A Grandmother’s Recollections by Ella Rodman

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A GRANDMOTHER’S RECOLLECTIONS.

BY ELLA RODMAN.

1851.

A GRANDMOTHER’S RECOLLECTIONS.

CHAPTER I.

The best bed-chamber, with its hangings of crimson moreen, was opened and aired–a performance which always caused my eight little brothers and sisters to place themselves in convenient positions for being stumbled over, to the great annoyance of industrious damsels, who, armed with broom and duster, endeavored to render their reign as arbitrary as it was short. For some time past, the nursery-maids had invariably silenced refractory children with “Fie, Miss Matilda! Your grandmother will make you behave yourself–_she_ won’t allow such doings, I’ll be bound!” or “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, Master Clarence? What will your grandmother say to that!” The nursery was in a state of uproar on the day of my venerable relative’s arrival; for the children almost expected to see, in their grandmother, an ogress, both in features and disposition.

My mother was the eldest of two children, and my grandmother, from the period of my infancy, had resided in England with her youngest daughter; and we were now all employed in wondering what sort of a person our relative might be. Mamma informed us that the old lady was extremely dignified, and exacted respect and attention from all around; she also hinted, at the same time, that it would be well for me to lay aside a little of my self-sufficiency, and accommodate myself to the humors of my grandmother. This to me!–to _me_, whose temper was so inflammable that the least inadvertent touch was sufficient to set it in a blaze–it was too much! So, like a well-disposed young lady, I very properly resolved that _mine_ should not be the arm to support the venerable Mrs. Arlington in her daily walks; that should the children playfully ornament the cushion of her easy-chair with pins, _I_ would not turn informant; and should a conspiracy be on foot to burn the old lady’s best wig, I entertained serious thoughts of helping along myself.

In the meantime, like all selfish persons, I considered what demeanor I should assume, in order to impress my grandmother with a conviction of my own consequence. Of course, dignified and unbending I _would_ be; but what if she chose to consider me a child, and treat me accordingly? The idea was agonizing to my feelings; but then I proudly surveyed my five feet two inches of height, and wondered how I could have thought of such a thing! Still I had sense enough to know that such a supposition would never have entered my head, had there not been sufficient grounds for it; and, with no small trepidation, I prepared for my first appearance.

It went off as first appearances generally do. I _was_ to have been seated in an attitude of great elegance, with my eyes fixed on the pages of some wonderfully wise book, but my thoughts anywhere but in company with my eyes; while, to give more dignity to a girlish figure, my hair was to be turned up on the very top of my head with a huge shell comb, borrowed for the occasion from mamma’s drawer. Upon my grandmother’s entrance, I intended to rise and make her a very stiff courtesy, and then deliver a series of womanish remarks. This, I say, _was_ to have been my first appearance–but alas! fate ordered otherwise. I was caught by my dignified relative indulging in a game of romps upon the balcony with two or three little sisters in pinafores and pantalettes–myself as much a child as any of them. My grandmother came rather suddenly upon me as, with my long hair floating in wild confusion, I stooped to pick up my comb; and while in this ungraceful position, one of the little urchins playfully climbed upon my back, while the others held me down. My three little sisters had never appeared to such disadvantage in my eyes, as they did at the present moment; in vain I tried to shake them off–they only clung the closer, from fright, on being told of their grandmother’s arrival.

At length, with crimsoned cheeks, and the hot tears starting to my eyes, I rose and received, rather than returned the offered embrace, and found myself in the capacious arms of one whom I should have taken for an old dowager duchess. On glancing at my grandmother’s portly figure and consequential air, I experienced the uncomfortable sensation of utter insignificance–I encountered the gaze of those full, piercing eyes, and felt that I was conquered. Still I resolved to make some struggles for my dignity yet, and not submit until defeat was no longer doubtful. People in talking of “unrequited affection,” speak of “the knell of departed hopes,” but no knell could sound more dreadful to the ears of a girl in her teens–trembling for her scarcely-fledged young-lady-hood–than did the voice of my grandmother, (and it was by no means low), as she remarked:

“So this is Ella. Why, how the child has altered! I remember her only as a little, screaming baby, that was forever holding its breath with passion till it became black in the face. Many a thumping have I given you, child, to make you come to, and sometimes I doubted if your face ever would be straight again. Even now it can hardly be said to belong to the meek and amiable order.”

Here my grandmother drew forth her gold spectacles from a richly-ornamented case, and deliberately scanned my indignant features, while she observed: “Not much of the Bredforth style–quite an Arlington.” I drew myself up with all the offended dignity of sixteen, but it was of no use; my grandmother turned me round, in much the same manner that the giant might have been supposed to handle Tom Thumb, and surveyed me from top to toe.

I was unable to discover the effect of her investigation, but I immediately became convinced that my grandmother’s opinion was one of the greatest importance. She possessed that indescribable kind of manner which places you under the conviction that you are continually doing, saying, or thinking something wrong; and which makes you humbly obliged to such a person for coinciding in any of your opinions. Instead of the dignified part I had expected to play, I looked very like a naughty child that has just been taken out of its corner. The impression left upon my mind by my grandmother’s appearance will never be effaced; her whole _tout ensemble_ was peculiarly striking, with full dark eyes, high Roman nose, mouth of great beauty and firmness of expression, and teeth whose splendor I have never seen equalled–although she was then past her fiftieth year. Add to this a tall, well-proportioned figure, and a certain air of authority, and my grandmother stands before you.

As time somewhat diminished our awe, we gained the _entree_ of my grandmother’s apartment, and even ventured to express our curiosity respecting the contents of various trunks, parcels, and curious-looking boxes. To children, there is no greater pleasure than being permitted to look over and arrange the articles contained in certain carefully-locked up drawers, unopened boxes, and old-fashioned chests; stray jewels from broken rings–two or three beads of a necklace–a sleeve or breadth of somebody’s wedding dress–locks of hair–gifts of schoolgirl friendships–and all those little mementoes of the past, that lie neglected and forgotten till a search after some mislaid article brings them again to our view, and excites a burst of feeling that causes us to look sadly back upon the long vista of departed years, with their withered hopes, never-realized expectations, and fresh, joyous tone, seared by disappointment and worldly wisdom. The reward of patient toil and deep-laid schemes yields not half the pleasure that did the little Indian cabinet, (which always stood so provokingly locked, and just within reach), when during a period of convalescence, we were permitted to examine its recesses–when floods of sunlight danced upon the wall of the darkened room towards the close of day, and every one seemed _so_ kind!

My grandmother indulged our curiosity to the utmost; now a pair of diamond ear-pendants would appear among the soft folds of perfumed cotton, and flash and glow with all the brilliancy of former days–now a rich brocaded petticoat called up phantoms of the past, when ladies wore high-heeled shoes, and waists of no size at all–and gentlemen felt magnificently attired in powdered curls and cues, and as many ruffles as would fill a modern dressing gown. There were also fairy slippers, curiously embroidered, with neatly covered heels; and anxious to adorn myself with these relics of the olden time I attempted to draw one on. But like the renowned glass-slipper, it would fit none but the owner, and I found myself in the same predicament as Cinderella’s sisters. In vain I tugged and pulled; the more I tried, the more it wouldn’t go on–and my grandmother remarked with a sigh, that “people’s feet were not as small as they were in old times.” I panted with vexation; for I had always been proud of my foot, and now put it forward that my grandmother might see how small it was. But no well-timed compliment soothed my irritated feelings; and more dissatisfied with myself than ever, I pursued my investigations.

My grandmother, as if talking to herself, murmured: “How little do we know, when we set out in life, of the many disappointments before us! How little can we deem that the heart which then is ours will change with the fleeting sunshine! It is fearful to have the love of a life-time thrown back as a worthless thing!”

“Fearful!” I chimed in. “Death were preferable!”

“You little goose!” exclaimed my grandmother, as she looked me full in the face, “What can _you_ possibly know about the matter?”

I had nothing to do but bury my head down low in the trunk I was exploring; it was my last attempt at sentiment. My grandmother took occasion to give me some very good advice with respect to the behavior of hardly-grown girls; she remarked that they should be careful not to engross the conversation, and also, that quiet people were always more interesting than loud talkers. I resolved to try my utmost to be quiet and interesting, though at the same time it did occur to me as a little strange that, being so great an admirer of the species, she was not quiet and interesting herself. But being quiet was not my grandmother’s forte; and it is generally understood that people always admire what they are not, or have not themselves.

CHAPTER II.

The old lady also possessed rather strict ideas of the respect and deference due to parents and elders; and poor mamma, whose authority did not stand very high, felt considerable relief in consequence of our, (or, as I am tempted to say, _the children’s_) improved behavior. I remember being rather startled myself one day, when one of the before-mentioned little sisters commenced a system of teazing for some forbidden article.

“Mother, mother,–can’t I have that set of cards? We want it in our play-room–Phemie and me are going to build a house.”

“I do not like to give you permission,” replied mamma, looking considerably worried, “for George does not wish you to have them.”

“Oh, but George is out, mother–out for all day,” rejoined the precocious canvasser, “and will never know anything about it.”

“But perhaps he might come home before you had done with them, and George is so terribly passionate, and hates to have his things touched, that he will raise the whole house.”

“Poor boy!” observed my grandmother dryly, “What a misfortune to be so passionate! A deep-seated, and, I fear, incurable one, Amy; for of course you have used your utmost endeavors, both by precept and example, to render him otherwise.”

I almost pitied my mother’s feelings; for well did I remember the cried-for toy placed within his hands, to stop the constant succession of screams sent forth by a pair of lungs whose strength seemed inexhaustible–the comfort and convenience of the whole family disregarded, not because he was the _best_, but the _worst_ child–and often the destruction of some highly-prized trinket or gem of art, because he was “_passionate_;” the result of which was, that my poor brother George became one of the most selfish, exacting, intolerable boys that ever lived.

There was no reply, save a troubled look; and the little tormentor continued in a fretful tone; “We’ll put ’em all away before he gets in, and never tell him a word of it–can’t we have them, mother?”

My mother glanced towards her mentor, but the look which she met impelled her to pursue a course so different from her usual one, that I listened in surprise: “No, Caroline, you can _not_ have them–now leave the room, and let me hear no more about it.”

“I want them,” said the child in a sullen tone, while she turned to that invariable resource of refactory children who happen to be near a door; namely, turning the knob, and clicking the lock back and forth, and swinging on it at intervals.

This performance is extremely trying to a person of restless, nervous temperament, and my grandmother, setting up her spectacles, exclaimed commandingly: “Caroline, how dare you stand pouting there? Did you not hear your mother, naughty girl? Leave the room–this instant?”

The child stood a moment almost transfixed with surprise; but as she saw my grandmother preparing to advance upon her–her ample skirts and portly person somewhat resembling a ship under full sail–she made rather an abrupt retreat; discomposing the nerves of a small nursery-maid, whom she encountered in the passage, to such a degree that, as the girl expressed it, “she was took all of a sudden.”

I had given a quick, convulsive start as the first tones fell upon my ear, and now sat bending over my sewing like a chidden child, almost afraid to look up. I was one of those unlucky mortals who bear the blame of everything wrong they witness; and having, in tender infancy, been suddenly seized upon in Sunday school by the superintendent, and placed in a conspicuous situation of disgrace for looking at a companion who was performing some strange antic, but who possessed one of those india-rubber faces that, after twisting themselves into all possible, or rather impossible shapes, immediately become straight the moment any one observes them–having, I say, met with this mortifying exposure, it gave me a shock which I have not to this day recovered; and I cannot now see any one start up hastily in pursuit of another without fancying myself the culprit, and trembling accordingly. This sudden movement, therefore, of my grandmother’s threw me into an alarming state of terror, and, quite still and subdued, I sat industriously stitching, all the morning after.

