If it should seem surprising that so high-bred a visitor should be
sojourning in the wild woods, it must be remembered that more than one
celebrated Englishman and not a few distinguished Americans have
farmer brothers in the western country, no whit less rustic in their
exterior and manner of life than the plainest of their neighbors. When
these are visited by their refined kinsfolk, we of the woods catch
glimpses of the gay world, or think we do.

  That great medicine hath
  With its tinct gilded--

many a vulgarism to the satisfaction of wiser heads than ours.

Miss Bangle's manner bespoke for her that high consideration which she
felt to be her due. Yet she condescended to be amused by the rustics
and their awkward attempts at gaiety and elegance; and, to say truth,
few of the village merry-makings escaped her, though she wore always
the air of great superiority.

The spelling-school is one of the ordinary winter amusements in the
country. It occurs once in a fortnight, or so, and has power to draw
out all the young people for miles round, arrayed in their best
clothes and their holiday behavior. When all is ready, umpires are
elected, and after these have taken the distinguished place usually
occupied by the teacher, the young people of the school choose the two
best scholars to head the opposing classes. These leaders choose their
followers from the mass, each calling a name in turn, until all the
spellers are ranked on one side or the other, lining the sides of the
room, and all standing. The schoolmaster, standing too, takes his
spelling-book, and gives a placid yet awe-inspiring look along the
ranks, remarking that he intends to be very impartial, and that he
shall give out nothing _that is not in the spelling-book_. For the
first half hour or so he chooses common and easy words, that the
spirit of the evening may not be damped by the too early thinning of
the classes. When a word is missed, the blunderer has to sit down, and
be a spectator only for the rest of the evening. At certain intervals,
some of the best speakers mount the platform, and "speak a piece,"
which is generally as declamatory as possible.

The excitement of this scene is equal to that afforded by any city
spectacle whatever; and towards the close of the evening, when
difficult and unusual words are chosen to confound the small number
who still keep the floor, it becomes scarcely less than painful. When
perhaps only one or two remain to be puzzled, the master, weary at
last of his task, though a favorite one, tries by tricks to put down
those whom he cannot overcome in fair fight. If among all the curious,
useless, unheard-of words which may be picked out of the
spelling-book, he cannot find one which the scholars have not noticed,
he gets the last head down by some quip or catch. "Bay" will perhaps
be the sound; one scholar spells it "bey," another, "bay," while the
master all the time means "ba," which comes within the rule, being _in
the spelling-book_.

It was on one of these occasions, as we have said, that Miss Bangle,
having come to the spelling-school to get materials for a letter to a
female friend, first shone upon Mr. Horner. She was excessively amused
by his solemn air and puckered mouth, and set him down at once as fair
game. Yet she could not help becoming somewhat interested in the
spelling-school, and after it was over found she had not stored up
half as many of the schoolmaster's points as she intended, for the
benefit of her correspondent.

In the evening's contest a young girl from some few miles' distance,
Ellen Kingsbury, the only child of a substantial farmer, had been the
very last to sit down, after a prolonged effort on the part of Mr.
Horner to puzzle her, for the credit of his own school. She blushed,
and smiled, and blushed again, but spelt on, until Mr. Horner's cheeks
were crimson with excitement and some touch of shame that he should be
baffled at his own weapons. At length, either by accident or design,
Ellen missed a word, and sinking into her seat was numbered with the
slain.

In the laugh and talk which followed (for with the conclusion of the
spelling, all form of a public assembly vanishes), our schoolmaster
said so many gallant things to his fair enemy, and appeared so much
animated by the excitement of the contest, that Miss Bangle began to
look upon him with rather more respect, and to feel somewhat indignant
that a little rustic like Ellen should absorb the entire attention of
the only beau. She put on, therefore, her most gracious aspect, and
mingled in the circle; caused the schoolmaster to be presented to her,
and did her best to fascinate him by certain airs and graces which she
had found successful elsewhere. What game is too small for the
close-woven net of a coquette?

Mr. Horner quitted not the fair Ellen until he had handed her into her
father's sleigh; and he then wended his way homewards, never thinking
that he ought to have escorted Miss Bangle to her uncle's, though she
certainly waited a little while for his return.

We must not follow into particulars the subsequent intercourse of our
schoolmaster with the civilized young lady. All that concerns us is
the result of Miss Bangle's benevolent designs upon his heart. She
tried most sincerely to find its vulnerable spot, meaning no doubt to
put Mr. Homer on his guard for the future; and she was unfeignedly
surprised to discover that her best efforts were of no avail. She
concluded he must have taken a counter-poison, and she was not slow in
guessing its source. She had observed the peculiar fire which lighted
up his eyes in the presence of Ellen Kingsbury, and she bethought her
of a plan which would ensure her some amusement at the expense of
these impertinent rustics, though in a manner different somewhat from
her original more natural idea of simple coquetry.

