is by making himself
miserable with the fear of it, now; because
that would show a forgetfulness of God’s
goodness. Do you not remember, dears,
that we are told not to be ‘weary in well
doing, for in due season we shall reap, if we
faint not?’ Therefore, itis certain, Arthur,
darling, that if you will only keep up your
courage, and — in your present
endeavours to gain knowledge, and good
habits of quickness and clearness of thought,
you will succeed in time.â€
“Mamma dear,†said Arthur earnestly,
‘with his arm round her neck, “I will be
courageous ; I 27// er. from this day,
if you.will help me.’
“Arthur, will it not be best to try ithe
id
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
out relying on my help? I may not always
be with you. For instance, when you go to
school, or, when you are on a visit. Now,
you must be able to persevere in the right
path, m industry, and habits of attention
to your studies, without having any one to
remind you of your duty and to help you to
perform 1t,—no one but God.â€
‘“‘T will, mamma. I will, indeed. I
almost wish I could begin and try without
you, directly.â€
“That is a lucky wish,†said his mother,
smiling, and taking a letter from her pocket,
“for that reminds me of the rest of my
news. Uncle Tom is not coming upon
business, this time; but he is coming to
take you and Fanny to Fairdown, in a
week.â€
“Oh! oh! Joy! joy! joy!†exclaimed
Fanny, dancing about with delight, while
Arthur stood with his great eyes fixed on
his mother, in eager curiosity and astonish-
ment. :
« Papa and I are going into Scotland, to
14
MORE “GOOD NEWS.â€
see your grandpapa Reynolds. We shall be
away two or three months. Nurse is to take
Tom and Lucy,and Carey down to Worthing
during that time; and you two are to re-
main at Fairdown.—So now, Arthur, you
have a capital opportunity ‘of persevering
in your new resolution, without my help.â€
_ Arthur looked as if he would rather have
the help, nevertheless; but he was much
pleased at the idea of spending two whole
months at Fairdown, with Fanny, too, who
knew all about the place and the people.
Arthur had never been there, since he was a
baby, so it would be all new tohim. The
children asked a hundred questions about
their parents’ plans; and were so much
interested in this conversation with mamma,
that they were quite sorry when the first
bell rang for the early dinner, and they
were obliged to go and make themselves neat.
“Need I brush my hair, mamma?†said
Arthur, raking it down with his fingers.
“Yes, my dear,†said his mother, laugh-
ing. ‘ You must not only brush your hair,
15
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
but you must wash your face and hands,
and put on a clean collar, and brush your
jacket.â€
Arthur looked very incredulous as to the
necessity of all this. His mother reminded
him that he ought to acquire habits of per-
sonal cleanliness and propriety, while he
was a child, because they were necessary to
health and character through life. She said
that the acquisition of such habits was a
duty, and therefore, although he found it
irksome, he ought to persevere in the endea-
vour to attain them. “ In these little things,
as in the greater ones of which we were
speaking just now, the same maxim holds
good—Persevere, and you will prosper.â€
“Very well, mamma! Good bye now.—
Come along, Fanny. I am going to be a
persevering prosperous dandy from this day.
Now for arun: who will be up stairs first 2â€
10
Chanter IW,
UNCLE TOM,
AND THE PEOPLE AT FAIRDOWN.
T SUPPOSE you have all some favourite
| - uncle—an uncle who is always asso-
ciated in your minds with holidays, and
treats, and presents, and all sorts of fun
and amusement; an uncle whom you do
not see very often and yet love very much ?
Well, this is precisely the sort of uncle that
came to take Fanny and Arthur to Fair-
down-court. In fact, uncle Tom was the
king of this kind of relation. The moment
he came into the house, every body seemed
gayer and brighter, from Sam “the boy,â€
who took his portmanteau from the cabman,
and subsequently told the cook he “should
give the knives a hextra polish, as Mr.
Chester was come,†to Mr. Reynolds himself,
| er
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
who left his office half an hour earlier than
usual, to see his brother-in-law, and have a
chat with him before dinner. If laughter
be a good preparative for the business of
digestion, there: was enough of it in Mrs.
Reynolds’ drawing-room that half hour
before dinner, to enable all the family to
live like ostriches for a week to come, if
they were so disposed. I dare say you know
that ostriches are able to eat, and digest
easily, things which other animals cannot.
At last, dinner was announced, and the
children were left to amuse themselves.
The younger ones went up to the nursery,
to play at “School,†and Fanny and Arthur
squeezed themselves, in what they consi-
dered a comfortable manner, into a large
easy chair by the drawing-room window.
This chair was what they called their
council-seat, and they always sat in it
together, whenever they had anything parti-
cular to talk about. On the present occa-
sion, they both ran to the council-seat, as
soon as the little ones were fairly gone.
18
THE WELCOME VISITOR.
“Now, Fanny, I want you to tell me a
great many things about our aunts and
uncles at Fairdown,â€â€™ exclaimed Arthur,
flinging himself, head first, into the chair.
“Well, make room for me, then ;—and
stop till I get settled. Oh! mind my new
sash, there’s a good boy; and do not tumble
my frock more than you can help. You
must just kick about a little less than
usual, you know.â€
“Oh! dearme. How fine we are to day!
What is the good of girls wearing such
clothes, that they must not move about in?
Just as if uncle Tom would like you a bit
better in a pink sash and a new frock!
What does mamma make you do it for, I
wonder ¢â€
“Tm sure I wish I had my morning
frock on, as much as you do; but I
think I know why Mamma wished us to
wear better dresses than usual. It is not
exactly because Uncle Tom would like us
better in them, but because it is a mark of
respect to him. Do you not think we ought
19
‘PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
to give the best of everything we have to
the people we think most of?†'
“Yes,†said Arthur; “I know it is
quite right, that mamma should give uncle
the best bed-room to sleep in, and have
more and nicer things for dinner and break-
fast, and try and make him as comfortable
as ever she can ;—that is being hospitable ;
is it not? But I do not see why she should
put on that fine new silk gown of hers,
and wish you to wear that pretty white
frock and such a grand sash, and make me
put on my best jacket. I do not see what
that has to do with being hospitable,—you
don’t give the things to uncle Tom. It’s
stupid, I think.â€
“Don’t be too sure of that, Ar-
thur,†said Fanny thoughtfully. “Mamma
never does a stupid thing, I’m sure.
Besides, does not everybody put on their
best clothes, when they go to see their
friends, or when their friends come to see
them? Even Cook and Sam, you know are
quite smart when they go to see their
20
THE LITTLE QUESTIONER.
friends. And why does anybody ever have
best clothes at all? we might just as well
have all our things alike; because, we might
be quite as neat and clean, you know, as if .
we wore company dresses. I’m sure there
must be something in it,—some reason that
we have not thought of, for taking all the
trouble of dressing for visitors.. Let us
ask mamma, for I don’t think I can find it
out for you.†.
“Very well! What were we going to talk
about? I quite forget,†said Arthur.
“ You were going to ask me some ques-
tions about Fairdown. But I am sure I
must have told you everything you want to
know, hundreds and hundreds of times. I
do not think you will be able to make out
what sort of people grandpapa and grand-
mamma and aunt Mimmy are, till you see
them.â€
“Mimmy! That sounds such a queer
name! What makes people call her so?
mamma calls her Marianne,†said Arthur.
“Oh! When I was quite a little thing,
Gg 21
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
and could not speak plain, I used to call her
« Auntie Mimmy,†and a good many people
called her by that name too; and I like it, and
I call her so now; and you must call her
Mimmy too, Arthur, just to please me,
dear; will you?â€
“Oh! yes, if you like it. But tell me
about her.†;
“Well, you know, dear Arthur,†said
Fanny, looking very grave, “that poor
Auntie Mimmy is blind.â€
“Yes,†replied Arthur, nestling his head
upon his sister’s shoulder, and whispering, in
a sorrowful tone, “It must be a dreadful
thing to be blind. Fanny, I do not think
I shall like to see Auntie Mimmy ;—it will
make me so very miserable. What, can’t
she see even your nice, kind face, when you
go quite close to her eyes, and kiss her?â€
“No, Arthur.’ Nobody’s face, and not
even the sun on the brightest day.â€
“Poor Auntie Mimmy! she must be
very unhappy.â€
“Qh! dear, no. There you are quite
2%
BLIND AUNT MIMMY.
wrong. Auntie Mimmy is never unhappy.
She is very cheerful; not quite so merry as
dear mamma, but still she is quite as happy,
really.â€
“How can that be, Fanny? when she
has not half as many things to make her
happy.â€
“Do you know, Arthur dear ?†said Fanny
in low tone, “I think God loves Auntie
Mimmy very much, and that makes her so
happy. I know she loves God better than
anything in the world; better than she
loves me even; and she thinks about Him
always. Now we know that people who
think a great deal about God, can never be
dull and miserable; and so it is that Auntie
Mimmy is so cheerful, and seems to enjoy
everything and love everybody, though she
cannot see them.â€
“Dear Auntie Mimmy ! I am gure I shall
love her. What sort of a face has she?
and†—Here Arthur hesitated a little,—
“and cannot her eyes open at all ?—that
must look very horrible!’ Fanny laughed a
23
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
little at his mistake, and explained that,
though his aunt could not see, yet that she
had eyes just like other people. “Such
clear, large, blue eyes, Arthur. You would
not know that she was blind, at first;
because she looks at you when you speak
to her; I mean, turns her eyes to the place
where your voice comes from. It is only
after a time, that you are sure she cannot
see anything, because her eyes do not
change, and she does not shut them when
the sun shines full into her face, as people
do that can see. I do not know whether
you will like the rest of her face, but I
think it the most beautiful face in the
world, next to mamma's. She has such
pretty hair, just like the corn when it is
ripe, and it grows in curls all round her
head, and hangs on her soft pink cheeks.
Sometimes, I think she looks like that
beautiful angel in the picture, in mamma's
room. Indeed, Arthur, it is of no use talk-
ing about what Auntie Mimmy is like. - I
can’t tell properly; there is nothing like
24
GRANDPAEA’S DROLLERIES.
her in the whole world, I’m sure; and so
everybody says, you know.â€
_ “Yes, I know everybody says that; but
I never quite understood about it till now.
I never liked to ask much about her, you â€
know, because she is blind. I was afraid
it would be unkind, and so I waited till I
knew I was going to Fairdown, and could
see her. “But I am glad I did ask you to
tell me a little. Now, what is grandpapa .
like ?â€
“Oh, he is such a dear, kind grandpapa!
He lets me ‘do anything I like; and only
laughs if I do wrong things, as I used to do
very often. And when aunt Sophy was
scolding me, he often used to make me
laugh too, with his funny faces; and then
aunt was very cross. Grandpapa is not so
tall as uncle Tom, and stoops his head
forward, just so. His hair is quite a shining
white. I suppose he is very old; but he is
quite strong, and walks about the fields all
day, with a thick stick in his hand; and he
has a funny sort of hat, with a broad brim,
25
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
like a lady’s riding hat; and he wears a
long coat, and great shoes laced up in
front. He is very fond of talking, and
sometimes he talks to himself, as he walks
along the fields. But I like him best when
he is sitting in his great chair, after tea;
and makes us all come and sit down too,
and talk over everything that has happened
in the day; and makes me say some poetry;
and Aunt Sophy and Aunt Julia and Uncle
Tom sing together; and last of all, before I
go to bed, Auntie Mimmy plays a hymn,
and we all sing it, and then Uncle Walter
(you know him) reads prayers, and after
that I go to bed, and then they have supper.â€
- “But you have not said anything about
grandmamma,†said Arthur, who had been
listening very attentively to his sister.
“Grandmamma is such a little, tiddy old
lady. She is not much bigger than I am.â€
“Oh, Fanny!†exclaimed Arthur. Fanny
had a bad habit of exaggeration in her
account of things; and he thought this
could not be quite true. He could not easily
26
THE ALTERCATION.
form the notion that so venerable a personage
as grandmamma Chester, his own mother’s
mother, was only a little bigger than such
a girl as Fanny.
“Indeed, indeed, Arthur!’ she began
with animation ; but seeing him look as if
he were not going to believe her, she
changed her tone, and said in rather @ CLOSs
way, “Very well! if you do not choose Me
believe me, I shall not tell you any more.â€
“Now, don’t get into a passion, Fanny,
dear !â€
“No, Arthur, I am not going to get intoa
passion. But I do not like you to say I
tell stories.â€
“Well, but, Fanny, what am I to do
when I think you say what is not. quite
true? J am not going to pretend that I
believe you when I don’t.â€
“Well I think you might believe me,’
said Fanny, now quite angry.
«But I can’t, because you know very
well, you often say things that turn out not
to be true,†said Arthur, getting cross too.
27
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
“ ‘You remember about ihe blue roses, une
the man three yards high?â€
“Oh! that was a long time ago,†said
Fanny scornfully. “ And I was very nearly
right, you know; for the roses had blue
streaks, and the man was more than two
yards high; papa said so. And I don’t
call not veing quite right in every syllable
I say, telling falsehood.â€
“Well, I don’t call it telling truth,†said
Arthur, “and it is so tiresome; because I
like your telling about things better than
anybody’s, when I do not recollect your way
of making them out tobe more than they are.â€
“Then perhaps you think I have been
telling stories all along about Fairdown and
Auntie Mimmy and grandpapa and aunts
and uncles,†said Fanny looking half indig-
nant and half unhappy; for she felt that
there was some truth in Arthur’s accusation,
and she was very sorry he had come to dis-
believe her statements. .
“No, Fanny, dear; I don’t think that.
Pm ‘sure all that is true, from what I hear
28
EXAGGERATION.
other people say, and because it seems like
truth; but it does not seem like truth, to
say that grandmamma Chester is only a
tile taller than a child like you.â€
« Well, I declare she is not much more
than a head taller.â€
“Much more than a head!†retorted
Arthur derisively, “I call that a great eos
taller, not a little.†eo
‘Well, all I know is†said Fanny recover-
ing her temper again; for, to do her justice,
she was never out of temper long, “ grand-
mamma is always called a little ola lady;
and she is a great deal shorter than mamma.
Do you believe me, now 2â€
“Oh, yes,†said Arthur thoroughly satis-
fied, “that’s a very different thing.â€
“Well, grandmamma is always very busy
all the morning before twelve o'clock;
giving orders to the servants, and going
into the pantry and the dairy, and to the
poultry-yard, and other places. I always
used to go with her to take the eges. Such
a quantity there used to be sometimes!
29
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
because we had hundreds and hundreds of
all sorts of poultry.â€
“Hundreds and hundreds!’ exclaimed
Arthur again; “is that quite true?â€
‘Well! how particular you are to-day!
I’m sure there were fifty or sixty cocks and
hens, and twenty ducks, and a great many >
turkeys and guinea fowl. It is so nice to
go and feed them; they look so pretty all
together in a crowd.â€
*“T should like to feed them, too,†said
Arthur. “Do you think grandmamma will
let me, ever?â€
“Yes, I am sure she will, dear ; and give
you some for your own too. She gave me
such a pretty little bantam hen and a brood
of chickens.â€
“Ts grandmamma kind in her way of
talking ?â€
“Oh yes! very, in general; but there
are some things she is very particular about.
And then, you will not think she is very
kind, at first; because she has got a way of
frowning, and looking very hard at you;
30
=e
i %
ARTHUR’S QUESTIONS.
almost as if she thought you are going to
‘be naughty, but she is not really cross. In
the evenings, she used often to tall me such
pretty stories while she was knitting. She
does such quantities of knitting ; and if
you just happen to take up her work, and
drop a stitch,—oh! then she gets downright
angry. Now, you have seen Aunt Sophy
and Aunt Julia, so you do not want me to
tell you about them.â€
“Yes, but I do, though. I only remember
that they came here a long time ago, and
that one of them had a face like mamma’s.â€
«That was Aunt Sophy. She takes care
of me and mends my clothes and teaches
me my lessons.â€
‘“What? are we to do lessons at Fair-
down?†asked Arthur, somewhat dismayed.
“Yes, I should think we ought to do
some, if Aunt Sophy will teach us. You
need not mind. She is not half so strict
as Miss Maitland.â€
« But I like Miss Maitland, and I do not
want anyone else to teach me.â€
31
5 PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
“Well, perhaps you will like Aunt Sophy
as well. Then there is Aunt Julia; she is
the housekeeper, and is so kind, and gives
you nice things out of the store-room; and
when she makes pastry on the baking days,
- Tam always allowed to be with her, and
make little cakes, You can’t think how
nice that is. Aunt Julia sings all over the
house, like mamma, only she is much graver,
and never says such funny things. She is
very fond of Auntie Mimmie, and leads her
about when they go out walking. She is
like Auntie in the face a little, and has just
the same sort of voice when she speaks.
Now do you think you will be able to know
them all a little before you see them 2â€
«Yes, but I begin very much to want to
- go to Fairdown. When do we go? did
Uncle Tom say ?â€
“No, but it will be before a week; because
I heard mamma say she should see us off
before she sent the little ones to Worthing,
and nurse says they are going this day
week.â€
33
UNCLE TOM’S PRANKS.
‘How funny it does seem for us all to
be going away from home! I say, Fanny, I
don’t think I shall like anyone at Fairdown
as well as Uncle Tom; he is so kifid, and so
very clever, and never speaks cross to us;
and papa and mamma are so fond of him.
I can never like any body élse so well.
’ He says he will get a pony for. me to ride
|
at Fairdown. Won't that be capital,
Tsay?â€
“Now, master Arthur and Miss Fanny,
your tea is quite ready, and Nurse is waiting
for you,†said the housemaid coming into
the room.â€
_ “Very well! Sarah, let us go up stairs
and get Nurse to tell us about what she
remembers of Fairdown. She lived there
when mamma was a little girl. She says
Uncle Tom used to play such odd pranks.
Perhaps we can get her to tell us some of
them, and then we can teaze him about
them,†said Fanny.
As they went up stairs, Arthur stopped
suddenly and said, “You won’t mind my
33
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
saying that, about your not telling quite the
exact truth,—will you, Fanny ?â€
“No dear, I dare say what you say is
quite right ; indeed I am sure it is; because
mamma says I do exaggerate very much ;
and if I do not take great care I shall come
in time to tell les.â€
“Oh! Fanny, that would be dreadful,
would it not? so pray do try and take care.
I will help you to persevere as well as Ian,
if you will help me to persevere in trying to
understand and judge about things.â€
«Thank you, Arthur, darling. It was
kind of you to tell me, I know; ‘and I will
try not to get cross another time; but it is
very provoking not to be believed. I must
be more careful in what I say, as Nurse tells
me I ought to think twice before I speak
once. Now, sometimes I never think at all
before speaking, and so it is no wonder I
am not quite right. But if we help each
other, and do not quarrel, I am sure we
shall get right at last.â€
34
Chapter JOULE,
THE JOURNEY TO FAIRDOWN.
TT was a beautiful day at the end of
June, when Mrs. Thomas Chester took
Fanny and Arthur to Fairdown. The jour-
ney itself was a great treat to the children.
Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds went part of the way
with them.
I will tell you how this journey was
managed. Fairdown was not near any
Railway ; and the quickest, pleasantest, and
cheapest way of travelling, was to go down
the river in a steamboat, as far as Gravesend,
where grandpapa’s great family chaise was
In waiting to carry them to Fairdown-court.
Directly after lunch, Mrs. Reynolds and her
brother and Fanny and Arthur stepped into
acoach, and Mr. Reynolds sat beside the
driver. They drove to the terminus of the
35
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
Blackwall Railway, where the coachman
was discharged, and they got their tickets
and went into a sort of waiting-room, till
the train was ready to start.
Fanny took notice of a great many things
during the few minutes they had to wait ;
but Arthur held his papa’s hand, and
listened to something he was saying to a
gentleman whom he knew; but he did not
understand what was said, as it was about
politics. It would have been better if he
had looked about him, as Fanny did; be-
cause he would have seen something he
could understand. But Arthur never
thought of that. When they were seated
in the Railway carriage, which they had all
to themselves, Fanny said to Arthur,
‘««T wonder whether the deaf old lady with
the trumpet, and the little girl, are going
all the way to Gravesend.â€
“T did not see them,†said Arthur, “ why
do you want to know ?â€
“Oh! because I liked their tices and
they had such a pretty little dog.â€
36
EYES, AND NO EYES,
“T wish I had seen it!†said Arthur,
*T never see half the things you do.â€
“That's only because you do not look.
Do you remember ‘ Eyes and no efes††said
Fanny laughing. Now you should open
yours a little; they are quite bigrenough to
see with. You might have got a kind
word from that nice old lady, and have had
her ear-trumpet to look at, as I had; ‘she let
me hold one end of the thing,—twbe she
called it,—and speak to her through it, while
she put the other to her ear, and answered
me, and explained how it was made; it is of
Indian-rubber, and is light and so easy to
carry, she just hangs it over her arm.â€
“But how did you get to speak to her,
when you never saw her before? does
mamma or Uncle Tom know her?†asked
Arthur, who was sorry to have lost the
sight of so ingenious a contrivance, for he
had a strong love for mechanical inventions
and scientific instruments.
“Oh! we do not know her; I saw that
she was deaf by the little girl’s speaking to
ae) 387
A
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
her through the tube. The little girl, whose
name is Martha, was obliged to run out of
the place where we were waiting, after
Ponto, the little dog, and just then the
- soldiers came in with a poor deserter.â€
“A deserter!’ exclaimed Arthur, “was
there a deserter there? how I wish you had
told me.â€
“What! did you not see him? I thought
you saw him, of course; though you did
not run to stare at him, as all those rude
unkind people did. It was their going to
the other end of the place so suddenly, that
made the deaf old lady think the train was
going, and get up in a great hurry and call
out ‘Martha! Martha! where are you, child? -
come, the train is ready!’ She was in such
a bustle, and looked so flushed, that some
rude persons stood laughing at her. So I
went up to her and took hold of her tube,
as Martha had done, and said, ‘The train is
not ready yet, the people have only gone to
look at something ; I will go and find your
little girl†‘'Thank you, my dear,’ said she,
38
WHAT FANNY Saw,
and looked very much obliged. I ran off
soon, for I was half afraid and felt so un-
comfortable after what I had done; but
mamma had been watching me, and said
‘Quite right Fanny, I will go with you to
find the little girl ;’ and we went out, and had
to pass quite close to the poor deserter, who
looked sad and miserable, with his head
hanging down, and his clothes all in rags.
‘We found Martha just coming in, quite out
of breath,—Ponto had run away into the
street. She let me take him in my arms.
He is such a lovely little dog! and does not -
snap and bite at you, like Mr. Smith’s Spot.
We brought it back to the deaf lady, and
she was so kind, and let me look at the
tube; and I was just coming to fetch you,
when we were all obliged to go up to the
train.â€
«What is all that long story about,
Fanny ?†inquired her uncle, smiling.
*] was telling him what was to be seen
in the waiting-room, uncle.â€
«“ But, he was there to see it for himself.â€
39
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
“Oh! but he never sees half the things.â€
“Perhaps he was listening to your papa
and Mr. Maynard; for he stood by all the
time, staring at them both, with a very wise
look. What were they talking about,
Arthur? did you understand anything of it ?â€
“No, uncle, not wniderstand exactly ;
but I was trying to make out what Mr.
Maynard meant by saying,——Oh! I forget
now! I wish I had looked about me, and
seen the deaf lady’s tube, and the dog, and
the deserter.â€
“Ah! you would have understood those
things very well. Another time, my boy,
do not puzzle your brain by trying to
understand any conversation which you
find very much beyond your knowledge;
because it is likely that nearly all of it will
be without any meaning for you; and it is
almost certain that you will attach a wrong
meaning to what you think you do under-
stand. It is best to pay attention to things
which you can compreherid. Now, I think
you can understand how this train is moved.â€
40
HOW, A TRAIN MOVES,
“Qh yes, uncle, by a locomotive engine,â€
cried both the children.
«You are quite right,†repliedl the uncle;
“but the reason I asked the question, was,
because the trains on this Railway were not
always attached to a locomotive engine.â€
“Indeed, uncle,†said Arthur, who could
not comprehend any other mode by which a
train could be moved along the lines of a
_ Railway.
*T will endeavour to explain this to you,â€
said the uncle. ‘You will observe that
this Railway is built upon arches all the
way, and is elevated to a height equal to
that of many of the houses in the midst of
which it passes. It was at first supposed
that it would be dangerous to use locomotive
engines, from the reason that if by any
y accident the train run off the line, it might
be precipitated into the street, among the
houses and passers by, and in that case. the
consequences would have been most fearful.
The plan that was therefore adopted was to
Tun a strong rope along the whole length of
41
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
each line of rail: this rope was made of
twisted wires, of sufficient length to reach
double the whole distance; each end of this
rope was attached to an immensely large
drum or wheel, round which it was wound
by the motion given to the drum by steam
power, so that when that motion was put
into action it of course unwound the rope
from the wheel at the other end, and in so
doing the train of carriages, which were
hooked to the rope, were drawn along the
line to their destination. Do you under-
stand me, Arthur ?â€
“T think I do, uncle,†replied his nephew,
“but do you know the reason why the rope
was discontinued, and locomotive engines
used instead ?â€
“‘T can tell you that, also,†said his uncle.
“The rope often broke, or got out of repair,
so that interruptions and delays frequently
took place. ‘To prevent this, particularly
as the traffic along the line began to increase,
the Railway Company found themselves
compelled to alter the mode of traction, that
42
THE ROPE AND LOCOMOTIVE.
is, of giving motion to the trains. But
before they did this, the walls on each side
were strengthened, and the use of locomotive
_ engines adopted, as yousee now. The up and
down trains on the first two or three miles of
the North Western Railway, then called the
Birmingham Railway, from Euston-square
to Primrose-hill, were, at first, drawn in the
same manner, by a rope; but from the same
reason, that mode was abandoned, and the
"use of locomotive engines was substituted.â€
Arthur paid great attention to his uncle’s
explanation, and comprehended what he
said, very easily; and asked many ques-
tions, which proved that he was by no
means so stupid a boy as he fancied he was,
while listening to his papa and Mr. Maynard ;
_ and his spirits rose in consequence. It is
so pleasant to feel that we are understand-
- ing some new thing. His uncle seemed
_ very much pleased with the exact and ‘pre-
cise way in which Arthur told what he
_ knew, and explained what it was that he
did not know. He said, that sort of expla-
43
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
nation showed that Arthur had given his
attention to the matter, and that he was
intelligent.
