[Illustration: THE TWO TEMPERS.
“_tell them the Cart is in the ditch_”]
INCIDENTS
OF
CHILDHOOD.
THE TINNER’S SON.
[Illustration: “_he seemed to be studying the title page_”]
INCIDENTS
OF
_CHILDHOOD_.
LONDON:
PUBLISHED BY B. J. HOLDSWORTH, NO. 18, ST. PAUL’S
CHURCHYARD; AND G. AND W. B. WHITAKER,
AVE MARIA LANE.
1821.
Printed by J. Hill, 32, Water Lane, Blackfriars.
PREFACE.
Fictitious narratives, designed for the perusal of children, should (in
the opinion of the Writer) be familiar in their _subjects_ as well as
in their style; and slight in their construction: They should hardly
aim to excite more than a very transient or superficial emotion. If
they are highly wrought, or laboured with dramatic interest, they
will rarely be read without injury by children whose imaginations are
lively, or whose feelings are strong. In other cases, they will be
harmless only in proportion as they are useless.
It is desirable that children should be tempted to seek a portion--but
never a large portion, of their amusement in books, as well as in
active sports. That this species of amusement should be _harmless_
is, perhaps, its best praise. While it avoids the hazards which
must always attend any fictitious excitement of the imagination or
the stronger feelings, it may safely aim to illustrate the minor
virtues,--to exhibit the less important faults to which children are
liable, or, to give a playful exercise to the understanding.
In what way religious principles may be advantageously presented to
the minds of children through the medium of fiction, is a question
upon which the Writer has no wish to give an opinion: he has only to
say that he has not deemed himself qualified for a task of so much
difficulty.
CONTENTS.
PREFACE v
I.
THE IRON BOX 1
II.
PHEBE’S VISIT 17
III.
CURIOSITY AND INQUIRY 48
IV.
THE TWO TEMPERS 75
V.
LITTLE FANNY’S PLAN 86
VI.
THE VISIT TO LONDON 98
VII.
THE BELFRY 122
VIII.
THE TINNER’S SON 161
I.
THE IRON BOX.
Peter Simons was the son of a poor fisherman who lived in a solitary
cottage, built of rough stone, on the steep side of a rock which faced
the sea. Behind the cottage the dark jagged cliff slanted up to a
great height: before it you might look straight down upon the sea,
two hundred feet below. Steps were cut in the solid stone, which led
winding down to the shore. On one side of the house there was a stack
of furze to serve for firing; on the other side was a small level
space, with poles, on which the fisherman hung his nets to dry. The
front of the cottage was covered with rows of dried fish, of different
sorts, cut open, and all shrivelled and yellow: at the door hung the
fisherman’s great sea boots, and his rough blue coat, lined with red
stuff.
Peter was a lazy boy; and his father and mother used no means to
correct his idle habits; but suffered him to spend his time as he
pleased. Sometimes he would lie half the day on the ground before the
door, just looking over the edge, to watch the curling foam of the
waves among the broken rocks below; or throw down stones to see them
jump from ledge to ledge as they fell. When the weather was perfectly
calm, and the sun shone, so that, from the top of the hill, the sea
appeared all in a blaze of light; you might perceive a black speck at
some distance, like a lark in the clear sky; this was the fisherman’s
small boat, in which Peter would spend all the hours from one tide
till the next. Having anchored the boat on a sand bank, he would dose
with his hat slouched over his face; or if he was awake, listen to the
tapping of the waves against the side of the boat; and now and then
halloo, to make the gulls that were swimming about, rise into the air.
But most often, in fine weather, he would saunter along upon the beach,
to a neck of sand about a mile from his home. Here there was the old
hulk of a sloop, that had been wrecked at a spring tide; so that it lay
high upon the beach; it was now half sunk in the sand, and the sea weed
had gathered round it, three or four feet deep. It was Peter’s delight
to sit upon the deck, lolling against the capstan, while his naked legs
dangled down the gangway in the forecastle.
When the weather was too cold to sit still out of doors, and when his
mother drove him from the chimney corner, Peter would take a large
knife and an old hat; and gather muscles from the rocks: but almost the
only thing of any use which he did in the whole course of the year, was
to plait a straw hat for himself, and patch his jacket.
Peter seemed always dismal and discontented; he seldom more than half
opened his eyes, except when he was searching the crannies of the
rocks, and fumbling in the heaps of sea weed, after a storm, in hope
of finding something that had been thrown up by the waves. Indeed, he
lived in expectation that some great good luck would one day come to
him in this way: and so in fact it happened.
