was sensible that he had too good a heart to wish to do mischief, merely
for the sake of tormenting others. Gregory was, indeed, a very good boy,
and was as remarkable for his duty to his parents, his tender attachment
to his sister, and his universal benevolence to every one.
The little girl observed to her mamma, that the nest which her brother
had shown her did not in any degree resemble the swallow's nests that
were seen about the corners of the windows of some houses. "My dear,"
replied her mamma, "every nest is not alike, any more than every bird,
some being great, and others little; some are never seen to perch on
trees, while others are hardly ever out of them; some are bulky and
inactive, others slim, and full of cunning and industry; the plumage of
some are beautiful beyond description, with an amazing variety of
colours, and others have a plain and homely appearance; some subsist on
fruits, some feed upon insects, and many live by making a prey of and of
devouring the smaller birds."
Here her little daughter exclaimed, "Oh, what wicked creatures! I am
sure I should think it no crime to destroy the nest of such unnatural
birds."--"Very true," replied her mamma, and there are many more of your
way of thinking; and therefore these great birds, who live upon the
smaller class, build their nests in places where they cannot be easily
disturbed, such as in woods, in crevices of rocks, and in other places
most unfrequented by men, or at heights beyond our reach.
"Since, therefore, my dear children, these birds are greatly different
from each other, as well in size as in the mode of living, and in the
variety of their plumage, it will naturally follow that their nests must
also differ. The lark never perches on a tree, and sings only when
mounting in the air, and builds her nest on the ground. The swallow
builds about the roofs of houses, under what we call the eaves, and
sometimes in the corners of windows. The owl, which flies abroad only in
the night, seeks out deserted habitations, or some hollow trees, wherein
to deposit her eggs; and the eagles, who soar above the clouds till
absolutely out of sight, bring forth their young in the cliffs of craggy
rocks. Those birds, which so prettily sport round our houses, and hop
from branch to branch, make their nests in the trees and hedges. Those
who sport on the water, and find their living therein, build their
nests among the rushes that grow on the banks.
"We will, one fine day, take a walk into the little valley that
terminates our large meadow, and you will there see a number of these
pretty creatures busy in selecting the materials of which they compose
their nests. You will observe one employed in carrying off a wheaten
straw, another with wool or feathers in its beak, another with a dried
leaf, and perhaps with a little moss. You may frequently notice the
swallow, on the borders of a limpid stream, moistening in the water a
little bit of earth which he holds in his beak, and with this he builds
his habitation; and, though the outside of its nest is formed of hard
and durable materials, the inside is lined with the softest and warmest.
There are even some birds, who pull off their own feathers to make up a
comfortable bed, wherein to secure their young from every inclemency of
the elements.
"Their nests are made large or small, in proportion to the number of
eggs they are to contain. Some birds hang up their nests by a kind of
thread, which they have the skill to form of flax, of different sorts of
weeds, and of the webs of spiders. Others place it in the middle of a
soft and gluey substance, to which they carefully stick many feathers.
All birds seek retired and solitary places, and use every endeavour to
make their nests strong and solid, to secure them from the attacks of
enemies of various species.
"It is in this kind of habitation they lay their eggs, where the mother,
and at times the father, sits upon them, puts every thing within them
into motion, and at last produce little creatures, who break through
their shell, and come forth.
"I doubt not but you have often seen a fly in winter, which appeared to
have no life in it: yet, upon taking it into your hand, the warmth
proceeding from it has brought it to life. It is nearly the same thing
with birds, the perseverance of whose parents, in brooding upon their
eggs, converts them into living creatures.
"While the mother is sitting, the cock is her constant attendant, and
amuses her with his music. When the young birds are hatched, the old
ones endeavour to release them from the confinement of the egg. At this
period their diligence is redoubled, they do everything to nourish and
defend them, and are constantly employed in that interesting pursuit.