Arthur felt glad that his Uncle Tom
thought he was intelligent, and he looked
at his mother with a smile; for he felt sure
that she would be pleased to see that he
comprehended some things that had been
taught him, as well as, if not better, than
Fanny; and his uncle seeing that the boy
took pleasure in mechanics, talked to him of
anew machine which he was going to set
up at Fairdown, an improved threshing
machine. Arthur understood the principle
upon which it worked; but he was not able
to imagine the machine distinctly, that is,
to make a picture of itin his mind. Arthur
was not a boy of strong imagination, and
could seldom form an idea of anything that
he had not seen. He was what is called a
matter-of-fact boy. This had always been
a trouble to Fanny and the little ones in
their various games. When they played at
Arabs in the Desert, for instance, Arthur
Ad
A PARTING SCENE.
would never do the Camel’s part. properly,
though he was the strongest ; because, as
he said, he had “never seen a real camel,
and could not fancy how it would move -
and, if he “had seen one, it would be of no
use for him to try to pretend’ he was a
camel, when he knew all the time he was a
bow.†He “did not see any fun in such
games.â€
When they arrived at Blackwall, and went
on board the Gravesend steam-boat, Mr. and
Mrs. Reynolds prepared to return home.
Both the children began to look grave at
the idea of going away from their parents.
Mrs. Reynolds took them with her into one
of the little empty cabins on the deck, and
said a few last words to each of them,
reminding them of their promises to her to
try not to get tired of doing right.
* Arthur is to persevere in endeavouring to
gain habits of attention and quickness of
thought,†said she; “and you, Fanny, must
go on in your new resolution never to ex-
aggerate or to speak without thinking.
45
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
If you both persevere steadily, with all
your hearts, Arthur will be intelligent in
most things, besides mechanics; and Fanny
will be a thoroughly-truthful little girl.â€
Their mother kissed them, and then Fanny
burst into tears.
“What is the matter, my dear?â€
“Oh mamma, you think me a story-
teller!†sobbed Fanny in a tone of mingled
shame and sorrow.. “I’m sure I never
mean to tell stories.â€
“No, Fanny, you do not mean to tell
stories; therefore you are not a liar.
tells falsehoods intentionally, in order to
deceive; and it is the badness of the motive
that makes lying so great a sin. But
though you are not so bad now, you may
become a liar in time, unless you persevere
in forcing yourself to be exact and truthful.
It is by being careless about truth at first,
that people grow at last into a habit of tell-
ing lies. I do not wish to make this fault
appear less wicked and terrible than it is.
I know several persons who were never
46
FALSEHOOD EXPOSED.
made to feel the sacredness of truth when
they were young; who indulged themselves
in habits of exaggeration, and naisrepresen-
tation in description, just for amusement ;
and in a careless way of lookipg at, and
thinking about things; fancying that it was
quite unnecessary and tedious to be exact
in giving an account of any fact. In time
they got to be indifferent to truth altogether
in little things, and scarcely able to per-
ceive the difference between truth and false-
hood in great things. These persons are
now habitually false, and those who know
them cannot respect them, or believe what
they say. It is not only because it is a
mean and disgraceful thing to tell lies, but
because it is almost the wickedest thing
that human beings can do, (as you will
understand when you are older,) that I am
so sorry that my little Fanny is a little
careless about truth.â€
“But mamma! mamma!†said Fanny,
“Indeed I never say what is not true on pur-
pose. Iam not a liar.â€
47
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
“No, but you must give yourself a great
deal more trouble than that, before you can
be really truthful. You must always intend
and try to tell what is exactly true, no
more and no less. You will not find it very
easy, at first. It is a mistake to say that
it is very easy to be quite true in all you
say and do. It is difficult to most people ;
there are so many temptations to make us
wish to seem better or wiser than we are,
and to alter the true account of a thing;
but it is very difficult indeed for a girl like
you, Fanny, who are quick, and careless,
and fond of imagining and inventing, to keep
herself steadily to the ewact truth. It
seems dry and tiresome; but, indeed, my
child, truth in all things is the most beauti-
ful quality of the mind; one without which
all the cleverness and good-nature in the
world are worth little in my eyes. I would
rather see you honest and truthful, than
possessed of all the fine accomplishments
that a woman can acquire. But I see no
reason why you should not be strictly truth-
48
AMENDMENT PROMISED,
ful, and very clever and accomplished
besides; both will make you useful to
others; but if you are clever and accom-
plished, and at the same time carefess about
truth, it is probable that you will be more
mischievous than useful in the world.â€
“Dear mamma,†said Fanny ‘ Auntie
Mimmie has told me something like this
before, and I have forgotten it; but, indeed,
indeed, I shall not forget it now. I will
not grow up a liar, or even careless about
truth ; I must and will be a good and use-
ful woman. Do not be unhappy any more
about this bad habit of mine. I will cure
myself; Arthur will help me, and I will ask
Auntie Mimmie to talk to me about it.
She makes me feel what a sad thing it is to
be wicked.â€
Mrs, Reynolds and the children were still
talking when their papa came in to wish
them “ Good bye,†and to take their mamma
away, as the boat was about to start.
As they stood on each side of Uncle Tom
on the deck, and watched their papa and
49
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
mamma go on shore, they both of them shed
a few tears. Their uncle kindly consoled
them, and told some funny stories to make
them laugh; and in a quarter of an hour
they were running beside him as he walked
up and down the deck, and told him the
names of the different sorts of vessels which
they passed on the river. Fanny, indeed,
was not quite so happy as Arthur, for she
could not forget what her mamma had been
saying. She felt that it was all true; and,
more than all, it made her unhappy to think
that her kind, sweet mamma, could not trust
or believe her, and was sorrowful on that
account. So, after a little time, she went
and sat on a bench, and looked over the side
of the vessel into the bright river that
glittered in the sun. She did not notice
that it looked beautiful, because she felt
very miserable.
Presently she felt something beside her ;
and, turning round, she saw a little dog who
had jumped on the seat, and was poking his
head under her bonnet and wagging his tail
50
SUPPRESSION OF TRUTH.
as much as to say, “I do not like to see you
unhappy, little girl,.—come and have a frisk
with me.†It was Ponto. She began to
play with him, and to forget her trouble, and
then she saw the old lady standing beside
her. The old lady looked at her kindly and
patted her shoulder; then she stooped
down and whispered, so that only Fanny
and Ponto could hear, ‘“‘What were you
so unhappy about just now, my dear?†and
she held the mouth-piece of her tube for
Fanny to take. Fanny took it and was
about to say “Oh! nothing, ma’am,†when
- she suddenly remembered that that was not
atrue answer. She stopped a moment, and
coloured very much. Then she raised the
mouth-piece to her lips, and said distinctly,
“TJ would rather not tell you, ma’am.â€
The old lady looked pleased at this; and
sat down beside Fanny, and looking into her
blushing face, said, “I am very glad to find
that you are so truthful, my dear, I shall
know, now, that you may be trusted.â€
Fanny blushed very much more; for she
51
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
felt that she did not deserve the lady’s
praise; and she was just going to take up
the tube and tell her so, when, Martha, who
was the old lady’s grand-daughter, came up
to them and laughed when she saw Fanny
again, and said “I am so glad you are here,
I did not see you before.†“Martha,†said
her grandmamma, “you may play and talk
with this little girl, if you like; she tells
the truth, and is kind to those who want
help.â€
“Poor Fanny! how uncomfortable she
felt! it seemed so strange that this lady
should begin talking about the very thing
that was in her own mind. But it is not
right, it is not truthful, thought Fanny to
let her go on in her mistake. So gulping
down her tears, she determined to be brave
and tell her that she was not always truth-
ful. Stillshe hesitated; it was so disgrace- —
ful to tell falsehoods, even only for want of
thinking enough; she wished the lady and
Martha to keep their good opinion of her.
I need not tell them, she thought again,
52
RESOLUTION TESTED.
because I mean to be quite truthful from
this very hour; they need not know, unless
I tell them. She did not perseyere in her
first good resolution to tell them they were
mistaken, but allowed them to think what
was not true. Now, this also, was being
untrue. You may see by this, that Fanny
was very anxious that people should think —
well of her; but not so anxious to merit
their good opinion.
She did not feel quite satisfied with her-
self, however, and sat with a flushed face,
looking down on Ponto and stroking him.
Arthur now came to see what she was doing.
and his attention was divided between Ponto
and Martha and the lady and her tube.
The old lady, whose name was Mrs.
Clavering, saw that he was Fanny’s brother,
and began to have a little talk with him
through the tube. Martha and Fanny could
not help laughing at the grimaces Arthur
made, and the trouble he took to shout as
loud as he could through the tube, thinking
that Mrs, Clavering would hear all the
E 53
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER,
better. Mr. Chester soon heard Arthur’s
voice at the other side of the vessel. He
heard him bawl out, “ Arthur Reynolds,
ma'am.†“Ten, going on for eleven.â€
“Fanny ; she’s a year older than I am.â€
“ Uncle Tom is taking us to Iairdown.â€
These were ‘answers to Mrs. Clavering’s
questions. Mr. Chester began to fear that
Master Arthur would draw a crowd round
hin, if he detailed all his personal affairs in
so loud a tone; and he therefore stepped
over and bowed politely to the old lady, and
then told Arthur not to shout like a town-
crier, but to speak softly and clearly, and
the lady would hear him better than if he
spoke as loud as Stentor. Arthur lowered
his tone, and found that the lady heard him
better, so. Then he asked permission to
examine the curious tube, and she explained
to him its great use to her; that without it
she could not hear at all. Arthur thought
her the nicest old lady he had ever seen.
Presently Ponto began to play some pretty
tricks, and Arthur ran off with Fanny, to
54
NEW ACQUAINTANCES.
play with him, as well as to observe what
Martha was about.
Mr. Chester and the old lady began to
converse a little; and Mrs. Clavering told
him that she was just settled in a house.
about seven miles from Fairdown, which
belonged to her son, Mr. Clavering, Martha’s
father. Her son, she said, had lost his wife
two years ago; and had been travelling ever
since, while she had taken charge of Martha
at ler own house near London; but that
now Mr. Clavering had determined to turn
his mind to farming, and had taken a large
farm, called Ellesdown-place, and she and
Martha had come to live with him. She
went on to say, that she knew Mr. Chester
by sight, and that her son was going to call
at Fairdown-court to deliver a letter or a
message from Captain John Chester, whom
he had known at Malta. Mr. Chester
expressed much pleasure in the anticipation
of a visit from Mr. Clavering; and said that
the greatest want he felt in a country neigh-
bourhood, was the want of pleasant and profi-
58
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
table society. Mrs. Clavering assented, and
added, that it was a want of a more serious
kind in the case of children and young per-
sons, than in that of persons of mature years.
“For instance, I cannot find fitting com-
panions for my little grand-daughter at
Ellesdown. A deaf old woman, and a
grave, somewhat sad man, of five or six-and-
thirty, are not very good playmates for a
lively little girl of ten. I was wishing,
when I first saw yonr little companions
yonder, that I could find some way of invit-
ing them to visit my lonely little Martha.
I hope you will let them come to Ellesdown,
while they are staying with you; I have
taken a great fancy to them, and so has
Martha.â€
Mr. Chester felt all the truth of what the
old lady said, and promised that his nephew
and niece should cultivate Martha’s acquain-
tance, if it*was found agreeable to both
- parties. Mr. Chester then took the trouble
of giving Mrs. Clavering all the information
she required about the places round Elles-
56
COMMENCING ACQUAINTANCE,
down and Fairdown, and the principal
families residing therein.
In the mean time, Fanny and Arthur were
making advances towards Martha. Martha
was not at all shy, and had a little old-
fashioned way of moving and ‘speaking,
which made Arthur inclined to laugh. He
thought she was very much like her grand-
mamma. Fanny thought it was because
she was not dressed like other little girls;
but wore a thick stiff silk frock, made long,
like a woman, and a silk bonnet, with large
bows on it, instead of a straw hat, with pink
strings, like her own, and a plain pink ging-
ham frock, with white trousers, such as she
wore. Fanny thought it was a pity that
Martha was dressed so, because it did not
look pretty. Arthur did not notice her
dress, but he saw she was quite different
from any other little girl he had ever seen.
She walked along with her head very
upright, and carried a reticule in her hand,
just like an old lady. Once, when she
dropped this reticule, Arthur stooped down
57
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
good-naturedly, and picked it up for her;
upon which Martha made him a low curtsey,
and said with great gravity, “Thank you,
sir.†Then Arthur could not help bursting
out into a laugh. He had never seen a
little girl behave so. Martha looked at him
in surprise, and then coloured all over.
“You should not do so, Arthur,†said
Fanny, who felt quite ashamed at her bro-
ther’s rude behaviour. “You must not
mind him, Martha; he is a rude boy ;†and
she took Martha’s hand, and turned her back
upon Arthur. Arthur felt uncomfortable,
and so he went to his uncle and Mrs.
Clavering ; but he watched Fanny and Mar-
tha, and saw that they were laughing and
talking together and playing with Ponto,
who stood on his hind legs and begged very
cleverly. Arthur was sorry he had been
tude, but he thought it was very hard to
help laughing when people look funny.
Soon his uncle began to talk to him about
the various objects of interest along the
river, which was becoming wider and wider,
RQ
SCENERY OF THE RIVER’S BANKS.
as they went on. The sky was a clear blue,
and the river sparkled beautifully all over ;
and the steamer went on very fast, making
a pretty white foam below her paddle-boxes,
and leaving a dark line of ruffled water
behind her. There are always some vessel in
sight; and the banks on both sides were
green; and, on the Kent side, were very
pretty. Arthur thought there could not be
many journeys pleasanter than going in a
steam-boat down the Thames on a fine sum-
mer day. We must remember that it was
quite new to him, and that he had never
been up the Rhine, or the Loire, or the
Danube, which travellers tell us are much
more beautiful than the Thames. AsI dare
say you have all been down the Thames, I
need not tell you the names of the places
they passed; I will merely say that what
interested Arthur most was the remains of
the old Roman embankment along the water,
built to prevent the river from overflowing
the low lands. When he looked at it, and
saw how strong it yet was, and remembered
59
FERSEVERE AND PROSPER,
that it was about eighteen hundred years
since the Romans made it, he could not help
thinking how well they had done their work,
for it to last so long; and he wondered whe-
ther people could build any wall or embank-
ment so strong, now. He thought, not;
for Arthur had formed a very high idea of
the Romans from what Miss Maitland and
his papa had told him concerning them.
At Northfleet, his uncle told him, many
steamers were built; he also pointed out
the pretty village of Swanscoombe, on a hill,
with the old church, half hidden among
trees, and told him that the Danes had
landed there in one of their invasions during
the Saxon times, and that the place was
called Sweyn’s-coombe, or Sreyn’s-hill,from
the name of their leader. At last they came
to Gravesend, and just before they stopped
at the handsome Terrace-pier, their Uncle
Tom pointed out to all the three children,
Tilbury-fort, on the Essex bank of the river,
and told them that Queen Elizabeth made a
brave speech to her army there, at the time
60
SCENE AT LANDING.
when the great Spanish Armada was coming
to invade England. Arthur was so much
occupied with looking at Tilbury-fort, that
he was pushed about by the passengers, who
were eager to go on shore, and did not pay
much attention to a little boy who stood
still in the midst of the general bustle.
Arthur was soon separated from his uncle
and Fanny, who went, with Mrs. Clavering
and Martha, towards the place where the
tickets were taken, as the passengers land.
Now Martha was a sweet tempered, forgiving
child; she saw that Arthur would lose him-
self in the crowd, so she slipped back
quickly and went to the place where he was
still standing, staring across the river at
Tilbury-fort and the various ships anchored
off Gravesend.
“You will be lost, if you stay here. I
have come to find you.: Grandmamma and
your uncle and Fanny are in that crowd, and
will have to wait for us. Make haste,†said
she, taking his hand.
“Who sent you?†inquired Arthur as
61
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
they went on, being pressed forward by the
crowd.
Nobody,†replied the kind Martha.
“It is very kind of you to come for me,
after I was so rude,†said Arthur; “I am
very sorry, but I could not help it, you
looked so funny, you know.â€
“T did not know that I looked funny; I
do not know why you laughed at me,†said
Martha. But never mind about it,now. I
do not mind, now, though I did think it was
rather rude, then.â€
“Twill never laugh at your odd ways,
any more,†said Arthur, “I hope we shall
see you again soon.â€
“JT think you will, because your uncle
and grandmamma seem to be quite friends
now, and grandmamma promised your sister
that she would ask papa to take me with
him when he pays the visit he had promised
your uncle.â€
“Oh I am very glad that your papa knows
Uncle Tom. Have you ever been to Fair-
down-court ?†asked Arthur getting quite at
62
RECONCILIATION EFFECTED.
ease, now his good-natured companion had
forgiven him.
“No. Is that your Unele’s house?â€
where you are going 2â€
Ss Nees:
I know it is a pretty place, about seven
miles, by the road, from Ellesdown, (that’s
where we are living), and four across the
fields. You must come and see us at Elles-
down—you and Fanny. “Oh! here they
are,†and they joined their friends, who were
beginning to look anxiously for them.
When they arrived at the other end of
the pier, they found the two carriages wait-
ing, Mrs. Clavering’s pretty pheton, drawn
by two grey poneys, and Mr. Chester’s large
double-chaise. The children were quite
sorry to part from their new acquaintances,
and they bade Martha “good bye†many
times, and entreated her to “make her papa |
go soon to Fairdown,—to morrow, if she
_ could.†When they had seen their new
friends drive off, Mr. Chester put Fanny and
. Arthur into the chaise, and then drove off
63
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
to transact some business in the town before
they started for Fairdown. While he was
engaged, the children found plenty of
amusement in watching the great number
of people who were going up and down the
High-street, which was so narrow that they
were obliged to walk in the road as well as
on the pavement. Fanny, who knew all
about Gravesend, as it was the nearest large
town to Fairdown, explained to Arthur that
* all these people did not live at Gravesend,
but that most of them were people from
London, who came out with their families
for a day’s pleasure in the fresh air on the
river, and to walk about Gravesend. Fanny
said that many working-men and quite poor
people were able to do this once or twice in
the summer, because the fare on the steam-
boats was so little. Arthur was very glad
to hear this, because he had often pitied the
poor pale, dirty children, whom he saw
playing in the London streets, and wished
they could go to the sea-side and into the
country, sometimes as he and his sisters and -
64
THEIR CHARITY ELICITED.
brothers did. He now watched the children
in the crowd very earnestly, and felt very
glad to see how pleased and joyful they
looked.
“T wish I were a king,†he exclaimed:
at length, “I would give every poor family
money enough to come down here every
week.â€
“Yes,†said Fanny, “and if I were a
queen, they should all have nice dinners
every day, and plenty of clothes to wear,
and clean houses to live in.â€
“TJ suppose they all have nice dinners ©
to-day, Fanny. I mean, all these people.
That little boy looks hungry, though,—the
one looking into the cake shop, I think I
will give him sixpence out of my half-crown;
shall I, Fanny ?â€
“Yes, dear, he does look ‘hungry.
James,†said she to the man on the box,
“will you let me hold the reins while you
get change for Arthur’s half-crown?†Now,
James had heard what the children had
been saying, and was very pleased that they
65
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
thought of other people who were not so
well off as themselves, and he knew that
Fanny could hold the reins properly, because
he had taught her before, and that the
horses were very steady und would stand ; so
he said, “Yes, Missy, I can give Master
Arthur change; but that poor boy wants
meat and not cakes, and I will just run
across to that eating-house with him, and
get him a slice of hot meat and some pota-
toes and bread, for sixpence.â€
“Oh thank you, thank you, James,â€
“said Arthur. James gave Fanny the reins,
and she held them well while he ran across
with the poor boy and took him into the
eating-house. In another minute, James
was back on the box again, and told them
that the poor boy was very much obliged
to them.
Directly after this, Uncle Tom came
striding down the street very fast, and asked
if they were tired of waiting. He put on
his driving gloves and jumped up beside
James in a minute, touched the horses
66
SCENES ON THE ROAD.
gently with the whip, and in ten minutes
they were out of the town, and driving
along a pretty green lane between corn
fields. Now they were really on the road
to Fairdown; and Arthur thought it was
the prettiest drive he had seen anywhere,
except the drives about Hastings last year.
Uncle Tom was in high spirits, and talked
to them a great deal; and he and Fanny
pointed out everything worth looking at as
they went along. Arthur was highly
delighted, he stood up and leaned forward
to talk to his uncle, and could not find words
to express his admiration of all the pretty
country sights.
“Oh! oh! Fanny!†look at that orchard,
all full of cherries! and there’s ancther!
and they are picking them! See there’s a
man up a ladder in that tree! and see how
pretty that barley looks! Is that what you
call a hop-garden? Oh, uncle, how very,
very pretty it looks. How nice it must be
to walk down those long, shady walks,
between the poles !†.
67
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
Uncle Tom and Fanny laughed at this,
and said it looked nicer than it was, for
the ground of the hop-gardens was very
rough and not pleasant for walking, as he
would see when he got home to Fairdown.
Arthur was almost tired with delight when
they got there; he had seen so much, and
all he had seen was new to him,
68
Chapter LY,
FAIRDOWN COURT.
P OW we are on grandpapa’s farm!â€
exclaimed Fanny, as the horses
turned into a lane, prettier and more over-
shadowed by trees than any Arthur had
yet seen. Presently the road, on one side,
was open again, and they saw a gently
sloping valley stretched below them, full of
cornfields, and meadows, and orchards, and
hop-gardens, and in the midst of all lay a
village of thatched cottages, scattered here
and there in the most picturesque manner.
“How pretty it is, down there!†said
Arthur, feeling almost too tired to admire
any more.
“Yes, that is Fairdown see and we
have only half-a-mile further to go, and
then we shall be at home.â€
E a 69
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
Arthur felt glad, and leaned back to rest
till he got there. Fanny was-not at all
tired, and was chatting with her uncle about
every well-remembered object, all the time,
till he drew up suddenly beside a church,
a little old church with a low tower, all
covered with ivy.
“Here we are, Arthur!†said his uncle,
throwing the reins to James, and jumping
down to help his nephew out. “Here we are!â€
Arthur was quite bewildered. He could
see no house; nothing but a barn or two,
and the church.
At last he said, “ What! does grandpapa
Chester live in a church? it is not a bit like
what you told me, Fanny,†said he in a tone
of great disappointment.
“Bide a wee, and you will see,â€
sang Fanny in imitation of her mamma.
“ May I go in my way, uncle?†said she.
“Yes, my dear. I will just go to the
stables; tell them I will come in directly !â€
And their uncle drove off again, and dis-
79
ARRIVAL AT FAIRDOWN-COURT.
appeared behind one of the large barns before
mentioned, leaving the two children standing
on the rough step of the churchyard gate.
Arthur did not speak, first, because he
was quite surprised and could not under-
stand it at all; and next, because he
was really fatigued. However curiosity soon
got the better of his fatigue. Fanny took
hold of his hand and said, “ Now, Arthur,
let us not speak a word, and we shall be
able to see some of them without being seen.
Come along, dear.†She pushed open the
gate, and they were inside the churchyard,
It was all overgrown with long. grass, and
there was no regular path but the one from
the gate to the porch. There were a great
many shapeless hillocks, which were very
old graves, and there were some few newer
graves with stones and inscriptions. The
whole church seemed to have sunk down
into the earth. On one side, where there
had formerly been another door, the building
had sunk so much, or the ground had
risen so much, that there was yery little
71
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
more than the top of the old gothic door to
be seen. The porch, which was now the
only entrance, was far below the level of the
earth, and you went down three deep steps
into it. It was all overgrown with ivy, and
shaded by a large yew tree, so that it looked
something like a natural cavern. Arthur
turned away from the solemn, gloomy porch,
to look at the bright shining ivy, which
covered the low tower, and he saw innumer-
able swallows, and sparrows, and other small
birds, fly in and out among the leaves,
making a cheerful twittering in the bright
sun-light. Except this noise of birds, not
a sound was to be heard.
Arthur looked all round the church, and
observed the cluster of wide-spreading yew-
trees, stretching their dark branches over
one corner of the churchyard, and he thought
he had never seen so silent and quiet a place.
It made him feel a little sad, so he turned
round to look for Fanny. He saw her
sitting on the top of the low stone wall on
the east side of the churchyard, half buried
72
FAIRDOWN-COURT DESCRIBED.
in a huge laurel tree; and just beyond her—
it seemed only a few yards on the other side
of the wall—he saw part of a building, which
he recognized at once as Fairdown-court.
He wondered how he did not see so large a
house, when he got out of the chaise. It
was so close to him and so large. Ah! it must
have been those two huge ugly barns that
shut out the sight of the house. He was about
to call out to Fanny when he saw her put up
her finger in admonition, then beckon to him,
and then again point with a face of delight
at something on the other side of the wall.
