Chapter III: Part 3

At last, however, other boys separated them; but Joachim, who was quite unused to fighting, and who had received a very severe shock when he first fell, became so sick and ill that he was obliged to go home. His Mother asked what was the matter. "He had been quizzing a great big boy who lisped, and the boy knocked him down, and they had fought." His Mother sighed; but she saw he was too poorly for talking, so she put him to bed and nursed him carefully.

Now, you may say, what had this Mother been about, not to have found out and corrected Joachim's fault before? First, he was very little at home, and as owing to the help of others, his idleness had not become notorious, she had heard no complaints from the Masters, and thinking he did his lessons well, she felt averse to stopping his fun and amusements in holiday hours. Still, she had latterly begun to have misgivings which this event confirmed. In a few days Joachim was better, and came down stairs, and his Aunt and two or three Cousins called to enquire after him. Their presence revived Joachim's flagging spirits, and all the boys got together to talk and laugh. Soon their voices echoed through the house. Joachim was at his old tricks again, and the Schoolboys, the Ushers and the Master all furnished food for mirth. His Cousins roared with delight. "Clever child!" exclaimed his Aunt, "what a treasure you are in a house! one could never be dull where _you_ are!" "Sister, Sister!" cried Joachim's Mother, "do not say so!" "My dear," said the Aunt, "are you dull enough to be unable to appreciate your own child's wit; oh, I wish you would give him to me. Come here, my dear Joachim, and do the boy that walks so badly once more for me; it's enough to kill one to see you take him off!" Joachim's spirits rose above all control. Excited by his Aunt's praise and the sense of superior ability, he surpassed himself. He gave the bad walker to perfection; then imitated a lad who had commenced singing lessons, and whose voice was at present broken and bad. He even gave the big boy's lisp once more, and followed on with a series of pantomimic exhibitions.

All at once, he cast his eyes on his Mother's face--that face so full of intelligence and the mild sorrow of years of widowhood, borne with resigned patience. Her eyes were full of tears, and there was not a smile on her countenance. Joachim's conscience--he knew not why--twinged him terribly. He stopped suddenly; "Mother!"

"Come here, Joachim!" He came.

"Is that boy whom you have been imitating--your Aunt says so cleverly--the _best_ walker of all the boys in your school?"

"The _best_, Mother?" and the puzzled Joachim could not suppress a smile. His Cousins grinned.

"Dear Mother, of course not," continued Joachim, "on the contrary, he is the very worst!"

"Oh--well, have you no _good_ walkers at your school?"

"Oh yes, several; indeed one especially; his father was a soldier, he walks beautifully."

"Does he, Joachim? Let me see you walk like him, my dear."

Joachim stepped boldly enough into the middle of the room, and drew himself up; but a sudden consciousness of his extreme inferiority to the soldier's son, both in figure, manner and mode of walking, made him feel quite sheepish. There was a pause of expectation.

"Now then!" said Joachim's Mother.

"I cannot walk like _him_, Mother," said Joachim.

"Why not?"

"Because he walks so _very well_!"

"Oh,"--said Joachim's Mother.

There was another pause.

"Come, Joachim," continued the Widow, "I am very anxious to admire you as much as your Aunt does. You are not tired; let us have some more exhibitions. You gave us a song just now horribly out of tune, and with the screeching voice of a bagpipe."

"I was singing like Tom Smith," interrupted Joachim.

"Is he your best singer?" enquired the Mother. Another laugh followed.

"Nay, Mother, no one sings so badly."

"Indeed! How does the Singing Master sing, Joachim?"

"Oh, Mother," cried Joachim, "so beautifully, it would make the tears come into your eyes with pleasure, to listen to him."

"Well, but as I cannot listen to him, let me, at all events, have the pleasure of hearing my clever son imitate him," was the reply.

Joachim was mute. He had a voice, though not a remarkable one, but he had shirked the labour of trying to improve it by practice. He made one effort to sing like the Master, but overpowered by a sense of incapacity, his voice failed, and he felt disposed to cry.

"Why, Joachim, I thought you were such a clever creature you could imitate any thing," cried the Mother.

No answer fell from the abashed boy, till a sudden thought revived him.

"But I _can_ imitate the singing-master, Mother."

"Let me hear you, my dear child."

"Why it isn't exactly what you can hear," observed Joachim murmuringly; "but when he sings, you have no idea what horrible faces he makes. Nay, it's true, indeed, he turns up his eyes, shuts them, distorts his mouth, and swings about on the stool like the pendulum of a clock!"

And Joachim performed all the grimaces and contortions to perfection, till his Aunt and Cousins were convulsed with laughter.

"Well done," cried his Mother. "Now you are indeed like the cat in the German fable, Joachim! who voted himself like the bear, because he could lick his paws after the same fashion, though he could not imitate either his courage or his strength. Now let me look a little further into your education. Bring me your drawing-book." It came, and there was page after page of odd and ugly faces, strange noses, stranger eyes, squinting out of the book in hideous array.

