mm / t 'SB EHHBffififi BY MISS LESLIE, Author of Girl's Own Book," Atlantic Talcs," " Mrs. Washington Potts," " House Book," " Book of Behavior." Ac. NEW YORK : KIGGINR & KELLOGG, PUBLISHER.- 123 * 125 WILLIAM STREET. E.NTIEKD according to Act of Congress, in the year 1853, bj HENRY F. ANNERS, In the Clerk'i Office of the District Court for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. PREFACE. The following Tales by Miss LESLIE, have been published separately at different periods, -within the last twenty year?, ami the Publisher now presents them in a collective form, for the edification of the numerous admirers of the writings of this popular Authoress. Of their merits he does not presume to speak, sensible that nothing he could say would add to the estimation in -which they have ever been deser- vedly held. t, 1853. Tho Souvenir, 5 The Cadet's Sister, 24 Susanna Meredith; or the Village School, 50 The Launch of the Frigate, 86 The Show Girl, 102 The Clean Face, 148 Frederick Ormsby, 119 THE SOUVENIR. IT was the afternoon of Christmas eve. The weather was delightfully mild for the season, and the sky was without a cloud. The streets of Philadelphia were unusually crowded, and the whole appearance of the city was gay and animated. The fancy stores were resplendent with elegant ribbons, laces, scarfs, and reticules, and the shops for artificial flowers, made a dis- play which rivalled nature in her most blooming season. It was a pleasing spectacle to see so many parents leading their children, all with happy faces ; some full of hope and others replete with satisfaction ; some going to buy Christmas gifts, others carrying home those already purchased. Mr. Woodley went out with his two boys to choose little presents for them, regretting that Amelia, his eldest daughter, was 1* 5 6 THE SOUVENIR. obliged to remain at home in consequence of a severe cold. They soon entered a toy-shop, where Charles made choice of a toy representing William Tell directing his arrow toward the apple on the head of his son, who stood blindfold at a little distance, and, by pulling a string, the arrow took flight and struck the apple off the boy's head. This Charles called a very sensible toy, and his father bought him also a box containing little wooden houses, churches, and trees, which could be so arranged as to form a village. Oswald, who was long since past the age of toys, selected, at a neighbouring shop, a very pretty and curious little writing apparatus of the purest and most transparent white marble. It looked like a very small vase, but it contained an ink-stand, sand-box, wafer-box, a candlestick for a wax taper, and a receptacle for pens : all nicely fitting into each other, and so ingeniously con- trived as to occupy the smallest space possible. "Oswald," said Mr. Woodley, "you have chosen so well for yourself, that I will leave to you the selection of a present for your sister Amelia. Oswald thought of many things before he could fix on any one that he supposed would T II E 8 O U V E N I B . < be useful or agreeable to Amelia. She had already a handsome work-box, a bead-purse, and a case of little perfume bottles. For a moment his choice inclined to one of the eleganfcreticules he saw in a window they were just passing, and then he recollected that Amelia could make very beautiful reticules herself. At last, he fixed on a Souvenir, and wondered that the thought had nnt struck him before, as Amelia drew very well, and was an enthusiastic admirer of fine engravings. They repaired to a neighbouring book-store, where, amid a variety of splendid Souvenirs, Oswald selected for his sister one of those that he considered the most beautiful, and had the pleasure of carrying it home to her. To describe the delight of Amelia on receiv- ing this elegant present, is impossible. She spread a clean handkerchief over her lap before she drew the book from its case, that it might not be soiled in the slightest degree, and she removed to a distance from the fire lest the cover should be warped by the heat. After she had eagerly looked all through it, she commenced again, and examined the plates with the most minute attention. She then showed them to 8 THE SOUVENIR. her Jittle brother and sister, carefully, however keeping the book in her own hands. " Amelia," said Oswald, " I know a boy that would b^yery happy to examine this Souvenir. He has no opportunity of seeing any thing of the kind, except by gazing at the windows of the book-stores." Jlmelia. And who is this buy ? Oswald. His father, who has seen better days, is an assistant in our school, and the boy himself is one of the pupils. His name is Edwin Lovel. He has a most extraordinary genius for drawing, though he has never had the means of cultivating it to any extent. He is a very sensible boy, and I like him better than any one in the school. His mother must be a nice woman, for though their income is very small, Edwin always makes a genteel appearance, and is uniformly clean and neat. He is also ex- tremely handsome. All his leisure time is devoted to drawing. He first began on the slate, when he was only .four years "old, and had nothing else to draw on till he was nine or ten. Now, he saves what little money he has, for the purpose of buying paper and pencils. He has no box of colours, but draws only in Indian THE SOUVENIR. ink, which he does most beautifxzlly. He never likes to see any thing wasted that can be used for drawing, and is even glad to get the cover of a letter. Amelia. You remind me of the French artist Godfrey's fine picture of the battle of Pultowa, which he drew, while in prison, on the backs of letters pasted together; using, instead of Indian ink or colours, the soot of the stove-pipe mixed with water. Osu-ald. Well, Edwin Lovel is not quite so much at a loss for drawing materials, for he has a cake of Indian ink and four camel's hair pencils. He draws with a pen beautiful title- pages, decorated with vignettes, for his copy- books and cyphering-books ; and the boys pay him for ornamenting their writing-pieces. Ilr was for a long time very unwilling to take money for those things, but we finally prevailed on him, though with great difficulty. He passes most of his evenings in drawing; that is, when he has any candle of his own, for he will not, even in the pursuit of his favourite gratification, < the slightest additional expense to his parents, who find it very hard to live on his father's small salary. 10 THE SOUVENIR. Amelia. What an excellent boy he must be. Oswald Last Saturday afternoon, I thought I would go for him and take him to see some very fine pictures which were to be sold at auc- tion on Monday. The door was opened by a half-grown black girl, (their only servant,) who was probably not accustomed to admitting visiters, and therefore, knew no better than to show me at once up stairs to Edwin's chamber ; a very small place, perfectly clean, but furnished in the most economical manner. There Avas no fire in the room. Edwin was sitting at a little pine-table with his great coat on, and his feet enveloped in an old muff of his mother's to keep them warm. He was busily engaged in copy- ing a head of Decatur from a China pitcher, improving on it so greatly as to make it a very fine drawing. Amelia. Poor fellow ! had he nothing belter to copy ? Oswald. Why, I asked him that qnesticn, but he confessed that he was at so great a loss for models that he was glad to imitate any thing he cduld get ; and that, having no instructor, he knew no better way to pick up a little knowledge of the general principles of the art, than by THE SOUVENIR. 