Chapter III: Part 3

The refusing such numbers of men, and some such as by the world were called good offers, soon got them the name of jilts; and by that means they were freed from any farther importunity, and for some years enjoyed that peace and quiet they had long wished. Their aunt, from being their mother and their guardian, was now become their friend. For, as she endeavoured not in the least to force their inclinations, they never kept anything concealed from her; and every action of their lives was still guided by her advice and approbation.

They lived on in this way, perfectly happy in their own little community, till they were about two-and-twenty years old when there happened to be a regiment quartered in the neighbouring town, to which their house was nearly situated; and the lieutenant-colonel, a man about four-and-thirty years old, hearing their names, had a great desire to see them. For when he was a boy of sixteen, he was put into the Army under the care of Chloe’s father, who treated him with the greatest tenderness; and (in that fatal engagement in which he lost his life) received his death’s wound by endeavouring to save him from being taken by the enemy. And gratitude to the memory of so good a friend was as great an inducement to make him desire to see his daughter, as the report he had heard both of hers and her cousin’s great beauty.

Sempronius (for so this Colonel was called) was a very sensible, well-bred, agreeable man; and from the circumstances of his former acquaintance, and his present proper and polite behaviour, he soon became very intimate in the family. The old lady was particularly pleased with him; and secretly wished, that before she died she might be so happy as to see one of her nieces married to Sempronius. She could not from his behaviour see the least particular liking to either, though he showed an equal and very great esteem and regard for both.

He in reality liked them both extremely; and the reason of making no declaration of love was, his being so undetermined in any preference that was due to either. He saw plainly that he was very agreeable to both; and with pleasure he observed, that they made use of none of those arts which women generally do to get away a disputed lover: and this sincere friendship which subsisted between them raised in him the highest degree of love and admiration. However he at last determined to make the following trial:

He went first to Chloe, and (finding her alone) told her, that he had the greatest liking in the world to her cousin; and had really a mind to propose himself to her: but as he saw a very great friendship between them, he was willing to ask her advice in the matter; and conjured her to tell him sincerely, whether there was anything in Caelia’s temper (not discoverable by him) which as a wife would make him unhappy? He told her, that, if she knew any such thing, it would be no treachery, but rather kind in her to declare it, as it would prevent her friend’s being unhappy; which must be the consequence, in marriage, of her making him so.

Chloe could not help seeing very plainly, that if Caelia was removed she stood the very next in Sempronius’s favour. Her lover was present--her friend was absent--and the temptation was too strong and agreeable to be resisted. She then answered, that since he insisted upon the truth, and had convinced her that it was in reality acting justly and kindly by her friend, she must confess, that Caelia was possessed (though in a very small degree) of what she had often heard him declare most against of anything in the world; and that was, an artfulness of temper, and some few sparks of envy.

Chloe’s confused manner of speaking, and frequent hesitation, as unwilling to pronounce her friend’s condemnation (which, as being unused to falsehood, was really unaffected) he imputed to tenderness and concern for Caelia; but he did not in the least doubt, but on his application to her he should soon be convinced of the truth of what Chloe had said.

He then went directly to the arbour at the end of the garden, and there to his wish he found Caelia quite alone; and he addressed her exactly in the same manner concerning her cousin, as he had before spoke to Chloe concerning her. Caelia suddenly blushed (from motives I leave those to find out who can put themselves in her circumstances) and then fetched a soft sigh, from the thought that she was hearing a man she loved declare a passion of which she was not the object. But after some little pause, she told him, that if Chloe had any faults, they were to her yet undiscovered, and she really and sincerely believed her cousin would make him extremely happy. Sempronius then said, that of all other things, TREACHERY and ENVY were what he had the greatest dislike to: and he asked her, if she did not think her cousin was a little tainted with these?--Here Caelia could not help interrupting, and assuring him, that she believed her totally free from both. And, from his casting on her friend an aspersion which her very soul abhorred, forgetting all rivalship, she could not refrain from growing quite lavish in her praise. ‘Suppose then (said Sempronius) I was to say the same to your cousin concerning my intentions towards you as I have to you concerning her, do you think she would say as many fine things in your praise as you have done in hers?’

Caelia answered, that she verily believed her cousin would say as much for her as she really deserved; but whether that would be equal to what with justice she could say of Chloe, her modesty left her in some doubt of.

Sempronius had too much penetration not to see the real and true difference in the behaviour of these two women, and could not help crying out, ‘O Caelia! your honest truth and goodness in every word and look are too visible to leave me one doubt of their reality. But, could you believe it? this friend of yours is false. I have already put her to the trial, by declaring to her my sincere and unalterable passion for you. When, on my insisting, as I did to you, upon her speaking the truth, she accused you of what nothing should now convince me you are guilty of. I own, that hitherto my regard, esteem, and love, have been equal to both; but now I offer to the sincere, artless, and charming Caelia, my whole heart, love, and affection, and the service of every minute of my future life; and from this moment I banish from my mind the false and ungrateful Chloe.’