One morning after a gale of wind, and a very high spring tide; the sea
retired so far that Peter made his way to a reef of rocks which he
had never before been able to reach. There were two hours before the
tide would oblige him to return: he determined therefore to make the
best use of the time in hunting over this new ground. He scrambled up
and down, and jumped from rock to rock so nimbly, that, at a little
distance, no one would have guessed that it was Peter Simons. He dived
his arm deep into the weedy basins in the rocks; and groped, with his
hands under water, among the pebbles, shells, and oily weed with which
they were filled. Nothing however was to be found; except, now and
then, a whitened bone, a piece of green sheet-copper, or some rusty
iron.
Peter staid till the sea had several times run over the sand bank
which joined the reef of rocks to the shore. It was now necessary to
make speed back; and he took such long strides in returning, that he
sunk over his ankles in the loose sand. Just before he reached the
solid ground, he set his bare foot upon a staple and ring, to which a
small rope was tied: he pulled the rope pretty stoutly, supposing it
to be fastened to a piece of timber from a wreck; but, in doing so, he
dragged from under the sand an Iron Box, about six inches square. It
was very rusty, and he would have thought it a solid block of iron, if
it had not been for the appearance of hinges on one side.
“Now,” said Peter, “here’s my fortune to be sure in this box: what
should an Iron Box be for, but to keep gold and diamonds in. Nobody
shall know a word of this till I see what’s in it.” He knocked and
banged it about on the rocks for some time, to get it open; but finding
his efforts vain, he determined, for the present, to carry it to the
old sloop, where he spent so much of his time; and lodge it safely in
the sand which filled the hold: by the time he had done this, it was
nearly dark.
Although he had been kept awake some part of the night, in making
various guesses of what might be in the box, and planning what he
should do with his treasure, Peter rose two hours before his usual
time the next morning. The rising sun shone upon the highest peak of
the rocky headland, just as he climbed upon the deck of the sloop. He
had brought a large knife, and a hammer with him, to force the box
open; but he found he could not get the point of the knife in any
where; and all his blows with the hammer only made the rusty flakes of
iron peel off from the sides of the box: no trace of a key-hole could
be found; and when the top of the box was cleaned, it appeared that the
lid was screwed down on three sides. Peter buried the box again in the
same place; and set himself to think what was to be done. He knew that
the blacksmith at the village could open the box easily enough; but he
would trust his secret to nobody. The only way therefore was to procure
tools, and go to work upon it himself. Lazy folks, when they choose to
exert themselves, are often very ingenious, and sometimes, even, very
diligent. Peter had not a penny of his own. How was he to get money
enough to buy a screw-driver?
Peter Simons, as we have said before, could plait a straw hat pretty
neatly. It was a sort of employment that suited him; because he could
do it while he sat lolling in the sunshine; thinking about nothing;
with his eyes half shut, and his mouth half open. He thought that if he
made two or three hats, he might be able to sell them at the town for
as much money as would buy the screw-driver, or what other tools he
might want. He procured the straw therefore, and taking it to the cabin
of the old sloop, went to work more heartily than ever he had done in
his life before. Peter’s father and mother concerned themselves very
little with the manner in which he spent his time: and when he took
his dinner with him, and was absent the whole day, his mother was glad
to get rid of him, and asked him no questions when he came home in the
evening.
The first thing that Peter did every morning before he sat down to
his straw-hat making, was to take the box out of the sand, and make
some violent efforts to force it open without further ado: but after
spending some time in turning it about, looking at it, banging it
against the rock, and trying to wheedle in the point of the knife, he
quietly buried it in its place; having convinced himself afresh that
the only way was to go on steadily with the plan he had determined
upon. He often wondered that he could not hear the diamonds or the
guineas rattle, when he shook the box; but he concluded that it was
stuffed so full, that there was no room for them to wag.
After Peter had been thus diligently employed several days, he began
to feel a pleasure in work which was quite new to him; although he now
rose two or three hours earlier than he used to do, the days seemed to
him shorter instead of longer than they did when he spent all his time
in idleness. He almost lost his habit of yawning; and when he went
home in the evening, instead of squatting down sulkily in the chimney
corner, he would jump about the house, and do little jobs for his
mother. “I don’t know what’s come to our Peter,” said his mother, “he’s
not the same boy that he was.”
At length he finished three straw hats; which he reckoned he might
sell to the boys on the quay, at the neighbouring sea-port town, for
a shilling at least. Off he set, therefore, early the next morning;
going a roundabout way, to avoid being seen by any one who knew him:
the distance was ten miles. He sold his hats in the course of the
day--bought a screw-driver and an iron wedge; and got back time enough
to go and deposit his tools along with the box before he returned home.
