m:^ M7 THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA BEQUEST OF ANITA D. S. BLAKE ; -• :f:u o >:ti s PiF. c iic Li this nuiimcr.thc epitaph on mif vjothcr'.^ tomh heimj rm/ primer and mi/ s^pcllin^q-booh I Jcrrncd to read .^^Fa^rf s- MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL; OR, THE HISTORY OF SEVERAL YOUNG LADIES, RELATED BY THEMSELVES. EIGHTH EDITION. ^^a^ LONDON: PRINTED FOR M. J. GODWIN AND CO. AT THE CITY FRENCH AND ENOLISH JUVENILE AND SCHOOL LIBRARY, NO. 41, SKINNER- STREET, 1821. LOAN STACK GIFT B. M'Millan, Printer, Bow.Str€£t» Covent-Gardetu CONTENTS. PAGE I. Elizabeth Villiers : or The Sailor ) Uncle ...> II. Louisa Manners: The Farm House 30 III. Ann Withers : The Changeling . . , . 30 IV. Elinor Forester: The Father's | - Wedding-Day } V. MA.RGARET ^GREEN : The Young > Mahometan ) VI. Emily Barton : Visit to the Cousins 111 ^ VII. Maria Howe: The Effect of Witch! ^^^ Stories • x VIII. Charlotte Wilmot: The Mer-) , ,^ > 147 chant's Daughter > ^ IX. Susan Yates: First Going to Churck 15& ^. X. Arabella Hardy: The Sea Voyage 169, 21'7 " With much satisfaction dp we express our unqualified praise of these elegant and most instructive Tales ; they are delightfully simple, and exquisitely told. The child or pa- rent who. reads the little history of Elizabeth Villiers, will, in spite of any resolution to the contrary, be touched to the heart, if not melted into tears. Morose and crabbed censors as we are represented to be, we closed the volume, wishing Uiere had been another, and lamenting that we had got to the end." Critical Review for December^ 1808. MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL. DEDICATION YOUNG LADIES AT AMWELL SCHOOL. Ml/ dear young Friends, Though released from the business of the school^ the absence of your Governess confines me to Amwell during the vacation. I cannot better employ my leisure hours than in contri- buting to the amusement ofyou, my kind Pupils^ who^ by your affectionate attentions to my in- structionsy have rendered a life of labour pleasant to me. On your return to school^ I hope to have a fair copy ready to present to each ofyou^ of your own biographical conversations last winter. B 11 DEDICATION. Accept my thanks for the approbation you were pleased to express when I offered to become your amanuensis, I hope you will find I have executed the office with a tolerably faithful pen, as you know I took notes each day during those conversations f and arranged my materials after you were retired io rest. I begin from the day our school commenced. It was opened by your Governess for the first time^ on the day ofFebructry* I pass over your several arrivals on the morning of that day. Your Governess received you from your friends in her own parlour. Every carriage that drove from the door, I knew had left a sad heart behind. Your eyes were red with weeping, when your Governess introduced me to you as the teacher she had engaged to instruct you. She next desired me to shew you into the room which we now call the play^room. " The Ladies^" said she, ^^ may play, and amuse themselves^ and be as happy as they please this evening, that they may be DEDICATION. Ill well acquainted with each other before they enter the school-room to-morrow morning," The traces of tears were on every cheek, and I also was sad ; for /, like you, had parted from my friends, and the duties of my profession were new to me; yet, I felt that it was impro- per to give way to my own melancholy thoughts, I knew that it was my first duty to divert the solitary young strangers : for I considered that this was very unlike the entrance to an old esta- blished school, where there is always some good-* natured girl who vnll shew attentions to a neiv scholar, and takes pleasure in initiating her into the customs and amusements of the place, These^ thought I, have their ow7i amusements to in- vent; their own customs to establish. How unlike too is this forlorn meeting to old school- fellows returning after the holidays, when mu- tual greetings soon lighten the memory of part- ing sorrow ! I invited you to draw near a bright fire which blazed in the chimney, and looked the only cheer- Jul thing in the room. b2 IV DEDICATION. During our first solemn silenee, tvhichj you may remember^ was only broken by my repeated requests that you would make a smaller, and still smaller circle, till I saw the fire-place fairly inclosed round, the idea came into my mind, which has since been a source of amusement to you in the recollection, and to myself in parti- cular has been of essential benefit, as it enabled me to form a just estimate of the dispositions of you, my young Pupils, and assisted me to adapt my plan of future instructions to each in- dividual temper. An introduction to a point we wish to carry, we always feel to be an awkward affair, and generally execute it in an awkward manner; so I believe I did then : for when I imparted this idea to you, I think I prefaced it rather too formally for such young auditors, --for I began with telling you, that I had read in old authors, that it was not unfrequent in former times, when strangers were assembled together, as we might be, for them to amuse themselves with telling stories, either of their own lives, or DEDICATION. V the adventures of others. " Will you allow me^ Ladies f'' I continued, ^^ to persuade you to amuse yourselves in this way f You will not then look so unsociably upon each other ; for ive find that these strangers of whom we read, were as tvell acquainted before the conclusion of the first story, as if they had known each other many years. Let me prevail upon you to relate some little anecdotes of your own lives. Fictitious tales we can read in hooks, and were therefore better adapted to conversation in those times, when books of amusement were more scarce than they are at present/' After many objections of not knowing what to say, or how to begin, which I overcame by assuring you how easy it would be, for that every person is naturally eloquent, when they are the hero or heroine of their own tale; — the Who should begin was next in question, I proposed to draw lots, which formed a little amusement of itself Miss Manners, who till then had been the saddest of the sad, began io brighten, and said it was just like drawing VI DEDICATION. Idng and queen, and began to tell us where sfie passed last twelfth- day; but as her narration must have interfered with the more important business of the lottery , I advised her to post- pone iiy till it came to her turn to favour us with the history of her life, when it ivould appear in its proper order. Tlie first number fell to the share of Miss Villiers, whose joy at drawing what we called the first prize, was tempered with shame, at appearing as the first historian in the company. She wished she had not been the very first; she had passed all her life in a retired village, and had nothing to relate of herself that could give the least enter- tainment; she had not the least idea in the world where to begin, *' Begin,'' said I, " with your name, for that at present is unknown to us. Tell us the first thing you can remember; relate whatever happened to make a great impression on you when you were very young, and if you find you can connect your story till your arrival here to- day, — / am sure we shall listen to you with DEDICATION. VU pleasure; and if you like to break off, and only treat ms with a part of your history , we will excuse you, with many thanks for the amuse^ ment which you have afforded us; and the lady who has drawn the second number will, I hope, take her turn with the same indulgence, to re^ late either all, or any parts of the events of her life, as best pleases her own fancy, or as she finds she can manage it with the most ease to herself*' — Encouraged by this offer of induU gence, Miss Villiers began. If in my report of her story, or in any ivhich follow, I shall appear to make her or you speak an older language than it seems probable that you should use, speaking hi your own icords, it must be remembered, that what is very proper and becoming when spoken, requires to be ar- ranged with some little difference before it can be set down in writing. Little inaccuracies must be pared away, and the whole must assume a more formal and correct appearance. My own way of thinking, I am sensible, will too often intrude itself; but, I have endeavoured to pre- via DEDICATIOy. serve, as exactly as 1 could, your own words, and your own peadiarities of style and manner, and to approve myself Your faithful historiographer, as well as true friend, M. B. ELIZABETH VILLIERS. JVIy father is the curate of a village church, about five miles from Amwell. I u'as born ia the parsonage-house, which joins the church- yard. The first thing I can remember, was my father teaching me the alphabet from the letters on a tombstone that stood at the head of my mother's grave. I used to tap at my father's study-door : I think I now hear him say, ^^ Who is there ?■ — What do you want, little girl ?*' ^' Go and see mamma. Go and learn pretty letters.'* Many times in the day vvould my father lay aside his books and his papers to b5 10 THE SAILOR UNCLE. lead me to this spot, and make me point to the letters, and then set me to spell syllables and words : in this manner, the epitaph on my mother^s tomb being my primmer and my spell- ing-book, I learned to read. I was one day sitting on a step placed across the church-yard stile, when a gentleman pass- '^^S ^y> heard me distinctly repeat the letters which formed my mother's name, and then say, Elizabeth Villiers, with a firm tone, as if I had performed some great matter. This gentleman was my uncle James, my mother's brother : he was a lieutenant in the navy, and had left England a few weeks after the marriage of my father and mother, and now, returned home from a long sea-voyage, he was coming to visit my mother; no tidings of her decease having reached him, though she had been dead more than a twelvemonth. When my uncle saw me sitting on the stile, and heard me pronounce my mother's name, he looked earnestly in my face, and began to fancy a resemblance to his sister, and to think I might THE SAILOR UNCLE. 11 be her child. I was too intent on my employ- ment to observe him, and went spelling on. " Who has taught you to spell so prettily, my little maid ?'* said my uncle. " Mamma/^ I replied ; for I had an idea that the words on the tombstone were somehow a part of mamma, and that she had taught me. " And who is^ mamma?" asked my uncle. "Elizabeth Vil- liers," I replied ; and then my uncle called me his dear little niece, and said he would go with me to mamma : he took hold of my hand, in- tending to lead me home, delighted thai he had found out who I was, because he imagined it would be such a pleasant surprise to his sister to see her little daughter bringing home her long-lost sailor uncle. I agreed to take him to mamma, but we had a dispute about the way thither. My uncle was for going along the road which led directly upto our house : I pointed to the church-yard, and said, ihat was the way to mamma. Though impatient of any delay, he was not willing to contest the point with his new relation } there- 12 THE SAILOR UNCLE. fore, he lifted me over the stile, and was then going to take me along the path to a gate he knew was at the end of our garden ; but no, I would not go that way neither : letting go his hand, 1 said, ^^ You do not know the way, — I will shew you :*' and making what haste 1 could among the long grass and thistles, and jumping over the low graves, he said, as he followed, what he called my wayward steps^ " What a positive soul this little niece of mine is ! I knew the way to your mother's house before you were born, child." At last I stop- ped at my mother's grave, and pointing to the tombstone, said, " Here is mamma !" in a voice of exultation, as if I had now convinced him that I knew the way best : I looked up in his face to see him acknowledge his mistake 5 but Oh ! what a face of sorrow did I see ! I was so frightened, that I have but an imperfect recol- lection of what followed, I remember I pulled his coat, and cried, " Sir, sir!'' and tried to move him, I knew not what to do 3 my mind was in a strange confusion ; I thought I had done THE SAILOR UNCLE. 