Arthur ran lightly over the graves to
his sister; and when he reached her side
and saw what was on the other side of
the churchyard wall, he felt no inclina-
tion to speak—there was so much to be
seen. Immediately below them was part
of the flower-garden of their grandpapa’s
house. here was a delicious smell of roses
. and honeysuckle all round, which came from
just under the place where they sat, and from
a bower just by. A small, but beautifully-
73
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
kept lawn, extended from this bed of flowers.
to the large glass-doors of a room on the
ground-floor of the house. One or two
rustic baskets full of green-house plants in
blossom, and two’ seats, were on the
lawn. A book and a shawl lay on one
of the seats, but no one was on the
lawn. The doors of the room which looked
on the lawn were wide open, the sun was
shining brightly in the west, and lighted
up great part of the inside, so that Arthur,
as he sat on the wall, hidden with Fanny in
the laurel tree, could see very well what I
am going to describe.
Right opposite to the place where the
children sat, and at the back of the room,
was the fire-place, now filled with bright
flowers, instead of a roaring fire, and over
the fire-place was a large looking-glass, in
which the lawn and the church were reflected,
and in which Arthur could see himself very
plainly when he put his head forward. A
good sized long table was in the middle of
the room; it was covered with a snow-white
74
GRANDMAMMA CHESTER AND HER CAT.
table cloth, and a tea tray, with cups, &e.
stood at one end, and bread-and-butter and
pies, and flowers, and fruit, seemed carefully
arranged all the way down it, and chairs
were placed round the table. This sight
attracted Arthur directly, because, to tell
the truth, he was hungry and wanted tea.
A large, easy chair was placed close to the
open window, or door, Arthur did not know
which to call it; and in this easy chair sat
grandmamma Chester, knitting, while she
waited for tea. Grandmamma Chester, was,
as Fanny said, a very little old lady; but
she looked very dignified, for all that; and
very kind too, Arthur thought as she
stopped working once to take up a large
Persian cat on her lap, who seemed to want
to rest there. When pussy was made quite
comfortable, grandmamma went on with her
knitting again. She looked quite like an
old lady in a picture, for her dress was as
neatly arranged every day as if she were
going to sit for her portrait. She wore a
small, close cap, all covered with folds of
75
FERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
lace, but without any ribbon, except the
white silk strings which tied it under her
chin; her soft grey hair was very smoothly
braided on her forehead. She wore a white
muslin handkerchief in ample folds round
her throat, the ends disappearing beneath
her grey satin gown, which was made in
the modern convenient fashion of tight
sleeves and flowing skirts. Over the front
of the gown was tied a white muslin apron
with a border of fine lace. Before pussy
was allowed to settle herself, a pocket-hand-
kerchief ha’ been spread over the nice
apron. Such looked grandmamma Chester.
On a cushioned ottoman just outside the
window, with her feet on the gravel path
and her head resting against the ivy-covered
wall of the house, sat a young lady in a pink
frock, she had some needle-work in her lap,
but it had fallen from her hand, and she
was fast asleep. Close beside her, on the
gravel path, was a rustic bench, on which
sat a tall old gentleman, with white hair,
wearing a velvet cap, a long coat, and (as
76
GRANDPAPA CHESTER.
Arthur even observed), large silver buckles
in his shoes. This was, of course, grandpapa
Chester. He, too, seemed as still and quiet
as the two ladies, but he was neither asleep,
nor nursing the cat and knitting, which is,
perhaps, the next thing to being asleep. He
was smoking a huge pipe. - A little round
table stood beside him, on which lay a
large book, his spectacles, and a tobacco-
box; and a great thick stick, with a silver
head, was on the seat, close at hand.
“'That’s just like them all,†whispered
Fanny. “I might have known what they
were doing. Grandmamma always knits and
nurses Ali just before tea, grandpapa always
smokes, and Aunt Sophyalways falls asleep.â€
“* How very quiet every thing is,†said Ar-
thur, “I never saw anything so quiet. It is
as still as if it were the middle of night!â€
“Oh! you will come to like it, in time. I
am used to it and like it,†replied Fanny.
“TJ do quite like it already, it makes me
feel quite happy. But where are you going
now, Fanny?†he asked, almost aloud, as
W7
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
he saw his sister move gently out of the
laurel tree.
“Hush!†she whispered, “I do not want
them to know we are here yet. Iam going
to find Auntie Mimmie and Aunt Julia. I
think I can tell where they are. I do so
long to see dear Auntie again.â€
The two children stepped lightly through
the long tangled grass along the side of the
wall; Fanny carefully stepping between the
graves, and Arthur leaping from one to ano-
ther, till Fanny said in a grave but low tone,
“Don’t jump on the graves, Arthur dear.â€
«Why not?†asked the matter-of-fact boy.
“Oh! I can’t tell you just now; but I
do not like to see it, nor more does mamma.â€
Arthur tried not to step on the irregular
hillocks any more; but in doing so he
almost fell down. At last they came to
the corner of the church-yard where the
group of yew trees stood. Under these
trees were several well-preserved graves
with stone monuments, and on most of
them the name of Chester was sculptured.
78
FAMILY MEMENTOES.
Arthur understood directly that these were
the tombs of his mother’s ancestors and
relations. This thought, and the oppressive
gloom of the shadow of the trees, made him
feel melancholy, and yet he determined to
come again some other time, by himself,
and read all the inscriptions on the tombs;
for he thought he would like to know all
about the old Chesters that Nurse used to
talk about. However, he was not sorry tc
get away from the spot just then.
Quite at the corner of the churchyard,
behind the yew trees, a part of the wall had
been broken away, many years before, and
the shattered stones were, overgrown with
moss and ivy. ‘Those that were displaced
had been arranged so as to form two steps
down into Mr. Chester’s garden. This place
was called (no one knew why) Zhe Fairy
Breach. It had been called so, as long as
any one at Fairdown could remember.
Some low thorn-bushes half screened it;
and a stranger might have walked round the
. churchyard, without noticing this entrance
79
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
to the garden of the old Court, or Manor
House.
Fanny made a sign to Arthur to stand
still while she went on first to reconnoitre.
She sprung to the top of the wall with the
ease of a girl who was quite used to the
high step, and looked anxiously round on
the other side.
“Not here!†she exclaimed. “I thought
they would be sure to be sitting by the
brook. Come, and look at it, Arthur. This
is my favourite place! I do think it is the
very prettiest corner in all Fairdown. This
is the end of the garden. There’s the
brook, and there’s the sweet, sweet clover
field on the other side; and this is the
Brook Lawn.â€
Arthur jumped up beside her, and looked,
and looked, and thought he should never be
tired of looking. Then they jumped down
the mossy steps of the Breach on to the
level greensward below.
This was another small lawn about the
size of the one by the side of the house,
80
THE FOUR LAWNS,
which they had just been overlooking.
Indeed, the old garden at Fairdown-court
boasted four of these soft lawns, which were
always green, even in the hottest weather,
and being all well kept and prettily situated,
were very much admired by visitors. The
front lawn was the largest. The back lawn
had the great mulberry-tree in the middle
of it. The Church Lawn (the one already
described) was the most sheltered, and the
most frequented by the family; indeed, in
fine weather, it served as an additional
parlour; and tables, chairs, books, and
needle-work, were generally to be found on
the Church Lawn in summer-days. But
the lawn I always liked best, and the one
which was little Fanny’s favourite, because
her aunts Marianne and Julia preferred to
sit there, in the warmest weather, was the
Brook Lawn; the one on which Fanny and
Arthur now descended by the Fairy Breach
in the churchyard wall. The Brook Lawn
was of an irregular shape, and stretched
along the bank of a clear little stream, the
81
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
source of which was in a wood, about half-
a-mile higher up the hill, at the other side
of the house. The Brook Lawn was sheltered
on all sides, but that facing the stream, by
the largest evergreens I ever saw, and the
tall trees of a sort of wilderness-shrubbery,
in which the building of birds had long been
sacred from boyish hands. In this shrub-
bery, nightingales, thrushes, linnets, und
blackbirds, all sang merrily
“Tn full throated ease,â€
as the Poet says; so that it was a delicious
treat to sit under the two weeping willows
on the lawn, near the edge of the stream,
on a bright May afternoon, and listen to
the sweet singing of the birds, and the
gentle gurgling of the water, while you
watched the shadows of the clouds gliding
over the fields and meadows, which spread
themselves across the broad upland on the
other side of the stream. This wide breezy
apland, now converted into cornfields and
meadows, was once the air Donn. On
82
A DELIGHTFUL PROSPECT.
the top of that part of the Down facing
the Brook Lawn, was an old, picturesque mill,
almost always in motion.
It takes some minutes to read the descrip-
tion of the place, but it did not take more
than one minute for Arthur to Jook round
him and notice the mill and the sunlit
fields in front, the beautiful brook,—the
graceful willows,—the comfortable seat and
table beneath their shifting shade,—the soft
velvet lawn,—and the enclosing trees and
shrubs. He almost screamed with delight
at the sight of the water. He “should
make a boat directly—perhaps, a whole
fleet of walnut-shell boats.†‘Oh Fanny!
this is nice! I did not think the brook was
so large. I can’t jump across it, without a
leaping pole. How I should like to get
across directly, and have a run in that field ;.
How very green it is!â€
“Not now, dear; we can go there to-
morrow; we must go to the house now, or
Uncle Tom will be back from the stable
before us,†said Fanny turning away from
a
83
FERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
the brook and going towards a large laurel
tree at the upper part of the lawn.
“Why, however did we get in here? and
how are we to go out?†asked Arthur look-
ing carefully all along the edge of the
thicket. “It looks as if we could not
get out.â€
Fanny laughed, and said she would not
show him, but that he should try and find
the path into the garden and the Fairy
Breach, by which they came in. He found
the latter, after running round the lawn
once or twice, and peeping behind every
projecting bush. It was hidden by the low
branches of a huge rose-tree, now in full
bloom; but he would not have found it so
soon, if he had not seen the figure of a lady
who seemed to rise out of the rose-bush,
but who was really standing, as Fanny had
stood, on the top of the breach.
It was his Aunt Julia, who had climbed
up there to look for the children, having
heard their voices through the shrubs as she
walked in the garden with Auntie Mimmie.
Â¥8
RECEPTION BY AUNT JULIA.
She ran down to them amidst Fanny’s
_ exclamations of “Dear Aunt! I am so glad
to see you! This is Arthur! see what a
great boy he is now! We came here to look
for you and Auntie Mimmie! We have seen
grandpapa, grandmamma, and Aunt Sophy,
but they did not see us though. We peeped
at them from the laurel tree in the church-
yard. It was such fun; they did not guess
we were there—they were all asleep. Then
we came away softly to the Fairy Breach,
to look for you and Auntie Mimmie, be-
cause I was almost sure you would be sitting
here, under the willow trees.â€
Miss Julia Chester seemed very glad to
see her little niece and nephew, and kissed
them both. Arthur thought his Aunt Julia
a very pretty lady ; as she stooped down to
take off his hat and stroke his hair, he
could not help touching her long curls, to
feel if they were so soft as they looked.
You don’t mind my doing it ?†he asked
first. His aunt laughed, and said “No, not
if you do not pull them very hard; it is
G 85
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
only tit for tat,’ and she smoothed his
rough hair with her hand again, and looked
at him as if she thought he was a nice
little boy. Arthur put his hand in hers,
and felt quite happy. He was sure he
should like Aunt Julia.
“Where have you left Auntie Mimmie ?â€
asked Fanny eagerly.
“She is resting in the middle arbour.
Run on to her, and Arthur and I will follow,â€
said her aunt.
- Fanny disappeared directly behind a large
shrub. Arthur walked slowly with his
hand in his aunt’s, and as soon as they
came to the same shrub, his aunt said,
“Now, Arthur, you must let go my hand for
a moment, because there is only room for
one at a time to go through this narrow
passage.†Quite at the back of this large
shrub, there was a small overgrown path,
which was quite dark with branches. They
passed through this, and came out on a
gravelled walk, with flower-beds and shrubs
on each side.
86
ARTHUR IN THE LARGE GARDEN.
“What a pretty garden!†exclaimed Ar-
thur, “and how large it looks! There docs
not seem to be any end to it! What loads
of roses! may I pick one, just one, aunt?
“Yes, my dear! you may pick as many as
you like.†His aunt walked on slowly, and
Arthur went from one side to the other in
wondering admiration. They passed the
ends of one or two paths leading in various
directions, and Arthur began to think he
should never know his way about this beau-
tiful garden. Once he stopped so long to
look at a great bee struggling in the heart
of a flower, that his aunt was very nearly
out of sight; however, he just caught a
glimpse of her white dress as she turned
down another walk, with high trellis-work
oneach side. This trellis-work was literaliy
covered with sweet-briar roses, clematis, and
honeysuckle, and the bees were humming
all over it. At the end of this walk was a ’
large weeping ash-tree, the branches of
which were trained downwards and swept
the grass-plot below, so as to form a very
&7
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
pretty arbour. As this was the centre of
the garden where all the principal paths
met, this ash tree was called the middle
summer-house. It was furnished with two
seats large enough to hold three or four
persons each. On one of these seats at this
moment were Auntie Mimmie and Fanny.
Arthur ran to take his Aunt Jrlia’s hand as
they approached. He did not know why,
but he felt almost afraid of seeing his blind
aunt. Aunt Julia seemed to understand
why he held her hand so fast. She stooped
down and whispered, “ You have never seen
Auntie Mimmie, have you?â€
“No,†replied Arthur.
“Well, you will like her very much,
when you know her; and I am almost sure
she will like you. We will go to her now.â€
They went together to the arbour. Before
they reached it, Arthur heard a sweet voice
say, “Is that Arthur, with you, Julia?â€
“Yes,†replied Julia, “he is coming to
kiss you.†Arthur wondered how she knew
he was there. He did not know that blind
88
BLIND AUNT MIMMIE.
people distinguish sounds much more accu-
rately than those who can see, and that
Auntie Mimmie heard a child’s step, as well
as her sister's, coming towards her. As
scon as they were under the long branches
which formed the arbour, Arthur stood still
to look at Auntie Mimmie. She was lying
down on one of the seats with her head
resting on a cushion and her face turned
towards Arthur. Fanny had thrown aside
her hat, and was kneeling on the ground,
with her little head buried in Auntie
Mimmie’s curls, and her arms clasped
round her. She did not speak nor move;
as Auntie smiled and disengaged one of her
arms from Fanny’s embrace, and stretched
it out towards Arthur, saying, ‘“ Where are
you, Arthur? Come here, my love.†Arthur
looked at the clear blue eyes that -vere
turned towards him, but which did not look
quite at him, and he could hardly believe
that they were blind. Arthur still did not
move, for he was thinking that Auntie
Mimmie was very much like the angel in
89
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
his mamma's picture, and he hardly dared
go near.
“ Arthur, where are you? will you not
come to me? do you know who I am?â€
and she moved her hand about gently, as if
she were feeling for him. Then Arthur
went quite close and kissed her, but he
could not speak, he felt very much as if he
were going to cry. It seemed such a dread-
fal thing that beautiful Auntie Mimmic
could not see. However he was afraid she
would guess what he was thinking of, so he
swallowed his tears, and kissed her again,
and said, “Oh, yes, I know who you are.
Fanny loves you very much !â€
“Yes, love, and I love Fanny, and I shall
love you too, because I hear you are a kind,
honest boy—you speak like a good fellow.â€
“Ts he one, Fanny?†she added laughing
and stroking Fanny’s head, as it lay on her
shoulder. But still Fanny did not speak.
She seemed to tremble, and Arthur was just
going to pull her up by force and ask her if
she were ill, when a bell was heard ringing.
90
SUMMONS TO TEA.
«There is the tea-bell,†said Aunt Julia;
“now we must all go in directly. Are
you hungry, Arthur? you look as though
you were. And you too, Fanny, are you
ready for tea ?â€
“Fanny, my darling, you must let me
get up now. We must not keep grand-
mamma. waiting,†said Auntie Mimmie.
Fanny rose slowly, and though she tried
to hide her tears, Arthur saw that she had
been crying.
When Auntie Mimmie stood upright, and
out of the arbour, with her hand resting on
Fanny’s shoulder, Arthur saw that she was
as tall as Aunt Julia, and he thought she
was very much like her. They had both
pretty long curls, of the same golden brown
colour, and their eyes were just the same
shape and colour; and their dresses were
exactly alike. As they went towards the
house, Arthur whispered to Fanny, who was
‘walking very much more slowly and steadily ©
than usual, because she was leading her
Auntie. He wanted to ask her, to be sure
91
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
and sit next him at tea-time, and to teil
him whether he was to bow to his grand-
mamma and grandpapa, or to kiss them.
“Do just what you like, Arthur,†said
Auntie Mimmie, with a kind smile, “and
remember that I can hear the lowest whisper
near me. I shall know all your secrets, if
you do not whisper a long way off.â€
They now went into the house at a side
docr overgrown with honey-suckle. Here
Fanny and Arthur were going to take off
their hats, when a neat-looking maid came
forward, and said, “ Miss Sophy had desired
her to take the children up stairs, and let
them wash their faces before they went in.â€
Fanny said that was “Just like ‘Aunt
Sophy,—to think of washing and dressing
before anything else.â€
However, as Aunt Julia said they both
looked dirty, and that it would refresh them
to bathe their faces, Arthur seemed willing
to go, though he was very anxious to have
something to eat, and they followed Susan.
92
Chanter T.
THE INSIDE OF THE HOUSE,
AND THE FIRST EVENING AT FAIRDOWN.
I sHoutp like you te understand what sort
of a house Fairdown-court was. Outside, it
was very old-looking, and built in all
manner of ways; with high gable ends and
tall fantastic chimneys; the roof was of
various heights, and the walls of the oldest
parts could not be seen for the thick ivy.
It covered a great deal of ground, and it
was very difficult to understand how it had
been built, from time to time.
Now the inside of the house corresponded *
with the outside. Some of the rooms were
comparatively new, some had lattice, and
some had sash-windows, and some had
scarcely any windows at all, but were
ighted by long narrow slits in the thick
walls,—walls mo:¢ than half a yard thick.
98
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
The floors of the principal rooms upstairs,
the doors, and the stairs, and their balus-
trades, were of polished black oak. The
rooms were rather inconveniently arranged,
one within another. There were large lobbies
as big as rooms, and rooms no bigger than
closets; and there were closets in all sorts
of unexpected places, and “passages that
led to nothing.†Nearly all the doors
were gothic shaped, that is, made in a
pointed arch, and handsomely carved on
both sides.
The thing that astonished Arthur the
most, after going up the broad oak staircase,
was to see that every room that they passed
went up two steps or down two steps. He
wondered very much that the floor was not
all on a level. As he followed Susan and
chatted with her and Fanny about the
journey, he did not observe half the novel-.
ties about him. At last Susan lead them
up three steps into a very pretty bed-
room.
“This is Aunt Sophy’s room,†said Fanny,
94
.
ARTHUR’S ACCIDENT.
“and this is my room, added she,†opening
an inner door which led mto a smaller
room. Arthur in his eagerness to see Fanny’s
room, forgot that the floor was polished;
he slipped, and as he tried to recover iis
footing, he tumbled down two deep steps, and
alighted in the middle of Fanny’s bed.
Fanny burst out laughing, and Susan
seemed to think it was a good joke. Arthur
on the contrary looked rather black, and
said, he had never seen such a stupid
house. The floors were made on purpose to
slide upon, and it was impossible to go from
one room to another without falling down a
flight of stairs; he had hurt his foot very
much.
“Well, never mind, Master Arthur, your
foot will soon be well, after tea, I warrant,â€
said Susan, “‘so come along now off that bed,
and go into your own room.
* See! here it is, next to Missy’s, ard there
ain't any more steps here for you to fall
down. Your grandmamma has put you lets
of pretty pictures on the walls, and I'll
95
EERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
show you a martin’s nest just outside your
window.â€
“Come shall I help you up, dear,†said
the good-natured servant, who saw that
Arthur really had hurt himself.
By Susan’s assistance, Arthur got into
his own room, which he was curious to see.
He had really hurt his foot, and Fanny
began to fear he had sprained it; and then
she left off laughing. Susan examined the
foot and pronounced that there was no sprain,
and that he would be well enough to-morrow,
but that he had better not run about that
evening.
“Now, Miss Fanny, make haste and wash
your face and hands, or they will think you
are never coming. I will help Master
Arthur.â€
When Fanny had shut her door, Arthur
sat still, while Susan brought him a basin
of water, for his foot pained him too much
for him to walk about. His room was small,
like Fanny’s; it had green paper and white
hangings, and a lattice window, which
96
ARTHUR'S LITTLE ROOM.
looked out upon the Church Lawn, and so
it fronted the tower of the church; and he
thought it would be very pleasant to lie in
bed when he woke in the morning, and
watch the birds go in and out among the ivy
leaves of the tower. With Susan’s help he
was soon ready to go down; and, now that
she had bathed his foot, it felt better, but
still it hurt him to walk.
“Is there no way for me to get out of my
room, except through Fanny’s and Aunt
Sophy’s ?â€
“Oh, yes, look here,†said Susan opening
what seemed to be a part of the wall, for it
was covered with paper like the rest.
“Here is a little back staircase ; this goes
down into the kitchen. There is no bell in
your room; but whenever you want any-
thing, you just go to the top of these stairs
and call “Susan,†and I will be sure to
hear. And if you like to get up early in
the morning and come down into the kitchen,
I will give you some milk and bread, or
something, just to stay your stomach till
. 97
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
breakfast time. You'll be hungry enough,
I expect. Here put on your jacket, I’ve
brushed it quite clean. You must mind
and keep yourself out of the dirt, or Miss
Sophy will be at you; she’s very particular.
Come, Miss Fanny, here’s your brother quite
ready.â€
“Yes, Susan, I am just ready. You
may open the door. How’s your foot,
Arthur? Does it really hurt you so? I am
very sorry indeed, but we will ask Aunt
Julia for some embrocation.â€
“Oh, no, don’t, they will make me sit up
all day. It will be quite well to-morrow.
Won't it, Susan ?â€
“Why perhaps it may, and perhaps it
mayn’t. Now mind you don’t slip again.
Here, let me carry you down stairs.â€
After a little opposition, Arthur consented
to be carried down as far as the parlour-
door. He would not be carried into the
room. “It would look so stupid; and he
did not mind that little pain.â€
Fanny “must promise not to begin and
98
RECEPTION AT THE TEA TABLE.
iell about his foot.†She “always made so
much of everything, she would make # out
that he had broken his leg.â€
“Well Miss Fanny is a good hand at
stretching, I expect,†said Susan, “but she
won't say nothing, if you don’t like it; will
you, darling ?â€
“No, Susan. I will not speak of it, if he
does not wish it, I will wait till he mentions
it himself. And Susan, please, don’t say
that I stretch ; I am going to leave off ex-
aggerating.
“Oh very well, missy; better late than
never, you know. Do you think you can
walk, Arthur? Very well, now go in,†and
Susan threw open the door for the two
children.
Here was a confused noise of laughing
and talking, and the jingling of cups and
spoons. The room was very pretty ; and, as
we saw from the outside, had large door-
windows opening on to the Church Lawn,
A large party was seated at the table, and
99
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
some were seated outside the window on tlie
gravel walk.
“Here they are at last,†exclaimed Uncle
Tom, who was busily engaged in cutting a
pie. “I began to think you had died of
starvation up-stairs. Come along here,
Arthur, and have some pigeon-pie. Oh
well go und shake hands with everybody
first.—Why, what makes you walk in that
way? you are quite lame.—Fallen down ?
Have you hurt yourself, my little man ?—
That’s well. Bear the pain bravely, I don’t
like to see a boy trembling and crying at
the least hurt. Go to grandmamma; she
wants you, I see.â€
Arthur was rather a clumsy boy, and as
he was a little lame and had to encounter a
great many pairs of eyes, he coloured a good
deal, as he went up to each new person in
succession. Uncle Walter and Aunt Sophy,
Uncle Frederick, and grandmamma ‘and
grandpapa, he greeted awkwardly and hur-
riedly, and was very glad to get back to his
Uncle Tom. As they all saw, he was con-
100
ARTHUR’S HEARTY MEAL.
fused, no one took any more notice of him
just then, and Arthur drank tea, and eat
pigeon-pie, and fruit, and bread-and-butter,
in silence and peace; while Fanny talked
and laughed merrily with every one.
Arthur was really so hungry, as he told
Fanny afterwards, that he “did not hear
half the funny things that Uncle Walter
and Aunt Sophy were saying. He could
not eat and listen properly at the same time.â€
Fanny said that was a thing he ought to
try to do, because it was just like a pig or a
cow to sit down and devote his whole mind
to eating. Arthur laughed at the idea of
devoting his mind to eating ; but he acknow-
ledged that it was like doing so, not to be
able to attend to what is said at table.
“But Fanny, dear, I was dreadfully hun-
gry, and I am not used to pigeon bones,
and they took some time; and my foot
burned very much, and I felt that; and
Uncle Walter’s voice is so strange, and
everything was new, and they seemed all
talking together,—so I do think there is
101
FERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
some little excuse for my devoting my mind
as you say, to a meal. However, I must
take care that I do not get to be a stupid
glutton, like Mr. Swallow, you know, who
never takes his eyes off the dishes; that is
quite disgusting.â€
Arthur was not a greedy boy, but his hun-
ger made him appear so that first evening.
After tea, Fanny, forgetting Arthur’s
foot, proposed that they should go down to
the village with a small parcel, which her
mamma had sent for Mrs. D’Eyncourt at
the Rectory. Arthur was then obliged to
acknowledge that his foot was very painful,
and he did not think he could walk so far.
His grandmamma then interfered and
forbade his walking at all. Fanny must
put off going to see Mrs. D’Eyncourt, and
Arthur must remain in the parlour that
evening. She and his Aunt Marianne
would stay with him, and amuse him; and
Fanny could go with Aunts Julia and Sophy
into the village, where they had some busi-
ness. Fanny did not much like to leave
102
AUNTIE MIMMIE’S SONGS.
Arthur, but he said he was sure he should
be happy with Auntie Mimmie, who had
told him she would sing him some songs
and tell him some stories.