"I suppose you will laugh again if I ask you if these are the _beauties_ of your school, Joachim;--but tell me seriously, are there no good, pleasant, or handsome faces among your schoolfellows?"

"Plenty, Mother; one or two the Master calls models, and who often sit to him to be drawn from."

"Draw one of those faces for me, my dear; I am fond of beauty." And the Mother placed the book in his hands, pointing to a blank page.

Joachim took a pencil, and sat down. _Now_ he thought he should be able to please his Mother; but, alas, he found to his surprise, that the fine faces he tried to recall had not left that vivid impression on his brain which enabled him to represent them. On the contrary, he was tormented and baffled by visions of the odd forms and grotesque countenances he had so often pictured. He seized the Indian-rubber and rubbed out nose after nose to no purpose, for he never could replace them with a better. Drawing was his favourite amusement; and this disappointment, where he expected success, broke down his already depressed heart. He threw the book from him, and burst into a flood of tears.

"Joachim! have you drawn him? What makes you cry?"

"I cannot draw him, Mother," sobbed the distressed boy.

"And why not? Just look here; here is an admirable likeness of squinting Joe, as you have named him. Why cannot you draw the handsome boy?"

"Because his face is so handsome!" answered Joachim, still sobbing.

"My son," said his Mother gravely, "you have now a sad lesson to learn, but a necessary and a wholesome one. Get up, desist from crying, and listen to me."

Poor Joachim, who loved his mother dearly, obeyed.

"Joachim! your Aunt, and your Cousins, and your schoolfellows have all called you clever. In what does your cleverness consist? I will tell you. In the Reproduction of Deformity, Defects, Failings, and Misfortunes of every sort, that fall under your observation. A worthy employment truly! A noble ambition! But I will now tell you the truth about yourself. You never heard it before, and I feel sure you will benefit now. A good or an evil Genie, I know not which, has bestowed upon you a great power; and you have misused it. Do you know what that power is?"

Joachim shook his head, though he trembled all over, for he felt as if awaking from along dream, to the recollection of the Genie.

"It is the power of Imitation, Joachim; I call it a great power, for it is essential to many great and useful things. It is essential to the orator, the linguist, the artist, and the musician. Nature herself teaches us the charm of _imitation_, when in the smooth and clear lake you see the lovely landscape around mirrored and _repeated_.[5] What a lesson may we not read in this sight! The commonest pond even that reflects the foliage of the tree that hangs over it, is calling out to us to reproduce for the solace and ornament of life, the beautiful works of God. But oh, my son, my dear son, you have abused this gift of Imitation, which might be such a blessing and pleasure to you."

[5] Schiller.--"Der Künstler."

"You might, if you chose, _imitate every thing that is good, and noble, and virtuous, and beautiful_; and you are, instead of that, reproducing every aspect of deformity that crosses your path, until your brain is so stamped with images of defects, ugliness, and uncouthness, that your hand and head refuse their office, when I call upon you to reproduce the beauties with which the world is graced."

I doubt if Joachim heard the latter part of his Mother's speech. At the recurrence to the old sentence, a gleam of lightning seemed to shoot across his brain. Latent memories were aroused as keenly as if the events had but just occurred, and he sank at his Mother's feet.

When she ceased to speak, he arose.

"Mother," said he, "I have been living in a cloud. I have been very wrong. Besides which, I have a secret to tell you. Nay, my Aunt may hear. It has been a secret, and then it has been forgotten; but now I remember all, and understand far more than I once did."

Here Joachim recounted to his Mother the whole story of her words to him, and his adventure with the Genie and the bottle; and then, very slowly, and interrupted by many tears of repentance, he repeated what the Genie had said about giving him _the power_ of imitation, adding that the use he made of it must depend on himself and the great Ruler of the heart and conscience.

There was a great fuss among the Cousins at the notion of Joachim having talked to a Genie; and, to tell you the truth, this was all they thought about, and soon after took their leave. The heart of Joachim's Mother was at rest, however: for though she knew how hard her son would find it to alter what had become a habit of life, she knew that he was a good and pious boy, and she saw that he was fully alive to his error.

"Oh Mother," said he, during the course of that evening, "how plain I see it all now! The boy that stutters is a model of obedience and tenderness; I ought to have dwelt upon and imitated that, and, oh! I thought only of his stuttering. The boy that walks so clumsily, as well as the great fellow that lisps, are such industrious lads, and so advanced in learning, that the master thinks both will be distinguished hereafter; and I, who--(oh, my poor mother, I must confess to you)--hated to labour at any thing, and have got the boys to do my lessons for me;--I, instead of imitating their industry, lost all my time in ridiculing their defects.--What shall--what shall I do!"