13 something wrong, in bringing the gentleman to mamma to make him cry so sadly; but what it was I could not tell. This grave had always been a scene of delight to me. In the house my father would often be weary of my prattle, and send me from him ; but here he was all my own. I might say any thing, and be as frolic- some as I pleased here ; all was cheerfulness and good humour in our visits to mamma, as we called it. My father would tell me how quietly mamma slept there, and that he and his little Betsy would one day sleep beside mamma in that grave; and when I went to bed, as I laid my little head on the pillow, I used to wish I was sleeping in the grave with my papa and mamma ; and in my childish dreams I used to fancy myself there ; and it was a place within the ground, all smooth, and soft, and green. 1 never made out any figure of mamma, but still it was the tombstone, and papa, and the smooth green grass, and my head resting upon the elbow of my father. 14 THE SAILOR UNCLE. How long my uncle remained in this agony of grief I know not ; to me it seemed a very long time : at last he took me in his arms, and held me so tight, that I began to cry, and ran home to my father, and told him that a gentle- man was crying about mamma's pretty letters. No doubt it was a very affecting meeting between my father and my uncle. 1 remember that it was the very first day I ever saw my father weep : that I was in sad trouble, and went into the kitchen and told Susan, our ser- vant, that papa was crying ; and she wanted to keep me with her, that I might not disturb the conversation : but I would go back to the parlour to poor papa, and I went in softly, and crept between my father's knees. My uncle offered to take me in his arms, but I turned sullenly from him, and clung closer to my father, having conceived a dislike to my uncle, because he had made my father cry. Now I first learned that my mother's death was a heavy affliction ; for I heard my father THE SAILOR UNCLE. 15 tell a melancholy story of her long illness, her death, and what he had suffered from her loss. My uncle said, what a sad thing it was for my father to be left with such a young child ; but my father replied, his little Betsy was all his comfort, and that, but for me, he should have died with grief. How 1 could be any comfort to my father, struck me with wonder. I knew I was pleased when he played and talked with me ; but I thought that was all goodness and favour done to me, and^i had no notion how I could make any part of his happiness. The sorrow I now heard he had suffered, was as new and strange to me. I had no idea that he had ever been unhappy 5 his voice was always kind and cheerful ; I had never before seen him weep, or shew any such signs of grief as those in which I used to express my little troubles. My thoughts on these subjects were confused and childish; but from that time I never ceased pondering on the sad story of my dead mamma. The next day I went by mere habit to the study door, to call papa to the beloved grave; 16 THE SAILOR UNCLE. my mind misgave me, and I could not tap at the door. I went backwards and forwards between the kitchen and the study, and what to do with myself I did not know. My uncle met me in the passage, and said, " Betsy, will you come and walk with me in the garden ?" This I refused, for this was not what I wanted, but the old amusement of sitting on the grave, and talking to papa. My uncle tried to per- suade me, but still I said, " No, no,'' and ran crying into the kitchen. As he followed me in there, Susan said, " This child is so fretful to-day, I do not know what to do with her/' " Aye," said my uncle, " I suppose my poor brother spoils her, having but one.'^ This reflection on my papa made me quite in a little passion of anger, for I had not forgot that with this new uncle, sorrow had first come into our dwelling: I screamed loudly, till my father came out to know what it was all about. He sent my uncle into the parlour, and said, he would manage the little wrangler by him- self. When my uncle was gone I ceased cry- THE SAILOR UNCLE. 17 ing ; my father forgot to lecture me for my ill humour, or to enquire into the cause, and we were soon seated by the side of the tombstone. No lesson went on that day; no talking of pretty mamma sleeping in the green grave; no jump- ing from the tombstone to the ground ; no merry jokes or pleasant stories. 1 sat upon my father's knee, looking up in his face, and thinking, " How sorry papa looks,'' till, having been fatigued with crying, and now oppressed with thought, I fell fast asleep. My uncle soon learned from Susan, that this place was our constant haunt; she told him she did verily believe her master would never get the better of the death of hef mistress, while he continued to teach the child to read at the tombstone; for, though it might soothe his grief, it kept it for ever fresh in his memory. The sight of his sister's grave had been such a shock to my uncle, that he readily entered into Susan's apprehensions; and concluding, that if I were set to study by some other means, there would no longer be a pretence for these visits 18 THE SAILOR UNCLE. to the grave, away my kind uncle hastened to the nearest market-town to buy me some books. I heard the conference between my uncle and Susan, and 1 did not approve of his interfering in our pleasure. I saw him take his hat and walk out, and I secretly hoped he was gone he* yond seas again^ from whence Susan had told me he had come. Where beyond seas was I could not tell I but I concluded it was somewhere a great way off. I took my seat on the church- yard stile, and kept looking down the road, and saying, " I hope I shall not see my uncle again, I hope my uncle will not come from beyond seas any more :" but I said this very softly, and had a kind of notion that I was in a perverse ill-humoured fit. Here I sat till my uncle returned from the market-town with his new purchases. I saw him come walking very fast with a parcel under his arm. I was very sorry to see him, and I frowned, and tried to look very cross. He untied his parcel, and said, '^ Betsy, I have brought you a pretty THE SAILOR UNCLE. 19 book." I turned my head away, and said, "I don't want a book)*' but I could not help peeping again to look at it. In the hurry of opening the parcel, he had scattered all the books upon the ground, and there I saw fine gilt-covers and gay pictures all fluttering about. What a fine sight ! — All my resentment vanished, and I held up my face to kiss him, that being my way of thanking my father for any extraor- dinary favour. My uncle had brought himself into rather a troublesome office j he had heard me spell so well, that he thought there was nothing to do but to put books into my hand, and I should read; yet, notwithstanding I spelt tolerably well, the letters in my new library were so much smaller than I had been accustomed to, they were like Greek characters to me; I could make nothing at all of them. The honest sailor was not to be discouraged by this difficulty; though unused to play the schoolmaster, he taught me to read the small print, with un- wearied diligence and patience ; and whenever 20 THE SAILOR UNCLE. he saw my father and me look as if he wanted to resume our visits to the grave, he would propose some pleasant ramble ; and if my father said it was too far for the child to walk, he would set me on his shoulder, and say, ^^ Then Betsey shall ride;'* and in this manner has he carried me many, many miles. In these pleasant excursions my uncle sel- dom forgot to make Susan furnish him with a luncheon, which, though it generally happened every day, made a constant surprise to my papa and me, when, seated under some shady tree, he pulled it out of his pocket, and began to distribute his little store ; and then I used to peep into the other pocket, to see if there were not some currant wine there, and the little bottle of water for me ; if, perchance, the water was forgot, then it made another joke,— that poor Betsy must be forced to drink a little drop of wine. These are childish things to tell of; and, instead of my own silly history, I wish I could remember the entertaining stories my uncle used to relate of his voyages and travels, THE SAILOR UNCLE. 21 while we sat under the shady trees, eating our noon-tide meal. The long visit my uncle made us was such an important event in my life, that I fear I shall tire your patience with talking of him; but when he is gone, the remainder of my story will be but short. The summer months passed away, but not swiftly ; — the pleasant walks, and the charming stories of my uncle's adventures, made them seem like years to me ; I remember the approach of winter by the warm great coat he bought for me, and how proud I was when I first put it on ; and that he called me Little Red Riding Hood, and bade me beware of wolves; and that I laughed, and said there were no such things now : then he told me how many wolves, aud bears, and tigers, and lions he had met with in uninhabited lands, that were like Robinson Crusoe's island. O these were happy days ! In the winter our walks were shorter and less frequent. My books were now my chief amuse- ment, though my studies were often interrupted 22 THE SAILOR UNCLE. by a game of romps with my uncle, which too often ended in a quarrel, because he played so roughly; yet long before this I dearly loved my uncle, and the improvement I made while he was with us was very great indeed. I could now read very well, and the continual habit of listening to the conversation of my father and my uncle, made me a little woman in under- standing; so that my father said to him, ^^ James, you have made my child quite a companionable little being." My father often left me alone with my uncle ; sometimes to write his sermons; sometimes to visit the sick, or give counsel to his poor neigh- bours: then my uncle used to hold long con- versations with me, telling me how I should strive to make my father happy, and endeavour to improve myself when he was gone; — now 1 began justly to understand why he had taken such pains to keep my father from visiting my mother*s grave, that grave which I often stole privately to look at; but now never without awe and reverence, for my uncle used to tell me THE SAILOR UNCLE, 23 what an excellent lady my mother was, and I now thought of her as having been a real mamma, which before seemed an ideal some- thing, no way connected with life. And he told me that the ladies from the Manor-house, who sate in the best pew in the church, were not so graceful, and the best women in the village were not so good, as was my sweet mamma; and that if she had lived, I should not have been forced to pick up a little knowledge from him, a rough sailor, or to learn to knit and sew of Susan, but that she would have taught me all lady-like fine works, and delicate behaviour, and perfect manners, and would have selected for me pro- per books, such as were most fit to instruct my mind, and of which he nothing knew. If ever in my life I shall have any proper sense of what is excellent or becoming in the womanly cha- racter, I owe it to these lessons of my rough unpolished uncle ; for, in telling nie what my mother would have made me, he taught me what to wish to be ; and when, soon after my uncle left us, I was introduced to the ladies at 24 THE SAILOR UNCLE. the Manor-house, instead of hanging down my head with shame, as I should have done before my uncle came^ like a little village rustic, I tried to speak distinctly, with ease, and a modest gentleness, as my uncle had said my mother used to do: instead of hanging down my head abashed, I looked upon them, and thought what a pretty sight a fine lady was, and how well my mother must have appeared, since she was so much more graceful than these high ladies were; and when I heard them compliment my father on the admir- able behaviour of his child, and say how well he had brought me up, I thought to myself, " Papa does not much mind my man- ners, if I am but a good girl;; but it was my uncle that taught me to behave like mamma/^ — I cannot now think my uncle was so rough and unpolished as he said he was, for his lessons were so good and so impressive, that I shall never forget them, and I hope they will be of use to me as long as I live : he would explain to me the meaning of all the words he THE SAILOR UNCLE. 