Mrs. Leicester's school, or, The history of several young ladies

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Material Information

Title:
Mrs. Leicester's school, or, The history of several young ladies related by themselves
Portion of title:
History of several young ladies
Added title page title:
History of several young ladies, related by themselves
Physical Description:
180 pp ; 1 frontispiece plate ; 18 cm.
Language:
English
Creator:
Lamb, Charles, 1775-1834
Godwin, Mary Jane
Lamb, Mary, 1764-1847
Hopwood, James
Hopwood, William, 1784-1853
Mercier and Chervet (Firm)
Publisher:
M.J. Godwin
Place of Publication:
London
Manufacturer:
Mercier and Chervet
Publication Date:
Edition:
3rd ed.

Subjects

Subjects / Keywords:
Students -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Children's stories   ( lcsh )
Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Children -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Children's stories -- 1810   ( lcsh )
Bldn -- 1810
Genre:
Children's stories
novel   ( marcgt )

Notes

Citation/Reference:
Gumuchian,
Citation/Reference:
NUC pre-1956,
General Note:
Dedication signed: M.B.
General Note:
Three of the tales (i.e. The witch aunt, First going to church, and The sea voyage) are by Charles Lamb, the remaining seven by Mary Lamb.
General Note:
Frontispiece engraved by J. James Hopwood after his brother W. William Hopwood.

Record Information

Source Institution:
University of Florida
Rights Management:
All applicable rights reserved by the source institution and holding location.
Resource Identifier:
aleph - 027236589
oclc - 09838110
lccn - 15004493
Classification:
lcc - PR4862 .M7 1810
System ID:
AA00021479:00001


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Full Text





















































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The Baldwin Ubrary uuivcmv B Of ty
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fn this manner, the epitaph on m, mothertP
tomb becinq rnq primer and myy vpelh-ookc.
I learned to read. Pagy











MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL:




TORY



LADIES,











:,NzAT THE JUVTIEEt'
LIBRtARY, No. 41, SKINNER STREET.

1810.























































Prinlted by Mercier and Chervet, NO. 82, Little Bartholomew Close, Loude















'CONTENTS.




1ELIZAB~IrH VILLIERIS: or The Sailor
Uncle ........9

It.Lois, P~yz~s:The Farm-house 30
JU. NN WT~m:The Changeling -45
IV wtas FovTa The Father's
Wedingday............85

V. IAQ~juTGRENi~: The Young
Mam..n...........94-vBARTO~N Visit to tlw Cousins III
MIXA lwE: The Witch Aunt 131 AI tA CH WLTTE WILMOT: The Mfr_,
chant's Daughter........147 I.Srist YATfs.: First G~oing to Church....... ..... .15
X. AuAtiu..& IHADY: The Set Voyage 169~


























With much satisfaction do we express our unqualilied praise of these elegant and most instructiveTales f they are delightfully simple, and exquisitely told. The
child or parent who reads the little history of Elizabeth Villiers-, will, in spite of any resolution to the contrary, be touched to the heart, if not melted into tears. Morose and crabbed censors as we are reprekted to be, we closed the volume, wishing there had been another, and
lamenting that we had got to the end."
Critical Reviiewfor Decetmber, 1808.












,PR. LB JFSTEIS' SCHOOL~




b EDICATION

To THE~

Ay Am E SCHOAOL.,




T~~a~k tdsd frouh the business' of the
scholth ab~ie tfybir governess confines
ni~~t Anvf uigte vacation. I cannot httrV~4-bv ise~ houtrs than in contri6&i M ausiement of you myi kinid pp ils, lik~ byyu affectionate attentions to 7ny instreci~n, are rcnderet a life of/labour pleaIyu return to school, I hope to har~e a
faircop to preset to each of you, of 3fZur ubn bographicateonrersations-last winter.
B







II DEDICATION.

Accept my thanks for the approbation were pleased to express when I ofered to b come your amanuensis. 1 hope you will I have executed the office with a tolerably faith ful pen, as you know I took notes each d during those conversations, and arranged materials after you were retired to rest.
I begin from the day our school commenced It was opened by your governess for the frs time, on the day of February. I pasi
over your several arrivals on the morning o that day. Your governess received you from yourfriends in her own parlour.
Jvcry carriage that drove from the door, I knew had left a sad heart behind. Your eye were red with weeping, when your governess introduced me to you as the teacher she had engaged to instructyou. She next desired me, to shew you into the room which we now call the play-room. The ladies,"' said she," may play, and amuse themselves, and be as happy as they please this evening, that they mta be,









wellacqainI zwith ech other bef ore the~y
emlerlhe sch o-o to-morrow morning."
TUtae of tears *were on ev~eryi cheek,
and.1.aio ws sd;for 1, like you, had pare~fow.itt~fred, and the duties of mwJ
prilfsi~mwerenew o me; yet, I felt that, it, was mproer t giv~e way to myl own melon. ch4l togi. I knew that it was my first duty~t divet th oliftary young sit-angers:
for1e odee Mt thiswasvey unlike Ike
enlrweeAq amoMesabihed school, where hiv isa*qssm od-niatured girl Weho Will
she aientosto new hlar, and lake pleasuek xiitn her into the customs and am u theiac. These, thossght I,
hm oam amusements to intent; their
Oiwn utam to stabish. hfowl unlike too is thsarkr meing to old school1-felfowvs feturn~g4 t*th holiday? when mutual greet.
ing IOA lihtn he memory ofparling sorrow!
I g'"Out0 draw near-,a brightfire which Naedin te hiney ond looked the only ch eer. Julthig in the room.
B 2







1 V DEDICATION.

During our first solemn silence, which, mai/ remember, was only broken 1y my repeat requests that you would make a smaller, still smaller circle, till I saw the fire-place fu inclosed round, the idea came into my m which has since been a source of amusement you in the recollection, and to myself in pa cular has been of essential benefit, as it ena me toformn a just estimate of the dispositi of you my young pupils, and assisted me adapt my plan offuture instructions to each dividual temper.
An introduction to a point we wish to car we always feel to be an awkward fair, generally execute it in an awkward mann so 1 believe I did then: for when I impart this idea to you, I think I prefaced it ratA too formally for such young auditors,-for began with telling you, that I had read in authors, that it was not unfrequent in fm times, when strangers were assembled togeth as we might be,for them to amuse themse with telling stories, either of their ozw lires,










theadvmlaesof otherr. "Will y~ou allow
w,,4~s" cointiiue241 "to persuade yiou. to
a,~~~ ,w yusevsi this Wa You Will not
0" lok o nsciably upon eath, other; for
weJ4 hat hesstangers of whom we read, W4ra tp@l acquained before the conclusion
J) estry as if they, had known each
V;ermay eas Let me prevail upon you if'reltesom ltleanecdotes ofyrotr own fires.
#ak, e anred inlboks, and were
fk~tpiv ette adpted to conversation in those #vwhm boksf amu~seen we-re more scarce


Potosof not knowing what 4P sA, rA o ein, w ih I overcame by
..,assrinyou how easy it would be, for that
uesxi naturally eloquent, when they
a Iret h hroor heroine of their own tale.-.
*pWo huld begin was next in question.
pooed to draw lots, which fre

"amuemen of itself. Miss MJanners, whotil hn 4a been the saddest of the sa, began. 4bigl/en, and said~j itas just like drawing







VI DEDICATION.
king and queen, and began o tell us where passed last twelfth-day; but as Aer narra must have interfered with the more import I usiness of the lotte y, I advised her to p pone it, till it came to her turn to favour toith the history of her life, when it wo appear in its proper order. The first num fell to the share of Miss Villiers, whose joy drawing what we called the first prize, w tempered with shame at appearing as thefir historian in the company. She wished she ha not been the very first; she had passed all he life in a retired ziliage, and had nothing to elate of herself that could ire t l: .... lainment; she had not the least idea in the word where to begin.
S qein," said I, with your name, for that at present is unknown to us." Tell us th first thing you can remember; relate whatever happened to make a great impres ion on yos when you were very young, and if you fnd you can connect your story till your ar ival Ahere to. dau.- amn sure we shall listen to you with









pleasre;~a'f ~fow ike o teak of, and onlI Apeqtwr with a part of yur histo?:q, we will excuise you, 1*th wan y t hanks for the amnuse~ wnt which You hare a,#~' dcd us; and the lady who ks drawn Mhe second nuinber will, I hope, t9a4t turn with the same indulgence, to reZIe either all, or any part of the events of her life, as best pleases her owen fancy, or as she flnds she can manage it with the most ease to, 4 es "-Ecoraged y this qfer of indadg-.


y rq?1if her try, or in any mhkpil.ffaw, shaff appear to make her or, yom ak.an lder language than it seems proAwme14ajw*should use, speaking tkyousr ow# wot& t mxwt be remembered, that what is WIY poper and becoming when spoken, rey"e ~ 4 an-anged with some little dyerenc, ~ tcan be set dowon in Writing,,. Little
&4CC~iesmust be pared away, and the whole ~il asirme a more formal and correct appeare. I own way rftikn,1am sen= $iljwill too often intrude itself; but, I have-







Vill DEDICATION.

endeawrured to preserve, as exadty as Io .your own words, andyoyar own peculiaritie style and manner, an~d to approve myself
YourfaitIhful hiistoriographer,
a~s well as true friend,

















-BIZARTII VILLIERS.