Caelia’s friendship for Chloe was so deeply rooted in her breast, that even a declaration of love from Sempronius could not blot it one moment from her heart; and on his speaking the words ‘false Chloe,’ she burst into tears, and said, ‘Is it possible that Chloe should act such a part towards her Caelia! You must forgive her, Sempronius: it was her violent passion for you, and fear of losing you, which made her do what hitherto her nature has ever appeared averse to.’

Sempronius answered, ‘that he could not enough admire her goodness to her friend Chloe; but such proofs of passion, he said, were to him at the same time proofs of its being such a passion as he had no regard for; since it was impossible for any one to gain or increase his love by an action which at the same time lessened his esteem.’ This was so exactly Caelia’s own way of thinking, that she could not but assent to what he said.

But just as they were coming out of the arbour, Chloe, unseen by them, passed by; and from seeing him kiss her hand, and the complacency of Caelia’s look, it was easy for her to guess what had been the result of their private conference. She could not however help indulging her curiosity, so far as to walk on the other side of a thick yew hedge, to listen to their discourse; and as they walked on, she heard Sempronius entreat Caelia to be cheerful, and think no more of her treacherous friend, whose wickedness he doubted not would sufficiently punish itself. She then heard Caelia say, ‘I cannot bear, Sempronius, to hear you speak so hardly of my Chloe. Say that you forgive her, and I will indeed be cheerful.’

Nothing upon earth can be conceived so wretched as poor Chloe, for on the first moment that she suffered herself to reflect on what she had done, she thoroughly repented, and heartily detested herself for such baseness. She went directly into the garden in hopes of meeting Sempronius, to have thrown herself at his feet, confessed her treachery, and to have begged him never to have mentioned it to Caelia; but now she was conscious her repentance would come too late; and he would despise her, if possible still more, for such a recantation, after her knowledge of what had passed between him and Caelia.

She could indeed have gone to him, and not have owned what she had seen or heard; but now her abhorrence of even the appearance of treachery or cunning was so great, that she could not bear to add the smallest grain of falsehood or deceit to the weight of her guilt, which was already almost insupportable: and should she tell him of her repentance, with a confession of her knowledge of his engagement with Caelia, it would (as has been before observed) appear both servile and insincere.

Nothing could now appear so altered as the whole face of this once happy family. Sempronius as much as possible shunned the sight of Chloe; for as she was the cause of all the confusion amongst them, he had almost an aversion to her. Though he was not of an implacable temper, yet, as the injury was intended to one he sincerely loved, he found it much harder to forgive it, than if it had even succeeded against himself; and as he still looked upon Chloe as the cause of melancholy in his dear Caelia, he could hardly have any patience with her.

No words can describe the various passions which were expressed in the sad countenance of Chloe, when first she met her friend. They were both afraid of speaking. Shame, and the fear of being (and with too good reason) suspected of insincerity, withheld Chloe; and an unwillingness to accuse or hurt her friend withheld the gentle Caelia. She sometimes indeed thought she saw repentance in Chloe’s face, and wished for nothing more than to seal her pardon. But till it was asked, she was in doubt (from what had passed) whether such pardon and proffered reconciliation might not be rejected. She knew that her friend’s passions were naturally stronger than hers; and she therefore trembled at the consequences of coming to an explanation.

But there was hardly a greater sufferer in this scene of confusion than the poor old Lady Amanda. She saw a sort of horror and wildness in the face of Chloe; and in Caelia’s a settled melancholy, and such an unusual reserve in both towards each other, as well as to herself, as quite astonished her.

Sempronius came indeed to the house as often as usual; but in his countenance she could perceive a sort of anger and concern which perfectly frightened her. But as they did not speak to her, she could not bring herself to ask the cause of this woeful change, for fear of hearing something too bad to bear.

Caelia had absolutely refused granting to Sempronius leave to ask her aunt’s consent, till she should come to some explanation with Chloe, which seemed every day farther off than ever.

The great perturbation of Chloe’s mind threw her into a disorder not many degrees short of madness; and at last she was seized with a violent fever so as to keep her bed. She said she could not bear to look on Amanda; but begged Caelia to be with her as much as possible; which she did, in hopes of bringing herself to ease her mind, by speaking to her of what had given them all this torment.

Caelia watched with her night and day for three days, when the physician who attended her pronounced that there was no hope of her life. Caelia could not any longer bear to stay in the room, and went downstairs, expecting every moment to hear she was expired.