“Dear me!” said my mother with a sigh, “how much better you make them mind than I can.”

“I see, Amy,” said my grandmother kindly, “that your influence is very weak–the care of of so large a family has prevented you from attending to each one properly. You perceive the effect of a little well-timed authority, and I do not despair of you yet. You are naturally,” she continued, “amiable and indolent, and though gentleness is certainly agreeable and interesting, yet a constant succession of sweets cannot fail to cloy, and engender a taste for something sharper and more wholesome.”

Delicacy prevented me from remaining to hear my mother advised and lectured, and the rest of my grandmother’s discourse was therefore lost to me; but whatever it was, I soon perceived its beneficial results–the children were no longer permitted to roam indiscriminately through all parts of the house–certain rooms were proof againt their invasions–they became less troublesome and exacting, and far more companionable. The worried look gradually cleared from my mother’s brow, and as my grandmother was extremely fond of sight-seeing, visiting, tea-drinkings, and everything in the shape of company, she persevered in dragging her daughter out day after day, until she made her enjoy it almost as much as herself. Old acquaintances were hunted up and brought to light, and new ones made through the exertions of my grandmother, who, in consequence of such a sociable disposition, soon became very popular. The young ones were banished to the nursery; and, as they were no longer allowed to spend their days in eating, there was far less sickness among them, and our family doctor’s bill decreased amazingly.

Our grandmother, having spent many years in the “mother-country,” was extremely English in her feelings and opinions, and highly advocated the frugal diet on which the children of the higher classes are always kept. Lord and Lady Grantham, the son-in-law and daughter at whose residence she passed the time of her sojourn in England, were infallible models of excellence and prudence; and the children were again and again informed that their little English cousins were never allowed meat until the age of seven, and considered it a great treat to get beef broth twice a week. Butter was also a prohibited article of luxury–their usual breakfast consisting of mashed potatoes, or bread and milk; and my grandmother used to relate how one morning a little curly-headed thing approached her with an air of great mystery, and whispered: “What _do_ you think we had for breakfast?” “Something very good, I suspect–what can it be?” “Guess.” “O, I cannot; you must tell me.” “_Buttered bread_!” Our laughter increased as she gave an amusing account of the blue eyes stretched to their utmost extent, as these wonderful words were pronounced hesitatingly, as though doubtful of the effect; and in consequence of various anecdotes of the same nature, the children’s impressions of England were by no means agreeable. Our little cousins must certainly have been the most wonderful children ever heard of, for by my grandmother’s account, they could dance, sing, and speak French almost as soon as they could walk. She also informed us, as a positive fact, that on saying: “_Baisez, Cora–baisez la dame_,” the very baby in arms put up its rosebud lips to kiss the stranger mentioned. It would have been stranger still for the younger children to speak English, as they were always in the company of French nurses.

Although my grandmother could so easily assume a stern and commanding air, it was by no means habitual to her; and the children, though they feared and never dared to dispute her authority, soon loved her with all the pure, unselfish love of childhood, which cannot be bought. “Things were not so and so when I was young,” was a favorite remark of hers; and as I one day remarked that “those must have been wonderful times when old people were young,” she smiled and said that “though not wonderful, they were times when parents and teachers were much more strict with children than they are now.” I immediately experienced a strong desire to be made acquainted with the circumstances of my grandmother’s childhood, and began hinting to that effect.

“Were they very strict with you, grandmother?” asked we mischievously.

She looked rather disconcerted for a moment, and then replied with a smile: “Not very–I saw very little of my parents, being mostly left to nurses and servants; but you all seem eager for information on that point, and although there is absolutely nothing worth relating, you may all come to my room this evening, and we will begin on the subject of my younger days.”

We swallowed tea rather hastily, and danced off in high glee to my grandmother’s apartment, ready for the unfolding of unheard-of occurrences and mysteries.

CHAPTER III.

We were all happily seated around the fire; the grate was piled up high with coal, and threw a bright reflection upon the polished marble–everything was ready to begin, when a most unfortunate question of my sister Emma’s interfered with our progress. She had settled herself on a low stool at my grandmother’s feet, and while we all sat in silent expectation of the “once upon a time,” or “when I was young,” which is generally the prelude to similar narratives, Emma suddenly started up, and fixing an incredulous gaze upon our dignified relative, exclaimed: “But were you _ever_ young, grandmother? I mean,” she continued, a little frightened at her own temerity, “were you ever as little as I am now?”

Some of us began to cough, others used their pocket-handkerchiefs, and one and all waited in some anxiety for the effect. Emma, poor child! seemed almost ready to sink through the floor under the many astonished and reproving glances which she encountered; and my grandmother’s countenance at first betokened a gathering storm.

But in a few moments this cleared up; and ashamed of her momentary anger at this childish question, she placed her hand kindly on Emma’s head as she replied: “Yes, Emma, quite as little as you are–and it is of those very times that I am going to tell you. I shall not begin at the beginning, but speak of whatever happens to enter my mind, and a complete history of my childhood will probably furnish employment for a great many evenings. But I am very much averse to interruptions, and if you have any particular questions to ask, all inquiries must be made before I commence.”

“Were you born and did you live in America?” said I.

“Yes,” replied my grandmother, “I was born and lived in America, in the State of New York. So much for the locality–now, what next?”

“Did you ever see Washington?” inquired Bob, “And were you ever taken prisoner and had your house burned by the British?”

Bob was a great patriot, and on Saturdays practised shooting in the attic with a bow and arrow, to perfect himself against the time of his attaining to man’s estate, when he fully intended to collect an army and make an invasion on England. As an earnest of his hostile intentions, he had already broken all the windows on that floor, and nearly extinguished the eye of Betty, the chambermaid. To both of these questions my grandmother replied in the negative, for she happened to come into the world just after the Revolution; but in answer to Bob’s look of disappointment, she promised to tell him something about it in the course of her narrative.

“My two most prominent faults,” said she, “were vanity and curiosity, and these both led me into a great many scrapes, which I shall endeavor to relate for your edification. I shall represent them just as they really were, and if I do not make especial comments on each separate piece of misconduct, it is because I leave you to judge for yourselves, by placing them in their true light. I shall not tell you the year I was born in,” she continued, “for then there would be a counting on certain little fingers to see how old grandmamma is now. When I was a child–a _very_ young one–I used to say that I remembered very well the day on which I was born, for mother was down stairs frying dough-nuts. This nondescript kind of cake was then much more fashionable for the tea-table than it is at the present day. My mother was quite famous for her skill in manufacturing them, and my great delight was to superintend her operations, and be rewarded for good behavior with a limited quantity of dough, which I manufactured into certain uncouth images, called ‘dough-nut babies.’ Sometimes these beloved creations of genius performed rather curious gymnastics on being placed in the boiling grease–such as twisting on one side, throwing a limb entirely over their heads, &c.; while not unfrequently a leg or an arm was found missing when boiled to the requisite degree of hardness. But sometimes, oh, sad to relate! my fingers committed such unheard-of depredations in the large bowl or tray appropriated by my mother, that I was sentenced to be tied in a high chair drawn close to her side, whence I could quietly watch her proceedings without being able to assist her.

I know that our home was situated in a pleasant village which has long since disappeared in the flourishing city; the house was of white brick, three stories high, with rooms on each side of the front entrance. A large and beautiful flower-garden was visible from the back windows; and beyond this was a still larger fruit-garden, the gate of which was generally locked, while a formidable row of nails with the points up, repelled all attempts at climbing over the fence. The peaches, and plums, apricots, nectarines, grapes, cherries, and apples were such as I have seldom, if ever, seen since. My lather was wealthy, and my earliest recollections are connected with large, handsomely-furnished rooms, numerous servants, massive plate, and a constant succession of dinner-parties and visitors. How often have I watched the servants as they filled the decanters, rubbed the silver, and made other preparations for company, while I drew comparisons between the lot of the favored beings for whom these preparations were made, and my own, on being condemned to the unvarying routine of the nursery. Childhood then appeared to me a kind of penance which we were doomed to undergo–a sort of imprisonment or chrysalis, which, like the butterfly, left us in a fairy-like and beautiful existence. Little did I then dream of the cares, and toils, and troubles from which that happy season is exempt. My father realized in his own person, to the fullest extent, all the traditionary legends of old English hospitality; he hated everything like parsimony–delighted to see his table surrounded with visitors–and in this was indulged to the extent of his wishes; for day after day seemed to pass in our being put out of sight, where we could witness the preparations going on for other people’s entertainment.

The presiding goddess in our region of the house was a faithful and attached old nurse, whom we all called ‘Mammy.’ Although sometimes a little sharp, as was necessary to keep such wild spirits in order, the old nurse was invariably kind, and even indulgent. It was well indeed for us that she was so, for we were left almost entirely to her direction, and saw very little of any one else. Mammy’s everyday attire consisted of a calico short-gown, with large figures, and a stuff petticoat, with a cap whose huge ruffles stood up in all directions; made after a pattern which I have never since beheld, and in which the crown formed the principal feature. But this economical dress was not for want of means; for Mammy’s wardrobe boasted several silk gowns, and visitors seldom stayed at the house without making her a present. On great occasions, she approached our beau-ideal of an empress, by appearing in a black silk dress lace collar, and gold repeater at her side. This particular dress Mammy valued more highly than any of the others, for my father had brought it to her, as a present, from Italy, and the pleasant consciousness of being recollected in this manner by her master was highly gratifying to the old nurse.

I was an only daughter, with several wild brothers, and I often thought that Mammy displayed most unjust partiality. For instance, there was Fred who never did anything right–upset his breakfast, dinner, and tea–several times set the clothes-horse, containing the nursery wardrobe, in a blaze–was forever getting lost, and, when sought for, often found dangling from a three-story window, hanging on by two fingers, and even one–who would scarcely have weighed a person’s life in the scale with a successful joke–and always had a finger, foot, or eye bound up as the result of his hair-brained adventures. I really believe that Mammy bestowed all a mother’s affection on this wild, reckless boy; he seldom missed an opportunity of being impertinent, and yet Mammy invariably said that ‘Fred had a saucy tongue, but a good heart.’ This _good-heartedness_ probably consisted in drowning kittens, worrying dogs, and throwing stones at every bird he saw. Fred always had the warmest seat, the most thickly-buttered bread and the largest piece of pie. I remember one day on watching Mammy cut the pie, I observed, as usual, that she reserved the largest piece.

“Who is that for?” I enquired, although perfectly aware of its intended destination.

“O, no one in particular,” replied Mammy.

“Well then” said I, “I believe I’ll take it.”

“There! there!” exclaimed Mammy, pointing her finger at me, “See the greedy girl! Now you shall not have it, just for asking for it.” The disputed piece was immediately deposited on Fred’s plate; and from that day forth I gave up all hopes of the largest piece of pie.

O, that Fred was an imp! There was nothing in the shape of mischief, which he would not do. If left to amuse the baby, he often amused himself by tying a string to its toe, and every now and then giving it a sudden pull. The child would cry, of course, and, on the approach of any one, Master Fred sat looking as demure as possible, while trying to keep his little brother quiet. The string would then be twitched again for his own private edification; and it was sometime before the trick was discovered. My brother Henry had at one time several little chickens, of which he became very fond. Day after day he fed, admired, and caressed them; and Fred, who never could bear to see others happy long, began to revolve in his own mind certain plans respecting the chickens. One by one they disappeared, until the number decreased alarmingly; but no traces of them could be found. We were questioned, but, as all denied the charge, the culprit remained undiscovered, although strong suspicions rested on Fred. At last the indignant owner came upon him one day, as he stood quietly watching the struggles of two little chickens in a tub of water. Henry bitterly exclaimed against this cruelty, but Fred innocently replied that “he had no hand in the matter; he had thought, for some time, how much prettier they would look swimming like ducks, and therefore tried to teach them–but the foolish things persisted in walking along with their eyes shut, and so got drowned.”

