What
impression
do you get of each person?
The Literary World - Seventh Reader
Describe the situation in which Percy and Diccon found
themselves. What preparations did the Indians make for the death of
the two men? How were they interrupted? Tell what happened after
the appearance of Nantaquas? How were the five days spent? How did
Nantaquas come to the rescue of the white men a second time? What
did Opechancanough do to try to deepen the impression of
friendship?
II. What happened on the way to Jamestown? Describe the scene when
Percy entered the governor's house. Give an account of the fight at
the palisade. Why was Nantaquas spared? What was the result of the
Indian attack? Give your opinion of Nantaquas. Of what Indian in
_The Last of the Mohicans_ does he remind you? Of whom does
Opechancanough remind you?
Find out all you can of life in Virginia at the time this story was
written. Compare the life there with the life in Plymouth colony.
SUPPLEMENTARY READING
Prisoners of Hope--Mary Johnston.
My Lady Pokahontas--John Esten Cooke.
The Wept of Wish-ton-wish--J. Fenimore Cooper.
Hiawatha--Henry W. Longfellow.
Old Virginia and Her Neighbors--John Fiske.
HARRY ESMOND'S BOYHOOD
_Henry Esmond_, by William Makepeace Thackeray, is considered one
of the greatest, if not the greatest, of historical novels. It
describes life in England during the first years of the eighteenth
century, dealing chiefly with people of wealth and high position.
"Harry Esmond's Boyhood" narrates the early career of the hero, who
was a poor orphan and an inmate of the family of his kinsman, the
Viscount of Castlewood.
Harry Esmond had lived to be past fourteen years old; had never
possessed but two friends, and had a fond and affectionate heart that
would fain attach itself to somebody, and did not seem at rest until it
had found a friend who would take charge of it.
At last he found such a friend in his new mistress, the lady of
Castlewood. The instinct which led Harry Esmond to admire and love the
gracious person, the fair apparition whose beauty and kindness had so
moved him when he first beheld her, became soon a devoted affection and
passion of gratitude, which entirely filled his young heart that as yet
had had very little kindness for which to be thankful.
There seemed, as the boy thought, in every look or gesture of this fair
creature, an angelical softness and bright pity--in motion or repose she
seemed gracious alike; the tone of her voice, though she uttered words
ever so trivial, gave him a pleasure that amounted almost to anguish. It
cannot be called love, that a lad of fourteen years of age felt for an
exalted lady, his mistress, but it was worship. To catch her glance; to
divine her errand, and run on it before she had spoken it; to watch,
follow, adore her, became the business of his life. Meanwhile, as is the
way often, his idol had idols of her own, and never thought of or
suspected the admiration of her little adorer.
My Lady had on her side three idols: first and foremost, [v]Jove and
supreme ruler, was her lord, Harry's patron, the good [v]Viscount of
Castlewood. All wishes of his were laws with her. If he had a headache,
she was ill. If he frowned, she trembled. If he joked, she smiled and
was charmed. If he went a-hunting, she was always at the window to see
him ride away. She made dishes for his dinner; spiced his wine for him;
hushed the house when he slept in his chair, and watched for a look when
he woke. Her eyes were never tired of looking at his face and wondering
at its perfection. Her little son was his son, and had his father's look
and curly brown hair. Her daughter Beatrix was his daughter, and had his
eyes--were there ever such beautiful eyes in the world? All the house
was arranged so as to bring him ease and give him pleasure.
Harry Esmond was happy in this pleasant home. The happiest period of all
his life was this; and the young mother, with her daughter and son, and
the orphan lad whom she protected, read and worked and played, and were
children together. If the lady looked forward--as what fond woman does
not? --toward the future, she had no plans from which Harry Esmond was
left out; and a thousand and a thousand times, in his passionate and
impetuous way, he vowed that no power should separate him from his
mistress; and only asked for some chance to happen by which he might
show his [v]fidelity to her.
The second fight which Harry Esmond had was at fourteen years of age,
with Bryan Hawkshaw, Sir John Hawkshaw's son, who, advancing the opinion
that Lady Castlewood henpecked my Lord, put Harry in so great a fury
that Harry fell on him and with such rage that the other boy, who was
two years older and far bigger than he, had by far the worst of the
assault. It was interrupted by Doctor Tusher, the clergyman, who was
just walking out of the dinner-room.
Bryan Hawkshaw got up bleeding at the nose, having indeed been
surprised, as many a stronger man might have been, by the fury of the
attack on him.
"You little beggar," he said, "I'll murder you for this. "
And indeed he was big enough.
"Beggar or not," said Harry, grinding his teeth, "I have a couple of
swords, and if you like to meet me, as man to man, on the terrace
to-night--"
And here, the doctor coming up, the [v]colloquy of the young champions
ended. Very likely, big as he was, Hawkshaw did not care to continue a
fight with such a ferocious opponent as this had been.
One day, some time later, Doctor Tusher ran into Castlewood House, with
a face of consternation, saying that smallpox had made its appearance at
the blacksmith's house in the village, which was also an alehouse, and
that one of the maids there was down with it.
Now, there was a pretty girl at this inn, called Nancy Sievewright, a
bouncing, fresh-looking lass, whose face was as red as the hollyhocks
over the pales of the garden behind the inn. Somehow it often happened
that Harry Esmond fell in with Nance Sievewright's bonny face. When
Doctor Tusher brought the news that the smallpox was at the
blacksmith's, Harry Esmond's first thought was of alarm for poor Nancy,
and then of shame and disquiet for the Castlewood family, lest he might
have brought this infection; for the truth is that Mr. Harry had been
sitting in a back room for an hour that day, where Nancy Sievewright was
with a little brother who complained of headache, and was lying crying
in a chair by the corner of the fire or in Nancy's lap.
Little Beatrix screamed at the news; and my Lord cried out, "God bless
me! " He was a brave man, and not afraid of death in any shape but this.
"We will take the children and ride away to Walcote," he said.
To love children and be gentle with them was an instinct rather than
merit in Harry Esmond; so much so that he thought almost with a feeling
of shame of his liking for them and of the softness into which it
betrayed him. On this day the poor fellow had not only had his young
friend, the milkmaid's brother, on his knee, but had been drawing
pictures and telling stories to the little Frank Castlewood, who was
never tired of Harry's tales and of his pictures of soldiers and horses.
As luck would have it, Beatrix had not on that evening taken her usual
place, which generally she was glad enough to have, on Harry's knee. For
Beatrix, from the earliest time, was jealous of every caress which was
given her little brother Frank. She would fling away even from the
[v]maternal arms, if she saw Frank had been there before her; insomuch
that Lady Esmond was obliged not to show her love for her son in
presence of the little girl, and embrace one or the other alone. Beatrix
would turn pale and red with rage if she caught signs of intelligence or
affection between Frank and his mother; would sit apart and not speak
for a whole night if she thought the boy had a better fruit or a larger
cake than hers; would fling away a ribbon if he had one, and would utter
[v]infantile sarcasms about the favor shown her brother.
So it chanced upon this very day, when poor Harry Esmond had had the
blacksmith's son and the [v]peer's son, alike upon his knee, little
Beatrix, who would come to him willingly enough with her book and
writing, had refused him, seeing the place occupied by her brother.
Luckily for her, she had sat at the farther end of the room, away from
him, playing with a spaniel dog which she had, and talking to Harry
Esmond over her shoulder, as she pretended to caress the dog, saying
that Fido would love her, and she would love Fido and nothing but Fido
all her life.
When, then, the news was brought that the little boy at the blacksmith's
was ill with the smallpox, poor Harry Esmond felt a shock of alarm, not
so much for himself as for his mistress's son, whom he might have
brought into peril. Beatrix, who had pouted sufficiently, her little
brother being now gone to bed, was for taking her place on Esmond's
knee. But as she advanced toward him, he started back and placed the
great chair on which he was sitting between him and her--saying in the
French language to Lady Castlewood, "Madam, the child must not approach
me. I must tell you that I was at the blacksmith's to-day and had his
little boy on my lap. "
"Where you took my son afterward," Lady Castlewood said, very angry and
turning red. "I thank you, sir, for giving him such company. Beatrix,"
she said in English, "I forbid you to touch Harry Esmond. Come away,
child; come to your room. And you, sir, had you not better go back to
the alehouse? "
Her eyes, ordinarily so kind, darted flashes of anger as she spoke; and
she tossed up her head (which hung down commonly) with the [v]mien of a
princess.
"Heyday! " said my Lord, who was standing by the fireplace, "Rachel, what
are you in a passion about? Though it does you good to get in a
passion--you look very handsome! "
"It is, my Lord, because Mr. Harry Esmond, having nothing to do with his
time here, and not having a taste for our company, has been to the
blacksmith's alehouse, where he has some friends. "
My Lord burst out with a laugh.
"Take Mistress Beatrix to bed," my Lady cried at this moment to her
woman, who came in with her Ladyship's tea. "Put her into my room--no,
into yours," she added quickly. "Go, my child: go, I say; not a word. "
And Beatrix, quite surprised at so sudden a tone of authority from one
who was seldom accustomed to raise her voice, went out of the room with
a scared face and waited even to burst out crying until she got
upstairs.
For once, her mother took little heed of her. "My Lord," she said, "this
young man--your relative--told me just now in French--he was ashamed to
speak in his own language--that he had been at the blacksmith's all day,
where he has had that little wretch who is now ill of the smallpox on
his knee. And he comes home reeking from that place--yes, reeking from
it--and takes my boy into his lap without shame, and sits down by me. He
may have killed Frank for what I know--killed our child! Why was he
brought in to disgrace our house? Why is he here? Let him go--let him
go, I say, and [v]pollute the place no more! "
She had never before uttered a syllable of unkindness to Harry Esmond,
and her cruel words smote the poor boy so that he stood for some moments
bewildered with grief and rage at the injustice of such a stab from such
a hand. He turned quite white from red, which he had been before.