25 used, such as grace and elegance, modest dif- fidence and affectation, pointing out instances of what he meant by those words, in the man- ners of the ladies and their young daughters who came to our church ; for besides the ladies of the Manor-house, many of the neighbouring families came to our church, because my father preached so well. It must have been early in the spring when my uncle went away, for the crocuses were just blown in the garden, and the primroses had begun to peep from under the young bud- ding hedge-rows. — 1 cried as if my heart would break, when I had the last sight of him through a little opening among the trees, as he went down the road. My father accompanied him to the market-town, from whence he was to proceed in the stage-coach to London. How tedious I thought all Susan's endeavours to comfort me were. The stile where I first saw my uncle, came into my mind, and I thought I would go, and sit there, and think about that day 5 but I was no sooner seated 26 THE SAILOR UNCLE. there, than I remembered how I had fright- ened him, by taking him so foolishly to my mother's grave, and then again how naughty I had been when I sate muttering to myself at this same stile, wishing that he, who had gone so far to buy me books, might never come back ^ny more : all my little quarrels with my uncle came into my mind, now that I could never play with him again, and it almost broke my heart. I was forced to run into the house to Susan, for that consolation I had just before despised. Some days after this, as I was sitting by the fire with my father, after it was dark, and be- fore the candles were lighttrd, I gave him an ac- count of my troubled conscience at the church- stile, when I remembered how unkind I had been to my uncle when he first came, and how sorry I still was, whenever I thought of the many quarrels I had had with him. My father smiled, and took hold of my hand, saying, " I will tell you all about this, ray little penitent. This is the sort of way in THE SAILOR UNCLE. 27 which we all feelj when those we love are taken from us. — When our dear friends are with us, we go on enjoying their society, without much thought or consideration of the blessing we are possessed of, nor do we too nicely weigh the measure of our daily actions 5 — we let them freely share our kind or our discontented moods: and, if any little bickerings disturb our friend- ship, it does but the more endear us to each other when we are in j^ happier temper. But these things come over us like grievous faults when the object of our affection is gone for ever. Your dear mamma and I had no quar- rels; yet in the first days of my lonely sorrow, how many things came into my mind, that I might have done to have made her happier. It is so with you, my child. You did all a child could do to please your uncle, and dearly did he love you ; and these little things which now disturb your tender mind, were remembered with delight by your uncle i he was telling me in our last walk, just perhaps as you were thinking about it with sorrow, of the difficulty c2 28 THE wSAILOR UNCLE, he had in getting into your good graces when he first came: he will think of these things with pleasure when he is far away. Put away from you this unfounded grief; only let it be a lesson to you, to be as kind as possible to those you love ; and remember, when they are gone from you, you will never think you had been kind enough. Such feelings as you have now described, are the lot of humanity. So you will feel when I am no more, and so will your children feel when you are dead. But your uncle will come back again, Betsy, and we will now think of where we are to get the cage to keep the talking parrot in, he is to bring home ; and go and tell Susan to bring the candles, and ask her if the nice cake is almost baked, that she promised to give us for our-tea/' At this pointy my dear Miss Villiers^ you thought Jit to break off your story ^ aud the wet eyes of your young auditors^ seemed to confess that you had succeeded in moving their feelings with your pretty narrative. It now fell by lot THE SAILOR UNCLE, 29 to the turn of Miss Manners to relate her story, and we ivere all sufficiently carious to know what so very young an historian had to tell of herself, — / shall continue the narratives for the future in the order in which they followed, without men^ tioning any of the interruptions which occurred from the ashing of questions, or from any other cause ^unless materially connected with the stories » I shall also leave out the apologies with which you severally thought fit to preface your stories of yourselves, though they were very seasonable in their place, and proceeded from a proper diffi^ dence, because I must not swell my work to too large a size. II. LOUISA MANNERS My name is Louisa Manners ; I was seven years of age last birth-day, which was on the first of May. I remember only four birth-days. The day I was four years old was the first that I recollect. On the morning of that day, as soon as I awoke, I crept into mamma's bed, and said, " Open your eyes, mamma, for it is my birth-day. Open your eyes and look at me!" Then mamma told me I should ride in a post-chaise, and see my grandmamma and my sister Sarah. Grandmamma lived at a farm- house in the country, and I had never in all my life been out of London; no, nor had I THE FARM-HOUSE. 31 ever seen a bit of green grass, except in the Drapers' Garden, which is near my papa's house in Broad-street ; nor had I ever rode in a car- riage before that happy birth- day. I ran about the house talking of where I was going, and rejoicing so that it was my birth- day, that when I got into the chaise I was tired and fell asleep. When I awoke, I saw, the green fields on both sides of the chaise, and the fields were full, quite full, of bright shining yellow flowers, and sheep and young lambs were feeding in them. I jumped, and clapped my hands together for joy, and I cried out. This is " Abroad in the meadows to see the young lambs," for 1 knew many of Watts's hymns by heart. The trees and hedges seemed to fly swiftly by us, and one field, and the sheep, and the young lambs, passed away; and then another field came, and that was full of cows 5 and then another field, and all the pretty sheep returned, and there was no end of these charming sights 32 THE FARM-HOUSE. till we came quite to grandmamma's house, which stood all alone by itself, no house to be seen at all near it. Grandmamma was very glad to see me, and she was very sorry that I did not remem- ber her, though I had been so fond of her when she was in town but a few months before. I was quite ashamed of my bad memory. My sister Sarah shewed me all the beautiful places about grandmamma's house. She first took me into the farm-yard, and I peeped into the barn; there I saw a man thrashing, and as he beat the corn with his flail, he made such a dreadful noise, that I was frightened and ran away : my sister persuaded me to return 3 she said Will Tasker was very good natured^ then I went back, and peeped at him again 5 but as I could not reconcile myself to the sound of his flail, or the sight of his black beard, we proceeded to see the rest of the farm-yard. There was no end to the curiosities that Sarah had to shew me. There was the pond where the ducks were swimming, and the little THE FARM-HOUSE. 33 wooden houses where the hens slept at night. The hens were feeding all over the yard, and the prettiest little chickens, they were feeding too, and little yellow ducklings that had a hen for their mamma. She was so frightened if they went near the water. Grandmamma says a hen is not esteemed a very wise bird. We went out of the farm-yard into the or-^ chard. O what a sweet place grandmamma's orchard is ! There were pear-trees, and apple- trees, and cherry-trees, all in blossom. These blossoms were the prettiest flowers that ever were seen, and among the grass under the trees there grew butter-cups, and cowslips, and daf- fodils, and blue-bells. Sarah told me all their names, and she said I might pick as many of them as ever I pleased. I filled my lap with flowers, I filled my bosom with flowers, and I carried as many flowers as I could in both my hands y but as I was going into the parlour to shew them to my mamma, I stumbled over a threshold which c5 34 THB FARM-HOUSE. || was placed across the parlour, and down I fell with all my treasure. Nothing could have so well pacified me for the misfortune of my fallen flowers, as the sight of a delicious syllabub which happened at that moment to be brought in. Grandmamma said it was a present from the red cow to me, because it was my birth-day; and then because it was the first of May, she ordered the syllabub to be placed under the May-bush that grew be- fore the parlour door, and when we were seated on the grass round it, she helped me the very first to a large glass full of the syllabub, and wished me many happy returns of that day, and then she said I was myself the sweetest little May-blossom in the orchard. After the syllabub, there was the garden to see, and a most beautiful garden it was; — long and narrow, a straight gravel-walk down the middle of it ; at the end of the gravel-walk there was a green arbour with a bench under it. There were rows of cabbages and radishes^ THE FARM-HOUSE. 35 and pease and beans. I was delighted to see them, for I never saw so much as a cabbage growing out of the ground before. On one side of this charming garden there were a great many bee-hives, and the bees sung so prettily. Mamma said, ^^ Have you nothing to say to these pretty bees, Louisa?" Then I said to them, " How doth the little busy bee improve each shining hour, And gather honey all the day from every opening flower." They had a most beautiful flower-bed to gather it from, quite close under the hives. I was going to catch one bee, till Sarah told me about their stings, which made me afraid for a long time to go too near their hives; but I went a little nearer, and a little nearer every day, and before I came away from grand- mamma's, I grew so bold, I let Will Tasker hold me over the glass windows at the top of 86 THE FARM-HOUSE. the hives, to see them make honey in their own homes. After seeing the garden, I saw the cows milked, and that was the last sight 1 saw that day^ for while I was telling mamma about the cows, 1 fell fast asleep, and I suppose I was then put to bed. The next morning my papa and mamma were gone. I cried sadly, but was a little com- forted at hearing they would return in a month or tw^o, and fetch me home. I was a foolish little thing then, and did not know how long a month was. Grandmamma gave me a little basket to gather my flowers in. I went into the orchard, and before I had half filled my basket, I forgot all my troubles. The time I passed at my grandmamma's is always in my mind. Sometimes I think of the good-natured pied cow, that would let me stroke her while the dairy^maid was milking her. Then I fancy myself running after the dairy-maid into the nice clean dairy, and see the pans full of milk and cream* Then I re- THE FARM-HOUSE. 