A letter was written to Master Horner, purporting to come from Ellen
Kingsbury, worded so artfully that the schoolmaster understood at once
that it was intended to be a secret communication, though its
ostensible object was an inquiry about some ordinary affair. This was
laid in Mr. Horner's desk before he came to school, with an intimation
that he might leave an answer in a certain spot on the following
morning. The bait took at once, for Mr. Horner, honest and true
himself, and much smitten with the fair Ellen, was too happy to be
circumspect. The answer was duly placed, and as duly carried to Miss
Bangle by her accomplice, Joe Englehart, an unlucky pickle who "was
always for ill, never for good," and who found no difficulty in
obtaining the letter unwatched, since the master was obliged to be in
school at nine, and Joe could always linger a few minutes later. This
answer being opened and laughed at, Miss Bangle had only to contrive a
rejoinder, which being rather more particular in its tone than the
original communication, led on yet again the happy schoolmaster, who
branched out into sentiment, "taffeta phrases, silken terms precise,"
talked of hills and dales and rivulets, and the pleasures of
friendship, and concluded by entreating a continuance of the
correspondence.

Another letter and another, every one more flattering and encouraging
than the last, almost turned the sober head of our poor master, and
warmed up his heart so effectually that he could scarcely attend to
his business. The spelling-schools were remembered, however, and Ellen
Kingsbury made one of the merry company; but the latest letter had not
forgotten to caution Mr. Horner not to betray the intimacy; so that he
was in honor bound to restrict himself to the language of the eyes
hard as it was to forbear the single whisper for which he would have
given his very dictionary. So, their meeting passed off without the
explanation which Miss Bangle began to fear would cut short her
benevolent amusement.

The correspondence was resumed with renewed spirit, and carried on
until Miss Bangle, though not overburdened with sensitiveness, began
to be a little alarmed for the consequences of her malicious
pleasantry. She perceived that she herself had turned schoolmistress,
and that Master Horner, instead of being merely her dupe, had become
her pupil too; for the style of his replies had been constantly
improving and the earnest and manly tone which he assumed promised any
thing but the quiet, sheepish pocketing of injury and insult, upon
which she had counted. In truth, there was something deeper than
vanity in the feelings with which he regarded Ellen Kingsbury. The
encouragement which he supposed himself to have received, threw down
the barrier which his extreme bashfulness would have interposed
between himself and any one who possessed charms enough to attract
him; and we must excuse him if, in such a case, he did not criticise
the mode of encouragement, but rather grasped eagerly the proffered
good without a scruple, or one which he would own to himself, as to
the propriety with which it was tendered. He was as much in love as a
man can be, and the seriousness of real attachment gave both grace and
dignity to his once awkward diction.

The evident determination of Mr. Horner to come to the point of asking
papa brought Miss Bangle to a very awkward pass. She had expected to
return home before matters had proceeded so far, but being obliged to
remain some time longer, she was equally afraid to go on and to leave
off, a _dГ©nouement_ being almost certain to ensue in either case.
Things stood thus when it was time to prepare for the grand exhibition
which was to close the winter's term.

This is an affair of too much magnitude to be fully described in the
small space yet remaining in which to bring out our veracious history.
It must be "slubber'd o'er in haste"--its important preliminaries left
to the cold imagination of the reader--its fine spirit perhaps
evaporating for want of being embodied in words. We can only say that
our master, whose school-life was to close with the term, labored as
man never before labored in such a cause, resolute to trail a cloud of
glory after him when he left us. Not a candlestick nor a curtain that
was attainable, either by coaxing or bribery, was left in the village;
even the only piano, that frail treasure, was wiled away and placed in
one corner of the rickety stage. The most splendid of all the pieces
in the _Columbian Orator_, the _American Speaker_, the----but we must
not enumerate--in a word, the most astounding and pathetic specimens
of eloquence within ken of either teacher or scholars, had been
selected for the occasion; and several young ladies and gentlemen,
whose academical course had been happily concluded at an earlier
period, either at our own institution or at some other, had consented
to lend themselves to the parts, and their choicest decorations for
the properties, of the dramatic portion of the entertainment.

Among these last was pretty Ellen Kingsbury, who had agreed to
personate the Queen of Scots, in the garden scene from Schiller's
tragedy of _Mary Stuart_; and this circumstance accidentally afforded
Master Horner the opportunity he had so long desired, of seeing his
fascinating correspondent without the presence of peering eyes. A
dress-rehearsal occupied the afternoon before the day of days, and the
pathetic expostulations of the lovely Mary--

  Mine all doth hang--my life--my destiny--
  Upon my words--upon the force of tears!--

aided by the long veil, and the emotion which sympathy brought into
Ellen's countenance, proved too much for the enforced prudence of
Master Horner. When the rehearsal was over, and the heroes and
heroines were to return home, it was found that, by a stroke of witty
invention not new in the country, the harness of Mr. Kingsbury's
horses had been cut in several places, his whip hidden, his
buffalo-skins spread on the ground, and the sleigh turned bottom
upwards on them. This afforded an excuse for the master's borrowing a
horse and sleigh of somebody, and claiming the privilege of taking
Miss Ellen home, while her father returned with only Aunt Sally and a
great bag of bran from the mill--companions about equally interesting.

Here, then, was the golden opportunity so long wished for! Here was
the power of ascertaining at once what is never quite certain until we
have heard it from warm, living lips, whose testimony is strengthened
by glances in which the whole soul speaks or--seems to speak. The time
was short, for the sleighing was but too fine; and Father Kingsbury,
having tied up his harness, and collected his scattered equipment, was
driving so close behind that there was no possibility of lingering for
a moment. Yet many moments were lost before Mr. Horner, very much in
earnest, and all unhackneyed in matters of this sort, could find a
word in which to clothe his new-found feelings. The horse seemed to
fly--the distance was half past--and at length, in absolute despair of
anything better, he blurted out at once what he had determined to
avoid--a direct reference to the correspondence.

