THE BLIND HIGHLAND PIPER.
"If you have finished writing those rules in your cyphering book in time, you shall go with me to the booksellers, to choose some books for your cousin Jane, and for yourself," said Mr. Percy to his nephew, Arthur Stanly, who was writing at a desk.
"Thank you, my dear uncle. What time shall you be ready?" asked Arthur, still continuing to write on.
"In about half an hour at farthest," said Mr. Percy.
"Shall you be ready by that time?"
Arthur cast his eyes over a long page of writing and figures which he had still to copy into his book, repeating, "Half an hour! I am afraid I cannot get it all done."
"I shall be sorry," observed his uncle, "to go without you; but I am engaged to dine with some friends precisely at two o'clock. It is now a few minutes past one: therefore we shall have but one quarter of an hour to walk there, and transact our business, and the other quarter to go home and dress in."
Arthur ardently wished that the time went slower.
"I think you have had plenty of time to finish this rule; it is now upwards of an hour since you began. What have you been doing all this while?" said Mr. Percy, looking over his nephew's shoulder.
Arthur felt much ashamed: he looked down at his feet, and began tying his shoe-strings without saying a word, for he did not know what excuse to offer to his uncle.
Mr. Percy still looked at him, as if expecting an answer; and at last he repeated the question.
"I was trying," said Arthur, "to catch a robin which flew into the room. I was very silly, and have lost a great deal of time by it."
"You was silly, indeed," replied his uncle; "but that is your concern, not mine. However, if you have finished by the time the hand of the hall clock points to half past one, you shall go with me. If your rule be written out neatly in that time, I shall give you great credit, if not you must remain at home. Here are two good pens for you."
Page 81. Page 85.
Published April 20 1823 by Harris & Son corner of St. Pauls.
Arthur eagerly took the pens and began writing; but his uncle had hardly quitted the room, when the thought entered into his head that no one would be the wiser if he were to put back the clock a few minutes. Accordingly, without giving himself time to reflect on the gross impropriety of such an action, he opened the study door and looked out into the hall. No one was near; he listened a moment—; all was quite still. He then jumped upon a chair which stood near the clock, and, having carefully opened the door in front, put back the hand ten minutes. In doing this, however, he was under considerable alarm, for persons who are acting wrong are always in fear of being detected.
He now jumped from the chair, and ran back to his desk; but his hand trembled so much that he could hardly hold his pen. In a minute or two, however, he recovered himself, and just as he heard his uncle entering the hall, he finished his assigned task, happy for a moment in the success of his scheme.
His cousin Jane now came running into the room, and exclaimed:
"Arthur, papa is waiting for you; but he supposes you have not done yet."
"Yes, but I have, though," answered he, in a tone of exultation, and went into the hall with his book. Mr. Percy was standing with his watch in his hand, comparing it with the clock.
Arthur coloured like scarlet, for he feared to be detected in his guilt. He stood silent, and dared not raise his eyes to the face of his uncle.
But, far from having the least suspicion of what had been done, Mr. Percy only observed that he must get his watch regulated, for though he had set it by the clock that very morning, it was now ten minutes faster.
Arthur felt all the pain arising from conscious guilt. He hung his head in silence, whilst his uncle, glancing his eyes over the writing, exclaimed, "Very well, indeed! very prettily done! I give you a deal of credit for this; and so short a time as you had to do it in, too! Well, we shall see, if you improve so fast, what I shall do."
"Arthur, who had never deceived his good uncle before, felt more pain at this unmerited praise than if he had been punished as he deserved.
"Oh," thought he, "if my uncle did but know how wicked I have been, he would never forgive me."
Mr. Percy told him to put on his hat and great-coat, for they had no time to lose.
"Good bye, my little Jane," said Mr. Percy, as he shut the street door.
"Good bye, dear papa, and cousin Arthur," cried Jane Percy, going into the parlour.