The next morning poor Joachim said his prayers more humbly than he had ever before done in his life; and, kissing his mother, went to school. The first thing he did on arriving was to go up to the big boy, who had beaten him, and beg him to shake hands.

The big boy was pleased, and a grim smile lightened up his face. "But, old fellow," said he, laying his hand on Joachim's shoulder, "take a friend's advice. There is good in all of us, depend upon it. Look out for all that's good, and let the bad points take care of themselves. _You_ won't get any handsomer, by squinting like poor Joe; nor speak any pleasanter for lisping like me; nor walk any better for apeing hobbling. But the ugliest of us have some good about us. Look out for _that_, my little lad; I do, or I should not be talking to you! I see that you are honest and forgiving, though you _are_ a monkey! There now, I must go on with my lessons! You do yours!"

Never was better advice given, and Joachim took it well, and bore it bravely; but, oh, how hard it was to his mind, accustomed for so long to wander away and seek amusement at wrong times, to settle down resolutely and laboriously to study. He made a strong effort, however; and though he had often to recall his thoughts, he in a measure succeeded.

After school-hours he begged the big boy to come and sit by him, and then he requested his old friends and companions to listen to a story he had to tell them. They expected something funny, and many a broad grin was seen; but poor Joachim's eyes were yet red with weeping, and his gay voice was so subdued, the party soon became grave and wondering, and then Joachim told them every thing. They were delighted to hear about the Genie, and were also pleased to find themselves safe from Joachim's ridicule. It could not be expected they should all understand the story, but the big boy did, and became Joachim's greatest friend and adviser.

That evening our little friend, exhausted with the efforts and excitement of his almost first day of repentance, strolled out in a somewhat pensive mood to his favourite haunt, the sea shore. A stormy sunset greeted his arrival on the beach, but the tide was ebbing, and he wandered on till he reached some caverns among the cliffs. And there, as had often been his wont, he sat down to gaze out upon the waste of waters safe and protected from harm. It is very probable that he fell asleep--but the point could never be clearly known, for he always said it was no sleep and no dream he had then, but that, whilst sitting in the inmost recesses of the cave, he saw once more his old friend the Genie, who after reproaching him with the bad use he had made of his precious gift, gave him a world of good advice and instruction.

There is no doubt that after that time, Joachim was seen daily struggling against his bad habits; and that by degrees he became able to exercise his mind in following after the good and beautiful instead of after the bad and ugly. It was a hard task to him for many a long day to fix his flighty thoughts down to the business in hand, and to dismiss from before his eyes the ridiculous images that often presented themselves. But his Mother's wishes, or the Genie's advice, or something better still, prevailed. And you cannot think, of what wonderful use the Genie's gift was to him then. Once turned in a right direction and towards worthy objects, he found it like a sort of friend at his right hand, helping him forward in some of the most interesting pursuits of life. Ah! all the energy he had once bestowed on imitating lisps and stuttering, was now engaged in catching the sounds of foreign tongues, and thus taking one step towards the citizenship of the world. And instead of wasting time in gazing at the singing master's face, that he might ape its unnatural distortions--it was now the sweet tones of skilful harmony to which he bent his attention, and which he strove, and not in vain, to reproduce.

The portfolio which he brought home to his Mother at the end of another half-year, was crowded with laborious and careful copies from the best models of beauty and grace. And not with those only, for many a face could be found on its pages in which the Mother recognized some of her son's old companions. Portraits, not of the mere formation of mouths and noses, which in so many cases, viewed merely as forms, are defective and unattractive, but portraits of the same faces, upon which the character of the inward mind and heart was so stamped that it threw the mere shape of the features far into the background.

Thus with the pursuit of his favourite art, Joachim combined "that most excellent gift of charity;" for it was now his pride and pleasure to make the charm of expression from "_the good points_" his old friend had talked about, triumph over any physical defects. The very spirit and soul of the best sort of portrait painting. And here, my dear young readers, I would fain call your attention to the fact of how one right habit produces another. The more Joachim laboured over seizing the good expression of the faces he drew from, the more he was led to seek after and find out the good points themselves whence the expression arose; and thus at last it became a _Habit_ with him to try and discover every thing that was excellent and commendable in the characters of those he met; a very different plan from that pursued by many of us, who in our intercourse with each other, are but too apt to fasten with eagle-eye accuracy on failings and faults. Which is a very grave error, and a very misleading one, for if it does nothing else, it deprives us of all the good we should get by a daily habit of contemplating what is worthy our regard and remembrance. And so strongly did Joachim's mother feel this, and so earnestly did she wish her son to understand that a power which seems bestowed for worldly ends, may be turned to spiritual advantage also, that when his birthday came round she presented to him among other gifts, a little book, called "The Imitation of Jesus Christ." It was the work of an old fellow called Thomas à Kempis, and though more practical books of piety have since been written, the idea contained in the title suggests a great lesson, and held up before Joachim's eyes, Him whom one of our own divines has since called "The Great Exemplar."