"If my coming nigh your boy pollutes him," he said, "it was not so
always. Good-night, my Lord. Heaven bless you and yours for your
goodness to me. I have tired her Ladyship's kindness out, and I will
go. "
"He wants to go to the alehouse--let him go! " cried my Lady.
"I'll be hanged if he shall," said my Lord. "I didn't think you could be
so cruel, Rachel! "
Her reply was to burst into a flood of tears, and to quit the room with
a rapid glance at Harry Esmond, as my Lord put his broad hand on Harry's
shoulder.
In a little while my Lady came back, looking very pale, with a
handkerchief in her hand. Instantly advancing to Harry Esmond, she took
his hand. "I beg your pardon, Harry," she said. "I spoke very
unkindly. "
My Lord broke out: "There may be no harm done. Leave the boy alone. " She
looked a little red, and pressed the lad's hand as she dropped it.
"There is no use, my Lord," she said. "Frank was on his knee as he was
making pictures and was running constantly from Harry to me. The evil is
done, if any. "
"Not with me," cried my Lord. "I've been smoking. " And he lighted his
pipe again with a coal. "As the disease is in the village--plague take
it! --I would have you leave it. We'll go to-morrow to Walcote. "
"I have no fear," said my Lady. "I may have had it as an infant. "
"I won't run the risk," said my Lord. "I'm as bold as any man, but I'll
not bear that. "
"Take Beatrix with you and go," said my Lady. "For us the mischief is
done. "
My Lord, calling away Doctor Tusher, bade him come in the oak parlor and
have a pipe.
When the lady and the boy were alone, there was a silence of some
moments, during which he stood looking at the fire whilst her Ladyship
busied herself with the [v]tambour frame and needles.
"I am sorry," she said, after a pause, in a hard, dry voice--"I repeat I
am sorry that I said what I said. It was not at all my wish that you
should leave us, I am sure, unless you found pleasure elsewhere. But you
must see that, at your age, and with your tastes, it is impossible that
you can continue to stay upon the intimate footing in which you have
been in this family. You have wished to go to college, and I think 'tis
quite as well that you should be sent thither. I did not press the
matter, thinking you a child, as you are indeed in years--quite a child.
But now I shall beg my Lord to despatch you as quick as possible; and
will go on with Frank's learning as well as I can. And--and I wish you a
good night, Harry. "
With this she dropped a stately curtsy, and, taking her candle, went
away through the tapestry door, which led to her apartments. Esmond
stood by the fireplace, blankly staring after her. Indeed, he scarce
seemed to see until she was gone, and then her image was impressed upon
him and remained forever fixed upon his memory. He saw her retreating,
the taper lighting up her marble face, her scarlet lip quivering, and
her shining golden hair. He went to his own room and to bed, but could
not get to sleep until daylight, and woke with a violent headache.
He had brought the contagion with him from the alehouse, sure enough,
and was presently laid up with the smallpox, which spared the hall no
more than it did the cottage.
When Harry Esmond had passed through the [v]crisis of the [v]malady and
returned to health again, he found that little Frank Esmond had also
suffered and rallied from the disease, and that his mother was down
with it. Nor could young Esmond agree in Doctor Tusher's [v]vehement
protestations to my Lady, when he visited her during her
[v]convalescence, that the malady had not in the least impaired her
charms; whereas, in spite of these fine speeches, Harry thought that her
Ladyship's beauty was very much injured by the smallpox. The delicacy of
her rosy complexion was gone; her eyes had lost their brilliancy, her
hair fell, and she looked older. When Tusher in his courtly way vowed
and protested that my Lady's face was none the worse, the lad broke out
and said, "It is worse, and my mistress is not near so handsome as she
was. " On this poor Lady Castlewood gave a [v]rueful smile and a look
into a little mirror she had, which showed her, I suppose, that what the
stupid boy said was only too true, for she turned away from the glass
and her eyes filled with tears.
The sight of these always created a sort of rage of pity in Esmond's
heart, and seeing them on the face of the lady whom he loved best, the
young blunderer sank down on his knees and besought her to pardon him,
saying that he was a fool and an idiot. Doctor Tusher told him that he
was a bear, and a bear he would remain, at which speech poor Harry was
so dumb-stricken that he did not even growl.
"He is my bear, and I will not have him baited, doctor," said my Lady,
putting her hand kindly on the boy's head, as he was still kneeling at
her feet. "How your hair has come off! And mine, too! " she added with
another sigh.
"It is not for myself that I care," my Lady said to Harry, when the
parson had taken his leave; "but am I very much changed! Alas! I fear
'tis too true. "
"Madam, you have the dearest, and kindest, and sweetest face in the
world, I think," the lad said; and indeed he thought so.
For Harry Esmond his benefactress' sweet face had lost none of its
charms. It had always the kindest of looks and smiles for him--and
beauty of every sort. She would call him "Mr. Tutor," and she herself,
as well as the two children, went to school to him. Of the pupils the
two young people were but lazy scholars, and my Lord's son only learned
what he liked, which was but little. Mistress Beatrix chattered French
prettily, and sang sweetly, but this from her mother's teaching, not
Harry Esmond's. But if the children were careless, 'twas a wonder how
eagerly the mother learned from her young tutor--and taught him, too.
She saw the [v]latent beauties and hidden graces in books; and the
happiest hours of young Esmond's life were those passed in the company
of this kind mistress and her children.
These happy days were to end soon, however; and it was by Lady
Castlewood's own decree that they were brought to a conclusion. It
happened about Christmas-tide, Harry Esmond being now past sixteen
years of age. A messenger came from Winchester one day, bearer of the
news that my Lady's aunt was dead and had left her fortune of £2,000
among her six nieces. Many a time afterward Harry Esmond recalled the
flushed face and eager look wherewith, after this intelligence, his kind
lady regarded him. When my Lord heard of the news, he did not make any
long face. "The money will come very handy to furnish the music-room and
the [v]cellar," he said, "which is getting low, and buy your Ladyship a
coach and a couple of horses. Beatrix, you shall have a [v]spinet; and
Frank, you shall have a little horse from Hexton fair; and Harry, you
shall have five pounds to buy some books. " So spoke my Lord, who was
generous with his own, and indeed with other folks' money. "I wish your
aunt would die once a year, Rachel; we could spend your money, and all
your sisters', too. "
"I have but one aunt--and--and I have another use for the money," said
my Lady, turning red.
"Another use, my dear; and what do you know about money? " cried my Lord.
"I intend it for Harry Esmond to go to college. Cousin Harry," said my
Lady, "you mustn't stay any longer in this dull place, but make a name
for yourself. "
"Is Harry going away? You don't mean to say you will go away? " cried out
Beatrix and Frank at one breath.
"But he will come back, and this will always be his home," replied my
Lady, with blue eyes looking a celestial kindness; "and his scholars
will always love him, won't they? "
"Rachel, you're a good woman," said my Lord. "I wish you joy, my
kinsman," he continued, giving Harry Esmond a hearty slap on the
shoulder, "I won't balk your luck. Go to Cambridge, boy. "
When Harry Esmond went away for Cambridge, little Frank ran alongside
his horse as far as the bridge, and there Harry stopped for a moment and
looked back at the house where the best part of his life had been
passed. And Harry remembered, all his life after, how he saw his
mistress at the window looking out on him, the little Beatrix's chestnut
curls resting at her mother's side. Both waved a farewell to him, and
little Frank sobbed to leave him.
The village people had good-bye to say to him, too. All knew that Master
Harry was going to college, and most of them had a kind word and a look
of farewell. And with these things in mind, he rode out into the world.
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.
=HELPS TO STUDY=
Tell what you find out about the household in which Harry Esmond
lived.
What impression do you get of each person? What trouble did
Harry bring upon the family? What change occurred in his life and
now?
SUPPLEMENTARY READING
The Virginians--William Makepeace Thackeray.
The Sir Roger de Coverley Papers--Steele and Addison.
THE FAMILY HOLDS ITS HEAD UP
The story is an extract from Oliver Goldsmith's famous novel, _The
Vicar of Wakefield_. In this book Goldsmith describes the fortunes
of the family of Doctor Primrose, a Church of England clergyman of
the middle of the eighteenth century. The novel is considered a
most faithful picture of English country life in that period.
The home I had come to as [v]vicar was in a little neighborhood
consisting of farmers who tilled their own grounds and were equal
strangers to [v]opulence and poverty. As they had almost all the
conveniences of life within themselves, they seldom visited towns or
cities in search of [v]superfluity. Remote from the polite, they still
retained the [v]primeval simplicity of manners; and, frugal by habit,
they scarce knew that temperance was a virtue. They wrought with
cheerfulness on days of labor, but observed festivals as intervals of
idleness and pleasure. They kept up the Christmas carol, sent love-knots
on Valentine morning, ate pancakes on [v]Shrovetide, showed their wit on
the first of April, and religiously cracked nuts on [v]Michaelmas-eve.
Being apprised of our approach, the whole neighborhood came out to meet
their minister, dressed in their finest clothes and preceded by a
[v]pipe and [v]tabor: a feast, also, was provided for our reception, at
which we sat cheerfully down, and what the conversation wanted in wit
was made up in laughter.