"I never knew you so very silent before, Arthur: what is it you are thinking of?" said Mr. Percy, as they entered the shop of Mansel, the bookseller.
Arthur was spared the trouble of replying, for Mr. Mansel then came forward, and entered into conversation with Mr. Percy.
Arthur walked to the door: he scarcely knew what was going forward, his mind being too much occupied in reflecting upon his late transgression, and in considering what he had best do. At length he determined to tell his cousin, and ask her advice. He had not observed the people who were hurrying along to escape a heavy fall of snow, till his ear was attracted by the plaintive tones of a child's voice, asking charity. He looked up, and beheld a little girl without any shoes or stockings, leading by the hand a Highland soldier, who was very handsome, but quite blind. He appeared scarce thirty years of age: the tattered remnant of a plaid which was wrapt round him bespoke poverty and distress in the extreme, and scarcely sufficed to defend his body from the cold wind and snow. On his head he wore a sort of cap or bonnet, of various colours; through the many holes of which his yellow hair appeared, and waved to the breeze in long curls. By his side he wore an old sword, which made Arthur conclude that he was a soldier. The little girl had been asking relief of the passengers; but no one thought it worth while to stop, at the risk of getting wet, to inquire into the cause of their distress. One man rudely pushed the little suppliant away, calling her an impostor, and a little beggar brat. She then turned with a sorrowful look towards Arthur, who dropped into the plaid bonnet which she held in her hand all the halfpence he had about him, and inquired if her father were quite blind?
The tears stood in the little girl's eyes, as she turned them sorrowfully up to her father's face, and answered, "yes: he is quite blind, and very ill."
"Poor man!" said Arthur; "how much he is to be pitied! Is he a soldier?"
"He was once a soldier, but he cannot see now," replied the little girl.
"And what is your name?" asked Arthur.
"Flora Glengary?"
"And how came your father to lose his sight?"
As Flora did not immediately reply, the soldier, taking off his cap, said, "my good young gentleman, I was once a soldier, and served with the army in Egypt, but lost my sight by lightning. I then took my little girl, and came back to England, in hopes of being able to beg my way to Dunbar, my native town, in Scotland, where I had friends; but now I can get no farther, for I am very ill, and quite friendless. Before I lost my bagpipes I got on very well; but now they are gone, I believe my child and I must starve."
"And how came you to lose your pipes?" asked Arthur.
"I fell sick, master, and was forced to sell them for a mere trifle. Whilst I had them, I did not beg, exactly, for many people gave me money to hear me play."
"And how much would it cost you to buy them again?"
"I cannot get them back for less than half a guinea," answered the Highlander, sighing; "but we do not possess a sixpence in the world."
"Will half a guinea restore your pipes to you?" eagerly inquired young Stanly.
He half checked himself, however, as he put his hand into his pocket, and opened his purse; for he had no money, but one half guinea which his aunt had recently given him, with a strict charge never to part with it on any account. "My aunt will be very angry," said he, "if I give this money away; besides, it was in my dear father's possession for many years. I should like to keep it as long as he did." But when he saw the look of joy and hope which shone in the eyes of the anxious Flora, as she viewed the gold in his hand, he thought it would be cruel, indeed, to disappoint her.
"No, Flora," said he, "your father shall not starve while I have this, which I really do not want, only for its having belonged to my father." He then put the money into her bonnet, saying, "take this; buy the bagpipes, and some bread for your father: I have no more, or it should be yours."
He would now have retreated; but Flora forcibly detained him, eagerly seizing hold of his hand, and uttering a thousand thanks. At length, however, he disengaged himself, and returned to the shop with a feeling of happiness, which arises only from the knowledge of having performed an act of real benevolence.
"Arthur," said his uncle, "where have you been? I have been waiting for you some minutes. I have selected such books as I think will be the most proper for your cousin Jane. Now, what is it you wish to have?"
Arthur looked over several volumes which laid on the counter. "If you have no objection, Sir, I should prefer either Homer's Iliad, or Voltaire's History of Charles the Twelfth, or the Life of Gustavus Vasa."
