The Parent's Assistant; Or, Stories for Children

The triumph of success is absolute, but short. Cecilia's companions at length recollected that, though she had embroidered a tulip and painted a peach better than they, yet that they could play as well, and keep their tempers better; for she was discomposed.

Walking towards the house in a peevish mood, Cecilia met Leonora, but passed on. 'Cecilia!' cried Leonora. 'Well, what do you want with me?' 'Are we friends?' 'You know best,' said Cecilia. 'We are, if you will let me tell Louisa that you are sorry – ' Cecilia, interrupting her, 'Oh, pray let me hear no more about Louisa!' 'What! not confess that you were in the wrong? O Cecilia! I had a better opinion of you.' 'Your opinion is of no consequence to me now, for you don't love me.' 'No; not when you are unjust, Cecilia.' 'Unjust! I am not unjust; and if I were, you are not my governess.' 'No, but am not I your friend?' 'I don't desire to have such a friend, who would quarrel with me for happening to throw down little Louisa. How could I tell that she had a mandarin in her hand? and when it was broken, could I do more than promise her another; was that unjust?' 'But you know, Cecilia – ' 'I know,' ironically. 'I know, Leonora, that you love Louisa better than you love me; that's the injustice!' 'If I did,' replied Leonora, gravely, 'it would be no injustice, if she deserved it better.' 'How can you compare Louisa to me!' exclaimed Cecilia, indignantly.

Leonora made no answer; for she was really hurt at her friend's conduct. She walked on to join the rest of her companions. They were dancing in a round upon the grass. Leonora declined dancing; but they prevailed upon her to sing for them. Her voice was not so sprightly, but it was sweeter than usual. Who sang so sweetly as Leonora? or who danced so nimbly as Louisa? Away she was flying, all spirits and gaiety, when Leonora's eyes, full of tears, caught hers. Louisa silently let go her companion's hand, and quitting the dance, ran up to Leonora to inquire what was the matter with her. 'Nothing,' replied she, 'that need interrupt you. Go, my dear; go and dance again.'

Louisa immediately ran away to her garden, and pulling off her little straw hat, she lined it with the freshest strawberry-leaves, and was upon her knees before the strawberry-bed when Cecilia came by. Cecilia was not disposed to be pleased with Louisa at that instant, for two reasons; because she was jealous of her, and because she had injured her. The injury, however, Louisa had already forgotten. Perhaps, to tell things just as they were, she was not quite so much inclined to kiss Cecilia as she would have been before the fall of her mandarin; but this was the utmost extent of her malice, if it can be called malice.

'What are you doing there, little one?' said Cecilia, in a sharp tone. 'Are you eating your early strawberries here all alone?' 'No,' said Louisa, mysteriously, 'I am not eating them.' 'What are you doing with them? can't you answer, then? I'm not playing with you, child!' 'Oh, as to that, Cecilia, you know I need not answer you unless I choose it; not but what I would if you would only ask me civilly, and if you would not call me child.' 'Why should not I call you child?' 'Because – because – I don't know; but I wish you would stand out of my light, Cecilia, for you are trampling upon all my strawberries.' 'I have not touched one, you covetous little creature!' 'Indeed – indeed, Cecilia, I am not covetous. I have not eaten one of them; they are all for your friend Leonora. See how unjust you are!'

'Unjust! that's a cant word which you learnt of my friend Leonora, as you call her; but she is not my friend now.' 'Not your friend now!' exclaimed Louisa; 'then I am sure you must have done something very naughty.' 'How?' cried Cecilia, catching hold of her. 'Let me go, let me go!' cried Louisa, struggling. 'I won't give you one of my strawberries, for I don't like you at all!' 'You don't, don't you?' cried Cecilia, provoked, and, catching the hat from Louisa, she flung the strawberries over the hedge.

'Will nobody help me?' exclaimed Louisa, snatching her hat again, and running away with all her force.

'What have I done?' said Cecilia, recollecting herself; 'Louisa! Louisa!' she called very loud, but Louisa would not turn back: she was running to her companions, who were still dancing, hand in hand, upon the grass, whilst Leonora, sitting in the middle, was singing to them.