Our little habitation was situated at the foot of a sloping hill,
sheltered with a beautiful underwood behind, and a prattling river
before; on one side a meadow, on the other a green. My farm consisted of
about twenty acres of excellent land. Nothing could exceed the neatness
of my little enclosures, the elms and hedgerows appearing with
inexpressible beauty. My house consisted of but one story, and was
covered with [v]thatch, which gave it an air of great snugness; the
walls on the inside were nicely whitewashed, and my daughters undertook
to adorn them with pictures of their own designing. Though the same room
served us for parlor and kitchen, that only made it the warmer. Besides,
as it was kept with the utmost neatness,--the dishes, plates and coppers
being well scoured and all disposed in bright rows on the shelves--the
eye was agreeably relieved and did not want richer furniture. There were
three other apartments: one for my wife and me; another for our two
daughters within our own; and the third, with two beds, for the rest of
the children.
The little republic to which I gave laws was regulated in the following
manner: by sunrise we all assembled in our common apartment, the fire
being previously kindled by the servant. After we had saluted each other
with proper ceremony--for I always thought fit to keep up some
mechanical forms of good breeding, without which freedom ever destroys
friendship--we all bent in gratitude to that Being who gave us another
day. This duty performed, my son and I went to pursue our usual industry
abroad, while my wife and daughters employed themselves in providing
breakfast, which was always ready at a certain time. I allowed half an
hour for this meal, and an hour for dinner, which time was taken up in
innocent mirth between my wife and daughters, and in [v]philosophical
arguments between my son and me.
As we rose with the sun, so we never pursued our labors after it was
gone down, but returned home to the expecting family, where smiling
looks, a neat hearth, and a pleasant fire were prepared for our
reception. Nor were we without guests; sometimes Farmer Flamborough, our
talkative neighbor, and often a blind piper, would pay us a visit and
taste our gooseberry wine, for the making of which we had lost neither
the recipe nor the reputation. These harmless people had several ways of
being good company; while one played, the other would sing some soothing
ballad--"Johnny Armstrong's Last Good-Night," or "The Cruelty of Barbara
Allen. " The night was concluded in the manner we began the morning, my
youngest boys being appointed to read the lessons of the day; and he
that read loudest, distinctest and best was to have an halfpenny on
Sunday to put into the poor-box. This encouraged in them a wholesome
rivalry to do good.
When Sunday came, it was, indeed, a day of finery, which all my
[v]sumptuary edicts could not restrain. How well soever I fancied my
lectures against pride had conquered the vanity of my daughters, yet I
still found them secretly attached to all their former finery; they
still loved laces, ribbons, and bugles, and my wife herself retained a
passion for her crimson [v]paduasoy, because I formerly happened to say
it became her.
The first Sunday, in particular, their behavior served to mortify me. I
had desired my girls the preceding night to be dressed early the next
day, for I always loved to be at church a good while before the rest of
the congregation. They punctually obeyed my directions; but when we were
to assemble in the morning at breakfast, down came my wife and
daughters, dressed out in all their former splendor--their hair
plastered up with [v]pomatum, their faces [v]patched to taste, their
trains bundled up in a heap behind and rustling at every motion. I could
not help smiling at their vanity, particularly that of my wife, from
whom I expected more discretion. In this [v]exigence, therefore, my only
resource was to order my son, with an important air, to call our coach.
The girls were amazed at the command, but I repeated it, with more
solemnity than before.
"Surely, you jest! " cried my wife. "We can walk perfectly well; we want
no coach to carry us now. "
"You mistake, child," returned I; "we do want a coach, for if we walk
to church in this trim, the very children in the parish will hoot after
us. "
"Indeed! " replied my wife. "I always imagined that my Charles was fond
of seeing his children neat and handsome about him. "
"You may be as neat as you please," interrupted I, "and I shall love you
the better for it; but all this is not neatness, but frippery. These
rufflings and pinkings and patchings will only make us hated by all the
wives of our neighbors. No, my children," continued I, more gravely,
"those gowns must be altered into something of a plainer cut, for finery
is very unbecoming in us who want the means of [v]decency. "
This remonstrance had the proper effect. They went with great composure,
that very instant, to change their dress; and the next day I had the
satisfaction of finding my daughters, at their own request, employed in
cutting up their trains into Sunday waist-coats for Dick and Bill, the
two little ones; and, what was still more satisfactory, the gowns seemed
improved by this [v]curtailing.
But the reformation lasted but for a short while. My wife and daughters
were visited by the wives of some of the richer neighbors and by a
squire who lived near by, on whom they set more store than on the plain
farmers' wives who were nearer us in worldly station. I now began to
find that all my long and painful lectures upon temperance, simplicity,
and contentment were entirely disregarded. Some distinctions lately
paid us by our betters awakened that pride which I had laid asleep, but
not removed. Our windows again, as formerly, were filled with washes for
the neck and face. The sun was dreaded as an enemy to the skin without
doors and the fire as a spoiler of the complexion within. My wife
observed that rising too early would hurt her daughters' eyes, that
working after dinner would redden their noses, and she convinced me that
the hands never looked so white as when they did nothing.
Instead, therefore, of finishing George's shirts, we now had the girls
new-modeling their old gauzes. The poor Miss Flamboroughs, their former
gay companions, were cast off as mean acquaintance, and the whole
conversation ran upon high life and high-lived company, with pictures,
taste, and Shakespeare.
But we could have borne all this, had not a fortune-telling gypsy come
to raise us into perfect [v]sublimity. The tawny [v]sibyl no sooner
appeared than my girls came running to me for a shilling apiece to cross
her hand with silver. To say the truth, I was tired of being always
wise, and could not help gratifying their request, because I loved to
see them happy. I gave each of them a shilling; after they had been
closeted up with the fortune-teller for some time, I knew by their
looks, upon their returning, that they had been promised something
great.
"Well, my girls, how have you sped? Tell me, Livy, has the
fortune-teller given thee a penny-worth? "
"She positively declared that I am to be married to a squire in less
than a twelvemonth. "
"Well, now, Sophy, my child," said I, "and what sort of husband are you
to have? "
"I am to have a lord soon after my sister has married the squire," she
replied.
"How," cried I, "is that all you are to have for your two shillings?
Only a lord and a squire for two shillings! You fools, I could have
promised you a prince and a [v]nabob for half the money. "
This curiosity of theirs, however, was attended with very serious
effects. We now began to think ourselves designed by the stars to
something exalted, and already anticipated our future grandeur.
In this agreeable time my wife had the most lucky dreams in the world,
which she took care to tell us every morning, with great solemnity and
exactness. It was one night a coffin and cross-bones, the sign of an
approaching wedding; at another time she imagined her daughters' pockets
filled with farthings, a certain sign they would shortly be stuffed with
gold. The girls themselves had their omens. They saw rings in the
candle, purses bounced from the fire, and love-knots lurked in the
bottom of every teacup.
Toward the end of the week we received a card from two town ladies, in
which, with their compliments, they hoped to see our family at church
the Sunday following. All Saturday morning I could perceive, in
consequence of this, my wife and daughters in close conference together,
and now and then glancing at me with looks that betrayed a [v]latent
plot. To be sincere, I had strong suspicions that some absurd proposal
was preparing for appearing with splendor the next day. In the evening
they began their operations in a very regular manner, and my wife
undertook to conduct the siege. After tea, when I seemed in fine
spirits, she began thus:
"I fancy, Charles, my dear, we shall have a great deal of good company
at our church to-morrow. "
"Perhaps we may, my dear," returned I, "though you need be under no
uneasiness about that; you shall have a sermon, whether there be or
not. "
"That is what I expect," returned she; "but I think, my dear, we ought
to appear there as decently as possible, for who knows what may happen? "
"Your precautions," replied I, "are highly commendable. A decent
behavior and appearance in church is what charms me. We should be devout
and humble, cheerful and serene. "
"Yes," cried she, "I know that; but I mean we should go there in as
proper a manner as possible; not like the scrubs about us. "
"You are quite right, my dear," returned I, "and I was going to make the
same proposal. The proper manner of going is to go as early as
possible, to have time for meditation before the sermon begins. "
"Phoo! Charles," interrupted she, "all that is very true, but not what I
would be at. I mean, we should go there [v]genteelly. You know the
church is two miles off, and I protest I don't like to see my daughters
trudging up to their pew all blowzed and red with walking, and looking
for all the world as if they had been winners at a [v]smock race. Now,
my dear, my proposal is this: there are our two plough-horses, the colt
that has been in our family these nine years and his companion,
Blackberry, that has scarce done an earthly thing for this month past.
They are both grown fat and lazy. Why should they not do something as
well as we? And let me tell you, when Moses has trimmed them a little,
they will cut a very tolerable figure. "
To this proposal I objected that walking would be twenty times more
genteel than such a paltry conveyance, as Blackberry was wall-eyed, and
the colt wanted a tail; that they had never been broken to the rein, but
had an hundred vicious tricks, and that we had but one saddle and
[v]pillion in the whole house. All these objections, however, were
overruled, so that I was obliged to comply.
The next morning I perceived them not a little busy in collecting such
materials as might be necessary for the expedition; but as I found it
would be a business of time, I walked on to the church before, and they
promised speedily to follow. I waited near an hour in the reading desk
for their arrival; but not finding them come as I expected, I was
obliged to begin, and went through the service, not without some
uneasiness at finding them absent.
This was increased when all was finished, and no appearance of the
family. I therefore walked back by the horseway, which was five miles
round, though the footway was but two; and when I had got about half-way
home, I perceived the procession marching slowly forward toward the
church--my son, my wife, and the two little ones exalted on one horse,
and my two daughters upon the other. It was then very near dinner-time.
I demanded the cause of their delay, but I soon found, by their looks,
that they had met with a thousand misfortunes on the road. The horses
had, at first, refused to move from the door, till a neighbor was kind
enough to beat them forward for about two hundred yards with his cudgel.