No distance deters them from seeking their food, of which they make an
equal distribution, every one receiving in his turn what they have been
able to procure. So long as they continue young and helpless, they
contrive to procure such food as is adapted to their delicacy; but as
soon as they are grown stronger by age, they provide for them food of a
more solid nature.
"The pelican, which is a very large bird, is obliged to go a great
distance for food for its young, and therefore nature has provided it
with a sort of bag, which she fills with such food as she knows is most
agreeable to the palate of her young ones. She warms what she procures,
and by such means makes it fitter for their tender stomachs.
"While they are thus acting the parental part, they seem to be forgetful
of themselves, and attentive only to their little family. On the
approach of either rain or tempests, they hasten to their nest, and
cover it as well as they can with expanded wings, thereby keeping out
the wind and water from hurting their infant brood. All their nights are
employed in nourishing and keeping them warm. The most timorous among
the feathered race, who will fly away on the least noise that approaches
them, and tremble at the most trifling apprehensions of danger, become
strangers to fear as soon as they have a young family to take care of,
and are inspired with courage and intrepidity. We see an instance of
this in the common hen, who, though in general a coward, no sooner
becomes a parent, than she gives proofs of courage, and boldly stands
forth in defence of her young. She will face the largest dog, and will
not run even from a man, who shall attempt to rob her of her young.
"In nearly a similar manner, the little birds endeavour to protect their
infant family. When an enemy approaches, they will flutter round the
nest, will seem to call out for assistance, will attack the invader, and
pursue him. The mother will frequently prefer confining herself with
them, to the pleasure of rambling through the woods, and will not quit
her little progeny."
Here their mamma ended, and her two children promised they never would
any more disturb those pretty feathered animals. They promised only to
look at their nests, without being so cruel as to do them any harm. They
said they would be satisfied with gazing on them, while employed in the
delightful task of attending on their young, and comforting and
caressing their unprotected offspring.
"My dear children," said their mamma, "this is the conduct you ought to
pursue. Keep your resolutions, and I shall love you the more tenderly
for it. Do no injury to any creature, for He who made you made them
also. Take no delight in giving pain to the most insignificant part of
the creation; but endeavour on all occasions to contribute to their
happiness."
[Illustration]
THE COVETOUS BOY.
[Illustration]
Young Samuel was the only son of a capital merchant, and was tenderly
beloved by his father. He had by no means a bad heart, his countenance
was pleasing, and his friends would all have been very fond of him, had
he not shown, in every part of his conduct, a covetous propensity, that
eclipsed all his accomplishments.
His covetous disposition made him wish for every thing he saw others
possessed of, and, even carried him to so great a length, that he would
not share among his playmates any thing that he had, or even let them
see it.
It was with little Samuel, as it generally is with every body else, that
he lost more than he gained by his avarice. If any body gave him any
sweetmeats, he would get into some private corner of the house and there
swallow them, for fear any of his acquaintance should want part of them.
His father, in order to cure him of this greedy disposition, used, while
he was feasting in private, to give a double portion to his companions.
He perceived this, and therefore left off hiding himself; but he no
sooner fixed his eyes on any nicety, than he appeared ready to devour it
at once; and pursued the hand of those that held it, as a vulture does
its prey.
From what has been already said, his father may be supposed to be much
hurt at this conduct; and, in order to save himself as much vexation as
possible, he ceased to give him any more niceties, or even have them
within his house, so that they might not, at any rate, be within the
reach of his voracious son.
If Samuel had a pleasing toy of any kind, he would never show it, but
conceal himself in the enjoyment of it, without ever being happy. If he
had any sort of fruit, he would not share it with his playmates, but
devour it in private, even refusing any to those he happened to love
most. Consequently, none of his playmates would ever give him a part of
what they had, and seemed always desirous of shunning his company. When
he chanced to be engaged in a quarrel with any one, none appeared ready
to take his part, not even when they knew him in the right; and, when he
was in the wrong, every one joined against him.