'Stop! stop! and hear me!' cried Louisa, breaking through them; and, rushing up to Leonora, she threw her hat at her feet, and panting for breath – 'It was full – almost full of my own strawberries,' said she, 'the first I ever got out of my own garden. They should all have been for you, Leonora; but now I have not one left. They are all gone!' said she; and she hid her face in Leonora's lap.

'Gone! gone where?' said every one, at once running up to her. 'Cecilia! Cecilia!' said she, sobbing. 'Cecilia,' repeated Leonora, 'what of Cecilia?' 'Yes, it was – it was.' 'Come along with me,' said Leonora, unwilling to have her friend exposed. 'Come, and I will get you some more strawberries.' 'Oh, I don't mind the strawberries, indeed; but I wanted to have had the pleasure of giving them to you.'

Leonora took her up in her arms to carry her away, but it was too late.

'What, Cecilia! Cecilia, who won the prize! It could not surely be Cecilia,' whispered every busy tongue.

At this instant the bell summoned them in. 'There she is! There she is!' cried they, pointing to an arbour, where Cecilia was standing ashamed and alone; and, as they passed her, some lifted up their hands and eyes with astonishment, others whispered and huddled mysteriously together, as if to avoid her. Leonora walked on, her head a little higher than usual. 'Leonora!' said Cecilia, timorously, as she passed. 'Oh, Cecilia! who would have thought that you had a bad heart?' Cecilia turned her head aside and burst into tears.

'Oh no, indeed, she has not a bad heart!' cried Louisa, running up to her and throwing her arms around her neck. 'She's very sorry; are not you, Cecilia? But don't cry any more, for I forgive you, with all my heart – and I love you now, though I said I did not when I was in a passion.'

'Oh, you sweet-tempered girl! how I love you!' said Cecilia, kissing her. 'Well, then, if you do, come along with me, and dry your eyes, for they are so red!' 'Go, my dear, and I'll come presently.' 'Then I will keep a place for you, next to me; but you must make haste, or you will have to come in when we have all sat down to supper, and then you will be so stared at! So don't stay now.'

Cecilia followed Louisa with her eyes till she was out of sight. 'And is Louisa,' said she to herself, 'the only one who would stop to pity me? Mrs. Villars told me that this day should be mine. She little thought how it would end!'

Saying these words, Cecilia threw herself down upon the ground; her arm leaned upon a heap of turf which she had raised in the morning, and which, in the pride and gaiety of her heart, she had called her throne.

At this instant, Mrs. Villars came out to enjoy the serenity of the evening, and, passing by the arbour where Cecilia lay, she started. Cecilia rose hastily.

'Who is there?' said Mrs. Villars. 'It is I, madam.' 'And who is I?' 'Cecilia.' 'Why, what keeps you here, my dear? Where are your companions? This is, perhaps, one of the happiest days of your life.' 'Oh no, madam,' said Cecilia, hardly able to repress her tears. 'Why, my dear, what is the matter?' Cecilia hesitated.

'Speak, my dear. You know that when I ask you to tell me anything as your friend, I never punish you as your governess; therefore you need not be afraid to tell me what is the matter.' 'No, madam, I am not afraid, but ashamed. You asked me why I was not with my companions. Why, madam, because they have all left me, and – ' 'And what, my dear?' 'And I see that they all dislike me; and yet I don't know why they should, for I take as much pains to please as any of them. All my masters seem satisfied with me; and you yourself, madam, were pleased this very morning to give me this bracelet; and I am sure you would not have given it to any one who did not deserve it.'

'Certainly not,' said Mrs. Villars. 'You well deserve it for your application – for your successful application. The prize was for the most assiduous, not for the most amiable.'

'Then, if it had been for the most amiable, it would not have been for me?'

Mrs. Villars, smiling – 'Why, what do you think yourself, Cecilia? You are better able to judge than I am. I can determine whether or no you apply to what I give you to learn; whether you attend to what I desire you to do, and avoid what I desire you not to do. I know that I like you as a pupil, but I cannot know that I should like you as a companion, unless I were your companion. Therefore I must judge of what I should do, by seeing what others do in the same circumstances.'