Chloe soon perceived by Caelia’s abrupt leaving the room, and the looks of those who were left in it, that her fate was pronounced; which, instead of sinking her spirits, and making her dejected, gave a tranquillity to her mind; for she thought within herself, ‘I shall now make my dear cousin happy, by removing out of her way an object that must embitter all her joy; and now likewise, as she is convinced I am on my death-bed, she will once more believe me capable of speaking truth; and will, in the manner I could wish, receive my sincere repentance.’ Then sending for Caelia up to her bedside, she in a weak voice, with hardly strength for utterance, spoke in this manner: ‘My dear Caelia, though you know me to be a worthless base wretch, yet do not think so hardly of me, as to imagine I would deceive you with my last breath. Believe me then when I tell you, that I sincerely repent of my treachery towards you; and as sincerely rejoice that it has in reality been the cause of your happiness with Sempronius. Tell him this; and then, perhaps, he will not hate my memory.’ Here she fainted away, and they forced Caelia out of the room, thinking her breath was for ever flown. But in some time she came again to herself, and cried out, ‘What! would not my dear Caelia say that she forgave me? Methinks I would not die, till I had obtained her pardon. She is too good to refuse her friend this last request.’ Her attendants then told her, that seeing her faint away, they had forced Caelia out of the room; and they begged her to try to compose herself, for they were sure that seeing her friend again, at this time, would only disturb her mind, and do her an injury.

Chloe, from the vent she had given her grief in speaking to Caelia, found herself something more easy and composed; and desiring the room to be made perfectly quiet, she fell into a gentle sleep, which lasted two hours; and when she awaked she found herself so much better, that those about her were convinced, from her composed manner of speaking, that she was now able to bear another interview.

They again called for Caelia, and told her of her cousin’s amendment. She flew with all speed to her chamber; and the moment she entered, Chloe cried out, ‘Can you forgive me, Caelia?’ ‘Yes, with the greatest joy and sincerity imaginable, my dearest Chloe,’ answered Caelia, ‘and never let it be again mentioned or remembered.’

The sudden recovery of Chloe was almost incredible; for in less than a week she was able to quit both her bed and room, and go into her aunt’s chamber. The good old lady shed tears of joy, to see such a return of Chloe’s health, and of cheerfulness in the family; and was perfectly contented, now she saw their melancholy removed, not to inquire into the late cause of it, for fear of renewing their trouble even one moment by the remembrance of it.

Sempronius, in the meantime, upon some affairs of his duty in the army, had been called away, and was absent the whole time of Chloe’s illness, and was not yet returned. Caelia spent almost her whole time with Chloe; but three weeks passed on, and they were often alone; yet they had never once mentioned the name of Sempronius, which laid Caelia still under the greatest difficulty how to act, so as to avoid giving her friend any uneasiness, and yet not disoblige Sempronius; for she had promised him at his departure, that she would give him leave to ask her aunt’s consent immediately upon his return. But the very day he was expected, she was made quite easy by what passed between her and her friend.

Chloe, in this time, by proper reflections, and a due sense of Caelia’s great goodness and affection to her, had so entirely got the better of herself in this affair, that she found she could now, without any uneasiness, see them married; and calling Caelia to her, she said with a smile, ‘I have, my dear friend, been so long accustomed to read in that intelligible index, your countenance, all your most inmost thoughts, that I have not been unobserving of those kind fears you have had on my account; and the reason I have so long delayed speaking was, my resolution, if possible, never again to deceive you. I can with pleasure now assure you, that nothing can give me so much joy as to see your wedding with Sempronius. I make no doubt, but if you ask it, you will have my aunt’s consent; and, if any intercession should be wanting towards obtaining it, I will (if you can trust me) use all my influence in your behalf. Be assured, my dear Caelia, I have now no farther regard left for Sempronius, than as your husband; and that regard will increase in proportion as he is the cause of your happiness.’

They were interrupted in their discourse by news being brought of the arrival of Sempronius, and Chloe received him with that ease and cheerfulness as convinced Caelia her professions were unfeigned.

Caelia related to Sempronius all that had passed between her and Chloe; and by her continued cheerfulness of behaviour, the peace and tranquillity of the family was perfectly restored, and their joy greatly increased by Amanda’s ready consent to the marriage of Sempronius and Caelia, having first settled all her fortune to be divided at her death equally between her nieces; and in her lifetime there was no occasion of settlements, or deeds of gift, for they lived all together, and separate property was not so much as mentioned or thought on in this family of harmony and peace.

Here Miss Dolly ceased reading; and all her hearers sat some little time silent, and then expressed their great joy that Caelia and Chloe were at last happy; for none of them had been able to refrain from tears whilst they were otherwise. On which Miss Jenny Peace begged them to observe from this story, the miserable effects that attend deceit and treachery: ‘For,’ continued she, ‘you see you could not refrain from tears, only by imagining what Chloe must feel after her wickedness (by which indeed she lost the very happiness she intended treacherously to gain); nor could she enjoy one moment’s peace, till by confessing her fault, and heartily repenting of it, her mind was restored to its former calm and tranquility.’ Miss Dolly thanked Miss Jenny for her remarks; but Miss Lucy Sly was most sensibly touched with this story, as cunning had formerly entirely possessed HER mind; and said, that if her companions were not weary at present of their arbour, she would now recount to them the history of her life, as this story was a proper introduction to it.