But one of Fred’s grand _coup-d’oeils_ was the affair of the cherry-pie. In those days ladies attended more to their household affairs than they do at present; and my mother, an excellent housekeeper, was celebrated for her pastry–cherry-pies in particular. It was the Fourth of July; the boys were released from school, and roaming about in quest of mischief as boys always are–and, as a rare thing, we had no company that day, except my aunt, who had come from a distance on a visit to my mother, while my father had gone to return one of the numerous visits paid him. Cherry-pie was a standing dish at our house with which to celebrate the Declaration of Independence. The servants had all gone out for a holiday, no dinner was cooked, and the sole dependence was on the cherry-pie.

They sat down to dinner, and I heard my mother say: “Now, sister Berthy, I really hope you will enjoy this pie, for I bestowed extra pains upon it, and placed it up in the bed-room pantry out of the boys’ reach, who are very apt to nibble off the edge of the crust. This time, I see, they have not meddled with it.”

The pie was cut; but alas! for the hollowness of human triumphs; the knife met a wilderness of crust and vacancy, but no cherries. The bed-room pantry had a window opening on a shed, and into that window Fred, the scape-grace, had adroitly climbed, carefully lifted the upper crust from the cherished pie, and abstracted all the cherries. My mother locked him up, for punishment, but having unfortunately selected a sort of store-room pantry, he made himself sick with sweetmeats, broke all the jars he could lay hands on, and, finally, discovering a pair of scissors, he worked at the lock, spoiled it, and let himself out.

At one time, being rather short of cash, he helped himself to a five-dollar bill from my mother’s drawer; but even _his_ conscience scarcely resting under so heavy an embezzlement, he got it changed, took half a dollar, and then put the rest back in the drawer. This considerateness led to a discovery; they all knew that no one but Fred would have been guilty of so foolish, and at the same time so dishonest a thing.

My favorite brother was Henry; just three years older than myself, manly, amiable, and intellectual in his tastes, he appeared to me infinitely superior to any one I had ever seen; and we two were almost inseparable. In winter he always carried me to school on his sled, saw that Fred did not rob me of my dinner, and was always ready to explain a difficult lesson. He was an extremely enterprising boy, with an inexhaustible fund of ingenuity and invention; but, like most geniuses, received more blame than praise. When quite small he constructed a sort of gun made of wood, which would discharge a small ball of paper, pebble, &c. This became a very popular plaything in the nursery, and for once the inventor received due praise, on account of its keeping the children so quiet. But one day Fred undertook to teach the year old baby the art of shooting with it; and with a small corn for a bullet, he placed the toy in the child’s hands, turning the mouth the wrong way. The young soldier pulled the trigger in delight, and by some strange mischance, the corn flew up his nose. The doctor was hastily brought, the child relieved with a great deal of difficulty, the dangerous plaything burned, and poor Henry sent to coventry for an unlimited time.

CHAPTER IV.

We had a girl named Jane Davis whom my mother had brought up from childhood. At the period to which I refer, she could not have been more than fourteen, and as she was always good-humored and willing to oblige, she became a general favorite. Often, in the early winter evenings, with the nursery as tidy as hands could make it, (for Mammy, although not an old maid, was a mortal enemy to dirt and slovenliness) we all gathered round the fire, while the old nurse and Jane spun out long stories, sometimes of things which had happened to them, sometimes of things which had happened to others, and often of things that never did or could happen to anybody. But I must do them the justice to say, that although they sometimes related almost impossible occurrencies, they never, on any one occasion, took advantage of their influence over us to enforce our obedience by frighful tales of old men with bags, who seem to have an especial fancy for naughty children. The nearest approach that Mammy ever made to anything of this kind was to tell us, when we began to look sleepy, that the sandman had been along and filled our eyes. On receiving this information, we generally retired peaceably to bed, without being haunted by any fears of ghost or goblin.

There was a wealthy and fashionable family who lived just opposite, consisting of a widower, his sister, and two children–a son and daughter. They lived in most extravagant style, and Jane positively assured us that the housekeeper had told her with her own lips that there was no end to Mr. Okeman’s wealth, and that he even made his daughter eat bank-bills on her bread and butter! Whether the son was exempted from this disagreeable performance we never thought of inquiring; but our awe rose ten percent, for a girl who was so rich as absolutely to devour money. On being divulged, this grand secret amused the inmates of the drawing-room very much, and our parents could scarcely command their countenances to undeceive us.

Jane Davis remained with us as nursery-maid until she was eighteen, when my mother, who was always extremely kind to servants and dependants, placed her at a trade, and supported her comfortably until she learned enough to support herself. She afterwards married a carpenter, who always performed for my father those odd jobs that are constantly required in a house, and they came to live in a kind of cottage at the end of the garden. They there commenced farming on a small scale, and often supplied us with milk, eggs, poultry, &c.

Mammy was a firm believer in signs of good and evil import; thus, if, in dropping the scissors, they stood up erect on the point, she always said that visitors were coming–a sign that rarely failed, as we were seldom a day without them. Once I had wished very much for a large wax-doll. My dreams were beautified with waxen images of immense size, whose china blue eyes, long flaxen curls, and rosy cheeks, presented a combination of charms that took my heart by storm. I sat one night, as usual, by the nursery fire; my thoughts fixed on this all-engrossing subject, when I ventured to communicate them to Mammy, and ask her if she thought I ever would become the enviable possessor of such a doll.

“I don’t know,” replied Mammy at first, “I think it’s very doubtful. But come here,” she added, “and let me see your hand.”

After an examination, Mammy pronounced with an air of great mystery that circumstances were propitious, and she was almost convinced beyond a doubt that ere long the doll would be mine. She then pointed out to me a small white spot on my left thumb nail, which she said always denoted a present. I was rather incredulous at first, not conceiving that so brilliant a dream could be realized; but after a while the doll actually made its appearance, and I began to regard Mammy as something little short of a witch, and became far more tractable in consequence of my increased awe.

Jane’s stories, as well as Mammy’s always began with “Once upon a time there were two sisters;” one was represented as plain-looking, but amiable–the other beautiful, but a very Zantippe in temper. By some wonderful combination of circumstances, the elder lost her beauty and ugliness at the same time–when some good fairy always came along, who, by a magic touch of her wand, made both the sisters far more lovely than the elder had been. Beauty was always the burden of the tale; people who were not beautiful met with no adventures, and seemed to lead a hum-drum sort of life; therefore, I insensibly learned to regard this wonderful possession as something very much to be desired. I believe I was quite a pretty child, with dark bright eyes, red lips, and a pair of very rosy cheeks. I spent considerable time before the glass, and both Mammy and Jane began to fear the effects of vanity. Often and often would the old nurse say: “You needn’t stand before the glass, Miss Amy–there is nothing to look at,” or when in a bad humor, “Don’t make such faces, child–you have no beauty to spare,” and I can very well remember how both would endeavor to persuade me that I was the most veritable little fright that ever existed, and quite a bugbear to my relations.

“What a pity,” Jane would commence, as she saw me surveying myself with an air of infinite satisfaction, “what a pity it is that Miss Amy has such a dark, ugly skin–almost like an Indian, isn’t it, nurse?”

I had eyes to judge for myself, and knew that I was much fairer than either Mammy or Jane; and somebody had remarked in my presence: “What a lovely neck and shoulders!” therefore I generally remained perfectly quiet while listening to these inuendoes.

“Yes,” Mammy would reply, “a very great pity–but an amiable temper, Miss Amy, is more than looks; you must try and cultivate that, to make up for your want of beauty.”

“And then,” continued Jane, “only see how perfectly straight her hair is! not a sign of curl, nor even a twist!–and black eyes have such a wicked kind of a look; they always remind me of cannibals.”

Jane’s eyes were as blue and bright as glass beads, while Mammy’s, I thought, approached a green, but with my own I felt perfectly satisfied; for a lady had remarked in my presence what beautiful eyes I had–adding that “dark eyes were so much more expressive than blue; blue ones were so very insipid looking.” The observation about my hair, though, was only too correct, and touched me most sensibly. While most of the other children possessed those soft, flowing curls, so beautiful in childhood, mine obstinately refused to wave; and was, to use Jane’s expression, “as straight and as stiff as a poker.” I had endeavored to remedy this as far as lay in my power, and one day set my hair in a blaze, while curling it with a very hot pipe-stem. I was, in consequence, deemed one of the most abandoned of the nursery inmates; and found myself minus at least one half of the hair I had hitherto possessed.

I really believe that both Jane and Mammy sincerely hoped to eradicate my besetting sin, by such blunt remarks as the former; but no course could have been less wise than the one which they took. I knew very well that I was neither a fright, an Indian, nor a cannibal; and the pains which they took to convince me to the contrary led me to give myself credit for much more beauty than I really possessed. I also regarded amiability as a virtue of very small account; and supposed that those who practised it, only did so because they possessed neither beauty, grace, nor anything else to recommend them.

A great source of annoyance to me was my dress. As I was an only daughter, some mothers, with the same means, would have enhanced my attractions with all the aid of ornament, and established me as a permanent divinity of the drawing-room, whom all must bow to and flatter as they entered its precincts. But, although fond of display, and surrounded with all the appliances of wealth, the taste of my parents never did run much on dress; and I often felt mortified at my inferiority to others in this respect. Such articles were then much dearer, and more in vogue than at the present day, and a blue Circassian formed my entire stock of gala dresses, and went the rounds of all the children’s parties I attended; my mother seemed to think, (with respect to me, at least,) that as long as a dress was clean and in good repair, there was no need of a change–she left nothing to the pleasure of variety. There appeared to be an inexhaustible store of the same material in a certain capacious drawer; did an elbow give out, a new sleeve instantly supplied its place–did I happen to realize the ancient saying: “There’s many a slip ‘twixt the cup and the lip,” and make my lap the recipient of some of the goodies provided for us at our entertainments, the soiled front breadth disappeared, and was replaced by another, fresh and new–did the waist grow short, it was made over again–there verily seemed to be no end to the dress; I came to the conclusion that blue Circassian was the most ugly material ever invented, and often found myself calculating how many yards there might be left.

My school hats always looked the worse for wear, and my Sunday ones were not much better; but once my mother took me to the city, and bought me, for school, a far handsomer hat than I had hitherto worn for best, and a still better one for great occasions. Here I, who scarcely ever looked decent about the upper story, actually had two new hats at once! The best one, I remember, was a round gipsy flat, then altogether the fashion; and the first Sunday I put it on I made a perfect fool of myself by twisting my hair in strings, intended to pass for natural ringlets, and allowing said strings to hang all around beneath the brim of my hat. Mamma was sick and confined to her room, and I managed to appear at church with this ridiculous head-gear. People certainly stared a little, but this my vanity easily converted into looks of admiration directed towards my new hat, and perhaps also my improved beauty–and came home more full of self-complacency than ever.

I have before mentioned that beyond the house there was a large fruit-garden, respecting which, my father’s orders were especially strict. He expressly forbade our touching any of the fruit unless he gave us permission; and nothing made him more angry than to have any gathered before it was quite ripe. It certainly requires a child whose principle of honesty is a very strong one, to pass every day in full view of an endless bed of ripening strawberries, whose uncommon size and luscious hue offered so many temptations. But bad as I was, I think I was generally pretty honest, and resisted the temptation to the best of my ability.

CHAPTER V.