It was quite as good to stay on the sofa
and look out, on that pretty green lawn, and
listen to his Auntie’s singing, as to go run-
ning about this first evening. He had seen
so many things to-day, his head was quite
in a whirl. To tell the truth, Arthur was
glad when they all went away, except grand-
mamma, who came to rub his foot with
some nice-smelling embrocation ; and after-
wards Auntie Mimmie, who sat down at the
other end of the sofa where he was lying,
and began to sing some sweet old ballady
without any accompaniment. Arthur could
not take his eyes off her, she looked so
good and beautiful; he did not mind look-
ing at her, because he knew that she could
not see him stare.
After she had sung some time, she leaned
forward and seemed to listen. “Are you
asleep yet, Arthur?†she said in a tone so
: 108
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
low, that it would not have awakened him,
if he had been asleep.
“No, Auntie, I am not at all sleepy.
Do not sing any more; you must be tired, I
am sure.†.
‘If you are not sleepy, you must tell me
how you left mamma and all the little ones,
and how papa is,—and all about the
journey.â€
Arthur began to talk about these things ;
and he found that his Auntie was able to
understand a great many things that he
described as well as he could; because she
had not always been blind. She told him
a great deal more than he knew about the
Thames, and the times, long ago, when the
barbarous Danes used to come up that river
in their ships, and land on both banks,
carrying off the cattle, and sometimes the
rich people, that their friends might ransom
them. She explained how much mischief
these invaders did whenever they landed;
stealing the crops, and burning the houses ;
so that the poor Saxons began to be afraid
104
AUNTIE MIMMIE’S TALES.
of living near the east sea, or near any of
the rivers that flow into it.
When Arthur seemed to understand this
state of things thoroughly, (for Auntie
Mimmie took great pains to find out that
he did understand), she said, “Now then,
Arthur, I will tell you a very pretty story
about something that happened at this very
place, in the reign of Alfred the Great, when
a noble Saxon family built their house,
where this house now stands, and the
youngest son, who had gone to drive away
a party of Danes, was carried away prisoner
into Norway. This story is called the
‘Legend of the Fair Down,’ and is. full
of the apveresting adventures which befel
this young man.’
“Oh Auntie! Auntie! how kind you
are!†said Arthur, starting up in an ecstasy.
“Ts it all true?â€
“No! Iam not sure that it is all quite
true; but it was believed to be true for a
great many years; and as there is nothing
105
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
that seems to me to be untrue in the story.
I believe it myself.â€
“Oh very well, then, I will believe it,
too. Are you ready to begin? I hope hey
will not come home till it is finished.â€
Auntie Mimmie then related the “ Legend
of the Fair Down,†which I would willingly
relate to you, only that it is rather too long
to put into this little book.
When it was over, Arthur had just time
to ask his aunt a few questions concerning
the Sea Kings and their ways of living, and
to assure her he had never heard or read a
prettier story—when his uncles and aunts
and Fanny came in. Shortly after, the bell
was rung, and then grandpapa and grand-
mamma came in to prayers. Uncle Walter
took his seat at a small table, where there
were a great Bible and prayer-book. The
ervants came in, and then all the family
sat down to prayers. Immediately after-
wards, Arthur and Fanny wished every one
good night, and went to bed, This ended
Arthur’s first evening at Fairdown.
106
Chanrer Gi,
ARTHUR'S NEW FRIENDS.
— slept very soundly that night ;
so soundly that he did not hear the
hymn that was sung in the room below him
by the rest of the family, half an hour after -
he was in bed. When he woke the next
morning, he did not quite understand where
he was. A bright light shone on his face
as he lay in bed, and he heard the loud
chirping and twittering of swallows and
sparrows. He sat up, and rubbed his eyes,
and remembered he was at Fairdown.
How clear the sky looked! He began to
think he had overslept the time at, which he
said he should get up, and go with Fanny
to see the garden, before breakfast.
He got up in a great hurry; he heard
voices and rough laughter,—it must be very
107
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
late,—perhaps every body was down at
breakfast. He alarmed himself without
cause; for none of the family were awake
yet; it was just five o'clock, and the noise
he heard was made by some of the labourers
on the farm, who were taking their breakfast
in the kitchen:
However, Arthur was very anxious to get
down stairs, thinking it was late. He
opened his window and peeped out, just to
scent the morning air. It was delicious,
and he longed to be out in the garden.
There was one thing which Arthur never
neglected to do when he got up in the morn-
ing, because his mamma had, at first,
required him to attend to it, to please her,
and because it was right; now, he had got
into a regular habit of doing it, and would
no more think of omitting to take a
sponging bath than of neglecting to say his
prayers or to eat his breakfast. This morn-
ing he enjoyed the fresh, soft water which
Susan had placed for his bath the previous
night, more than you can well imagine.
108
ARTHUR’S EARLY AMUSEMENTS.
He made so much noise splashing about,
that he woke Fanny, who was asleep in the
next room, She jumped out of bed and
knocked gently at his door. ‘How early
you are getting up, Arthur!â€
“Ts it early? I’m so glad. That’s capi-
tal, I thought it was late. I shall soon be
dressed, and then I will go into the garden,
and wait for you. Be quick, as quick as
ever you can.â€
Fanny promised to be quick, and begged
him not to talk any more, as Aunt Sophy
might be disturbed by the noise he made;
for whenever Arthur was pleased he always
talked very loud.
When he was dressed, he said his prayers,
and looked out of the window, to see how
the young martins were going on in the nest
just under it. He saw the mother-bird
perched on the edge of the nest,*and the
young ones jerking up their heads, to look
over it, and stretching out their wide throats
for food. The mother looked alarmed, when
she saw Arthur put out his hand to push
109
ea
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
away a leaf, that he might look into the nest
better. Arthur was a kind-hearted, little
boy, and the poor bird’s distress made him
move away.
“T should like a nest and some eggs,â€
thought he, “but I should not like to take
those poor little things from their mother ;
besides, they are under my window, and I
ought to prot&ct them.â€
This was by no means good reasoning on
Arthur’s part, but he was only ten years of
age, and was not a clever boy, so that he
could not always know the reason which
prompted him to do a kind thing. But he
‘did not do the fewer kind things, on that
account.
As Fanny would not be ready before half
an hour, he took out of his box a favourite
hockey stick, and telling her he would wait
about the garden, till she came, he opened
the door which lead to the back stairs. He
soon made his way down these stairs, and
came to a door at the bottom, which seemed
to be fastened on the other side. He heard
110
ARTHUR IN THE KITCHEN.
the same rough voices laughing and talk-
ing; and knocked loudly to make some one
come and open the door. An old woman,
with a strange sort of cap, a short stuff
gown, and large white apron, opened the door.
As soon as she saw him she exclaimed,
“Lawk a daisy, sir! Here be the little
gentleman as hurt his foot. What do you
please to want, master?â€
“IT want Susan, if you please,†replied
Arthur.
“Well, you be a nice spoken little fellow,
any ways, and the mortal image of your Ma,
you are, I will say. I hope she is well.â€
‘She is very well, thank you. Who are
you?†asked Arthur.
“ Why, for the matter of that, my name is
Polly Stokes, but I am called Cook. Your
mamma knows me very well.â€
“Yes,†said Arthur, “and she*says you
are worth knowing. She says you are the
only good-tempered cook she ever knew, and
she told me to give yousomething. If you
will wait a minute, I will go and fetch it.â€
111
2
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
So saying, Arthur began to climb up the
steep stairs to his bed-room again, quite
unmindful of half a dozen men in smock
frocks, who were seated at a table eating
porridge and bacon fer breakfast.
“ That’s a nice little chap, any how,†said
one of the men.
«Yes, he comes of a good stock,†said
the cook. “I wonder what that blessed
Miss Carey (she always called Mrs. Reynolds
by her maiden name) has sent me!â€
Arthur came running down stairs, with a
nice, new plaid shawl, which he had under-
taken to give the old cook, as a present from
his mamma. And then he gave her ano-
ther parcel, saying, “ And nurse, Nurse Ellis,
you know, sent you that, with her love.â€
It was some nice warm flannel for the
winter.
Polly Stokes was quite overwhelmed with
pleasure at these tokens of affection from her
former young mistress, and from her fellow
servant. She asked Arthur if he was a scho-
lar. Upon which Arthur replied, with a deep
112
ARTHUR S CONFESSIONS.
blush, “No,†and that “it was thought he
never would be.â€
At this, the cook and all the men looked
at Arthur with wonder, and the former said,
“That’s a bad job. Its a fine thing to bea
scholar. I hope you ain’t as bad as J was,
I could never make any hand of my book.
Now, you see, whenever I want to write a bit
of a letter to my son in July, or to your
blessed mamma, may be, to thank her for
some kindness, I can’t do it myself, and
have to ask some one to do it for me.
Oh! its a fine thing to be a scholar,
and to write a proper good letter! You
must make haste and try hard, for you'll
never be a man till you are a scholar.
“That's the best part of the difference
between gentlefolks, like your papa and
mamma, and poor folks like us. Well!
I'm sorry youre not a scholar,“ Master
Arthur; little Missy is a fine scholar, and
used to write letters for me.â€
“Oh! if you mean, can I write a letter for
you? I can do that; only my writing is
113
gi
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
not nearly so good as Fanny’s, aud I do not
spell well.â€
“Oh! I thought you were a little of a
scholar,†said the old woman putting her
* hand on his head. “That’s right, you'll be
a learned gentleman, in time, I dare say.
So will you just write to your blessel
mamma for me, and tell her I humbly thank
her for her present, and Mrs. Ellis, too.â€
“Yes, that I will,†said Arthur. “ And
now where’s Susan?â€
“She has not come down yet,—a lazy
thing! But what do you want with her ?â€
“Why, she promised, if I got up early, and
wanted to go out before breakfast, she would
give me some milk and some bread.â€
“You shall have some directly, without
waiting for her. Come with me,†and the
old woman trotted briskly, first to the pan-
try, where she cut off a thick slice of home-
baked bread, and then away out through °
some back offices to the dairy. Here the
dairy-maid was just bringing in some pails
of new milk; and the cook gave Arthur a
3414
ARTHUR’S MORNING TREAT.
mug of this; it was quite warm, and tasted
very much better than the milk he was
* accustomed to have at home in London. As
he drank his milk and ate his bread, he
watched the dairy-maid arranging her pans
of new milk and skimming the cream off
some that had been standing since the day
before. That was for the parlour breakfast,
she told him. Then she showed him the
churns for making butter; and promised
him, that if he came to her the next morning
at the same time, he should help her to make
butter.
After a few minutes the cook and dairy-
maid said they must go in to breakfast ; ana
Arthur asked the way into the garden. The
dairy-maid, who was very good natured, ran
to show him the way, and the cook wished
_ hima pleasant walk, and went back to the
kitchen. :
As soon as Arthur found himself alone in
the garden, he began to think he would wait
for Fanny to show him about it; so he kept
close to the house and examined the outside
; 115
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
of it; walking along the gravel path that
ran all round. In this way he came to the
front gate, which he had not yet seen.
It stood invitingly open; a man was at
work on the lawn. Arthur asked him if he
might go out-side the gate.
The man replied in a gruff, good-natured
way, “Ay! ay! you may go out—you can’t
take no hurt, this side the village. It’s all
the Master’s land, and you may go in at all
the gates you’ve a mind to open.â€
Arthur ran off, full of glee. It seemed
like travelling in an undiscovered country.
Here he was, alone, at six o’clock in the
morning, at Fairdown, with liberty to
wander about by himself. He began to
wonder whether he should meet with any
adventures worth telling when he should go
home to breakfast. The road he was jump-
ing and running along had high banks over-
shadowed with trees on each side. The
birds were singing, as if they were trying
which should sing the loudest, and every
moment Arthur stopped to gather some of
~~
is choice flowers.
hibiting h
ing ex
Mr. Claver
ARTHUR’S MORNING RAMBLE.
the pretty wild flowers on the banks. He
felt sure Aunt Julia would like them;
Auntie Mimmie could not see them, he
remembered, and the remembrance made
him sorry. But, thought he, she can hear
these birds, and poor Mrs. Clavering cannot.
Then he thought of little Martha Claver-
ing, and how sweet-tempered she had been
after he had laughed at her so rudely. He
hoped her papa would bring her soon, for
he should like her to see what a beautiful
place Fairdown was.
Whenever he came to a gate, he climbed
up the bank, to look where it lead to; it
“was generally into some pretty field. All
the gates on one side the road commanded
a view of the Church and his grandfather's
house, which looked like one large building
half hidden in ivy. The gates on the other
side almost always showed a low white
house, with a garden and paddock, which
looked to be very near.
One gate on this side was a very little one,
and, instead of opening into a field, it led
I “117
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
into a small wood. Now Arthur had never
been into a wood in his life, and as he stood
at this gate the wind waved the trees gently,
and the sun-beams streamed down under the
branches, and showed a profusion of wild
flowers and moss, and a path winding away
among them. ‘This seemed to Arthur more
beautiful than anything he had yet seen at
Fairdown; so, forgetting that Fanny was
probably down in the garden looking for him,
he opened the gate and went into the wood.
It struck rather cold under the trees, after
running in the warm sunshine; but Arthur
did not mind that, for he was too much
occupied in watching the new things which
were all round him. Once he saw a hare
run across the path; soon after he saw a
wood mouse, and then he saw a real, wild
squirrel run up a tree, and peep down at
him, with its pretty bright eyes; popping
its head first on one side of a bough and
then on the other. Arthur stood a long
time watching it, and then walked on slowly,
picking wild strawberries and eating them.
118
ARTHUR'S MORNING RAMBLE.
Soon he recollected that Fanny was fond
of them, so he took off his hat and laid some
fresh leaves in the crown of it; then he put
his flowers carefully on one side, and began
putting in the strawberries beside them.
He walked on slowly, forgetting every thing
but the pleasure of the moment, and very
happy he was.
At last, his attention was called to a new
sound; it was neither the song of a bird,
nor the wind among the trees. It sounded
like the babbling of water,—like the noise
of the stream at the bottom of the garden
at his grandfather’s. Arthur was curious to
find out what it was; so he left the path
and followed the sound. He came in a few
minutes to an open space in the wood,
where was a mound of the greenest grass in
the world. On this mound grew two or
three beautiful birch and willow trees; and
a bright, clear spring babbled up out of the
ground under the trees; and had worn a
channel for itself down one side of the
mound, whence it wound its way in“a spark-
119
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
ling thread through the wood, growing wider
and wider by the addition of other little
streams like itself, till it formed quite a
respectable brook below Mr. Chester’s gar-
den, and grew larger and larger till it ran
into the Medway.
Arthur stood transfixed in admiration of
this beautiful spring; I need scarcely say he
had never seen anything like it before.
Presently he saw that there was some one
under the trees. It was a great boy, lying
down, reading. When he saw Arthur, he
raised himself on his elbow, and looked at
him deliberately.
Arthur saw that he had a noble and kind,
or, as he called it, a nice face; so he was
not at all afraid. He went straight up to him,
and said, “ What a pretty place this is!
What is the name of it? do you know?â€
“Tt is called Spring wood.—Are you
Arthur Reynolds ?â€
“Yes! What made you think that was
my name ?â€
“ Because you are a stranger here, and I
120
ARTHUR’S MANY QUESTIONS.
know that Mr. Tom Chester was to bring
you down, yesterday. Besides, you are
very like Fanny.â€
“Do you know my sister Fanny, and
Uncle Tom? What is your name? where do
you live? Youare a gentleman’s son, are
you not ?â€
His new acquaintance smiled and said,
“You ask a great many questions. How-
ever, I will try and answer them. I am a
gentleman’s son. My father is the Ree-
tor of Fairdown. I live in the white house,
down yonder, with the paddock. That is
the Rectory; and this very wood, where you
have been wandering, and gathering those
wild flowers and strawberries, belongs to my
father. So you have been tresspassing the
very first day of your coming. Oh! aman
told you, you might go in at any gate you
liked; did he? a queer sort of fellow he
must be. Do people do that in London? I
fancy not.â€
Arthur thought at first that she was
in earnest, and began to say he was sorry.
121
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
Then he saw, by his companion’s face,
that he was not in earnest; so he stopped
and said, “ Ah! I know you are only jok-
ing. I have done no harm, I am sure.â€
“No! no! you were quite right to come
in; and I am glad you like the wood.
I hope you will come again as often as you
like. But you asked some other questions.
Let me see. Oh, you wanted to know my
name. It is Frank D’Eyncourt. Then you
ask me, whether I know your sister and un-
cle. To which I reply, yes; I know them
very well. Perhaps you would like to know
how I like them. ‘To which I reply, very
much. And now, what do you think of
me? you look as if you were astonished.â€
“T don’t know to what think of you, but
T like you.â€
“That will do, old fellow,†said Frank.
“Come and sit down by me, and let us have
some more talk; for I like the look of you
well enough.â€
“T should like to stop, but I must not,
just now. I promised Fanny to wait for
122
A NEW ACQUAINTANCE.
her in the garden; but. somehow, I forgot
all about it, and rambling about found my
way here.â€
“T am very glad you did; for now we
have made acquaintance, and Fanny will
come after you, and so I shall see her too.
There! am I not right? Here she comes,â€
and Fanny came running through the wood
and up the mound, as he spoke.
Frank jumped up to meet her, which was
something for Frank, as he was a very
lazy boy. When he stood up, Arthur saw
that he was tall and strong.
“Well, Fanny,†said Frank, “so you
have come back to Fairdown again. ‘We
began to fear you were never coming any
more.â€
Fanny shook hands heartily with Frank,
and seemed very glad to see him. She
looked round fearfully for a moment, and
then seemed relieved as she said, ‘Oh,
Harry is not here!â€
“No, Harry is still in bed. But he
talked of go:ng up after breakfast, to plague
* 128
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
you a little, and see what Arthur is
made of.â€
“Did he? I shall let him know I am too
old now, to cry when he teazes me. But I
say, Frank, dear,†and she put her face up
to his, “you won’t let him worry Arthur,
will you? He is such a little fellow.â€
“Not so little, either,†said Arthur,
drawing himself up. Who's Harry ?â€
‘A mischievous brother of mine, who
will make mince-meat of you, if he thinks
you are a coward, (which you're not, I see),
and whom I'll keep in order whenever he
gets troublesome to you.†Then he spoke to
Fanny, who hung on his arm in a state of
unusual alarm. ;
«Why, what’s the matter, darling? Do
you think Harry would really hurt you or
Arthur? He would not, I am sure. He is a
year older, as well as you. He will not
plague you as he did; only you must
both of you take great care not to offend
him.â€
“Oh! he is the cruelest boy in the world.
124
THE RECTOR’S SONS.
He will beat Arthur till he half kills him.
He is a great brute.â€
“What! exaggerating just in the old
way, Fanny? By saying what is false, you
frighten Arthur.â€
“Now, Arthur, you must not listen to
what Fanny says about my brother Harry.
Harry is rather too fond of tyrannizing, but
he is not cruel, and though he may hit you
a blow or two occasionally, he would not
beat you; it would not be fair for him to
fight you, for he is almost as big as I am.
Girls don’t understand these things. Fanny
is a little goose; but she is mighty fond of
you, I see. Now, you had better make
friends with Charlie, (that’s my youngest
brother), he is about your size; you and he
together ought to be a match for Harry,
and if you can’t settle your matters satis-
factorily, just call me in. Will that do,
Fanny, eh?â€
“Yes, thank you, Frank. Now we must
go home, for it was nearly breakfast-time
when I came here to look for Arthur.â€
125
PERSEVERE AND PROSPDK.
“T will walk back with you, lest Harry
er some other wild beast should spring out
of the wood, and devour you.â€
Fanny laughed, and began chatting with
Frank about all that had happened since
they had met. When they reached the
house, and Frank lounged away again,
Arthur said to Fanny, “What a capital
fellow he is. I quite love him already.â€
126
Chanter Wit.
HARRY D’EYNCOURT, AND HIS ODD WAYS.
AS Fanny and Arthur walked from the
front gate to the house, after parting
with Frank D’Eyncourt, their Uncle Tom
called to them from a window of a room on
the ground-floor.
“Come, children, breakfast is just ready ;
and if you have been out long, 1 dare say
you. are ready for it. Oh! you need not go
round by the door; you may jump in at the
window: here! give me your hand, Fanny.
Your foot all right this morning, Arthur ?—
That’s well. And where have you been? you
look as fresh as two daisies.â€
Arthur could not speak to his uncle, be-
cause he was occupied in examining the
127
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
change in his dress, as well as the appear-
ance of this new apartment, which was the
breakfast and dining-room.
Uncle Tom was not dressed as Arthur had
been accustomed to see him and other gen-
tlemen in London. He wore loose white
flannel trousers, a flannel jacket, and a
broad-brimmed straw hat, which he took off,
and gave to Arthur to carry, with his own
and Fanny’s into the hall. When Arthur
returned, he asked his uncle, why he “ wore
such a queer dress 2â€
“Did you never see a cricketing dress
before? Would you like to see a good
game of cricket ?â€
“Oh, uncle? are you going to play? and
-will you take me with you?†asked the de-
lighted Arthur.
“Yes, you may go, if you will promise to
keep out of the way of the ball. I am go-
ing at teno’clock, Directly after breakfast,
you may go with me down to the rectory.
I have promised Frank D’Eyncourt to let
him play on my side, to-day ; and if Harry
128
MISCHIEF ANTICIPATED.
and Charlie are all right with their lessons,
they shall go too, to help you look on.â€
“Qh, don’t let Harry go, uncle,†said
Fanny eagerly.
« And why not, Miss Fanny?†he asked.
“What harm has Harry done you, this
time @â€
“Qh! he has not done me any harm; I
have not seen him yet; but he is so mis-
chievous, that I am sure he will do some
harm to Arthur, who is not used to such
rudg, violent, dreadful boys.â€
“Rude! violent! dreadful!†repeated
Grandpapa Chester, as he came into the
room, followed by Uncle Walter and Aunt
Sophy. “Who is that ?â€
“Harry D’Eyncourt, grandpapa,†replied
Fanny laughing, and kissing him affection-
ately. “Oh, he is a terrible, mischievous,
abominable wretch of a boy.â€
“Why Fanny, what strangely inflated
language,†exclaimed Aunt Sophy, looking
at her in amazement over the top of the
urn. a
129
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
“Well Ido think it is just the proper
language for that horrid Harry.â€
“Then,†said Uncle Walter, ‘‘ we will be
careful to address you in your own style.
“ Execrable niece, Fanny. Having ceased
talking with your admirable, brutal violence,
perhaps you will take your seat, and devour
a contemptible breakfast.â€
Everybody laughed at this speech, except
Fanny, who felt they were all laughing at
her. She was very glad that her Aunts
Mimmie and Julia came in just as the laugh
ceased. She ran to lead the former to her
chair, and reminded Arthur of the straw-
berries and flowers he had brought home
from Spring wood. ‘Their grandmother
made minute inquiries about Arthur’s foot ;
and being satisfied with his replies, she gave
her consent to his going in the chaise, with
Uncle Tom, to the cricket match at Elles-
down.
“ Ellesdown! Is not that the name of
the place where Martha Clavering’s papa and
grandmamma live, uncle?†asked Arthur.
130
i
OFF TO THE CRICKET MATCH.
“Yes. It is very likely we may see
them to-day. And Mr. ‘Tom Chester begun
to relate to his parents and his sisters how
they had made acquaintance with Mrs. Cla-
vering, the mother of the Mr. Clavering
who was acquainted with his brother John
Chester.
Julia and Mrs. Chester seemed particu-
larly pleased at the idea of seeing any
friend of John; and they were anxious to
know whether it was a message or a letter
he had to bring.
Uncle Tom said he would take an oppor-
tunity of introducing himself to Mr. Cla-
vering, if he saw him in the cricket ground,
that day. It was most likely that he would
see him, because it was a grand match be-
tween Fairdown and Ellesdown, and the
best players in both villages were engaged
on each side. ‘There are to be two gentle-
men engaged, by particular permission, on
each side; and as Walter can’t go to-day, I
am going down to the Rectory, to tell Frank
he may go with me.â€
131
&
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
“YT am very glad of that,†said Aunt
Mimmie; “ Frank will be delighted.â€
“Tam to go too,†bawled Arthur.
“Tf you're not afraid of that horrid wretch
Harry,†said Uncle Walter, slyly.
“Afraid; I should hope not!†said Ar-
thur manfully. “I know Fanny’s way of
telling things. I never believe her. That
is,†said he, correcting himself, when he saw
Fanny colour deeply with vexation, “Ido
not believe quite all she says. But she is
going to be very careful in future; she is
afraid of becoming a story-teller.â€
“JT am very glad to hear that, Fanny,â€
said Aunt Sophy.
« What is that they say about your being
a story-teller, my little darling?†said her
grandpapa. ‘Come here, and tell me all
about it.â€
Fanny rose reluctantly, and so much
overwhelmed with shame, that Arthur was
quite sorry he had been so thoughtless as to
draw attention to her fault again.
“ What is all this?†inquired grandpapa.
132
FANNY IN TROUBLE.
After waiting a few moments, Fanny said
in a faltering voice, “I am very vexed with
myself, grandpapa. I got up this morning,
determined to be careful, and say nothing
but what was quite true, all this day ; because
I promised mamma to try and cure myself
of my bad habit of exaggerating ; and, here,
before breakfast is over, everybody is find-
ing fault with me, for what I say about
Harry. I do not want to make him out to
be worse than he is; but I am afraid that
he will be ill-tempered and cross to Arthur,
as he is to Charlie and to me; andso I said
he was cruel and horrid. Perhaps they are
wrong words, but what am I to say when
T feel as if they were the right ones? Auntie
Mimmie, what must I do? J feel that I
dislike him very much. and that he is a
nasty, cruel, teazing boy.â€
*You must try to alter your feelings,
first, Fanny. ‘Try to be more gentle and
kind in your thoughts of him; and then
your words will be gentler, and kinder, too.