THE DESCRIPTION OF MISS LUCY SLY.

Miss Lucy Sly was of the same age as Miss Dolly Friendly; but shorter, at least, by half the head. She was generally called a pretty girl, from having a pair of exceeding fine black eyes, only with the allay of something cunning in their look. She had a high forehead, and very good curling black hair. She had a sharp high nose, and a very small mouth. Her complexion was but indifferent, and the lower part of her face ill-turned, for her chin was too long for due proportion.

THE LIFE OF MISS LUCY SLY.

From the time I was two years old, (said Miss Lucy) my mamma was so sickly, that she was unable to take any great care of me herself, and I was left to the care of a governess, who made it her study to bring me to do what she had a mind to have done, without troubling her head what induced me so to do. And whenever I did anything wrong, she used to say it was the foot-boy, and not miss, that was naughty. Nay, she would say, it was the dog, or the cat, or anything she could lay the blame upon, sooner than own it was me. I thought this pure, that I was never in fault; and soon got into a way of telling any lies, and of laying my own faults on others, since I found I should be believed. I remember once, when I had broken a fine china-cup, that I artfully got out of the scrape, and hid the broken cup in the foot-boy’s room. He was whipped for breaking it; and the next day whilst I was at play about the room, I heard my governess say to a friend who was with her, “Yesterday Miss Lucy broke a china-cup; but the artful little hussy went and hid it in the foot-boy’s room, and the poor boy was whipped for it. I don’t believe there was ever a girl of her age that had half her cunning and contrivance.” I knew by her tone of voice, and her manner of speaking, that she did not blame me in her heart, but rather commended my ingenuity. And I thought myself so wise, that I could thus get off the blame from myself, that I every day improved in new inventions to save myself, and have others punished in my place.

‘This life of endeavouring to deceive I led till I came to school. But here I found that I could not so well carry on my little schemes; for I was found out and punished for my own faults; and this created in me a hatred to my companions. For whatever Miss I had a mind to serve as I used to serve our foot-boy, in laying the blame falsely upon her, if she could justify herself, and prove me in the wrong, I was very angry with her, for daring to contradict me, and not submitting as quietly to be punished wrongfully, as the foot-boy was forced to do.

‘This is all I know of my life hitherto.’

Thus ended Miss Lucy Sly: and Miss Jenny Peace commended Miss Lucy for her free confession of her faults, and said, ‘She doubted not but she would find the advantage of amending, and endeavouring to change a disposition so very pernicious to her own peace and quiet, as well as to that of all her friends;’ but they now obeyed the summons of the supper-bell, and soon after retired to rest.

THURSDAY. THE FOURTH DAY.

Our little company, as soon as the morning school-hours were over, hastened to their arbour, and were attentive to what Miss Jenny Peace should propose to them for their amusement till dinner-time; when Miss Jenny, looking round upon them, said, ‘that she had not at present any story to read; but that she hoped, from Miss Dolly Friendly’s example yesterday, some of the rest might endeavour sometimes to furnish out the entertainment of the day.’ Upon which Miss Sukey Jennett said, ‘that though she could not promise them such an agreeable story as Miss Dolly’s; yet she would read them a letter she had received the evening before from her Cousin Peggy Smith, who lived at York; in which there was a story that she thought very strange and remarkable. They were all very desirous of it, when Miss Sukey read as follows:

‘Dear cousin,--I promised, you know, to write to you when I had anything to tell you; and as I think the following story very extraordinary, I was willing to keep my word.

‘Some time ago there came to settle in this city, a lady, whose name was Dison. We all visited her: but she had so deep a melancholy, arising, as it appeared, from a settled state of ill health, that nothing we could do could afford her the least relief, or make her cheerful. In this condition she languished amongst us five years, still continuing to grow worse and worse.

‘We all grieved at her fate. Her flesh was withered away; her appetite decayed by degrees, till all food became nauseous to her sight; her strength failed her; her feet could not support her tottering body, lean and worn away as it was; and we hourly expected her death. When, at last, she one day called her most intimate friends to her bedside, and, as well as she could, spoke to the following purpose: “I know you all pity me; but, alas! I am not so much the object of your pity, as your contempt; for all my misery is of my own seeking, and owing to the wickedness of my own mind. I had two sisters, with whom I was bred up; and I have all my lifetime been unhappy, for no other cause but for their success in the world. When we were young, I could neither eat nor sleep in peace, when they had either praise or pleasure. When we grew up to be women, they were both soon married much to their advantage and satisfaction. This galled me to the heart; and, though I had several good offers, yet as I did not think them in all respects equal to my sisters, I would not accept them; and yet was inwardly vexed to refuse them, for fear I would get no better. I generally deliberated so long that I lost my lovers, and then I pined for that loss. I never wanted for anything; and was in a situation in which I might have been happy, if I pleased. My sisters loved me very well, for I concealed as much as possible from them my odious envy; and yet never did any poor wretch lead so miserable a life as I have done; for every blessing they enjoyed was as so many daggers to my heart. ‘Tis this envy that has caused all my ill health, has preyed upon my very vitals, and will now bring me to my Grave.”