MV~~thtr sth-ecarte of a village church, aft~ofive!ff uns;fo Arnwel. I wasb1orn in VW ~f~nigAoue' Iwieh jois the churchYO& Ir*"tiigI ani~emember was my fi~ht+Ukl ib teth alphai~bet from theltters hd-d~oibdoetat stood at the head of my
Weogae I used to tap at myfatbeh stuy-dor I think I now uhear him say,
whts thee'?-What do you want, little 9&1111q tK&1*!G i~'e mama o and learn JU~y*rs- Many times in'the clay wouldi I~+he a aide is books and his papers to







10 THE SAILOR UNCLE.

lead me to this spot, and make me poi otters, and then set me to spell syllable words: in this manner, the epitaph on mother's tomb being my primmer and my ing-book, I learned to read.
I was one day sitting on a step placed the church-yard stile, when a gentleman ing by, heard me distinctly repeat the lI which formed my mother's name, and then Etizabeth Villiers, with a firm tone, as if I performed some great matter. This gentle was my uncle James, my mother's brother was a lieutenant in the navy, and h England a few weeks after the marriage father and mother, and now, returned h from a long sea-voyage, he was coming toA my mother; no tidings of her deceased i r hed him, though she had been ded than a twelvernoth.
When my uncle saw me sitting on and heard me pronounce my mother's looked earnestly in my face, and b eganto, a resemblance to his sister, andto think I mi










Wutointent on mny employldb'W'ftwve him, ad went spellingon. fcvF&D his tmag tyo topellkso prettily, my


I vp~d fw Ibadanidea ttthe words on
*&Idilubk v~ s~howa partof mammna,
*446A" ught-me. And ho~ is
W94my ffik. 1 Eizabeth Vilfts I t p ndthn m uncle culled me
"said lie would Crowith
i okhl of my hand, in'I~~ll WUadme om, delighted that hie
I as ecausehe imagined ape satuprise tophis sister



"'44*W'tdmhimto mammai, but we had 0 *~dtfh way thither, My uncle
-.".mg aongthe road wih led directly
IPointed to the ch urch-yard,
040 9,1 IP~hewytomama.Thougwk
At' -a y ,la' he was not willing t6
the oinwih his new relation; thereB6I







1 THE SAILOR UNCLE.

fore, he lifted me over the stile, and was going to take me along the path toa gate knew was at the end of our garden; but I would not go that way neither: letting go hand, I said, "You do not know the way I will shew you:" and making what has could among the long grass and thistles, jumping over the low graves, he said, as followed, what he alled my wayward What a positive soul this little niece of mi is! I knew the way to your mother's hi before you were born, child." At last I st ped at my mother's grave, and pointing to t tombstone, said, Here is mamma," in a voi of exultation, as if I had now convinced hi that I knew the way best : I looked up in h face to see him acknowledge his mistake; Oh! what a face of sorrow did I see! I as frightened, that I have but an imperfect re lection of ihat followed. I remember I pul hiscoat, and cried Sir, sir," and tried to m him. I knew not what to do; my mind wa iu a strage confusion; 1 thought I had don







1".SALLR UNC1E


paws to!xia eiry so sadly; bt what



j~fikrwuW otenbe waryof my prattle, =W,*d4*Vfmhim;buthere be was almy Wha woldtell me bow quietly



*adw" went tobd, as I laid



-SWWW~a94 *=y chlhdreamns Iused to< it W th IO~bstnandpap, and Ohe smnoothi myhadrstin~g upon thie







14 THE SAILOR UNCLE.

How long my uncle remained in this ag of grief I know not; to me it seemed a long time: at last he took me in his arms, held me so tight, that I began to cry, and home to my father, and told him that a ge man was crying about mamma's pretty letter
No doubt it was a very affecting meet between my father and my uncle. I rem ber that it was the very first day I ever saw father weep: that I was in sad trouble, a' went into the kitchen and told Susan, our s vant, that papa was crying; and she wan to keep me with her that I might not dist the conversation; but I would go back to parlour to poor papa, and I went in softly, crept between my father's knees. My und offered to take me in his arms, but I turned au lenly from him, and clung closer to myfath having conceived a dislike to my uncle heca he had made my father cry.
Now I first learned that my mother's deal Was a heavy affliction; for I heard my fathi







TU ALR UNCLE.1


6 A~hatliehad uffredfromn'her loss.
*Jyg"e sai, whtsad thing it was for mry

04m plid, is itte Btsywas all his
aomthaW 4ba bt fr m,. he should havwe
*4* rief Ho I culdbe any comfort to



thog~tatwas ll goodness and
J "t o'*J&MA ,w 17ha n ni ho %v




41*,* Uhmply; is vicewas always kind "d'ChVW LW ,ever efor we him- weep,
4ft'b0WxY4~h sgnsof rief as those in which 'J'Qdt~x~re5Mylittle troubles. My thoughts W t1ft ubj~s wre onfused and childish; 10*49itat-fme nevr cased poznieringesi 440.44,41yofiydead iflammia.
netdy I went by mecre habit to the X.WY, dort cl papa to the beloved grave;







16 THE SAILO UNCLE.

my mind misgave me, and I could not ta the door. I went backwards and forw between the kitchen and the study, and v to do with myself I did not know. My met me in the passage, and said, will you come and walk with me in the garde:. This I refused, for this was not what I wan but the old amusement of sitting on the gra and talking to papa. My uncle tried to suade me, but still [ said, No, no," a ran crying into the kitchen. As he folio me in there, Susan said, "This child is fretfd to-day, I do not know what to do wi her." "Aye," said my uncle, "1I supp my poor brother spoils her, having but one, This reflection on my papa made me quite a little passion of anger, for I had not for that with this new uncle sorrow had first co into our dwelling: I screamed loudly, till father came out to know what it -, was all abl1e sent my uncle into the parlour, and saw he would manage the httle wrangler by .him self. When my uncle was gone I ceased CY








THEt SAILO WitUCLE, 1

ing; my father forgot to lecture me for my ill humour,.or to inquire into the cause, and we
wee oo seated by the side of the tombstone. No lessn went on that dlay; no talking of prtt mamma sleeping in the greeti grave ; no juming~u Kom the tombstone -to the ground; no rnerry'ja**s or pleasant stories. I sat upon my father's knee, looking up in his face, and thi'g, H1oz*.irry(papa looks," till, having WO ie with crying, and now oppressed
wihS bm htI*llfst asleep.
Wck levoon leared from Susan that this :Ohm wasuruiitant haunt; she told him she did -mily believe her master Nvotld never get the better of tile death of tier mistress, while he continued to teachi tile ellild to read at the tombsone; for, though it mig_(ht soolh his UKd it kept it for ever fre-sh in his memory. The'ight of h1is sister's grave bad been such a eb"k.* to my Micle, Ithat hie readily enf ered into Susa's apprehens ions ; and concluding, that if I wee set to study by some other means, there Wo~ld nio longer be a pretence for lilies isits







18 THE SAILOR UNCLE.

to the grave, away my kind uncle hast to the nearest market-town to buy m ew
books.
I heard the conference between my unci
Susan, and I did not approve of his interd in our pleasures. I saw him take his hat walk out, and I secretly hoped he was gone yond seasagain, from whenceSusan had tol he had come. Where beyond seas was I c not tell; but I concluded it was somewh S great way off. I took my seat on the chat
yard stile,. and kept looking down the r and saying, I hope I shall not see my u again. I hope my uncle will not come f
beyond seas any more;" but I said this
softly, and had a kind of notion that I was
a perverse ill humoured fit. Here I sat
my uncle returned from the market-town wt his new purchases. I saw him come walk very fast with a parcel under his arm. I very sorry to see him, and I frowned, and trI to look very cross. lie untied his parc 1, a said, Betsy, I have brought you a pre









TEIAILOR V!CLE.r

. 1, '-uredmy head4 away, and said~,


g gt oloo~kat it. In thehurry Of v the arcel e hail scattered all the
di 6, and there I saw fine
ORPM $gb'

-ifie Eiht !All y resentmenkt ygjft~~l hedu y &acvto kiss him, that "Y'of hanin, my father for any



fi ahadre pell so
*k% 6'04-tthere wan noth~ig to do



In newirr ere s
had been accnstomned to, characters t~o rue; I couldI
tten.Thelhonest sailor

be -diwograJ by tlls difficulty
-WIM t(play thle schoolmaster, hie to read the small print, wit,, un 'lg ead< patience.; ant wbencyer







20O THE SAILOR UNCLE.