Next, the straps of my wife's pillion broke down, and they were obliged
to stop to repair them before they could proceed. After that, one of the
horses took it into his head to stand still, and neither blows nor
entreaties could prevail with him to proceed. They were just recovering
from this dismal situation when I found them; but, perceiving everything
safe, I own their mortification did not much displease me, as it gave
me many opportunities of future triumph, and would teach my daughters
more humility.
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
=HELPS TO STUDY=
Describe the neighborhood and the home to which the vicar took his
family; also their manner of living. Relate the two attempts the
ladies made to appear at church in great style. What happened to
raise the hopes of better days for the daughters? How were these
hopes encouraged? What superstitions did the wife and daughters
believe? Give your opinion of the vicar and of each member of the
family.
SUPPLEMENTARY READING
The School for Scandal--Richard Brinsley Sheridan.
She Stoops to Conquer--Oliver Goldsmith.
Life of Oliver Goldsmith--Washington Irving.
David Copperfield--Charles Dickens.
Barnaby Rudge--Charles Dickens.
Some have too much, yet still do crave;
I little have, and seek no more.
They are but poor, though much they have,
And I am rich with little store:
They poor, I rich; they beg, I give;
They lack, I leave; they pine, I live.
SIR EDWARD DYER.
THE LITTLE BOY IN THE BALCONY
My special amusement in New York is riding on the elevated railway. It
is curious to note how little one can see on the crowded sidewalks of
this city. It is simply a rush of the same people--hurrying this way or
that on the same errands, doing the same shopping or eating at the same
restaurants. It is a [v]kaleidoscope with infinite combinations but the
same effects. You see it to-day, and it is the same as yesterday.
Occasionally in the multitude you hit upon a [v]_genre_ specimen, or an
odd detail, such as a prim little dog that sits upright all day and
holds in its mouth a cup for pennies for its blind master, or an old
bookseller, with a grand head and the deliberate motions of a scholar,
moldering in a stall--but the general effect is one of sameness and soon
tires and bewilders.
Once on the elevated road, however, a new world is opened, full of the
most interesting objects. The cars sweep by the upper stories of the
houses, and, running never too swiftly to allow observation, disclose
the secrets of a thousand homes, and bring to view people and things
never dreamed of by the giddy, restless crowd that sends its impatient
murmur from the streets below. In a course of several months' pretty
steady riding from Twenty-third Street, which is the station for the
Fifth Avenue Hotel, to Rector, which overlooks Wall Street, I have made
many acquaintances along the route, and on reaching the city my first
curiosity is in their behalf.
One of these is a boy about six years of age--akin in his fragile body
and his serious mien--a youngster that is very precious to me. I first
saw this boy on a little balcony about three feet by four, projecting
from the window of a poverty-stricken fourth floor. He was leaning over
the railing, his white, thoughtful head just clearing the top, holding a
short, round stick in his hand. The little fellow made a pathetic
picture, all alone there above the street, so friendless and desolate,
and his pale face came between me and my business many a time that day.
On going uptown that evening just as night was falling, I saw him still
at his place, white and patient and silent.
Every day afterward I saw him there, always with the short stick in his
hand. Occasionally he would walk around the balcony, rattling the stick
in a solemn manner against the railing, or poke it across from one
corner to another and sit on it. This was the only playing I ever saw
him do, and the stick was the only plaything he had. But he was never
without it. His little hand always held it, and I pictured him every
morning when he awoke from his joyless sleep, picking up his poor toy
and going out to his balcony, as other boys go to play. Or perhaps he
slept with it, as little ones do with dolls and whip-tops.
I could see that the room beyond the window was bare. I never saw any
one in it. The heat must have been terrible, for it could have had no
ventilation. Once I missed the boy from the balcony, but saw his white
head moving about slowly in the dusk of the room. Gradually the little
fellow became a burden to me. I found myself continually thinking of
him, and troubled with that remorse that thoughtless people feel even
for suffering for which they are not in the slightest degree
responsible. Not that I ever saw any suffering on his face. It was
patient, thoughtful, serious, but with never a sign of petulance. What
thoughts filled that young head--what contemplation took the place of
what should have been the [v]ineffable upspringing of childish
emotion--what complaint or questioning were living behind that white
face--no one could guess. In an older person the face would have
betokened a resignation that found peace in the hope of things
hereafter. In this child, without hope or aspiration, it was sad beyond
expression.
One day as I passed I nodded at him. He made no sign in return. I
repeated the nod on another trip, waving my hand at him--but without
avail. At length, in response to an unusually winning exhortation, his
pale lips trembled into a smile, but a smile that was soberness itself.
Wherever I went that day that smile went with me. Wherever I saw
children playing in the parks, or trotting along with their hands
nestled in strong fingers that guided and protected, I thought of that
tiny watcher in the balcony--joyless, hopeless, friendless--a desolate
mite, hanging between the blue sky and the gladsome streets, lifting his
wistful face now to the peaceful heights of the one, and now looking
with grave wonder on the ceaseless tumult of the other. At length--but
why go any further? Why is it necessary to tell that the boy had no
father, that his mother was bedridden from his birth, and that his
sister pasted labels in a drug-house, and he was thus left to himself.
It is sufficient to say that I went to Coney Island yesterday, and
watched the bathers and the children--listened to the crisp, lingering
music of the waves--ate a robust lunch on the pier--wandered in and out
among the booths, tents, and hub-bub--and that through all these
pleasures I had a companion that enjoyed them with a gravity that I can
never hope to [v]emulate, but with a soulfulness that was touching. As I
came back in the boat, the breezes singing through the [v]cordage, music
floating from the fore-deck, and the sun lighting with its dying rays
the shipping that covered the river, there was sitting in front of me a
very pale but very happy bit of a boy, open-eyed with wonder, but sober
and self-contained, clasping tightly in his little fingers a short,
battered stick. And finally, whenever I pass by a certain overhanging
balcony now, I am sure of a smile from an intimate and esteemed friend
who lives there.
HENRY W. GRADY.
ARIEL'S TRIUMPH[141-*]
This story is taken from Booth Tarkington's novel, _The Conquest of
Canaan_, which gives an admirable description of modern life in an
American town. Joe Louden, the hero, and Ariel Tabor, the heroine,
were both friendless and, in a way, forlorn. How both of them
triumphed over obstacles and won success and happiness is the theme
of a book which is notable for keen observation of character and
for a quiet and delightful humor.
I
Ariel had worked all the afternoon over her mother's wedding-gown, and
two hours were required by her toilet for the dance. She curled her hair
frizzily, burning it here and there, with a slate-pencil heated over a
lamp-chimney, and she placed above one ear three or four large
artificial roses, taken from an old hat of her mother's, which she had
found in a trunk in the store-room. Possessing no slippers, she
carefully blacked and polished her shoes, which had been clumsily
resoled, and fastened into the strings of each small rosettes of red
ribbon; after which she practised swinging the train of her skirt until
she was proud of her manipulation of it.
She had no powder, but found in her grandfather's room a lump of
magnesia, which he was in the habit of taking for heartburn, and passed
it over and over her brown face and hands. Then a lingering gaze into
her small mirror gave her joy at last; she yearned so hard to see
herself charming that she did see herself so. Admiration came, and she
told herself that she was more attractive to look at than she had ever
been in her life, and that, perhaps, at last she might begin to be
sought for like other girls. The little glass showed a sort of
prettiness in her thin, unmatured young face; tripping dance-tunes ran
through her head, her feet keeping the time--ah, she did so hope to
dance often that night! Perhaps--perhaps she might be asked for every
number. And so, wrapping an old water-proof cloak about her, she took
her grandfather's arm and sallied forth, with high hopes in her beating
heart.
It was in the dressing-room that the change began to come. Alone, at
home in her own ugly little room, she had thought herself almost
beautiful; but here in the brightly lighted chamber crowded with the
other girls it was different. There was a big [v]cheval-glass at one end
of the room, and she faced it, when her turn came--for the mirror was
popular--with a sinking spirit. There was the contrast, like a picture
painted and framed. The other girls all wore their hair after the
fashion introduced to Canaan by Mamie Pike the week before, on her
return from a visit to Chicago. None of them had "crimped" and none had
bedecked their tresses with artificial flowers. Her alterations of the
wedding-dress had not been successful; the skirt was too short in front
and higher on one side than on the other, showing too plainly the
heavy-soled shoes, which had lost most of their polish in the walk
through the snow. The ribbon rosettes were fully revealed, and as she
glanced at their reflection, she heard the words, "Look at that train
and those rosettes! " whispered behind her, and saw in the mirror two
pretty young women turn away with their handkerchiefs over their mouths
and retreat hurriedly to an alcove. All the feet in the room except
Ariel's were in dainty kid or satin slippers of the color of the dresses
from which they glimmered out, and only Ariel wore a train.
She went away from the mirror and pretended to be busy with a hanging
thread in her sleeve.
She was singularly an alien in the chattering room, although she had
been born and had lived all her life in the town. Perhaps her position
among the young ladies may be best defined by the remark, generally
current among them that evening, to the effect that it was "very sweet
of Mamie to invite her. " Ariel was not like the others; she was not of
them, and never had been. Indeed, she did not know them very well. Some
of them nodded to her and gave her a word of greeting pleasantly; all of
them whispered about her with wonder and suppressed amusement, but none
talked to her. They were not unkindly, but they were young and eager and
excited over their own interests,--which were then in the "gentlemen's
dressing-room. "
Each of the other girls had been escorted by a youth of the place, and,
one by one, joining these escorts in the hall outside the door, they
descended the stairs, until only Ariel was left. She came down alone
after the first dance had begun, and greeted her young hostess's mother
timidly. Mrs.
themselves. What preparations did the Indians make for the death of
the two men? How were they interrupted? Tell what happened after
the appearance of Nantaquas? How were the five days spent? How did
Nantaquas come to the rescue of the white men a second time? What
did Opechancanough do to try to deepen the impression of
friendship?