I think I was about five years old, when one bright May morning my brother Henry received especial instructions to be careful of me, and see that I fell into no mischief on the occasion of my first day at school. The luncheon-basket was packed with twice the usual quantity of sandwiches, into which Mammy slyly tucked a small paper of sweet things as a sort of comforter, with repeated injunctions to Henry not to make a mistake and confiscate them for his own private use. A superfluous caution–for Henry was the most generous little fellow that ever lived; and was far more likely to fall short himself than that others should suffer through him. Both Jane and Mammy kissed me repeatedly. I had on a new dress of light, spotted calico, and a straw hat, with a green ribbon, and a deep green silk cape–underneath the binding of my apron a small handkerchief had been carefully pinned–a small blue-covered book, and a slate with a long, sharp-pointed pencil tied on with a red cord, were placed in my hands; and from these ominous preparations, and the uncommon kindness of every one around, I concluded that I was at last to meet with some adventure–perhaps to suffer martyrdom of some kind or other.

Poor Jane! My great passion was for beads, and when she perceived, from various indications, that I was not exactly pleased with the change, she ran up stairs, hastily loosened a whole string from a cherished necklace, and returning quickly, slipped them into my hand. My mother also came into the nursery to see that I was perfectly neat, kissed me affectionately as she whispered to me to be a good girl and learn to read, and with a strange, undefined sensation at my heart, I found myself in the street with my hand fast locked in that of Henry. It was that lovely season of the year when the fruit-trees are all in bloom; and the sweet, flower-laden breeze, the busy hum of human life that rose around, and the bounding, restless spirit of childhood, made me shrink from the bondage I was about to enter.

The school-house was a very pretty cottage with a trellised front of bean-vines and honeysuckle; and when I entered I found, to my great surprise, that Miss Sewell, the teacher, looked very much like other people. There were two moderate-sized rooms, opening into each other, in one of which Mr. Sewell superintended several desks of unruly boys–in the other, his daughter directed the studies of about twenty little girls. There were some large girls seated at the desks, who appeared to me so very antiquated that I was almost afraid to hazard an idea respecting their ages; and had I been asked how old they were, should probably have replied ‘at least fifty;’ although I do not now suppose the eldest was more than fourteen.

Rather stunned by the buzz and noise of the classes reciting, and very much puzzled as to my own probable destiny, I began to climb the hill of knowledge. I said my letters; and Miss Sewell, having found that I knew them pretty well, (thanks to Mammy’s patient teaching), allowed me to spell in _a-b, ab_, and _b-a, ba_, and set me some straight marks on my slate. I met with nothing remarkable during my first day at school; and on my return informed Mammy, as the result of my studies, that two and one make four. Nor could I be persuaded to the contrary; for, although I had been taught by the old nurse to count as far as ten, on being examined by Miss Sewell, either bashfulness or obstinacy prevented me from displaying the extent of my knowledge–and, while endeavoring to explain to me how many one and one make, she had said: “There is one, to begin with; well now, one more makes two,” therefore as one made two in this case, I supposed it did in every other.

I learned to love the mild countenance of Miss Sewell, with her plain dark hair and soft eyes, and was never happier then when she was invited to tea; for then I was emancipated from the nursery and placed beside her at table. I dearly loved to take her fruit and flowers; and white lilies, roses, honey-suckles, and the most admired productions of our garden were daily laid on Miss Sewell’s table. For rewards we had a great many wide, bright-colored ribbons, which were tied upon our arms, that every one might see them as we went home; and she who could boast a variety of ribbons was known to have been perfect in all her lessons. Those who had fallen into disgrace were distinguished by a broad band passed around the head, on the front of which was written in large characters the name of the misdemeanor.

One morning I had been rather negligent, and, having my suspicions as to the consequence, told Mammy of my fears, and my dread of the disgrace. The old nurse’s anger even exceeded mine; she declared that her child should not be treated so, and advised me to snatch it off and tear it to pieces. I went to school, not having exactly made up my mind whether to follow this advice or not; but my afternoon lessons fully made up for the deficiency of the morning, and I escaped the dreaded punishment. I had gone with several companions to the closet in which we deposited our hats and shawls, and while engaged in the process of robing, I heard a very loud voice talking in great excitement, and one which I immediately recognised. I overheard Mammy exclaiming: “Where is my child? Has she got that horrid thing on her head? I want to take it off before she goes home.”

Blushing with mortification, as I noticed the tittering of the school-girls, called forth by the loud tone and strange figure of the old nurse, who had rushed into the room in her usual attire of short-gown and petticoat, I came hastily forward, and was immediately seized by Mammy, who exclaimed in surprise: “Why, I though you said you were going to have that thing on your head! I was determined that no child of mine should wear it, so I came after you to take it off.”

Mammy was one of the most independent persons I ever saw; she cared for no one’s frown, and poured forth the whole love of her warm Irish heart upon us–tormenting and troublesome as we were. Sometimes she sung to us of “Acushla machree” and “Mavourneen,” and Mammy’s Irish songs were especial favorites with the young fry of the nursery. When we were particularly obstreperous, she threatened to go away and leave us, and never come back again; a threat which always produced copious showers of tears, and promises of better behavior. Often have I watched her in dismay as she dressed herself to go out–fearful that she would really put her threat in execution, especially as conscience whispered that I deserved it. At such times, nothing pacified me except the deposit of her spectacles; when once the case was lodged in my possession, I felt sure of Mammy–knowing that she could not stay long without them. Sometimes she would tell us of her life in Ireland; but no act did she more bitterly deplore than her marriage; complaining that the object of her choice was far from what he appeared to be when she married him–and further observing that as he turned out a very bad speculation, and never gave her anything but a thimble, she wisely left him to his own society, and emigrated to America.

Mammy very often kept the key of the fruit-garden; and as she never yielded it to our entreaties, the ever-ready Fred formed a conspiracy one Sunday afternoon, in which, I am sorry to say, I took a very conspicuous part–the object of which was to purloin the key, and enjoy at last this long-coveted, forbidden pleasure. Fred actually succeeded in abstracting it from Mammy’s capacious pocket, and in high glee we proceeded to the garden. It was in the time of peaches; there hung the lucious fruit in such profusion, that the trees were almost borne down by its weight. We ate till we could eat no longer; and then, happening to see two or three men passing along, we threw some over the fence to them. They, in return, threw us some pennies; and, delighted with the success of our frolic, we continued to throw and receive, until startled by a most unwelcome apparition. There, at the foot of the tree, stood Mammy–her face expressing the utmost astonishment and indignation, and her hands extended to seize us. She had watched our manoeuvres from one of the windows, and astonishment at our boldness and ingenuity kept her for sometime a silent spectator. But Mammy was not apt to be _silent_ long while witnessing our misdeeds; and in an incredible short space of time she gained the use of both her feet and her tongue. Our companions caught a glimpse of flying drapery rapidly advancing, and rather suddenly made their retreat; while we, now trembling, detected culprits, took up a line of march for the house.

Not so, Fred; defying Mammy to capture him, and laughing at her dismay, he started off on a run, and she after him in full pursuit. We watched the chase from the nursery-window; and as Fred was none of the thinnest, and Mammy somewhat resembled a meal-bag with a string tied round the middle, it proved to be quite exciting. But it was brought to an untimely end by the apparition of a pair of spectacles over the fence; said spectacles being the undisputed property of a middle-aged gentleman–a bachelor, who, we suspected, always stayed home from church on Sunday afternoons to keep the neighbors in order. With horror-stricken eyes he had beheld only the latter part of the scene, and conceiving the old nurse to be as bad as her rebellious charge, he called out from his garden, which communicated with ours:

“My good woman, do you know that this is Sunday?–Depend upon it, a person of your years would feel much better to be quietly reading in your own apartment, than racing about the garden in this unseemly manner.”

Poor Mammy! she was well aware of this before; flushed, heated, and almost overcome with fatigue, she looked the very picture of uncomfortableness; and this last aggravation increased the feeling to a tenfold degree. At that moment, Fred, unconsciously, stumbled into her very arms; she looked up–the spectacles had disappeared–and convinced of this fact, she bore him in triumph to the nursery.

We had all expected personal chastisement, at the very least, but we were thrown into a greater degree of horror and dismay than could well be conceived; Mammy placed her spectacles in her pocket, collected her valuables, and put on her hat and things, to take passage for Ireland. We hung about her in every attitude of entreaty–acknowledged our misdemeanors, promised amendment, and an entire confession of all the sins we had ever perpetrated. I do think we must have remained upon our knees at least half an hour; never had Mammy seemed so hard-hearted before, and we began to think that she might be in earnest after all. We begged her to whip us–lock us up–anything but leave us; and at last she relented. She told us that she considered us the most abandoned children that ever were born; and wished that she had two additional eyes at the back of her head to watch our movements. We promised to spend the afternoon in learning hymns and verses; and Mammy, having taken her position in the large easy-chair, with a footstool at her feet, tied Fred to one of the legs, as he sat on a low bench at her side, and made us all study. We succeeded pretty well; although considerably terrified at the sharp looks which Mammy from time to time bestowed upon us.

In the evening came the promised confession; and both Mammy and Jane were rendered almost dumb by these dreadful instances of depravity. Such secret and unsuspected visits to the store-room pantry–such conspiracies against locks and bolts–such scaling of walls, and climbing in at windows, were never heard of before. I rather suspected Fred to have drawn upon his imagination for instances of the marvellous, for such adventures as he related never could have been met with; but Mammy and Jane believed it all. At the conclusion, the old nurse seemed very much disposed to punish us at once for all these united misdemeanors–and was only prevented by our remonstrating upon the plea of a voluntary confession.

That night I lay awake, pretending to sleep, and heard Mammy and her satellite discussing our conduct in all its enormity. Considerably influenced by their unaffected horror and astonishment, the thought for the first time rushed upon my mind, that perhaps I might be much worse than other people. It troubled me considerably; I found it impossible to sleep, and following a good impulse, I crept softly out of bed, and falling on my knees before Mammy, whispered to her to pray for me. There must have been a very different expression on my countenance from its usual one; for I afterwards heard the old nurse tell Jane that I reminded her of an angel. I felt utterly miserable; and sobbing convulsively, I begged Mammy to pray, not that I might have a new heart, but that I might live a great while. I had begun to fear speedy punishment for my misdemeanors. The old nurse, (although a really pious woman), seemed quite at a loss how to proceed; and Jane, coming forward, took me kindly by the hand, and reasoned with me on my conduct with all the wisdom of riper years and a higher education. After convincing me that I should ask, not for an increased number of years, but for a new heart and temper, she knelt down with me and repeated the Lord’s prayer.

The scene is indelibly impressed upon my memory; for although I have since witnessed scenes containing more stage effect, and quite as melting, I never in my life remember to have been so affected as, with Jane’s arm around me, and the light of the nursery-lamp shining upon our kneeling figures, I distinctly heard Mammy’s sobs, as she repeated each word with a peculiar intonation of reverence. I felt a respect for the young girl ever afterwards; and as I clasped my arms about her neck and pressed a warm kiss on her cheek, as I bade her good-night, the tone of my voice must have been unusually tender–for I saw tears come into her eyes as she asked Mammy if she was not afraid, from my flushed cheeks, that I had some fever. Although petulant, and even violent when roused, I had a warm, loving heart, capable of the most unbounded affection; and from that time forth Jane and I never had a single dispute. She had appeared to me in a new light on that Sabbath eve; and with my hand locked in hers, I fell into a sweet, dreamy sleep.

CHAPTER VI.