This part of our little hero's 'Lesson of Life,' we can all take to ourselves, and go and do likewise. And so I hope his story may be profitable, though we have not all of us a large Genie-gift of Imitation as he had. With him the excess of this power took a very natural turn, for though he possessed through its aid, considerable facilities for music and the study of languages also, the course of events led him irresistibly to what is usually called "the fine arts." And if the old dream of the royal chariot and the twelve jet black horses was never realized to him, a higher happiness by far was his, when some years after, he and his Mother stood in the council house of his native town; she looking up with affectionate pride while he showed her a portrait of the good young King which had a few hours before been hung up upon its walls. It was the work of Joachim himself.

DARKNESS AND LIGHT.

_The darkness and the light to Thee are both alike_.

Far away to the west, on the borders of the Sea, there lived a lady and gentleman in a beautiful old house built something like a castle. They had several children, nice little boys and girls, who were far fonder of their Sea Castle, as they called it, than of a very pleasant house which they had in a great town at some distance off. Still they used to go and be very merry in the Town House in the winter time when the hail and snow fell, and the winds blew so cold that nobody could bear to walk out by the wild sea shore.

But in summer weather the case was quite altered. Indeed, as soon as ever the sun began to get a little power, and to warm the panes of glass in the nursery windows of the Town House, there was a hue and cry among all the children to be off to their Sea Castle home, and many a time had Papa and Mamma to send them angrily out of the room, because they would do nothing but beg to "set off directly." They were always "sure that the weather was getting quite hot," and "it _must_ be summer, for they heard the sparrows chirping every morning the first thing," and they "thought they had seen a swallow," and "the windows got so warm with the sunshine, Nurse declared they were enough to burn one's fingers:" and so the poor little things teazed themselves and everybody else, every year, in their hurry to get back to their western home. But I dare say you have heard the old proverb, "One swallow does not make a summer;" and so it was proved very often to our friends. For the Spring season is so changeable, there are often some soft mild days, and then a cruel frost comes again, and perhaps snow as well; and people who have boasted about fine weather and put off their winter clothes, look very foolish.

Still Time passes on; and when May was half over, the Town House used to echo with shouts of noisy delight, and boxes were banged down in the passages, and there was a great calling out for cords, and much scolding about broken keys and padlocks, and the poor Carpenter who came to mend the trunks and find new keys to old locks, was at his wits' end and his patience' end too.

But at last the time came when all this bustle was succeeded by silence in the Town House, for carriages had rolled away with the happy party, and nobody was left behind but two or three women servants to clean out the deserted rooms.

And now then, my little readers, who are, I hope, wondering what is coming next, you must fancy to yourselves the old Sea Castle Home. It had two large turrets; and winding staircases led from the passages and kitchens underneath the sitting rooms, up to the top of the turrets, and so out upon the leads of the house, from which there was the most beautiful view of the Ocean you ever saw; and, as the top of the house was battlemented, like the top of your church tower, people could walk about quite safely and comfortably, without any fear of falling over. Then, though it is a very unusual thing near the Sea, there were delightful gardens at the place, and a few very fine old elm trees near the house, in which a party of rooks built their nests every year; and the children had gardens of their own, in which they could dig up their flowers to see if the roots were growing, to their heart's content, and perform other equally ingenious feats, such as watering a plant two or three times a day, or after a shower of rain, and then wondering that, with such tender care, the poor thing should rot away and die.

But I almost think the children liked the sands on the shore as well as the gardens, though they loved both. Not that there was any amusement astir by the water side there, as you have seen in other places where there are boats and fishermen and nets, and great coils of ropes, and an endless variety of entertaining sights connected with the seafaring business going on. Nay, in some places where there is not a very good shore for landing, it is an amusement of itself to see each boat or fishing yawl come in. There is such a contrast between the dark tarred wood and the white surf that dashes up all round it; and the fishermen are so clever in watching the favourable moment for a wave to carry them over their difficulties; that I think this is one of the prettiest sights one can see. But no such thing was ever seen on the shore by the old Sea Castle, for there was no fishing there. People thought the sea was too rough and the landing too difficult, and so no fishing village had ever been built, and no boats ever attempted to come within many miles of the place.

Nobody cared to ask further, or try to account for the wildness of the sea on that coast; but I can tell you all about it, although it must be in a sort of half whisper--_The place was on the borders of Fairy Land!_ that is to say, many many unknown numbers of miles out at sea, right opposite to the Castle, there was a Fairy Island, and it was the Fairies who kept the sea so rough all round them, for fear some adventurous sailor should approach the island, or get near enough to fish up some of the pearls and precious stones they kept in a crystal palace underneath the water.