Harry is not an amiable boy, I grant; but
K 133
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
I do not think he is likely to be ill-natured
to Arthur, without some provocation; and
Arthur is too sensible to give Harry offence,
if he can help it. Your injustice to Harry
has this bad effect, that it prepares Ar-
thur’s mind to take ill all that Harry may
do or say. You should never try to com-
municate your dislike of any one to another,
It is unfair and unkind; it gives a false
impression ; it prevents the truth from ap-
pearing; because, although you may find
Harry disagreeable to you, Arthur may be
disposed to be agreeable to him; and you
prevent his being so, by letting Harry see
that you have prejudiced his mind against
him. I know you dislike Harry very much,
because he used to tease you when you were
very little; but I would advise you not to
take it for granted that he is no wiser or
kinder now; that would be foolish and
quite untrue. Harry D’Eyncourt is mis-
chievous, full of fun and tricks, but he is
not a bad boy, not cruel or horrid.â€
Grandpapa said something about “a trou-
134
FANNY STILL IN TROUBLE.
blesome youngster,†and teasing his little
darling, who never gave any one any trou-
ble.â€
Fanny knew that he meant to be kind to
her, so she kissed him, and felt very grate-
ful for his fondness; but she knew also that
Aunt Mimmie and the rest were right.
She had allowed her own ill-will to Harry
D’Eyncourt to make her try to set Arthur
against him. She was almost sure that she
wished Arthur to dislike him as much as
she did herself; and she knew that was
unfair.
She stood beside her grandfather, and
said no more, till breakfast was over, and
prayers had been read, and everybody was
beginning to disperse for the day
Then, when Uncle Tom said, “ Now, chil-
dren, get your hats, and come along with
me to the Rectory.â€
Fanny drew back, and said “she did not
want to go; Arthur could go without her.â€
Arthur said he would rather go with her.
But as Fanny still looked disinclined to go,
135
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
Uncle Tom said, “Very well, you can go
another time. I will tell Mrs. D’Eyncourt
you are growing so great a girl, you do not
like to romp any more with her boys. No
more swinging; no more riding on the pony
in the paddock; no more nutting expeditions.
Eh, Fanny ?â€
“No, uncle, no! no! pray do not say
that; it is not a bit true.â€
“Shall I say you are afraid of Harry ?â€
“No, uncle. Do not say that. I hate
Harry, almost, I declare; and I won’t go,
now.†And Fanny went out of the room, and
out of temper, too.
“Well, Arthur, we must go without her
this time. Take no notice of her, now.
Come along, my little man.â€
Arthur followed his uncle. At first, he
thought of nothing but Fanny and her dis-
appointment ; for he knew she would be dis-
appointed at not going to the Rectory that
morning, because she always liked to be with
him when he saw any people for the first
time. Besides, Arthur felt almost sure
136
ARTHUR REFLECTS ON HIMSELF.
that Fanny was angry with him for saying
he did not believe what she said; and he
was sorry for that. That was not the way
to help her to persevere in trying to cure
that, or any other fault. He ought not to
speak of it to any one, except to her, and
then never to taunt her with it.
He felt sure that he should have no heart
to persevere in any good resolution, if every
body were to laugh at the first slips he
made. Fanny never laughed at his want
of observation and slowness before other
people.
Arthur reproached himself very much for
saying an unkind thing about the very
fault that Fanny was now trying to cure
herself of. He wondered how he could have
done it. Ah! he saw, now, that this un-
kindness or unfairness came from his own
fault,—-want of attention—want of percep-
tion. He had not attended to Fanny’s
feelings; he did not think, till now, after
the time was over, that any allusion to her
habit of misrepresentation from him, was
137
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
not kind; he did not perceive, till it was
too late, that she was vexed enough with
herself, and did not require him to find fault
with her. He had made Fanny unhappy,
he was sure, and now he should not see her
till the evening, to tell her how unhappy he
was on that account.
He walked on beside his uncle, and never
once noticed the pretty banks on each side
of the road,—the very same banks which
had given him so much pleasure to look at,
two hours before. This was because there
was a cloud on his mind,—a cloud, caused
by a fault of his own. People, who know
they have been doing wrong, even though
the wrong be no greater than little Arthur’s
at this time, cannot enjoy all the plea-
sures which lie around them. To be
happy, one must be good: it is when we
are happy and content with ourselves, that
we see a charm in all around us.
At length, they came to the front gate of
the Rectory. Arthur had not noticed how
far, or by which way, they had gone: he
138
HARRY’S RECEPTION OF FRANK.
did not know that they had crossed the side
of a hill over-looking the village. How-
ever he remembered the white house with
the paddock before it. Three boys were in
the paddock, one riding a pony without sad-
dle or bridle; another smaller boy was watch-
ing him; and the biggest boy, whom Arthur
recognised as Frank, was leaning against a
gate, reading.
This gate was on the farthest side of the
paddock from the lane, so Frank did not see
the visitors; but Harry, who was on the
pony, did see them, and gallopped directly
to the gate, at which they were coming in.
“ Halloa, Mr. Tom Chester!’ he shouted
at the top of his voice.
“Good morning, Harry. I’ve brought
my little nephew, to make acquaintance
with you.â€
“Oh, that’s a boy, is it? you don’t say
so, now?†(Arthur wore a clean white
blouse). “I should have thought it was a
girl; and I hate girls; they’ve got no
pluck.â€
189
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
«We are fortunate, then, in being able to
avoid your hatred, are we not, Arthur?â€
said his uncle.
“YT don’t know,†said Arthur, staring at
Harry, as if he wanted to see what he was
made of.
Mr. Chester laughed at this answer, and
asked Harry, whether he did not think it
was judicious.
“No,†said Harry; who was, in reality, a
very quick-witted, clever boy, and saw that
Arthur had answered without reflection.
“No; not judicious, only alucky accident.â€
And as Mr. Chester walked towards Frank,
Harry went on, “Here, you Charlie! come
along here. ‘This is a new friend. Master
Fanny Reynolds. Oh! your name’s not
Fanny. I beg your pardon: Arthur, then.
His name is Charlie; and a stupid, little
animal, he is too. Youll find him a con-
genial companion, I’ve no doubt. He’s just
the sort of fellow all Fannies, like you, take
to.â€
“What do you mean, by speaking so of
140
HARRY’S SINGULAR CONDUCT.
Fanny? She can’t help being a girl, can
she?†asked Arthur, growing angry under
the idea that some slight was intended to
his sister.
“Ah! a young turkey-cock, eh? No, I
believe she can’t help being a girl.â€
«Then isn’t it cowardly, and ill-natured,
and foolish, to find fault with her, for not
being what she can’t be?â€
**A Daniel! lo! a Daniel come to judg-
ment,†roared Harry.
*T don’t know what you mean about
Daniel; but I think your’re just out about
girls. I don’t dislike them at ail. I never
saw a girl so disagreeableщۉ۪ Here Arthur
stopped, for he felt he was going to say a
rude thing.
“As Tam,†added Harry. “Well, you
speak out, at any rate. So you are like
Fanny, in one thing, at least. I hope you
dont tell such prodigious fibs, as she does.â€
*T wish you would not speak so of Fanny.
I shall not stay and listen to you,†said Ar-
thur, running off after his uncle.
141
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
Harry sprung off the pony, and bounded
after him. “I say, Arthur, stop;’ he
shouted, and seized him by the arm.
Now Harry was a strong boy, and full of
energy; whatever he did, he did with vio-
lence: and this time he grasped Arthur’s
arm so suddenly, and with such force,
that it seemed as if he had half wrenched it
from the socket. Arthur suffered a violent
pain, but he was so indignant at Harry’s
rudeness, that he bit his lip, and tried to
suppress any signs of the pain. He looked
up in Harry’s face angrily, but bravely.
“Have I hurt you?†asked Harry seeing
Arthur’s sudden paleness, and releasing his
hold.
“Oh! I don’t mind about that,†said Ar-
thur; “but I do.mind about your saying
ill-natured things of my sister. If I could
make you hold your tongue, of course, I
would; but, as I can’t, I shall not stay to
listen ;†and Arthur disengaged himself from
Harry’s grasp. Harry looked at him ear-
nestly, his face quite lost its mocking ex-
142
HARRY’S OPINION OF FANNY.
pression; and he said in a low tone, and
almost kindly. “I will let you go, Arthur;
but will you stop one moment? I have
something to say. You're an honest little
fellow. Will you shake hands with me? and
don’t fancy that I dislike Fanny, for I don’t.
I never did an unkind thing to her, in my
life, though she is always abusing me, as if
I were the greatest rascal in the world. I
dare say she has been trying to set you
against me. Come, tell the truth.â€
“Tf you really like Fanny, what makes
you say such ill-natured things of her?â€
asked Arthur, somewhat perplexed.
“Why, she hates me, and is always
speaking against me. She makes mountains
of all my mole-hills, and that provokes me.â€
Would you like to be friends with
Fanny ?†asked Arthur, eagerly.
“Yes, if she would tell the plain truth;
and if she would try to like me.â€
« Well, then,†said Arthur, “I’m sure you
need only leave off doing rude things to her,
and just be friends with me; ‘f you don’t
; 148
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
mind my being little; and Fanny will soon
get to like you. I never knew her dislike
anybody before. I’m sure she don’t like to |
dislike anybody, and Fanny’s worth having
for a friend, I know. Your brother Frank
thinks so.â€
“Qh, yes, Frank and Fanny are very
thick; only you see, Frank reads all day,
and Fanny does not. A long time ago, she
and I were always together, but we quar-
relled, at last; she told lies—?. ¢. exagger-
ated everything; and I suppose I got rusty,
or, as she said, “dreadfully rude,†and we
have kept on quarrelling ever since. When
I heard you were coming, I felt sure you
were a silly little waspy boy, who had never
been away from mamma, and that you
would just think and say what Fanny did;
for she is clever, and has a way of making
one do what she likes. So I made up my
mind to plague you. But, now I see you
are a brave little man, I should like to have
you for a friend. Will you shake hands
with me, now, Arthur?’ and Harry put out
144
THE TREATY OF FRIENDSHIP.
his hand towards him, awkwardly, but
cordially.
The little boy took it, and said, “Oh,
yes. Iam so glad you are not determined
to be against me, as I thought you were,
at first. Fanny will be pleased to hear you
are going to be my friend.â€
“YT am not sure of that,†said Harry
smiling, and shaking Arthur’s hand very
heartily.â€
“Tsay,†said Arthur, drawing his hand
away with a grimace, “you gave me such
a twist just now, that it hurts me to shake
hands with you.â€
“Did I though?†said Harry; “what a
rough fellov I am! Come along to my
mother. She'll look at the arm, and put
some mess to it that will make it well.
I'm very sorry, though,—does it hurt you
much? Come along! Let’s get hold of my
mother, before Mr. Chester gets up to the
front door. Here, Charlie! bring Jack
Cade!†and in another moment, Arthur
found himself seated on the pony, with
145
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
Harry, and gallopping fast towards the
huuse.
“Hurrah! here we go!†shouted Harry
waving his cap, as they passed by Mr.
Chester and Frank, who were walking along
in animated conversation about the Cricket-
-match.
“T hope he is not teazing Arthur,†said
Mr. Chester, looking after them.
“Oh! no! I saw Arthur’s face. He
looked highly delighted,†said Frank.
Mrs. D’Eyncourt was soon found by
Harry. He told the exact truth concerning
the inquiry of Arthur’s arm. She spoke
gently to her son, about his thoughtless
violence; and when he saw the upper part
of Arthur’s arm all swollen and turning
blue from the pressure of his iron hand,
Harry looked so unhappy, that Arthur was
obliged to try to console him by making
light of the pain, and saying that it was
partly his own fault, for not standing still
at the time. Harry was very grave; his
mother hoped within herself, that this lesson
146
ties
: Aa :
a
Mp LB Ae
&
h S
i y
shouted Harry, waving his cap,
39
‘“* Harrah! here we go,
p. 146.
as they passed by Mr, Chester and Frank.
ARTHUR AT THE RECTORY.
would not be lost upon her head-strong,
passionate boy.
She said no more to him, but talked to
Arthur about his papa, and mamma, and
Fanny. She asked why Fanny had not
come. Poor Arthur! he coloured very
deeply and looked at Harry. He feared to
give his new friend any more pain, by saying
that Fanny would not come, because she
did not wish to see him. Harry guessed the
truth, though.
‘Why did not Fanny come with you,
my dear Arthur?†asked Mrs. D’Eyncourt
again.
“JT do not wish to tell, ma’am. I need
noi, need I?†replied Arthur.
“Certainly not,†my dear, said Mrs.
D’Eyncourt, smiling. ‘There, now you may
put on your jacket again. Harry, I hope
you will take care that he does nothing with
this arm all day. Now, I must go to your
uncle in the drawing-room.â€
“Oh! if you please, ma’am,†said Arthur,
following her to the door, and standing on
147
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
tip-toes to, whisper into her ear, “If you
please, I do not want Uncle Tom or anyone
to know about my arm. Harry did not
_ Mean it, it was quite an accident.â€
“You are a good little fellow,†said Mrs.
D’Eyncourt, kissing him affectionately.
When she was gone from the room,
Arthur went up to Harry, who was seated
with his elbows on a table, holding his chin
between his hands, and looking full of
thought. “Come, Harry! what are you
thinking about ?â€
“T was thinking what a brute I am.â€
“Why, that’s as bad as Fanny; she says
just the same, and it is not true, you know.
Yow ’re a boy, and not a brute,†said Arthur,
who was quite in good spirits, and wished
to make Harry laugh,
“Does Fanny say I’m a brute? Well,
Arthur, the word may be wrong, but the
meaning is right. A boy who behaves with
the same senseless violence as a brute, is
much worse than any brute I know of, I
wonder what Fanny will call me, when she
148
HARRYS KIND FEELING SHOWN.
sees that arm of yours, she’ll call me a
devil, perhaps.â€
“No, she won’t. Girls don’t call people
devils, not even Fanny, though she does say
strong words. Besides, she won’t know
anything about it. You don’t suppose I shall
go and tell her,—do you?â€
‘No, you are too brave for that, I know.
Well, there is no use sitting here; I shall
- go and see what time we are to start for
Ellesdown. Now, keep out of the way of
that table, can’t you ?—You will be damag-
ing that arm again, I see. Mind that cor-
ner! what a heedless young rogue you
are!’ And Harry, the vehement, thought-
less, harum-scarum Harry, watched every
approach of danger to Arthur’s arm with the
solicitude of a mother, and bawled out to
him to beware of this or that, in the tone of
an angry, ill-used fellow.
He was once, in the course of the day,
very nearly striking him a severe blow on
the injured arm, in order to keep it out of
some fancied danger. Harry was not an
L 149
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
ill-natured boy, nor a cruel boy, he was only
very violent and hasty. These faults made
him many enemies, and were really very
injurious to his character. He began to
think seriously of endeavouring to cure
them, from this first day of seeing Arthur
Reynolds.
150
Ghapter WIN.
A VISIT TO MR. CLAVERING’S.
HE days passed on delightfully with the
two children and their friends. It
was a very busy season both at Fairdown
and Ellesdown. It was hay-making time.
Mr. Clavering had called once or twice at
Fairdown. He seemed to like all the Chester
family very much; and gladly gave his
consent to a proposal which was made him
by Auntie Mimmie, for Martha to come and
spend a fortnight at the hay-making time
with Fanny and Arthur.
He was walking slowly with Auntie
Mimmie and Aunt Julia in the garden when
this proposal was made to him; he stopped
suddenly, and said to them, “You will find
my little girl very full of faults, I fear. I
151
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
cannot attend to her, and her grandmamma
is rather too indulgent and somewhat mis-
taken in her notions. But if you will allow
her to come here, sometimes, and will let
her associate with the children, and give
her, occasionally, a word of advice or reproof,
you will make me very grateful.â€
Aunt Julia, who saw the expression of
his face, felt sure that he meant to the full
what he said; and she promised that she
and Auntie Mimmie would pay particular
attention to little Martha. Mr. Clavering
was a man of few words,—He merely said,
“T thank you, Miss Julia;†and then shak-
ing hands with them both, he hurried to the
stable-yard, and rode away.
On the following day, a man drove over
in a chaise from Ellesdown, with a note for
Miss Julia Chester. It was from Mr.
Clavering, apologizing for his hasty depar-
ture the day before, requesting her to fix a
day for Martha to be sent to Fairdown, and
begging that Arthur and Fanny might be
allowed to go back in the chaise, to spend
152
A VISIT PROPOSED.
that day with Martha. There was also a
note from Martha to Fanny, “hoping she
and Arthur would be allowed to come to
see her.â€
“Oh aunt! do pray let us go,†said
Fanny; “I want to see Martha again so
much. I do so want to have a girl friend.
You would like me to go, Auntie Mimmie,
would you not ?â€
“We will go and ask grandmamma first ;
and then I will tell you what I like,†said
her aunt.
Tt was soon ascertained that grandmamma
wished them to go, and that there was no
objection at all to this visit.
Away flew Fanny to the Brook Lawn, to
fetch Arthur. She knew he was there with
Harry D’Eyncourt, who had come down to
the brook to try a small ship which he had
been making for Arthur. Arthur was
_ always with Harry now, and Fanny began
to fancy this Arthur did not care so much
for her comany as he used. She forgot
that it was natural that Arthur should wish
“ 158
yin er Se: s
Sia SF
els
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
for the society of boys, when he was nearly
eleven. She and Harry never quarrelled
now; indeed, Fanny never spoke to him, or
went where he was, if she could help it; but,
she was obliged to acknowledge that Harry
was never rude to her, now.
The two boys were very much engaged
with their ship as Fanny approached, and
her attention was attracted for a moment to
the pretty little vessel.
“What a beautiful ship! did you make
that, Harry ?â€
«Yes, it is rather pretty; I’m glad you
like it,†said Harry. “Did you come down
to see it? If you wait.a moment, I will get
cher ashore, and you shall look at her
closer.â€
Fanny looked at her former tormentor
with surprise. Harry was certainly grow-
ing quite-polite. She did not like to seem
not to care for the ship, just then; so she
waited before telling her errand; which was
a little piece of self-denial.
Harry brought it to land with a long
154
THE MODEL oa
stick, and dried it with his hand kerchief
before he put it into her hands.
«Thank you, Harry,†she said with great
cordiality. “Oh, how very pretty it is!
This is the main-mast, and this is the mizen-
mast, and this is the bowsprit. Do you
remember the little boat Frank made for
you and me a long time ago? It was
not so pretty as this. I should like
to see you sail this another time; but
now I am come to tell Arthur some news.
Mr. Clavering has sent a chaise for us,
and we are to go and spend the day with
Martha. We are to get ready directly,
Arthur.â€
“Oh! I don’t want to go,†said Arthur,
“I want to sail my ship with Harry.â€
“Nonsense, Arthur,†said Harry; “ you
can do that any day. You will enjoy going
to Ellesdown. Mr. Clavering will show you
his museum; he has a curious collection.
By the way, Arthur, ask him to show you
the sword of the sword-fish, that he got in
South America.â€
* 155
_— AND PROSPER.
Arthur required no farther persuasion to
accompany Fanny to the house. Fanny
wished Harry good-bye, and said she hoped
he would let her see the ship again.
Harry promised to do so, and strode off,
whistling.
“What a nice fellow Harry is!’ said
Arthur, trying to walk like him. “I wonder
you don’t like him. He likes you, Fan,
I know.†,
“Never mind that now,†said Fanny,
though she was ready enough and pleased
enough to believe that Harry was beginning
to be amiable once more.
The drive to Ellesdown was very pleasant.
Arthur had a great deal to say about every
person and thing they passed. He had
taken long walks with Harry, and Frank,
and Charlie; and had his attention called
to the objects which crossed his path.
Charlie was making a collection of insects,
and Arthur began to look out for curious
flies and moths, and creeping things; Frank
was always botanising, or observing the
156
ARTHUR’S ENDEAVOURS TO PLEASE.
peculiarities of trees and grasses; Harry
kept a look out for game, vermin, and birds ;
to say nothing of horses, donkeys, cows,
dogs, sheep, Xe.
Harry was much attracted by natural
history generally, and would often read to
Arthur accounts of foreign animals, and
compare their habits with those of the
animals around them. Arthur took care to
pay attention to animals, for Harry’s sake ;
to plants, for Frank’s; and to insects, for
Charlie’s,—he liked to enter into their
pleasures; then he remembered that, by
noticing things about him, he was pursuing
the very best plan for improving his powers
of preception and judgment. His Aunt
Mimmie had told him so; and he had now
learned to respect all that she said to him
and te be sure that it was true.
He soon found that the observation of
external objects gave him great pleasure,
independently of the desire to interest him-
self in his friends’ occupations, or of his
157
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
desire to cure himself of his want of obser-
vation.
“Look! look, Fanny! What fine hops!â€
exclaimed Arthur; “they are much for-
warder than any on grandpapa’s land; who
do they belong to?’ asked he, jumping
forward towards the driver.
He had to wait a long time for an answer,
Kentish peasants are not quick «at a reply.
At last it came in a deep tone, “Mr. Cla-
verin’, I expect.â€
“T expect,†repeated Arthur, with a sly
look at Fanny. ‘I expect we are on Mr.
Clavering’s farm, then.â€
If this is Ellesdown, Ellesdown is a very
pretty place,†said Fanny.
“Yos, isitnot ? We had the cricket-match
here, you know; there, down in_ that
hollow. I forget what they call it.â€
“Ellesdown Bottom,†interposed the
driver.
“Yes, Ellesdown Bottom—the other over
there, where that rook is flying, that is
Mawley Bottom Wood. There are lots of,
158
THE RIDE TO ELLESDOWN.
orchis plants there. You remember the
Bee orchis I brought home that day.â€
“Oh, what hill is that with the wood
stretching half way up it ?†asked Fanny.
“That’s Ashurst. It is such a beautiful
wood! such lots of wild flowers there, and
plenty of hares and pheasants; some squir-
rels too, as nimble as wild rabbits. And
I saw plenty of jays and wood-peckers.
When you are out of the wood, and get to
the top of the hill, you have such a fine
view of the Medway. You can see Ro-
chester-bridge, and the old keep quite well.
Do you know Mr. D’Eyncourt has promised
to take Charlie and me to Rochester next
week, and show us the keep ?â€.
Thus chatted Arthur, unconsciously
showing the improvement his first month
at Fairdown had wrought in his mind.
Fanny found him an extremely intelligent
and useful companion, on this her first visit
to Ellesdown; and she told him she was
very much obliged to him for the trouble he
took in telling her what he knew about the
« 159
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
place. Arthur felt very pleased and proud
to be able to tell Fanny what she did not
know. He thought he might be able to tell
Martha something about Fairdown, when
she came to stay with them. Perhaps, in
time, he might come to know as much as
Harry, or even as Frank; thought recalled
his mother’s words of comfort to him, when
he first told her of his fear that he was born
stupid. He was quite happy in the belief
that, if he persevered in trying to observe
and understand, he ‘should become, as she
said, ‘a sensible, intelligent man.â€
“T am so glad you are come,†exclaimed
Martha as she ran to the door when the
chaise stopped; ‘I have been watching for
you a long time. Down, Ponto! down
sir!’ And in spite of her old-fashioned dress
and precise way of moving and speaking,
she was so delighted, that she jumped round
and round her two friends, first shaking
hands and kissing Fanny, and then perform-
ing the same operation upon Arthur, much
to his mortification; for he had been long
160
MEETING WITH MARTHA.
enough with the D’Eyncourts to think him-
self too old to be kissed, just like a girl.
However, Martha’s good-natured little
face was so full of joy at seeing them, that
Arthur could not resent the act, but was
really very glad to see her, too; he ran with
her and Fanny through the hall, into a large
and beautiful room, which opened into a
green-house.
“Grandmamma is here, I think; no!
she must have gone into the kitchen.
Come with me to the library, and see papa,â€
and they followed her across the hall to ano-
ther door. Arthur saw a great many things
in this hall which interested him. In one
corner was a suit of armour put together,
so as to look as if there were a man inside
it; and he seemed to have a long lance in
his hand. There were several pairs of ant-
lers of various kinds of deer; from the
small fallow deer, seen in English parks, to
the great elk of North America. There
was a case of stuffed birds of the most bril-
liant plumage; and a collection of arms,
~ 161
FEKSEVERE AND PROSPER.
swords, scimitars, daggers, stilettos, guns,
rifles, blunderbusses and pistols. There was
a window of richly stained glass, with herald-
ic devices, which cast the most beautiful
colours on the white stone, and across the
heavy oak balustrades of the wide staircase.
Arthur caught sight of most of these
things as they stood for a moment outside
the library door; and he determined to ask
Martha to tell him something about them;
and above all to show him the sword of the
sword-fish, which is so sharp and strong,
that it can pierce the wood of the strongest
ships. Harry had told him several interest-
ing stories of this destructive fish, and he
had dreamt once about being sunk in a
vessel which had been stabbed two or
three times by one of these creatures. The
sword-fish had become a reality to Arthur.
“Martha knocked gently at the door of
her papa’s library. ‘May I come in? here
are Fanny and Arthur.â€
«Yes, my love; you may come in,†said
Mr. Clavering.
162
RECEPTION AT ELLESDOWN.
The library was a small room lined with
books from the ceiling to the floor, except
at the door by which they entered, and at
another, opposite it, which opened into a
small museum, which was, nevertheless, a
very large one, in Arthur's estimation,
very kindly, and talked to them about their
relations and friends at Fairdown. Mr.
Clavering was a tall, pale gentleman, with a
grave, and, as some people said, a stern, face.
Neither Arthur nor Fanny thought it stern ;
but they were almost afraid to look at it,
sometimes, it was so sad and thoughtful.