One of my great troubles, and one too which I regarded in a pretty serious light, was the obeisance I had been taught to make on meeting “the minister’s wife.” I never came within view of this formidable personage that I did not hesitate and tremble; while I looked wildly around, in the vain hope of discovering a place of refuge. After performing my awkward courtesy, I usually hastened on as fast as possible, being oppressed with a most uncomfortable sensation of awe in the presence of Mrs. Eylton. This was occasioned by the quiet observance which I, like other children, took of the conduct of those around me. Everything in the house seemed to be at her command; if Mrs. Eylton sent for a thing she must have it immediately; and I drew my conclusions that “the minister’s wife” was a sort of petty sovereign, placed over the town or village in which she resided, and that all we possessed was held under her.

Almost every day brought a request from Mrs. Eylton for the loan of some article in our possession; a repetition of which would naturally lead one to conclude that ministers merely procured a house, and then depended for everything else on the charity of the public. This borrowing mania appeared to gather strength from indulgence, for none of the neighbors would refuse, whatever the article might be; and our waffle-iron, toasting-fork, Dutch-oven, bake-pan, and rolling-pin were frequently from home on visits of a week’s duration. On sending for our muffin-rings or cake-pans, we often received a message to be expeditious in our manufactures; that Mrs. Eylton could spare them for a day or so, “but wanted to use them again very shortly.” Our parents would buy such conveniences, send them to the kitchen of Mrs. Eylton, and borrow them from time to time, if in perfect accordance with that lady’s convenience. She would even borrow her neighbor’s servants, and often at very inconvenient times. Jane had often been sent for to take care of the children; and the usual request came one afternoon that seemed to me stamped with most remarkable events.

We were in a kind of sitting-room on the ground-floor, and my father sat writing at a small table near the window. A servant entered with the announcement: “Mrs. Eylton, ma’am, wants to borrow Jane.”

An expression of vexation crossed my mother’s countenance as she remarked: “I do not know how I can possibly spare Jane this afternoon; Mammy has gone out, and I do not feel inclined to attend to the children myself.”

My father looked up from his writing as he observed: “Nor do I see the necessity of your being troubled with them, Laura.”

“Not see the necessity!” exclaimed my mother, “How can I refuse the wife of our minister? I would be willing to put up with some inconvenience for Mr. Eylton’s sake. Poor man! he has a hard time of it, with his talents and refinement.”

“No doubt he has,” said my father, pityingly; then, in a more merry tone, he added: “But can you think of no other alternative, Laura, than disobliging Mrs. Eylton, if you object to this juvenile infliction for a whole long summer’s afternoon?”

My father was of a bolder, more determined character than my mother, and had, withal, a spice of fun in his composition; and the expression of his eyes now rendered her apprehensive of some sudden scheme that might create a feeling of justifiable anger in Mrs. Eylton.

“Dearest Arthur!” she exclaimed beseechingly, as she placed a soft hand on his shoulder, “Do not, I beseech of you, put in execution any outlandish plan respecting Mrs. Eylton!–Do let Jane go as usual; for she is not one to understand a joke, I can assure you–she will be offended by it.”

“And pray, madam,” asked my father, with assumed gravity, “what has led you to suppose that I intended making Mrs. Eylton the subject of a joke? Away with you,” he continued, with a mischievous look at those pleading eyes, “Away with you, and let me do as I choose.”

Turning to the servant, he asked: “Mrs. Eylton has, I believe, requested the loan of other articles besides our domestics–has she ever sent to borrow any of the children?”

“Indeed, and she has not, sir,” replied the girl, with difficulty repressing a laugh.

“Well then,” said he, “we will now send her both the article she requested, and some articles which she did not request. Tell Jane to be ready to go to Mrs. Eylton’s with the children.”

“Yes sir,” and the servant departed to execute her commission.

“Arthur!” remonstrated my mother.

“Not a word!” said my father gaily. “Children,” he continued, “do you wish to go? What says my madcap, Amy?”

Madcap Amy, for once in her life, said nothing–being too much awed and astonished to reply. To think that I should actually enter the house, and be face to face with the formidable Mrs. Eylton? The idea was appalling; and for sometime I sat biting my nails in thoughful silence. It was so sudden, it had always appeared to me that a great deal must be gone through with–a great many different degrees of intimacy surmounted, before I should ever find myself within the house of Mrs. Eylton; but here was I, without the least warning, to be transformed from the bashful child, who made no sign of recognition save an awkward courtesy, into the regular visitor–and for a whole afternoon! No wonder I took so long to deliberate. Though not particularly remarkable for bashfulness or timidity at home, and despite a character for violence in, “fighting my own battles,” to assert some infringed right, I absolutely trembled at the idea of encountering strangers; and this visit to Mrs. Eylton’s appeared, to my excited mind, like thrusting myself into the enemy’s quarters.

But then curiosity rose up in all its powers, to baffle my fear; I did _so_ want to see how the house looked inside, and whether they really had anything that was not borrowed! And then who knows, thought I, but what Mrs. Eylton will show me the inside of some of her drawers? I dare say she has a great many pretty things. There was nothing which gave me greater delight than looking into other people’s drawers, and turning over those remnants of various things which are stored away in most houses–in many for the mere love of hoarding. Mamma would sometimes allow me to arrange certain little drawers containing jewelry, ribbons, and odds and ends. But the charmed room in our house was one that was always kept locked, and, from the circumstance of a green ribbon being attached to the key, we called it “the green-ribbon room.”

Dear me! what a collection that room contained. There were several large trunks that nearly covered the floor, besides boxes, and bags, and bundles; and these were filled with cast-off clothes, silks, ribbons, and bunches of artificial flowers and feathers. The room was not very often opened; it was at the very top of the house, and lighted by a large dormar-window; but as soon as mamma mounted the stairs, with the key in her hand, the alarm was given: “Quick! mother is going to the green-ribbon room!” and mamma’s ears were immediately refreshed by the sound of numerous little feet moving up stairs at locomotive speed, with the ostensible purpose of assisting her in her researches–but in reality, to be getting in her way, and begging for everything we saw. It was, “Mamma, mayn’t we have this?” or, “mayn’t we have that?” or “Do say yes, just this once; and we’ll never ask you for anything again as long as we live–never,” a promise faithfully kept till next time.

Mamma sometimes tried to go up very softly, in order to elude our vigilance; but it wouldn’t do. She often wondered how we found out that that she was there, but we seldom missed an opportunity. Now and then a dear little pitcher, or a vase of cream-colored ground with a wreath of faint pink roses traced around it, or a cluster of bright-colored flowers in the centre, arrested our attention, and called forth rhapsodies of admiration. I supposed that everybody had just such a room; and it was very probable, I thought, that Mrs. Eylton might chance to open hers during our visit. Therefore I decided that, notwithstanding my terror of the lady, a greater amount of pleasure might be obtained by going there, than by staying at home.

So Jane, with her own trim person as neat as possible, bore off her charges to the nursery, in order, as she said, “to make us fit to be seen.” “Mrs. Eylton might see this,” or “notice that,” and I felt uncomfortably convinced that Mrs. Eylton must possess the sharpest pair of eyes it had ever been my misfortune to encounter. Finally, we set off; I remember being dressed in a white frock, with a broad sash, and experiencing a consciousness of looking remarkably well, in spite of my hair–which, having obstinately repulsed all Jane’s advances with tongs and curl-papers, was suffered to remain in all its native straightness.

It was summer, and a multiflora rose-vine, which extended over the front of the parsonage, was then in full flower; while, as we mounted the steps, I distinguished through the green blind door glimpses of a pleasant-looking garden beyond. We entered the back parlor, where sat Mrs. Eylton attired for a walk, and surrounded by three children, all younger than myself. The minister’s lady did not appear quite so formidable on a close survey; though the aspect of her countenance was by no means promising, as her eye fell upon us.

“Well, Jane,” she commenced, in the tone of one who felt herself injured, “you have kept me waiting some time–how is this? Punctuality is a virtue very becoming in a young person.”

Jane looked exceedingly disconcerted at this address; but at length she replied, that “she could not get the children ready before.”

“_The children_!” repeated Mrs. Eylton; while, young as I was, I plainly read in her countenance, “What possessed you to bring _them_ here?”

“Yes ma’am,” replied Jane, gathering more courage as she proceeded, “Mrs. Chesbury sent them with me to spend the afternoon. She had no one to attend to them at home.”

In the meantime I became aware, as I glanced around the room, that the prospect for the afternoon promised very little amusement. Mrs. Eylton soon after left us, telling Jane to be very careful that we got into no mischief; and, with, a feeling of disappointment, I saw the door close behind her. In my scenting of the apartment I became very much struck with the appearance of a curious looking little work-stand, containing three small drawers. Immediately my imagination was at work upon their contents; and I determined, if possible, to satisfy my curiosity. Mrs. Eylton had departed without making any provision for our amusement, and I saw no reason why I should not examine the drawers–especially if I handled things carefully, and put them all back again. Probably they were in disorder, and then what a pleasant surprise it would be for Mrs. Eylton to find them all neatly arranged on her return!

Jane now proposed walking in the garden; and to avoid suspicion, I joined the party for the present. There were a great many flower-beds, very prettily laid out; and at the end of a wide path stood a pleasant little summer-house, half-buried in vines. We established ourselves there, from whence we could view the whole garden; and with a pretence of looking again at the flowers, I soon made my escape, and returned to the house. A wide glass-door opened from the back room into the garden, and carefully closing this, I approached the table and attempted to open the drawers. I tried the first one,–it was locked; the second,–and met with no better success. Almost in despair, I placed my hands on the third, and that finally yielded to my efforts. I beheld heterogeneous rows of pins, papers of needles, &c., and was about to shut it in disappointment, when my glance fell on a small box. Small, mysterious-looking boxes always possessed a talismanic attraction in my eyes; and the next moment I was busily at work examining the contents. The round lid lifted, I found my gaze irresistibly fascinated by a child’s face, with fair, curling hair, and azure eyes. But the great beauty lay in its expression; that was so calm, holy, and serene, that I felt insensibly better as I gazed upon it. It was a peculiar face; and I became so wrapt in its contemplation as to lose all hearing of what passed around, until a step sounded close beside me.

I looked up, and fairly trembled with terror and dismay. There stood Mr. Eylton, gazing on me in surprise, as if quite at a loss what to make of the circumstance; but as his eye fell upon the picture, I noticed that an expression of sadness crossed his countenance. Not knowing what to do with myself, and almost ready to sink through the floor with shame, I stood with bowed head and burning cheeks, the very picture of mortification. But there was no trace of anger in Mr. Eylton’s tone, as, kindly taking me by the hand, he drew me towards him and asked me my name. I answered as well as I could; and still holding the picture, remained in silent consternation. Mr. Eylton took it from my hand, and sighed as he bent a deep, loving gaze upon the fair face.

Prompted by a sudden impulse, I raised my eyes to his, as I enquired: “Can you tell me where that little girl is now? I should _so_ like to see her!”

“In heaven, I trust,” replied Mr. Eylton, while his voice slightly faltered, and a tear stood in his eye. “She was my daughter, Amy–she died some years ago, when very young.”

I felt almost ready to cry myself, when told that she was dead, and gazed lingeringly upon the portrait as Mr. Eylton closed the box; and placing it in the drawer, he returned to me again.

“But, my dear child,” said he suddenly, “Why did you open the drawer? Do you not know that it was extremely improper?”

“I did _so_ want to see what was in it!” was my rejoinder.

Mr. Eylton seemed puzzled at first by this reply; but probably perceiving that I had been too much left to myself, he proceeded to explain, in clear and concise words, the nature and tendency of my fault. “This curiosity, my dear child, is an improper state of feeling which should not be indulged in. Suppose,” continued he, “that on looking into this drawer, you had perceived some article which you immediately felt a great desire to possess; yielding to the temptation of curiosity would thus lead to the sin of covetousness, and perhaps the crime of theft might be also added. You would reason with yourself that no one had seen you open the drawer, and forgetting the all-seeing Eye which never slumbers, you might conclude that no one would know you took the article which did not belong to you.”