hesaw my father and me look as if we w io resume our visits to the grave, he w propose some pleasant walk ; and if my f said it was too far for the child to walo would set me on his shoulder, and say, "T Betsy shall ride ;" and in this manner 4a carried me many, many miles.
In these pleasant excursions my nncle dom forgot to make Susan furnish him wi luncheon which though it generaly hap) every day, made a constant surprise to my and me, when, seated under some shady he pulled it out of his pocket, and began distribute his little store ; anl then I u peep into the other pocket to see if there not some currant wine thero anti the little of water for me: if, perchance, the water forgot, then it made another joke,-that Betsy must be forced to drink a little drop wine. These are childish things to tell and, instead of my own silly history, I I could remember the entertaining stories uncle used to relate of his voyages and tray












JOT~ togviit -~ynnul,6 3made uswa such I~t prkd um, n''M life, that~ I fear I U4ktlking of him; 4 gop~ht enqainde ofxfly story

-Thasm~i onth passed away, but not
Ob'santWks, and the charing
&dtvouttres, made them
wwyc~s o m; I remember the approach Ofx--I~i~iIW ainge t ohebought1Jr 140si~m ?Md when I first put it
ua-M e Little Red Riding
Add Webk-ftr ,of oles~, and that
04'" id noi sueh things

and lions he had met with lullia kxbi~dlmwsy hat were like R4Ailnson


"t"'fcwalks '&Aer, Frhorter and less M ere flow my chief amuse.
ty wie eeoften~ iuterrupted]







22 fIlE SAILOR UNCLE.
by a game ofromps with my uncle, whicl often ended in a quarrel because he play@ roughly; yet long before this I dearly W my uncle, and the improvement I made w he was with us was very great indeed. I co now read very well, and the continual habit listening to the conversation of my father my uncle made mea little woman in understand ing; so that my father said to him, "Jam you have made my child quite a companl
able little being."
My father often left me alone with my unc
sometimes to write his sermons; sometimes visit the sick, or give counsel to his poor neigi hours: then my uncle used to hold long coa versations with me, telling me how I shou strive to make my father happy,and endeavor to improve myself when he was gone:-nw I lwganjustly to understand why hlie had takes such pains to keep my father from visiting a mother's grave, that grave which I often sto privately to look at; but now never without awe and reverence, fior my uncle used to tell


4<


- g








Jk~W~A.23

VW '00le~ lad iy mother was, and T, oW.tko dk of hera aing been a real vpgawa uhig beoreseemed an ideal sometk~i op ay onnetedwith~ life. And hie told
'4ta jdis fomthe Manor-Honw, who
"M lq A4o ea ew n te church, were not so 471ifd, i~ th bstwon in the village were zM p g~w,' awa y see m~ammai; and that if
*4.W~~ Ji4 hol o ave breen forced to knowedgeftrn~ him, arough kai n.sew of Susan,
409,1"t ouldb~e augh toeall y-like
A V~rktaq. deicatebehaiour and perfi~ct
wol areslce for me pro.



haeaypoe sense of what i~r~flkI~t0 beoig in the womnanly (ha44 t4U t eseSSOn& of Mny rough 14~~~~ .*Mle fo telling Mec what my' Tp(-0*I ihv aie me, he taUght nw~
to be andwhena, soon after my
was ntroucedto thle, ladies at
ous, isted f haniging. down m







4THE SAILOR VNCLE.

head with shame, as I should have dom
my uncle came, like a little villaue
I tried to speak distinctly, with ease, modest gentleness, as my uncle had sa mother used to do; instead of hanging my head abashed, I looked upon the thought what a pretty sight a fine ld and thought how well my mother mus
appeared, since she was so much more ful than these ladies were; and when I
them compliment my father on the
able behaviour of his child, and say well lie had brought me up, I thou myself, Papa does not much mind my
ners, if I am but a good girl; but it my uncle that taught me to behave mamma."-I -cannot now think my unil'
so rough and unpolished as lie said he w Ahis lessons were so good and so impressi
I shall never forget them, and I hope they be of use to me as long as I live: he v explain to me the meaning of all the wor used, such as grace and elegance, mos










,Pointinlg out instance$ bowiathioineft y -those wvordls, in the man%qj*V~he1% itan their young daughters 4jWUM to v~r uc; for, besides the jjjWV~bomr-Hose, Yflanyv of the neigh"liftCometo our church because

*v,*vW Mv bee eary in the spring whent
*P~k*% *m~y for the crocuts were
**U"i* 9e arde, 'nd the primaroses
Ui~*" o Pe-Pfro urlerthe young budcre as if my heart I i 101fami~s hnhd the last sight of him

4" 10te-~a.Myfde accompaniedf
li!iakttown, fro whence he was
ie'tag,-eonch to London.
**'tM641thoubt alfl Susan's endavyurs eaa"*. OA 'fe'Wr.The stile where I irst
'Cane into mny mind, and I
17"ild90 nd sit there, aml think
dy btI 'was no sooner seate& A J mmmberedhow I -had frighte







OTHE SAILOR UNEULI.
ened him by taking him so foolishly mother's grave, and then again how @ I had been when I sate muttering t at this same stile, wishing that he, i gone so far to buy me books, might come back any more: all my little with my uncle came into my mind, no could never play with him again, a most broke my heart. I was force into the house to Susan for that cons had just before despised.
Some days after this, as I was sitting: fire with my father, after it was dark, fore the candles were lighted, I gave hi count of my troubled 'conscience at the. stile, when I remembered how unkind been to my uncle when he first came, sorry I still was whenever I thought of t Sny quarrels I had had with him.
My father smiled, and took hold of n saying, "I will tell you all about h little penitent. This is the sort of' which we all feel, when those we o










friends are .with keop ~ ~ CUYFhiscey without w of~~~ eq~ilrto f te blessing Onodow to nicel4y weight

."X,#ai*y~atin;wc let themp

*krng isturb our friendendear us to eaich
pr i ah~pier tewpr Bu
alike -rievous faults
"hife-L f OU a.& ti~l gon f01cor
an k ad no quarv fl y sorrow, mid that I
her h~appier.
Q16..Mychid. ou did all a a taplas yurucle, aud clearly '4,f thse ittle things whlich
prid were remembered
s yfrunce ;- hie wis telling m Wido jstperh~aps as you were # ihsrrow, of thle dificid~ty

,9 nt yqr rood graces Ntvhen







TItE SAILOR UNCLE.

he first came; he will think of these f wifh pleasure when he is far away. Pt a from you this unfounded grief; only let it lesson to you lo be as kind as possib those you love; and remember, when bre gone from you, you will never you had been kind enough. SuCh feel as you have now described, are the lot humanity. So you will feel when I anm more, and so will your children feel w you are dead. B it your uncle will come b again, Betsy, and we will now think of whi we are to get the cage to keep the talkingF rot in, he is to bring home; and go andt Susan to bring the candles, and ask her if hice cake is almost baked,1 that she promised give us for our tea."


At this point, my dear miss Villiers, y thought ft to break off your story, and the u eyes of your young auditors, seemed to conf that you had succeeded in moving their feel with your pretty narrative. It now fell by








THE SAILOR UNCLE.

s., Manners to rdate her doa" -kw to,
Y?. 0 Z&V Wre fil ziffouien dy cut r mt, jo very yovig on historian had to
shall continue the varratives ix which tAeyfol4t xl ,fipwm in Me ordej WQ4qm1 mendening any of the interrupt. A r,#i4 dwurred frmn the asking of guesdo" mr,.fiRn any other come, unless matter. jftpqM%*W44 Me SWW. I shaU a,(jo
jmmLA&r -A you several t
With Whi,
jWf your stories of yourselvq,
WeN VeW &W^WaMe in their
a proper dodence, becalrN uvrk to Apo krge a j=.








A




C3

















LOUISA MANNERS.