So now you know the reason why the sea was so rough, and there was no fishing going on at the Sea Castle Home.

If you want to know whether any body ever saw the Fairy Island, I must say, yes; but very seldom. And never but in the evening when the sun was setting, and that under particular circumstances--namely, when he went down into a dark red bank of clouds, or when there was a lurid crimson hue over the sky just above the horizon. Then occasionally you might see the dim hazy outline as of a beautiful mountainous island against the clouds, or the deep-coloured sky. There is an island sometimes seen from our western coast, under similar circumstances, but which you strain your eyes in vain to discern by the brighter light of day.[6]

[6] Isle of Man from Blackpool.

It is a very ticklish thing to live on the borders of Fairy Land; for though you cannot get to the Fairies, they can get to you, and it is not altogether a pleasant thing to have your private affairs overseen and interfered with by such beings as they are, though sometimes it may be most useful and agreeable. Besides which, there was a Fairy-secret connected with the family that lived at the Sea Castle. An Ancestress of the present Mistress had been a Fairy herself, and though she had accommodated herself to mortal manners, and lived with her husband quite quietly as well as happily, and so her origin had been in a great measure forgotten, it was not unknown to her descendant, the Lady Madeline, who now lived in the place. And, in fact, soon after Lady Madeline first came there, a Fairy named Eudora had appeared to her, declaring herself to be a sort of distant cousin, and offering and promising friendship and assistance, whenever asked or even wished for. In return, she only begged to be allowed to visit, and ramble at will about the old place which she had known for so many many long years, and had once had the unlimited run of; and she protested with tears that the family should never in any way be disturbed by her. Lady Madeline could not well refuse the request, but I cannot say she gave her fairy acquaintance any encouragement; and so poor Eudora never showed herself to them again. And Madeline never thought much about her, except now and then accidentally, when, if they were walking on the sands, some extraordinarily rare and beautiful shells would be thrown ashore by a wave at the children's feet, as if tossed up especially for their amusement. And it was only in some such kind little way as this they were ever reminded of the Fairy's existence.

Lady Madeline's eldest son, Roderick, always seemed most favoured by the Fairy in the pretty things she sent ashore, and certainly he was a very nice boy, and a very good one on the whole--cheerful and honest as the daylight, and very intelligent; but I cannot tell you, dear readers, that he had _no_ faults, for that was not at all likely, and you would not believe it if I said so, even although he is to be the Hero of my tale.

Now I do not want to make you laugh at him, but the story requires that I should reveal to you one of his weak points. Well then, although he was six years old, he was afraid of being alone in the dark! Sometimes when he was in the large dining room with his Father and Mother at dinner time, she would perhaps ask him to fetch something for her from the drawing room which was close by; but, do you know, if there were no candles in the room, he would look very silly and refuse to go, even though there were a fire sufficient to see by. He was too honest to make any false excuses, so he used just to say that the room was so dark he could not go!

Poor Madeline was very sorry, for she wanted her little boy to be brave, but somehow or other he had got very silly about his fears of being in the dark, and she could not succeed in curing him of his folly.

"My dear Roderick," she would say sometimes, "if I send in some candles, will you go into the drawing room?"

"O yes, Mamma."

"Then do you really mean to say you think _the Candles take care of you_?"

"No, Mamma."

"Then why won't you go into the room without; you know there is a fire?

"Because it is so dark, Mamma."

Here was a difficulty indeed; for you see he _would_ come back to the old point, and would not listen to reason.

One day some conversation of this sort having passed between them, Madeline, as she was wont to do, asked him if God could not take care of him by night as well as by day; in the dark as well as in light, for "the darkness and light are both alike to him."

"Oh yes," cried poor Roderick, with great animation, "and I can tell you a story about that. There was, once upon a time, a little Boy and a Nurse who went out walking, and they walked so long they got benighted in a very dark wood, and because it was so dark the Nurse screamed and was very much frightened; and the little boy said, 'Nurse, why are you frightened? Don't be frightened; I am not frightened. God can take care of us in the dark as well as in the light,'"

"Oh Roderick! what a pretty story," cried his Mamma.

And so thought Roderick; for his eye glistened and his cheek flushed as he came to the conclusion.

And here, dear readers, was the worst difficulty of all; for though Roderick's reason was quite convinced that God could take care of him in the dark, he still could not bear to be in the dark without the help of candles besides, though he quite knew they could not take care of him at all. So you see by this that Reason, though it may convince a person he is wrong, cannot put him right. There wants some other help for that. And here let me just stop a moment to beg you to beware of _bad habits_; for you see they become at last more powerful than reason itself.

I do not know how Roderick first got into his foolish habit, and it does not much matter. I know he at one time had a fancy there was something unpleasant about the pipes that carried the water about the house, and he would not for a long time go by the pipes alone. Now, how you laugh! well, but he got out of that nonsense; and I hope to be able to tell you that he got out of the other too: but at the time I speak of, he made his Mamma full of sorrow for his want of sense and courage.