Arthur wondered to see Martha jump on his
knee, and sit with her arm round his neck
whiie he talked.
“Papa, dearest, what shall we do to
amuse them?†she asked. Always accus-
tomed io be her papa’s companion, she
thought, that of course, he would help her
to amuse Arthur and Fanny.
Mr. Clavering smiled and said, “I am
willing to contribute my part to their
163
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
amusement before dinner. Shall we show
them the museum, Martha ?â€
“Oh, yes.â€
“Then go and take off your hats and
gloves, and by that time, I will put away my
papers, and be ready to show the museum.
Only run, my dear, and let grandmamma
know that they are come, for fear she should
not order dinner enough for us all.â€
The two girls went up-stairs, and Arthur
remained in the hall, very glad of this op-
portunity of examining its contents. His
heart, was, at length, divided between the
curiously-wrought armour, and a bright,
long-legged flamingo; and he walked from
one to the other in a state of intense satis-
faction.
“‘ Martha, dear,†said Fanny, when they
were together in Martha’s large bed-room,
“what makes your papa look so very pale,
and sad? Is he ill? He does not look a bit
like any one who lives in the country.â€
Martha's bright face turned dark at these
words. She looked down on the ground,
164
DEATH OF MAMMAe
mournfully, and said, “Yes. That is what
makes me unhappy sometimes. I cannot
make papa gay and cheerful. Grandmam-
ma is deaf, you know; and Iam only alittle
girl, and though he is very fond of me, and
loves to have me with him, yet I cannot
talk to him like a grown-up person. Poor
mamma was very clever, and could talk to
papa about his books, and his papers, and
his different studies. She was almost al-
ways with him. He misses her very much.
~ He will never leave off thinking about her,
ITamafraid. Dear, dearmamma. She was
30 kind, and we all loved her so. Papa
chinks about her, a great deal, I am sure.
“When mamma died,†sobbed the little
girl, “they took me away from poor papa,
because he was ill, nearly dying with grief.
They would not let me be with him. I think
I could have helped to make him better, be-
cause I do leve him so. Oh, Fanny! you
cannot think how much I love him.—bet-
ter than any one can love a papa and mam-
ma who are happy. My papa is sad, and he
M 168
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
loves me better than any thing on earth; so
I love him much more than I should if he
were happy, and had mamma and other
children to love him. Oh! I wish I could
find out some way of making papa happy.
I would do anything. I try all sorts of
things, but I am afraid I shall never
succeed.â€
“When you come to Fairdown, dear,â€
said Fanny, who was much moved at Mar-
tha’s trouble, “ we will ask Auntie Mimmie
what you can do,—she is so good, and
knows the best way of doing everything.
You remember Mimmie.â€
“Your beautiful blind aunt? Oh, yes.
But I liked your Aunt Julia best.â€
“Why ?†asked Fanny,
“Because she talked to papa the most,
and made him quite cheerful. Oh! I love
your Aunt Julia; she was so kind to papa,
and she seemed to think of Mimmie always,
never of herself. I like all the people at
Fairdown, but I think I shall like you and
Miss Julia the best. I wonder whether she
166
THE DAILY LESSONS,
would tell me what to do, so that I may
grow up just what papa would like.â€
“Tam sure she would. Aunt Julia is as
good as Mimmie, I do believe; only she is
not blind, you know; and so I do not love
her so very, very much; and I cannot help
her so much as I can my darling Mimmie.
Besides, Mimmie has loved me so much ever
since I was a baby. What are all those
great books, Martha?†she added abruptly,
pointing to some folios on the table.
“Only something about zoology; I want
to understand such things, that I may be
able to talk to papa when he is tired of
walking about the farm. He gives me
a lesson in Latin and arithmetic every day,
and sometimes a lesson in French and geo-
graphy. J made that map of Europe.
Soon I am going to begin learning the his-
tory of Greece with papa. He is so clever,
and teaches so kindly. I like my lessons
better than anything.â€
* And what does your grandmamma do all
day ?†asked Fanny. 7
167
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
“Oh! she reads a great deal. Poor dear
grandmamma! she is so deaf, that we can-
not talk much to her. Then she teaches
me all sorts of needle-work. I can make
all my own clothes, when they are cut out ;
and have made six shirts for papa. She
makes clothes for the poor people, and I help
her. And then she is a great deal in the
garden and poultry-yard. Dear me! I’m
chatting away, and forgetting what papa
said about letting her know you were come.
Let us go down, now.â€
Old Mrs. Clavering was very glad to see
them, and soon went to order some addi-
tional puddings and cakes, for dinner.
When the three children returned to the
library, Mr. Clavering had opened the door
of the museum, and in two minutes they
were al] deeply engaged in considering a col-
lection of fossils, or, very old remains of
animals dug out of the earth. Mr. Claver-
ing was’ very much pleased with his daugh-
ter’s friends, and took pains to explain every
thing very clearly to them. Geology, or,
168
VALUE OF KNOWLEDGE.
the knowledge of what the earth is com-
posed of, was found so interesting a science,
that they had not half finished the subject
of the old red sandstone, when dinner was
announced; and, to the children’s surprise,
they had been more than an hour over one
case of fossils.
“Why it will take us a whole year to go
through all the museum, Mr. Clavering !â€
said Arthur, with a look of admiration.
“Tt will take us more than a whole life
to understand thoroughly all that is in it.
I never come into it without learning some-
thing new. The beauty of learning, Arthur,
is, that it is a pleasure that never wears
out,—that is never exhausted,†said Mr.
Clavering.
“Do you think I shall ever know enough
to understand all these things ?â€
“T have no doubt you will. I can only
tell you, you have a great treat to come,â€
replied Mr. Clavering.
At dinner, Mr. Clavering talked to all
the children gaily, and seemed to like to
169
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
hear them talk. After dinner, they did not
wish to disturb either Mr. or Mrs. Claver-
ing, so they went to amuse themselves
Martha took them all over the house, even
into the kitchen, where the cook received
them kindly, and promised them some par-
ticularly nice tea-cakes.
Martha took them to the hay-field, where
the labourers were hard at work. They
were none of them disposed to run about,
so they heaped up comfortable seats of the
sweet smelling hay, and sat down to talk,
for they had a great deal to say. Fanny
and Arthur described the D’Eyncourts to
Martha, and she was very much amused
with their accounts of Harry and his bro-
thers. Martha had only once been with her
papa and grandmamma to call at Fairdown;
so, as she said, everything would be quite
new to her, there. J hope I shall go soon.
I like Fairdown house very much. How do
you like our house ?â€
“Qh! said Arthur, “your house is a
much more beautiful one than ours. The
170
THE TWO MANSIONS.
rooms are large and handsome; and you do
not tumble up into one room and down into
another. I do not like the upper rooms at
Fairdown. And see how regular and hand-
some the front of your house is.â€
‘Well! that is just what I don’t like it
for,†said Fanny; “to me, Fairdown is a
million times prettier. This is much
grander and handsomer. I like your hall
and the drawing room, and the green-house ;
but, somehow, I like dear old Fardown,
with its funny nooks and corners, much
better; and, though I dare say you will al-
ways like this nice handsome house best,
Martha, yet I think you will like Fairdown
when you come.â€
“JT am sure I shall, the garden is so
very pretty. I hope I shall go soon.â€
“Go where, my dear?†inquired Mr.
Clavering, approaching them with a boy,
whom Martha did not know.
“To Fairdown, papa,†replied Martha,
getting up and making her little formal
curtsey to the stranger. “ How do you do,
171
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
sir?†for she was accustomed to pay great
attention to her papa’s visitors; as her
grandmamma’s deafness prevented her talk-
ing to them, Martha had been taught that
she ought to supply her place as much as
possible.
This strange boy stared at Martha; but
smiled at Arthur and Fanny, as if he knew
them well enough.
“This is master Harry D’Eyncourt,
Martha. He has been kind enough to ride
over on his pony, with a message from the
ladies at Fairdown, asking you to go back
with your friends this evening.â€
Martha’s little face flushed with pleasure,
and she made Harry another curtsey just
like an old-fashioned lady ; and immediately
afterwards, she went up to him, like an
unaffected little girl, and gave him her hand,
and said, “I am very much obliged to you.
I am sure you have had a hot ride.â€
“Yes,†said Harry; “it was hot enough,
but you must make up your mind, whether
you go or not, directly; for I want to be
172
HARRY’S RUDENESS.
home again ; so be quick,†and he began to
lash the hay with his whip.
“May I go, papa?†said Martha quietly,
not at all moved by Harry’s rude manner.
“Yes, my love; and I will drive over
after tea.â€
“Then, I shall be very glad to go, sir,â€
she said to Harry.
“That's capital!†said Harry; “that’s
something like. Now, then, I need not go
back directly, Mr. Clavering. Julia Chester
said I was to ride back directly, if Martha
could not come home with Arthur and Fanny,
~ and let her know. It’s a fine thing when a
girl knows her own mind, and does not
hesitate and stand shilly-shallying for an
hour together.â€
* And is it not quite as good a thing for
a boy ?’ asked Fanny rather sharply, for
she was angry at the rude way in which
Harry behaved to her friend.
“Oh! boys and menalways know their
own minds: don’t they, Mr. Clavering ?â€
asked Harry. .
173
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
“Not always, Harry,†said Mr. Clavering.
“ At this very moment, I do not know my
own mind about you. I do not know whe-
ther you are most of a good-natured boy, or
of an incorrigible, surly, rough-mannered
fellow; which do you think, Fanny?’ he
added, stroking her curls gently.
Arthur ran forward in an excited state,
and put his hand on Fanny’s mouth, just as
she was about to say a great deal more than
was really true against Harry. “Do think
first, Fanny ; remember you may tell a false-
hood, and give Harry pain,†whispered the
feeling boy.
Fanny paused a moment, and then kissed
Arthur before she replied, glancing at Harry,
“T think, sir, Harry D’Eyncourt is a good-
natured boy; it is a great pity that he is so
rough and unkind in his manners. It makes
people believe, what is not true, that he is
really ill-tempered and cross. I hope Mar-
tha will try to think he did not mean to be
rude. I am sure he did not.
“Now, did you, Harry ?†she said, turning
174
FANNY A PEACE-MAKER
to him, just as if they were the best friends
in the world; for she began to like him
again, now chat she was taking his part.
“No, Fanny, I did not mean to be rude,â€
and Harry turned on his heel and looked
hard at the other end of the field. Arthur
went up to Martha, and told her, in a low
tone, that Harry was so violent by nature,
that he could not help doing and saying
tude things; but that he was the kindest
fellow in the world, and so very clever ;
when she got to know him, she would be
sure to like him. Martha, who had been
taught at school and by her grandmamma
to be very polite, was really shocked at the
rude way in which Harry had behaved: but
she listened to Arthur’s defence of his frend
and tried to be convinced by it.
Mr. Clavering had walked away to speak
to some of his men. Fanny thought this
was a good opportunity for trying to make
up her long-standing quarrel with Harry.
She knew that she had been quite as much
to blame in it as Harry, because she nad
175
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
provoked him often, and had never, till that
day, shown anything like a wish to be
friends with him. She went close up to
him, as he stood some yards away from the
others, still looking hard across the field,
with one hand in his pocket, and the other
holding the whip with which he was lashing
the hay. He looked awkward enough, but
Fanny fancied he did not look happy.
She stopped the arm which was thrashing
the hay, with her hand, and said, “ Harry !â€
He turned his head quickly towards her,
and said in a rough voice, ** Well!â€
“Harry! I want to be friends with you
again.â€
He looked away again, and stared once
more across the field.
‘Won't you be friends, Harry, dear?â€
‘“What do you call me dear for? You
know you can’t bear me; Arthur told me
so; he tells the truth. I hate people who
say what is not true, merely to try and
please at the time, That’s what you do,
Fanny.â€
176
THE RECONCILIATION.
“That’s what I used to do, perhaps, when
I did not think; but I shall never do that
any more, I hope. I am trying to be quite
truthful in little things. I am not trying
to please you now, I am saying the exact
truth. I am sorry you do not believe me,
Harry; I am sorry that I have often said
more than the truth against you. I feel
sure now, from your kindness to Arthur,
that you are really good-hearted. If you
won't be friends with me now, perhaps you
will some day, when I have quite cured my
bad habit. ‘Will you, do you think, Harry?â€
Harry found his heart softening very
much towards the affectionate little girl,
who spoke only of her own fault and not of
his, and he more than a year older than
she was. ‘You are a good, generous little
thing, Fan,†said he, “I am really very
fond of you and always was, even when you
used to tell such confounded—you know
what. Jam an uncouth, ill-tempered dog;
but if you really mean that you will be
friends with me again, I will try in earnest
177
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
to mend my manners. I could have bitten my
tongue off for speaking in that way to little
Miss Prim there ;—I don’t know what pos-
sessed me, unless it was seeing you and
Arthur so mighty thick with her, and look-
ing as if you were sorry when I came.â€
“Well, Harry, I was not pleased to see
you, because I thought you would teaze us
all.â€
“Go it, Fan! that’s the sort for me,—
the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but
the truth; keep to that, and I will stick to
vou always,†exclaimed Harry, shaking
hands with her in so hearty a manner that
she winced. ‘That’s the best thing I’ve
heard for a long time. Keep to the truth
always, there’s a dear little Fanny.â€
“Tf you call me dear again, I shall call
you dear, then.â€
“With all my heart. I’ve no objection
to the word in its proper place. I was only
afraid you said it without meaning that you
liked me.â€
“Holloa! what are they shouting at us
178
THE DRIVE TO FAIRDOWN,
for? Why they are almost down at the
house, and we never saw them. Come along
Fan! Now for a run.—Oh, I won’t go too
fast, dear,†added he, taking her hand to
run down the hill.
When they got to the house, Harry told
Fanny to tell “Miss Prim†as he called
Martha, that he was very sorry for being
so rude; and he went off with Arthur
to wash their faces and hands before going
into the drawing-room to tea.
The drive back to Fairdown was plea-
santer, far pleasanter than their journey
from it in the morning. Mr. Claverim
drove, and told them all sorts of interesting
stories about his travels. Arthur sat on
the box with him; Martha and Fanny sat
inside, with the hood thrown back; and
Harry gallopped his pony beside the chaise.
Every one was in good spirits, and they all
enjoyed it very much; perhaps Harry and
Fanny enjoyed it the most, because they
uow understood each other again.
To the satisfaction of all parties, but
179
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
especially of Martha, Mr. Clavering slept
that night at Fairdown. Asa great treat, in
honour of Martha’s arrival, all the children
sat up to supper, and Harry stayed till they
went to bed.
“Good night, Mimmie dear,†said Fanny.
“TJ have had such a happy day, I have made
two friends; a new one and an old one. I
like Martha so much; but I never was
happier than when Harry said he thought I
should soon get the better of my fault. It
is a dreadful thing to say what is not true!â€
“It is; but remember, if you persevere
you will prosper.â€
“Well, I forgot all about the sword-fish
after all!†thought Arthur, as he got into
bed.
180
Chanter TER.
THE HOPPING PARTY.
LE suppose most of my readers understand
what is meant by the title of this
chapter,—thta they do not think it means
“a party of people met together to hop on
one foot,†as I myself was foolish enough
to fancy, when I was a child.
One of the pleasantest places in the world
is a Kentish hop-garden, at the picking
time; at least, so thought my friends
at Fairdown. I have heard travellers say,
that av English hop-gathering is a prettier
sight than an Italian vintage.
Nothing in the way of agriculture, here, is
half so picturesque as hop-picking; of that
there can be no doubt. Old Mr. Chester had
several hop-gardens, and the year in which
N 181
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
Arthur first went to Fairdown, the hops
were very plentiful.
Arthur and Fanny became such favourites
with their relations there, that when the two
months appointed for their stay had elapsed,
a letter from grandmamma was despatched
to Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds, begging them to
allow the children to remain until the
hopping season was over, and to come down
themselves to Fairdown for a few days,
hopping. Now Mrs. Reynolds loved Fair-
down always; but she loved it three times
better at hopping than at any other time;
and she could not refuse to let the children
stop for so great a treat; nor could she
help persuading Mr. Reynolds to give up
business for a few days, and enjoy them at
Fairdown. So she wrote to say that the
children were to stop, and that she and their
papa would come down before the hopping
was over, and take them back to town.
There was great rejoicing when this
letter arrived; for it would be three weeks
more before the hopping would be all over,
182
GOOD NEWS.
Six more weeks for Arthur and Fanny to
stay !
Off they scampered to tell the D;Eyncourt
boys, all three of them, for Martha was
still staying at Fairdown, and ,she had
already learned to dispense with the cere-
mony of dressing to go out—when going
out was only running a little way down a
lane, and through Spring-wood, into the
Rectory garden.
“Holloa! where are you all scamper-
ing?†cried Charlie, who was on the look
out for a particular sort of caterpillar, called
a hop-dog, as they ran past the gate of a
lrop-garden.
“Good news! good news!†shouted the
three; *‘ going to stay till after hopping!â€
Down came Charlie, waving his cap on
the top of his butterfly-catcher, and joined
them in their run. When the party were
going across the little hillock in the wood,
Martha got first. She did not see Harry,
who bounced out from among the trees, and
183
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
threw himself before her, saying in a loud
bombastic tone,—
“Come to my arms, my slight acquaintance !â€
Everybody laughed aloud at this. And
Arthur said “ Harry was always play-acting
and spouting.†Martha did not mind any-
thing Harry said now, because she liked him,
and they had become very good friends, by
means of zoology, in which they both took
an interest, and about which Martha knew
more than Harry, because she had learned
so much from her papa’s museum, and from
books.
“What's the row?’ said Harry, seeing
them all so excited.
“What’s the good of talking like a
groom? I hate boys who talk slang,†said
Fanny.
“ What’s the good of talking with a thou-
sand-fold magnifying power? I hate a girl
that talks thunder,†said Harry, laughing,
but quite good-naturedly.
“Well, don’t get into bad habits, dear,â€
184
JOYOUS HEARTS.
said Fanny; “they are not so easy to cure,
. I can tell you.â€
“Tsay, Harry,†said Charlie, “they are
to stay till the end of hopping.â€
“How jolly!†exclaimed Harry—then
correcting himself, he said mincingly,
“Dear me! how very delightful; but is it
true, Fan?â€
“Yes, quite true. Are you not glad,
Harry ?â€
“You know Iam. Come along, all of you,
and tell mamma and Frank; they are in
the house.â€
And away they all went, laughing and
talking, through the rest of the wood, to the
house. Mrs. D’Eyncourt was always glad
to see the two little girls and Arthur; and
this time she was better pleased than usual,
because they told her that Mrs. Reynolds
was coming down to the hopping. Mrs.
Reynolds and Mrs. D’Eyncourt had been
little girls together years ago at Fairdown,
just as Martha and Fanny were now. Even
Mr. D’Eyncourt was disturbed in his study
185
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
this morning, where he was busy giving
Frank a Greek lesson.
“Papa! papa!†exclaimed Charlie, burst-_
ing into the room, “ Fanny and Arthur are
to stay till after hopping!†This news was
received by both the busy people with great
pleasure. Mr. D’Eyncourt even told Charlie
he might have a holiday that afternoon, to
go and play with his friends; to which
Charlie raised no objection.
However, there is no pleasant day that
has not some unpleasantness in it. Just at
tea-time, when all the D’Eyncourts were
come to take tea at the Court, some dull
and almost disagreeable people, whom all
the children disliked, came to see the
Chesters. Of course they were asked to tea.
There were four or five of them, and Mrs.
Chester and Sophy thought it would be
unpleasant for so many persons to take tea
in one room, so they had a table set out,
with a white cloth and a regular tea appa-
ratus, in a corner of the Church Lawn.
This was for the young people.
186
A FROLIC PROPOSED.
Now when Julia and Mimmie came up to
the house, from their afternoon’s reading
on the Brook Lawn, they felt the air of the
room somewhat oppressive, and begged to
be allowed to sit with the younger ones.
This was hailed with delight by Fanny,
Martha, and Frank, who were very fond of ~
Mimmie and Julia; Arthur, Harry, and
Charlie, were not quite so pleased, for they
had been contriving some frolic in which
they wanted Uncle Walter’s assistance, and
which could not be executed without him;
and as it was to be directed against Mr.
Jonas Gibbs, one of the visitors, they knew
it could not be done while Miss Julia
Chester was there, because Mr. Gibbs was
sure to be at her elbow; and besides, she
would not permit any practical joke.
Harry was not so easily baffled, however,
so he begged Miss Sophy to contrive to
keep Jonas Gibbs in attendance upon her
tea-table, and not let him come to theirs.
This was promised, and the promise was
kept.
187
PERSEVBRE AND PROSPER.
Nothing could be pleasanter than the
garden party. Frank enjoyed what he con-
sidered a great treat, a conversation with
Mimmie about German poetry and old
English ballads. He sat on an ottoman at
her feet,* and waited on her, carefully
putting her cup into her hand, and giving
her fruit or cake as she wanted it. Every-
body loved to wait on the gentle Mimmie,
who was always so contented, and so ready
to attend to the thoughts and feelings of all
who came near her. Julia was more ani-
mated than usual, as she made tea for her
party, and joined in the laughter and fun of
the younger folks, when she saw that Frank
had devoted himself to Mimmie.
Harry was in high spirits at the prospect
of the success of his trick, (which was not
an ill-natured one, by the way) and he
entertained them all by an imitation of Mr.
Jonas Gibb’s manner of talking and eating,
which were certainly laughable.
As they could not be seen from the room,
Julia let him go on; Martha, in particular,
188
THE FROLIC INTERRUPTED.
was charmed at Harry’s powers of mimicry,
and volunteered to be “a lady to whom
Mr. Jonas was untommonly polite,†while
Harry acted Mr. Jonas.
Aunt Julia could not help laughing at the
absurd grimaces and antics of her two
favourites; and as she laughed, she was
afraid it was useless to tell them she did
not think it right to make fun of a guest in
this way.
Just as Martha was walking away in a
dignified manner with Harry, holding a
parasol over her head, like an awkward bear
on its hind legs, they suddenly came face
to face with Mr. Clavering.
“Oh! papa! papa!†exclaimed Martha,
throwing her arms round him.—Mr. Claver-
ing’s heart beat with joy to see his prim,
formal, delicate little girl, looking healthy,
playful, and quite like other girls. He had
not seen her for three weeks.
“You will not object to join our young
party, here, Mr. Clavering, instead of going
into the crowded tea-room, will you?†said
189
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
Julia, rising to welcome him, and motioning
to Arthur to run and fetch another chair.
“) should very much prefer it,†said Mr.
Clavering; ‘but I want coffee, and I know
yours is all gone, at this table.â€
* How could you tell that?’ asked
Martha.
‘It is a very improper thing to play the
spy, I believe, Miss Chester; but I could
not help it: I have been watching your
party from the church-yard for the last
half-hour.â€
In a few minutes, Mr. Clavering was pro-
vided with the only thing in the way of
eating or drinking, about which he was very
particular, strong, hot coffee. He ex-
plained that he had come to take Martha
back to Ellesdown the next morning, if Mrs.
Chester would give him a bed that night.
This was a damper to the mirth of the
young folks. Everybody was sorry to lose
Martha, and it gratified the father’s heart to
see how much his motherless child was
loved.
190
A PRESSING INVITATION.
Mimmie then explained to him the ar-
rangements that were being made for forming
a delightful hopping party aty Fairdown,
that season.
‘And now, Mr. Clavering, we. want your
assistance, to complete our party. Walter
tells me that you have only one hop garden,
and that your hops are a week forwarder
than ours; so that yours will be safe in the
oast-house, before we have hardly begun
picking here.â€
“That’s quite true,†said Mr. Clavering.
« Now, what we want, all of us, but es-
pecially Mr. D’Eyncourt, Tom, Julia, and
Martha.†<“ And I,â€â€”*« And I,â€â€”*“ And I,
Mimmie,†chimed in all the young ones.
“ Well, all of us, in particular, want you
to bring Mrs. Clavering and Martha here,
for a fortnight’s hopping; and you, ot.
course, to stay yourself, and go over to
Ellesdown just for half a day, when business
requires it, during that time. My sister
Carry, (Mrs. Reynolds,) and her husband,
are coming, and the D’Eyncourts are going
191
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
to have a house full of visitors, who come
on purpose to enjoy the hopping.â€
“T am afraid my mother and I will be
sadly out of place in such a gay party; I
might say, such an army of merry-makers.â€
“Oh no! indeed. Mrs. Clavering will
really enjoy life in a hop-garden, I am sure.
You say you have never seen it. Wait
till hopping is over, before you talk boast-
fully of the vintage in Italy and the south
of France. Mrs. Clavering shall be com-
fortably settled, and pick, or knit, or do no-
thing, just as she likes; but every one else,
young and old, yourself included, will be
expected to pick away all day. You are to
work for Julia’s school; she wants to pur-
chase a nice stove for the school-house, so
that it ntay be properly heated all the win-
ter, and may serve as a play-room for the
youngest children in wet weather. Now,
you must understand, that papa pays us for
what we pick, at the same rate at which the
regular pickers are paid; and, of course, all
our visitors are expected to work for us.â€
192
PLEASURE AND PROFIT.
“Ts it not nice, Mr. Clavering? I earned
a good many shillings, last year; and that
went to Aunt Julia’s poor box,†said Fanny.
“Tt is so pleasant to be earning money.
Martha and I are to have a bin of our own;
that is, if you will let Martha come; and
we are trying to get as many good industri-
ous people to work for us, as we can.
“Martha has got Aunt Julia, who is the
best picker of us all; and I have got Harry,
who is the worst. Now, I think,†added
she, coming close to Mr. Clavering, and smil-
ing in his face; “now, I think, if you will
be my workman, and will take great pains,
you and Harry together will pick as much
as Aunt Julia. Will you come, and pick at
our bin, Mr. Clavering ?â€
“TI can’t promise to do much work,†said
Mr. Clavering, “but I think I must come.â€
“And bring grandmamma, too?†asked
Martha eagerly, for she was thinking that it
would be dull for her to be left alone at
Ellesdown.