A game at cross-purposes ensued; exclamations and explanations, and
denials and apologies filled up the time which was to have made Master
Horner so blest. The light from Mr. Kingsbury's windows shone upon the
path, and the whole result of this conference so longed for, was a
burst of tears from the perplexed and mortified Ellen, who sprang from
Mr. Horner's attempts to detain her, rushed into the house without
vouchsafing him a word of adieu, and left him standing, no bad
personification of Orpheus, after the last hopeless flitting of his
Eurydice.

"Won't you 'light, Master?" said Mr. Kingsbury.

"Yes--no--thank you--good evening," stammered poor Master Horner, so
stupefied that even Aunt Sally called him "a dummy."

The horse took the sleigh against the fence, going home, and threw out
the master, who scarcely recollected the accident; while to Ellen the
issue of this unfortunate drive was a sleepless night and so high a
fever in the morning that our village doctor was called to Mr.
Kingsbury's before breakfast.

Poor Master Horner's distress may hardly be imagined. Disappointed,
bewildered, cut to the quick, yet as much in love as ever, he could
only in bitter silence turn over in his thoughts the issue of his
cherished dream; now persuading himself that Ellen's denial was the
effect of a sudden bashfulness, now inveighing against the fickleness
of the sex, as all men do when they are angry with any one woman in
particular. But his exhibition must go on in spite of wretchedness;
and he went about mechanically, talking of curtains and candles, and
music, and attitudes, and pauses, and emphasis, looking like a
somnambulist whose "eyes are open but their sense is shut," and often
surprising those concerned by the utter unfitness of his answers.

It was almost evening when Mr. Kingsbury, having discovered, through
the intervention of the Doctor and Aunt Sally the cause of Ellen's
distress, made his appearance before the unhappy eyes of Master
Horner, angry, solemn and determined; taking the schoolmaster apart,
and requiring, an explanation of his treatment of his daughter. In
vain did the perplexed lover ask for time to clear himself, declare
his respect for Miss Ellen and his willingness to give every
explanation which she might require; the father was not to be put off;
and though excessively reluctant, Mr. Horner had no resource but to
show the letters which alone could account for his strange discourse
to Ellen. He unlocked his desk, slowly and unwillingly, while the old
man's impatience was such that he could scarcely forbear thrusting in
his own hand to snatch at the papers which were to explain this
vexatious mystery. What could equal the utter confusion of Master
Horner and the contemptuous anger of the father, when no letters were
to be found! Mr. Kingsbury was too passionate to listen to reason, or
to reflect for one moment upon the irreproachable good name of the
schoolmaster. He went away in inexorable wrath; threatening every
practicable visitation of public and private justice upon the head of
the offender, whom he accused of having attempted to trick his
daughter into an entanglement which should result in his favor.

A doleful exhibition was this last one of our thrice approved and most
worthy teacher! Stern necessity and the power of habit enabled him to
go through with most of his part, but where was the proud fire which
had lighted up his eye on similar occasions before? He sat as one of
three judges before whom the unfortunate Robert Emmet was dragged in
his shirt-sleeves, by two fierce-looking officials; but the chief
judge looked far more like a criminal than did the proper
representative. He ought to have personated Othello, but was obliged
to excuse himself from raving for "the handkerchief! the
handkerchief!" on the rather anomalous plea of a bad cold. _Mary
Stuart_ being "i' the bond," was anxiously expected by the impatient
crowd, and it was with distress amounting to agony that the master was
obliged to announce, in person, the necessity of omitting that part of
the representation, on account of the illness of one of the young
ladies.

Scarcely had the words been uttered, and the speaker hidden his
burning face behind the curtain, when Mr. Kingsbury started up in his
place amid the throng, to give a public recital of his grievance--no
uncommon resort in the new country. He dashed at once to the point;
and before some friends who saw the utter impropriety of his
proceeding could persuade him to defer his vengeance, he had laid
before the assembly--some three hundred people, perhaps--his own
statement of the case. He was got out at last, half coaxed, half
hustled; and the gentle public only half understanding what had been
set forth thus unexpectedly, made quite a pretty row of it. Some
clamored loudly for the conclusion of the exercises; others gave
utterances in no particularly choice terms to a variety of opinions as
to the schoolmaster's proceedings, varying the note occasionally by
shouting, "The letters! the letters! why don't you bring out the
letters?"

At length, by means of much rapping on the desk by the president of
the evening, who was fortunately a "popular" character, order was
partially restored; and the favorite scene from Miss More's dialogue
of David and Goliath was announced as the closing piece. The sight of
little David in a white tunic edged with red tape, with a calico scrip
and a very primitive-looking sling; and a huge Goliath decorated with
a militia belt and sword, and a spear like a weaver's beam indeed,
enchained everybody's attention. Even the peccant schoolmaster and his
pretended letters were forgotten, while the sapient Goliath, every
time that he raised the spear, in the energy of his declamation, to
thump upon the stage, picked away fragments of the low ceiling, which
fell conspicuously on his great shock of black hair. At last, with the
crowning threat, up went the spear for an astounding thump, and down
came a large piece of the ceiling, and with it--a shower of letters.