It must be admitted that there were one or two excuses to be made for the child. There was a great contrast between the Town House and the Sea Castle. The Town House was full of lights. All the sitting rooms were generally lighted, for a great deal of company came there, and there were always lights along the passages; and the nursery windows looked into a square, and the square was lighted up by lamps every night; and it was one of Roderick's greatest pleasures to watch the lamplighter running quickly up the tall ladder to the lamps to light them, and then popping down again equally hurriedly, and running along (ladder and all) to the next lamp post, and so on, till the square was brilliant all round; and very often, as Roderick lay in his little bed watching the glimmering thrown by these pretty lamps on the nursery wall, he used to think and think of his friend the nimble lamplighter, till he dropped fast asleep. You see, therefore, he had very little to try his courage in the Town House, and there was seldom or never any fuss about his fears till the move to the Sea Castle took place; and then there were no more lamps and lamplighters, and no more comfortable glimmerings from his bright pets the lamps after he went to bed; and he used to get silly directly, and declare that he saw bears whenever he shut his eyes; and he seemed to expect to find lions and tigers under the sofas, by the fuss he made when he was asked to go into the rooms. Certainly there was a grand old fashioned lamp in the hall of the Sea Castle; but the hall itself was so big, and went up so high, that the light in one part only seemed to make the shadow and darkness of the other part look blacker still; so that I must confess there was something gloomy about the house. Then, too, there were those two turrets with the winding staircases, and as Roderick had never dared to do any thing more than peep in at the low entrance doors below, where he saw nothing but four or five steps going up into complete blackness, he had got a sort of notion there must be something horrid about them.

Well; it was soon after this little boy's sixth birthday, that the family arrived at the Sea-Castle, and it so happened, that, on the day after their arrival, there was some very stormy and dismal weather. The wind howled very loudly, and there was a good deal of rain; and Lady Madeline wished they had waited a week or two longer. The sky was so charged and heavy, too, that they found the house very dark, even by day-light; and Roderick, who was a little tired with his journey the day before, began to fancy all kinds of nonsense; talked more about seeing bears than ever; and finally cried tremendously at going to bed, declaring he was sure there was a tiger in the coal-pan. Now you know, my dears, this was a bit of great nonsense; for Roderick knew quite well that there are no wild beasts in England but what are kept in very strong cages; and that the men who take wild-beast shows round the country can by no means afford to let their tigers sleep in nursery coal-pans!

Poor Madeline never liked to see any of her children go to bed in tears. And Roderick was so gay and merry generally, it seemed quite unnatural in him; but though at last he left off crying, she could not persuade him to be cheerful, and smile; for he declared that as soon as ever she took her candle away, he could not help seeing those unlucky bears. Was there ever any thing so silly before! She reasoned with him, but to no purpose. He always said he quite believed in God's presence, and His being able to take care of him; but, as I said before, his bad habit had got the better of his good sense, and he finished off every thing that could be said, by seeing bears, and dreading a tiger in the coal-pan.

"What are we to do with that child?" cried Madeline to her husband, as they were going to bed. "He is beginning as foolishly as ever this year, in spite of being a year older. I really shall at last be inclined to think that in spite of all her fair promises of friendship and assistance, and of never injuring the family, the Fairy Eudora must secretly frighten the child in some way we don't know of."

"No such thing, my dear Madeline; I cannot for a moment believe it;" said her husband. "I have a better opinion of your relations, the Fairies, than you have yourself. I am sure Eudora would not break her word for the world; and there is no mystery about Roderick's folly. He is full of fancies of all sorts,--some pretty, and some silly ones; and we must do every thing we can to cure him of the silly ones. It certainly is a very hard matter to accomplish, for I perceive he admits the truth of every thing you say, and yet is as silly as ever at the end. I heartily wish the Fairy Eudora _would_ interfere to cure him of his nonsense!"

"And so do I, if she could, and would," sighed Madeline; "but she has quite deserted us. Besides, if she were to come, I don't see how she could possibly do any good. Fairies cannot change little boys' hearts; and I must confess I never yet got any good myself from having a Fairy ancestress, and I have no confidence in them.--Still," pursued the good lady, as she laid her head on her pillow, "I am not able, it appears, to convince Roderick myself; and therefore I feel, with you, that I wish the Fairy would come and try."

"I fear it is in vain to say so now, Madeline. We have wished the poor creature out of the way so often for the last ten years, that it is not very likely a single wish the other way will bring her to us."

"No, indeed," murmured the Fairy Eudora, who at that moment was standing on the shore of the Fairy Island; "you are a pretty pair, you two, to think of such a thing! I begged to be allowed to come about the place years ago, and you didn't refuse; but you always kept me away by _wishing_ I mightn't come; and now, because you are puzzled to know what to do with your silly child, you want me with you for the first time these ten years! Oh, you selfish people, don't fancy I'll come near you!" And the justly angry Fairy stamped her foot in indignation, and retired into private apartments in the palace.