“Yes. I must get her to accept your
193
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
kind invitation, Miss Chester,†said he,
turning to Mimmie.
The prospect of parting with Martha on
the morrow did not seem so unpleasant to
her companions, now that it was settled that
she and her papa were coming to the
hopping.
Ail the young ones, having finished tea,
set off to have a game of bowls on the
front lawn.
Frank, however, remained, to listen to a
conversation between Mr. Clavering and
Mimmie and Julia, about the necessity of
intercourse with our fellow creatures, for
keeping the mind in a healthy state, even
though the persons we associate with be
not precisely the companions we desire.
Mimmie, whose gentle goodness and charity
were as conspicuous, Frank thought, as her
rapid, clear intellect, declared that she
would rather have the society of such people
as the Gibbs and Smiths, (at that moment
laughing and talking loudly in the tea-
room,) than be deprived of it altogether.
194
THE ROUGH VISITORS.
There was always something to sympa-
thize with, she thought; they were rather
quarrelsome, to be sure; and that excited
her pity, and made her anxious to soothe
and satisfy these captious, . disputatious
neighbours ; but it was a hopeless business.
Mr. Clavering confessed that, though
they lived so near Ellesdown, he had never
prevailed on himself to visit them, after
the first time; and that he shunned them
like a pestilence; they seemed to disturb
the harmony of every circle they entered.
“They do not disturb us, you see,†said
Mimmie; “for, if I mistake not, that is
Sophy going to play a duet with Caroline
Smith; and I can hear the others moving.â€
“You are quite right, Mimmie,†said
Frank. “There they come! Tom first,
with Mrs. Smith and Ellen Gibbs; they
look in perfect good-humour. Then, there
is Walter, arm-in-arm with Jonas, who is
laying down the law in a very decisive way.
And there is dear Mrs. Chester, walking
with Mr. Smith and Mr. Gibbs; and talk-
195
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
ing about their last importation of Jersey
cows, I am quite sure, from the depth of
their smiles.â€
“Now, Mr. Clavering,†said Julia, “you
must get up and pay your respects to mam-
ma and the rest. And follow Mimmie’s
advice, and try to find a point of sympathy
with Mr. Jonas, if you can.â€
“TI know one,†whispered Frank to Mim-
mie, in a knowing tone. “Mr. Jonas
Gibbs and Mr. Clavering, different as they
are, agree in one point, I am sure.â€
“In admiring Julia, you mean,†said
Mimmie: you are quick-sighted, for a
boy,†she added, laughing; “but pray
confine your remarks on the subject to
me.â€
Tt was a brilliant moonlight night.
After the unpopular visitors had departed
in high spirits, and with many expressions
of pleasure, for the unceremonius, delight- .
ful hours they had passed; after Mimmie
had brought every one to agree to her pro-
position, that the Smiths and Gibbs were
196
A&A WALK PROPOSED.
really good, and in some respects, very sen-
sible persons ; and after all the younger chil-
dren had disappeared, and Frank alone
remained, Mr. Clavering proposed a walk to
the top of one of the neighbouring hills, and
a view of the stars, through a telescope which
he had brought with him in the chaise.
Every one was charmed at this project.
Frank asked to be allowed to fetch his fa-
ther, who wished to have some talk with Mr.
Clavering, about the Nebular Hypothesis,
and the planet Neptune; and he thought
this would be a capital opportunity.
While Sophy and Julia went to put on
their shawls, (bonnets they never wore
while walking about their own hill; only
large straw hats with very broad brims,)
Mimmie sat down to the piano, and sang,
‘Let the bright Seraphim,’ for her brothers
and Mr. Clavering.
When they were all gone, Mimmie went
on singing in the dark, or rather moon-lit
room, by herself, instead of going to bed, as
her mamma had done. She enjoyed the
0 197
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
midnight quiet, broken only by her own
voice; and, after a little while, she felt her
way into the garden, and moved along si-
lently with a song of thanksgiving in her
heart. As Fanny said, “ Mimmie loved God
better than anything, or anybody; and so
she was always happy, God being always
with her.â€
At length, the long expected party were
all assembled at Fairdown Court and Rec-
tory. Mr. D’Eyncourt’s sister, Mrs. Merle,
and her two daughters, girls of fifteen and
sixteen; fine, accomplished, young ladies,
but not too fine to enjoy rusticating with
their country cousins. Mrs. D’Eyncourt’s
brothers, James and Henry Danvers, young
men from Oxford, who were very fond of
coming down to Fairdown Rectory.
The party at the Rectory, and the other
still larger party at the old Court, suited
each other, or, as Harry D’Eyncourt said,
198
NEW MODE OF CONVEYANCE.
‘dove-tailed’ perfectly; and, perhaps, few
happier days were ever known by any of
them than the fortnight spent' in Mr. Ches-
ter’s hop-garden at Fairdown that year.
Early breakfasts were the order of the
day; and before breakfast, a constant com-
munication was kept up between the two
houses, by means of flying messages carried
by Charlie, Harry, Arthur, Fanny, and
Martha.
To express the fulness of their delight
during the fortnight, would be impossible.
Harry and Arthur were entrusted with the
care of all the stools, cushions, cloaks,
shawls, coats, parasols, umbrellas, &c. that
were used by the party every day. These
they put into a light truck, drawn by a
Newfoundland dog, (the equipage was their
own contrivance), that carried them up
every morning to the Windmill hill, on the
side of which the hop-garden lay, and they
brought them back in the same way every
evening.
As soon as they had arranged seats fo
199
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
all the ladies as comfortably as they could,
and had caused some of the labourers to
bring the requisite number of bins to that
corner of the garden, the two boys would go
back again with their dog-cart, after adorn-
ing it with fresh hop-corealties, and bring
Fanny and Martha in it, who rode along
in state, carrying the books, and drawing,
and needle-work, entrusted to them by the
elder folks.
By the time they reached the scene of
operations, the Rectory party would gene-
rally arrive; Laura and Alice Merle wore
large coarse straw hats on this occasion,
which Frank and Henry Danvers would
wreath with hops, preparatory to the day’s
work. Mr. and Mrs. D’Eyncourt, and Mr.
James Danvers, (who was writing a poem
about the working classes), would saunter
away to all parts of the garden, greeting
the busy hoppers, who had been at work
there ever since four o'clock.
Some of these were the Fairdown village
folks; but most of them were very poor
200
THE HOP-PICKERS’ CHILDREN.
people from London, who go down every
autumn into Kent and Surrey, with their
wives and children, seeking employment in
the hop-gardens. When the weather was
fine, as it was this year, the change was
very advantageous for them.
How the poor, pale children, who are pent
up in London alleys all the year, enjoy a
hopping season! see them play about during
their brief meal times! hear them laugh
over their bins, throwing the beautiful
wreaths at each other! This was a great
source of pleasure to Arthur and Fanny,
whose hearts had often been moved to com-
passion by the sight of London children,
who had never been into the country in
their lives.
Here, in the course of a week, their thin
white faces would begin to get plump and
rosy. As Arthur told Fanny “It was a
great pity hopping could not last all the
year round.â€
They were very much delighted when
their Uncle Tom told them that he was
: 201
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
employing five hundred hoppers that year,
and that two hundred of these were chil-
dren. They thought that number must
materially diminish the number of sufferers
in the London air, during that warm
weather, which was so delightful there, on
the hill side at Fairdown.
While Mr. and Mrs. D’Eyncourt and her
brother, were making friends among the
poor pickers, the rest of the “gentry,†as
these latter called them, were stripping the
fragrant hops from the wreaths, with busy
fingers, all except Mr. Chester, Walter, Tom,
and Frederick, who were obliged to superin-
tend the pickers in other gardens on the
farm, and walked or rode about from one to
the other.
In all justice, I must say that Fanny and
Martha’s bin yielded the most hops every
day, for Julia was first-rate; Harry and
Mimmie were tolerably steady pickers, and
Mr. Clavering turned out a better picker
than was expected. Though he would
occasionally forget all about his business,
202
CONVERSATION ON HOP-PICKING,
and, letting his wreath fall into the bin,
would sit himself down on the edge of it,
and relate some interesting stery to them
all, or more often get into conversation with
Miss Julia in so low a tone, that nobody
heard what he said. Upon one of these
occasions, Fanny called him to order,
saying,— “Come, come, Mr. Clavering; I
can’t allow my work-people to waste their
time in that way.â€
“Why, Fanny, I don’t think I should
ever be a good hopper, if I were to try ever
so much; my fingers are not made for it.â€
“Indeed! indeed, you are mistaken, Mr,
Clavering, you do not persevere. Is it not
so, Auntie Mimmie? Is it not the same
with hop-picking and doing things with the
hands, as it is in doing things with the mind ?
‘Persevere, and you will prosper.’ Is not
that a irue proverb, Mr. Clavering ?â€
“Well, Fanny, I am inclined to think
you are right,†said Mr. Clavering, stooping
to pick up his own bine, and Julia’s, which
she, steady picker as she certainly was,
a
208
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
had been careless enough to drop at that
moment.
“What do you think of that proverb,
Miss Julia, as applied tome? I am awk-
ward, and rather old for the task I under-
take; but, if I persevere, do you think I
shall prosper ?â€
“JT do not think you awkward, or too
old,†said Miss Julia, smiling; and then
she added, “to become a very good hand
at hop-picking.â€
“ Persevere, and you will prosper, Mr.
Clavering,†said Mimmie; “ even Fanny
has at last learned the truth of that motto.
She is already getting a character for being
exact; and she was, until lately, prover-
bially indifferent to perfect truthfulness.
“JT think,†said Mrs. Reynolds, “ Fanny
owes much of her perseverance to having
such a friend as this scrupulous, exact,
methodical little Martha, whose character
serves as a continual check upon Fanny.
Now, I have a bargain to propose to you,
Mr. Clavering; if you will let Fanny have
204
ANOTHER INVITATION.
Martha for a long visit in London, so that
she may still help her in her efforts to con-
quer this fault, I will help you in your
efforts to attain perfection in hop-picking,
or any other desirable thing which you may
have in view. In that case I feel sure that
the proverb will apply to both you and
Fanny. ‘Persevere, and you will prosper.’ â€
Martha was delighted to see the happy
look that came into her papa’s pale face, as
he drew her to him affectionately, and said,
“ Ask your friend, Miss Julia, whether I
may strike this bargain, Martha ?â€
Julia coloured a little, as she kissed her
little favourite, and said, “ Tell papa, I hope
he will let you go back with Fanny; but
that Carry need not help him to learn hop-
picking,—I will.â€
Martha did not quite understand all
this; she did not know why her papa trem-
bled so much, and looked so happy, but.she
was delighted that he had given his consent
that she should go to London.
That evening, after they had all returneci
205
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
to the house from the hop-garden, two im-
portant pieces of news were told to Martha
Clavering.
She was sitting alone on the Fairy
Breach, looking at the brook, and the sun-
set, and listening to the music that sounded
from the open windows of the house.
She was very happy, because she saw
that her papa was no longer sad, and yet
she was regretting that the hopping would
soon be over, and then she would be away
in London, and her papa and grandmamma
would be alone. She began to think it was
selfish in her to go away and leave them,
and she was just making up her mind to
consult Miss Julia about it, when she saw
Arthur run down to the Brook Lawn, and
begin peeping under the shrubs, as if looking
for some one.
“Here I am, Arthur,†she said, “are you
looking for me?â€
“Yes. Ob! what do you think, Mar-
tha? Papa has been asking Mr. D’Eyncourt
to left me come and live at the Rectory, and
206
ACCEPTABLE ARRANGEMENTS.
learn lessons with Charlie, instead of going
to school; and as Frank and Harry are
going to Rugby, and Charlie would be quite
alone, Mr. D’Eyncourt has said ‘Yes, he
will be very glad to have me!’
“Ts not this good news, Martha? I am so
pleased I do not know what to do with my-
self; and I came off to tell you before I told
anyone but Fanny; now I shall go and tell
grandpapa;†and off started the delighted
boy.
Martha was still sitting on the top of
the Fairy Breach, when she heard a step in
the churchyard, which she knew was her
papa’s. He came up to her, and sat down
on the mossy wall beside her, “ What are
you thinking of, my darling?†he inquired.
“Papa, I was thinking that it is selfish
in me to go away, and leave you and grand-
mamma. I shall ask Miss Julia; she is so
kind to me, and tells me what is best to do.
You will be sure to say ‘Go,’ because you
think I shall enjoy the visit ; and so I shall,
for I love Fanny very much.â€
207
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
“Do you love Miss Julia very much,
Martha?†asked Mr. Clavering.
“Yes, papa! don’t you?â€
“JT do, my dear. I love her so well, and
I think she loves you so well, that I have
asked her to marry me, Martha; to come
and live at Ellesdown, and be your mamma.â€
« And what does she say, papa? Will she
marry you 2â€
“Yes, my dear, she will.â€
“Oh papa! papa! How happy we shall
be! I love her next best to you, and per-
haps she will love me next best to you, for,
of course, she will love you best, you will
be her husband, better even than Mimmie.
Ah! poor Mimmie! I forgot her. Papa,
cannot Mimmie come and live at Ellesdown
with my new mamma ?â€
Mr. Clavering was so delighted with the
generous, unselfish nature, which his little
girl exhibited, that he could not speak for
a moment; his heart was too full, but he
kissed her fervently.
“Shall we go to Miss Julia, to mamma,
2(c
ARTHUR AND FANNY’S CONVERSATION.
now?†asked Martha, kissing a tear from
her father’s cheek. “IJ want to tell her
how happy she has made me, because she
loves you, and you will be so happy with
her.â€
That night, when they went to bed,
Arthur and Fanny opened the door between
their rooms, and had a long talk about the
great pleasures and the great news that day ;
Martha’s visit to London; Arthur’s going
to live with the D’Eyncourts; and Aunt
Julia’s intended marriage with Mr. Claver-
ing, which Martha had been allowed to tell
her friends.
“Now, I am quite sure, Fanny,†said
Arthur, “that some old fashioned proverbs
are quite true. Before I say my prayers
to-night, I want to tell you how much you
are improved. Harry says that your fault
is very nearly gone, and that he knows you
take very great pains, now, not to exaggerate.
He says too, that I do not go about, now,
like a boy without any observation, who
might just as well be made of straw as of a
209
PERSEVERE AND PROSPER.
body and soul. I am like a fine baby, and
have ‘begun to take notice, he says, in
his funny way; and I heard mamma tell
Mimmie to night, that this visit to Fairdown
has been of more benefit to us than any
whole year of our lives before, and that we
have both been proving to her satisfaction,
the truth of her favourite proverb,
“ PERSEVERE, AND PROSPER.â€
210
THE
ARTFUL BOY.
TAKEN FROM THE FRENCH, BY L’ ABBE DE SAVIGNY.
M* Mordaunt, a gentleman of indepen-
dent fortune, had been left a widow--
er, with an only child named Charles, on
whose education he spared no care.
While the boy was in the house, he was
almost constantly under his father’s eye, but
as Mr. Mordaunt’s infirmities generally con-
fined bim within doors, he was prevented
from exercising the same paternal vigilance
when Charles went out.
Mr. Mordaunt was aware of the import-
ance of giving occasional relaxation both to
mind and body. He often thought of the
anecdote told of a saint, who was found by
211
4a,
THE ARTFUL BOY.
a sportsman, holding on his wrist a par-
tridge, which he was fondling. The sports-
man asked him, how a man of his character
could be engaged in so trifling an occu-
pation.
The saint replied, “Why do you not
keep your bow always bent?â€
“ Because, if I kept it always bent,†re-
plied the sportsman, “it would have no
force when I want to use it.â€
“Then, do not be surprised,†said the
saint, ‘‘that I sometimes unbend my mind,
and take some relaxation; for, by this
means, I can afterwards apply myself, with
more energy, to meditation.â€
Mr. Mordaunt, being, from the state of
his health, obliged to keep his room for
months together, was under the necessity of
entrusting his son to the care of others.
He had not even the advantage, possessed
by some families, of having servants
grown grey in their service, and privileged,
in consequence, to be considered, as hum-
ble relations of their master. He was
212
CARELESSNESS OF SERVANTS.
dependent on hirelings of whose fidelity
and honesty, the written characters (which
masters so readily give to servants, from
whom they wish to part,) afforded but slight
security.
Charles often went, under the care of a
maid-servant, to the public gardens, and
joined in those games which exercise the
body. Of this kind of recreation his fa-
ther approved, as he well knew their bene-
ficial effect upon the health, when pursued
in moderation.
Mr. Mordaunt often cautioned Elizabeth
to guard his son from acquiring any bad
habits; but she, thinking only of herself,
when she got among other servants, paid
little regard to the trust reposed in her.
She used to seat herself upon a bench,
and indulge in idle gossip, till the hour of
returning home, when she was often obliged
to go from place to place in search of her
charge.
Amongst the children who resorted to the
public gardens, there was one, remarkable
2138 P
THE ARTFUL BOY.
for his skill in all sports. He excelled par-
ticularly at the game of hand ball, or fives,
which was Charles’s favourite amusement.
This similarity of taste brought him and
this boy (whose name was Robert Grey)
much together, and they soon became in-
separable companions.
Every holiday, Charles asked Elizabeth
to take him where he was certain of meet-
ing his friend Robert, who appeared to
have more liberty than Charles, as he was
never accompanied by an attendant, but
always came to the gardens, and went away
alone. He told Charles, that his mother
lived in a house close by.
Charles several times spoke of his young
friend to his father; and Mr. Mordaunt,
upon asking Elizabeth what sort of a boy
Robert was, received such satisfactory an-
swers, that he was not uneasy about the
intimacy his son had formed; however, he
determined to judge for himself, when his
health, which was improving, would allow
him to walk out.
214
JUVENILE STRATAGEMS.
Charles often returned home highly
pleased at having received a present from
his friend; at one time, it was a gold pin;
at another, a silver pencil-case, which
Robert brought to Charles at their place of
meeting.
Sometimes he would say, “ Mamma sent
you this;†or, “One of my relations has
given me two nes exactly. the same; I
will give you one.’
Mr. Mordaunt intended to pay a visit of
thanks to Robert's mother, as soon as he
could venture out of doors; and, in the
meantime, not wishing Charles to receive
so many presents without making a return,
he gave him a writing-desk, to present to
Robert.
What especially prepossessed Elizabeth
in Robert Grey’s favour, and gained him her
good will, was his extreme politeness; he
never took Charles far from her, without
asking her leave; this Elizabeth did not
refuse; and, as soon as it was granted, the
two boys used to go off to some distance,
215
THE ARTFUL BOY.
but they always returned to Elizabeth at
the time appointed.
Robert chose the most out-of-the-way
places and the highest houses for ball
playing; and when he was asked why he
did so, said, that the presence of lookers-on
annoyed him; and, besides, that he wanted
to look for houses with space enough be-
tween the windows for him to throw his
ball against.
Frequently, an old beggarman used to
come up to Robert, and speak to him in a
whisper.
‘Thank you, Robin,†the boy would say,
joyfully ; giving him, at the same time, a
small piece of money: then calling Charles,
he would tell him that Robin had found out
a nice place for their game, and that they
must go there.
The beggarman, though so lame as
scarcely to be able to walk, used to follow
them at a distance, and then seat himself at
the foot of a tree, opposite the house he
had mentioned to Robert.
216
BOY AND BEGGAR.
One day, Charles arrived at the gardens
later than usual; he found Robert panting
with fatigue, and the old beggarman seated
at the foot of a tree, close to him.
“T have been playing for more than
three hours, at ball,†said Robert to his
friend, “ the ball lodged three times, and in
three different stories; but, no matter, I
have made a good hit.â€
The beggar smiled.
«And I hope,†added Robert, “soon to
make a better one.â€
The beggar smiled again.
That day was Monday; the two boys, at
parting, promised to meet again the follow-
ing Thursday.
Robert gave Elizabeth a pretty gold
locket, and told her to wear it round her
neck, for his sake. This present reminded
Charles that his father had desired him to
ask Robert for his mother’s address.
Robert replied, “No 16,
the first floor.â€
Upon his return home, Charles repeated
217
street, on
THE ARTFUL BOY.
the address to his father, who entered it in
his pocket book.
Charles and Robert arrived almost at the
same moment at the appointed place of
meeting.
‘Come away, come away, quickly,†said
Robert, as soon as Elizabeth was seated in
the midst of other children’s maids; and
he drew Charles away, before he had time
to ask the servant’s leave.
“We are going on an extraordinary expe-
dition.â€
“Where?†asked Charles.
“Follow me, and you shall soon know.
But first I must go on a message for my
mother; come with me.
During this dialogue, the two boys had
reached the corner of a street leading from
the gardens.
Robert sprang into a cab that was sta-
tioned there, and Charles followed him.
The pleasure of riding in a carriage
caused him to forget for the moment the
fault he was committing. Before he had
218
THE STRATAGEM SUCCEEDS.
time to ask his companion a question, he
had arrived at a railway station. He fol-
lowed Robert into one of the carriages. The
whistle for departure sounded, and the two
fugitives were on their way.
“But, Robert,†said Charles, “ Elizabeth
will be uneasy about me; and if my father,
who is now able to walk out, should come to
the gardens, and not find me there, what
will he think ?â€
“Make your mind easy, Charles, we shall
be back in two hours; and I dare say we
shall find Elizabeth scarcely arrived at the
middle of one of her stories.
“Are we going to some place for your
mother ?â€
“No, for ourselves; we are going to play
at ball.â€
“To play at ball!â€
“Yes. There are matches for ball play-
ing, as well as there are races for horses, and
pools for billiards; and to-day, we shall win
prizes, and what we win we shall share.â€
They arrived at ——— and had only
“ 219
THE ARTFUL BOY.
gone a few steps, when they saw the beggar,
Robin, standing at the corner of a street,
and evidently waiting for some one.
The sudden appearance of the old man
made Charles start,—he knew not why.
Robin came up cautiously to Robert, and
whispered something in his ear.
“Come, Charles, let us make haste;
Robin has just told me where the match is
going on. But,†added Robert, “ before we
join in it, let us try our hands here; this
seems a good place.â€
The boys, were, at the time, passing a
large and handsome house, all the windows
of which were open.
Robin, as usual, seated himself at the
foot of a tree.
Robert took several balls out of his pock-
et, and he threw one against the wall of
the house; and, after it had hopped several
times, he sent it again in the same direc-
tion; the ball went through a window, and
Robert threw three more after it. They all
fell into the same room.
220
CHARLES IN DOUBT.
“ Bravo!†exclaimed the begga. Charles
could not understand why this mark of
approbation should be given to what looked
to him as such awkwardness.
Robert ran to the door of the house and
knocked at it. It was opened by an old
porter, to whom Robert told what had
occurred, and he asked leave to go into the
house and search for his balls.
«That you may, my little man,†replied
the porter ;“* the family is away; but, as I
have the keys, I can let you in.â€
A long time elapsed before Charles, who
was standing under the window, heard any
movement inside; the beggar remained
motionless, but kept his eyes fixed on the
house.
At last some one appeared at the win-
dow, but it was neither Robert nor the
porter; the beggar rose hastily from his
seat, and took to flight as fast as his legs
could carry him; and when he had got
to some little distance, Charles thought
that he saw a man in pursuit» of him.
221
THE ARTFUL BOY
He therefore, at length, ventured to call
Robert.
The man at the window answered, “ He
cannot find his balls ; come up, and help him
to look for them.â€
Charles hastened to the door of the house,
which was opened to admit him, but was
then hastily shut; and he heard a harsh
voice say, with a loud laugh, “At last,
we have the birds in the cage!â€
The man who had shown himself at the
window was a policeman, by whom Robert
had been arrested as a robber, as he
had, under the pretext of recovering his
balls, introduced himself into several pri-
vate houses.
The police had long been upon his track,
as they knew that, assisted by the beggar,
Robin, he came with the intention of plun-
dering any houses, the owners of which
might chance to be absent. Charles was
arrested as an accomplice in the affair,
and both he and Robert were conveyed
to prison.
222
CHARLES A PRISONER.
We shall now return to Mr. Mordaunt
and Elizabeth.
The latter, when Charles did not return
to her at the usual hour, went in search of
him and his companion. She asked every
person she met, if they had seen them ; she
repaired to every place where they were in
the habit of playing; but when the day was
so far advanced as to leave no hope of the
boys’ return, she sent a friend to ask if
Charles had gone to his father’s house.
Upon hearing that he had not, she was
afraid to appear before her master, and she
therefore determined to go to her own
home.
It happened that Mr. Mordaunt had fixed
upon the day on which these events oc-
curred, for visiting Robert’s mother.
He accordingly went to the house namea
by Robert, but upon inquiry for Mrs. Grey,
he found that no such person was known
there; he then asked for a widow lady, the
mother of a boy about thirteen years old,
whe was in the habit of going out alone
“228
THE ARTFUL BOY.
almost every day to the public gardens, but
could obtain no satisfactory answer.
On his way home he met Elizabeth, who,
in great agitation, told him of his son’s dis-
appearance. After severely reprimanding
her, Mr. Mordaunt forgave her, hoping to
find her more careful in future.
The night passed, but Charles did not
return. His father’s anxiety may be con-
ceived. At day-break, he went to consult
an old friend, who was a magistrate, as to
what he should do.
“T know the cause of your distress, my
dear sir,†said the magistrate, who was
already aware of Charles’s arrest. He then
related to Mr. Mordaunt all the facts with
which our readers are already acquainted,
and added, “ Your son is not guilty; the
young villain with whom he was taken,
though himself practised in crime, has
acquitted Charles from all blame: although
he has been in great danger of being per-
verted by the bad example of the artful boy,
he is still worthy of your love, and will, in
224
CHARLES RELEASED.
fature, I expect, be cautious in the choice of
his companions from the experience he has
had in the present instance. I have desired
that he shall be liberated and brought here.