'Oh, pray don't, madam! for then you would not love me either. And yet I think you would love me; for I hope that I am as ready to oblige, and as good-natured as – '

'Yes, Cecilia, I don't doubt but that you would be very good-natured to me; but I'm afraid that I should not like you unless you were good-tempered too.' 'But, madam, by good-natured I mean good-tempered – it's all the same thing.' 'No, indeed, I understand by them two very different things. You are good-natured, Cecilia; for you are desirous to oblige and serve your companions – to gain them praise, and save them from blame – to give them pleasure, and relieve them from pain; but Leonora is good-tempered, for she can bear with their foibles, and acknowledge her own. Without disputing about the right, she sometimes yields to those who are in the wrong. In short, her temper is perfectly good; for it can bear and forbear.' 'I wish that mine could!' said Cecilia, sighing. 'It may,' replied Mrs. Villars; 'but it is not wishes alone which can improve us in anything. Turn the same exertion and perseverance which have won you the prize to-day to this object, and you will meet with the same success; perhaps not on the first, the second, or the third attempt; but depend upon it that you will at last. Every new effort will weaken your bad habits and strengthen your good ones. But you must not expect to succeed all at once. I repeat it to you, for habit must be counteracted by habit. It would be as extravagant in us to expect that all our faults could be destroyed by one punishment, were it ever so severe, as it was in the Roman emperor we were reading of a few days ago to wish that all the heads of his enemies were upon one neck, that he might cut them off at one blow.'

Here Mrs. Villars took Cecilia by the hand, and they began to walk home. Such was the nature of Cecilia's mind, that when any object was forcibly impressed on her imagination, it caused a temporary suspension of her reasoning faculties. Hope was too strong a stimulus for her spirits; and when fear did take possession of her mind, it was attended with total debility. Her vanity was now as much mortified as in the morning it had been elated. She walked on with Mrs. Villars in silence, until they came under the shade of the elm-tree walk, and there, fixing her eyes upon Mrs. Villars, she stopped short.

'Do you think, madam,' said she, with hesitation – 'do you think, madam, that I have a bad heart?' 'A bad heart, my dear! why, what put that into your head?' 'Leonora said that I had, madam, and I felt ashamed when she said so.' 'But, my dear, how can Leonora tell whether your heart be good or bad? However, in the first place, tell me what you mean by a bad heart.' 'Indeed, I do not know what is meant by it, madam; but it is something which everybody hates.' 'And why do they hate it?' 'Because they think that it will hurt them, ma'am, I believe; and that those who have bad hearts take delight in doing mischief; and that they never do anybody any good but for their own ends.'

'Then the best definition,' said Mrs. Villars, 'which you can give me of a bad heart is, that it is some constant propensity to hurt others, and to do wrong for the sake of doing wrong.' 'Yes, madam; but that is not all either. There is still something else meant; something which I cannot express – which, indeed, I never distinctly understood; but of which, therefore, I was the more afraid.'

'Well, then, to begin with what you do understand, tell me, Cecilia, do you really think it possible to be wicked merely for the love of wickedness? No human being becomes wicked all at once. A man begins by doing wrong because it is, or because he thinks it, for his interest. If he continue to do so, he must conquer his sense of shame and lose his love of virtue. But how can you, Cecilia, who feel such a strong sense of shame, and such an eager desire to improve, imagine that you have a bad heart?'

'Indeed, madam, I never did, until everybody told me so, and then I began to be frightened about it. This very evening, madam, when I was in a passion, I threw little Louisa's strawberries away, which, I am sure, I was very sorry for afterwards; and Leonora and everybody cried out that I had a bad heart – but I am sure I was only in a passion.'

'Very likely. And when you are in a passion, as you call it, Cecilia, you see that you are tempted to do harm to others. If they do not feel angry themselves, they do not sympathise with you. They do not perceive the motive which actuates you; and then they say that you have a bad heart. I daresay, however, when your passion is over, and when you recollect yourself, you are very sorry for what you have done and said; are not you?' 'Yes, indeed, madam – very sorry.' 'Then make that sorry of use to you, Cecilia, and fix it steadily in your thoughts, as you hope to be good and happy, that if you suffer yourself to yield to your passion upon every trifling occasion, anger and its consequences will become familiar to your mind; and, in the same proportion, your sense of shame will be weakened, till what you began with doing from sudden impulse you will end with doing from habit and choice; and then you would, indeed, according to our definition, have a bad heart.' 'Oh, madam! I hope – I am sure I never shall.' 'No, indeed, Cecilia; I do, indeed, believe that you never will; on the contrary, I think that you have a very good disposition, and what is of infinitely more consequence to you, an active desire of improvement. Show me that you have as much perseverance as you have candour, and I shall not despair of your becoming everything that I could wish.'