Although he was very tired with his walk, he rose the next morning
before day-break; and he felt no doubt that by the time his mother had
made the kettle boil for breakfast, he should be a rich man: but Peter
reckoned rather too hastily. He soon found that he could do nothing
with the screw-driver: all his efforts only made the heads of the
screws smooth and bright: he perceived that he must cut off the heads
of the screws, by filing deep notches in the edge of the lid; for this
purpose he must get two files; to procure which he must sell at least,
two more hats; this was a sad trial of Peter’s patience. It was a whole
week before he made his second journey to the town, and bought the two
files. But he had now a long job before him. Not being used to hard
work, it was late in the evening before he had made a notch so deep as
completely to cut away the head of the first screw, and there were nine
screws in the lid.
His arms ached so much, when he went to bed, that he could hardly
sleep; and his wrists were so stiff the next morning, that he made
very little progress in his work during the whole day; but kept filing
faintly,--a little at one screw, and then a little at another. The
third and fourth day, however, he seemed to have gained strength
by labour; and after a week’s toil, he filed away the head of the
last screw: but, even now, the screws were so completely rusted into
their holes, that he began to think all the force he could use would
never make the lid move: at length a lucky blow drove the iron
wedge a full inch under the lid: and, after a great deal of twisting
and hammering, the box came open. And what was in it? Nothing at
all!--empty--empty--quite empty!
With the hammer in one hand, and the wedge in the other, Peter stood
staring into the box a long while, scarcely knowing where he was. At
last he scrambled up out of the hold of the vessel; laid himself down
upon the deck, and cried and sobbed for an hour or two. But he resolved
that he would not be laughed at for his disappointment, so he dried up
his tears; slunk home when it grew dark; went to bed without taking his
supper; and fretted till he fell asleep.
But Peter Simons had now learned to exert himself,--his thoughts had
been actively engaged for several weeks; he had felt the satisfaction
of earning money by his own labour; he had broke the habit of lying in
bed till breakfast time; he had become really stronger by hard work; in
short, he could not bear the thought of living for the future as he had
done, in wretched idleness. “Father,” said he, “I should like to earn
my living like other folks: I wish you’d put me to the blacksmith’s to
work.”
Peter’s wish was accomplished before he had time to repent of it:
he was put to work at the blacksmith’s: in due time he learned the
business well; and got the character of being a clever and industrious
workman. When he was in business for himself, he used to say, “I found
all my good fortune in an empty box.”
II.
PHEBE’S VISIT.
“My love, I think I have something to say that will please you;” said
Phebe’s Mamma to her, one day.
“O dear, have you, Mamma,--pray tell me directly,” said Phebe; “I
cannot think what it is.”
“Why, my love, Mrs. Mason has been here this morning, and she was so
kind as to ask me to let you spend a few days with her; so I told her,
that if you were a good girl you should go on Tuesday.--Shall you like
it, Phebe?”
“O dear, yes, Mamma; how very much delighted I am;--what
a good girl I will be;--but what a while it is to
wait,--Friday--Saturday--Sunday--Monday--Tuesday: I wish it had been
sooner;--I shall be so happy.--I suppose Mrs. Mason’s house is not at
all like ours, is it, Mamma?”
“No, my dear; I believe that you will find many things at Mrs. Mason’s
quite different from what you see here.”
“Dear, how glad I am of that,” said Phebe; “and then, besides all the
fine things I shall see there, I shall not have my lessons to learn,
nor be called to do a great many tiresome jobs that hinder me so when I
am at play; and I shall not have William to tease me; and that will be
a great comfort.”
“So you really think that you shall be happier without poor William,
do you Phebe? I am sorry for that;” said her Mother.
“O, I like to have him with me sometimes, Mamma; and so I should always
if he would not tease me so much; but it was only the other day that
he came into the nursery, when I had drest my doll in a clean white
frock, and it was looking so pretty; and instead of praising it, as
I expected, he held it up by one foot and laughed at it, and said he
wondered what pleasure I could take in making clothes for a log of
wood.--And he did what was worse still, last night, Mamma; for he took
up my wax doll, and really held one of its hands to the candle, because
he said he wanted to seal a letter to cousin Thomas; only Papa was in
the room and reproved him for it, (which I was very glad of,) and said
he wondered how he could tease the poor child so; and then William said
he did not _really_ intend to do it, because it was not the right sort
of wax; but I dare say he would if Papa had not been there. Now was not
it very wrong of him, Mamma?”