11 copying every thing that came in his Avay, provided it was not absolutely bad. I then reminded him, that, as he could make admirable sketches from his own imagination, I thought he need not copy at all ; but he disclaimed all pretensions to designing well, and then said that, even if his original attempts were tolerably successful, as outlines, it was only by drawing from prints or pictures that he could acquire a just idea of keeping, or of the distribution of light and shadow. He showed me, however, several original drawings, which my father would say evinced an extraordinary degree of talent, and some admirable copies, though many of them were taken from very coarse prints for want of better. Amelia. How very glad he would be to have this Souvenir to draw from. Oswald. He would indeed. But that Sou- venir costs three dollars, and I do not suppose that he ever had three dollars in his life, poor boy I mean three dollars at once. Amelia. I will willingly lend it to him. Oswald. He has so little time to draw, that it would.be a great while before he could return it ; or rather, he would be so uneasy at keeping 12 THE SOUVENIR. it long, that I know he would send it back before he had half done with it. And, besides, he would have no satisfaction in drawing from your book, as he would be in continual fear of drop- ping his brush on one of the leaves, or of accidentally injuring it in some way or other. He is very unwilling to borrow any thing that is new or valuable. Amelia. What a pity that a boy of so much genius should find any difficulties in his way. Oswald, There are too many similar in- stances. Some of the most distinguished artists of the present age have been obliged, in early life, to struggle with indigence, and indeed, with absolute poverty, much as Edwin Lovel is now doing. The next morning, Amelia said to her brother as soon as she found him alone, " Oswald, I wish to ask you one question. When we re- ceive a present does it not become our own ?" Oswald. C ertainly . JJmelia. And we are at liberty to do exactly what we please with it ? Oswald Precisely only I think we had better not destroy it. I 11 E Si) U VK N 1 II. 18 Amelia. Of course, not but we may give it away ? Oswald Why I do not know I should not like to give away a present received from a valued friend. Amelia. But if, in giving it away, you make the person on whom you bestow it more happy than you yourself could possibly be made by keeping it ? Oswald. If you were sure that that would be the case Amelia. Oh ! I am very sure I can answer for myself. Therefore, dear brother, I beg your acceptance of my Souvenir. Oswald. Why, Amelia, your kindness sur- prises me. You know I have already a Christ- mas gift ? the beautiful writing case that my father bought for me yesterday. I cannot take your Souvenir. Amelia. Dear Oswald, for once allow me to make you a present. It is the first time in my life I have had it in my power to offer you any thing of consequence. I shall be so happy, if you accept it. There it is, (laying the Souvenir on Oswald's knee.} 2 14 THK SOUVENIB. Oswald. But Amelia, how can you part so soon with your beautiful Souvenir ? You were so delighted with it last evening. Amelia. I know every thing in it I ex- amined all the plates with the greatest attention, and I read it through before I went to bed. Oswald (smiling). Well, Amelia, though you are so generous as to make me the owner of the Souvenir, you know it will still remain in the house. I will put it carefully away in my little book-case, and whenever you wish to look at it, just tell me so, and you shall have it at any time. Amelia (looking disappointed). But, Os- wald, are you going to keep it always ? Osborn. Always, as the gift of my loving sister. Amelia. But I do not insist cnyour keep- ing it for ever, dear Oswald. You may give it away again I shall not be the least offended if you give it away, provided you bestow it pro- perly. Indeed, I would rather you should give it away than not and as soon as possible, too this very day, if you choose. Oswald. Surely, Amelia, you have a very Tilli SOUVENIB. 16 S strange way of making a present ; desiring it to be given away again immediately. Amelia, Why, Oswald, you know you do not draw. Oswald. No, indeed, to my great regret. Amelia. And, if you did, my father would always take care that you should be well sup- plied with models. Oswald. I suppose he would, as he never lets us want for any thing that could add to our improvement. Amelia. Had not the Souvenir better be given to a person that docs draw very well, beautifully, indeed, but that has no money to buy models ? Oswald. In one word Had not the Sou- venir better be given to Edwin Lovel ? Amelia. Yes, since it must be told, that is exactly what I mean. Oswald. So I guessed from the beginning. But why did you take such a roundabout way of getting the book put into his possession ? Amelia. Why, I do not suppose he would accept it from me, a young girl whom he has never seen ; but he would be less scrupulous in 16 THE SOUVKNIK. taking it as your gift, as you are an acquaint- ance of his. Oswald. Say, a friend. Amelia. I know you so well, that, after our conversation last night, I was certain, if I gave the book to you, you would present it at once to the poor boy ; and I was much disconcerted when you pretended at first that you would keep it always. Oswald. Amelia, the book is yours and the suggestion is yours, and I will not assume to myself more merit than I deserve. If you are determined on giving the Souvenir to Edwin Lovel, the best way is to seal it up in a sheet of white paper addressed to him, and with a few words written on the inside, requesting his acceptance of the book from an unknown admirer of early genius. Amelia. An excellent plan I wonder I did not think of it before. I will set about it directly. Oswald. Here is a sheet of Amies's best letter-paper, and here is my new writing-box. Let it be used for the first time in a good cause. Amelia (sits down and writes.} I never wrote any thing with more pleasure. THE SOUVENIR. 