It one day happened, that a little boy observed him with an apple in his
hand, and gave him by surprise a knock on the elbow, which made him let
the apple fall. However, he picked it up hastily, and, in order to
revenge himself on the boy, set off to catch him; but, in running, fell
into a hog-pond, and had like to have been suffocated in the soil. He
exerted all his power to get out, but to no effect: he endeavoured, but
without succeeding, to prevail on his playmates to take hold of his hand
and help him out.
Instead of assisting him, they laughed at his distress, and joyously
danced about the pond, from which he could not relieve himself. They
told him to ask the assistance of those to whom he had done the least
kindness; but among all his playmates, there was not one whose help he
could demand on that score. At last one of the boys, who took pity on
him, came forward and gave him his hand, when he safely got out.
Samuel shook off the mud as well as he could, and then to show his
gratitude to the little boy who had assisted him, he bit off about a
quarter of the apple which caused this disaster, and which he never let
go, and desired him to accept of it. But the boy, disgusted with so
pitiful a gift, took the morsel, and then flung it in his face; and this
served as a signal for all the boys to scout him. They pursued Samuel
quite home, hooting him all the way he went.
This was the first time he had ever been hooted, and, as he did not want
for feeling, it threw him into a depth of thought. He kept out of his
father's presence, and confined himself to his room for some days. There
he reasoned with himself on the cause that could produce such treatment
from his playfellows. "For what reason," said he to himself, "could my
little neighbour, who even lent me his hand to get out of the pond,
throw the apple in my face, and set the boys to hoot me? Why has he so
many good friends, while I have not a single one?"
On comparing the good boy's behaviour with his own, he soon discovered
the reason. To become sensible of our errors is half the work of
reformation. He recollected, that he had observed his friend was always
ready to help every one; that whenever he had any fruit, confectionary,
or the like, he seemed to feel more pleasure in sharing it with his
companions, than in eating it himself, and had no kind of amusement in
which he did not wish every one to bear a part. On this short review of
circumstances, he plainly perceived wherein lay the difference between
himself and this little good boy. He at last resolved to imitate him;
and the next day, filling his pockets with fruit, he ran up to every boy
he met and gave him a part of it; but he could not, on a sudden, give up
_self_, having left a little in his pocket to eat at home in private.
Though it is evident that he had not yet completely conquered his
avarice, yet he was not a little pleased with the advances he had made,
since his companions were now, on their part, more generous to him; they
showed themselves much more satisfied with his company, and admitted him
a partner in all their little pastimes; they divided with him whatever
they happened to have, and he always went home pleased and satisfied.
Soon after, he made a still greater progress in conquering his selfish
disposition; for he pulled out of his pocket every thing he had, and
divided it into as many shares as there were mouths to eat it, without
reserving any more than an equal part for himself. Indeed, it was the
general opinion of the boys, that his own share was the least. This day
he was much more satisfied than before, and went home gay and cheerful.
By pursuing this conduct, he soon acquired a generous habit, and became
liberal even to those who had nothing to give in return. He consequently
acquired the love and esteem of his companions, who no sooner saw him
than they ran to meet him with joyful countenances, and made his
pleasure their own. Thus, instead of being miserable and wretched
through avarice, he became completely happy in the practice of
generosity.
His father was, undoubtedly, highly pleased with this change, and,
tenderly embracing him, promised to refuse him nothing in future that
might add to his pleasure and delight. Samuel hereby learned in what
true happiness consists.
[Illustration]
DISSIPATION THE CERTAIN ROAD TO
RUIN.
[Illustration]
A young man, whose name was Humphries, was a dull companion, but an
excellent workman. Nothing ran in his head so much as the wish to become
a master, but he had not money to gratify that wish. A merchant,
however, who was well acquainted with his industry, lent him a hundred
pounds, in order that he might open a shop in a proper style.
It will from hence naturally follow, that Humphries thought himself one
of the happiest men in the world. He supposed his warehouse already
filled with goods, he reckoned how many customers would crowd to buy
them, and what would be his profits thereon.