He will arrive very shortly.â€
It was not long before Charles made his
appearance. He was deeply grieved at
having, by his imprudence, caused his father
so much anxiety, and was thankful that he
had not been led still deeper into error and
misfortune, by trusting himself to the
guidance of a person of whose principles he
was entirely ignorant.
~ 225
THE
LITTLE NAIL-MAKER.
DARE say most of our young friends
have heard of Elihu Burritt, the
good man who went about giving lectures to
try to convince people that it would be bet-
ter for us all, and that we should be much
happier, if all the countries in the world
were at peace with each other, instead
of fighting and killing one another, as they
often do. We say went about,—but he is at
the present time going from place to place
on his mission of love; for his heart is too
much interested in the object for him ever
to be silent, whilst he has strength to raise
his voice.
Perhaps, some of our little readers have
seen and heard him, for he travelled a
226
PLEDGE OF BROTHERHOOD.
good deal in this country, and spoke at a
great many meetings; and then he prevailed
on people to sign a paper, or pledge, as it was
called, saying that they would never take
any part in wars, but do what they could to
prevent them.
In this pledge those who signed agreed,
also, “to recognise the image of God and a
human brother in every man, of whatever
clime, colour, or condition of humanity ;â€
or, in other words, that they would look upon
every man as a brother, let him be born
on whatever part of the globe he might,
—whether he be white, like ourselves; or
black, like the negro of Africa; or copper-
colour, like the Indian. _ It is the differences
of climate, and other natural causes, which
affect the complexion. We have all souls
alike. “God had made of one blood all
nations of men.†Now this feeling is called
Universal Brotherhood. Only think of
Universal Brotherhood,—would it not be
delightful? You have no doubt felt the
pleasure it gives to live in peace with your
“227
THE LITTLE NAIL-MAKER.
brothers and sisters,—when there is no
quarrelling nor fighting that one may get
more nice things than another.
Well, that is just the sort of feeling we
ought to have towards every body. We are
all God’s family; and we should not think
that, because we know more, and possess
more valuable things than others, that
we are better than they; or that, because
they are strangers, we need not concern our-
selves about them. But we should ever
study to help them and to make them hap-
py, as we would do if they were, in the
common sense, our brothers and sisters.
We are now going to tell a story about a
poor little English boy that Mr. Burritt
met with over here, four or five years ago,
and what he did to help him—and how the
little boys and girls in America shewed that
they understood and felt the principles of
Universal Brotherhood. And perhaps it
will induce some of our dear little readers
to act in a similar manner, when any
opportunity for doing good shall occur,
228
WHY WE SHOULD LOVE ONE ANOTHER.
whether they know and like the person or
not.
You know that when Jesus Christ was
born, angels came down from Heaven to
tell, in songs of praise, that He was come to
promote “on earth peace, and good will
towards men;†and those who love the
Saviour, and desire to follow His example,
should act upon the principles He taught,
which were, to love even our enemies, and
to do good to those who despitefully use us.
So you see the feeling of universal brother-
hood takes a wide range; but we won’t say
any more on this subject. Now for our
story.
It was a summer’s evening, the day had
been fine, but, as is frequently the case in
England, the sky became suddenly over-
‘east; our friend, the peace advocate, as he
is called, was passing through a richly cul-
tivated district, where Nature and Art had
united to make the scene every way
delightful.
The traveller stood gazing on the beauties
Q 129
THE LITTLE NAIDL-MAKE’.
around, so lost in thought, as not to notice
the heavy clouds which were gathering.
The large drops, which soon after came pat-
tering on his shoulders, however awoke him
from his poetical reverie, and suggested the
convenience of a shelter.
It is very pleasant to see a shower of
rain fall upon the trees and flowers, for it
makes them look so fresh and green; but,
perhaps, you are aware that it is not quite
so pleasant for it to fall on your own shoul-
ders, for it makes you feel any thing but
fresh. Well, so thought Mr. Burritt, we
suppose, for he turned quickly round to see
if there was any cottage near.
An open gate hard by, leading to a sort
of shed, seemed to invite him to enter; and
his ear now, for the first time, caught the
sound of the anvil, to him well-known. He
had not before noticed it, because its clink,
clink, had mingled with the song of the
bird, the bleating of sheep, the ripple of the
stream, and the many pleasant sounds
which gave life and harmony to the scenes
230
A SCENE OF DISTRESS.
He entered the shed, but it entirely changed
the bent of his thoughts and feelings. It
was humble, and spoke of toil; but it was
not that which pained him so.
He had been a blacksmith himself in his
earlier days, and had worked very hard to
earn a living, but many who work for their
bread as he had done, with a contented
spirit, are more happy than those who have
nothing to do. What was it, then, that
grieved him so much in this little shed? Ié
was the ignorance and disease he saw there.
A middle-aged man, and a boy about
nine years old, were at work there making
nails; they were what is called ‘“ nailors.â€
Perhaps you would like to know something
about how they make nails. I will tell
you.
The nailor takes a thin rod of iron,
which he makes hot at one end, in a forge
or blacksmith’s fire. When iron is very
hot, it is soft, so that it can be hammered
to a point, which is done. A piece of the
rod the length wanted for the nail is then
»_ 231
THE LITTLE NAIL-MAKER.
cut off, and the rod is put into the fire
to be made hot again.
Whilst the rod is getting hot for another,
the nailor makes the head of the nail
already cut off, by hammering it into a
hole in a steel instrument called a bore, the
hole being the shape of the head required.
But a man makes a nail in much less time
than it has taken me to describe the pro-
cess to you. One man usually makes about
6,000 nails in a week.
Well, the man we were telling you of
was poor, and had a large family to provide
for, so he had been obliged to take his little
boy, almost from his mother’s arms, and
set him to work, to help to earn money to.
buy their food. He was then too little to
reach his father’s block, so a large stone
was placed for him to stand on. And that
cold damp stone, and the want of proper air
and exercise, had stopped the poor child’s
growth, and made him sickly, so that years
after he needed the stone to raise him, as
much as when he was first placed on it.
232
DESTITUTE CASE OF MANY.
Then he was very ignorant, for his parents
could neither spare the time nor the money
to send him to school; so he was to be
pitied, not blamed for it.
Dear little readers, there are very many
such cases. ‘Thousands of children are
obliged to work for ten hours a day in a
factory or workshop. Now, suppose that,
for one week, you were sent to a place
where instead of being in a nice house you
would be obliged to live crowded together,
eight or ten persons perhaps in one room,
and that instead of having nice meals of
meat and pudding, and all sorts of good
things, as most of you have now, you had
nothing but dry bread, and not so much as
you could eat of that. Then, suppose, that
instead of going to school and learning to
read and write, and such things, and after
school hours are over running about and
playing, full of health and strength, you
were obliged to work hard all day until you
were so tired that you had no spirit for
anything, but were glad to lie down any-
233
THE LITTLE NAIL-MAKER.
where and.go to sleep, from fatigue, having
made you unable to bestir yourself.
You think that we have drawn a very
dreadful picture, and so we have; but itis a
true one, and if you would shrink from one
week spent in that manner, what must it
be to always live in that way? You know
what we said about all being brethren—
these poor little factory children and nailors
are your brothers and sisters, and we want
you to feel for them, and to help them in
every way you can. But now we have
something pleasant to tell you.
Mr. Burritt felt so much pity for the
poor boy, that he wrote an account of his
sad situation, and sent it over to his young
friends in America, to excite their pity too.
They might have said, What a sad case,
and what a shame it is that some of the
English people don’t do something for him,
but it is not our place to help him; he
don’t belong to our country.
Did they say so% Oh, no, that would have
been a strange way of carrying out the prin-
234
TRUE BENEVOLENCE.
ciple of universal brotherhood. I'll tell you
what they did.
A number of these dear little boys and
giris agreed to give a small sum each out of
their pocket money, and to collect a little
more by telling the tale to their young
friends, that they might altogether pay for
the poor child being sent to school. Mr.
Burritt proposed the plan to them; for he
knew the value of learning; he is very
learned himself; he learned Greek, and
Hebrew, and Spanish, and a great many
other languages, whilst he was at his work 5
indeed he is often called the Learned Black-
smith. They were not loth to take Mr.
Burritt’s advice, for though the unhappy
stranger was parted from them by a wide
ocean—the Atlantic—its many waters did.
not cool the ardour of their warm hearts.
In a short time, no less than one thou-
sand half-dimes were raised in the manner
I have told you, and sent over to England
for him. Perhaps you do not know what a
half-lim: is. It is an Americdén coin—
235
THE LITTLE NAIL-MAKER.
coins of different value are used in different
parts of the world. Well, a half-dime is
worth two-pence-halfpenny of our money.
Now, here is a sum for you—find out
how many pounds and shillings one thou-
sand two-pence-halfpennies will make.
The 28rd of December was a cold and
damp day—the morning in London was
foggy, but it gave place to what is called a
Scotch mist, which would wet an English-
man to the skin, and would no doubt have
a similar effect on an American; but, be
that as it may, Mr. Burritt, to whom the
money was’ sent, took a journey on that day
of fifteen miles, on foot, to carry the pre-
cious gift to the poor nailor boy.
Part of the money was spent in buying
clothes to fit him for attending school. We
wish that our friends could have seen the
little fellow, as he stood in a tailor’s shop,
looking with delight on his own deformed
figure, dressed in his new suit. He was
told that it was bought for him by the
children of a country of which he had
236
GRATEFUL FEELINGS.
most likely never before heard, or at any
rate knew as little of as of the man in the
moon; and he was further told that they
had paid for him to be sent to school.
We cannot say which of the two looked
the most pleased on the occasion—the
amazed, but grateful and happy English
boy, or his kind-hearted American friend,
who had been the means of procuring the
benefit for him. His benevolent counte-
nance must have beamed with a heavenly
smile at this practical expression of bro-
therhood in the young. And there were
others who shared in the joy; we mean the
little folks who had raised the money ; for,
as they felt so sorry for his trouble, they
must have entered into his pleasure too;
and there is nothing which can give more
happiness than doing a kind and generous
action.
237
UNCLE JOHN’S PARTY.
N the sixth of January, eighteen hun-
dred and fifty—well I won’t say
fifty what, for I cannot exactly remember
the date of the year,—but I know that on
one twelfth night, somewhere about then, a
large family party gathered at Uncle John’s,
There was nothing singular in our meet-
ing together at his cheerful fireside, for he
was never better pleased than when in the
midst of merry faces and laughing eyes;
and as he had no children of his own, he
delighted in collecting his nephews and
nieces—and fine fun he had with them, too.
But this particular night was one to be
remembered— not on account of the im-
mense twelfth-cake which he brought home
himself—unor for the droll set of characters
238
THE PARTY ASSEMBLED.
he selected, and the hearty laughs they
caused, as each was opened.
But he had a happy knack of making one
person feel for another, and helping those in
trouble, without making much talk about
it; and on that night he contrived to
benefit a poor family in such a pleasant
way, that those who gave their money weee
quite as well pleased as if it had been given
to them.
We wished to have a nice long evening ;
so by five o’clock there was a pretty large
party of us. Let me see, how many were
there present. Grandmamma, and three
aunts, and two uncles, and—oh—I cannot
tell how many cousins—nearly twenty, I
should say, of one size or another; for we
had first cousins, and second cousins, and
third cousins,—not that their degrees of
relationship could be told by their age and
height.
Tea was ready, and we were all ready for
it. for there were a great many good things
on the table—but where was te twelfth-
289
UNCLE JOHN’S PARTY.
cake? and, what was still more important
to our happiness, where was dear Uncle
Join? Aunt said that when he started for
town in the morning, he said he intended to
order the cake, and be home again before
the visitors arrived; and it was evident
that she was getting a little fidgetty about
him. The young folks were anxious, too,
and if it were the case that those who talk
most feel the most, it would appear that
they loved him best of any present, not
excepting grandmamma, who sat very
guietly in a corner near the fire, but her
ear was on the listen for a knock at the
door. The children crowded round the
window, that they might give the first
intelligence of the arrival either of Uncle
Jolin or of the cake.
It was a clear frosty night, and they
could see some distance up the road, and
every dark figure that moved towards the
house from the right direction, they declared
was he, and the boys raised a shout. When
the passenger drew near the lamp at the
240
UNCLE’S WELCOME ARRIVAL.
garden gate, they found out their mistake,
and in some cases they were annoyed at
having taken old women, dirty boys, or
shabbily-dressed men, for their uncle.
Six o’clock came, but no cake, and no
uncle. What could be the reason? At last
however, an omnibus stopped with HAMP-
STEAD—BANK, painted in large letters
along the side.
“Oh, here he is,†shouted a dozen voices
at once, and off ran the group from the
window in anything but a polite and or
derly manner, for in their impatience some
of the young gentlemen almost knocked the
young ladies down the stairs.
“Qh, uncle, what has made you so late?
we bave been looking out so for you, for
the last hour and more.â€
“Yes, yes, I see how it is exactly, you
were on the look-out for the twelfth-cake.
Well, here it is quite safe, and in good con-
dition,†he drily returned, as he held up a
large paper parcel.
«T'was not that we cared for, uncle. But
214
UNCLE JOHN’S PARTY.
where have you been?†‘“ What kept you
so long?†and a dozen other such questions
were heard from different quarters.
“Tl answer you all in time, but you
must let me put down this heavy cake first,
and take off my great coat, and get a little
breath,†he replied.
Aunt Wilson and grandmamma had
said less than any one about the delay, but
when he came, they looked so thankful to
find he was safe and well. I think that all
felt that they loved him more, and they
made more of him, as persons sometimes
say, from the fear that some ill had befallen
him. .
“Now, then, I'll tell you the cause of my
being so late this evening,†said Uncle
- John; setting down his tea-cup after having
emptied it four or five times, “you all
of you know William Smith?’
“Qh, yes, you mean the man who was
your gardener some years ago.â€
“ Aye, and he might have been my gar-
dener until this day, if he had not thought
242
WILLIAM, THE GARDENIn.
to better himself by becoming his own
master. He is very steady and industrious,
and he had saved a few pounds, so when he
left me to get married, he opened a nursery-
ground. He got on very well for two or
three years, and he seemed as happy as a
prince, for he has a saving, good-tempered
wife, and two nice children. Well, [ had
neither seen nor heard of him for nearly
twelve months, when this morning, as I
was going to town, I was told that he had
broken his arm, and was lying in an hos-
pital, and that his family were in great
distress.â€
“Then, I know what kept you, uncle,â€
cried a shrewd little fellow who was sitting
on a stool by his side. ‘‘ You went to the
hospital to see him; that’s where you have.
been.†.
“You must be very clever at guessing,
master Fred, for I did not say that I went
to see the man; I only said that he was
lying ill in the hospital.â€
“Yes, but we can always tell what you
« 243
UNCLE JOHN’S PARTY.
will do because you always do what is kind.â€
whispered a little blue-eyed girl, who was
sitting on his knee.
“Then, I must mind what I am about
another time, if you little folks know what
I am at without seeing me.â€
“Oh, there’s no fear of your being seen
in any mischief,†exclaimed a lad of four-
teen, who was standing at his elbow. “ But
tell us, if you please, uncle, whether William
is likely to get better. I should so like to
see him again, he used to help me to fly my
kite when I came to see you. He was
always so obliging, and nothing ever put him
out of temper,â€
“Nothing ever put him out of temper,â€
Mr. Wilson repeated. ‘Never out of tem-
per! What an excellent character to have.
I wonder how many of us have the same
said of us,†he added, and he looked slyly
from one to the other.
“Did you go to see William Smith,
uncle?†asked another of the little folks.
“Tl tell you. But you all talk so fast
244
THE GARDENER IN DISTRESS.
and ask me so many questions, that I shall
be obliged to borrow a tongue for the night
to answer you. Well, I did see him, but I
went to his home first. It appears that
they have a good deal of sickness in the
family. His mother, a pleasant old woman,
who lives with them, has been confined to
her bed for several months, and that has
taken up his wife’s time, and she used to
help in the business. This, and poor
Smith’s accident together, has thrown them
back so with their rent, that they are afraid
they shall be obliged to leave and give up
the nursery ground.â€
“But if they go away from that house,
what will they do? have they any other
home to go to?†asked Mary, the little girl
on her uncle’s knee.
“No, my love; and if they don’t pay the
rent, their beds, and chairs, and tables, and
clothes, and all the things in the house, will
be sold to find money to pay it.â€
“Qh, how sad!†returned the child:
“and if William has not any flowers to sell,
R * 245
UNCLE JOHN’S PARTY.
what will they do to live on? Do you think
he will get well, uncle?†she asked with
earnestness.
* Yes, I hope so,†was his reply; “for he
is already much better; though it will most
likely be a good while before he is quite
strong again. It is the want of money to
pay his rent, that troubles him most just
now, however. He does not know how to
raise it.â€
‘Poor fellow!†said one of the party,
«What a sad case!†cried another.
“Tam sorry for him,†sighed a third.
Indeed every one in the room expressed pity
for him in one way or another.
“We all appear to be interested in this
poor man’s trouble,†said Uncle John, taking
his snuff-box out of his pocket, and tapping
it several times in a manner which plainly
shewed that his thoughts were on something
else. ‘* We all appear interested,†he re-
peated; “but the landlord won’t take our
kind words as payment for a quarter’s rent,
that is very certain, especially as he is
246
HOW TO RELIEVE DISTRESS.
rather a hard man; so we are throwing away
all our sympathy.
“* Now, I was thinking of an old proverb
which says, that “a grain of help is worth a
bushel of pity;†and I was thinking, too,
that if each one of us were to afford him a
grain of help, his bushel of trouble might
soon be lifted from his poor weak shoulders.â€
A loud merry laugh ran round the room
at this last remark, and a murmur of ap-
proval followed.
“'That’s a capital thought, uncle!
the young gentleman of fourteen.
“Tam glad you think so, Henry,†Mr.
Wilson returned with a smile. “ Now show
us how much your pity is worth?’ he
added, holding out a small china plate,
which was lying on a side table near him.
Poor Harry looked down, and as if he did
not know what to say. “You will surely
give something to a worthy man, who you
know is in need?†pleaded our host, stil!
holding the plate towards him.
“Oh, uncle, you will think my pity is not
2.7
>>
cried
UNCLE JOHN’S PARTY.
worth much,†he replied, ‘ but—but—I
have spent all my money. I have not one
sixpence left.â€
“Oh, oh, if that’s the case, you are to be
pitied too. Well, never mind, I'll put a
shilling in for you,†he added laughing, “ or
we shall make but a poor beginning. Ano-
ther time,†he whispered, “don’t spend all
your money as soon as you get it; but keep
a little for any call on your generosity which
may occur.â€
“Now, Mary, my love,’ Mr. Wilson con-
tinued, turning to the little girl, “is your
pity of any value? We will go round to
the young folks first, that their gifts may
not appear so small,†he said.
“It is not the actual worth of the offer-
ing which decides its true value,†he added,
“but the spirit in which it is given. If we
are only able to give a small sum, and we
give it cheerfully, there is as much genero-
sity in it as in giving a larger sum from
larger means. Do you understand what I
mean, my dear ?â€
248
THE VALUE OF A GIFT.
“Yes, uncle, I think I do; you mean
that if I give a shilling out of my pocket-
money, it will be as kind as if a rich gentle-
man were to give a sovereign.â€
“Yes, Mary; but can you give a shilling?
The little girl laughed, and began to feel
in the pocket of her frock; after a while she
drew out a small green silk purse. ‘ There
it is, uncle,†she cried, dropping a bright new
shilling into the plate.
“Oh, that is a pretty one, Mary; where
did you get that?†asked Mr. Wilson, with
a look which seemed to say, but your kind
face is the prettiest of the two.
“Oh, papa gave it to me on New-Year’s
day,†replied the child; “and I meant to
keep it; but I would rather give it to poor
William Smith, now he is so ill.â€
‘Thats right, Mary, my love,†exclaimed
Uncle John, giving her a warm kiss. “If
’
you had kept the money, it would have been
in your case from affectionate feelings, as
it was your dear papa’s gift; but it is more
amiable in you to give it to a person in real
249
UNCLE JOHN’S PARTY.
distress. That shows, then, that your pity
is of value. Now, Freddy, is your pity
worth anything?†he continued, turning to
the little boy.
“it is not worth much, uncle, for I have
only sixpence; but here it is. Mamma gave
it to me this morning, for doing a Long-
Division sum, the first I ever did.â€
“There’s a good boy,†Mr. Wilson re-
turned, passing his hand several times over
his head and face.†“Your offering is
valuable in two ways; first, you know what
our Saviour said of the widow’s two mites.
Well, as this is your all; you have been kind
to the extent of your ability; we cannot
any of us do more. God looks to the mo-
tive, not to the amount of the gift; then,
in the next place, it is valuable on account
of its being the reward of your perseverance.
“But I must not stay to draw a moral from
every sixpence I get, or we shall not have
any time for forfeits, and snap-dragon.†So
saying, up he jumped from his elbow-chair
with the plate in his hand, and round he
250
RESULT OF THE SUBSCRIPTION.
went, first to the young people, and then to
the middle-aged people, and then to the old
people; and I cannot repeat all the jokes
which passed, for he pretended to be able to
tell the kindness of each person’s heart, by
the value of the gifts they made.
What with the feeling that it was reliev-
ing a worthy family from trouble, and the
laughter it gave rise to, it gave quite a
pleasant turn to the evening’s amusement;
and by the time Uncle John got round to
his seat again, he had collected within one
pound of enough to pay the poor man’s rent.
This last sovereign he somehow contrived to
pass from his own purse to the plate. We
all knew very well where it came from,
though none of us saw him put it in. But
that was just his quiet way of doing an act
of kindness, and it is the way the Bible
teaches. Jesus Christ says, “Take heed
that ye donot your alms before men, to be
seen of them ;†that is, for the purpose of
qeing seen of them; “ otherwise,†He adds
%
251
UNCLE JOHN’S PARTY.
“ye have no reward of your Father which
is in Heaven.â€â€”Maitt. vi. 1.
As soon as this really-important matter
was settled, Uncle John entered with spirit
into the work of distributing twelfth-night
characters, and cutting up cake.—It was
such a pleasant party! We had all felt as
if we had a personal share in William’s
Smith’s trouble; and now that amongst us
we had found the means to greatly remove
it, we all seemed to share in the thankful-
ness and joy he would feel. Oh, it is a
luxury to do good! No selfish pleasure can
be compared with it.
I suppose I need not tell my young
readers that Mary and Freddy, and a few
other young ladies and gentlemen present,
who were rather older than they were,
enjoyed the games of blind-man’s-buff and
hunt-the-slipper. They made Uncle John
blind man, but his arms were so long, there
was no escaping him. ‘Then, at forfeits, he
was so sharp, that we could seldom catch
252
TRUE PLEASURE.
him saying “ Yes,†or “ No,†when he ought
not.
Time passed so pleasantly, that ten o’clock
and supper were by no means welcome
sounds to many. However, it was only the
name of supper which was disagreeable—
at least we may judge so from the reception
it met with.
After supper, some of the party returned
home; but it had been agreed that most of
the young people should remain till the
morrow, on account of the lateness of the
hour. Some thought this the best part of
the fun, for Aunt Wilson made such odd
contrivances, so as to make up beds for
them all.
“Dear Unele John,†cried little Mary,
throwing her arms around his neck after she
had bid him “ Good-nightâ€â€”“ this is the
happiest party you have ever given us.â€
“Yes, that it is,’ chimed in nearly a
dozen voices at once.
“T am very glad you have all enjoyed
yourselves, my dears,†he replied, smiling,
253
UNCLE JOHN’S PARTY.
and looking from one merry face to another.
« But shall I tell you what I think is the
reason why you have all been so very
happy? It is owing to your having helped
poor William Smith. The secret of true
enjoyment, my dear children,†he added,
“is to feel that by some sacrifice of our own
pleasures, we have made others happy.—
But now I must wish you all good-night.â€
Dear little reader—do you not think that
these children carried out the principle of
Universal Brotherhood toward their poor
neighbour, as fully as the kind American
children did towards the little nailer boy ?
T think they did.
254
Deans’ New Series of 2s. 6d. PRESENT BOOKS
(Similar to this Book),
Size 8vo small crown, cloth gilt, Illustrated with FOUR PICTURES
IN COLOURS, Four sorts, viz :—
1. Adventures of a Monkey ;
or, a Voyage on a Raft. A Tale replete with Interest and Entertain
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Title-page and Illustrations in Colours, 2s. 6d.
2. Fanny and Arthur ;
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Children, by Mrs. Hoorrr, Author of “ Peppy’s Warning.†Title
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4, Eva and Her Playfellows.
-\ Book for Ali who Love the Sight of Flowers. By C. M. Smtr.
Coloured Plates, cloth gilt.
The want of good Present Books at half-a-crown has long been felt.
‘The Publishers have much pleasurs in issuing these Works, as they are
confident that they will supply the desideratum.
ee re ee
Deans’ 3s. 6d. Series of Prize and Present Books
for 1862, suitable for Young Ladies and Boys.
Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, fully illustrated, 3s, 6d.,
8. The Illustrated Book of Wonders,
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Nearly 200 Bible Pictures and 200 Bible Stories, 3s. 6d., Crown 8vo.,
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Other Books in this Popular Series of 3s. 64d.
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four suitable for Boys, viz :—
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a Companion Book to the Histories and Adventures of Remarkable
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“ Very attractive reading for the young and aspiring, and cannot fail to
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ete. Cloth, gilt, 3s. 6d.
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The Four P’s (Piety, Prudence, Patience,
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These books are good books for Prizes or Gifts, as they attract the atten-
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