3? member the wood-house; it had once been a large barn, but being grown old, the wood was kept there. My sister and I used to peep about among the faggots, to find the eggs the hens sometimes left there. Birds' nests we might not look for. Grandmamma was very angry once, when Will Tasker brought home a bird's nest, full of pretty speckled eggs, for me. She sent him back to the hedge with it again. She said the little birds would not sing any more, if their eggs were taken away from them. A hen, she said, was a hospitable bird, and always laid more eggs than she wanted, on pur* pose to give her mistress, to make puddings and custards with. I do not know which pleased grandmamma best, when we carried her home a lap-full of eggs, or a few violets ; for she was particularly fond of violets. Violets were very scarce 3 we used to search very carefully for them every morning, round by the orchard hedge, and Sarah used to carry a stick in her hand to beat away the nettles ; 38 THE FARM-HOUSB. for very frequently the hens left their eggs among the nettles. If we could find eggs and violets too, what happy children we were ! Every day I used to fill my basket with flowers, and for a long time I liked one pretty flower as well as another pretty flowery but Sarah was much wiser than me, and she taught me which to prefer. Grandmamma's violiets were certainly best of all, but they never went in the basket, being carried home, almost flower by flower, as soon as they were found, therefore blue-bells might be said to be the best, for the cowslips were all withered and gone, before 1 learned the true value of flowers. The best blue-bells were those tinged with redj some were so very red, that we called them red blUe-bells, and these Sarah prized very highly indeed. Daffodils were so very plentiful, they were not thought worth gathering, unless they were double ones; and butter-cups I found were very poor flowers in- deed, yet I would pick one now and then, be- cause I knew they were the very same flowers THE FARM-HOUSE, 39 that had dehghted me so in the journey; for my papa had told me they were, I was very careful to love best the flowers which Sarah praised most, yet sometimes, I confess, I have even picked a daisy, though I knew it was the very worst flower of all, be- cause it reminded me of London, and the Dra- pers* Garden; for, happy as I was at grand- mamma's, I could not help sometimes thinking of my papa and mamma, and then I used to tell my sister all about London 5 how the houses stood all close to each other; what a pretty noise the coaches made; and what a many people there were in the streets. After we had been talking on these subjects, we generally used to go into the old wood-house, and play at being in London. We used to set up bits of wood for houses; our two dolls we called papa and mamma; in one corner we made a little garden with grass and daisies, and that was to be the Drapers' Garden. I would not have any other flowers here than daisies, because no other grew among the grass in the real Drapers' Gar- 40 THE FARM HOUSE. den. Before the time of hay-making came, it was very much talked of. Sarah told me what a merry time it would be, for she remembered every thing which had happened for a year or more. She told me how nicely we should throw the hay about. I was very desirous in- deed to see the hay made. To be sure nothing could be more pleasant than the day the orchard was mowed : the hay smelled so sweet, and we might toss it about as much as ever we pleased; but, dear me, we often wish for things that do not prove so happy as we expected ; the hay, which was at first so green, and smelled so sweet, became yel- low and dry, and was carried away in a cart to feed the horses ; and then, when it was all gone, and there was no more to play with, I looked upon the naked ground, and perceived what we had lost in these few merry days. Ladies, would you believe it, every flower, blue-bells, daffodils, butter-cups, daisies, all were cut off by the cruel scythe of the mower. No flower was to be seen at all, except here and there a THE FARM-HOUSB. 41 short solitary daisy, that a week before one would not have looked at. It was a grief indeed to me, to lose all my pretty flowers: yet, when we are in great dis- tress, there is always, I think, something which happens to comfort us 5 and so it happened now that gooseberries and currants were almost ripe, which was certainly a very pleasant pro- spect. Some of them began to turn red, and, as we never disobeyed grandmamma, we used often to consult together, if it was likely she would permit us to eat them yet 3 then we would pick a few that looked the ripest, and run to ask her if she thought they were ripe enough to eat, and the uncertainty what her opinion would be, made them doubly sweet if she gave us leave to eat them. When the currants and gooseberries were quite ripe, grandmamma had a sheep-shearing. All the sheep stood under the trees to be sheared. They were brought out of the field by old Spot, the shepherd. I stood at the 42 THE FARM-HOUSE. orchard-gate, and saw him drive them all in. When they had cropped off all their wool, they looked very clean, and white, and pretty; but, poor things, they ran shivering about with cold, so that it was a pity to see them. Great preparations were making all day for the sheep- shearing supper. Sarah said, a sheep-shearing was not to be compared to a harvest-home, that was so much better, for that then the oven was quite full of plum-pudding, and the kitchen was very hot indeed with roasting beef 5 yet I can assure you there was no want at all of either roast-beef or plum-pudding at the sheep-shear- ing. My sister and I were permitted to sit up till it was almost dark, to see the company at sup- per. They sat at a long oak table, which was finely carved, and as bright as a looking-glass. I obtained a great deal of praise that day, because I replied so prettily when I was spoken to. My sister was more shy than me ; never having lived in London was the reason of that. THE FARM-HOUSE. 43 After the happiest day, bed-time will come! We sate up late; but at last grandmamma sent us to bed: yet though we went to bed, we heard many charming songs sung : to be sure we could not distinguish the words, which was a pity, but the sound of their voices was very loud and very fine indeed. The common supper that we had every night was very cheerful. Just before the men came out of the field, a large faggot was flung on the fire; the wood used to crackle and blaze, and smell delightfully: and then the crickets, for they loved the fire, they used to sing; and old Spot, the shepherd, who loved the fire as well as the crickets did, he used to take his place in the chimney corner; after the hottest day in summer, there old Spot used to sit. It was a seat within the fire-place, quite under the chim- ney, and over his head the bacon hung. When old Spot was seated^ the milk was hung in a skillet over the fire, and then the men used to come and sit down at the long White table. 44 THE FARM-HOUSE, Pardon me, my dear Louisa, that J inter^ rupted you here. You are a little woman noiv to ivhat you were then ; and I may say to you, that though I loved to hear you prattle of your early recollections, I thought I perceived some ladies present were rather weary of hearing so much of the visit to grandmamma. You may remember I asked you some questions concerning your papa and your mamma, which led you to speak of your journey home : but your little town^ bred head was so full of the pleasures of a country life, that you first made many apologies that you were unable to tell what happened during the harvest, as unfortunately you were fetched home the very day before it began. III. ANN WITHERS. My name you know is Withers, but as I once thought I was the daughter of Sir Edward and Lady Harriet Lesley, I shall speak of myself as Miss Lesley, and call Sir Edward and Lady Harriet my father and mother during the period I supposed them entitled to those beloved names. When I was a little girl, it was the |)erpetual subject of my contemplation, that I was an heiress, and the daughter of a baronet ; that my mother was the Honourable Lady Har- riet; that we had a nobler mansion, infinitely finer pleasure-grounds, and equipages more 46 THE CHANGELING* splendid than any of the neighbouring families. Indeed^ my good friends, having observed no- thing of this error of mine in either of the lives which have hitherto been related, 1 am ashamed to confess what a proud child I once was. How it happened I cannot tell, for my father was esteemed the best bred man in the country, and the condescension and affability of my mother were universally spoken of, " Oh my dear friend,^^ said Miss — — , ^ at Weymouth, when I was a little girl, not much older than Emily, Take notice of her; — she is a very intelligent old lady." Mamma made herself known to Miss Pearson, and shewed me to her, but I did not much mind what they said; no more did papa ; — for we were busy among the toys. A large wax-doll, a baby-house completely furnished, and several other beautiful toys, were bought for me. I sat and looked at them with an amazing deal of pleasure as we rode home— ^ they quite filled up one side of the coach. The joy I discovered at possessing things I could call my own, and the frequent repetition of the words, My own, my own, gave my mamma VISIT TO THE COUSINS. 125 some uneasiness. She justly feared that the cold treatment I had experienced at my uncle's had made me selfish, and therefore she invited a little girl to spend a few days with me, to see, as she has since told me, if I should not be liable to fall into the same error from which I had suffered so much at my uncle's. As my mamma had feared, so the event proved 5 for I quickly adopted my cousins' self- ish ideas, and gave the young lady notice that they were my own playthings, and she must not amuse herself with them any longer than I per- mitted her. Then presently I took occasion to begin a little quarrel with her, and said, ^^ I have got a mamma now. Miss Frederica, as well as you, and I will go and tell her, and she will not let you play with my doll any longer than I please, because it is my own doll." And I very well remember I imitated as nearly as I could, the haughty tone in which my cousins used to speak to me, " Oh, fie !" Emily," said my mamma; " can you be the little girl, who used to be so dis- 126 VISIT TO THE COUSINS. tressed because your cousins would not let you play with their dolls ? Do you not see you are doing the very same unkind thing to your play- fellow, that they did to you ?" Then I saw as plain as could be what a naughty girl I was, and I promised not to do so any more, A lady was sitting with mamma, and mamma said, " I believe I must pardon you this once, but I hope never to see such a thing again. This lady is Miss Frederica's mamma, and I am quite ashamed that she should be witness to your inhospitality to her daughter, particularly as she was so kind to come on purpose to invite you to a share in her own private box at the theatre this evening. Her carriage is waiting at the door to take us, but how can we accept of the invitation after what has happened?*' The lady begged it might all be forgotten 5 and mamma consented that I should go, and she said, " But I hope, my dear Emily, when you are sitting in the play-house, you will remem- ber that pleasures are far more delightful when they are shared among numbers. If the whole VISIT TO THE COUSINS. 127 y ' theatre were your own, and you were sitting by yourself to see the performance, how dull it would seem, to what you will find it, with so many happy faces around us, all amused with the same thing!" I hardly knew what my mamma meant, fori had never seen a play 5 but when I got there, after the curtain drew up, I looked up towards the galleries, and down into the pit, and into all the boxes, and then I knew what a pretty sight it was to see a number of happy faces. I was very well convinced, that it would not have been half so cheerful if the theatre had been my own, to have sat there by myself. From that time, whenever I felt in- clined to be selfish, I used to remember the theatre, where the mamma of the young lady I had been so rude to, gave me a seat in her own box. There is nothing in the world so charm- ing as going to a play. All the way there 1 wa& as dull and as silent as I used to be in shire, because I was so sorry mamma had been displeased with me. Just as the coach stopped. Miss Frederica said, " Will you be 128 VISIT TO THE COUSINS. friends with me, Emily ?" and I replied, " Yes, if you please, Frederica ;'* and we went hand in hand together into the house." I did not speak any more till we entered the box, but after that I was as lively as if nothing at all had happened. 1 shall never forget how delighted I was at the first sight of the house. My little friend and I were placed together in the front, while our mammas retired to the back part of the box to chat by themselves, for they had been so kind as to come very early, that I might look about me before the performance began. Frederica had been very often at a play. She was very useful in telling me what every thing was. She made me observe how the common people were coming bustling down the benches in the galleries, as if they were afraid they should lose their places. She told me what a crowd these poor people had to go through, before they got into the house. Then she shewed me how leisurely they all came into the pit, and looked about them, before they took VISIT TO THE COUSINS. 129 their seats. She gave me a charming descrip- tion of the king and queen at the play, and shewed me where they sat, and told me how the princesses were dressed. It was a pretty sight to see the remainder of the candles lighted j and so it was to see the musicians come up from un- der the stage. I admired the music very much, and I asked if that was the play. Frederica laughed at my ignorance, and then she told me, when the play began, the green curtain would draw up to the sound of soft music, and I should hear a lady dressed In black say, " Musick hath charms to soothe a savage breast ;'' and those were the very first words the actress, whose name was Almeria, spoke. When the curtain began to draw up, and I saw the bottom of her black petticoat, and heard the soft mu- sic, what an agitation I was in ! But before that we had long to wait, Frederica told me we should wait till all the dress-boxes were full, and then the lights would pop up under the orchestra ^ the second music would play, and 4hen the play would begin. 