In the midst of these extravagant flights of fancy, he perceived an
alehouse. "Come," said he, on entering it, "I will indulge myself with
spending one sixpence of this money." He hesitated, however, some few
moments, about calling for punch, which was his favourite liquor, as his
conscience loudly told him that his time for enjoyment ought to be at
some distance, and not till he had paid his friend the money he had
borrowed; that it would not be honest in him at present to expend a
farthing of that money but in absolute necessaries. With these right
ideas, he was nearly leaving the alehouse; but, bethinking himself, on
the other hand, that, if he spent a sixpence of his money, he should
still have a hundred pounds all but that sixpence, that such a sum was
fully sufficient to set him up in trade, and that a single half-hour's
industry would amply make amends for such a trifling pleasure as he
wished then to enjoy; he called for his punch, and the first glass
banished all his former qualms, little thinking that such a conduct
would, by insensible degrees, open a way to his ruin. The next day he
recollected the pleasures of the former glass, and found it easy to
reconcile his conscience to the spending of another sixpence. He knew he
should still have a hundred pounds left, all but one shilling.
The love of liquor had at last completely conquered him, and every
succeeding day he constantly returned to his favourite alehouse, and
gradually increased his quantity, till he spent two shillings and
sixpence at each sitting. Here he seemed to make a stand; and every time
he went he consoled himself, with saying, that he was spending only
half-a-crown, and that he need not fear but he should have enough to
carry on his trade.
By this delusive way of reasoning, he silenced the prudent whispers of
conscience, which would sometimes, in spite even of liquor, break in
upon him, and remind him, that the proper use of money consisted in
prudently applying every part of it to advantageous purposes.
Thus you see how the human mind is led into destructive extravagances by
insensible degrees. Industry had no longer any charms to allure him,
being blindly persuaded, that the money he had borrowed would prove an
inexhaustible source for all its extravagance. He was at last convinced,
and his conviction suddenly fell on him like a clap of thunder that he
could not recover the effects of his preceding dissipation, and that his
generous benefactor would have little inclination to lend another
hundred pounds to a man who had so shamefully abused his kindness in the
first instance.
Entirely overcome with shame and confusion, his recourse to hard
drinking, merely to quiet his conscience and reflections, served only to
bring on his ruin the sooner. At last the fatal moment arrived, when,
quite disgusted at the thoughts of industry, and becoming an object of
horror even to himself, life became insupportable, and nothing presented
themselves to him but scenes of poverty, desolation, and remorse.
Overtaken by despair, he fled from his country, and joined a gang of
smugglers, whose ravages were dreaded through every town and village on
the coast. Heaven, however, did not permit these iniquities to have a
long reign, for a disgraceful death soon put a period to the existence
of this unhappy wretch.
Alas! had he listened to the first dictates of reason, and been wrought
upon by the reproaches of his conscience, he might have been easy and
happy in his situation, and have comfortably enjoyed the repose of a
reputable old age, instead of coming to that deplorable end, which is
the certain reward of vice and folly.
[Illustration]
CALUMNY AND SCANDAL GREAT
ENEMIES TO SOCIETY.
[Illustration]
Though Maria was of a tolerably good temper, yet she had contracted a
most mischievous vice, and that was calumny. Whenever she fancied she
saw any thing amiss in others, though they were her most intimate
friends, she seemed to take pleasure in publishing it to the world.
The inexperience of her age frequently led her to ascribe indifferent
actions to improper motives; and a single word, or volatility of
disposition, was sufficient to raise in her breast the worst suspicions,
with which, as soon as she had formed them, she would run into company,
and there publish them as indubitable facts.
As she was never at a loss for embellishments for her own fancy, in
order to make her tales appear the more plausible, it may easily be
supposed what mischief such a conduct was capable of producing. In a
little time, all the families in the neighbourhood were set together by
the ears, and the seeds of discord soon after sprung up amongst
individuals; husbands and wives, brothers and sisters, masters and
servants, commenced perpetual variance between each other. All on a
sudden, mutual confidence seemed to be lost in every place where Maria
visited.