The prospect of becoming a thief struck me with horror; and resolving never again to meddle with other people’s things, I begged Mr. Eylton to forgive me, and entreated him not to inform Mrs. Eylton of my misdemeanor. He smiled at the anxiety I displayed not to have it known; and then taking a bunch of keys from a box, he proceeded to gratify my curiosity with respect to the other drawers. These amply repaid an investigation; containing numerous toys and trinkets of foreign manufacture, among which were two or three small alabaster images. One represented a beautiful greyhound in a reclining position; there was an Italian image of the Virgin and Child; and some others which I have almost forgotten. I was allowed to examine all these things at my leisure; and when I departed, it was with a firm conviction that Mr. Eylton was far more agreeable than his wife.

Jane soon came in from the summer-house, after an unsuccessful search for me through the garden, and was not a little surprised to find me quietly established with Mr. Eylton. Towards sunset Mrs. Eylton returned; and being graciously dismissed, we went home with the impression that it had been altogether rather a curious visit. But the afternoon dwelt in my memory like a golden gleam; and often I went over, in imagination, that delightful investigation of Mrs. Eylton’s drawers.

CHAPTER VII.

We were generally besieged with visitors of all descriptions and characters. My parents had one or two poor relations who made long stays at every visit; and being generous, even to a fault, they loaded them with presents at their departure, and invitations to come again. There was one old lady, in particular, who engaged my fancy; she came to see us quite often, and in the family went by the name of “Aunty Patton.” Aunty Patton was a widow, with very slender means; and boarded with a married daughter, who had a large family of children, but very little to support them on. Poor Aunty! she fared rather poorly at home, and did _so_ seem to enjoy everything. She was particularly fond of fruit-cake; and whenever she came, mamma took particular pains that this should be one of the appliances of the tea-table. She possessed many wealthy acquaintances and relations, and enjoyed visiting around among them very much; praising everything that was set before her, and never contradicting any one. It teemed impossible to put anything on the table which she did not like; everything was “good,” and “delightful,” and “just what she would have fancied.” At length some cousin determined to test her patience; and on one occasion, when the old lady happened to dine there, the dishes, when uncovered, were found to contain nothing but supaun and potatoes.

“I am really sorry, Aunty Patton,” began the hostess, “to be able to offer you nothing better for dinner–but sometimes you know”–

“O,” said Aunty, with rather a rueful look, “it’ll _do_.”

Poor Aunty had that very day prepared herself for something uncommonly nice in the way of dinner, and felt a little disappointed; but cousin Emma soon restored her equanimity by a liberal display of fruit-cake and other nice things, which presented themselves on opening the side-board door.

Aunty Patton had mild, winning kind of manners, and became a general favorite in the nursery; probably on account of her always noticing us, and pronouncing us “lovely little creatures.” She appeared to me the most heavenly-minded old lady I had ever seen; and I listened, with a species of awe, to the long stories which she loved so dearly to relate about everybody whom she visited. She was very short–not seeming to me much taller than myself–and the cumbrous dress of the period was calculated to make her appear much shorter. She would sit and relate wonderful occurrences which seemed constantly taking place in her daughter’s family; one of the children would cut his foot, and for sometime there would be danger of amputation–another urchin would upset a kettle of scalding water on himself, and then he would be laid up for sometime, while mamma turned the green-ribbon room topsy-turvy in her searches after old linen–and once the daughter fell down stairs, and was taken up for dead. They seemed to be an unfortunate family–always meeting with hair-breadth escapes. Aunty Patton’s reticule was always well filled with good things on every occasion of her departure; and very often a collection of money was added to the stock.

Mamma sometimes endeavored to enlist our sympathies in benevolent purposes. I remember, on one occasion, when I had been teasing sometime for a new tortoise-shell comb to keep back my hair with, it suddenly entered my head that it would be a well-disposed action to ask for some money to give Aunty Patton.

“Are you willing, Amy, to deny yourself anything,” asked mamma, after I had made my request, “in order that I may give this money to Aunty Patton? It is no benevolence in you to ask me to give away money, unless you are willing to do without something in consequence. If I give Aunty Patton the five dollars that your comb will cost, are you willing to do without it?”

“Dear me,” thought I, “being good is very expensive.” I deliberated for sometime, but finally answered, “No.” My mother pressed the subject no farther; but after a while I exclaimed with a comfortable feeling of magnanimity; “Yes, dear mamma, you _may_ give Aunty Patton the five dollars–and I’ll get _papa_ to buy me the comb!”

Mammy was a great judge of character, and when she once made up her mind not to like a person, it was very difficult to make her change her sentiments. My father once brought in a travelling clergyman, who represented himself as very devout and unfortunate; and we all made great efforts to entertain him. He was travelling West, he said, and endeavoring to collect on the road sufficient money to pay his expenses. My father invited him to remain with us a month; and he seemed very much to enjoy the good things so liberally showered upon him–contriving at the same time to render himself so agreeable that he quite won our hearts. Mammy alone remained proof against his insinuations; he paid assiduous court to her, and did his best to remove this unfavorable impression, but the old nurse remained immovable.

He once asked her for the key to the fruit-garden, when my parents were both out; but Mammy stedfastly refused him. “She had orders,” she said, “not to let the key go out of her possession, and she didn’t intend to now.” The wandering clergyman departed quite enraged; and reported proceedings as soon as my father returned. He was very much displeased at Mammy’s obstinacy, and spoke quite warmly on the subject; but the old nurse replied that “she didn’t know but he might make off with half the fruit in the garden–she didn’t like the man’s looks at any rate.”

I had then in my possession a little morocco pocket-book, a treasured article, which I valued above all my other worldly goods. Sometime before Christmas, I had observed it in a a shop-window with passionate admiration; and on my return home, I threw out various hints and inuendoes–scarcely hoping that they would be attended to. They were, however; for on examining my stocking on the eventful morning, the long-coveted pocket-book was found sticking in the toe–and what was still better, well supplied with contents. I was in ecstasy for sometime after; but wishing to do something to signalize myself, I now placed it in the hands of the Rev. Mr. Motley for safe keeping.

“Mark my words,” said Mammy prophetically, “you’ll never see a sign of that pocket-book again.”

Alas! her words were but too true; circumstances came to light not very favorable to the character of our visitor; and that very night the Rev. Mr. Motley secretly decamped–mentioning in a note left behind, that unlooked-for events had hastened his departure. My little pocket-book accompanied him, as he quite forgot to return it; and Mammy’s triumph was almost as provoking as the loss. She had, however, with characteristic caution, abstracted whatever money it contained; and the reflection that the reverend gentleman had not gained much, gave her considerable pleasure. The lesson taught me not to trust strangers again too readily, and my father imbibed somewhat of a prejudice against travelling clergymen in distress. Rev. Mr. Motley was never again heard of.

We once had a visit from a Captain Vardell, an acquaintance of my father’s, who had married a Spanish woman. This Captain had spent much of his time at sea; roving about from place to place, until at length he settled down for some years in Spain. He had no relations in America, and but little money, so that of course my father’s house, the usual refuge of the needy and distressed, was at once his destination. He appeared to us an indolent, good-natured kind of a man, and his wife resembled him in the former quality, though quite deficient in the latter. She could not speak a word of English, and would scold and rail at her husband in Spanish for hours together. We did not understand what she said, but we knew, by the flashing of those great black eyes and her animated gestures, that her words were not words of love. She was a large woman, with straight, black hair, that seemed to be always hanging about her face, and rather handsome features. She spent most of her time in playing jackstraws with us, or else lounging on the sofa; muttering in rapid succession the words of a small prayer-book, which Captain Vardell told us she always carried about her, as it had been consecrated and given to her by a Spanish priest. She appeared to us very much like a great overgrown baby; manifesting the most childish delight on winning a game, and equally angry when defeated. Once, when in extreme good-humor, she shewed us how to make beads resembling coral, from a certain paste which she manufactured; but we never could extract from her the names of the materials, and were obliged to content ourselves with making them under her direction.

Mrs. Vardell was so extremely lazy that she would never stoop to pick up anything she had dropped. If her handkerchief or prayer-book fell to the floor, she made motions for us to bring them to her; and when we sometimes mischievously pretended not to understand these signs, she would let the article remain until some one restored it to her. She never seemed to experience the least emotion of gratitude, and received all favors as a natural right. She was an extremely troublesome, exacting visitor, and we were not at all sorry when the time of her departure arrived.

My father had exerted himself on their behalf, and at the end of their visit handed Captain Vardell a handsome sum of money, collected from among his merchant friends and acquaintances. People were much more liberal then than now, and the case of the Vardells did not fail to call forth their sympathy and generosity. The Spanish lady made her adieus, if so they could be called, with an easy indifference–apparently considering her fellow-mortals as machines invented for her sole use and benefit. Captain Vardell presented us children with a handsome collection of shells, picked up on foreign shores during his numerous voyages; and some of them were very rare and beautiful. Most of them had a delicate pink tinge, like the outer leaves of a just-blown rose; and we amused ourselves fur a long time by arranging them in a glass-case which my father gave us for the purpose.

Among our visitors was an aunt of my mother’s who lived in Waterford, Connecticut; and being a widow, with quite a large farm to attend to, her visits were never of long duration. I became very much attached to her, for she often entertained us with long stories about the Revolution and the aggressions of the British soldiers–about which you shall hear when I come to tell you of the long visit I made there one summer. Aunt Henshaw was very proud of her farm and farming operations; her cattle and vegetables had several times won the prize at agricultural fairs, and she boasted that her land produced more than any of her neighbors’; who, being men, were of course expected to be more accomplished in such matters. She appeared to delight in giving away things, and seldom made us a visit without bringing something of her own raising. These little presents my father always repaid tenfold; and Aunt Henshaw departed without a new gown or hat, or something to show when she got home. I believe that we generally anticipated more pleasure from her visits than from any of the numerous friends who often favored us with their company.

But Aunt Henshaw, I must confess, won my heart less by her own individual merits than a present she once made me, which actually appeared to me like a windfall from the skies. I was always inordinately fond of reading, and my predelictions for fairy tales amounted to an actual passion. When Mammy and Jane’s ingenuity had been exhausted in framing instances of the marvellous for my special gratification, I would often fold my hands before my face, to shut out all actual scenes, and thus sit and dream of wonderful adventures with fairies, witches, and enchanted princesses. I was always happier in a reverie than in the company of others–my own ideals I could make as I chose–the real I must take as I found it. Castle-building is a pleasant but dangerous occupation; had I not been so much of an enthusiast, a day-dreamer, it would have been better for my happiness.

But to return to Aunt Henshaw and her present. Some school-mate one day told me of the varied wonders contained in the “Arabian Kights.” My imagination, always excitable, became worked up to a high pitch by tales of diamond caverns, flying horses, and mysterious Baloons under ground. If I went to sleep, it was to dream of gardens more beautiful than Paradise itself–of cooling fountains springing up at every step–of all sorts of impossible fruits growing just where you wanted them–and lamps and songs that gratified every wish. At length I could bear these tantalizing visions of unattainable pleasure no longer; I put on my bonnet and determined to go the whole rounds of the village until I met with some success. People wondered what ailed me that afternoon; I bolted directly into a room–asked if they had the Arabian Nights–and, on being answered in the negative, went out as expeditiously as I had gone in, and tried another acquaintance. I was not easily daunted, and took each one in succession, but all to no purpose; I returned home, fairly sick with disappointment, and hope delayed.

The very next day Aunt Henshaw came down on a visit; and placing in my hands an old-looking, leather-covered book, observed, “I happened to come across this stowed away in an old chest, Amy, and knowing your fondness for fairy tales, I have brought it for you to read.”