17 X Oswald. Be sure to put " early genius." Amelia. I have. Oswald. Let me see -I never saw any writing of yours look so pretty. Now, I will put up the parcel, and tie it round with red tape, and seal it, for girls seldom do such things well (fie folds the book in t/ie paper, ties, and seals it.) There, now direct it. Amelia. The next thing is, who shall we get to carry it to Edwin ? Oswald. Why not William ? Amelia. I do not wish my father to know it, lest he should think I set too little value on his Christmas present ; and I will never ask a servant to do any thing for me that is to be kept from the knowledge of my parents. Oswald. That is right. I will take the packet to the Intelligence Office, round the corner, and give one of the black boys that are always loitering there, a trifle to carry it to Mr. Level's, and just leave it with whoever opens the door. Amelia. That will do very well. New, Oswald, make haste, for I hear my father coming. , Oswald easily procured a boy to carry the 2* X UK .SO U V t N 1 1C . packet to the house of Mr. Lovel, who lived in one of the upper cross streets. The door was opened by the black girl, who immediately re- cognized the boy as ^an old acquaintance, and commenced a conversation with him. " Why, Ben," said she, " what is this you have brought for Master Edwin ? I guess its a book. It looks 'xactly like one. All done up so nice, and sealed. Why, I'm puzzled who sended it." " He did not tell me his name," replied the boy, *< but I guess I know who he is, for all that. Its Master Oswald Woodley, Mr. Woodley the great merchant's eldest son. My aunt is cook there, and I've often been in the kitchen. And he gave me a quarter-dollar for carrying it ; and it must be 'livered into Master Edwin's own private particular hands." So saying, he departed, and the girl ran up to Edwin's room, holding out the parcel and saying, "Master Edwin, here's a book for yoa, signed, sealed, and delivered ; sent by Master Oswald Woodley, oldest son of Mr. Woodley the great merchant." Edwin took the book, and, on opening it, was much surprised to find the note, written in a female hand, and the name of Amelia Woodley Til K SO UVKN I K . 10 on the presentation plate of the Souvenir, which had been inscribed by her father the preceding evening, and which she had forgotten to erase before she sept it away. For some time, his pleasure in examining the beautiful plates ab- sorbed every other consideration, and it was not till he had gone twice over them, that he thought of the mystery connected with the book. His honorable principles determined him not to accept it, as he saw that there was some secrecy about the whole transaction, and that probably the generous young lady, whose name it bore, had sent it to him without the knowledge of her parents. The beauty of the book was a great temptation, and he would have derived much pleasure from copying some of the fine plates, but still he could not reconcile it to his con- science to keep it, neither would he betray the hind-hearted Amelia to her father. He resolved to seal it up again, and leave it himself at Mr. Woodley's door, addressed to Oswald. He took his last sheet of paper, and wrote in it as follows : " Accident has discovered to me to whom I am indebted for a most beautiful present, but though it has excited my warmest gratitude, I 20 THE SOUVENIR. cannot consent to accept it under circumstances of mystery to which the parents of my kind friend may be strangers. I return it with a thousand acknowledgments. EDWIN LOVEL." Having looked once more at the engravings, he put up the Souvenir, and set out himself to leave it at Mr. Woodley's house, intending to desire the servant that opened the door to give it to Master Oswald. Mr. Woodley was sitting at the centre-table looking over some English newspapers, and he found in one of them a high eulogium on a new picture by an American artist, now in London. He read the piece aloud, and when he had con- cluded, " Amelia," said he, " if I am not mis- taken, there is in your Souvenir an engraving from this picture. Let me look at it again." Amelia colored and knew not what to say, and Oswald also seemed much embarrassed. " My dear," pursued Mr. Woodley, " did you not hear me ? If you can get the book conveniently, I should like to look at that plate." Amelia, con- fused and trembling, tried to speak but could not, and her eyes were immediately filled with tears. " Amelia," said Mr. Woodley, has any accident happened to the Souvenir ?" " No, THE SOUVENIR. 21 my dear father," she replied, "but I have given it away." " Is it possible," said Mr. Woodley, (( that you were so soon tired of your father's Christmas gift ?" " Oh ! no, no," replied Ame- lia, " but there is a poor boy who draws beauti- fully, and I thought it would make him so happy. Dear Oswald, tell the whole." Oswald then, as concisely as possible, related all the circumstances ; and Mr. Woodley, after gently blaming the children for disposing of the book without consulting their parents, kissed Amelia, and commended her kindness and bene- volence in bestowing her Souvenir on poor Edwin Lovel. Just then a ring was heard at the front door, and William brought in and gave to Oswald the packet, which had been left that moment by Edwin. " Ah !" exclaimed Oswald, on opening the parcel, " this is so like Edwin. He sends back the Souvenir." He then gave Edwin's note to Mr. Woodley, who, after reading it, went to the desk and wrote a billet addressed to Edwin's father, in which he requested him to permit his son to join his family that day at their Christmas dinner. William was immediately despatched to Mr. Level's with the note, and in 22 THE SOUVENIR. a short time Edwin arrived, looking very happy , and Mr. Woodley shook him heartily by the hand, on being introduced to him by Oswald. Then, taking up the Souvenir, he held it out to Amelia, and desired her to present it a second time to her brother's young friend. (f With rny sanction," said Mr. Woodley to Edwin, "you will not again refuse my daughter's gift, though you so honorably returned it when you suspected that she offered it unknown to her parents." Edwin spent the day with the Woodley family, who were all delighted with his modesty and good sense, and Mr. Woodley made him promise to repeat his visit as often as he had leisure. That evening, Amelia's uncle brought her a present of an Album, bound in green morocco and handsomely gilt, and Edwin requested that she would allow him to take it home and draw something in it. When he returned the Album, it contained copies, in Indian ink, of the most beautiful plates of the Souvenir, executed in Edwin's very best manner. Mr. Woodley presented Edwin with a port-folio, containing a selection of fine prints, and eventually made arrange- ments with a distinguished artist to take him THE SOUVENIR. 28 as a pupil ; his taste for drawing being so decided, and his indications of genius so extra- ordinary, it was thought best to yield to his desire of making painting his profession. Finding Edwin's father to be a very deserving man, Mr. Woodley assisted him to re-establish himself in business, regretting that he should so Jong have been condemned to the irksome life of a teacher in a school. He was soon enabled to occupy a better house, and to live once more ia the enjoyment of every comfort. THE CADET'S SISTER. FOUNDED ON FACT. The seme is at Mrs. Lesmore's house in one of the on the banks of the Hudson the time is the latter part of a summer afternoon Mrs. Lesmore sewing at a table in her front parlour Laura seated opposite to her, icith her drawing materials. LAURA. Dear mother, I believe I must put up my drawing for this day. I cannot draw as well even as usual, my mind being so much engrossed with the expectation of seeing my brother this afternoon. I feel too happy to think of any thing else. See, I have made the squaw's face quite too dark even for an Indian, and her child's hair looks as stiff as bristles. If I touch the warrior