Do not be surprised at what you have just heard, my dear children; for though you may have never thought about the power and importance of _wishes_, there is, I assure you, a great deal of both one and the other belonging to them. Some people talk, indeed, of "mere wishes," as if they were trifles light as air; but it is not so. To prove this, first think what importance is attached to them in the Scriptures. Wishes are a sort of porch or doorway to actions. In the Tenth Commandment we are forbidden to _wish_ for what belongs to our neighbour;--for who is so likely to break the Eighth Commandment, and steal, as the man who breaks the Tenth, and wishes for any thing that is not his?

And so, all the evil in the world begins by _wishing_ something wrong; and if you can cure yourself of wishing wrongly, you will very seldom _do_ wrong.

Now you see, I am sure, how important wishes are for evil; but they are equally strong for good. For, if you wish well to any one, you have opened the first door to doing him a kindness. And if you heartily wish to be good, you have opened the first gate on the road of becoming so. Of course, wishes will not do every thing; but they do a great deal.

And there is another thing. They never fall to the ground unnoticed. Though you and I cannot look into each other's hearts, or hear the wishes breathed there, there is One who hears them all. Good wishes, my dear children, all ascend upwards to the throne of Grace, like sweet perfume. They are all accepted and remembered; and, I fear I must add, that bad wishes go up too, and are noted in His book who takes account of all we do.

Be sure, therefore, that you encourage your hearts in a habit of good, and kind, and charitable wishes; and if ever the bad ones come into your head, pray against them, and drive them away.

Meanwhile do not be surprized that in Fairy tales, Fairies are supposed to hear wishes concerning themselves. And so Eudora heard those about her coming and curing the child of his folly; and as I have told you, she was very indignant at the selfishness of both Lady Madeline and her husband.

A few days after the family had taken up their residence in the Sea Castle, the weather began to improve; and, though the wind lasted, the sun came out; and all the children and the nurses went walking on the sands. As it was the first time that year, you may guess what shouting and delight there was; how the little spades dug away at holes for the sea-water to come up in, and how the children caught at the sea-weeds that were scattered on the lands to carry home to their Mamma; how they picked up shells, and gambolled about in all directions, declaring that they had never known the Sea Castle Home so delightful before. By degrees they had strayed to a considerable distance along the sands, with the nurses, when, alas! the latter perceived that a storm was coming on, and it caught them long before they reached home. A strong wind blew off the sea, and they had difficulty in keeping their feet, and at last two or three of the children were almost hidden in a cloud of sand, which a violent gust suddenly drove against them. All the little party cried lustily, because the sand had blown into their eyes, and made them smart, and sad work there was in getting them home again. But they reached home at last, dripping with wet from hailstones, and their eyes all red and disfigured by the sand and wind. None, however, were so bad as those I have mentioned, who had been so covered over by the sand that it had even got down their necks, and made them uncomfortable all over. Among these was Roderick, who cried a great deal more than he ought to have done, as the nurses thought, and did not stop and declare himself comfortable as the rest did, after the sand had been washed out of his eyes with rose water. In fact he kept crying more or less all the afternoon, saying his eyes hurt him so, and at last he could get no relief but by holding them shut.

Now it is just possible you may have heard of a complaint of the eyes called Ophthalmia, which comes on sometimes in very hot countries, India for instance; and sometimes in travelling across the deserts of Arabia, where the sand gets into the eyes, and irritates them very much; it can very often be cured, but not always, and when it cannot, it ends in blindness. Lady Madeline knew all about the complaint; and, therefore, you will not be surprised to hear that when she found her little boy's eyes did not get better, and that he persisted in keeping them shut, because they then became easy, she thought it right to send to some miles' distance for a doctor, who accordingly arrived at the Sea Castle before nightfall. But when he came he shook his head very much, for he could not understand what was the matter; and when he persuaded Roderick to lift up his eyelids, to let him see his eyes, he could perceive nothing amiss but a little redness, which the wind and sand quite accounted for. Still the child was uneasy, and would keep his eyes shut; so the Doctor thought he must try something, and he used some lotions common in such cases; but, as they did no good, the kind old gentleman, at Madeline's request, consented to sit by the little boy's bedside at night; when, all at once, as he was carefully dabbing his eyes with rosewater, he perceived that the child was fast asleep.

The Doctor was delighted, and went to his mother, who was then with her husband, and said that as Roderick had gone to sleep so nicely, he had no doubt that his eyes would be well when he awoke in the morning, and so he took his leave, for he had other patients to visit.