‘In a few days after this confession she died; and her words and death made such a strong impression on my mind, that I could not help sending you this relation; and begging you, my dear Sukey, to remember how careful we ought to be to curb in our minds the very first risings of a passion so detestable, and so fatal, as this proved to poor Mrs. Dison. I know I have no particular reason for giving you this caution; for I never saw anything in you, but what deserved the love and esteem of

‘Your very affectionate cousin,

‘M. SMITH.’

As soon as Miss Sukey had finished her letter, Miss Patty Lockit rose up, and, flying to Miss Jenny Peace, embraced her, and said, ‘What thanks can I give you, my dear friend, for having put me into a way of examining my heart, and reflecting on my own actions; by which you have saved me, perhaps, from a life as miserable as that of the poor woman in Miss Sukey’s letter!’ Miss Jenny did not thoroughly understand her meaning; but imagining it might be something relating to her past life, desired her to explain herself; which she said she would do, telling now, in her turn, all that had hitherto happened to her.

THE DESCRIPTION OF MISS PATTY LOCKIT.

Miss Patty Lockit was but ten years old; tall, inclined to fat. Her neck was short; and she was not in the least genteel. Her face was very handsome; for all her features were extremely good. She had large blue eyes; was exceeding fair; and had a great bloom on her cheeks. Her hair was the very first degree of light brown; was bright and shining; and hung in ringlets half way down her back. Her mouth was rather too large; but she had such fine teeth, and looked so agreeably when she smiled, that you was not sensible of any fault in it.

This was the person of Miss Patty Lockit, who was slow to relate her past life; which she did, in the following manner:

THE LIFE OF MISS PATTY LOCKIT.

I lived, till I was six years old, in a very large family; for I had four sisters, all older than myself, and three brothers. We played together, and passed our time much in the common way: sometimes we quarrelled, and sometimes agreed, just as accident would have it. Our parents had no partiality to any of us; so we had no cause to envy one another on that account; and we lived tolerably well together.

‘When I was six years old, my grandmother by my father’s side (and who was also my godmother) offering to take me to live with her, and promising to look upon me as her own child, and entirely to provide for me, my father and mother, as they had a large family, very readily accepted her offer, and sent me directly to her house.

‘About half a year before this, she had taken another goddaughter, the only child of my Aunt Bradly, who was lately dead, and whose husband was gone to the West Indies. My cousin, Molly Bradly, was four years older than I; and her mother had taken such pains in her education, that the understood more than most girls of her age; and had so much liveliness, good humour, and ingenuity, that everybody was fond of her; and wherever we went together, all the notice was taken of my cousin, and I was very little regarded.

‘Though I had all my life before lived in a family where every one in it was older, and knew more than myself, yet I was very easy; for we were generally together in the nursery; and nobody took much notice of us, whether we knew anything, or whether we did not. But now, as I lived in the house with only one companion, who was so much more admired than myself, the comparison began to vex me, and I found a strong hatred and aversion for my cousin arising in my mind; and yet, I verily believe I should have got the better of it, and been willing to have learnt of my cousin, and should have loved her for teaching me, if any one had told me it was right; and if it had not been that Betty, the maid who took care of us, used to be for ever teasing me about the preference that was shown to my cousin, and the neglect I always met with. She used to tell me, that she wondered how I could bear to see Miss Molly so caressed; and that it was want of spirit not to think myself as good as she was; and, if she was in my place, she would not submit to be taught by a child; for my Cousin Molly frequently offered to instruct me in anything she knew; but I used to say (as Betty had taught me) that I would not learn of her; for she was but a child, though she was a little older; and that I was not put under her care, but that of my grandmamma. But she, poor woman, was so old and unhealthy, that she never troubled her head much about us, but only to take care that we wanted for nothing. I lived in this manner three years, fretting and vexing myself that I did not know so much, nor was not so much liked, as my Cousin Molly, and yet resolving not to learn anything she could teach me; when my grandmamma was advised to send me to school; but, as soon as I came here, the case was much worse; for, instead of one person to envy, I found many; for all my schoolfellows had learned more than I; and, instead of endeavouring to get knowledge, I began to hate all those who knew more than myself; and this, I am now convinced, was owing to that odious envy, which, if not cured, would always have made me as miserable as Mrs. Dison was and which constantly tormented me, till we came to live in that general peace and good-humour we have lately enjoyed: and as I hope this wicked spirit was not natural to me, but only blown up by that vile Betty’s instigations, I don’t doubt but I shall now grow very happy, and learn something every day, and be pleased with being instructed, and that I shall always love those who are so good as to instruct me.’

Here Miss Patty Lockit ceased; and the dinner-bell called them from their arbour.