again, I shall certainly spoil him. (24) THE CADET'S SIST EH. 25 MRS. LKSMORE. Your sketch is not so bad, my dear, as you describe it ; but I think you had better give up drawing for the present. To-morrow you will feel more composed. LAURA. I am sorry, for I had set my mind on finishing this group of Indians before Mar- cus came home ; particularly as it is from an original design by a young officer that he is intimately acquainted with. Marcus, you know, is extremely desirous that I should im- prove in my drawing, and I hope in time to be able to sketch from nature and from my own imagination, almost as beautifully as he does. MRS. LESMORE. WeJl, my dear, it gives me pleasure to tell you that you do improve rapidly. Mr. Mitford considers you one of his best pupils. LAURA. And Marcus will be glad to find that I am head of the first class at French school. Now if I could only have taken les- sons in music ? what pleasure it would give me to play to Marcus after he comes home. How- ever, as he is accustomed every morning and evening to hear the fine band at West Point, perhaps mere piano-playing may seem to him very insipid. ' 3 26 THE CADET'S SISTER. MRS. LKSMORE. My dear, you must not regret that you cannot be instructed in music. I do not think you have any decided talent for that charming science, and your voice is not such as to authorize the hope that you would ever sing well. LATTRA. Still, dear mother, I might make up in application for what is wanting in natu- ral genius. If I could be enabled to take les- sons on the piano, you have no idea how attentive and assiduous my instructor would find me. I would willingly practise five or six hours every day, and I would take such pains and be so unremitting in my endeavours, that I think I should at length acquire as much proficiency as the generality of young girls. MRS. LESMORE. There is no accomplish- ment more expensive than that of music. There is none that requires more time and closer attention, and there is none that is sooner for- gotten. To play even tolerably, is frequently the work of years ; and to play well, you must have constant instruction from an excellent and consequently an expensive teacher, and you must practise regularly and carefully for several hours every day. Then, after all, it is impossi- THE CADET'S SISTER. 27 ble to be a good musician without an excellent ear, considerable taste, and a large share of native genius. Also, a fine voice is indispen- sable, for ladies that play are generally ex- pected to sing. There are many other con- siderations. Music is the most costly of all accomplishments. In the first place, a high price must be given for a good instrument ; a good teacher, as I before remarked, always commands a large compensation ; and a great deal of money must necessarily be expended in buying songs and pieces. I have always been of opinion that persons in moderate circum- stances should not allow their children to be instructed in music unless they evince an ex- traordinary talent for it, or expect eventually to pursue it as a profession. Think yourself fortunate, my dear Laura, in having it in your power to learn drawing, dancing, and French ; beside all the usual branches of a good English education. LAURA. Well, mother, I have now put away all my drawing apparatus. Will you give me some sewing to pass away the time till Marcus arrives ? 28 THE CADET'S SISTEE. MRS. LESMORE. Yes, you may hem this frill. LAURA. Some one rings at the front door. Perhaps it is dear Marcus, (running to the tvindow.') Oh ! no. It is that tiresome Mrs. Clapperton, come back already from New York. And she is as teasing and disagreeable as she is tiresome. She never visits us but to say something that is mortifying or painful, or to ask impertinent questions. MRS. LESMORE. My dear Laura, you must not allow yourself to speak so freely of any acquaintance of the family. LAURA. I am glad to hear you call her an acquaintance only. But I might have been sure you never classed her among your friends. Oh ! how different she is from dear Mrs. El- wood, whose visits always make us cheerful and happy. [Mrs. Clapperton enters very expensively dresl..~\ \ MRS. CLAPPERTON. My dear Mrs. Lesmore, 1 hope you are well. It seems an age since I last saw you. And my sweet Laura too as industrious as ever, I suppose. Well, you are THE CADET'SSISTER. 29 certainly right. There is no knowing what may happen, and your accomplishments may one day be turned to profitable account. It is a fine thing for girls to be able to get their own living. \_She sits down in a chair that Laura has placed for her.~\ MRS. LESMORE. When did you return from New York, Mrs. Clapperton ? MRS. CLAPPERTON. I got home last evening about sunset. MRS. LESMORE. I suppose you found the city as gay as usual. MRS. CLAPPERTON. Oh ! quite as much so dear, delightful Broadway was always so crowded, that we found it difficult to get along. That is, on the west side, for it is not the fashion to walk on the other. And the Battery is thronged every evening. MRS. LESMORE. Was the steamboat very full yesterday, when you came up ? MRS. CLAPPERTON. Yes, very, and I was glad that we were not to pass the night on board. Oh ! I must not forget to tell you, Mrs. Lesmore, that on the day we went down to the city we heard a great deal about your son Mar- 3* 30 T H E C A D E T ' 8 S I S T E K. cus, from a cadet named Wanslcy, that we took on board at West Point, and whom Mr. Clapperton suspected had been dismissed for some misdemeanor, because he talked so unfa- vourably of the academy and the professors and officers. You know that successful cadets generally speak highly of the institution, and of all who are connected with it. MRS. LESMORE. Was this cadet acquainted with my dear Marcus? MKS. CLAPPERTON. Yes, I asked him ; and he said that he knew Marcus Lesmore perfectly well. I must confess that he told me some strange things about him. LAURA. I am sure he could tell you nothing to his disadvantage. MRS. LESMORK. My son, I know, stands very high in his class. MRS. CLAPPERTON. I made no inquiries on that subject ; but I asked young Wansley if Marcus Lesmore was liked in the corps ; that is if he was popular with the other cadets. MRS. LESMORE. I hope the answer was in the affirmative. MRS. CLAPPERTON. Why not exactly in short, my dear Mrs. Lesmore, I am sorry to THE CADET'S SISTER. 