"Any of these you can have," said his uncle; "it only remains for you to determine."
Arthur considered for a few minutes. "Homer I have read; we have it in the library. I have not read either of the others; but I admire Gustavus more than Charles, because I think he was the most amiable character. Well, then, if you please, Sir, I will take this," said he, choosing an elegantly bound pocket volume, containing the life of that excellent monarch, by Raymond. He wrote his name in it, and Mr. Mansel packed it up with the rest.
The fall of snow having ceased, Arthur returned home, and Mr. Percy proceeded to join his friends.
Arthur tried to read part of the life of Gustavus aloud, to his aunt and cousin: but, in spite of every thing, the misdeed of the morning would obtrude into his thoughts; he therefore made some excuse, and retired to the study, to consider what he should do.
As he passed through the hall, and raised his eyes to the clock, his conscience reproached him bitterly for his misconduct. He ran into the study, and throwing himself into a chair, covered his face with both his hands. It was the first fault of the kind he had ever committed, but that did not lessen it in his eyes.
Arthur bitterly lamented his idleness, when he first began writing. "If I had not tried to catch the poor little robin," said he, "this would not have happened; for I should have finished my writing in plenty of time."
Arthur actually shed tears of regret and sorrow at his own foolishness, in thus having been tempted to deceive his good and unsuspecting uncle.
While he was thus deploring his fault, Jane Percy softly stole into the room, and taking one of his hands from his face, said in a soothing voice,
"My dear cousin, what is it that affects you? Will you not tell your Jane?"
Arthur was moved by the gentle, persuasive voice of his amiable relative, and confided to her the cause of his sorrow. Jane was truly grieved that her dear cousin Arthur should have acted so extremely wrong; but she strove to console him in the best manner she could.
"Consider, Arthur," said she, "it is the first fault of the kind you ever were guilty of."
But this observation, far from comforting him, only added to his grief, as reminding him that he had now forfeited his good name. It was true, no one need know it but himself and Jane: but he was conscious of it, and therefore he could never again bear to be praised for being a good boy, when he knew he did not deserve that character.
"Dear Arthur," said Jane, "I think it will be the best to go to your uncle to-morrow morning, and tell him what you have done. He will not be so angry if you openly confess it to him; and I know you will never do so again."
Arthur tenderly embraced his little cousin, and thanked her for her good advice.
"Indeed, Jane," said he, "that will be the best plan: for I would rather my uncle should know it at once, and be angry, and punish me as I deserve; for then I might, by my future good conduct, atone for my transgression. But I never can look up in his face with pleasure again, knowing that I have deceived him."
Arthur now wished to tell his cousin about little Flora and her father; but a feeling of something like pride withheld him. He was afraid she might think he told her, only to lessen the crime he had committed in her eyes, he therefore remained silent on that subject; for Arthur knew well that a generous action, however excellent, did not obliterate the disgrace of deceit and falsehood.
The next morning, when Mr. Percy came into the study, to set Arthur and Jane their tasks, he offered to shake hands with his nephew, according to his usual custom; but Arthur, bursting into tears, exclaimed,
"Oh, Sir! I have been a very wicked boy, and am not worthy that you should shake hands with me."
Mr. Percy, much surprised, demanded an explanation; and Arthur, with great earnestness and simplicity, related what he had done.
Mr. Percy was sensibly touched by the sincerity of his nephew, though at the same time he was seriously displeased, for he did not like to be deceived by a child: he therefore finished setting the copies, and left the room, without saying a word; for though he would not punish Arthur, as he had so nobly revealed the truth; yet he thought, if he left him in doubt, it would operate on his mind as an adequate punishment. In this opinion he was perfectly correct: for poor Arthur, imagining that he had offended past all forgiveness, gave himself up to despair.
Jane herself knew not what to think, but she tried to comfort her disconsolate cousin; and whilst they were condoling together, they heard Mrs. Percy calling them.