130 VISIT TO THE COUSINS, This play was the Mourning Bride. It was a very moving tragedy ; and after that when the curtain dropped, and I thought it was all over, I saw the most diverting pantomime that ever was seen. I made a strange blunder the next day, for I told papa that Almeria was married to Harlequin at last ; but I assure you I meant to say Columbine, for I knew very well that Alme> ria was married to Alphonso 5 for she said she was in the first scene. She thought he was dead, but she found him again, just as I did my papa and mamma, when she least expected it. VII. MARIA HOWE. I WAS brought up in the country. From my Infancy I was always a weak and tender-spirited girl, subject to fears and depressions. My pa* rents, and particularly my mother, were of a very diderent disposition* They were what i» usually called gay: they loved pleasure, and parties, and visiting : but as they found the turn of my mind to be quite opposite, they gave themselves little trouble about me, but upoa such occasions generally left me to my choice,, which was much oftener to stay at home, and indulge myself in my solitude, than to join in. 132 THE EFFECT OF WITCH STORIES. their rambling visits. I was always fond of being alone, yet always in a manner afraid. There was a book-closet which led into my mother's dressing-room. Here I was eternally fond of being shut up by myself, to take down whatever volumes I pleased, and pore upon them, no matter whether they were fit for my years or no, or whether I understood them. Here^ when the weather would not permit my going into the dark walk, my walk^ as it was called, in the garden; here, when my parents have been from home, I have stayed for hours together, till the loneliness which pleased me so at first, has at length become quite frightful, and I have rushed out of the closet into the in- habited parts of the house, and sought refuge in the lap of some one of the female servants, or of my aunt, who would say, seeing me look pale, that Maria had been frightening herself with some of those nasty books : so she used to call my favourite volumes, which I would not have parted with, no not with one of the least of them, if I had had the choice to be made a THE EFFECT OF WITCH STORIES. 133 fine princess, and to govern the world. But my aunt was no reader. She used to excuse herself, and say, that reading hurt her eyes. I have been naughty enough to think that this was only an excuse, for I found that my aunt's weak eyes did not prevent her from poring ten hours a day upon her prayer book, or her favourite Thomas a Kempis. But this was always her excuse for not reading any of the books I recommended. My aunt was my father's sister. She had never been married^ My father was a good deal older than my mo- ther, and my aunt was ten years older than my father. As I was often left at home with her, and as my serious disposition so well agreed with hers, an intimacy grew up between the old lady and me, and she would often say, that she only loved one person in the world, and that was me. Not that she and my parents were on very bad terms ; but the old lady did not feel herself respected enough. The atten- tion and fondness which she shewed to me, conscious as I was that I was almost the only 134 THE EFFECT OF WITCH STORIES,^ being she felt any thing like fondness to, made me love her, as it was natural ; indeed I am ashamed to say, that 1 fear I almost loved her better than both my parents put together. But there was an oddness, a silence about my aunt, which was never interrupted but by her oc- casional expressions of love to me, that made me stand in fear of her. An odd look from under her spectacles would sometimes scare me away, when I had been peering up in her face to make her kiss me. Then she had a way of muttering to herself, which, though it was good words and religious words that she was mumbling, somehow I did not like. My weak spirits, and the fears I was subject to, always made me afraid of any personal singularity or oddness in any one. I am ashamed, ladies, to lay open so many particulars of our family ; but indeed it is necessary to the understand- ing of what I am going to tell you, of a very great weakness, if not wickedness, which I was guilty of towards my aunt. But I must return to my studies, and tell you what books THB EFFECT OF WITCH STORIES. 135 I found in the closet, and what reading I chiefly admired. There was a great Book of Martyrs in which I used to read, or rather I used to spell out meanings ; for I was too ignorant to make out many words ; but there it was written all about those good men who chose to be burned alive, rather than forsake their religion, and become naughty papists. Some words I could make out, some I could not ; but I made out enough to fill my little head with vanity, and 1 used to think I was so courageous I could be burned too, and I would put my hands upon the flames which were pictured in the pretty pictures which the book had, and feel them ; but you know, ladies, there is a great difference between the flames in a picture, and real fire, and I am now ashamed of the conceit which I had of my own courage, and think how poor a martyr I should have made in those days» Then there was a book not so big, but it had pictures in, it was called Culpepper's Herbal ; it was full of pictures of plants and herbs, but 2 did not much care for that. Then there was 136 THE EFFECT OF WITCH STORIES. Salmon's Modern History, out of which I picked a good deal. It had pictures of Chinese gods, and the great hooded serpent, which ran strangely in my fancy. There were some law books too, but the old English frighted me from reading them. But above all, what I relished was Stackhouse's History of the Bible, where there was the picture of the Ark, and all the beasts getting into it. This delighted me, because it puzzled me, and many an aching head have I got with poring into it, and contriving how it might be built, with such and such rooms to hold all the world, if there should be another flood, and sometimes settling what pretty beasts should be saved, and what should not, for I would have no ugly or deformed beast in my pretty ark. But this was only a piece of folly and vanity, that a little reflection might cure me of. Foolish girl that I was ! to suppose that any creature is really ugly, that has all its limbs contrived with heavenly wisdom, and was doijbtless formed to some beautiful end. I THE EFFECT OF WITCH STORIES. ISJ though a child cannot comprehend it.— Doubt- less a frog or a toad is not uglier in itself than a squirrel or a pretty green lizard 3 but we want understanding to see it. [Here I must remind you, my dear Miss Howe, that one of the young ladies smiled, and two or three were seen to titter, at this part of your narration, and you seemed, I thought, a little too angry for a girl of your sense and reading; but you will remember, my dear, that young heads are not always Me to bear strange and unusual assertions; and if* some elder person possibly, or some book which you have found, had not put it into your head, you would hardly have dis^ covered by your own reflection, that a frog or a toad was equal in real loveliness to a frisking squirrel, or a pretty green lizard, as you called it; not remembering that at this very time you gave the lizard the name of pretty, and left it out to the frog — so liable we are all to prejudices. But you went on with your story.] 138 THE EFFECT OF WITCH STORIES, These fancies, ladies, were not so very foolish or naughty perhaps, but they nmay be forgiven in a child of six years old ; but v^rhat I am going to tell, I shall be ashamed of, and repent, I hope, as long as I live. It will teach me not to form rash judgments. Besides the picture of the Ark, and many others which I have forgot, Stackhouse con* tained one picture which made more impres- sion upon my childish understanding than all the rest. It was the picture of the raising up of Samuel, which I used to call the Witch of Endor picture. I was always very fond of picking up stories about witches. There was a book called Glanvil on Witches, which used to lie about in this closet ; it was thumbed about, and shewed it had been much read in former times. This was my treasure. Here I used to pick out the strangest stories. My not being able to read them very well, probably made them appear more strange and out of the way to me. But I could collect enough to understand, that witches were old women THE EFFECT OF WITCH STORIES. 139 who gave themselves up to do mischief; — how by the help of spirits as bad as themselves, they lamed cattle, and made the corn not grow; and how they made images of wax to stand for people that had done them any injury, or they thought had done them injury; and how they burned the images before a slow fire, and stuck pins in them; and the persons which these waxen images represented, how* ever far distant, felt all the pains and torments in good earnest, which were inflicted in show upon these images: and such a horror I had of these wicked witches, that though I am now better instructed, and look upon all these stories as mere idle tales, and invented to fill up peo- ple's heads with nonsense, yet I cannot recall to mind the horrors which I then felt, without shuddering, and feeling something of the old fit return, [Here, my dear Miss Howe, you may re- member, that Miss M ? — , the youngest of our party f shewing some more curiosity than usual, I winked upon you to hasten to HO THE EFFECT OF WITCH STORIES. your story J lest the terrors which you were describing should make too much impression upon a young head^ and you kindly understood my sign, a7id said less upon the subject of your fears J than I fancy you first intended."] This foolish book of witeh stories had no pictures in it, but I made up for them out of my own fancy, and out of the great picture of the raising up of Samuel in Stackhouse. I was not old enough to understand the difFer- * ence there was between these silly improbable tales, which imputed such powers to poor old women, who are the most helpless things in the creation, and the narrative in the Bible, which does not say that the witch, or pre- tended witch, raised up the dead body of Samuel by her own power, but, as it clearly appears, he was permitted by the divine will to appear, to confound the presumption of Saul I and that the witch herself was really as much frightened and confounded at the mi- racle as Saul himself, not expecting a real appearance; but probably having prepared THE EFFECT OF WITCH STORIES. 141 some juggling, slight-of-hand tricks and sham appearance to deceive the eyes of Saul : whereas she, nor any one living, had ever the power to raise the dead to life, but only He who made them from the first. These reasons I might have read in Stackhouse itself, if I had been old enough, and have read them in that very book since I was older, but at that time I looked at little beyond the picture. These stories of witches so terrified me, that my sleeps were broken, and in my dreams 1 always had a fancy of a witch being in the room with me. I know now that it was only nervousness ; but though I can laugh at it now as well as you, ladies, if you knew what I suffered, you would be thankful that you have had sensible people about you to instruct you and teach you better. I was let grow up wild like an ill weed, and thrived accordingly. One night that I had been terrified in my sleep with my imaginations, I got out of bed and crept softly to the adjoining room. My room was next to where my aunt usually sat when she was 142 THE SFFECT OF WITCH STORIES. alone. Into her room I crept for relief from my fears. The old lady was not yet retired to rest, but was sitting with her eyes half open, half closed ; her spectacles tottering upon her nose; her head nodding over her prayer book ; her lips mumbling the words as she read them, or half read them, in her dozing posture; her grotesque appearance; her old-fashioned dress, resembling what I had seen in that fatal picture in Stackhouse; all this, with the dead lime of night, as it seemed to me, (for I had gone through my first sleep), joined to produce a wicked fancy in me, that the form which I had be- held was not my aunt, but some witch. Her mumbling of her prayers confirmed me in this shocking idea, I had read in Glanvil, of those wicked creatures reading their prayers backwards^ and I thought that this was the operation which her lips were at this time employed about. Instead of flying to her friendly lap for that protection which I had so often experienced when I have been weak and timid, I shrunk back terrified and THE EFFECT OF WITCH STORIES. 