Here Cecilia's countenance brightened, and she ran up the steps in almost as high spirits as she ran down them in the morning.

'Good-night to you, Cecilia,' said Mrs. Villars, as she was crossing the hall. 'Good-night to you, madam,' said Cecilia; and she ran upstairs to bed. She could not go to sleep; but she lay awake, reflecting upon the events of the preceding day, and forming resolutions for the future, at the same time considering that she had resolved, and resolved without effect, she wished to give her mind some more powerful motive. Ambition she knew to be its most powerful incentive. 'Have I not,' said she to herself, 'already won the prize of application, and cannot the same application procure me a much higher prize? Mrs. Villars said that if the prize had been promised to the most amiable, it would not have been given to me. Perhaps it would not yesterday, perhaps it might not to-morrow; but that is no reason that I should despair of ever deserving it.'

In consequence of this reasoning, Cecilia formed a design of proposing to her companions that they should give a prize, the first of the ensuing month (the 1st of June), to the most amiable. Mrs. Villars applauded the scheme, and her companions adopted it with the greatest alacrity.

'Let the prize,' said they, 'be a bracelet of our own hair'; and instantly their shining scissors were produced, and each contributed a lock of her hair. They formed the most beautiful gradation of colours, from the palest auburn to the brightest black. Who was to have the honour of plaiting them? was now the question. Caroline begged that she might, as she could plait very neatly, she said. Cecilia, however, was equally sure that she could do it much better; and a dispute would have inevitably ensued, if Cecilia, recollecting herself just as her colour rose to scarlet, had not yielded – yielded, with no very good grace indeed, but as well as could be expected for the first time. For it is habit which confers ease; and without ease, even in moral actions, there can be no grace.

The bracelet was plaited in the neatest manner by Caroline, finished round the edge with silver twist, and on it was worked, in the smallest silver letters, this motto, 'To the Most Amiable.' The moment it was completed, everybody begged to try it on. It fastened with little silver clasps, and as it was made large enough for the eldest girls, it was too large for the youngest. Of this they bitterly complained, and unanimously entreated that it might be cut to fit them.

'How foolish!' exclaimed Cecilia; 'don't you perceive that if any of you win it, you have nothing to do but to put the clasps a little further from the edge, but, if we get it, we can't make it larger?' 'Very true,' said they; 'but you need not to have called us foolish, Cecilia.'

It was by such hasty and unguarded expressions as these that Cecilia offended. A slight difference in the manner makes a very material one in the effect. Cecilia lost more love by general petulance than she could gain by the greatest particular exertions.

How far she succeeded in curing herself of this defect – how far she became deserving of the bracelet, and to whom the bracelet was given – shall be told in the History of the First of June.

The First of June was now arrived, and all the young competitors were in a state of the most anxious suspense. Leonora and Cecilia continued to be the foremost candidates. Their quarrel had never been finally adjusted, and their different pretensions now retarded all thoughts of a reconciliation. Cecilia, though she was capable of acknowledging any of her faults in public before all her companions, could not humble herself in private to Leonora. Leonora was her equal; they were her inferiors, and submission is much easier to a vain mind, where it appears to be voluntary, than when it is the necessary tribute to justice or candour. So strongly did Cecilia feel this truth, that she even delayed making any apology, or coming to any explanation with Leonora, until success should once more give her the palm.

'If I win the bracelet to-day,' said she to herself, 'I will solicit the return of Leonora's friendship; it will be more valuable to me than even the bracelet, and at such a time, and asked in such a manner, she surely cannot refuse it to me.' Animated with this hope of a double triumph, Cecilia canvassed with the most zealous activity. By constant attention and exertion she had considerably abated the violence of her temper, and changed the course of her habits. Her powers of pleasing were now excited, instead of her abilities to excel; and, if her talents appeared less brilliant, her character was acknowledged to be more amiable. So great an influence upon our manners and conduct have the objects of our ambition.