The confusion that ensued beggars all description. A general scramble
took place, and in another moment twenty pairs of eyes, at least, were
feasting on the choice phrases lavished upon Mr. Horner. Miss Bangle
had sat through the whole previous scene, trembling for herself,
although she had, as she supposed, guarded cunningly against exposure.
She had needed no prophet to tell her what must be the result of a
tГЄte-Г -tГЄte between Mr. Horner and Ellen; and the moment she saw them
drive off together, she induced her imp to seize the opportunity of
abstracting the whole parcel of letters from Mr. Horner's desk; which
he did by means of a sort of skill which comes by nature to such
goblins; picking the lock by the aid of a crooked nail, as neatly as
if he had been born within the shadow of the Tombs.

But magicians sometimes suffer severely from the malice with which
they have themselves inspired their familiars. Joe Englehart having
been a convenient tool thus far thought it quite time to torment Miss
Bangle a little; so, having stolen the letters at her bidding, he hid
them on his own account, and no persuasions of hers could induce him
to reveal this important secret, which he chose to reserve as a rod in
case she refused him some intercession with his father, or some other
accommodation, rendered necessary by his mischievous habits.

He had concealed the precious parcels in the unfloored loft above the
school-room, a place accessible only by means of a small trap-door
without staircase or ladder; and here he meant to have kept them while
it suited his purposes, but for the untimely intrusion of the weaver's
beam.

Miss Bangle had sat through all, as we have said, thinking the letters
safe, yet vowing vengeance against her confederate for not allowing
her to secure them by a satisfactory conflagration; and it was not
until she heard her own name whispered through the crowd, that she was
awakened to her true situation. The sagacity of the low creatures whom
she had despised showed them at once that the letters must be hers,
since her character had been pretty shrewdly guessed, and the
handwriting wore a more practised air than is usual among females in
the country. This was first taken for granted, and then spoken of as
an acknowledged fact.

The assembly moved like the heavings of a troubled sea. Everybody felt
that this was everybody's business. "Put her out!" was heard from more
than one rough voice near the door, and this was responded to by loud
and angry murmurs from within.

Mr. Englehart, not waiting to inquire into the merits of the case in
this scene of confusion, hastened to get his family out as quietly and
as quickly as possible, but groans and hisses followed his niece as
she hung half-fainting on his arm, quailing completely beneath the
instinctive indignation of the rustic public. As she passed out, a
yell resounded among the rude boys about the door, and she was lifted
into a sleigh, insensible from terror. She disappeared from that
evening, and no one knew the time of her final departure for "the
east."

Mr. Kingsbury, who is a just man when he is not in a passion, made all
the reparation in his power for his harsh and ill-considered attack
upon the master; and we believe that functionary did not show any
traits of implacability of character. At least he was seen, not many
days after, sitting peaceably at tea with Mr. Kingsbury, Aunt Sally,
and Miss Ellen; and he has since gone home to build a house upon his
farm. And people _do_ say, that after a few months more, Ellen will
not need Miss Bangle's intervention if she should see fit to
correspond with the schoolmaster.



THE WATKINSON EVENING

[From _Godey's Lady's Book_, December, 1846.]

By Eliza Leslie (1787-1858)

Mrs. Morland, a polished and accomplished woman, was the widow of a
distinguished senator from one of the western states, of which, also,
her husband had twice filled the office of governor. Her daughter
having completed her education at the best boarding-school in
Philadelphia, and her son being about to graduate at Princeton, the
mother had planned with her children a tour to Niagara and the lakes,
returning by way of Boston. On leaving Philadelphia, Mrs. Morland and
the delighted Caroline stopped at Princeton to be present at the
annual commencement, and had the happiness of seeing their beloved
Edward receive his diploma as bachelor of arts; after hearing him
deliver, with great applause, an oration on the beauties of the
American character. College youths are very prone to treat on subjects
that imply great experience of the world. But Edward Morland was full
of kind feeling for everything and everybody; and his views of life
had hitherto been tinted with a perpetual rose-color.

Mrs. Morland, not depending altogether upon the celebrity of her late
husband, and wishing that her children should see specimens of the
best society in the northern cities, had left home with numerous
letters of introduction. But when they arrived at New York, she found
to her great regret, that having unpacked and taken out her small
traveling desk, during her short stay in Philadelphia, she had
strangely left it behind in the closet of her room at the hotel. In
this desk were deposited all her letters, except two which had been
offered to her by friends in Philadelphia. The young people, impatient
to see the wonders of Niagara, had entreated her to stay but a day or
two in the city of New York, and thought these two letters would be
quite sufficient for the present. In the meantime she wrote back to
the hotel, requesting that the missing desk should be forwarded to New
York as soon as possible.

On the morning after their arrival at the great commercial metropolis
of America, the Morland family took a carriage to ride round through
the principal parts of the city, and to deliver their two letters at
the houses to which they were addressed, and which were both situated
in the region that lies between the upper part of Broadway and the
North River. In one of the most fashionable streets they found the
elegant mansion of Mrs. St. Leonard; but on stopping at the door, were
informed that its mistress was not at home. They then left the
introductory letter (which they had prepared for this mischance, by
enclosing it in an envelope with a card), and proceeding to another
street considerably farther up, they arrived at the dwelling of the
Watkinson family, to the mistress of which the other Philadelphia
letter was directed. It was one of a large block of houses all exactly
alike, and all shut up from top to bottom, according to a custom more
prevalent in New York than in any other city.