I scarcely heard what she said; I had glanced at the book, and on seeing “Arabian Nights” traced in large gilt letters, the ground seemed swimming before me, and I could scarcely contain my senses. Seizing the beloved book, I made my escape as quickly as possible; and mounting up to the cupola, a tiny room with glass sides, that commanded a view of the country round, I effectually secured myself against interruption, and soon became fascinated out of all remembrance. The day waned into evening–the shadows deepened around–I remember fixing my eyes on a brilliant star that seemed to come closer and closer, until it assumed a strangely beautiful form, and I lost all consciousness.

In the meantime a strict search for me had been going on below. They began to be alarmed at my continued absence; and after examining every room, the garden, and every spot on the premises, they sent around the neighborhood. I was known to be extremely fond of visiting, and every acquaintance was interrogated in turn–of course, without success. No one had thought of the cupola, and mamma was getting fairly frightened; when Mammy took a light, and on ascending to my dormitory, discovered me fast asleep, with the book tightly clasped to my bosom.

It afterwards yielded the boys as much delight as it had me; Fred, in particular, had a notion of trying experiments upon the plan there laid out. He had sat one afternoon for sometime with the book in his hands–apparently resolving some problem in his own mind; Mammy was stooping over the nursery fire, when she was suddenly startled by an unexpected shower of water sprinkled over her head and neck–Fred at the same time exclaiming, in a tone that seemed to doubt not: “I command you instantly to turn into a coal black mare!”

“I don’t know what would become of you, you good-for-naught, if I did!” returned Mammy.

Some years later I read “The Children of the Abbey,” and this opened a new field of thought. My dreams, instead of being peopled with fairies and genii, were now filled with distressed damsels who met with all sorts of persecutions and Quixotic adventures, and finally ended where they should have commenced.

CHAPTER VIII.

I had a boy-lover who always selected me as his partner in all our plays, and kept me in pointers with blue ribbons attached to them, to point out the towns on the large map in the school-room. Charles Tracy was about my own age, but in disposition and taste he resembled my brother Henry, and the two were quite inseparable; while his sister Ellen and I formed an acquaintance through the fence by displaying our dolls to each other–and this was the beginning of an intimacy that lasted a long time for children’s friendships.

Ellen possessed a charm which often caused me to experience the uncomfortable sensation of envy; her hair fell in long, golden-colored ringlets upon her neck and shoulders, and these same curls seemed to shake about so nicely whenever she moved her head. I sometimes thought that Ellen shook them about much more than was absolutely necessary; but at the same time they excited my warmest admiration. I felt as though I could do anything–go through with all sorts of difficulties to have my hair curl naturally; and with a feeling of unspeakable rapture I listened to Ellen one day as she told me in a mysterious whisper that the nurse had said eating crusts made her hair curl.

_Eating crusts!_ What a discovery!–I immediately felt ready to eat all the crusts in our house and every one else’s. I bribed the children to deliver up all their crusts to me, and commenced eating them with a voracity that excited the surprise of all the nursery inmates. But already, in perspective, I beheld my head adorned with long, glossy curls, and I persevered, despite the laughter I excited. I devoured crusts by the wholesale, but alas! no waving locks rewarded my patient toil; and at length I had the pleasure of hearing that the crust business was a fable, invented by Ellen’s nurse to induce that young lady to finish her odds and ends of bread, which she was very much disposed to scatter about the nursery. It was cruel, after being elevated to such a pinnacle of happiness, to find my hopes thus rudely dashed to the ground; and my hair seemed straighter than ever, from contrast with what I had expected it to be. Ellen was prevented from wasting her crusts, and so far it was well; but the nurse lost by her falsehood whatever respect I may have had for her–a loss which she perhaps did not regard as such, or indeed trouble herself at all about–but even a child’s good opinion is something.

I was very much inclined to be fleshy–too much so, I thought, for beauty of figure; and this was another great annoyance. People in speaking of us, always used to say: “What fine large children!” until I hated the very sound of it, and wished most earnestly for Ellen’s light, fairy-like figure. I once resolved to starve myself into growing thin; and, to Mammy’s great surprise, refused to taste the dinner she handed me, and resolutely persisted in going to bed without my supper. Mammy, good old soul! watched me narrowly, not having been let into the secret of my laudable resolve; and while she supposed that I had fallen into a restless slumber, I was in reality tossing about on my trundle bed, suffering the tantalizing pains of hunger. I remonstrated with myself in vain; heard all the _pros_ and _cons_ on both sides in this perplexing case of vanity _vs._ appetite, and finally resolved to satisfy my hunger, cost what it would.

But how to do this was the next question. Enticing slices of bread and butter kept dancing before my eyes; and at length, when I heard the snore which announced Mammy’s departure to the land of dreams, I rose as quietly as possible, and descended on a foraging expedition to the pantry. How very nice everything did look! I stood for a moment feasting my eyes with the sight, but oh, ill-timed delay! I had not tasted a single morsel, when a low whisper fell upon my ear, and on turning, I beheld Mammy gazing on me rather fearfully, while at her elbow stood Jane in night-gown and cap, who was violently rubbing her eyes in order to clear away the fancied mist, and thus convince herself that it was really the veritable _me_ who was about to perform such an unheroine-like part.

This discovery seemed to me exactly like those tantalizing dreams in which you are sitting down at a table covered with everything nice, but before you have time to taste anything your visions are rudely dispelled, and you wake and look in vain for the tempting paraphernalia. I once bore this in mind after being several times teased in this manner; and resolving not to be so deceived again, I succeeded in regaling myself with a mince-pie–which appeared to me quite in the light of a triumph. I now cast about me for some means to escape from this disagreeable dilemma; and having heard Mammy whisper to Jane: “How very wild she looks!” I found that they supposed me to be walking in my sleep, a practice to which I was somewhat addicted; and not seeing why sleep-walkers should not direct their course to the cupboard as well as anywhere else, I boldly seized a loaf and commenced an attack upon it.

“Let us wait and see what she will do,” whispered Mammy.

“It is very evident what she will do, now that she has the loaf in her hands,” replied Jane in a sleepy tone. “I do not believe that she is asleep at all, but just as wide awake as we are. I have read a story somewhere,” she continued, “of a French girl who succeeded in persuading people that she lived without eating; but at last some one watched the girl closely, and one night discovered her at the pantry, regaling herself with cold chicken sufficiently to go without eating for a week. Now, Miss Amy has eaten neither dinner nor supper, and she may be imitating the French girl, in order to be made a fuss with. I will speak to her and see.”

“Not for the world!” exclaimed Mammy in terror, as she grasped the more enterprising Jane. “Do not touch her–for I have heard of its killing people to be awakened suddenly while in this state.”

Jane obeyed, although her face still wore an incredulous expression; and I continued eating, looking as wild as possible all the time. The nursery-maid began at length to fear that I would put an end to my own life, if not spoken to; but Mammy still objected–murmuring as she watched my voracious performances; “Poor child! how hungry she must have been to come down and eat in her sleep! I wonder why she refused her tea?”

After a while, however, I became more sleepy than hungry; and Mammy and Jane kindly conveyed me back to my little bed, where I slept soundly till morning. I was not destined to reap much glory from this escapade–not even the glory of being a sleep-walker; for Jane, looking me steadily in the face, said: “Now, Miss Amy, I wish you to tell me truly whether you were asleep last night, when you went down into the pantry and devoured almost a whole loaf of bread! Now be a good girl, and tell the truth, for you frightened us very much.”

At first I pretended stupidity, and inquired, “what pantry?” and “what bread?” but Jane soon discovered that I knew very well; and while she looked at me so searchingly I could not possibly frame a plausible story–so, from sheer necessity, I told the whole truth, “and nothing but the truth.” My curious attempt at getting thin excited great amusement; but Mammy told me that she knew of a better way than that, which was to run up and down stairs as much as possible. I followed her advice until I became tired of it; and during that period I was universally acknowledged to be the most obliging child in the house, for I was quite indefatigable in running on other people’s errands. I became discouraged, though, when I found that I remained as fat as ever; and began tasking my brain for some other expedient.

I had gone to Ellen Tracy’s to enjoy a holiday; and, quite mad with spirits, we roamed hither and thither, scarcely knowing what to do with ourselves. At length Ellen proposed that we should go to “the boys’ room,” and go we accordingly did. We would have recognized it as the sanctum of two or three noisy urchins of the male gender, even had we not known it beforehand. On the dressing-table stood a top, half-a-dozen marbles, and a fishing-line; while the walls displayed various quaint devices of their own drawing. There was a something which, Ellen informed us, was intended for a ghost; but if so, he had a most undue proportion of flesh on his bones, and looked far more like a giant. We concluded to equip ourselves in male attire, for the sake of variety–being heartily tired of frocks and petticoats; and Ellen’s pretty curls having been tucked up under a round cap, she looked so fascinating that I felt quite ambitious to rival her–but in attempting to draw on one of Charles’ jackets, I found that it would not meet round my waist. Oh, mortification unspeakable! to find myself larger around the waist than a boy a whole year my senior! I could scarcely refrain from bursting into tears; forgetting that I belonged to the dumpling order, while Charles was as slender and straight as a young birch tree. My pleasure for that day was gone; in vain Ellen displayed her whole stock of worldly possessions to tempt my admiration. I scarcely bestowed a look on anything, and returned home perfectly miserable.

For days I kept my ears wide open in hopes of catching something that might relieve my distress, and at length I met with some success. I overheard a visitor telling my mother of some young lady, whose figure they had been admiring, that she was nothing at all without her corsets–a complete dumpling; and then followed a long digression on the impropriety of imposing upon the public in this manner; but for that I did not care–I determined to impose upon them too, as soon as I got a chance. Soon after, a school-mate encased me in a remarkably tight pair, during an afternoon’s visit; and having, as she said, ‘made me look quite genteel,’ I departed for home with the delightful consciousness of being ‘something of a figure.’ Before bed-time I had a romp in the garden with my wild brother and Charles Tracy; I experienced a feeling of suffocation, while running through the paths, that became quite insupportable.

“Why Amy!” exclaimed Charles as he grasped my arm, “What _is_ the matter? you look quite black in the face!” They all gathered around me, but unable to speak, I sank back into Charles Tracy’s arms, and lost all consciousness.

When I recovered, I found myself lying on my own little bed, with my mother bending fondly over me–the cause of all this trouble on a chair at my side–and Mammy, dear, good Mammy! regarding me with a puzzled look of surprise.

“Why, she actually fainted!” whispered Jane, “just dead away, like any grown person!”

“No,” replied Mammy, “the child was dreadfully squeezed, and that took away her breath. She’ll kill herself next, with some of her capers!”

Mamma now made a sign for them to be quiet, and stooping down close to my face, asked me how I felt. I tried to answer, “better;” but the words almost choked me, and I still experienced a difficulty in breathing. The evil consequences of this attempt at the graceful were but temporary, however; and the next morning, as I sat up quite recovered, a discussion took place between mamma and the old nurse on the propriety of equipping me at once in corsets to improve my figure. I soon experienced the delight of possessing a pair of my own; on which memorable occasion, I resolved that, like the old woman, I would “neither borrow nor lend;” but the present was conditional–on the first instance of my lacing too tight it was to be taken from me. I took care that this should never happen–that is, to such a degree as to expose myself to punishment; but in many a scene of enjoyment did I suffer the consequences of my foolish vanity. Often while music, and dancing, and everything contributed to render a children’s party delightful, I sat apart in a corner, or else went languidly through the figures of the dance, while every nerve throbbed with acute pain.