"Come, make haste, children," said she, "come and hear the Scotch piper."
The sound of music was plainly heard in the street; and Arthur eagerly pressed forward to catch a glance at the musician. All the pain he had previously suffered was amply repaid at that moment, by the sight of the blind Highlander, and little Flora his daughter, who was looking, with the greatest delight, at her father as he played.
Arthur had the satisfaction of beholding many a handful of halfpence thrown into the plaid bonnet of the now happy Flora.
The Highlander came opposite the window. Mrs. Percy threw open the sash, in order to bestow a trifle on the piper.
Flora raised her eyes, and uttered almost a scream of joy, as she beheld their little benefactor: exclaiming, "There he is—there he is!—Oh, how glad I am to see him!"
Arthur hastily drew in his head; for he feared lest his aunt should be angry at his having parted with the half-guinea.
But Flora still continued jumping about, and calling for him to look out, and see how happy they were.
"What can the child mean?" said Mr. Percy, who stood with them at the window. "Let somebody call her in, and we will hear."
"No, no, dear uncle, do not have her in," cried Arthur, in a tone of entreaty.
But Mr. Percy, who was determined to know the reason, left the room, and hastened into the street; where he heard the whole account of his nephew's generosity from the lips of the grateful Flora.
At first he could scarcely credit it; but the truth was attested by the soldier, who, on hearing Arthur's voice, declared it to be that of his benefactor.
Arthur, with tears in his eyes, informed his aunt and cousin of the whole affair, saying, as he concluded,
"Indeed, my dear aunt, I could not help giving the money to them, though it had been my father's."
Mrs. Percy, far from blaming her nephew, applauded him as he deserved; as to Jane, she was, if possible, the happiest of the party.
Mr. Percy shortly after returned, and presenting his hand to Arthur, said: "I now give you my hand with the greatest pleasure I ever did in my life; your fault was trivial compared to your generous action, and I am at this moment prouder of my nephew than if he had been born a prince."
That very day Mr. Percy presented Arthur with the Life of Charles XII; and a beautiful edition of Homer, handsomely bound in purple morocco. He also raised a subscription among his friends, to enable the blind piper to return to the place of his nativity.
Arthur Stanly was often heard to declare, when he grew to man's estate, that these two days had been the most miserable as well as the happiest of his life.
All eyes were attentively fixed on Mrs. Dormer as she concluded, and the children agreed that this was the best story they had yet heard. When they had done commenting on it, Edward observed that it was getting dusk, and was time for him and his brother to be going. When he had taken his leave, the children sat talking with their mother till near dark, and Mrs. Dormer began to think it was almost bed-time. As Mary and Kate were bidding her good-night, the latter happened to look towards a flower-stand, on which Mrs. Dormer had placed the glass jar.
"Oh, Mary," cried she, "look, look! the dear little glow-worms have come back again!"
As she spoke all the children ran to the jar, which glittered among the plants, and every moment became an object of greater beauty, as the brilliant insects, one by one, unfolded their light, as if in emulation of each other, filling the vase wish lustre, and shewing every particle of the moss they laid on, as if it were transparent. The children gazed on it with the greatest admiration; at last Mary said,
"I can hardly help laughing, to think how silly I was in the morning; for I now see plainly the shape of the glow-worm is the same with the brown beetles I was so angry with."
"Oh, Mary," said Kate, "my aunt knew all about it, when she told us so gravely that the ugly beetles would bring us news of the glow-worms."
"I did, indeed," said her aunt, "for many summers ago I kept many of them in wet moss and grass till near autumn; at that time they laid some whitish eggs and died. These eggs, however, did not produce any thing; so I cannot tell you whether these insects assume any other form previous to that you now see them in; nor can I direct you to any book that will give you a satisfactory account."
"Dear mamma," said Mary, "they are far from being ugly now; for they are very brisk and lively, and constantly in motion, though in the morning they seemed half dead."