Here they were also unsuccessful; the servant who came to the door
telling them that the ladies were particularly engaged and could see
no company. So they left their second letter and card and drove off,
continuing their ride till they reached the Croton water works, which
they quitted the carriage to see and admire. On returning to the
hotel, with the intention after an hour or two of rest to go out
again, and walk till near dinner-time, they found waiting them a note
from Mrs. Watkinson, expressing her regret that she had not been able
to see them when they called; and explaining that her family duties
always obliged her to deny herself the pleasure of receiving morning
visitors, and that her servants had general orders to that effect. But
she requested their company for that evening (naming nine o'clock as
the hour), and particularly desired an immediate answer.

"I suppose," said Mrs. Morland, "she intends asking some of her
friends to meet us, in case we accept the invitation; and therefore is
naturally desirous of a reply as soon as possible. Of course we will
not keep her in suspense. Mrs. Denham, who volunteered the letter,
assured me that Mrs. Watkinson was one of the most estimable women in
New York, and a pattern to the circle in which she moved. It seems
that Mr. Denham and Mr. Watkinson are connected in business. Shall we
go?"

The young people assented, saying they had no doubt of passing a
pleasant evening.

The billet of acceptance having been written, it was sent off
immediately, entrusted to one of the errand-goers belonging to the
hotel, that it might be received in advance of the next hour for the
dispatch-post--and Edward Morland desired the man to get into an
omnibus with the note that no time might be lost in delivering it. "It
is but right"--said he to his mother--"that we should give Mrs.
Watkinson an ample opportunity of making her preparations, and sending
round to invite her friends."

"How considerate you are, dear Edward"--said Caroline--"always so
thoughtful of every one's convenience. Your college friends must have
idolized you."

"No"--said Edward--"they called me a prig." Just then a remarkably
handsome carriage drove up to the private door of the hotel. From it
alighted a very elegant woman, who in a few moments was ushered into
the drawing-room by the head waiter, and on his designating Mrs.
Morland's family, she advanced and gracefully announced herself as
Mrs. St. Leonard. This was the lady at whose house they had left the
first letter of introduction. She expressed regret at not having been
at home when they called; but said that on finding their letter, she
had immediately come down to see them, and to engage them for the
evening. "Tonight"--said Mrs. St. Leonard--"I expect as many friends
as I can collect for a summer party. The occasion is the recent
marriage of my niece, who with her husband has just returned from
their bridal excursion, and they will be soon on their way to their
residence in Baltimore. I think I can promise you an agreeable
evening, as I expect some very delightful people, with whom I shall be
most happy to make you acquainted."

Edward and Caroline exchanged glances, and could not refrain from
looking wistfully at their mother, on whose countenance a shade of
regret was very apparent. After a short pause she replied to Mrs. St.
Leonard--"I am truly sorry to say that we have just answered in the
affirmative a previous invitation for this very evening."

"I am indeed disappointed"--said Mrs. St. Leonard, who had been
looking approvingly at the prepossessing appearance of the two young
people. "Is there no way in which you can revoke your compliance with
this unfortunate first invitation--at least, I am sure, it is
unfortunate for me. What a vexatious _contretemps_ that I should have
chanced to be out when you called; thus missing the pleasure of seeing
you at once, and securing that of your society for this evening? The
truth is, I was disappointed in some of the preparations that had been
sent home this morning, and I had to go myself and have the things
rectified, and was detained away longer than I expected. May I ask to
whom you are engaged this evening? Perhaps I know the lady--if so, I
should be very much tempted to go and beg you from her."

"The lady is Mrs. John Watkinson"--replied Mrs. Morland--"most
probably she will invite some of her friends to meet us."

"That of course"--answered Mrs. St. Leonard--"I am really very
sorry--and I regret to say that I do not know her at all."

"We shall have to abide by our first decision," said Mrs. Morland. "By
Mrs. Watkinson, mentioning in her note the hour of nine, it is to be
presumed she intends asking some other company. I cannot possibly
disappoint her. I can speak feelingly as to the annoyance (for I have
known it by my own experience) when after inviting a number of my
friends to meet some strangers, the strangers have sent an excuse
almost at the eleventh hour. I think no inducements, however strong,
could tempt me to do so myself."

"I confess that you are perfectly right," said Mrs. St. Leonard. "I
see you must go to Mrs. Watkinson. But can you not divide the evening,
by passing a part of it with her and then finishing with me?"

At this suggestion the eyes of the young people sparkled, for they had
become delighted with Mrs. St. Leonard, and imagined that a party at
her house must be every way charming. Also, parties were novelties to
both of them.

"If possible we will do so," answered Mrs. Morland, "and with what
pleasure I need not assure you. We leave New York to-morrow, but we
shall return this way in September, and will then be exceedingly happy
to see more of Mrs. St. Leonard."

After a little more conversation Mrs. St. Leonard took her leave,
repeating her hope of still seeing her new friends at her house that
night; and enjoining them to let her know as soon as they returned to
New York on their way home.

Edward Morland handed her to her carriage, and then joined his mother
and sister in their commendations of Mrs. St. Leonard, with whose
exceeding beauty were united a countenance beaming with intelligence,
and a manner that put every one at their ease immediately.

"She is an evidence," said Edward, "how superior our women of fashion
are to those of Europe."