MY name is Louisa Manners; I was sev years of age last birthday, which wvas on first of May. I remember only four birthda The day 1 was four years old was the first th I recollect. On the morning of that d(lay, soon as I awoke, I crept into mamma's be and said, "Open your eyes, mamma, for it my birthday. Open your eyes, and look me!" Then mamma told me I should ride in post-clhainise, and see my grandmamma and sister Sarah. Grandmamma lived at a far house in the country, and I had never in a my life been out of London; no, nor ha








Tflr rARM HIOUSE4 hof greeni grass,, except in the ;dehwb wh is near my papa 's house
I street, nor bad Ilever rode in acar#~bethatlhappy birthday.
tifi houe talking of where I was
466e' o that it was my birthf1( inbto the chaise I was tire&k


~%wtbfi grn fieldsor


y~w~ellow flowm s and ivheedi"gA them. vt* Pvay hands3 tlicer for.


iftf the meado~s to see teyugab,

Wilpe w mapy of Waits' hymns by heart.
%hck4~ Oapd hedges seemed to :fly swiftly,
anp field, and the sheep, 4n the aug 4apbi, passed away;. and then another
fl s~me,-and that w,18 fillj of cows; amid then otherr field, and all the pretty sheep returned,
dtheiR wag no end of these charming sights ('4







32 THE FARM-HOUSE,
tilR we came quite to grandmamma's hou which stood aU alone by itself, no house tol
seenat all near it.
Grandmamma. was very glad to see
and she was very sorry that I did n)t remen bar her, though I had been so fond of her wh she was in town but a few months before.
was quite ashamed of my bad memory.
sister Sarah shewed me all'the beautiful pla about graundmamma'a house. She first t
me into the farm-yard, ant: I peeped. into t barn; tbere I saw a man thmashing, and as beat the sora wit his ail, he! made an
dreadful noise that I was frightened ad
away ; my sister persuaded me to return; s.
said Will Tasker was very good-natured then I went back, and peeped at him again; but as I could notreconcile myself to the sound
of his flail, or the sight of his black beard, we
proceeded to see the rest bf the farm-yard.
There was no end to the curiosities that
Sarah had to shew me. There was the pond where the ducks were swimming, and the littl









bpa whee te hem slept at *-hJt.

hens*~ were Wigal vrt e rbadi


poe~kd'We c iaews y w ere brd iri



WM t out h firm-yard iia the orwha a wee, pacegtani~jnammIa's



kke i (Gk- ftoer that ever 41~g h gras wder 1bhe trees
-A,*Ife ~e. uttr-up, and oowslips, and

tkeraFo evr I pcastd


111ike'Ity'lp ith flower,, I filled rn fiws. nd I. carried as roany SawhON .Qud i boh Iy bands; but as 7777':,, Atwle veir a $~reshiolq wich


4~







% THlE FARM-HOUSE.

was placed across the parlour, and do with all my treasure.
Nothing could have so well pacified the misfortune of my fallen flowers, as t of a delicious syllabub which happened moment to be brought in. Grandmam it was a present from the red cow to me it was my birthday; and then because the first of May, she ordered the sylla be placed under the May-bush that ae fore the parlour door, and when we we ed on the grass round it, she helped very first to a large glass full of the sl arid wished me many happy returns of day, and then she said I was myself the s est little May-blossom in the orchard.
After the syllabub there was the gard see, and a most beautiful garden it w long and narrow, a straight gravel walk the middle of it, at the end of the gravel there was a green arbour with a be&ch u
There were rows of cabbages and










wj*,aw elihtedI tosee
S&Wso mehas a cabbag



aud th bees sting


A av yu z iig tosay
~Then I said



M 0b Xt~p imrove caci

fii ztfr~ evry openingi





to ctchone eetill S!xalI told cir fits, hich~ made me afraid eo too nearteir hives; but adalittle nearereer

e cae away from -ranwsbld, I let WXVill Tasker te01 windows at the top of







3i TI FARM-Vroura.
the hives, to see-then, make honey in t home.
After seeing the garden, I saw the milked, and that was the liet sight I that day; for while I was telling mamma the cows, I fell fast asleep, and I suppose il then put to bed.
The next morning my papa and maa were gone. I cried sadly, but was a little c forced at hearing they would return in a mi or two, and fetch me home. I was a fooli little thing then, and did not know how long month was. Grandmamma gave me a li lasket to gather my flowers in. I went in the orchard, and before I had half filled basket, I foqgot all my troubles.
The time I passed at my grandmamma's always in my mind. Sometimes I think oft good-natured pied cow, that would let stroke her, while the dairy-maid was milking her. Then I fancy myself running after t dairy-maid into the nice clean dairy, and the pans full of milk and cream. Then I








#000whe vowwaous it, baa owe been a
but briag grown otd, the wood WA& kVAAbmim-wMY *i*rand I mod, to peep aboA xOmt, *&*Mdx ta find the eggs the hens OPPOPWUft thwa. RiW nests we might N* bakfiw- -Gmuknamma was very wigry,
*me, wbm Will Tasker brought hpm a. birXs, OeIfFfaft of prdty speckled qggs for me. She mM66iU9bmk to the hedge vMlk it again. She
birds, WUUUI U Wsjng L all3g laore,
Vew t""'a'awy &.. th'T'n.
'0-#PMMW'NW XNWI, was ft 11"Pitable bird, am& AWP IOW More ow Oar, &be Vadited, on PtIr, "M 14*'glWe IACTL, MWnSS' tQ =IW PUddill'?,
*4 bdOm&*W&'i i 0
Ido. not know wh" pkawd graudrnam= her. IJUVW a lap-full.a qfl* Qra frw Ti'Okls; for shr was paiticulayly

Tuy scarce; we used to search I" OA"fi* for tlWjR every mornii1g, ro"tj
*Gworchald hedge, and Sarah used to carry Uer to be 'U tLe tjQ6
Y 4C(







38 THE FARM-HOUSE.

for 'very frequently the hens left their among the nettles. If we could find eggs a violets too, what happy children we were!
Every day I used to fill my basket wi flowers, and for a long time I liked one pr flower as well as another pretty flower, but rah was ramuch wiser than me, and she taught me which to prefer.
Grandmanma's violets were certainly best all, but they never went in the basket, being carried home, almost flower by flower, as soo as they were found; therefore blue-bells migh be said to be the best, for the cowslips were as withered and gone, before I learned the tn value of flowers. The best blue-bells we those tinged with red; so-me were so very red that we called them red blue-bells, and these Sa rah prized very highly indeed. Daffodils wer so very plentiful, they were not thought wot gathering, unless they were double ones, an butter-cups I found were very poor flowers in deed, yet I would pick one now and then, b cause I knew they were the very same flower









_'Ak*.ted e soin the journey; for T71= Z7..., h~d &M nethey i~ere.
eycarefl tolve best the flowr
lam-ffab"Waim I ost, yet sometime, I
hvevnpicked aaiy, though -1
ft*sthe very~ worst ~flower of all, betaseitreinedme of Lo4p adthe Dravts Gre; for, hap-a grandnb,6ut gehue


V"At'efse'o 'ech pretty
many
wl~ti W~e n thewe had
AMON-qRWI~g th e SUgenrally



,ib fouss;our two dolls we called papa
in one COrner we made a little
Sand dcasies, and that was to
41&OtM~es'Gadcn.I would oavan

116C'f itre h n ibe calsn o other 'Afg te gassin the real Drapers' Gar-







40

don W6s w. ti, of bat-_making cre' was very much, talked, of. Sarah told me a merrytiie- it w#sld be, for she raem e very M~ing~ whih bad happened for a ye more. She told me. how nicely we sb throw the~ hay about., I was vrry dSiioue deed to sethe hay made.
To be suenothing could, be more plesa
tha. hedayth ochrd was mowed : theh smelled so#1 -!n we might toss it about much, as ver58v IeasedA; but, dear me, often wish f*r tigs that do not prove happy asw exeted; the bay, which. was first so and~ smelled so sweet, became y low and( d ry at was carried away in a cart feed the hiss;and then, %Yhen it was allgOn anid there was no more to play with, I looked upon the naked ground, and perceived mwhweb ad lost in these f'ew W~rry days. tadies, would you believe it, every flow~er-, blute-hells ila(fodils, itter-cups, daisies, all were cuto by thec cruel scythe of tihe mower. No flowve
-was to be, seen, at all, except here and there








ffiwvl daisy, that a we!Qk, WOTA Oft,

gf W Weqd to awj to, lose, alL rfli vi ft Avwwers ye4, wlim we- zkre in great dis%jW 4'Aqp ig always, I tkinl .,%Kirthin- whieft, hoffivw op" Comfolt, us,; and so it happeRA w*-Vot gpowbarries and currmts were almost, Y*p wb" wax: "Ytaialy vapy. p1mant, pro.,
*d4..'4M* of timm begu *bm wd and,- as, oftn'
if a *A4"- .1he Woqu wk them yA. *W-W& wo4ld; pickv %*W"Upud tk* rAPCA, "& 1*4 to aA hw 4* I"ght they were ripe 4MOUgh to cat,.
her-.optWQi% Would be,
"131Y $w'e( if- she gave tw IiQaye to eA &M,
AVImn the currants and gooseberries were.
grandmamma had a sheep -sUewrAll: the Shm- stood under the trees to. b, Oke imd. They were brought out of the M4 #..O'Stlot, the shepherd. I stood at tile ot,.