Mrs. Teachum, as soon as they had dined, told them, that she thought it proper they would use some bodily exercise, that they might not, by sitting constantly still, impair their health. Not but that she was greatly pleased with their innocent and instructive manner of employing their leisure hours; but this wise woman knew that the faculties of the mind grow languid and useless, when the health of the body is lost.

As soon as they understood their governess’s pleasure, they readily resolved to obey her commands, and desired that, after school, they might take a walk as far as the dairy house, to eat some curds and cream. Mrs. Teachum not only granted their request, but said she would dispense with their school-attendance that afternoon, in order to give them more time for their walk, which was between two and three miles; and she likewise added, that she herself would go with them. They all flew like lightning to get their hats, and to equip themselves for their walk; and, with cheerful countenances, attended Mrs. Teachum in the schoolroom. This good gentlewoman, so far from laying them under a restraint by her presence, encouraged them to run in the fields, and to gather flowers; which they did, each miss trying to get the best to present to her governess. In this agreeable manner, with laughing, talking, and singing, they arrived at the dairy-house, before they imagined they had walked a mile.

There lived at this dairy-house an old woman, near seventy years of age. She had a fresh colour in her face; but was troubled with the palsy, that made her head shake a little. She was bent forward with age, and her hair was quite grey: but she retained much good-humour, and received this little party with hearty welcome.

Our little gentry flocked about this good woman, asking her a thousand questions. Miss Polly Suckling asked her, ‘Why she shook her head so?’ and Miss Patty Lockit said, ‘She hoped her hair would never be of such a colour.’

Miss Jenny Peace was afraid they would say something that would offend the old woman, and advised them to turn their discourse. ‘Oh! let the dear rogues alone,’ says the old woman; ‘I like their prattle;’ and, taking Miss Polly by the hand, said, ‘Come, my dear, we will go into the dairy, and skim the milk pans.’ At which words they all run into the dairy, and some of them dipped their fingers in the cream; which when Mrs. Nelly perceived (who was the eldest daughter of the old woman, and who managed all the affairs) she desired they would walk out of the dairy, and she would bring them what was fit for them: upon which Miss Dolly Friendly said, ‘she had rather be as old and good-natured as the mother, than as young and ill-natured as the daughter.’

The old woman desired her company to sit down at a long table, which she soon supplied with plenty of cream, strawberries, brown bread, and sugar. Mrs. Teachum took her place at the upper end, and the rest sat down in their usual order, and eat plentifully of these good things. After which, Mrs. Teachum told them they might walk out and see the garden and orchard, and by that time it would be proper to return home.

The good old woman showed them the way into the garden; and gathered the finest roses and pinks she could pick, and gave them to Miss Polly, to whom she had taken a great Fancy.

At their taking leave, Mrs. Teachum rewarded the good old woman for her trouble; who, on her part, expressed much pleasure in feeing so many well-behaved young ladies; and said, she hoped they would come often.

These little friends had not walked far in their way home, before they met a miserable ragged fellow, who begged their charity. Our young folks immediately gathered together about this poor creature, and were hearkening very earnestly to his story, which he set forth in a terrible manner, of having been burnt out of his house, and, from one distress to another, reduced to that miserable state they saw him in, when Mrs. Teachum came up to them. She was not a little pleased to see all the misses’ hands in their pockets, pulling out half-pence, and some sixpences. She told them, she approved of their readiness to assist the poor fellow, as he appeared to them; but oftentimes those fellows made up dismal stories without much foundation, and because they were lazy, and would not work. Miss Dolly said, indeed she believed the poor man spoke truth; for he looked honest; and, besides, he seemed almost starved.

Mrs. Teachum told them it would be late before they could get home; so, after each of them had given what they thought proper, they pursued their walk, prattling all the way.

They got home about nine o’clock; and, as they did not choose any supper, the bell rang for prayers; after which our young travellers retired to their rest, where we doubt not but they had a good repose.

FRIDAY. THE FIFTH DAY.

Mrs. Teachum, in the morning, inquired how her scholars did after their walk, and was pleased to hear they were all very well. They then performed their several tasks with much cheerfulness; and, after the school-hours, they were hastening, as usual, to their arbour, when Miss Jenny desired them all to go thither without her, and she would soon follow them; which they readily consented to; but begged her not to deprive them long of the pleasure of her sweet company.

Miss Jenny then went directly into her governess’s parlour, and told her that she had some thoughts of reading to her companions a fairy tale, which was also given her by her mamma; and though it was not in such a pompous style, nor so full of wonderful images, as the giant-story; yet she would not venture to read anything of that kind without her permission; but, as she had not absolutely condemned all that sort of writing, she hoped she was not guilty of a fault in asking that permission. Mrs. Teachum, with a gracious smile, told her, that she seemed so thoroughly well to understand the whole force of her Monday night’s discourse to her, that she might be trusted almost in anything; and desired her to go and follow her own judgment and inclinations in the amusement of her happy friends. Miss Jenny, overjoyed with this kind condescension in her governess, thanked her, with, a low courtesy, and said, she hoped she should never do anything unworthy of the confidence reposed on her; and, hastening to the arbour, she there found all her little companions quite impatient of this short absence.