II. What happened on the way to Jamestown? Describe the scene when
Percy entered the governor's house. Give an account of the fight at
the palisade. Why was Nantaquas spared? What was the result of the
Indian attack? Give your opinion of Nantaquas. Of what Indian in
_The Last of the Mohicans_ does he remind you? Of whom does
Opechancanough remind you?
Find out all you can of life in Virginia at the time this story was
written. Compare the life there with the life in Plymouth colony.
SUPPLEMENTARY READING
Prisoners of Hope--Mary Johnston.
My Lady Pokahontas--John Esten Cooke.
The Wept of Wish-ton-wish--J. Fenimore Cooper.
Hiawatha--Henry W. Longfellow.
Old Virginia and Her Neighbors--John Fiske.
HARRY ESMOND'S BOYHOOD
_Henry Esmond_, by William Makepeace Thackeray, is considered one
of the greatest, if not the greatest, of historical novels. It
describes life in England during the first years of the eighteenth
century, dealing chiefly with people of wealth and high position.
"Harry Esmond's Boyhood" narrates the early career of the hero, who
was a poor orphan and an inmate of the family of his kinsman, the
Viscount of Castlewood.
Harry Esmond had lived to be past fourteen years old; had never
possessed but two friends, and had a fond and affectionate heart that
would fain attach itself to somebody, and did not seem at rest until it
had found a friend who would take charge of it.
At last he found such a friend in his new mistress, the lady of
Castlewood. The instinct which led Harry Esmond to admire and love the
gracious person, the fair apparition whose beauty and kindness had so
moved him when he first beheld her, became soon a devoted affection and
passion of gratitude, which entirely filled his young heart that as yet
had had very little kindness for which to be thankful.
There seemed, as the boy thought, in every look or gesture of this fair
creature, an angelical softness and bright pity--in motion or repose she
seemed gracious alike; the tone of her voice, though she uttered words
ever so trivial, gave him a pleasure that amounted almost to anguish. It
cannot be called love, that a lad of fourteen years of age felt for an
exalted lady, his mistress, but it was worship. To catch her glance; to
divine her errand, and run on it before she had spoken it; to watch,
follow, adore her, became the business of his life. Meanwhile, as is the
way often, his idol had idols of her own, and never thought of or
suspected the admiration of her little adorer.
My Lady had on her side three idols: first and foremost, [v]Jove and
supreme ruler, was her lord, Harry's patron, the good [v]Viscount of
Castlewood. All wishes of his were laws with her. If he had a headache,
she was ill. If he frowned, she trembled. If he joked, she smiled and
was charmed. If he went a-hunting, she was always at the window to see
him ride away. She made dishes for his dinner; spiced his wine for him;
hushed the house when he slept in his chair, and watched for a look when
he woke. Her eyes were never tired of looking at his face and wondering
at its perfection. Her little son was his son, and had his father's look
and curly brown hair. Her daughter Beatrix was his daughter, and had his
eyes--were there ever such beautiful eyes in the world? All the house
was arranged so as to bring him ease and give him pleasure.
Harry Esmond was happy in this pleasant home. The happiest period of all
his life was this; and the young mother, with her daughter and son, and
the orphan lad whom she protected, read and worked and played, and were
children together. If the lady looked forward--as what fond woman does
not? --toward the future, she had no plans from which Harry Esmond was
left out; and a thousand and a thousand times, in his passionate and
impetuous way, he vowed that no power should separate him from his
mistress; and only asked for some chance to happen by which he might
show his [v]fidelity to her.
The second fight which Harry Esmond had was at fourteen years of age,
with Bryan Hawkshaw, Sir John Hawkshaw's son, who, advancing the opinion
that Lady Castlewood henpecked my Lord, put Harry in so great a fury
that Harry fell on him and with such rage that the other boy, who was
two years older and far bigger than he, had by far the worst of the
assault. It was interrupted by Doctor Tusher, the clergyman, who was
just walking out of the dinner-room.
Bryan Hawkshaw got up bleeding at the nose, having indeed been
surprised, as many a stronger man might have been, by the fury of the
attack on him.
"You little beggar," he said, "I'll murder you for this. "
And indeed he was big enough.
"Beggar or not," said Harry, grinding his teeth, "I have a couple of
swords, and if you like to meet me, as man to man, on the terrace
to-night--"
And here, the doctor coming up, the [v]colloquy of the young champions
ended. Very likely, big as he was, Hawkshaw did not care to continue a
fight with such a ferocious opponent as this had been.
One day, some time later, Doctor Tusher ran into Castlewood House, with
a face of consternation, saying that smallpox had made its appearance at
the blacksmith's house in the village, which was also an alehouse, and
that one of the maids there was down with it.
Now, there was a pretty girl at this inn, called Nancy Sievewright, a
bouncing, fresh-looking lass, whose face was as red as the hollyhocks
over the pales of the garden behind the inn. Somehow it often happened
that Harry Esmond fell in with Nance Sievewright's bonny face. When
Doctor Tusher brought the news that the smallpox was at the
blacksmith's, Harry Esmond's first thought was of alarm for poor Nancy,
and then of shame and disquiet for the Castlewood family, lest he might
have brought this infection; for the truth is that Mr. Harry had been
sitting in a back room for an hour that day, where Nancy Sievewright was
with a little brother who complained of headache, and was lying crying
in a chair by the corner of the fire or in Nancy's lap.
Little Beatrix screamed at the news; and my Lord cried out, "God bless
me! " He was a brave man, and not afraid of death in any shape but this.
"We will take the children and ride away to Walcote," he said.
To love children and be gentle with them was an instinct rather than
merit in Harry Esmond; so much so that he thought almost with a feeling
of shame of his liking for them and of the softness into which it
betrayed him. On this day the poor fellow had not only had his young
friend, the milkmaid's brother, on his knee, but had been drawing
pictures and telling stories to the little Frank Castlewood, who was
never tired of Harry's tales and of his pictures of soldiers and horses.
As luck would have it, Beatrix had not on that evening taken her usual
place, which generally she was glad enough to have, on Harry's knee. For
Beatrix, from the earliest time, was jealous of every caress which was
given her little brother Frank. She would fling away even from the
[v]maternal arms, if she saw Frank had been there before her; insomuch
that Lady Esmond was obliged not to show her love for her son in
presence of the little girl, and embrace one or the other alone. Beatrix
would turn pale and red with rage if she caught signs of intelligence or
affection between Frank and his mother; would sit apart and not speak
for a whole night if she thought the boy had a better fruit or a larger
cake than hers; would fling away a ribbon if he had one, and would utter
[v]infantile sarcasms about the favor shown her brother.
So it chanced upon this very day, when poor Harry Esmond had had the
blacksmith's son and the [v]peer's son, alike upon his knee, little
Beatrix, who would come to him willingly enough with her book and
writing, had refused him, seeing the place occupied by her brother.
Luckily for her, she had sat at the farther end of the room, away from
him, playing with a spaniel dog which she had, and talking to Harry
Esmond over her shoulder, as she pretended to caress the dog, saying
that Fido would love her, and she would love Fido and nothing but Fido
all her life.
When, then, the news was brought that the little boy at the blacksmith's
was ill with the smallpox, poor Harry Esmond felt a shock of alarm, not
so much for himself as for his mistress's son, whom he might have
brought into peril. Beatrix, who had pouted sufficiently, her little
brother being now gone to bed, was for taking her place on Esmond's
knee. But as she advanced toward him, he started back and placed the
great chair on which he was sitting between him and her--saying in the
French language to Lady Castlewood, "Madam, the child must not approach
me. I must tell you that I was at the blacksmith's to-day and had his
little boy on my lap. "
"Where you took my son afterward," Lady Castlewood said, very angry and
turning red. "I thank you, sir, for giving him such company. Beatrix,"
she said in English, "I forbid you to touch Harry Esmond. Come away,
child; come to your room. And you, sir, had you not better go back to
the alehouse? "
Her eyes, ordinarily so kind, darted flashes of anger as she spoke; and
she tossed up her head (which hung down commonly) with the [v]mien of a
princess.
"Heyday! " said my Lord, who was standing by the fireplace, "Rachel, what
are you in a passion about? Though it does you good to get in a
passion--you look very handsome! "
"It is, my Lord, because Mr. Harry Esmond, having nothing to do with his
time here, and not having a taste for our company, has been to the
blacksmith's alehouse, where he has some friends. "
My Lord burst out with a laugh.
"Take Mistress Beatrix to bed," my Lady cried at this moment to her
woman, who came in with her Ladyship's tea. "Put her into my room--no,
into yours," she added quickly. "Go, my child: go, I say; not a word. "
And Beatrix, quite surprised at so sudden a tone of authority from one
who was seldom accustomed to raise her voice, went out of the room with
a scared face and waited even to burst out crying until she got
upstairs.
For once, her mother took little heed of her. "My Lord," she said, "this
young man--your relative--told me just now in French--he was ashamed to
speak in his own language--that he had been at the blacksmith's all day,
where he has had that little wretch who is now ill of the smallpox on
his knee. And he comes home reeking from that place--yes, reeking from
it--and takes my boy into his lap without shame, and sits down by me. He
may have killed Frank for what I know--killed our child! Why was he
brought in to disgrace our house? Why is he here? Let him go--let him
go, I say, and [v]pollute the place no more! "
She had never before uttered a syllable of unkindness to Harry Esmond,
and her cruel words smote the poor boy so that he stood for some moments
bewildered with grief and rage at the injustice of such a stab from such
a hand. He turned quite white from red, which he had been before.