4-2 THEb FARIi-lIOUSE.

chard-gate, and saw him drive themnat-.
Whlen they had cropped off all their wool, looked very clean, and wb ite, and pretty, poor things, they ran shivering about cold, soa that it was a pity to see them, G 4, preparations were making all day for these

shecaring supper. Sarah said, a sheep-shea was not to be compared to a harvest-home,I was so much betbter, f'Or that then the oveit quite full of ptumi1pndding, and the kitc
was very hot indeed wi Toastinig bvef'
cani assure you there was no want attall of t roast beef or plumn-pudding- at the sheep-sh
ing.
My sister and I were periitted to'sit up
it Wias almost dark, to see the company, at s
pe.They sate at a longr oak tab le, hie

was finely carved~ and as briit as a looking


I obtained a great deal of praise that da
because I replied so prettily when I was spolk to. 11v sister was more shy than me ; nev having l ivedl in London was the reasoni of tha











V~fV*ftt'- 4)f atqstgrandnmamnma sent

Av~dibg*'*oO tigto~ be sure lwe
VOWArdMTdq~k116wr& Nvich was a







ha P ur night

2 th~~flung nth e i

pl*ace,11iW blazune, awlcim


MWVWRWV hA *d i ake hisng.c i



A~ r ol.Sot was seated, the milk was
b~j!V askiletovr the fire, and then the 4014sed o coe and sit down at tile long







4A THE FAILM-RD
Pordon, me, my dear, Louisa, that I ini rt(ptedyou here. You,, are a little wpwan n to tobot you, were fho&; and, I may say, to YOthat though 1, loved to bear you prattk of yo oarly recolleotions, I thought .1 peri rived so bodies presew-were rathc7, weary of heorf*ng much of thevisit to grandwammq. lf u, m 2wmkmber I askedyou some qwgions concP w9, your papa.and yaw raa*&w,,. tphich,
_vm faipcak of your journey hqnzc,: 4ut-yQ AWIt ftwnbrod, head vas so fill, of Me pk


opolagies OW you, were wnabl-6 to kU zoh kappenedAring the harust, as ugforlunat you, were fWohed,,hmrc the, very day before
















ANN'WITHERS.





*Vlhaffile you know is NVilliers, blit as I once Ifiotihin I vvasIhc dan-, hffr of sir tdwarI an4 1%"Malksley, I sliall speak of myselfastAIRAIAley, ancl call'sir Edward and lady Havridt my f ither and mother during (he perW 1 supposedd them entitled to 'those beloved nimes. When I was a little girl, it was the perpetu6l subject of my contemlilation,"Mit was aim heiress, and the daughter of a barouct &A my mother was the hono-urable lady flar. &rfhat -wehad a nobler mansion, infiniWy
*kt pletisure-grounds, MA equipages more







46 TIII CHANGULING.

splendid than any of the neighbouring fam Indeed, my good friends, having observed thing of this error of mine in either of the li which have hitherto been related, I am ashai to confess what a proud child I once was. it happened I cannot tell, for my father esteemed the best bred man in the county, the condescension and affability of my mot were universally spoken of,
"Oh my dear friend," said miss -was very natural indeed, if you supposed y possessed these advantages. We make comparative figure in the county, and my ther was originally a man of no consideraW at all; and yet I can assure you, both lie a mamma had a prodigious deal of trouble t break me of this infirmity, when I was ver young." And do reflect for a moment said miss Villiers, "from whence could pro ceed any pride in me-a poor curate's dau ter ;-at least any pride worth speaking of; the difficulty my father had to make m myself on an equality with a miller's l








TILF CHANGELING. 47

..he who visited me, did not seem an aneedote worth relating. My father, fro-n his pr4*ssiou,-is accustomed to look into these Aigs ?jLd whenever be has observed any tendeny-o this fault in me, and has made me sea-sible -fmy tprror, 1, whore. am rather a weakspirited girl, have been so much distressed at' his reproofs, that to restore me to my own go4o opinion, he would make me sensible tuat pride ,is~ a *W inseparable from. Iiu~nn nature; Aewig me in our visits to the poorest labour4r pride would, as he expressed it, L ~4$ipep o.4 from under their ragged 'j-y tther~Jasly loved the poor. Jn
Vqa fa rank superiort to our own humble
qne ,Jwatcd not muchz assistance froin my fa, le u~ice discernment to know that it existed
lhr,,and for thuse latter hie, would always
tjleration from me? which- lhe said
be QRT~d fwas less will ing to allow than to t~f me iimtances. "We arc told in holy b Je Awould say,. ~ that it iseasier for a
g o, through the eye of a 4ede, t hais









*bi rieh man to enter into the kind heavenn" Surely this -is not meant a warn ~The affluent: it must also be und
as an expressive illustration, to instrdt 'Iowly-fortuned man that he should bear Those imperfections, inseparable from that gerous prosperity from which he is hapm exempt. -But we sadly interrupt
~tory.'"You arevery kind, ladies, to speak
so much indulgence of my foible," said
Withers, and 'was going to proceed, w little Louisa Manners asked, "Pray are 'equipages carriages? "Yes, miss Mam an equipage is a carria-ge." 1" Then I am iff my papa had but one equipage I should very proud; for once when my papa talked keeping a one-horse chaise, I never was so pr ofany thing in my life: I used to dream riding in it, and imagine I saw my play fell
walking past me in the streets."
Oh, my dear miss Manners," replied
Vithers, "your young heal miglt well



iLi









.4WAjhnonew taymi;but you havepreachod
&n seulleso to me in~ your o wi pretty rambg ty, whih I shall not easily forget.
Whm-yawere speaing with such delight of
On pm~methe uight of a farm-yard, ant ov.
alaar, &" a &mv slip of kitchen-garden
p yulan ould for years preserve so-lively te memory of one short ride, and tha~t prebmlyhtorugh a fiat a ninteresting count ry,I rebed awMayI Imrwd totilisregard the Am of Natue, nalhse. b. doked in icA~Ne~~ wea ow wearisameoutr parks and gonsbemthe t -e, urle somieimprove-'
P11 M gln*tbraid vhieh I thought
Wt~d Atrat dfic 1." towdays 'nre gone.-tif no s*7d'nm story, and brldig
ift aquaited ith- My real parents.
Als!Ia anig~ stitituted by MY
&Oti~ gilhlilre softeLeey faiily : it
**"f~ NY ak site did this naubydeed; Ye*snethe truth has bee-n known, it seeths (6 IL I had be M Only iiflerer by it; re.
Igno timle withen I was not Ialaiot







50 THE ChIANGELING.
Lesley, it seems as if the change had taken me my birthright.
Lady Harriot had intended to nurse child herself; but being seized with a fever soon after its birth, she was not only able to nurse it, but even to see it, for sev weeks. I was not quite a month old at time, when my mother was hired to be n Lesley's nurse--she had once been a se in the family-her husband was then at sea.
She had been nursing miss Lesley a days, when a girl who had the care of brought me into the nurserwr to see my mot It happened that she wanted something fro her own home, which she dispatched theg to fetch, and desired her to leave me till return. In her absence site changed our cloth then keeping me to personae the child was nursing, she sent away the daughter of Edward to be brought up in her own poor tage.
When my mother sent away the girl, affirmed she had not the least intention of







THE CHANGELXNG; 1

hitting this bad action; but after she was left alone with us, she looked on me, and then on. the little lady-babe, and she wept over me to think she was obliged toleave me to the charge of a careless girl, debarred from my own natu-. ral food, while she was nursing another per. son's child.
The laced cap and the fine cambric robe of the little Harriot were lying on the table ready tobe put on: ia these she dressed me, only just to see how pretty her own dear baby would look in missy's fine clothes. When she saw me thus adorned, she said to me, 0, my dear Ann, you look as like missy as any thing can be. I am sure my lady herself, if she were well eough to see you, would not know the differeace." She said these words aloud, and while she was speaking; a wicked thought came into her headh4ow easy it would be to change th~e children I! On which she hastily dressed
rriot in my coarse raiment. She had no
finished the transformation of miss Les.
Spoor. Ann Withers, than the girl
2







5THE CIIANELING. returned, and carried her away, with least suspicion that it was not tho same that she had brought thither.
It was wonderful that no one discovered I was not the same child. Every fresh that came into the room, filled the nurse terror. The servants still continued to their compliments to the baby in the same as usual, saying, How like it is to its Nor did sir Edward himself perceive the ence, his lady's illness probably engrosit his attention at the time; though indeed men seldom take much notice of very children.
When lady Ilarriot began to recover the nurse saw me in her arms caressed own child., all fears of detection were over the pantgs of remorse then seized her: dear sick lady hung with tears of fond me, she thought she should have died sorrow for having so cruelly deceived I When I was a year old, Mrs. Will discharged and because she had been








THE CHlANGEL'WO.