Matters at last were carried so far, that every one shut their doors
against her, as they would have done against any one tainted with the
plague; but neither hatred nor humiliation could reform a vice which
custom and prejudice had so deeply rivetted in her heart. This glorious
work of reformation was reserved for Angelica, her cousin, who was the
only one left that would keep her company, and who lived in hopes that
she should in the end be able to convince her of her ruinous conduct.
Maria went one day to see her cousin, and entertained her as usual with
a long recital of scandal against their common friends, though she well
knew that such tales were disagreeable to Angelica. "And now, my dear,"
said Maria, having stopped for want of breath, "your turn is come to
tell me something. You see such a variety of company, that you surely
must be acquainted with a number of anecdotes."
"My dear Maria," answered Angelica, "whenever I visit my friends, it is
for the sake of enjoying their company; and I am too sensible of my own
interest to forfeit their esteem by exposing their defects. Indeed, I am
sensible of so many errors in myself, and find it so difficult to
correct them, that I have no leisure to contemplate the imperfections of
others. Having every reason to wish for their candour and indulgence, I
readily grant them mine; and my attention is constantly turned to
discover what is commendable in them, in order that I may make such
perfections my own. Before we presume to censure others, we ought to be
certain that we have no faults ourselves. I cannot, therefore, but
congratulate you on that faultless state, which I am so unhappy as to
want. Continue, my dear Maria, this employment of a charitable censor,
who would lead the world to virtue by exposing the deformity of vice,
and you cannot fail of meeting your deserts."
Maria well knew how much she was the public object of aversion and
disgust, and therefore could not help feeling the irony of Angelica.
From that day she began very seriously to reflect on the danger of her
indiscretion; and, trembling at the recollection of those mischiefs she
had caused, determined to prevent their progress.
She found it difficult to throw off the custom she had long indulged of
viewing things on the worst side of the question. At last, however, she
became so perfectly reformed, that she studied only the pleasing parts
of characters, and was never heard to speak ill of any one.
Maria became more and more convinced of the pernicious consequences that
arise from exposing the faults of others, and began to feel the pleasing
satisfaction of universal charity. My dear children, shun the vice of
scandal, and, still more, being the authors of it, as you would plague,
pestilence, and famine.
[Illustration]
CLARISSA; OR, THE GRATEFUL
ORPHAN.
[Illustration]
The amiable Dorinda, soon after the misfortune of losing her husband,
was so unhappy as to have a law-suit determined to her disadvantage, and
thereby lost great part of her possessions, which were taken from her
with the most unrelenting hand. This reduced her to the necessity of
selling all her furniture, and the greater part of her jewels. The
produce of these she placed in the hands of a banker, and retired to a
village, where she could live much cheaper than in the metropolis, and
with tolerable decency.
She had not passed more than two months in this retreat, when
information was brought her, that her banker had failed in trade, and
consequently all her money was lost. Judge what must be the horrors of
her situation! Sickness and grief had so debilitated her constitution,
that she was unable to do any kind of work, whereby to procure a
subsistence; and, after having passed her youth in ease and pleasure,
she had no resources left in the evening of her life, but that of a
workhouse, or common beggary.
Not one of her acquaintance would see her, nor condescend to take the
least interest in her sufferings. Being brought by her husband from a
foreign country, she had no friends to cry to for assistance, except a
distant relation, whom she had brought with her to England, and who, by
her husband's credit, gained great riches; but this man's avarice was
greater than his wealth, and there was little charity to be expected
from a man who denied himself the common necessaries of life.
Afflicted virtue, however, always finds resource in the bounteous hands
of Providence, and she found the means of subsistence where she little
expected it. In the former days of her prosperity, she had adopted a
female orphan, whose name was Clarissa, who now became her guardian and
protector. Clarissa had a grateful heart; she wept for the misfortunes
of her friend, but she rejoiced at the thoughts of having an opportunity
to show her gratitude.