"If my coming nigh your boy pollutes him," he said, "it was not so
always. Good-night, my Lord. Heaven bless you and yours for your
goodness to me. I have tired her Ladyship's kindness out, and I will
go. "
"He wants to go to the alehouse--let him go! " cried my Lady.
"I'll be hanged if he shall," said my Lord. "I didn't think you could be
so cruel, Rachel! "
Her reply was to burst into a flood of tears, and to quit the room with
a rapid glance at Harry Esmond, as my Lord put his broad hand on Harry's
shoulder.
In a little while my Lady came back, looking very pale, with a
handkerchief in her hand. Instantly advancing to Harry Esmond, she took
his hand. "I beg your pardon, Harry," she said. "I spoke very
unkindly. "
My Lord broke out: "There may be no harm done. Leave the boy alone. " She
looked a little red, and pressed the lad's hand as she dropped it.
"There is no use, my Lord," she said. "Frank was on his knee as he was
making pictures and was running constantly from Harry to me. The evil is
done, if any. "
"Not with me," cried my Lord. "I've been smoking. " And he lighted his
pipe again with a coal. "As the disease is in the village--plague take
it! --I would have you leave it. We'll go to-morrow to Walcote. "
"I have no fear," said my Lady. "I may have had it as an infant. "
"I won't run the risk," said my Lord. "I'm as bold as any man, but I'll
not bear that. "
"Take Beatrix with you and go," said my Lady. "For us the mischief is
done. "
My Lord, calling away Doctor Tusher, bade him come in the oak parlor and
have a pipe.
When the lady and the boy were alone, there was a silence of some
moments, during which he stood looking at the fire whilst her Ladyship
busied herself with the [v]tambour frame and needles.
"I am sorry," she said, after a pause, in a hard, dry voice--"I repeat I
am sorry that I said what I said. It was not at all my wish that you
should leave us, I am sure, unless you found pleasure elsewhere. But you
must see that, at your age, and with your tastes, it is impossible that
you can continue to stay upon the intimate footing in which you have
been in this family. You have wished to go to college, and I think 'tis
quite as well that you should be sent thither. I did not press the
matter, thinking you a child, as you are indeed in years--quite a child.
But now I shall beg my Lord to despatch you as quick as possible; and
will go on with Frank's learning as well as I can. And--and I wish you a
good night, Harry. "
With this she dropped a stately curtsy, and, taking her candle, went
away through the tapestry door, which led to her apartments. Esmond
stood by the fireplace, blankly staring after her. Indeed, he scarce
seemed to see until she was gone, and then her image was impressed upon
him and remained forever fixed upon his memory. He saw her retreating,
the taper lighting up her marble face, her scarlet lip quivering, and
her shining golden hair. He went to his own room and to bed, but could
not get to sleep until daylight, and woke with a violent headache.
He had brought the contagion with him from the alehouse, sure enough,
and was presently laid up with the smallpox, which spared the hall no
more than it did the cottage.
When Harry Esmond had passed through the [v]crisis of the [v]malady and
returned to health again, he found that little Frank Esmond had also
suffered and rallied from the disease, and that his mother was down
with it. Nor could young Esmond agree in Doctor Tusher's [v]vehement
protestations to my Lady, when he visited her during her
[v]convalescence, that the malady had not in the least impaired her
charms; whereas, in spite of these fine speeches, Harry thought that her
Ladyship's beauty was very much injured by the smallpox. The delicacy of
her rosy complexion was gone; her eyes had lost their brilliancy, her
hair fell, and she looked older. When Tusher in his courtly way vowed
and protested that my Lady's face was none the worse, the lad broke out
and said, "It is worse, and my mistress is not near so handsome as she
was. " On this poor Lady Castlewood gave a [v]rueful smile and a look
into a little mirror she had, which showed her, I suppose, that what the
stupid boy said was only too true, for she turned away from the glass
and her eyes filled with tears.
The sight of these always created a sort of rage of pity in Esmond's
heart, and seeing them on the face of the lady whom he loved best, the
young blunderer sank down on his knees and besought her to pardon him,
saying that he was a fool and an idiot. Doctor Tusher told him that he
was a bear, and a bear he would remain, at which speech poor Harry was
so dumb-stricken that he did not even growl.
"He is my bear, and I will not have him baited, doctor," said my Lady,
putting her hand kindly on the boy's head, as he was still kneeling at
her feet. "How your hair has come off! And mine, too! " she added with
another sigh.
"It is not for myself that I care," my Lady said to Harry, when the
parson had taken his leave; "but am I very much changed! Alas! I fear
'tis too true. "
"Madam, you have the dearest, and kindest, and sweetest face in the
world, I think," the lad said; and indeed he thought so.
For Harry Esmond his benefactress' sweet face had lost none of its
charms. It had always the kindest of looks and smiles for him--and
beauty of every sort. She would call him "Mr. Tutor," and she herself,
as well as the two children, went to school to him. Of the pupils the
two young people were but lazy scholars, and my Lord's son only learned
what he liked, which was but little. Mistress Beatrix chattered French
prettily, and sang sweetly, but this from her mother's teaching, not
Harry Esmond's. But if the children were careless, 'twas a wonder how
eagerly the mother learned from her young tutor--and taught him, too.
She saw the [v]latent beauties and hidden graces in books; and the
happiest hours of young Esmond's life were those passed in the company
of this kind mistress and her children.
These happy days were to end soon, however; and it was by Lady
Castlewood's own decree that they were brought to a conclusion. It
happened about Christmas-tide, Harry Esmond being now past sixteen
years of age. A messenger came from Winchester one day, bearer of the
news that my Lady's aunt was dead and had left her fortune of £2,000
among her six nieces. Many a time afterward Harry Esmond recalled the
flushed face and eager look wherewith, after this intelligence, his kind
lady regarded him. When my Lord heard of the news, he did not make any
long face. "The money will come very handy to furnish the music-room and
the [v]cellar," he said, "which is getting low, and buy your Ladyship a
coach and a couple of horses. Beatrix, you shall have a [v]spinet; and
Frank, you shall have a little horse from Hexton fair; and Harry, you
shall have five pounds to buy some books. " So spoke my Lord, who was
generous with his own, and indeed with other folks' money. "I wish your
aunt would die once a year, Rachel; we could spend your money, and all
your sisters', too. "
"I have but one aunt--and--and I have another use for the money," said
my Lady, turning red.
"Another use, my dear; and what do you know about money? " cried my Lord.
"I intend it for Harry Esmond to go to college. Cousin Harry," said my
Lady, "you mustn't stay any longer in this dull place, but make a name
for yourself. "
"Is Harry going away? You don't mean to say you will go away? " cried out
Beatrix and Frank at one breath.
"But he will come back, and this will always be his home," replied my
Lady, with blue eyes looking a celestial kindness; "and his scholars
will always love him, won't they? "
"Rachel, you're a good woman," said my Lord. "I wish you joy, my
kinsman," he continued, giving Harry Esmond a hearty slap on the
shoulder, "I won't balk your luck. Go to Cambridge, boy. "
When Harry Esmond went away for Cambridge, little Frank ran alongside
his horse as far as the bridge, and there Harry stopped for a moment and
looked back at the house where the best part of his life had been
passed. And Harry remembered, all his life after, how he saw his
mistress at the window looking out on him, the little Beatrix's chestnut
curls resting at her mother's side. Both waved a farewell to him, and
little Frank sobbed to leave him.
The village people had good-bye to say to him, too. All knew that Master
Harry was going to college, and most of them had a kind word and a look
of farewell. And with these things in mind, he rode out into the world.
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.
=HELPS TO STUDY=
Tell what you find out about the household in which Harry Esmond
lived.
What impression do you get of each person? What trouble did
Harry bring upon the family? What change occurred in his life and
now?
SUPPLEMENTARY READING
The Virginians--William Makepeace Thackeray.
The Sir Roger de Coverley Papers--Steele and Addison.
THE FAMILY HOLDS ITS HEAD UP
The story is an extract from Oliver Goldsmith's famous novel, _The
Vicar of Wakefield_. In this book Goldsmith describes the fortunes
of the family of Doctor Primrose, a Church of England clergyman of
the middle of the eighteenth century. The novel is considered a
most faithful picture of English country life in that period.
The home I had come to as [v]vicar was in a little neighborhood
consisting of farmers who tilled their own grounds and were equal
strangers to [v]opulence and poverty. As they had almost all the
conveniences of life within themselves, they seldom visited towns or
cities in search of [v]superfluity. Remote from the polite, they still
retained the [v]primeval simplicity of manners; and, frugal by habit,
they scarce knew that temperance was a virtue. They wrought with
cheerfulness on days of labor, but observed festivals as intervals of
idleness and pleasure. They kept up the Christmas carol, sent love-knots
on Valentine morning, ate pancakes on [v]Shrovetide, showed their wit on
the first of April, and religiously cracked nuts on [v]Michaelmas-eve.
Being apprised of our approach, the whole neighborhood came out to meet
their minister, dressed in their finest clothes and preceded by a
[v]pipe and [v]tabor: a feast, also, was provided for our reception, at
which we sat cheerfully down, and what the conversation wanted in wit
was made up in laughter.