'U nrse me with uncommon care and affection, ad was seen to shed many tears at parting from me, to reward her fidelity sir Edward settled small pension on her, and she wag allowed to come every Snday todine in the housekeeper's room, and see her little lady.
When she went home it might have been epeC4XI she would have neglected the child she had so wickedly stolen; instead of which she nursed it with the greatest tenderness,being very sorry for what she had done: all the ease she could ever find for her troubled conscience, was in her extreme care of this injured child; and in the weekly visits to its father's house she constantly brought it with her. At the time I have the earliest recollection of her, she was becomea widow, and with the pension sir Edward allowed her, and some plain work she did for our family, she maintained herself and her supposed daughter. The doting fondness she shewed for her child was much talked of; it hsaid, she waited upon it more like a servant a mother, aid it was observed, its clothes D 3








5 THE CHANGELING,

were always made, as far as her slender"' would permit, in the same fashion, an hair cut and curled in the same form, as To this person, as having been my f., nurse, and to her child, I was always tang sihew particular civility, and the little gi always brought into the nursery to play me. Ant was a little delicate thing, and markably well-behaved ; for though so indulged in every other respect, my moth very attentive to her manners.
As the child grew older, my mother very uneasy about her education. She very desirous of having her well-behaved, she feared to send her to school, lest she sh earn ill manners among the village child with whom she never suffered her to play; she was such a poor scholar herself, that could teach her little or nothing. I heard relale this her distress to my own maid, tcars in her eyes, and I formed a resoluti beg of my parents that I might have' for a companion, and that she might







TILE CHANGELIN~G. 5

glowed to take lessons with me of my goverJim.
My birth-day was then approaching, and on that day I was always indulged in the privilege of asking some peculiar favour.
"And what boon has my annual petitioner to beg to day?" said my father, as he entered the breakfast-room on the morning of my birthday. Then I told him of the great anticty pressed by nurse Withers concerning her daughter; how much she wished it was in her power to give her an education, that would enable her to get her living without hard la. bour. I set the good qualities of Ann Withers i the best light I could, and in conclusion I begged she might be permitted to partake with me in education, and become my companion. This is a very serious request indeed, Harriot," said sir Edward, I' your mother and I must consult together on the subject." The result of this consultation was favourable to my isces; in a few weeks my foster-sister was taken D4







0 THE CHANGELING.

into the house, and placed under the tu my governess.
To me, who had hitherto lived without companions of my own age except occFs visitors, the idea of a playfellow cons to associate with, was very pleasant; and, a the first shyness of feeling her altered situat was over, Ann seemed as much at her ease she had always been brought up in our ho I became very fond of her, and took pe in shewing her all manner of attentions; so far won on her affections, that she told me had a secret intrusted to her by her mo which she had promised never to reveal asi as her mother lived, but thatshe almost wis to confide it to me, because I was such a ki friend to her; yet, having promised never tell it till the death of her mother, she was afa to tell it to me. At first I assured her the would never press her to the disclosure, that promises of secrecy were to be I sacred; but whenever we fell into any co







THE CHANGELING. 57

dential kind of conversation, this secret seemed always ready to come out. Whether she or I were most to blame I know not, though I own I could not help giving frequent hints how wel I could keep a secret. At length she told me what 1 have before related, namely, that she was in truth the daughter of sir Edward and lady Lesley, and I the child of her supPosed mother.
When I -,ms first in possession of this wonderfal secret, my heart burned to reveal it. I thought how praiseworthy it would be in me to restore to my friend the rights of her birth; Vet I thought only of becoming her patroness, and raising her to her proper nk; it never Occurred to me-that my own degradation must ieessarily follow. I endeavoured to persuade 'her to let m tell this important affair to my parents: this she positively refused. I ex:Prsed wonder that sAe should so faithfully &cep this secret for an unworthy woman, who in htr infancy had done her such an injury. 0131," "id she, "you do not know how much D5







THE CHANGELING.
intothe hose, and placed under the tuit ay governess.
To me, who had hitherto lived without
companions of my own age except o
visitors, the idea of a playfellow const to associate with, was very pleasant; and
the first shyness of feeling her altered si was over, Ann seemed as much at her ase she had always been brought up in our h I became very fond of her, and took p in shewing her all manner of attentions; so far won on her affections, that she toldm had a secret intrusted to her by her
,which she had promised never to reveal as as her mother lived, but that she almost wi
to confide it to me, because I was such a friend to her; yet, having promised nee tell it till the death of her mother, she was a to tell it to me. At first I assured her to would never press her to the diselosurej
that promises of secrecy were to be sacred; but whenever we lell into anyc







THE CHANGELING. 57

&ntial kind of conversation, this secret seemed Wways ready to come out. Whether she or I vew most to blame I know not. though I own I ould not help giving frequent hints how wM I could keep a secret. At length she told we what 1 have before related, namely, that Ae was in truth the daughter of sir Edward ud lady Lesley, and I the child of her supposed mother.
When I -was first in possession of this wondafal secret my heart burned to reveal it. I thought how praiseworthy it would be in me to restore to my friend the rights of her birth; yA I thought only of becoming her patroness, and raising her to he r proper rank; it never I ocur" to me-that my own degradation must
pwesaily follow. I endeavored to persuade her to let me tell this important affair-to my jmuIts : this she positively refused. I x,prcs" wonder that she should so faithfully 'kMP this secret for an unworthy woman, who h er infancy had done her such an injury.
i' d she, "you do not know how much
ID5






5 TiE CHANGELING.

she loves me, or you would not wonder never resent that. I have seen her grieve be so very sorry on my account, that I w not bring her into more trouble for any that could happen to myself. She has told me, that since the day she changed us, has never known what it is to have a happy meat; and when she returned home from n ing you, finding me very thin and sickly, her heart smote her for what she had done; then she nursed and fed me with such anxi care, that she grew much fonder of me tha I had been her own; and that on the Sunday vvhen she used to bring me here, it was m pleasure to her to see me in my own father Louse, than it was to her to see you her r child. The shyness you shewed towards while you were very young, and the for civility you seemed to affect as you grew older always appeared like ingratitude towards h who had done so much for you. My moth has desired me to disclose this after her des but. I do not believe I hall ever mentios it







THE CHANGELING. 59

for I should be sorry to bring any reproach even o n her memory."
In a short time after this important discovery, Ann was sent home to pass a few weeks with her mother, on the occasionofthe unexpected arrival of some visitors tour house; they were to bring children with them, and these I was to consider as my own guests.
In the expected arrival of my young visitants, and in making preparations to entertain them, I had little leisure to deliberate on what conduct I should pursue with regard to my friend's secret. Something must be done I thought to make her amends for the injury she had sustained, and I resolved to consider the matter attentively on her return. Still my mind ran on conferring favours. I never considered myself as transformed into the depend. ant person. Indeed sir Edward at this time set me about a task which occupied the whole of my attention; he proposed that I should write a little interlude after the manner of the French Peties Pieces; and to try my ingenuity, no







90 THE CHANGFBLING.
one was to see it before the represent cept the performers, myself and y friends. who as they were all younger thqp could not be expected to lend me much ance. I have already told you what a girl I was. During the writing of tise the receiving of my young friends, and tU structing them in their several parts, I neW myself of so much importance. With Ana pride had somewhat slumbered; the di of our rank left no room for competition was complacency and good humour on part, and affectionate gratitude, tempered respect, onhers. But here I had fult rooi shew courtesy, to affect those graces, toi tate that elegance of manners practised by Harriot to their mothers. I was to be their struetress in action and in attitudes, anI receive their praises and their admuiration my theatrical genius. It was a new sce triumph for me, and I might then be said in the very height of my glory.i If the plot of my piece, for the inventt







THE CHANGELING.

*ith they so highly praised .me, had been inir Aud o'y own, all would ha~ve been well; hit
vwpify I borrowed froa 4 source which We ray drama ead far difImertly frora what I intended it shotld.. I n the catastxophe I, lost jw 9111y th e name I persomided in the piece, Wu $41. it my own name also; aind all my rank and consequence in thie world tied from me for ever"-My father presented me with a beautiful wrtimg-desk for the use of my new authorship. Mly silver standish was placed upon it; a quire Mf gilt paper was before me. I took out apar0of my best crow quills, and down I sate in the greatest forma imaginable.
I conjecture I have no talent for invention; Obtain, it is that when I sate dowit to compose
-My piece, no story would come into my head,, but the story which -Ann had so lately related tomem. Many sheets were scrawled over in UjP% I pon4d think of nothing elm; still- the hai and the nurse were before me 'in all the Minutm of description Ann 4aW given them UO Ipty attse of the lady-babe,-th outy







6 THE CHANGELING.

garb of the cottage-infant,-the affecti dress of the fond mother to her own offP then the charming Equivoque in the c of the children;: it all looked so dramat it was a play ready made to my hands. invalid mother would form the pathetic, sillyexclamations of the servants the ldi and the nurse was nature itself. It istrue I a few scruples, that it might, should it co the knowledge of Ann, be construed into thing very like a breach of confidence. she was at home, and might never happy hearofthe subject of my piece, and if she why it was only making some handsome a logy.-To a dependant companion, to wh had been so very great a friend, it was necessary to be so very particular about sc trie.
Thus I reasoned as I wrote my drama, ginning with the title, which I called Changeling," and ending with these wo The curtain drops, while the lady clasps baky in her armx, and the nurse sighs audib







THlE CHANGELING. 83

invented no new incident, I simply wrote the stryas Ann had told it to me, in the best blank verse I was able to compose.
By the time it was finished the company had arrived. The casting the different parts was my next care. The honourable Augustus M a young gentleman of five years
of age, undertook to play the father. He was only to come in and say, How does my little daring do to-day,? The three Miss 's
Were to be the servants, they too had only S" gle lines to speak.
As these four wire all very young perform. en, we made them rehearse many times over, that they might walk in and out with proper decor m; but the performance was stopped before their entrances and their exits arrived. I complimented Lady Elizabeth, the sister of 4uagustus, who was the eldest of the young lies, with the choice of the lady mother or th e She fixed on the former; she was to reclne on a sofai and, affecting ill health,
OPksome eight or ten lines, which began