143 bewildered to my bed, where I lay in broken sleeps and miserable fancies, till the morn- ing, which I had so much reason to wish for, came. My fancies a little wore away with the light, but an impression was fixed, which could not for a long time be done away. In the day time, when my father and mother were about the house, when I saw them familiarly speak to my aunt, my fears all vanished; and when the good creature has taken me upon her knees, and shewn me any kindness more than ordinary, at such times I have melted into tears, and longed to tell her what naughty foolish fan- cies I had had of her. But when night re- turned, that figure which I had seen recur* red; — the posture, the half-closed eyes, the mumbling and muttering which I had heard, a confusion was in my head, who it was I had seen that night: — it was my aunt, and it was not my aunt : — it was that good crea- ture who loved me above all the world, en- gaged at her good task of devotions — per- l44 THE EFFECT OF WITCH STORIES. haps praying for some good to me. Again, it was a witch, — a creature hateful to God and man, reading backwards the good prayers; who would perhaps destroy me. In these con- flicts of mind I passed several weeks, till, by a revolution in my fate, 1 was removed to the house of a female relation of my mother's, in a distant part of the country, who had come on a visit to our house, and observing my lonely ways, and apprehensive of the ill effect of my mode of living, upon my health, begged leave to take me home to her house, to reside for a short time. I went, with some reluctance at leaving my closet, my dark walk, and even my aunt, who had been such a source of both love and terror to me. But I went, and soon found the grand effects of a change of scene. Instead of melancholy closets, and lonely avenues of trees, I saw lightsome rooms and cheerful faces; I had companions of my own age ; no books were allowed me but what were rational and sprightly; that gave me mirth, or gave me instruction. I soon learned to THE EFFECT OF WitCH StORIES. r& iaugh at witch stories; and when I returned after three or four months absence to our own house, my good aunt appeared to me in the same light in which I had viewed her from my infancy, before that foolish fancy pos- sessed me, or rather, I should say, more kind, more fond, more loving than before. It is im- possible to say how much good that lady, the kind relation of my mother's that I spoke of, did to me by changing the scene. Quite a new turn of ideas was given to me : I became sociable and companionable: my parents soon discovered a change in me, and I have found a similar alteration in them. They have been plainly more fond of me since that change, as from that time I learned to conform myself more to their way of living. I have never since had that aversion to company and going out with them, which used to make them regard me with less fondness than they would have wished to shew. 1 impute almost all that I had to complain of in their neglect, to my having been a little unsociable, uncom- H 146 THE EFFECT OF WITCH STORIES. panionable mortal. 1 lived in this manner for a year or two, passing my time between our house and the lady's who so kindly took me in hand, till by her advice I was sent to this school; where I have told you, ladies, what, for fear of ridicule, I never ventured to tell any person besides, the story of my foolish and naughty fancy. VIII. CHARLOTTE WILMOT. Until I was eleven years of age, my life was one continued series of indulgence and delight. My father was a merchant, and supposed to be in very opulent circumstances, at least I thought so, for at a very early age I perceived that we lived in a more expensive way than any of my father's friends did. It was not the pride of birth, of which. Miss Withers, you once imagined you might justly boast, but the mere display of wealth, that I was early taught to set an undue value on. My parents spared no cost for masters to instruct me: I had a h2 148 THE merchant's daughter. French governess, and also a wonian-servant whose sole husiness it was to attend on me. My play-room was crowded with toys, and my dress was the admiration of all my youthful visitors, to whom I gave balls and entertain- ments as often as I pleased. I looked down on all my young companions as my inferiors; but 1 chiefly assumed airs of superiority over Maria Hartley, whose father was a clerk in my father's counting-house, and therefore I concluded slie would regard the fine show 1 made, with more envy and admiration than any other of my companions. In the days of my humiliation, which I too soon experienced, I was thrown on the bounty of her father for support. To be a dependant on the charity of her family, seemed the heaviest evil that could have be- fallen me; for I remembered how often 1 had displayed my finery and my expensive ornaments, on purpose to enjoy the triumph of my superior advantages ; and with shame I now speak it, I have often glanced at her plain linen frock, when I showed her my THE merchant's DAUGHTER. 149 beautiful ball-dresses. Nay, I once gave her a hint, which she so well understood, that she burst into tears, that I could not invite her to some of my parties, because her mamma once sent her on my birth-day in a coloured frock, I cannot now think of my want of feeling without excessive pain y but one day I saw her highly amused with some curious toys^ and on her expressing the pleasure the sight of them gave her, I said, " Yes, they are very well for those who are not accustomed to these things 3 but for my part, I have so many, I am tired of them, and I am quite delighted to pass an hour in the empty closet your mamma allows you to receive your visitors in, because there is nothing there to interrupt the conver- sation." Once, as I have said, Maria was betrayed into tears : now that I insulted her by calling her own small apartment an empty closet, she turned quick upon me, but not in anger, say- in, " O, my dear Miss Wilmot, how very sorry I am " here she stopped; and though 150 THE merchant's DAUGHTER. I knew not the meaning of her words, I felt it as a reproof. I hung down my head abashed 5 yet, perceiving that she was all that day more kind and obliging than ever, and being conscious of not having merited this kindness, I thought she was mean-spirited, and therefore I consoled myself with having discovered this fault in her, for I thought my arrogance was full as excusable as her meanness. In a few days I knew my error; I learned why Maria had been so kind, and why she had said she was sorry. It was for me, proud disdainful girl that I was, that she was sorry 5 she knew, though I did not, that my father was on the brink of ruin : and it came to pass, as she had feared it would, that in a few days my play-room was as empty as Maria's closet, and all my grandeur was at an end. My father had what is called an execution in the house ; every thing was seized that we possessed. Our splendid furniture, and even our wearing apparel, all my beautiful ball- dresses, my trinkets, and my toys, were taken THE merchant's DAUGHTER. 151 away by my father's merciless creditors. The week in which this happened was such a scene of hurry, confusion, and misery, that I will not attempt to describe it. At the end of a week I found that my father and mother had gone out very early in the morning. Mr. Hartley took me home to his own house, and I expected to find them there ; but, oh, what anguish did I feel, when I heard him tell Mrs. Hartley they had quitted Eng- land, and that he had brought me home to live with them ! In tears and sullen silence, I passed the first day of my entrance Into this despised house. Maria was from home. All the day I sate in a corner of the room, grieving for the departure of my parents 5 and if for a moment I forgot that sorrow, I tormented myself with imagining the many ways which Maria might invent, to make me feel in return the slights and airs of superiority which I had given myself over her. Her mother began the prelude to what I expected, for I heard her freely censure the imprudence of my parents. 152 THE merchant's daughter. She spoke in whispers: yet, though I could not hear every word, I made out the tenor of her discourse. She was very anxious, lest her hus- band should be involved in the ruin of our house. He was the chief clerk in my father's counting- house; towards evening he came in and quieted her fears, by the welcome news that he had oT)- tained a more lucrative situation than the one he had lost. At eight in the evening, Mrs. Hartley said to me, " Miss Wilmot, it is time for you to be in bed, my dear;" and ordered the servant to shew me up stairs, adding, that she sup- posed she must assist me to undress, but that when Maria came home, she must teach me to wait on myself. The apartment in which I was to sleep, was at the top of the house. The walls were white-washed, and the roof was sloping. There was only one window in the room, a small casement, through which the bright moon shone, and it seemed to me the most melancholy sight I had ever beheld. In broken and disturbed slumbers I passed the THE merchant's DAUGHTER. 153 night. When I awoke in the morning, she whom I most dreaded to see, Maria, who I sup- posed had envied my former state, and who I now felt certain would exult over my present mortifying reverse of fortune, stoodby my bed- side. She awakened me from a dream, in which I thought she was ordering me to fetch her something; and on my refusal, she said 1 must obey her, for I was now her servant. Far differently from what my dreams had pictured, did Maria address me ! She said, in the gentlest tone imaginable, " My dear Miss Wilmot, my mother begs you will come down to breakfast. Will you give me leave to dress you ?'* My proud heart would not suffer me to speak, and I began to attempt to put on my clothes; but never having been used to do any thing for myself, I was unable to perform it, and was obliged to accept of the assistance of Maria. She dressed me, washed my face, and combed my hair ; and as she did these services for me, she said in the most respectful manner, " Is this the way you like to wear thij?, h5 154 THE merchant's daughter. Miss Wilmot ?" or, " Is this the way you like this done ?*' and curtsied as she gave me every fresh article to put on. The slights I expected to receive from Maria, would not have distressed me more than the delicacy of her behaviour did. I hung down my head with shame and anguish. In a few days Mrs. Hartley ordered her daughter to instruct me in such useful works and employments as Maria knew^ Of every thing which she called useful I was most ignorant. My accomplishments I found were held in small estimation here, by all indeed, except Maria. She taught me nothing with- out the kindest apologies for being obliged to teach me, who, she said, was so excellent in all elegant arts, and was for ever thanking me for the pleasure she had formerly received, from my skill in music and pretty fancy works. The distress 1 was in, made these complimentary speeches, not flatteries, but sweet drops of comfort to my degraded heart, almost broken with misfortune and remorse. THE merchant's DAUGHTER. 165 I remained at Mr, Hartley's but two months, for at the end of that time my father inherited a considerable property by the death of a distant relation, which has enabled him to settle his affairs. He established himself again as a mer- chant; but as he wished to retrench his ex- pences, and begin the world again on a plan of strict economy, he sent me to this school to finish my education. IX. SUSAN YATES. I WAS born and brought up, in a house in which my parents had all their lives resided, which stood in the midst of that lonely tract of land called the Lincolnshire Fens. Few families besides our own lived near the spot, both because it was reckoned an unwholesome air, and because its distance from any town or market, made it an inconvenient situation. My father was in no very affluent circumstances, and it was a sad necessity which he was put to, of having to go many miles to fetch any thing from the nearest village, which was full FIRST GOING TO CHURCH. 