Our little habitation was situated at the foot of a sloping hill,
sheltered with a beautiful underwood behind, and a prattling river
before; on one side a meadow, on the other a green. My farm consisted of
about twenty acres of excellent land. Nothing could exceed the neatness
of my little enclosures, the elms and hedgerows appearing with
inexpressible beauty. My house consisted of but one story, and was
covered with [v]thatch, which gave it an air of great snugness; the
walls on the inside were nicely whitewashed, and my daughters undertook
to adorn them with pictures of their own designing. Though the same room
served us for parlor and kitchen, that only made it the warmer. Besides,
as it was kept with the utmost neatness,--the dishes, plates and coppers
being well scoured and all disposed in bright rows on the shelves--the
eye was agreeably relieved and did not want richer furniture. There were
three other apartments: one for my wife and me; another for our two
daughters within our own; and the third, with two beds, for the rest of
the children.
The little republic to which I gave laws was regulated in the following
manner: by sunrise we all assembled in our common apartment, the fire
being previously kindled by the servant. After we had saluted each other
with proper ceremony--for I always thought fit to keep up some
mechanical forms of good breeding, without which freedom ever destroys
friendship--we all bent in gratitude to that Being who gave us another
day. This duty performed, my son and I went to pursue our usual industry
abroad, while my wife and daughters employed themselves in providing
breakfast, which was always ready at a certain time. I allowed half an
hour for this meal, and an hour for dinner, which time was taken up in
innocent mirth between my wife and daughters, and in [v]philosophical
arguments between my son and me.
As we rose with the sun, so we never pursued our labors after it was
gone down, but returned home to the expecting family, where smiling
looks, a neat hearth, and a pleasant fire were prepared for our
reception. Nor were we without guests; sometimes Farmer Flamborough, our
talkative neighbor, and often a blind piper, would pay us a visit and
taste our gooseberry wine, for the making of which we had lost neither
the recipe nor the reputation. These harmless people had several ways of
being good company; while one played, the other would sing some soothing
ballad--"Johnny Armstrong's Last Good-Night," or "The Cruelty of Barbara
Allen. " The night was concluded in the manner we began the morning, my
youngest boys being appointed to read the lessons of the day; and he
that read loudest, distinctest and best was to have an halfpenny on
Sunday to put into the poor-box. This encouraged in them a wholesome
rivalry to do good.
When Sunday came, it was, indeed, a day of finery, which all my
[v]sumptuary edicts could not restrain. How well soever I fancied my
lectures against pride had conquered the vanity of my daughters, yet I
still found them secretly attached to all their former finery; they
still loved laces, ribbons, and bugles, and my wife herself retained a
passion for her crimson [v]paduasoy, because I formerly happened to say
it became her.
The first Sunday, in particular, their behavior served to mortify me. I
had desired my girls the preceding night to be dressed early the next
day, for I always loved to be at church a good while before the rest of
the congregation. They punctually obeyed my directions; but when we were
to assemble in the morning at breakfast, down came my wife and
daughters, dressed out in all their former splendor--their hair
plastered up with [v]pomatum, their faces [v]patched to taste, their
trains bundled up in a heap behind and rustling at every motion. I could
not help smiling at their vanity, particularly that of my wife, from
whom I expected more discretion. In this [v]exigence, therefore, my only
resource was to order my son, with an important air, to call our coach.
The girls were amazed at the command, but I repeated it, with more
solemnity than before.
"Surely, you jest! " cried my wife. "We can walk perfectly well; we want
no coach to carry us now. "
"You mistake, child," returned I; "we do want a coach, for if we walk
to church in this trim, the very children in the parish will hoot after
us. "
"Indeed! " replied my wife. "I always imagined that my Charles was fond
of seeing his children neat and handsome about him. "
"You may be as neat as you please," interrupted I, "and I shall love you
the better for it; but all this is not neatness, but frippery. These
rufflings and pinkings and patchings will only make us hated by all the
wives of our neighbors. No, my children," continued I, more gravely,
"those gowns must be altered into something of a plainer cut, for finery
is very unbecoming in us who want the means of [v]decency. "
This remonstrance had the proper effect. They went with great composure,
that very instant, to change their dress; and the next day I had the
satisfaction of finding my daughters, at their own request, employed in
cutting up their trains into Sunday waist-coats for Dick and Bill, the
two little ones; and, what was still more satisfactory, the gowns seemed
improved by this [v]curtailing.
But the reformation lasted but for a short while. My wife and daughters
were visited by the wives of some of the richer neighbors and by a
squire who lived near by, on whom they set more store than on the plain
farmers' wives who were nearer us in worldly station. I now began to
find that all my long and painful lectures upon temperance, simplicity,
and contentment were entirely disregarded. Some distinctions lately
paid us by our betters awakened that pride which I had laid asleep, but
not removed. Our windows again, as formerly, were filled with washes for
the neck and face. The sun was dreaded as an enemy to the skin without
doors and the fire as a spoiler of the complexion within. My wife
observed that rising too early would hurt her daughters' eyes, that
working after dinner would redden their noses, and she convinced me that
the hands never looked so white as when they did nothing.
Instead, therefore, of finishing George's shirts, we now had the girls
new-modeling their old gauzes. The poor Miss Flamboroughs, their former
gay companions, were cast off as mean acquaintance, and the whole
conversation ran upon high life and high-lived company, with pictures,
taste, and Shakespeare.
But we could have borne all this, had not a fortune-telling gypsy come
to raise us into perfect [v]sublimity. The tawny [v]sibyl no sooner
appeared than my girls came running to me for a shilling apiece to cross
her hand with silver. To say the truth, I was tired of being always
wise, and could not help gratifying their request, because I loved to
see them happy. I gave each of them a shilling; after they had been
closeted up with the fortune-teller for some time, I knew by their
looks, upon their returning, that they had been promised something
great.
"Well, my girls, how have you sped? Tell me, Livy, has the
fortune-teller given thee a penny-worth? "
"She positively declared that I am to be married to a squire in less
than a twelvemonth. "
"Well, now, Sophy, my child," said I, "and what sort of husband are you
to have? "
"I am to have a lord soon after my sister has married the squire," she
replied.
"How," cried I, "is that all you are to have for your two shillings?
Only a lord and a squire for two shillings! You fools, I could have
promised you a prince and a [v]nabob for half the money. "
This curiosity of theirs, however, was attended with very serious
effects. We now began to think ourselves designed by the stars to
something exalted, and already anticipated our future grandeur.
In this agreeable time my wife had the most lucky dreams in the world,
which she took care to tell us every morning, with great solemnity and
exactness. It was one night a coffin and cross-bones, the sign of an
approaching wedding; at another time she imagined her daughters' pockets
filled with farthings, a certain sign they would shortly be stuffed with
gold. The girls themselves had their omens. They saw rings in the
candle, purses bounced from the fire, and love-knots lurked in the
bottom of every teacup.
Toward the end of the week we received a card from two town ladies, in
which, with their compliments, they hoped to see our family at church
the Sunday following. All Saturday morning I could perceive, in
consequence of this, my wife and daughters in close conference together,
and now and then glancing at me with looks that betrayed a [v]latent
plot. To be sincere, I had strong suspicions that some absurd proposal
was preparing for appearing with splendor the next day. In the evening
they began their operations in a very regular manner, and my wife
undertook to conduct the siege. After tea, when I seemed in fine
spirits, she began thus:
"I fancy, Charles, my dear, we shall have a great deal of good company
at our church to-morrow. "
"Perhaps we may, my dear," returned I, "though you need be under no
uneasiness about that; you shall have a sermon, whether there be or
not. "
"That is what I expect," returned she; "but I think, my dear, we ought
to appear there as decently as possible, for who knows what may happen? "
"Your precautions," replied I, "are highly commendable. A decent
behavior and appearance in church is what charms me. We should be devout
and humble, cheerful and serene. "
"Yes," cried she, "I know that; but I mean we should go there in as
proper a manner as possible; not like the scrubs about us. "
"You are quite right, my dear," returned I, "and I was going to make the
same proposal. The proper manner of going is to go as early as
possible, to have time for meditation before the sermon begins. "
"Phoo! Charles," interrupted she, "all that is very true, but not what I
would be at. I mean, we should go there [v]genteelly. You know the
church is two miles off, and I protest I don't like to see my daughters
trudging up to their pew all blowzed and red with walking, and looking
for all the world as if they had been winners at a [v]smock race. Now,
my dear, my proposal is this: there are our two plough-horses, the colt
that has been in our family these nine years and his companion,
Blackberry, that has scarce done an earthly thing for this month past.
They are both grown fat and lazy. Why should they not do something as
well as we? And let me tell you, when Moses has trimmed them a little,
they will cut a very tolerable figure. "
To this proposal I objected that walking would be twenty times more
genteel than such a paltry conveyance, as Blackberry was wall-eyed, and
the colt wanted a tail; that they had never been broken to the rein, but
had an hundred vicious tricks, and that we had but one saddle and
[v]pillion in the whole house. All these objections, however, were
overruled, so that I was obliged to comply.
The next morning I perceived them not a little busy in collecting such
materials as might be necessary for the expedition; but as I found it
would be a business of time, I walked on to the church before, and they
promised speedily to follow. I waited near an hour in the reading desk
for their arrival; but not finding them come as I expected, I was
obliged to begin, and went through the service, not without some
uneasiness at finding them absent.
This was increased when all was finished, and no appearance of the
family. I therefore walked back by the horseway, which was five miles
round, though the footway was but two; and when I had got about half-way
home, I perceived the procession marching slowly forward toward the
church--my son, my wife, and the two little ones exalted on one horse,
and my two daughters upon the other. It was then very near dinner-time.
I demanded the cause of their delay, but I soon found, by their looks,
that they had met with a thousand misfortunes on the road. The horses
had, at first, refused to move from the door, till a neighbor was kind
enough to beat them forward for about two hundred yards with his cudgel.