4 THE CHANGELING.
with, 0 that I eoidd my precious To her cousin Miss Emily w
the girl who had the care of the nurse's two dolls were to personate the two chi and the principal character of the nurse, the pleasure to perform myself. It consi several speeches, and a very long s during the changing of the children's cl
The elder brother of Augustus, a ge-l of fifteen years of age, who refused to our childish drama, yet condescended to the scenes, and our dresses were got up own maid.
When we thought ourselves quite per our several parts, we announced it for sentalation. Sir Edward and Lady Harriot their visitors, the parents of my young t comedians, honoured us with their The servants were also permitted to go i music gallery, which was at the end of a room we had chosen for our theatre.
As author, and principal performer, s before a noble audience, my mind was too-







THE CHANGELING. O5

ged with the arduous task I had underhae, to glance my eyes towards the musicery, or I might have seen two more spectrs there than I expected. Nurse Withers ad her daughter Ann were there; they had tm invited by the housekeeper to be premat at the representation of Miss Leiley's ihy.
In the midst of the performInee, as I, in the darter of the nurse, was delivering the wrong eNd to the girl, there was an exclamation lft the music-gallery, of" Oh! it's all true! 's all true!" This was followed by a bustle tnng the servants, and screams as of a person 4t- hysteric fit. Sir Edward came forward to inquire what was the matter. He saw it was 4". Withers who had fallen into a fit. Ann w's weeping over her, and crying out, "0 Miss 4*ley, you have told all in the play I"
rs. Withers was brought out into the balts; there, with tears and in broken accents, V every sign of terror and retorse, she soon







60 THE CHIANGELING.

made a full confession of her so long guilt.
The strangers, assembled to- see our mimicry of passion, were. witness t a wrought dramatic scene in real life. J tended they should see the curtain drop any discovery of the deceit; unaabic t any new incident, I left the conclusi perfect as I found it: but they saw a poetical justice done; they saw the child restored to its parents, and the n whelmed with shame, and threatened severest punishment.
"Take this woman," said Sir Edward lock her up, till she be delivered into the of justice."
Ann, on her knees, implored mercy mother.-Addressing the children, h gathered round her," Pear ladies," sa "help me, on your knees help me, to givenness for my mother." Down the ones all dropped,-even Lady Elizabet







THE CHAROELING. :67

kne. Sir Edward, pity her distress. S Edward, pardon her!" All joined in the
on, except one whose voice ought to have Sloudest in the appeal. No word, no ctcame from me. I hung over Lady Har's chair, weeping as if my heart would ak ; but I wept for my own fallen fortunes, Sfor my mother's sorrow. Thought within myself, "If in the integrity y heart, refusing to participate in this un. ,secret, I had boldly ventured to publish truth, I might have had some consolation the praises which so generous an action ld have merited: but it is through the tity of being supposed to have written a tty story, that I have meanly broken my
with my friend, and unintentionally prothe disgraceof my mother and myself."
ilethoughts like these were passing through mind, Ann had obtained my mother's parInstead of being sent away to confineand the horrors of a prison, she was given Edward into the care of the housekeeper,








68 THE CHANGELING.

who hatd orders from Lady HarriotW. put to bed and properly attended to, this wretched woman had fallen into a
Ann would have followed my w~nt sir Edward brought her baz-k, telling she should see her 'when she was then led, Aftit towards lady Harriot, d to embrace her child; she did so, M her, as I hadt phrased it in the play, her mothers arms.
This scene had greatly alleeted the lady Harriot; through the whsile of f with difficulty she had been kept fromw and she war, now led into the drawig the laies. The gentlemen followed, vith'sir Edward of the astonishing I filial affiction they had just seen in pleadings of the child for hur sup titer.
Ann too went m ith them, andl was
by licr vihomn I had al ways COns i ld,,~ owli particular friend. Lady, FJizA hold of her Iimiid, dud said, "1NV







THE OCHANGEIANG. 69

permit me to conduct you to the drawingJwas left weeping behind the chair where SHarriot had sate, and, as I thought, quite
SA something had before twitched my
Stwo or three times, so slightly I had cely noticed it; a little head now peeped one, and looking up in my face said, She
not miss Lesley:" it was the young Angus; he had been sitting at my feet, but I" had observed him. He then started up, and
hold of my hand with one of his, with
other holding fast by my clothes, he led, rather dragged me, into the midst of the pany assembled in the drawing.room. e vehemence of his manner, his little face as as fire, caught every eye. The ladies
Sand one gentleman laughed in a most
hlig manner. His elder brother patted On the head, and said, "You area humane flow. Elizabeth, we might have thought







70 THE CHANGELING.

Very kind words were now spoken to sir Edward, and he called me Hariot, name now grown to me. Lady Iarriotme, and said she would never forget how she had loved me as her child. These comfortable words; but I heard echoed the room, "Poor thing, she cannot help am sure she is to be pitied.-Dear y riot, howkind, how considerate you arel' what a deep sense of my altered conditionm then feel!
"Let the young ladies divert themse another room," said sir Edward; and, riot, take your new sister with you, and her to entertain your friends." Yes, he me Harriot again, and afterwards in ve te names for his daughter and me, and called us by them, apparently in jstknew it was only because, he would not me with hearing our names reversed. sir Edward desired us to shew the child n another room, Ann and I walked toward







THE CHANGELING.

A new sense of humiliation arose-how go out at the door before miss Lesley?
irresolate; she drew back. The elder of my friend Augustus assisted me in
lexity; pushing us all forward, as if playf mood, he drove 'as indiscriminately him, saying, I will make one among a to-day." ie had never joined in our jo before.
lduckess Play, that sad instance of my
y, was never once mentioned to me Awards, not even by any one of the chiSho had acted in it, and I must also tell how considerate ain old lady was at the about our dresses. As soon as she perdthings growing very serious, she hastily
off the upper garments we wore to reh our different characters. I think I hve diedwith shame, if the child had into the drawing-room in the mummery orn to represent a nurse. This good of another essential service to me: for
g an irresolution in every one how







72 THM cHAE xING.
they should behave to us, which very mach, she contrived to place above me at table, and called her and me miss Withers; saying at the in a low voice, but as ifshe meant I her, Itis better these things shoal once, then they are over." My her, for I felt the truth of what she
My poor mother continued very 1 weeks: no medicine would removed dejection of spirits she laboured a Edward sent for the clergyman of to give her religious consolation. he came to visit her, and he would-a miss Lesley and me into the room wi think, miss Villiers, your father such another man as Dr. Whee thy rector; just -so I think ihe soothed the troubled conscience o pentant mother. How feelingly, ho used to talk of mercy and forgivess
a
My heart was softened by my toies, and the sigt of my pen







THE CHANGEING.

I felt that she was now my only paJ strove, earnestly strove, to love her; yet when I looked in her face, she would seem to be the very identical person whom I
have once thought sufficiently honoured
slight inclination of the head, and a civil do you do, Mrs. Withers ? One day, as Lesley was hanging over her, with her geomed fondness, Dr. Wheelding reading prayer-book, and, as I thought, not at that
t regarding us, I threw myself on my and silenctly prayed that I too might be
to love my mother.
Wheelding had been observing me: he
e into the garden, and drew from me
t of my petition. Your prayers, young lady," saidhe, "I hope are
sure I am they have caused mie to adopt tiwhic, as it will enable you to see
her frequently, will, I hope, greatly
ear pious dishes.
will take your mother home with me to
myfamily. Under my roof doubt.
]gE







THE CHANGELING.

less sir Edward will often permit youto Perform your duty towards her as well
possibly can.-Affection is the growth of With such gooa wishes in your young do not despair that in due time it will
edly spring up."
With the approbation of sir Ed,
lady Harriot, my mother was removed in days to Dr. Wheelding's house: the soon recovered-there she at present r She tells me she loves me almost as well
did when I was a baby, and we both we
parting when I came to school.
Here perhaps I ought to conclude my a
which I fear has been a tedious one: pern however to say a few words, concern
time which elapsed since the discovery
birth until my arrival here.
It was on the fifth day' of that 11
known to be Ann Withers, and the d of my supposed nurse. The company were witness to my disgrace departed in a days, and I felt relieved hom some part oL


LN







THE CHANGELINM- 75

cion I hourly experienced. For every instance even of kindness or attention I
ced went to my heart, that I should be
to feel thankful for it.
umstanced as I was, surely I had nothing to complain of. The conduct of sir IaWand lady Harriot was kind in the ex; still preserving every appearance of a tenderness for me, but ah! I might no call them by the dear names of father mother.-Formerly when speaking ofthem, proud of their titles, to delight to say, iEdward or lady Harriot did this, or this;" I would give worlds to say, "My father Y mother."
Id be perfectly unkind if I were to
of miss Lesley-indeed, I have not
t cause of complaint against her. As panion, her affection and her gratitude n unbounded; and now that it was my be the humble friend, she tried by every
her power, to make me think she
same respectful gratitude, which in
E2