Miss Jenny told them, that she had by her a fairy-tale, which, if they liked it, she would read; and, as it had pleased her, she did not doubt but it would give them equal pleasure.

It was the custom now so much amongst them to assent to any proposal that came from Miss Jenny, that they all with one voice desired her to read it; till Miss Polly Suckling said, ‘that although she was very unwilling to contradict anything Miss Jenny liked, yet she could not help saying, she thought it would be better if they were to read some true history, from which they might learn something; for she thought fairy-tales were fit only for little children.

Miss Jenny could not help smiling at such an objection’s coming from the little dumpling, who was not much above seven years of age; and then said, ‘I will tell you a story, my little Polly, of what happened to me whilst I was at home.

‘There came into our village, when I was six years old, a man who carried about a raree-show, which all the children of the parish were fond of seeing; but I had taken it into my head, that it was beneath my wisdom to see raree-shows; and therefore would not be persuaded to join my companions to see this sight; and although I had as great an inclination as any of them to see it, yet I avoided it, in order to boast of my own great sense, in that I was above such trifles.

‘When my mamma asked me, why I would not see the show, when she had given me leave? I drew up my head, and said, “Indeed I did not like raree-shows. That I had been reading; and I thought that much more worth my while, than to lose my time at such foolish entertainments.” My mamma, who saw the cause of my refusing this amusement was only a pretence of being wise, laughed, and said, “She herself had seen it, and it was really very comical and diverting.” On hearing this, I was heartily vexed to think I had denied myself a pleasure, which I fancied was beneath me, when I found even my mamma was not above seeing it. This in a great measure cured me of the folly of thinking myself above any innocent amusement. And when I grew older, and more capable of hearing reason, my mamma told me, “She had taken this method of laughing at me, as laughing is the proper manner of treating affectation; which of all things, she said, she would have me carefully avoid; otherwise, whenever I was found out, I should become contemptible.”’

Here Miss Jenny ceased speaking; and Miss Polly Suckling, blushing that she had made any objection to what Miss Jenny had proposed, begged her to begin the fairy tale; when just at that instant, Mrs. Teachum, who had been taking a walk in the garden, turned into the arbour to delight herself with a view of her little school united in harmony and love, and Miss Jenny, with great good humour, told her mistress the small contest she had just had with Miss Polly about reading a fairy tale, and the occasion of it. Mrs. Teachum kindly chucking the little dumpling under the chin, said, she had so good an opinion of Miss Jenny, as to answer for her, that she would read nothing to them but what was proper; and added, that she herself would stay and hear this fairy tale which Miss Jenny, on her commands, immediately began.

THE PRINCESS HEBE. A FAIRY TALE.

Above two thousand years ago, there reigned over the kingdom of Tonga, a king, whose name was Abdallah. He was married to a young princess, the daughter of a king of a neighbouring country, whose name was Rousignon. Her beauty and prudence engaged him so far in affection to her, that every hour he could possibly spare from attending the affairs of his kingdom he spent in her apartment. They had a little daughter, to whom they gave the name of Hebe, who was the darling and mutual care of both.

The king was quiet in his dominion, beloved by his subjects, happy in his family, and all his days rolled on in calm content and joy. The king’s brother Abdulham was also married to a young princess, named Tropo, who in seven years had brought him no children; and she conceived so mortal a hatred against the queen (for she envied her the happiness of the little Princess Hebe) that she resolved to do her some mischief. It was impossible for her, during the king’s lifetime, to vent her malice without being discovered, and therefore she pretended the greatest respect and friendship imaginable for the unsuspecting queen.

Whilst things were in this situation, the king fell into a violent fever, of which he died; and during the time that the queen was in the height of her affliction for him, and could think of nothing but his loss, the Princess Tropo took the opportunity of putting in execution her malicious intentions. She inflamed her husband’s passions, by setting forth the meanness of his spirit, in letting a crown be ravished from his head by a female infant, till ambition seized his mind, and he resolved to wield the Tongian sceptre himself. It was very easy to bring this about, for, by his brother’s appointment, he was protector of the realm, and guardian to the young princess his niece; and the queen taking him and the princess his wife for her best friends, suspected nothing of their designs, but in a manner gave herself up to their power.