81 tell you that your son does not seem to be a favourite with his companions. LAURA. How is that possible ? MRS. LESMORE. I am indeed amazed. With his kind feelings and good temper, I see not how he can be otherwise than in favour with them. MRS. CLAPPERTON. Why, you know that boys seldom set much value on money, and that they usually spend it freely even when they have but little. It seems, however, that your son is so close an economist, that, to speak the plain truth, he has lost the regard of all his companions. None are now on terms of intimacy with him, and he has got the nick- name of < young Elwees.' MRS. LESMORE. You astonish and distress me if this is indeed true, how much my son must have changed ! MRS. CLAPPERTON. Every body is liable to change. MRS. LESMORE. It cannot be true it is in- credible. MRS. CLAPPERTON. Few mothers will be- lieve any thing against their children. LAURA. (With tears in her eyes.] My dear 82 THE CADET'S SISTER. brother to be nicknamed Elwees, after that wretched old miser. Why does not Marcus knock down every boy that calls him so ? MRS. CLAPPERTON. Oh ! of course they take care not to give him that appellation to his face. And even if they did, people are not very apt to resent indignities when they are conscious of deserving them. MRS. LESMORE. Mrs. Clapperton, you both offend and afflict me. I doubt if your inform- ant was able to support his allegation by any ihing like proof. MRS. CLAPPERTON. Oh ! yes, indeed he went into particulars. For instance, Mr. Wans- ley told me that Marcus Lesmore is as saving as possible, even in his most trifling expenses, and that he acts as if every cent was to him an object of consequence. He is particularly careful of his clothes, and tries his utmost to make them last as long as possible. He never sends down to the city for new novels, or any other books of amusement. He has discon- tinued his newspaper, and does not take a single magazine. He never goes to the shop where they sell fruit and soda water. He has with his own hands made various little things TUB CADET'S SISTK is. 83 for his room, rather than go to the expense of buying them. When the cadets have a ball he stays away because he will not be one of the subscribers to it ; and for the same reason he is never seen at a concert or other entertain ment. In short, he declines subscribing to any thing, and seems resolutely bent on saving as much money as possible. He has been going on in this penurious way for the last two years, therefore it is strange you should not have heard something of it before this time. Oh ! there is another thing I must not forget. During the summer recess he never, like the other cadets, asks permission to visit the city, but he remains in camp all the time. MRS. LESMORE. Oh ! no, not quite all the time he always comes up to pass a few days with his mother and sister. MRS. CLAPPERTON. But he goes no where else. MRS. LESMORE. It is true that his anxiety to make the most of his time, while his educa- tion is yet unfinished, and his desire to improve in tactics (the branch which is particularly practised during encampment), has hitherto 34 THE CADET'S SISTER. prevented him from paying us long visits. But this being his last year, he is now exempt from military duty and he can remain with us several weeks, and next summer, he will be commissioned. Still, I am surprised and shocked at what you tell me. My son's dis- position was always generous and liberal ; exactly like his father's. MRS. CLAPPERTON. Excuse me, my dear Mrs. Lesmore, but as Marcus knows .that his father's liberality injured the circumstances of the family, perhaps he thinks it better to keep on the safe side, and accustom himself thus early to habits of strict economy. I .admire his prudence, but I am sorry he should go sucli lengths as to be accounted mean. LAURA. Oh ! but indeed, a mean boy is such an unnatural character. I am certain my dear Marcus cannot deserve it. MRS; CLAPPERTON. Well, I can assure you that from what Mr. Wansley said, Marcus Les- more has actually obtained that character, and is believed by the whole corps of cadets to de- serve it. 1 am very sorry, for in the opinion of boys there is nothing more contemptible than T H E C A 1) E T ' S 8 I S T E R. 35 a, young miser. And I must own that I have never heard of his sending any little presents to his mother and sister. MRS. LKSMORK. Mrs. Clapperton, say no- thing on that subject. He undoubtedly finds his pay little enough for his unavoidable ex- penses. MRS. CLAPPERTON. How is it, then, that as young Wansley assured me the cadets can generally defray all their f unavoidable ex- penses,' with their allowance of twenty-eight dollars a month, and have still something left for other purposes ? So close as he is, I really think Marcus must by this timo have saved a little fortune. He must have money in the bank, or perhaps he intends buying a house. Well, it is very prudent, though certainly not very common, for a boy of eighteen to. think of providing for his old age. MRS. LESMORE. You must excuse me, Mrs. Clapperton, but I cannot bear any jesting at the expense of my son. MRS. CLAPPERTON. Well, do not be angry, but I have not told you the half that t heard about him. Wansley related some of the most curious anecdotes. 36 THE CADET'S SISTER. MRS. LESMORE. What you have already told has given me so much pain, that I would rather hear no more. MRS. CLAPPERTON. Your Marcus is cer- tainly very different from my William, whose money flies as if it was dust. He is never satisfied except when he is down at New York ; and when there, he goes every night to the theatre, and frequently to a ball after the play is over. He is continually hiring horses and gigs, and going on water-parties. And he never spends less than a dollar a day at the confectioner's or oyster-houses. Then, since his trip to Philadelphia, he will not wear even a light summer-jacket, unless it is made at Watson's. But I like to see a boy of spirit, and I make his father indulge him in every thing he wants. However, I must now take my leave, for I expect in the next boat five new dresses, which were not quite finished before I left the city ; and I must despatch John to the wharf to be ready to get the boxes. If you call to-morrow morning I will show them to you. They are all in the very first style. So good b'ye. THE CADET'S s i s T K u. 37 MRS. LESMORK. Good afternoon, Mrs. Clap perton. [Laura accompanies Mrs. Clappcrton to the door, ana then returns.] LAURA. (Bursting into tears.') Oh ! my aear mother ! MRS. LESMORE. My beloved girl, I am as much grieved and mortified as you can be, at what Mrs. Ciapperton has been telling us. LAURA. I am sure it cannot be true. MRS. LESMORE. There is undoubtedly some exaggeration, both on the part of Mrs. Clapper- ton and that of the cadet who was her inform- ant. But the charge is of so unusual a nature that I fear it must have some foundation, other- wise no one would dare to advance it. LAURA. I believe it to be mere slander. But Marcus is so sensible and so amiable, that it is surprising he should have a single enemy. MRS. LESMORE. Whatever may be the good qualities of a young man, he will never be popular with his associates if they have reason to suspect him of any thing that borders on parsimony. In the eyes of youth meanness is an unpardonable fault. 38 THE CARET'S SISTER. LAURA. But how he must have changed ! When he was a boy at home, his money was always laid out in some way or other as soon as it was given to him. And he was so gene- rous to his friends and to me, and so willing to share whatever he had. MRS. LESMORE. It is true, as Mrs. Clapper- ton rudely and ill-naturedly reminded us, that Marcus has never sent even the most trifling present to you or to me. LAURA. Oh-! dearest mother, never allude to that again I dare say he finds his pay qnite little enough. MRS. LESMORE. But if other cadets can live on their pay, and still allow themselves many indulgences Oh ! Laura, Laura, I fear indeed, that all is not right. LAURA. Oh ! that Marcus would arrive, and then we might immediate!