Cecilia was now, if possible, more than ever desirous of doing what was right, but she had not yet acquired sufficient fear of doing wrong. This was the fundamental error of her mind; it arose in a great measure from her early education. Her mother died when she was very young; and though her father had supplied her place in the best and kindest manner, he had insensibly infused into his daughter's mind a portion of that enterprising, independent spirit which he justly deemed essential to the character of her brother. This brother was some years older than Cecilia, but he had always been the favourite companion of her youth. What her father's precepts inculcated, his example enforced; and even Cecilia's virtues consequently became such as were more estimable in a man than desirable in a female. All small objects and small errors she had been taught to disregard as trifles; and her impatient disposition was perpetually leading her into more material faults; yet her candour in confessing these, she had been suffered to believe, was sufficient reparation and atonement.

Leonora, on the contrary, who had been educated by her mother in a manner more suited to her sex, had a character and virtues more peculiar to a female. Her judgment had been early cultivated, and her good sense employed in the regulation of her conduct. She had been habituated to that restraint which, as a woman, she was to expect in life, and early accustomed to yield. Compliance in her seemed natural and graceful; yet, notwithstanding the gentleness of her temper, she was in reality more independent than Cecilia. She had more reliance upon her own judgment, and more satisfaction in her own approbation. The uniform kindness of her manner, the consistency and equality of her character, had fixed the esteem and passive love of her companions.

By passive love we mean that species of affection which makes us unwilling to offend rather than anxious to oblige, which is more a habit than an emotion of the mind. For Cecilia her companions felt active love, for she was active in showing her love to them.

Active love arises spontaneously in the mind, after feeling particular instances of kindness, without reflection on the past conduct or general character. It exceeds the merits of its object, and is connected with a feeling of generosity, rather than with a sense of justice.

Without determining which species of love is the most flattering to others, we can easily decide which is the most agreeable feeling to our minds. We give our hearts more credit for being generous than for being just; and we feel more self-complacency when we give our love voluntarily, than when we yield it as a tribute which we cannot withhold. Though Cecilia's companions might not know all this in theory, they proved it in practice; for they loved her in a much higher proportion to her merits than they loved Leonora.

Each of the young judges was to signify her choice by putting a red or a white shell into a vase prepared for the purpose. Cecilia's colour was red, Leonora's white.

In the morning nothing was to be seen but these shells; nothing talked of but the long-expected event of the evening. Cecilia, following Leonora's example, had made it a point of honour not to inquire of any individual her vote, previously to their final determination.

They were both sitting together in Louisa's room. Louisa was recovering from the measles. Every one during her illness had been desirous of attending her; but Leonora and Cecilia were the only two that were permitted to see her, as they alone had had the distemper. They were both assiduous in their care of Louisa, but Leonora's want of exertion to overcome any disagreeable feelings of sensibility often deprived her of presence of mind, and prevented her from being so constantly useful as Cecilia. Cecilia, on the contrary, often made too much noise and bustle with her officious assistance, and was too anxious to invent amusements and procure comforts for Louisa, without perceiving that illness takes away the power of enjoying them.

As she was sitting at the window in the morning, exerting herself to entertain Louisa, she heard the voice of an old peddler who often used to come to the house. Downstairs, they ran immediately, to ask Mrs. Villars's permission to bring him into the hall. Mrs. Villars consented, and away Cecilia ran to proclaim the news to her companions. Then, first returning into the hall, she found the peddler just unbuckling his box, and taking it off his shoulders.

'What would you be pleased to want, miss?' said the peddler; 'I've all kinds of tweezer-cases, rings, and lockets of all sorts,' continued he, opening all the glittering drawers successively.

'Oh!' said Cecilia, shutting the drawer of lockets which tempted her most, 'these are not the things which I want. Have you any china figures? any mandarins?'

'Alack-a-day, miss, I had a great stock of that same chinaware; but now I'm quite out of them kind of things; but I believe,' said he, rummaging one of the deepest drawers, 'I believe I have one left, and here it is.' 'Oh, that is the very thing! what's its price?' 'Only three shillings, ma'am.' Cecilia paid the money, and was just going to carry off the mandarin, when the peddler took out of his greatcoat pocket a neat mahogany case. It was about a foot long, and fastened at each end by two little clasps. It had, besides, a small lock in the middle.