"Wait, my dear son," said Mrs. Morland, "till you have been in Europe,
and had an opportunity of forming an opinion on that point (as on many
others) from actual observation. For my part, I believe that in all
civilized countries the upper classes of people are very much alike,
at least in their leading characteristics."

"Ah! here comes the man that was sent to Mrs. Watkinson," said
Caroline Morland. "I hope he could not find the house and has brought
the note back with him. We shall then be able to go at first to Mrs.
St. Leonard's, and pass the whole evening there."

The man reported that he _had_ found the house, and had delivered the
note into Mrs. Watkinson's own hands, as she chanced to be crossing
the entry when the door was opened; and that she read it immediately,
and said "Very well."

"Are you certain that you made no mistake in the house," said Edward,
"and that you really _did_ give it to Mrs. Watkinson?"

"And it's quite sure I am, sir," replied the man, "when I first came
over from the ould country I lived with them awhile, and though when
she saw me to-day, she did not let on that she remembered my doing
that same, she could not help calling me James. Yes, the rale words
she said when I handed her the billy-dux was, 'Very well, James.'"

"Come, come," said Edward, when they found themselves alone, "let us
look on the bright side. If we do not find a large party at Mrs.
Watkinson's, we may in all probability meet some very agreeable people
there, and enjoy the feast of reason and the flow of soul. We may find
the Watkinson house so pleasant as to leave it with regret even for
Mrs. St. Leonard's."

"I do not believe Mrs. Watkinson is in fashionable society," said
Caroline, "or Mrs. St. Leonard would have known her. I heard some of
the ladies here talking last evening of Mrs. St. Leonard, and I found
from what they said that she is among the _Г©lite_ of the _lite_."

"Even if she is," observed Mrs. Morland, "are polish of manners and
cultivation of mind confined exclusively to persons of that class?"

"Certainly not," said Edward, "the most talented and refined youth at
our college, and he in whose society I found the greatest pleasure,
was the son of a bricklayer."

In the ladies' drawing-room, after dinner, the Morlands heard a
conversation between several of the female guests, who all seemed to
know Mrs. St. Leonard very well by reputation, and they talked of her
party that was to "come off" on this evening.

"I hear," said one lady, "that Mrs. St. Leonard is to have an unusual
number of lions."

She then proceeded to name a gallant general, with his elegant wife
and accomplished daughter; a celebrated commander in the navy; two
highly distinguished members of Congress, and even an ex-president.
Also several of the most eminent among the American literati, and two
first-rate artists.

Edward Morland felt as if he could say, "Had I three ears I'd hear
thee."

"Such a woman as Mrs. St. Leonard can always command the best lions
that are to be found," observed another lady.

"And then," said a third, "I have been told that she has such
exquisite taste in lighting and embellishing her always elegant rooms.
And her supper table, whether for summer or winter parties, is so
beautifully arranged; all the viands are so delicious, and the
attendance of the servants so perfect--and Mrs. St. Leonard does the
honors with so much ease and tact."

"Some friends of mine that visit her," said a fourth lady, "describe
her parties as absolute perfection. She always manages to bring
together those persons that are best fitted to enjoy each other's
conversation. Still no one is overlooked or neglected. Then everything
at her reunions is so well proportioned--she has just enough of music,
and just enough of whatever amusement may add to the pleasure of her
guests; and still there is no appearance of design or management on
her part."

"And better than all," said the lady who had spoken firsts "Mrs. St.
Leonard is one of the kindest, most generous, and most benevolent of
women--she does good in every possible way."

"I can listen no longer," said Caroline to Edward, rising to change
her seat. "If I hear any more I shall absolutely hate the Watkinsons.
How provoking that they should have sent us the first invitation. If
we had only thought of waiting till we could hear from Mrs. St.
Leonard!"

"For shame, Caroline," said her brother, "how can you talk so of
persons you have never seen, and to whom you ought to feel grateful
for the kindness of their invitation; even if it has interfered with
another party, that I must confess seems to offer unusual attractions.
Now I have a presentiment that we shall find the Watkinson part of the
evening very enjoyable."

As soon as tea was over, Mrs. Morland and her daughter repaired to
their toilettes. Fortunately, fashion as well as good taste, has
decided that, at a summer party, the costume of the ladies should
never go beyond an elegant simplicity. Therefore our two ladies in
preparing for their intended appearance at Mrs. St. Leonard's, were
enabled to attire themselves in a manner that would not seem out of
place in the smaller company they expected to meet at the Watkinsons.
Over an under-dress of lawn, Caroline Morland put on a white organdy
trimmed with lace, and decorated with bows of pink ribbon. At the back
of her head was a wreath of fresh and beautiful pink flowers, tied
with a similar ribbon. Mrs. Morland wore a black grenadine over a
satin, and a lace cap trimmed with white.

It was but a quarter past nine o'clock when their carriage stopped at
the Watkinson door. The front of the house looked very dark. Not a ray
gleamed through the Venetian shutters, and the glimmer beyond the
fan-light over the door was almost imperceptible. After the coachman
had rung several times, an Irish girl opened the door, cautiously (as
Irish girls always do), and admitted them into the entry, where one
light only was burning in a branch lamp. "Shall we go upstairs?" said
Mrs. Morland. "And what for would ye go upstairs?" said the girl in a
pert tone. "It's all dark there, and there's no preparations. Ye can
lave your things here a-hanging on the rack. It is a party ye're
expecting? Blessed are them what expects nothing."