"It seems," said her mother, "that damp and dark places are necessary to to their existence; and yet they appear only in the warmest weather.
"But, Mary, there is another luminous insect, which some people mistake for the glow-worm: it is of a very disgusting shape, being a species of the centipede; it has, like that ugly insect, nearly fifty legs, on each side, and runs amazingly fast, leaving behind a long trail of greenish light."
"I should not like them at all," said William, "for I think the centipede is uglier than a snake."
"I have a great dislike to them, myself," said Mrs. Dormer; "but the luminous centipede is not so frightful as those black ones you see sometimes on cellar walls, and in old wood. I remember the first time I saw any of the bright centipedes: I was coming home with my brother in the evening, through a green lane; I saw something shine brightly in the hedge: I ran up to it, thinking it was one of my favourite glow-worms, but recoiled, with no little disgust, when I saw that I was going to lay my hand on a nest of these centipedes, all writhing and clinging together like serpents, shewing at the same time a brilliant light."
"Dear!" said William, "how horrid they must have looked! I suppose, mamma, you did not catch any?"
"No," said Mrs. Dormer, "I was then very young, not much older than Mary; and I could not conquer the antipathy I had to their hideous shape. But my brother took one, and brought it home, and when we looked at it by the light we found it was about two inches and a half long, of a pale brown, and certainly the best-looking of its species that I have seen."
The children would have been glad to have asked some more questions, but it grew so late, that their mother would not detain them from their beds, and they went away talking about the story and the glow-worms.
During the next week the children could think of nothing but the pleasure they were to enjoy at Hampstead fair; and all of them were continually wishing for a fine day. As the time drew near, Lewis and Kate were every minute running into the hall, and climbing one of the green chairs to consult the barometer; though I cannot say they understood much about it. However, the evening before the wished-for day Kate ventured boldly to predict beautiful weather for the morrow: they all retired to rest, therefore, in excellent spirits. But when they awoke in the morning the rain was descending in torrents, and the sky looked as dark and heavy as if the wet weather had set in for a week. The poor children passed the morning in great anxiety, frequently peeping out at different windows, in hopes of seeing a little bit of blue in the sky, and wishing in vain for the rain to clear off. When the afternoon came, and they were forced to give up all hopes of going, Mary retreated to a corner, and began to weep bitterly. Kate and her brothers came and tried to comfort her; but Mary had set her mind so much on going, that she only cried the more. Presently her mamma came in; and Mary, ashamed that her mother should see that she was such a baby as to cry for a little disappointment, hid her face in her frock: but still she could not suppress a sob or two. Mrs. Dormer came up to the corner where they all were assembled.
"What is the matter?" she said (putting Mary's frock from her eyes), "What ails my poor Mary? Is she ill, or has some one hurt her?"
Mary was much confused, and did not answer. Kate told her aunt that she believed her cousin cried because the rain had hindered her from going to the fair. Mrs. Dormer looked at Mary for some time, and then said,
"I dare say, Mary, you expect that I should ridicule you for being so weak as to cry; but I will not do so, for I see that you are ashamed of it already. Come out of your corner, and see whether I can convince you, that you might have gone to the fair, and it is possible you might have returned still more unhappy than you are now."
Mary dried her tears; and her mamma seated her on part of her own chair. The other children got their stools, and sat down by Mrs. Dormer.
"I remember the time, Mary, when I was as anxious to see the fair as you are now; and the day on which I was to go turned out quite fine, and yet I was very far from spending it happily."
"Pray, dear mamma," said William, "do tell us what happened; for I would as soon hear you tell a story, as go to the fair; only we should have liked to have spent another day with dear Edward."
"I had written down all that happened," said his mother; "I meant to have read it to you, one day or other, but I think this will be the best time; for however you may laugh at the comical distresses I got into, yet you would have found them very unpleasant, if they had befallen you to-day. Listen then, my children, and hear my account of