Ellen and I had for sometime noticed that Charles and Henry were more together than ever. They seldom associated with us now, or asked us to join them; Henry proved faithless with respect to a table he had promised my doll, and Charles refused, for the present, to dig his sister’s garden spot; therefore we put our two wise heads together and concluded that this must mean something. The moment school was out, the cap was hastily snatched from its nail in the entry, and they both sallied forth together–where, or for what purpose, we tried in vain to discover. On Saturdays they were constantly at work in the barn, hammering, and cutting, and shaving; and one day we detected them making, over a fire which they had built on bricks in the open air, something which smelt very much like molasses candy. But upon Ellen’s venturing to communicate this to Charles, he answered contemptuously that “it was just like girls!–always fancying that everything was something eatable!”

The two made a journey to town together, and came back laden with sundry parcels; and notwithstanding all this business, Henry found time to be very industrious in weeding the flower-beds, for which my father paid him so much an hour–and I noticed that he was uncommonly punctual in presenting his bills. Without being very penetrating, we discovered that the scheme, whatever it might be, was one that required a great deal of time, a great deal of shopping, and a great deal of money. We racked our brains in vain, and not a single mite of information could we extract from the boys; indeed, we might just as well have attacked two pine boards, for they pretended to be deaf as soon as we commenced our inquiries. Ellen began to be afraid that they meditated living on some wild island, like Robinson Crusoe, for she had seen Charles privately appropriate a hatchet, and a ball of twine; and I inclined to the opinion that they were both going to sea, and represented to Ellen how delightful it would be to have them making voyages and bringing us shells, and corals, and all sorts of curious things. But I was the greatest philosopher of the two, for my more timid playmate cried bitterly at the idea; and it was sometime before I could succeed in pacifying her.

We one day discovered the boys in an old barn on the premises; and waiting patiently near by until we saw them depart on some errand to the house, we perceived, to our great joy that the door was unfastened; and effecting a hasty entrance, we expected to be almost as well rewarded for our trouble as was Blue-beard’s wife on entering the forbidden chamber. But nothing could we see except a few old boxes turned upside down, and along one side a neat row of shelves. We perceived indeed that the small window now contained four panes of glass, and we also discovered two or three little shelves there. But here our discoveries ended; there was nothing to account for all the labor and privacy that had been going on for the last two or three weeks,–and quite in despair, we returned to the house before the boys discovered our prying.

Things continued in this state for sometime longer; and finding that all our efforts at discovery were not rewarded with the slightest success, we assumed an appearance of proud indifference, and pretended to be as much occupied with our dolls and baby-houses as they were with their barn. Now and then one of the boys, in the tantalizing spirit of mischief, would thrust a parcel under our very eyes, exclaiming at the same time: “Wouldn’t you like to see the inside, though? Confess, now, that you would give your very ears to know what’s in it!”

“Indeed, and we would not!” in great indignation, “not we! We supposed that it was some boys’ nonsense not worth talking about, and were quite occupied with our own affairs, without troubling ourselves about them.”

In a tone that sounded very much as though he were in earnest, Charles would continue: “Suppose, Henry, that we let them know what it is, if they promise not to tell–shall we?”

“By no means,” Henry would reply, with the air of a Socrates, “Women can never keep a secret–I have heard my father say so.”

“We were sure we didn’t want to hear their secrets!” and indignantly clipping away with our scissors, we turned a deaf ear to all further remarks. However, the secret did come to light after a while, and in a most unexpected manner.

We had just received a liberal allowance of pocket-money, and while Ellen and I deliberated on the various ways in which it might be spent to advantage, Henry asked us, with a perfectly grave face, if we had heard of the new store lately opened near us? _New_ store! Why there had never been any store at all, except the little stand kept by old Betty Tweednor, and now Henry spoke of the new store as though such a thing had ever existed. Certainly we had not heard of it; but resolving to remain no longer in ignorance, we seized our bonnets, and were ready to start in a moment. Henry looked very knowing and mysterious; but following his guidance, we soon found ourselves at the barn which had before excited our curiosity. Why, it had been turned into a regular shop! Rows of candies, better known among children as “barber’s-poles,” looked imposingly out of the window, and these were flanked by piles of pea-nuts, apples, &c. But all these would have been nothing without that delight of childhood–taffy-candy; and upon a further investigation, we discovered a very ingenious pair of clam-shell scales, with holes bored for strings to pass through, and suspended from a stout stick which was kept in its place by being fastened to an upright piece of wood at each end–the whole resting upon a very complete counter formed of old boxes. It looked exactly like a real store; and behind the counter stood Charles, as demure as possible,–while crowds of our schoolmates gazed, admired, and wondered.

A sign near the door informed passers that “the proprietors, grateful for past favors and the patronage of a liberal public, would continue the business under the firm of Chesbury and Tracy.” It would be a somewhat difficult task, we thought, to discover the favors and patronage alluded to; but the young merchants had concluded that this clause gave a dignity and air of reality to the whole. We experienced the pleasure of making purchases, weighed out to us from the much admired clam-shell scales, and were very particular in exacting full weight. Each sale was recorded in a small account book; and long after we had grown to the years of discretion, our mirth was excited by accidentally meeting with this juvenile record. So many purchases were made that afternoon, that the young storekeepers perceived with dismay the very visible decrease in their supplies. We accused them of retrenching considerably in their quantities, on this discovery, and thought that they were too inexperienced for so weighty an office.

Ellen and I often added to their stores by little pies and cakes which we manufactured at home; and in process of time their articles embraced such a variety that the shop became quite celebrated. Even mamma would sometimes come to make purchases; and the boy-merchants found their scheme a very profitable one. But alas! it vanished with the last summer breath; the early snows surrounded their little store, and all access became inconvenient. So they had a sale at prime cost–and we then obtained most wonderful bargains in the confectionary line. Finding himself quite wealthy now, Charles could well afford to be generous; and presented me with a new doll, and his sister Ellen with a miniature set of cups and saucers, over which we had many happy tea-drinkings. We received no presents from Henry, and heard nothing of his money; and it was not till some time after, and then through another source, that we learned that his portion had materially helped to keep a poor woman from freezing during the winter. My father often remarked of Henry, that “he was too generous and self-forgetful ever to be rich;” but there is no doubt that such have their reward–in their own consciences at least.

CHAPTER IX.

The winter wore rapidly away with sleigh-riding, snow-balling, and our usual parties; and spring, lovely spring! again made its appearance. Our flower-garden looked its very loveliest at this season; for it boasted countless stores of hyacinths, tulips, daffodils, blue-bells, violets, crocuses, &c. I remember so well when we first noticed the little green sprouts shooting up in spots from which the snow had melted; and on making this discovery, we always danced into the house and shouted out: “Spring has come!” It gladdened our very hearts to find the first little violet that dared to show its head above the ground; and then we ran to the peach-trees to look at the delicate pink buds that shot forth so curiously without any leaves. There was a warm sweet breath abroad upon the air that tossed our hair about, and fanned our flushed cheeks, and we knew that it was spring, sweet spring! that had come again to us. Oh, how delightful it was when, escaped from all watchful eyes, I could throw aside the troublesome sun-bonnet, that so obstructed my sight, and dig and delve at pleasure! Never in all my life have I been so happy as in these delightful spring days, when I roved about the paths with a heart full of happiness, and a sensation of thankfulness for the blessings I enjoyed.

Two circumstances contributed materially to immortalize this particular spring in my recollections: I then completed my tenth year, which I thought left me on the very threshold of womanhood, and we had two pet squirrels, who inhabited the locust trees in front of the house, with a tin cage to retire to at night–one of whom we called “blackey,” and the other “browney,” from their different colors.

“Blackey” was extremely mischievous, and rarely could be caught; but “browney” seemed a perfect paragon of gentleness and goodness–and I would seat myself on the steps, holding him for hours, and listening to the monotonous hum of the locusts, which always filled my heart with a sense of quiet happiness. Did you never sit watching the glorious sunbeams, as they fell on the soft, fresh grass, and with this low, soothing hum in your ears, feel that the earth was very beautiful? I have; but then I was a dreamer–an unmistakable, enthusiastic dreamer, and my fancies would, perhaps, be laughed at by the wise ones of earth.

To return to “browney;” my love cooled for him very suddenly one morning, as, with my finger in close proximity to his mouth, I sat and apostrophized him thus, “You dear, little angel, you! I love you dearly!” a sudden closing of sharp little teeth on my poor fingers put an end to my rhapsodies; and the “little angel” was most unceremoniously dropped on the ground, from whence he made his escape to his usual home, the locust tree–and I never again sought to entice him from his retreat. I ran about the walks as usual this spring, but it was with languor and indifference that I visited our usual haunts; and I wondered what it was that made my steps so very slow and dragging–it seemed as though a weight were tied on each heel. If I attempted a race with the boys, I was obliged to give up from very weariness; and laughing at what they termed my laziness, they pursued their amusements without me. Charles Tracy would now and then bring me a bunch of wild flowers; and to the surprise of all, I preferred sitting with them in my hands to joining in my usual noisy games. I grew pale and thin; and Mammy and Jane began to express their uneasiness about me, while I often noticed my mother’s eyes fixed upon me in tender solicitude.

I went to bed one night feeling restless and feverish. It was the latter part of April, and a small wood-fire still burned on the hearth; on the embers of which I fixed my eyes steadfastly, until strange shapes and burning eyes seemed moving about the quiet hearth. I was quite alone; Mammy had gone out to spend the evening, and Jane was taking her tea in the kitchen. Had it been for life or death I could not have spoken; I tried to scream–but a hollow sound rattled in my ears–and with the cold drops gathering on my forehead, I lay still, subdued, in a state of delirious agony. I was almost senseless; until at length, feeling a touch upon my arm, and a breathing at my side, I started wildly up, and eluding all pursuit, fled swiftly down the stair-case. I pressed my hand tightly on my throbbing head, and gaining the kitchen, burst suddenly in, exclaiming, “O! Jane! Jane! do not leave me again!” I sunk down insensible; and remember nothing but a scream of horror which proceeded from Jane, who, having just seated herself beside me as I sprang out of bed, had followed me in a state of breathless alarm to the kitchen.

When I again opened my eyes, it was about midnight. I had been conveyed to my mother’s room, and now experienced the delightful sensation of finding myself in a high bed, with curtains; while my head was raised up with pillows to an unusual height. In turning myself to obtain a better view of the surrounding scenery, I became conscious of a stiffness in my right arm; and fairly shuddered with horror on perceiving a basin of blood close to my bedside. But worse and worse! a few paces further off stood a grave-looking man, whom, from his very air, I knew to be a doctor. Nay, had I been at all doubtful on this point, the addition of a pair of spectacles would have convinced me at once–as this is an ornament especially pertaining to M. D.’s. I had always hated, loathed, dreaded a doctor as I would a nauseous object; and I now trembled to find myself in his power–fearing that he read my dislike in my face. Spectacles, too, disconcerted me; the glimmer of the polished glass seems to add new fire to the eyes beneath; and I now beheld a pair, eyes and all, levelled directly upon me. I shuddered at the very idea of a doctor, and could never sit still in the room with one; and now there stood that horrid man, evidently regarding me as his victim, while I felt too weak and sick to make the least resistance.

My aversion probably arose from the circumstance of once having had a loose front tooth pulled out–one that was just ready to jump out itself; which operation, I felt convinced, had left my system in a very shattered state. Often since did I torture myself for hours by mounting up on a table before the glass, and with a string tied around a loosened tooth, give it a little cowardly pull at intervals–lacking sufficient courage to rid myself of my trouble at once. I have sometimes sat in this interesting position for a whole morning; and should probably have continued it through the afternoon had not Fred, or Henry, perceiving my employment, come slyly behind me and caused me to start suddenly, which always dislodged the troublesome tooth.