It was then between twelve and one o'clock, and Lady Madeline, much comforted in heart, went to bed. At an early hour next morning, however, she went to Roderick's bedside, and perceived he was just waking.

To the question of "How are you, my darling?" his cheerful joyous voice made answer, "Oh, quite well, Mamma, and I've such a funny dream to tell you, and my eyes don't hurt me a bit, not a bit! but I'm afraid to open them for fear they should. I can tell you something so funny the Doctor said last night, Mamma." "Never mind about the doctor, you rogue," cried Madeline, "I see you are all right, only just open your dear old eyes, that I may tell Papa I have seen them when I go back to dress."

"Then I will, Mamma, to please you!" and up sat the pretty child in his bed, and opened wide his blue eyes. There was no redness--it was all gone--but

"Mamma! where are you," cried Roderick, "I have opened my eyes, and they don't hurt--but it is quite dark: _isn't the night over_?..."

Oh, my dear readers! there was a stream of sunshine on the lovely face and bright hair of little Roderick as he spoke, and the poor blue eyes were turned up to his mother, looking vainly for her face. You cannot wonder if I add that she sank down fainting on the bed; and when Roderick's scream of terror brought the nurses to them, she was carried away insensible from the room.

Her darling was utterly blind.

* * * * *

And now imagine to yourselves how the afflicted parents sent for the best doctors the country afforded, and how one thing after another was tried--but, alas! every thing in vain, for the medical men were all quite puzzled. Still some people gave them hopes, and in spite of many disappointments, they went on trying to hope for several months. At last they settled to leave the sea castle and go to the great town sooner than usual, thinking some of the doctors there might be cleverer than the country ones. But they had no better success. Perhaps now you would like to know how Roderick behaved. When his Mamma fell on his bed, at first he thought she was dead, and it was with the greatest difficulty he could be made to believe any thing else, and he cried, and cried, and was very sad till his Mamma was well enough for him to be taken to her, and then do you know, poor fellow, he was so much pleased to hear her speak, and be kissed by her, that he still had no time to think about himself. Only he begged to sit close to her, and have hold either of her hand or gown, and make her say something to him every now and then. And so it was that the fright and shock he had had about thinking she was dead, had made so strong an impression on him that for several days the making himself sure she was alive was a constant occupation and interest; and so much did he think about it that it was considered best for his little bed to be brought into the room where his Mamma slept, and put near hers, so that he could talk to her when he awoke and got frightened about her again. And thus passed many days in which every body thought a great deal more about his eyes than he did himself. Besides from the cheerful things they said to him he quite expected to be better some day; and so weeks and months passed, and by the time the hope of recovering his sight began to fade away, and nobody any longer dared to say they expected it, he was beginning to get used to his condition, and to find out amusements in new ways. Thus mercifully does a kind Providence temper people's minds to the afflictions He sends. They are often more dreadful to think of than to bear; for God can give patience and cheerfulness and comfort to those that do not grumble and repine.

Madeline only exacted one promise from her husband, namely, that he would not allow the doctors to use any very severe and violent measures with her little boy, and this being settled, she struggled to bear the trouble with resignation. After the first alternations of hopes and fears were over, the Mother's mind took a new turn. "It is our chief duty now," she said, "to make our child's life as happy as it is possible to be with blindness, and therefore," added she to the elder children, "we must try our best to teach him to do all the nice things he can without seeing." That day she asked him to come and hold worsted for her to wind, and he was quite delighted to find that with some blunders, and once or twice slipping it off his fingers, he could manage it very well. Then the children undertook to teach him how to play at ball, and you cannot think how clever he became. At first certainly they had always to pick up his ball for him when it fell, and who was not glad to do it for poor brother Roderick? but by degrees he could judge by the sound in what direction it had tumbled, and he would often succeed in finding it before any one could come up to it. Then there was laughing and scrambling without end. Reading aloud to him was the easiest thing of all, but the little folks were not satisfied with that alone. They made a sort of pet of the blind brother, and were as proud of teaching him to do any thing fresh, as you would be of teaching your dog to sit up and shake hands, or perform any wonderful feat. It was their constant amusement; and by degrees Roderick could play at all sorts of games with them, ay, and run after them, and catch them too as well as you could do, for he soon got to remember how the furniture in the great hall and all the rooms stood, and he could run about without hurting himself in a wonderful manner. And when it was evening and grew dark, he got on better than they did, for, if they couldn't see, they were clumsy, whereas he was learning to do without seeing at all.

Such of my readers as have seen one of those excellent institutions called "blind schools," will not wonder at any thing I have said, but on the contrary, will know that I have not told half or a quarter of what may be done to teach blind children a variety of employments. At those schools you may see children making beautiful baskets of various-coloured strips of osier arranged in patterns; and they never forget on which side of them the different colours are laid, and this work they can go on with quite fast, even while you stand talking to them--and they learn to do many many other nice things also besides basket making.