157 seven miles distant, through a sad miry way that at all times made it heavy v^ralking, and after rain was almost impassable. But he had no horse or carriage of his own. The church which belonged to the parish in which our house was situated, stood in this village 3 and its distance being, as I said before, seven miles from our house, made it quite an impossible thing for my mother or me to think of going to it. Sometimes, indeed^ on a fine dry Sunday, my father would rise early, and take a walk to the village, just to see how goodness thrived^ as he used to say, but he would generally return tired, and the worse for his walk. It is scarcely possible to explain to any one who has not lived in the fens, what difficult and dangerous walking it is. A mile is as good as four, I have heard my father say, in those parts. My mother, who in the early part of her .life had lived in a more civilised spot, and had been used to constant church -going, would often lament her situa- tion. It was from her I early imbibed a great 158 FIRST GOING TO CHURCH^ curiosity and anxiety to see that thing, which I had heard her call a church, and so often lament that she could never go to. I had seen houses of various structures, and had seen in pictures the shapes of ships and boats, and palaces and temples, but never rightly any thing that could be called a church, or that could satisfy me about its form. Sometimes 1 thought it must be like our house, and sometimes I fancied it must be more like the house of our neighbour, Mr. Sut- ton, which was bigger and handsomer than ours. Sometimes I thought it was a great hollow cave, such as I have heard my father say the first inhabitants of the earth dwelt in. Then I thought it was like a waggon, or a cart, and that it must be something moveable. The shape of it ran in my mind strangely, and one day I ven- tured to ask my mother, what was that foolish thing she was always longing to go to, and which she called a church. Was it any thing to eat or drink, or was it only like a great huge play- thing, to be seen and stared at ? — I was not quite five years of age when I made this enquiry. FIRST GOING TO CHURCH. 159 This question, so oddly put, made my mother smile ; but in a little time she put on a more grave look, and informed me, that a church was nothing that J had supposed it, but it was a great building, far greater than any house which I had seen, where men, and women, and children, came together twice a day on Sundays, to hear the Bible read, and make good resolutions for the week to come. She told me, that the fine music which we some- times heard in the air, came from the bells of St. Mary's church, and that we never heard it but when the wind was in a particular point. This raised my wonder more than all the rest ; for I had somehow conceived that the noise which I heard, was occasioned by birds up in the air, or that it was made by the angels, whom (so ignorant I was till that time) I had always considered to be a sort of birds : for before this time I was totally ignorant of any thing like religion, it being a principle of my father, that young heads should not be told too many things at once, for fear they should get confused ideas, and no clear notions of any 160 rmsT going to churcr. thing. We had always indeed so far observed ^ Sundays, that no work was done upon that day, and upon that day I wore my best muslin frock, and was not allowed to sing, or to be noisy ; but I never understood why that day should differ from any other. We had no public meetings: — indeed the few straggling houses which were near us, would have fur- nished but a slender congregation ; and the loneliness of the place we lived in, instead of making us more sociable, and drawing us closer together, as my mother used to say it ought to have done, seemed to have the effect of making us more distant and averse to society than other people. One or two good neighbours indeed we hadj but not in numbers to give me an idea of church attendance. But now my mother thought it high time to give me some clearer instruction in the main points of religion, and my father came readily into her> plan. I was now permitted to sit up half an hour later on a Sunday evening, that I might hear a portion of Scripture read, which had always been their custom>^ though by reason FIRST GOING Ta CHl^RCH. lOJ of my tender age, and my father's opinion on the impropriety of children being taught too young, I had never till now been an auditor. I was taught my prayers, and those things which you, ladies, I doubt not^ had the benefit of be- ing instructed in at a much earlier age. The clearer my notions on these points be- came, they only made me more passionately long for the privilege of joining in that social service, from which it seemed that we alone, of all the inhabitants of the land, were debarred ; and when the wind was in that point which enabled the sound of the distant bells of St. Mary's to be heard over the great moor which skirted our house, I have stood out in the air to catch the sounds, which I almost devoured ; and the tears have come in ray eyes, when sometimes they seemed to speak to me almost in articulate sounds, to come to churchy and because of the great moor which was between me and them I could not come ; and the too tender apprehensions of these things have filled me with a religious melancholy. With 162 FIRST GOING TO CHURCH. thoughts like these I entered into my seventh year. And now the time was come, when the great moor was no longer to separate me from the object of my wishes and of my curiosity. My father having some money left him by the will of a deceased relation, we ventured to set up a sort of a carriage — no very superb one, I assure you, ladies ; but in that part of the world it was looked upon with some envy by our poorer neighbours. The first party of pleasure which my father proposed to take in it, was to the village where I had so often wished to go, and my mother and I were to accompany him j for it was very fit, my father observed, that little Susan should go to church, and learn how to behave herself, for we might some time or other have occasion to live in London, and not always be confined to that out-of-the-way spot. It was on a Sunday morning that we set out, my little heart beating with almost breathless expectation. The day was fine, and the roads as good as they ever are in those parts. I was FIRST GOING TO CHURCH. 163 SO happy and so proud ! I was lost in dreams of what I was going to see. At length the tall steeple of St. Mary's church came in view. It was pointed out to me by my father, as the place from which that music had come, which I had heard over the moor, and had fancied to be angels singing, I was wound up to the highest pitch of delight, at having visibly presented to me the spot from which had proceeded that un- known friendly music 5 and when it began to peal, just as we approached the village, it seemed to speak, Susan is come, as plainly as it used to invite me to come, when I heard it over the moor. I pass over our alighting at the house of a rela- tion, and all that passed till I went with my father and mother to church. St. Mary's church is a great church for such a small village as it stands in. My father said it had been a cathedral, and that it had once belonged to a monastery, but the monks were all gone. Over the door there was stone work, representing saints and bishops, and here and there, along the sides of the church, there were 164 FIRST GOING TO CHUReH. figures of men's heads, made in a strange gro- tesque way : I have since seen the same sort of figures in the round tower of the Temple- church in London. My father said they were very improper ornaments for such a place, and so 1 now think them ; but it seems the people who built these great churches in old times, gave themselves more liberties than they do now y and I remember that when I first saw them, and before my father had made this ob- servation, though they were so ugly and out of shape, and some of them seem to be grinning and distorting their features with pain or with laughter, yet being placed upon a church, to which I had come with such serious thoughts, I could not help thinking they had some serious meaning ; and I looked at them with wonder, but without any temptation to laugh. I some- how fancied they were the representation of wicked people set up as a warning. When we got into the church, the service was not begun, and my father kindly took me round, to shew me the monuments and every ■PIRST GOJNG TO CHURCH. 165 thbg el&e remarkable. I remember seeing one of a venerable figure, which my father said had been a judge. The figure was kneeling as if it was alive, before a sort of desk, with a book, I suppose the Bible, lying on it. I somehow fancied the figure had a sort of life in it, it seemed so natural, or that the dead judge that it was done for, said his prayers at it still. This was a silly notion, but I was very young, and had passed my little life in a remote place, where I had never seen any thing nor knew any thing ; and the awe which I felt at first being in a church, took from me all power but that of wondering. I did not reason about any thing; I was too young. Now I understand why monuments are put up for the dead, and why the figures which are upon them are described as doing the actions which they did in their life-times, and that they are a sort of pictures set up for our instruction. But all was new and surprising to me on that day ; — the long windows with little panes, the pillars, the pews made of oak, the little hassocks for the people to kneel on, the form of the pulpit, with 166 FIRST GOING TO CHURCH. the sounding-board over it, gracefully carved in flovi^er work. To you, who have lived all your lives in populous places, and have been taken to church from the earliest time you can remember, my admiration of these things must appear strangely ignorant. But I was a lonely young creature, that had been brought up in remote places, where there was neither church nor church-going inhabitants. I have since lived in great towns, and seen the ways of churches and of worship, and I am old enough now to distinguish between what is essential in religion, and what is merely formal or ornamental. When my father had done pointing out to me the things most worthy of notice about the church, the service was almost ready to begin ; the parishioners had most of them entered, and taken their seats; and we were shewn into a pew where my mother was already seated. Soon after, the clergyman entered, and the organ began to play what is called the voluntary. I had never seen so many people assembled before. A.t first I thought that all eyes were upon me. FIRST GOING TO CHURCH. lt>7 and that because I was a stranger. I was terribly ashamed and confused at first ; but my mother helped me to find out the places in the Prayer- book, and being busy about that, took off some of my painful apprehensions, I was no stranger to the order of the service^ having often read in the Prayer-book at home 3 but my thoughts being confused, it puzzled me a little to find out the responses and other things, which I thought 1 knew so well; but I went through it tolerably well. One thing which has often troubled me since, is, that I am afraid I was too full of myself, and of think- ing how happy I was, and what a privilege it was for one that was so young, to join in the service with so many grown people, so that I did not attend enough to the instruction which I might have received* I remember, I foolishly applied every thing that was said to myself, so as it could mean nobody but myself, I was so full of my own tlioughts. All that assembly of people, seemed to me as if they were come together only to shew me the l68 FIRST GOING TO CHURCM. way of a church. Not but I received some very affecting impressions from some things which I heard that day: but the standing up and the sitting down of the people; the orgain; the singing :-^the way of all these things took up more of my attention than was proper; or I thought it did. I believe I behaved better, and was more serious when I went a second time, and a third time; for now we went as a regular thing every Sun- day, and continued to do so, till by a still further change for the better in my father's circumstances, we removed to Lon-don. Oh! it was a happy day for me my first going to St. Mary's church: before that day I used to feel