} 7 ascertain the truth. MRS. LESMORE. It is torture to think ill of him even for a few moments. LAURA. I hear a wheelbarrow stop at the door ; it must be Marcus' baggage (she runs to the window) ah ! here he is t MRS. LESMORE. My dear Marcus ! TH ]: CADET'S SISTEK. [They hasten to the front door, and then return to the parlour with Marcus, who throu-s his cap on the table, and seats himself on the sofa between his mother and sister. ] MARCUS. Well, my dear mother, here I am once more. We had every thing to make our passage from West Point delightful ; but still it seemed to me a very long one I was so impa- tient to arrive at my beloved home. MRS. LESMORE. Ho\v much you have grown ! You look half a head taller than when we last saw you. LAURA. And how much handsornor ymi arc now, than before you went to West Point. MARCUS, (smiling'} You must allow some- thing for my uniform la pause) But, my dear mother, you look disturbed and uneasy and Laura has certainly been in tears. What has happened ? tell me at once. LAURA. Did you never hear of any one crying with joy ? MARCUS. But joy is not the cause of the tears that are now filling your eyes. I have more penetration than to believe that the only emotion you feel at this moment is pleasure on seeing mo again, after a long separation. There is something else some thing has happened 40 T II E C A 1) E T ' S S I 8 T E 11. some recent cause of affliction some new mis- fortune. MRS. LESMORE. Oh ! no no MARCUS. Dearest mother, tell me the whole neither you nor Laura receive me as you did when I came home last summer. Some- thing, I am sure, is wrong. MRS. LESMORE. Marcus I will tell you LAURA, (in a low voice to Mrs. Lesmore\ Dear mother, do not say any thing about the cadets calling him e young Elwees.' MRS. LESMORK. Mrs. Clapperton has just been here, having recently returned from New York. MARCUS. I arn glad her visit to you was over before my arrival. I think her a very foolish, impertinent woman. MRS. LESMORE. When she was going down the river, a cadet ('probably one that had just been dismissed) came on board at West Point. Mrs. Clapperton got into conversation with him, and asked some questions concerning you. MARCUS. May I know what he said of me ? MRS. LESMORE.* He said that how can I tell you I know not in what manner to begin. LAURA. Oh ! dear mother, tell it not at all T 11E CADET'S 318 TEK. 41 at least not till to-morrow. Let us try to be as happy as we can this first evening of Marcus's return MARCUS. My curiosity is now so highly excited that I must entreat, and were I not addressing my mother, I would say, I must insist on knowing. ' MRS. LESMORE. Well, then, Marcus I have been surprised and mortified to hear that you are accused by your companions of an extraor- dinary disposition to to what shall I call it ? LAURA. To economize rather strictly. Dear mother, you know that economy is a virtue. [Marcus rises, and traverses the room in much emotion.'} MRS. LESMORE. In plain terms that you are more saving of your money than is usual, or indeed becoming in a youth of your age. That you carefully avoid every expense that is not absolutely necessary. That you join in no amusement which is likely to cost you any thing, and that you take the utmost pains to live on as little as possible. MARCUS. It is all true. LAURA. True ! Oh, Marcus ! MRS. LESMORE. Can it indeed be true, that 4* 42 THE CADET'S SISTER. you hnve carried your economy so far that it is remarked and commented upon by all the cadets, and that some of them look coldly on you, while others ridicule you ? MARCUS. I know they do and they have nicknamed me < young Ehvees.' LAURA. Oh ! Marcus ! Why is all this ? MARCUS. Have you not always told me, dear mother, that every one should endeavour to live within his income is it then right that I should expend the whole of mine ? MRS. LESMORE. I have always supposed that your pay is no more than sufficient for the expenses incident to your situation. MARCUS. Excuse, me, dear mother, it is more than sufficient. MRS. LESMORE. But not if you live like other cadets. I am extremely sorry that this singular and strict economy should have made you unpopular with your comrades ; but a young man that is suspected of meanness nev.e.r has many friends. MARCUS. Have you ever heard any thing else against me ? Has any one told you that I have neglected my studies, or infringed on the rules of the institution ; that I have on any T II E CADET'S SISTER. 43 occasion evinced a refractory or insubordinate spirit ; or that I have ever been guilty of any thing dishonourable or immoral ? MRS. LESMORE. Oh ! no, no all that we have heard, all that \ve know, convinces us of the contrary. MARCUS. Then, as, according to the old aphorism, < every one has his fault,' let me beg a little indulgence for mine. MRS. LESMORE. But, Marcus, parsimony, or meanness, if I must speak plainly, is a fault so unusual, so extraordinary in a very young person, that I own it both surprises and grieves me to hear it attributed to you. LAVRA. Dear brother, only just tell us why you are so saving of your clothes, and why you avoid partaking of the few amusements that are within your reach ; and above all, why you have discontinued your newspaper ? MARCUS. As to my clothes, no one can say that I ever make a shabby or slovenly appear- ance. LAURA. You certainly look very nicely now. MARCUS. As to amusements, they are always matters of taste. My companions amuse them- selves in their way, and I in mine. 44 THE CADET'S SISTEK. LAURA. But we have heard that you never buy any books you that were always so fond of reading ! MARCUS. I have not yet read all the books in the public library belonging to the academy. LAURA. But books of amusement dear Marcus. MARCUS. I shall have time enough after I am commissioned to read books of that descrip- tion. At present it is my duty to restrict rny- self to such works as will be useful to me in my profession, and with these I can amply supply myself from the library. LAURA All this is very right and proper, Marcus, but still it is not like a boy. MRS. LESMORK. Marcus, there is some mys- tery connected with this subject. I know that your natural disposition is generous and liberal, and that your perseverance in this system of rigid economy must have cost you many pain- ful sacrifices. There must be some powerful motive, and your family ought to know it. Tell us, then, dear Marcus. \_Ile remains silent.~\ LAURA. Oh ! Marcus, will you not speak T II E C A 1) E T ' S 9 I 9 T K R. 46 when your sister your only sister entreats you ? MRS. LESMORE. Or must you be told that your mother commands you ? [Marcus bows to his mother, casts down his eyet, and then throws his arms round Laura's neck.