Next, the straps of my wife's pillion broke down, and they were obliged
to stop to repair them before they could proceed. After that, one of the
horses took it into his head to stand still, and neither blows nor
entreaties could prevail with him to proceed. They were just recovering
from this dismal situation when I found them; but, perceiving everything
safe, I own their mortification did not much displease me, as it gave
me many opportunities of future triumph, and would teach my daughters
more humility.
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
=HELPS TO STUDY=
Describe the neighborhood and the home to which the vicar took his
family; also their manner of living. Relate the two attempts the
ladies made to appear at church in great style. What happened to
raise the hopes of better days for the daughters? How were these
hopes encouraged? What superstitions did the wife and daughters
believe? Give your opinion of the vicar and of each member of the
family.
SUPPLEMENTARY READING
The School for Scandal--Richard Brinsley Sheridan.
She Stoops to Conquer--Oliver Goldsmith.
Life of Oliver Goldsmith--Washington Irving.
David Copperfield--Charles Dickens.
Barnaby Rudge--Charles Dickens.
Some have too much, yet still do crave;
I little have, and seek no more.
They are but poor, though much they have,
And I am rich with little store:
They poor, I rich; they beg, I give;
They lack, I leave; they pine, I live.
SIR EDWARD DYER.
THE LITTLE BOY IN THE BALCONY
My special amusement in New York is riding on the elevated railway. It
is curious to note how little one can see on the crowded sidewalks of
this city. It is simply a rush of the same people--hurrying this way or
that on the same errands, doing the same shopping or eating at the same
restaurants. It is a [v]kaleidoscope with infinite combinations but the
same effects. You see it to-day, and it is the same as yesterday.
Occasionally in the multitude you hit upon a [v]_genre_ specimen, or an
odd detail, such as a prim little dog that sits upright all day and
holds in its mouth a cup for pennies for its blind master, or an old
bookseller, with a grand head and the deliberate motions of a scholar,
moldering in a stall--but the general effect is one of sameness and soon
tires and bewilders.
Once on the elevated road, however, a new world is opened, full of the
most interesting objects. The cars sweep by the upper stories of the
houses, and, running never too swiftly to allow observation, disclose
the secrets of a thousand homes, and bring to view people and things
never dreamed of by the giddy, restless crowd that sends its impatient
murmur from the streets below. In a course of several months' pretty
steady riding from Twenty-third Street, which is the station for the
Fifth Avenue Hotel, to Rector, which overlooks Wall Street, I have made
many acquaintances along the route, and on reaching the city my first
curiosity is in their behalf.
One of these is a boy about six years of age--akin in his fragile body
and his serious mien--a youngster that is very precious to me. I first
saw this boy on a little balcony about three feet by four, projecting
from the window of a poverty-stricken fourth floor. He was leaning over
the railing, his white, thoughtful head just clearing the top, holding a
short, round stick in his hand. The little fellow made a pathetic
picture, all alone there above the street, so friendless and desolate,
and his pale face came between me and my business many a time that day.
On going uptown that evening just as night was falling, I saw him still
at his place, white and patient and silent.
Every day afterward I saw him there, always with the short stick in his
hand. Occasionally he would walk around the balcony, rattling the stick
in a solemn manner against the railing, or poke it across from one
corner to another and sit on it. This was the only playing I ever saw
him do, and the stick was the only plaything he had. But he was never
without it. His little hand always held it, and I pictured him every
morning when he awoke from his joyless sleep, picking up his poor toy
and going out to his balcony, as other boys go to play. Or perhaps he
slept with it, as little ones do with dolls and whip-tops.
I could see that the room beyond the window was bare. I never saw any
one in it. The heat must have been terrible, for it could have had no
ventilation. Once I missed the boy from the balcony, but saw his white
head moving about slowly in the dusk of the room. Gradually the little
fellow became a burden to me. I found myself continually thinking of
him, and troubled with that remorse that thoughtless people feel even
for suffering for which they are not in the slightest degree
responsible. Not that I ever saw any suffering on his face. It was
patient, thoughtful, serious, but with never a sign of petulance. What
thoughts filled that young head--what contemplation took the place of
what should have been the [v]ineffable upspringing of childish
emotion--what complaint or questioning were living behind that white
face--no one could guess. In an older person the face would have
betokened a resignation that found peace in the hope of things
hereafter. In this child, without hope or aspiration, it was sad beyond
expression.
One day as I passed I nodded at him. He made no sign in return. I
repeated the nod on another trip, waving my hand at him--but without
avail. At length, in response to an unusually winning exhortation, his
pale lips trembled into a smile, but a smile that was soberness itself.
Wherever I went that day that smile went with me. Wherever I saw
children playing in the parks, or trotting along with their hands
nestled in strong fingers that guided and protected, I thought of that
tiny watcher in the balcony--joyless, hopeless, friendless--a desolate
mite, hanging between the blue sky and the gladsome streets, lifting his
wistful face now to the peaceful heights of the one, and now looking
with grave wonder on the ceaseless tumult of the other. At length--but
why go any further? Why is it necessary to tell that the boy had no
father, that his mother was bedridden from his birth, and that his
sister pasted labels in a drug-house, and he was thus left to himself.
It is sufficient to say that I went to Coney Island yesterday, and
watched the bathers and the children--listened to the crisp, lingering
music of the waves--ate a robust lunch on the pier--wandered in and out
among the booths, tents, and hub-bub--and that through all these
pleasures I had a companion that enjoyed them with a gravity that I can
never hope to [v]emulate, but with a soulfulness that was touching. As I
came back in the boat, the breezes singing through the [v]cordage, music
floating from the fore-deck, and the sun lighting with its dying rays
the shipping that covered the river, there was sitting in front of me a
very pale but very happy bit of a boy, open-eyed with wonder, but sober
and self-contained, clasping tightly in his little fingers a short,
battered stick. And finally, whenever I pass by a certain overhanging
balcony now, I am sure of a smile from an intimate and esteemed friend
who lives there.
HENRY W. GRADY.
ARIEL'S TRIUMPH[141-*]
This story is taken from Booth Tarkington's novel, _The Conquest of
Canaan_, which gives an admirable description of modern life in an
American town. Joe Louden, the hero, and Ariel Tabor, the heroine,
were both friendless and, in a way, forlorn. How both of them
triumphed over obstacles and won success and happiness is the theme
of a book which is notable for keen observation of character and
for a quiet and delightful humor.
I
Ariel had worked all the afternoon over her mother's wedding-gown, and
two hours were required by her toilet for the dance. She curled her hair
frizzily, burning it here and there, with a slate-pencil heated over a
lamp-chimney, and she placed above one ear three or four large
artificial roses, taken from an old hat of her mother's, which she had
found in a trunk in the store-room. Possessing no slippers, she
carefully blacked and polished her shoes, which had been clumsily
resoled, and fastened into the strings of each small rosettes of red
ribbon; after which she practised swinging the train of her skirt until
she was proud of her manipulation of it.
She had no powder, but found in her grandfather's room a lump of
magnesia, which he was in the habit of taking for heartburn, and passed
it over and over her brown face and hands. Then a lingering gaze into
her small mirror gave her joy at last; she yearned so hard to see
herself charming that she did see herself so. Admiration came, and she
told herself that she was more attractive to look at than she had ever
been in her life, and that, perhaps, at last she might begin to be
sought for like other girls. The little glass showed a sort of
prettiness in her thin, unmatured young face; tripping dance-tunes ran
through her head, her feet keeping the time--ah, she did so hope to
dance often that night! Perhaps--perhaps she might be asked for every
number. And so, wrapping an old water-proof cloak about her, she took
her grandfather's arm and sallied forth, with high hopes in her beating
heart.
It was in the dressing-room that the change began to come. Alone, at
home in her own ugly little room, she had thought herself almost
beautiful; but here in the brightly lighted chamber crowded with the
other girls it was different. There was a big [v]cheval-glass at one end
of the room, and she faced it, when her turn came--for the mirror was
popular--with a sinking spirit. There was the contrast, like a picture
painted and framed. The other girls all wore their hair after the
fashion introduced to Canaan by Mamie Pike the week before, on her
return from a visit to Chicago. None of them had "crimped" and none had
bedecked their tresses with artificial flowers. Her alterations of the
wedding-dress had not been successful; the skirt was too short in front
and higher on one side than on the other, showing too plainly the
heavy-soled shoes, which had lost most of their polish in the walk
through the snow. The ribbon rosettes were fully revealed, and as she
glanced at their reflection, she heard the words, "Look at that train
and those rosettes! " whispered behind her, and saw in the mirror two
pretty young women turn away with their handkerchiefs over their mouths
and retreat hurriedly to an alcove. All the feet in the room except
Ariel's were in dainty kid or satin slippers of the color of the dresses
from which they glimmered out, and only Ariel wore a train.
She went away from the mirror and pretended to be busy with a hanging
thread in her sleeve.
She was singularly an alien in the chattering room, although she had
been born and had lived all her life in the town. Perhaps her position
among the young ladies may be best defined by the remark, generally
current among them that evening, to the effect that it was "very sweet
of Mamie to invite her. " Ariel was not like the others; she was not of
them, and never had been. Indeed, she did not know them very well. Some
of them nodded to her and gave her a word of greeting pleasantly; all of
them whispered about her with wonder and suppressed amusement, but none
talked to her. They were not unkindly, but they were young and eager and
excited over their own interests,--which were then in the "gentlemen's
dressing-room. "
Each of the other girls had been escorted by a youth of the place, and,
one by one, joining these escorts in the hall outside the door, they
descended the stairs, until only Ariel was left. She came down alone
after the first dance had begun, and greeted her young hostess's mother
timidly. Mrs.