The sanguine Edward Morland looked rather blank at this intelligence,
and his sister whispered to him, "We'll get off to Mrs. St. Leonard's
as soon as we possibly can. When did you tell the coachman to come for
us?"

"At half past ten," was the brother's reply.

"Oh! Edward, Edward!" she exclaimed, "And I dare say he will not be
punctual. He may keep us here till eleven."

"_Courage, mes enfants_," said their mother, "_et parlez plus
doucement_."

The girl then ushered them into the back parlor, saying, "Here's the
company."

The room was large and gloomy. A checquered mat covered the floor, and
all the furniture was encased in striped calico covers, and the lamps,
mirrors, etc. concealed under green gauze. The front parlor was
entirely dark, and in the back apartment was no other light than a
shaded lamp on a large centre table, round which was assembled a
circle of children of all sizes and ages. On a backless, cushionless
sofa sat Mrs. Watkinson, and a young lady, whom she introduced as her
daughter Jane. And Mrs. Morland in return presented Edward and
Caroline.

"Will you take the rocking-chair, ma'am?" inquired Mrs. Watkinson.

Mrs. Morland declining the offer, the hostess took it herself, and
see-sawed on it nearly the whole time. It was a very awkward,
high-legged, crouch-backed rocking-chair, and shamefully unprovided
with anything in the form of a footstool.

"My husband is away, at Boston, on business," said Mrs. Watkinson. "I
thought at first, ma'am, I should not be able to ask you here this
evening, for it is not our way to have company in his absence; but my
daughter Jane over-persuaded me to send for you."

"What a pity," thought Caroline.

"You must take us as you find us, ma'am," continued Mrs. Watkinson.
"We use no ceremony with anybody; and our rule is never to put
ourselves out of the way. We do not give parties [looking at the
dresses of the ladies]. Our first duty is to our children, and we
cannot waste our substance on fashion and folly. They'll have cause to
thank us for it when we die."

Something like a sob was heard from the centre table, at which the
children were sitting, and a boy was seen to hold his handkerchief to
his face.

"Joseph, my child," said his mother, "do not cry. You have no idea,
ma'am, what an extraordinary boy that is. You see how the bare mention
of such a thing as our deaths has overcome him."

There was another sob behind the handkerchief, and the Morlands
thought it now sounded very much like a smothered laugh.

"As I was saying, ma'am," continued Mrs. Watkinson, "we never give
parties. We leave all sinful things to the vain and foolish. My
daughter Jane has been telling me, that she heard this morning of a
party that is going on tonight at the widow St. Leonard's. It is only
fifteen years since her husband died. He was carried off with a three
days' illness, but two months after they were married. I have had a
domestic that lived with them at the time, so I know all about it. And
there she is now, living in an elegant house, and riding in her
carriage, and dressing and dashing, and giving parties, and enjoying
life, as she calls it. Poor creature, how I pity her! Thank heaven,
nobody that I know goes to her parties. If they did I would never wish
to see them again in my house. It is an encouragement to folly and
nonsense--and folly and nonsense are sinful. Do not you think so,
ma'am?"

"If carried too far they may certainly become so," replied Mrs.
Morland.

"We have heard," said Edward, "that Mrs. St. Leonard, though one of
the ornaments of the gay world, has a kind heart, a beneficent spirit
and a liberal hand."

"I know very little about her," replied Mrs. Watkinson, drawing up her
head, "and I have not the least desire to know any more. It is well
she has no children; they'd be lost sheep if brought up in her fold.
For my part, ma'am," she continued, turning to Mrs. Morland, "I am
quite satisfied with the quiet joys of a happy home. And no mother has
the least business with any other pleasures. My innocent babes know
nothing about plays, and balls, and parties; and they never shall. Do
they look as if they had been accustomed to a life of pleasure?"

They certainly did not! for when the Morlands took a glance at them,
they thought they had never seen youthful faces that were less gay,
and indeed less prepossessing.

There was not a good feature or a pleasant expression among them all.
Edward Morland recollected his having often read "that childhood is
always lovely." But he saw that the juvenile Watkinsons were an
exception to the rule.

"The first duty of a mother is to her children," repeated Mrs.
Watkinson. "Till nine o'clock, my daughter Jane and myself are
occupied every evening in hearing the lessons that they have learned
for to-morrow's school. Before that hour we can receive no visitors,
and we never have company to tea, as that would interfere too much
with our duties. We had just finished hearing these lessons when you
arrived. Afterwards the children are permitted to indulge themselves
in rational play, for I permit no amusement that is not also
instructive. My children are so well trained, that even when alone
their sports are always serious."

Two of the boys glanced slyly at each other, with what Edward Morland
comprehended as an expression of pitch-penny and marbles.

"They are now engaged at their game of astronomy," continued Mrs.
Watkinson. "They have also a sort of geography cards, and a set of
mathematical cards. It is a blessed discovery, the invention of these
educationary games; so that even the play-time of children can be
turned to account. And you have no idea, ma'am, how they enjoy them."

Just then the boy Joseph rose from the table, and stalking up to Mrs.
Watkinson, said to her, "Mamma, please to whip me."

At this unusual request the visitors looked much amazed, and Mrs.
Watkinson replied to him, "Whip you, my best Joseph--for what cause? I
have not seen you do anything wrong this evening, and you know my
anxiety induces me to watch my children all the time."