~\ LAURA. Dear Marcus, why have you so long been acting unlike yourself? What is the cause ? MARCUS, (deeply affected] You, Laura, you are the cause. LAURA. I Oh ! explain yourself. MARCUS, flaking a hand of each) Mother sister what shall I say r You know that my father left you in circumstances far from, affluent. Fortunately he had yielded to my earnest desire, and permitted me to prepare myself for a military life. I had often, after you became a widow, heard you regret your inability to afford my sister such an education as she would have had if my father still lived. I, in the mean time, was enjoying the benefit of an excellent course of instruction at the ex- pense of my country ; and when I thought of my dear Laura, I often wished that she was a 4& THE CADET'S SISTER. boy, and could participate in the same advan- tages. But then again, I consoled myself by reflecting on her happiness in being always with her mother, and on the mutual comfort and pleasure you both derived from being always together. Knowing that the narrow- ness of your income would not permit either of you to mix much in society, and that you live in comparative retirement, I anticipated the satisfaction it would give you both if Laura could be enabled to cultivate the talents that Heaven has bestowed on her. And when impressed with this idea, after the thought had once struck me how shall I go en ? in short, I determined to live as economically as possible myself, in the hope of being able, at the end of the year, to save enough to meet the expenses of my sister's education. LAURA, (in tears'} Dear, dear Marcus. MARCUS. I tried the experiment, and I found it practicable ; but I did not wish my mother and sister to know it, lest they should refuse to accept the fruits of my savings. Therefore, I always contrived to send the money down to New York, that the letter which enclosed it might not have the West Point post mark. I THE CADET'S SISTKB. 47 wrote in a disguised hand a few lines implying that this money \vas the gift of an unknown frieri ! of the late ColoneJ Lesmore, and that it was designed to assist in the education of his daughter. All is now explained. MRS. LESMORE. (embracing him} My be- loved son ! LAURA (pressing his hand to her heart] My darling brother. MRS. LESMORE. How could 1 for a moment suppose that my dear Marcus might be unable to justify himself, however appearances and reports were against him. And now, my child, I have some fxcellent news for you, which I heard but yesterday, and which I have not 'yet* disclosed to Laura, as I wished to reserve it as an addition to our happiness on the evening of your arrival at home. Mr. Adamson, by whose bankruptcy your father was ruined, has just returned from the West Indies, where he has made a fortune by some lucky speculations. He is now able to pay all his creditors, and, being a very conscientious man, lie is deter- mined to do it immediately. The sum that will fall to our share is large enough to enable us in future to dispense with any further assistance 48 THE CADET'S SISTE it. from the kindness of dear Marcus. We shah now have an income that will be amply sufficient. LAURA. Delightful news ! MRS. LESMORE. And now, my dear Marcus, you must promise me that on your return to West Point you will be again yourself, and cease to practise that rigid economy which, while it was so advantageous to your sister, must have subjected you to perpetual incon- veniences and annoyances. MARCUS. Dear mother, I will do as you wish me ; and now that I have no longer the same motive for self-denial, Iconfess that I shall resume my former, and let me add, my natural habits, with pleasure. My comrades shall again see me in my own character. But I can assure you that my satisfaction in the thought of being able to benefit my dear Laura, amply compensated for any pain or inconven- ience that I endured in consequence. LATJRA. How could you persevere so long vhen the cadets ridiculed you, and called you a young miser ? MARCUS. I bore the opprobrium patiently, because I knew it to be unmerited, It is much THK CADET'S SISTER. 49 easier to suffer under an erroneous imputation, than to endure the shame and self-reproach of a real fault, MRS. LESMORE. You have chosen, my dear Marcus, the profession of arms, and should the peace of our country be again invaded, you must, in the hour of danger, take your chance for life or death ; and as personal intrepidity is one of the attributes of your sex, I trust that when the hour comes you will not swerve from your duty. But how highly to be prized is that moral courage \vhich, in a good cause, can submit without shrinking to daily and hourly privations, and ndure with patience the pain- ful suspicion of a fault most opposite to the truth. There are many who, with unshaken firm- ness, can ' see the front of battle lour,' but the energy of mind is far more rare that can steadily submit to a long course of self-denial, to unjust animadversions, and to unmerited ridicule, and find sufficient consolation in the silent and secret exercise of the best feelings of generosity and affection. 5 SUSANNA MEKEHITH; OR, THE VILLAGE SCHOOL. SUSANNA MEREDITH was the orphan niece of Mrs. Weatherwax, an elderly* lady who was ( preceptress' of a school at a large and flourish- ing village in one of the middle sections of the Union. The aunt of our young heroine was educating her with a view to her becoming an assistant in the seminary ; and, indeed, pool Susanna had already been inducted into the most laborious duties of that office, though her age was not yet fourteen. It must not be supposed that Mrs. Weather- wax's establishment bore any resemblance to that English village school, whose sign has SUSANNA M E U E D I T II. 61 been so facetiously described as containing these words, { Children taught reading, writing, and grammar, for sixpence a week. Thorn as learns manners pays eightpence.' On the contrary, hers \vas a lyceum of high pretence, and very select ; none being admitted whose parents were not likely to pay their quarter bills. Mrs. Weatherwax was not one of those teachers who strew the path of learning with flowers. With her, as with most hard, dull, heavy-minded people, the letter was always paramount to the spirit. Provided that her pupils could repeat the exact words of their lessons, it was to her a matter of indifference whether they understood a single one of those words or not ; and, in fact, as her own compre- hension was not very extensive, it was by no means surprising that the governess should carefully avoid the dangerous ground of expla- nation. Their chief class-book was Murray's English Reader, where the little girls were expected to be interested, and edified by dialogues between Locke and Bayle, orations of Cicero, and parlia- mentary speeches of Lord Mansfield. And 62 SUSANNA MEREDITH, OR twice a week, hy way of variety, they were indulged with a few pages of Young's Night Thoughts. Every Saturday they were required to manufacture certain articles called composi- tion, which were moral and sentimental letters on Beneficence, Gratitude, Modesty, Friend- ship, &c. Mrs. Weatherwax also gave them lessons in something she denominated French, in which most of the words were pronounced in English, or rather as if the letters that com- posed them retained tht English pronunciation, calling for instance, the three summer months, Jewin, Juilet, and Jlught.* They wrote, or rather scratched their copies with metallic pens, to save the trouble of mend- ing, and they learned geography { with the use of the globes,' though all that was ever done with the globes was to twirl them. And now and then a young lady of peculiar genius accomplished, in the course of three months, a stool-cover or urn-stand, worked on canvass, and representing in caricature a cat, a dog, or a flower-basket. Susanna Meredith had much native talent, Juin, Juillet, and Aout. THE VILLAGE SCHOOL. 