like a little outcast in the wil- derness, like one that did not belong to the world of christian people. I have never felt like a little outcast since. But I never can hear the sweet noise of bells, that I don't think of the angels singing, and what poor but pretty thoughts I had of angels in my uninstructed solitude. X. ARABELLA HARDY. I WAS bom in the East Indies. I lost my father and mother young. At the age of five, my relations thought it proper that I should be sent to England for my education. I was to be entrusted to the care of a young woman who had a character for great humanity and discre- tion: but just as I had taken leave of my friends j and we were about to take our pas- sage, the young woman suddenly fell sick, and could not go on board. In this unpleasant emergency, no one knew how to act. The ship was at the very point of sailing, and it was the last which was to sail for the season. I 170 THE SEA VOYAGE. At last the captain, who was known to my friends, prevailed upon my relation who had come with us to see us embark, to leave the young woman on shore, and to let me embark separately. There was no possibility of getting any other female attendant for me, in the short time allotted for our preparation ; and the op- portunity of going by that ship was thought too valuable to be lost. No other ladies hap- pened to be going, and so I was consigned to the care of the captain and his crew, — rough and unaccustomed attendants for a young creature, delicately brought up as I had been ; but indeed they did their best to make me not feel the difference. The unpolished sailors were my nursery-maids and my waiting- women. Every thing was done by the captain and the men, to accommodate me, and make me easy. I had a little room made out of the cabin, which was to be considered as my room and nobody might enter into it. The first mate had a great character for bravery, and all sailor- like accomplishments 5 but with all this he had THE SEA VOYAGE. IJl a gentleness of manners, and a pale feminine cast of face, from ill health and a weakly con- stitution, which subjected him to some ridicule from the officers, and caused him to be named Betsy. He did not much like the appellation, but he submitted to it the better, saying that those who gave him a woman's name, well knew that he had a man's heart, and that in the face of danger he would go as far as any man. To this young man, whose real name w^as Charles Atkinson, by a lucky thought of the captain, the care of me was especially entrusted, Betsy was proud of his charge, and, to do him justice, acquitted himself with great diligence and adroitness through the whole of the voyage. From the beginning I had somehow looked upon Betsy as a woman, hearing him so spoken of, and this reconciled me in some mea- sure to the want of a maid, which I had been used to. But I was a manageable girl at all times, and gave nobody much trouble. I have not knowledge enough to give an account of my voyage, or to remember the i2 172 THE SEA VOYAGE* names of the seas we passed through, or the lands which we touched upon, in our course. The chief thing I can remember, for I do not recollect the events of the voyage in any order, was Atkinson taking me upon deck, to see the great whales playing about in the sea. There was one great whale came bounding up out of the sea, and then he would dive into it again, and then would come up at a distance where nobody expected him, and another whale was following after him. At- kinson said they were at play, and that the lesser whale loved that bigger whale, and kept it company all through the wide seas : but I thought it strange play, and a frightful kind of love ; for I every minute expected they would come up to our ship and toss it. But Atkinson said a whale was a gentle creature,, and it was a sort of sea- elephant, and that the most powerful creatures in nature are always the least hurtful. And he told me how men went out to take these whales, and stuck long, pointed darts, into them y and how the sea was THE SEA VOYAGE. l?^ discoloured with the blood of these poor whales for many miles distance : and I admired at the courage of the men, but I was sorry for the in- offensive whale. Many other pretty sights he used to shew me, when he was not on watch, or doing some duty for the ship. No one was more attentive to his duty than he ; but at such times as he had leisure, he would shew me all pretty sea-sights :— the dolphins and porpoises that came before a storm, and all the colours which the sea changed to ; how sometimes it was a. deep blue, and then a deep green, and some- times it would seem all on fire : all these various appearances he would shew me, and attempt to explain the reason of them to me, as \veil as my young capacity would admit of. There was a lion and a tiger on board, going to England as a present to the king, and it was a. great diver- sion to Atkinson and me, after I had got rid of my first terrors, to see the ways of these beasts in their dens, and how venturous the sailors were in putting their hands through the grates,, and patting their rough coats. Some I 3 174 THE SEA VOYAGE. of the men had monkeys, which ran loose about, and the sport was for the men to lose them, and find them again. The monkeys would run up the shrouds, and pass from rope to rope, with ten times greater alacrity than the most ex- perienced sailor could follow them ; and some- times they would hide themselves in the most unthought-of places, and when they were found, they would grin, and make mouths, as if they had sense. Atkinson described to me the ways of these little animals in their native woods, for he had seen them. Oh, how many ways he thought of to amuse me in that long voyage ! Sometimes he would describe to me the odd shapes and varieties of fishes that were in the sea, and tell me tales of the sea-monsters that lay hid at the bottom, and were seldom seen by men j and what a glorious sight it would be, if our eyes, could be sharpened to behold all the inhabitants of the sea at once, swimming in the great deeps^ as plain as we see the gold and silver fish in a bowl of glass. With such notions he enlarged my infant capacity to take in many things. THE SEA VOYAGE. 175 When in foul weather I have been terrified at the motion of the vessel^ as it rocked backwards and forwards, he would still my fears, and tell me that I used to be rocked so once in a cradle, and that the sea was God's bed, and the ship our cradle, and we were as safe in that greater motion, as when we felt that lesser one in our little wooden sleeping-places. When the wind was up, and sang through the sails, and dis- turbed me with its violent clamours, he would call it music, and bid me hark to the sea-organ, and with that name he quieted my tender appre- hensions. When I have looked around with a mournful face at seeing all men about me, he would enter into my thoughts, and tell me pretty stories of his mother and his sisters, and a female cousin that he loved better than his sisters, whom he called Jenny, and say that when we got to England I should go and see them, and how fond Jenny would be of his little daughter., as he called me ; and with these images of women and females which he raised in my fancy, he quieted me for awhile. One time, 176 THE SEA VOYAGE, and never but once, he told me that Jenny had promised to be his wife if ever he came to Eng- land, but that he had his doubts whether he should live to get home, for he was very sickly. This made me cry bitterly. That I dwell so long upon the attention of this Atkinson, is only because his death, which happened just before we got to England, af- fected me so much, that he alone of all the ship's crew has engrossed my mind ever since; though indeed the captain and all were singularly kind to me, and strove to make up for my uneasy and unnatural situation. The boatswain would pipe for my diversion, and the sailor-boy would climb the dangerous mast for my sport. The rough foremast-man would never willingly appear before me, till he had combed his long black hair smooth and sleek, not to terrify me. The officers. got up a sort of play for my amusement, and Atkinson, or, as they called him, Betsy, acted the heroine of the piece. All ways that (Lould be contrived, were thought upon, to re- concile me to my lot. I was the universal fa- THE SEA VOYAGE, IJT vourite; I do not know how deservedly; but I suppose it was because I was alone, and there was no female in the ship besides me. Had I come over with female relations or attendants,^ I should have excited no particular curiosity ; I should have required no uncommon attentions, I was one little woman among a crew of men ; and I believe the homage which I have read that men universally pay to women, was in this case directed to me, in the absence of all other wo- mankind. I do not know how that might be, but I was a little princess among them, and I was not six years old, , I remember the first drawback which hap-, pened to my comfort, was Atkinson's not ap- pearing the whole of one day. The captain tried to reconcile me to it, by saying that Mr. Atkinson was confined to his cabin j — that he was not quite well, but a day or two would re- store him. I begged to be taken in to see him, but this was not granted. A day, and then another came, and another, and no Atkinson wa^s visible, and I saw apparent solicitude in 178 THE SEA VOYAGE, the faces of all the officers, who nevertheless strove to put on their best countenances before me, and to be more than usually kind to me. At length, by the desire of Atkinson himself, as I have since learned, I was permitted to go into his cabin and see him. He was sitting up, appa- rently in a state of great exhaustion, but his face lighted up when he saw me, and he kissed me, and told me that he was going a great voyage, far longer than that which we had passed toge- ther, and he should never come back; and though I was so young, I understood well enough that he meant this of his death, and I cried sadly ; but he comforted me, and told me, that I must be his little executrix, and perform his last will, and bear his last words to his mo- ther and his sisters, and to his cousin Jenny, whom I should see in a short time ; and he gave me his blessing, as a father would bless his child, and he sent a last kiss by me to all his female relations, and he made me promise that I would go and see them when I got to England, and soon after this he died 5 but I was THE SEA VOYAGE. 179 in another part of the ship when he died, and I was not told it till we got to shore, which was a few days after; but they kept telling me that he was better and better, and that I should soon see him, but that it disturbed hira to talk with any one. Oh, what a grief it was, when I learned that I had lost my old ship-mate, that had made an irksome situation so bearable by his kind assi- duities 3 and to think that he was gone, and I could never repay him for his kindness ! When I had been a year and a half in Eng- land, the captain, who had made another voy- age to India and back, thinking that time had alleviated a little the sorrow of Atkinsoa's rela- tions, prevailed upon my friends who had the care of me in England, to let him introduce me to Atkinson's mother and sisters. Jenny was no more 5 she had died in the interval, and I never saw her. Grief for his death had brought on a consumption, of which she lingered about a twelvemonth, and then expired. But in the mother and the sisters of this excellent young man, I have found the most valuable friefids I 180 THE SEA VOYAGEk possess on this side the great ocean. They re- ceived me from the captain as the little proteg^ of Atkinson, and from them I have learned passages of his former life, and this in parti- cular, that the illness of which he died was brought on by a wound of which he never quite recovered, which he got in the desperate attempt, when he was quite a boy, to defend his captain against a superior force of the enemy which had boarded him, and which, by his premature valour, inspiriting the men, they finally succeeded in repulsing. This was that Atkinson, who, from his pale and feminine appearance; was called Betsy: this was he whose womanly care of me got him the name of a woman 5 who, with more than female atten- tion, condescended to play the hand-maid to a little unaccompanied orphan, that fortune had cast upon the care of a rough sea captain, and his rougher crew. THE END. B. M*Millan, Printer, Bow^Street, CovenUGarden. , .^ ^ r i \ ( 4 i 4 i 4 ,/^^