"You could not see me," answered Joseph, "for I have not _done_
anything very wrong. But I have had a bad thought, and you know Mr.
Ironrule says that a fault imagined is just as wicked as a fault
committed."

"You see, ma'am, what a good memory he has," said Mrs. Watkinson aside
to Mrs. Morland. "But my best Joseph, you make your mother tremble.
What fault have you imagined? What was your bad thought?"

"Ay," said another boy, "what's your thought like?"

"My thought," said Joseph, "was 'Confound all astronomy, and I could
see the man hanged that made this game.'"

"Oh! my child," exclaimed the mother, stopping her ears, "I am indeed
shocked. I am glad you repented so immediately."

"Yes," returned Joseph, "but I am afraid my repentance won't last. If
I am not whipped, I may have these bad thoughts whenever I play at
astronomy, and worse still at the geography game. Whip me, ma, and
punish me as I deserve. There's the rattan in the corner: I'll bring
it to you myself."

"Excellent boy!" said his mother. "You know I always pardon my
children when they are so candid as to confess their faults."

"So you do," said Joseph, "but a whipping will cure me better."

"I cannot resolve to punish so conscientious a child," said Mrs.
Watkinson.

"Shall I take the trouble off your hands?" inquired Edward, losing all
patience in his disgust at the sanctimonious hypocrisy of this young
Blifil. "It is such a rarity for a boy to request a whipping, that so
remarkable a desire ought by all means to be gratified."

Joseph turned round and made a face at him.

"Give me the rattan," said Edward, half laughing, and offering to take
it out of his hand. "I'll use it to your full satisfaction."

The boy thought it most prudent to stride off and return to the table,
and ensconce himself among his brothers and sisters; some of whom were
staring with stupid surprise; others were whispering and giggling in
the hope of seeing Joseph get a real flogging.

Mrs. Watkinson having bestowed a bitter look on Edward, hastened to
turn the attention of his mother to something else. "Mrs. Morland,"
said she, "allow me to introduce you to my youngest hope." She pointed
to a sleepy boy about five years old, who with head thrown back and
mouth wide open, was slumbering in his chair.

Mrs. Watkinson's children were of that uncomfortable species who never
go to bed; at least never without all manner of resistance. All her
boasted authority was inadequate to compel them; they never would
confess themselves sleepy; always wanted to "sit up," and there was a
nightly scene of scolding, coaxing, threatening and manoeuvring to get
them off.

"I declare," said Mrs. Watkinson, "dear Benny is almost asleep. Shake
him up, Christopher. I want him to speak a speech. His school-mistress
takes great pains in teaching her little pupils to speak, and stands
up herself and shows them how."

The child having been shaken up hard (two or three others helping
Christopher), rubbed his eyes and began to whine. His mother went to
him, took him on her lap, hushed him up, and began to coax him. This
done, she stood him on his feet before Mrs. Morland, and desired him
to speak a speech for the company. The child put his thumb into his
mouth, and remained silent.

"Ma," said Jane Watkinson, "you had better tell him what speech to
speak."

"Speak Cato or Plato," said his mother. "Which do you call it? Come
now, Benny--how does it begin? 'You are quite right and reasonable,
Plato.' That's it."

"Speak Lucius," said his sister Jane. "Come now, Benny--say 'your
thoughts are turned on peace.'"

The little boy looked very much as if they were _not_, and as if
meditating an outbreak.

"No, no!" exclaimed Christopher, "let him say Hamlet. Come now,
Benny--'To be or not to be.'"

"It ain't to be at all," cried Benny, "and I won't speak the least bit
of it for any of you. I hate that speech!"

"Only see his obstinacy," said the solemn Joseph. "And is he to be
given up to?"

"Speak anything, Benny," said Mrs. Watkinson, "anything so that it is
only a speech."

All the Watkinson voices now began to clamor violently at the
obstinate child--"Speak a speech! speak a speech! speak a speech!" But
they had no more effect than the reiterated exhortations with which
nurses confuse the poor heads of babies, when they require them to
"shake a day-day--shake a day-day!"

Mrs. Morland now interfered, and begged that the sleepy little boy
might be excused; on which he screamed out that "he wasn't sleepy at
all, and would not go to bed ever."

"I never knew any of my children behave so before," said Mrs.
Watkinson. "They are always models of obedience, ma'am. A look is
sufficient for them. And I must say that they have in every way
profited by the education we are giving them. It is not our way,
ma'am, to waste our money in parties and fooleries, and fine furniture
and fine clothes, and rich food, and all such abominations. Our first
duty is to our children, and to make them learn everything that is
taught in the schools. If they go wrong, it will not be for want of
education. Hester, my dear, come and talk to Miss Morland in French."

Hester (unlike her little brother that would not speak a speech)
stepped boldly forward, and addressed Caroline Morland with:
"_Parlez-vous Français, mademoiselle? Comment se va madame votre mère?
Aimez-vous la musique? Aimez-vous la danse? Bon jour--bon soir--bon
repos. Comprenez-vous?_"

To this tirade, uttered with great volubility, Miss Morland made no
other reply than, "_Oui--je comprens._"

"Very well, Hester--very well indeed," said Mrs. Watkinson. "You see,
ma'am," turning to Mrs. Morland, "how very fluent she is in French;
and she has only been learning eleven quarters."