68 united with the most indefatigable application, and considering how little real benefit she de- rived from the tutorage of her aunt, her pro- gress in everything she attempted was surpris- ing. Her unpretending good sense, and her mild and obliging manners, tinctured with a touch of melancholy, the consequence of feeling deeply the loss of her parents, (both of whom had died about the same time,) excited the esteem and affection of her young companions, whose indignation was often roused by the manner in which poor Susanna was treated by her aunt. She swept and dusted the school- room, washed the desks, took care of the books, fixed the sewing, inspected the sums, and taught the little ones to read ; and she never, in any one instance, succeeded in pleasing Mrs. Weatherwax. Her services were compensated by being allowed to wear her aunt's left-off clothes, (after she had altered them between school hours so as to fit herself,) and by having permission to sit at table with Mrs. Weatherwax, and drink the grounds of the coffee in the morning, or the drainings of the well-watered tea-pot in the evening ; and to eat at dinner the skinny, bony, 5* 54 SUSANNA MEKEDITIJ, OK or gristly parts of the meat, or the necks and backs of the poultry. Not that Mrs. Weather- wax did not provide amply for herself, but, though she said it was indispensably necessary for her to sustain her strength by plenty of good food, yet the same necessity did not exist with a young girl like Susanna, whom eating heartily would incapacitate for study. The old lady's studies being over, she saw no motive for abstemiousness on her own part. It was on a warm afternoon in the early part of July, that Mrs. Weatherwax, having dined even more plentifully than usual, felt herself much inclined to drowsiness, and resorted to her ordinary mode of keeping herself awake by exercising a strict watch on her pupils and scolding and punishing them accordingly. Like a peevish child, Mrs. Weatherwax was always cross when she was sleepy. The girls, in whispers, expressed more than ever their long- ings for the summer vacation ; after which, it was understood that Mrs. Weatherwax was to retire on her fortune ; she having made enough to enable her to give up her school to a lady from New England, who had engaged to retain Susanna Meredith as an assistant, and to pay THE VILLAGE SCHOOL. 55 her a small salary, which her aunt was to receive till she was of age. About a dozen of her pupils were standing up in a row before Mrs. Weatherwax, reading aloud and loudly from the Night Thoughts, and in that monotonous tone which children always fall into when they have no comprehension of the subject. Each read a paragraph, and there was much miscalling of words, much false emphasis, and much neglect of the proper stops. But of these errors the governess was only at any time capable of distinguishing the first, and as she grew more sleepy, her correc- tions of pronunciation became less frequent, and at last they ceased altogether. In vain did Maria Wilson call ( the opaque of nature,' the O. P. Q. of nature, and in vain were < futuri- ties' denominated fruiterers, and ( hostilities' termed hostlers. No word of reproof was now heard. The girls looked from their books at Mrs.. Weatherwax, and then at each other, biting their lips to suppress their laughter, for her eye-lids, though drooping, were not yet quite closed. Gradually, her neck seemed to lose something of its usual stiffness, and to incline 56 SUS ANN A M E H K 1) I T 11, O R towards her shoulder; her head slowly went to one side ; and in a few minutes, her tightly shut eyes, her audible breathing, and her book dropping from her hand and falling on the floor without waking her, gave positive assurance that the governess had really and truly fallen fast asleep in her arm-chair? As this fact became apparent, the faces of her pupils brightened, and two of the most courageous were deputed by the others to approach close to her, and to examine if she absolutely was in a profound slumber. Their report was favourable ; and in a moment all restraint tvas thrown aside, and a scene of joy- ous tumult ensued, in which great risks were run of wakening the sleeper. At first they moved on tiptoe, spoke in whispers, and smothered their laughter ; but, grown bolder by practice, they at length ventured fcn such daring exploits, that the continuation of their governess's nap seemed almost miraculous. *Some of them immediately fell to rummag- ing the desk that always sat On Mrs. Weather- wax's table, and from it they joyfully re-pos- * This scene -was suggested by Richter's celebrated picture of ' The Girls' School.' THE VILLAGE SCHOOL. 67 sessed themselves of some of their forfeited playthings. Lucy Phillips took a snuff box from the old lady's pocket, and threw snuff into the faces of two other girls, who sneezed so loudly in con sequence, that Mrs. Weatherwax was observed to start in her sleep. Ellen Welbrook hastened to the release of her younger sister Mary, who had been sen- tenced to stand for an hour on a high stool, with a fool's cap on her head, as a punishment for saying < Pallas' instead of ( Minerva,' as she recited her lesson of mythology ; and who, now that she could do so with impunity, scowled awfully at the slumbering governess, and shook her little fist in defiance. Fanny Mills, the beauty of the school, pinned up a small silk shawl into a turban, and placing in it a peacock's feather, taken from behind the top of the looking glass, she practised attitudes, and surveyed herself in the mirror with much complacency. Catherine Ramsay diverted herself and her companions by spreading out her frock as wide as it would extend, and making ridiculous mock curtcsies to her sleeping governess. 68 8 O 8 A N K A SI i: 11 I. 1, I T i~T, >7 I. Lydia Linnel, a little girl whose chief delight was in cutting paper, tore cut several blank leaves from her copy book seized a pair of scissors, and strewed the floor with mimic dolls and houses. And Isabella Smithson and Margaret Wells coldly walked out at the front door to go and buy cakes. There was also much unmeaning scampering, prancing, scrambling, and giggling, without any definite object ; and work-boxes, baskets, chairs, and stools, were overturned in the confusion. And what did Susanna Meredith during this saturnalia? Concerned at the disrespect so unanimously evinced towards her aunt, and still more concerned at knowing that the old lady's unpopularity was too well deserved, Susanna remained steadily at her desk, en- gaged at her writing piece, and unwilling to raise her eyes, or to see what was going on ; but still not surprised that the children should thus testify their joy at this short and unex- pected relief from the iron rule of Mrs. Wea- ther wax. Two of the elder girls approached her ' Come, Susanna,' said Anne Clarkson, l lay THB VILLAGE SCUOOL. 59 aside your pen, and join us in our fun while we have an opportunity. I know in your heart you would Jike to do so.' 'Excuse me,' replied Susanna,