The protector Abdulham, having the whole treasure of the kingdom at his command, was in possession of the means to make all his schemes successful; and the Princess Tropo, by lavishly rewarding the instruments of her treachery, contrived to make it generally believed, that the queen had poisoned her husband, who was so much beloved by his subjects, that the very horror of the action, without any proof of her guilt, raised against the poor unhappy Queen a universal clamour, and a general aversion throughout the whole kingdom. The princess had so well laid her scheme, that the guards were to seize the queen, and convey her to a place of confinement, till she could prove her innocence; which, that she might never be able to do, proper care was taken by procuring sufficient evidence to accuse her on oath; and the Princess Hebe, her daughter, was to be taken from her, and educated under the care of her uncle. But the night before this cruel design was to have been put in execution, a faithful attendant of the queen’s, named Loretta, by the assistance of one of the Princess Tropo’s confidants (who had long professed himself her lover) discovered the whole secret, of which she immediately informed her royal mistress.

The horrors which filled the queen’s mind at the relation of the Princess Tropo’s malicious intentions, were inexpressible, and her perturbation so great, that she could not form any scheme that appeared probable to execute for her own preservation. Loretta told her that the person who had given her this timely notice, had also provided a peasant who knew the country, and would meet her at the western gate of the city, and, carrying the young Princess Hebe in his arms, would conduct her to some place of safety; but she must consent to put on a disguise, and escape that very night from the palace, or she would be lost for ever. Horses or mules, she said, it would be impossible to come at without suspicion; therefore she must endeavour (though unused to such fatigue) to travel afoot till she got herself concealed in some cottage from her pursuers, if her enemies should think of endeavouring to find her out. Loretta offered to attend her mistress, but she absolutely forbad her going any farther than to the western gate; where delivering the little Princess Hebe into the arms of the peasant, who was there waiting for them, she reluctantly withdrew.

The good queen, who saw no remedy to this her terrible disgrace, could have borne this barbarous usage without much repining, had she herself been the only sufferer by it; for the loss of the good king her husband so far exceeded all her other misfortunes, that every everything else was trifling in comparison of so dreadful an affliction. But the young Princess Hebe, whom she was accustomed to look on as her greatest blessing, now became to her an object of pity and concern; for, from being heiress to a throne, the poor infant, not yet five years old, was, with her wretched mother, become a vagabond, and knew not whither to fly for protection.

Loretta had prevailed on her royal mistress to take with her a few little necessaries, besides a small picture of the king, and some of her jewels, which the queen contrived to conceal under her night-clothes, in the midst of that hair they were used to adorn, when her loved husband delighted to see it displayed in flowing ringlets round her snowy neck. This lady, during the life of her fond husband, was by his tender care kept from every inclemency of the air, and preserved from every inconvenience that it was possible for human nature to suffer. What then must be her condition now, when through bypaths and thorny ways, she was obliged to fly with all possible speed, to escape the fury of her cruel pursuers: for she too well knew the merciless temper of her enemies, to hope that they would not pursue her with the utmost diligence, especially as she was accompanied by the young Princess Hebe; whose life was the principal cause of their disquiet, and whose destruction they chiefly aimed at.

The honest peasant, who carried the Princess Hebe in his arms, followed the queen’s painful steps; and seeing the day begin to break, he begged her, if possible, to hasten on to a wood which was not far off, where it was likely she might find a place of safety. But the afflicted queen, at the sight of the opening morn (which once used to fill her mind with rising joy) burst into a flood of tears, and, quite overcome with grief and fatigue, cast herself on the ground, crying out in the most affecting manner, ‘The end of my misfortunes is at hand. My weary limbs will no longer support me. My spirits fail me. In the grave alone must I seek for shelter.’ The poor princess, seeing her mother in tears, cast her little arms about her neck, and wept also, though she knew not why.

Whilst she was in this deplorable condition, turning round her head, she saw behind her a little girl, no older in appearance than the Princess Hebe; who, with an amiable and tranquil countenance, begged her to rise and follow her, and she would lead her where she might refresh and repose herself.

The queen was surprised at the manner of speaking of this little child, as she took her to be; but soon thought it was some kind fairy sent to protect her, and was very ready to submit herself to her guidance and protection.

The little fairy (for such indeed was the seeming child who had thus accosted them) ordered the peasant to return back, and said that she would take care of the queen, and her young daughter; and he, knowing her to be the good fairy Sybella, very readily obeyed.

Sybella then striking the ground three times with a little wand, there suddenly rose up before them a neat plain car, and a pair of milk-white horses; and placing the queen with the Princess Hebe in her lap by her side, she drove with excessive swiftness full westward for eight hours; when (just as the sun began to have power enough to make the queen almost faint with the heat and her former fatigue) they arrived at the side of a shady wood; upon entering of which, the fairy made her horses slacken in their speed, and having travelled about a mile and a half, through rows of elms and beech trees, they came to a thick grove of firs, into which there seemed to be no entrance. For there was not any opening to a path, and the underwood consisting chiefly of rose-bushes, white-thorn, eglantine, and other flowering shrubs, was so thick, that it appeared impossible to attempt forcing through them. But alighting out of the car (which immediately disappeared) the fairy (bidding the queen follow her) pushed her way through a large bush of jessamine, whose tender branches gave way for their passage and then closed again, so as to leave no traces of an entrance into this charming grove.