7 THE CHANGELING.
her dependant station she had so h played.
Only in a fkw rarely constituted mi that true attentive kindness spring up,, licacy of feeling, which enters into ev thing, is ever awake and keeping wat should offend. Myself, though educa the extremest care, possessed but JtN virtue. Virtue I call it, though amo is termed politeness, for since the days humiliating reverse of fortune I have value.
I feel quite ashamed to give instant deficiency I observed, or thought I served, in miss Lesley. Now I am a her, and dispassionately speaking of it' as if my own soreness of temper had 2 fancy things. I really believe now O mistaken; but miss Lesley had been praied for her filial tenderness, I th last she seemed to make a parade aboat used to run up to my mother,, and .vff more glad to see herthan she really was







THE CJ4ANGELINS. I
;,and I think Dr. Wheelding ihought s% Little hint he once dropped. But he too t be mistaken, for he was very partial to

am under the greatest obligation in the world is good Dr. Wheelding. He has made mother quite a respectable woman, and I p e it is owing a great deal to him that she lme as well as she does. ha here, though it may seem a little out of h let me stop to assure you, that if I ever l have had any doubt of the sincerity of Lesley's affection towards me, her beha* aon the occasion of my coming here ought lately to efface it. She entreated with V tears, and almost the same energy with
C he pleaded for forgiveness for my mo*, mhatI wight not be sent away.-~ut s not alike successful in ,her supplicaM Lesley had made some progress in W and writing during the time she was







78 THE CHANGELING.

my companion only, it was highly that every exertion should be now whole house was, as I may say, in for her instruction. Sir Edward Harriot devoted great part of the da purpose. A well educated young taken under our governess, to assist labours, and to teach miss Lesley m drawing-master was engaged to Yesd house.
At this time I was not remarkably f my education. -My governess being a France, I spoke French very cofe had made some progress in Italiani only had the instruction of masters d few months in the year we usually London.
Music I never had the least ear for,. scarcely be taught mrn notes. Thi me was always particularly regretted by ther, she being an excellent performer both on the piano and on the harp.







THE CHANGELING. 79

think I have some taste for drawing; but as ly arriot did not particularly excel in this, t so much time in the summer months, tising only under my governess, that I m no great proficiency even in this my fapitc art. But miss Lesley with all these Images which I have named, every body Seagerto instruct her, she so willing to lear
very thing so new and delightful to her,
could it happen otherwise ? she in a short became a little prodigy. What best A d lady Harriot was, after she had conqeed the first difficulties, she discovered a ndeful talent for music. Here she was her other's own girl indeed--she had the same e-toned voice-the same delicate finger.H musical governess had little now to do; for Sas lady Harriot perceived this excelin her, she gave up all company, and her whole time to instructing her
fhter in this science.
'Ntling makes the heart ache with such a peless, heavy pain, as envy.
E4







UTHE CHANGELING.
I had felt deeply before, but till
not be said to envy miss Lesley.- Athe notes of the harp or'the piano sounds to me, of the loss of a loved heart.
To have, in a manner, two mothers Lesley to engross them both, was indeed.
It was at this time that one day I wearied with hearing lady Harriotp long piece of Haydn's musicafterano her enraptured daughter. We we with our governess to Dr. Wheeld morning; and after lady Harriot haid room, and we were quite ready foray miss Lesley would not leave the instru I know not how long.
It wks on that day that I thought she quite honest in her expressions of joy att of my poor mother, who had been wai garden-gate near two hours to see r yet she might be, for the music had pu remarkably good spirits that morning.







THE CHANGELING. 81

0 the music quite, quite won lady Harriot's hirt! Till miss Lesley began to play so well, she often lamented the time it would take, before her daughter would have the air of a person of fashion's child. It was my part of the eeral instruction to give her lessons on this hmd. We used to make a kind of play of it, which we called lectures on fashionable manD: it was a pleasant amusement to me, a sort o keeping up the memory of past times. But ROW the music was always in the way. Thelast ime it was talked of, lady Harriot said her daughter's time was too precious to be-taken up It such trifling.
must own that the music had that effect uIiss Lesley as to render these lectures less L fSsary, which I will explain to you; but, v let me assure you that lady Harriot was
nomeans in the habit of saying these kind Of things. It was ahnost a solitary instance
iI give you a thousand instances the very '"erse of this, in her as well as in sir Edward.
kindly, how frequently, would they re.LE








THlE CHANGELTNG.
mind me, that to me alone it was o they ever knew their child! calling which I was a petitioner for the adi Anne into the house, the blessed birth generous girl.
Neither dancing, nor any f could do much for miss Lesley, she wanting in gracefulness of carriage; t is usually attributed to dancing fected. When she was sitting instrument, a resemblance to her mo came apparent to every eye. Her and the expression of her countenance very same. This soon followed her thing; all was ease and natural the music, and with it the idea of riot, was always in her thoughts, pretty sight to see the daily improve person, even to me, poor envious g was.
Soon after lady Harriot bad hurt ing my little efforts to improve he trifling, she made me large amendlsi








THE CHANGELING.

and most unreserved conversation that she
'with me.
e told me all.the struggles she had had at to feel a maternal tenderness for her daugh; and she frankly confessed that she had gamed so much on her affections, that she ed she had too much neglected the solemn ise she had made me, Never to forget how she had loved me as her child.
Encouraged by her returning kindness, I Oned how much I had suffered, and ventured Aepress my fears, that I had hardly courage to bear the sight of my former friends, Under a new designation, as I must now appear A them, on our removal to London, which was
M acted to take place in a short time.
tfew days after this she told me in the genmanner possible, that sir Edward and herWere of opinion it would conduce to my
mess to pass a year or two at school.
knew that this proposal was kindly in.
to spare me the mortifications I so much
therefore I endeavoured -to submit E6

.,~-








M4 THE CHANGELING.to my hard fate with cbeerfudiiess,anmyself, not without reluctance, to q4ko sion which had been the sceneofs: enjoyments, and latterly of such very feel ings.
















AL &













IV.


ELINOR FORESTER.






WHEN I was very young, I had the misfortie to lose my mother. My father very soon lrried again. In the morning of the doy on which that event took place, my father set me his knee, and, as he often used to do after the dfth of my mother, he called me his dear ildeorphaned Elinor, and then he asked me if Wred miss Saville. I replied:" Yes." Then aid this dear lady was going to be so kind as be married to him, and that she was to live us, and be my mamma. My father told is with such pleasure in his looks, that I







86 THE FATHER'S WEDDING*DAr

thought it must be a very fine th have a new mamma; and on his sa time for me to be dressed against his r church, I ran in great spirits to tell tb news in the nursery. I found mymaid house-maid looking out of the window my fatherget into his carriage, whica painted; the servants had new liveries, a white ribbands in their hats; and then I ceived my father had left off his mo The maids were dressed in new colouredI and whiteribbands. On the table I saw muslin frock, trimmed with fine lace me to put on. I skipped about the r in an ecstasy.
When the carriage drove from the d hosekeeper came in to bring the maid white gloves. I repeated to her the had just heard, that that dear lady Saville was going to be married to and that she was to live with us, and mamma.
The housekeeper shook her head, and







THE FATHER'S WEDDING-DAY. 87

thing! how soon children forget every

could not imagine what she. meant by my t ting every thing, for I instantly recollected
I mamma used to say I had an excellent emory.
~The women began to draw on their white g4oves, and the seams rending inseveral places Anne said, "This is just the way our gloves isr~ed usat my mistress's funeral." Theother checked her, and said "Hush!" I was them %inkingof some instances in which my mamma hd praised my memory, and this reference to r funeral fixed her idea in my mind.
From the time of her death no one had ever
*ken to me of my mamma, and I had appatly forgotten her; yet I had a habit which
*haps had not been observed, of taking my Ile stool, which had been my mamma's foot.i and a doll, which my mamma had dressed me, while she was sitting in her elbow-chair,
head supported with pillows. With these my hands, J used to go to the door of the






r
TAS FATHER'S WEDDINO-DAY room in which I had seen her in herls and af cr trying to open it, and peeping the keyhole, from whence I couldju glimpse of the crimson curtains, I down on the stool before the door, with my doll, and sometimes sing to ma's pretty song, of Balow my ba1 tating, as well as I could, the weak v which she used lo sing it to me. My had a very sweet voice. I remember n gentle tone in which she used to say my did1 not disturb her.
When I was dressed in my new frock, I poor mamma was alive to see how fine I papa's wedding-day, and I ran to my ft station at her bed-room door. There thinking of my mamma, and trying to .... exactly how she used to look; because 1, ishly imagined that miss Saville was t changed into something like my own whose pale and delicate appearance in + illness was all that I retained of her re branee.