“I know he often teases you, my love; for boys are very fond of teasing
their little sisters; but yet I think you should not be very glad when
he is reproved, because he is really good natured, and willing to do
any thing for you that you want.”
“So he is, poor fellow,” said Phebe; “and I did not particularly wish
him to be reproved, only I was afraid that he would spoil my doll. But
let us say something more about going to Mrs. Mason’s, Mamma.--I dare
say I shall sit up to supper every night; and I shall most likely
sleep in a room all by myself, instead of in the nursery: and every
thing will be a great deal more pleasant than it is here.”
“Why, really Phebe,” said her Mamma, “if a little girl who lives in
a comfortable house, with a kind Papa and Mamma, and several good
brothers and sisters, and a great many playthings, finds so much to be
discontented with, I cannot promise that she will find every thing just
as she would wish it, even at Mrs. Mason’s.”
“I am not _very_ discontented, Mamma,” said Phebe; “only I think there
are a few things that I would alter if I were a woman and could do
exactly as I liked.”
“I never yet heard of a woman who _could_ do exactly as she liked,
Phebe; and I am afraid that, when you are a woman, you will always
find somebody to tease you, even though William should live a great
many miles away; and though you should then have no Papa and Mamma,
“to make you do a great many tiresome jobs when you want to play”;
or rather I mean, Phebe, that those who are apt to be fretful and
discontented about very little things, will always have a great many
little things to fret about.”
Phebe could never think of the time when she should have no Papa and
Mamma, without feeling the tears come into her eyes, for she loved her
parents dearly, and if ever she felt unwilling to leave off playing
when her Mother called her, she had only to think, how _very--very_
sorry she should be when _that_ time came, to recollect that her Mamma
had ever found her in the _least_ disobedient or unkind; and then she
left off and went cheerfully, even though she were at play ever so
prettily.
“However, Mamma,” said Phebe, who wished to continue the conversation;
“I cannot think of any thing that is likely to make me at all
uncomfortable while I am at Mrs. Mason’s.”
“Then I hope you will be quite happy all the time, my love; and
remember, when you return, I shall ask you whether you have or not.”
“O do, Mamma; pray do not forget it;” said Phebe, “who thought that,
for once, her Mamma would certainly be mistaken.”
Phebe’s Mamma was quite right in telling her that she would find many
things at Mrs. Mason’s different from what she had been used to at
home; for Phebe’s parents lived in a handsome red brick house, in the
middle of a large town: there was a garden behind the house, but it was
not very large, and there were high brick walls all round it; and then
they had to walk through several smoky streets before they could get
into the pretty green fields, and feel the sweet fresh air blowing on
them.--But Mr. Mason’s was a cheerful looking white house, standing in
the midst of the fields; with a great many tall trees about it, and a
farm yard in sight of one of the windows, where there were cows, and
pigs, and ducks, and geese, and a number of things that were all quite
new to Phebe.--Mr. and Mrs. Mason, too, were plain elderly people, not
at all like Phebe’s Papa and Mamma; but they were very pleasant people,
and Phebe had often heard her parents say that they had a great respect
for them. They had no family of their own; but they were very fond of
children; Mrs. Mason, particularly, was extremely good-natured to them,
and was sure to laugh at every thing they said.
Phebe asked a great many questions every day about her visit, and
thought that Tuesday was a long while coming; however it came at last,
and when dinner was over the chaise was brought to the door, and as
soon as she was comfortably seated between her Papa and Mamma they set
off, and Phebe began to be very happy.
“Well, Phebe, are you quite happy?” said her Papa, after they had gone
a little way.
“Yes, thank you, Papa;--that is to say, I should be, if the sun did not
shine exactly in my eyes;--and I am obliged to keep holding my bonnet
too, or else I am afraid the wind would blow it off; and that makes my
arm ache rather.”
“So you see, my love, there is always something to keep us from being
_quite_ happy,” said her Papa.
“Yes, till we get to Mrs. Mason’s, Papa,” replied Phebe.
“What a pretty house,” exclaimed she, as the chaise stopped at Mr.
Mason’s gate; “and what a nice garden before it!”
They were shown into a very pretty cheerful parlour, with a window
almost down to the ground, overlooking the garden, which was filled
with all sorts of flowers, and just beyond the garden was a large
meadow, where there were a number of lambs skipping about, and looking
as frolicsome as could be. Mr. and Mrs. Mason took a great deal of
notice of Phebe, and promised that she should have whatever she liked,
all the while she was there.
“O how I will run about in the fields to-morrow,” thought Phebe; “and
then when I come in, how delightful it will be to sit in this pretty
parlour and look at the lambs!”
Soon after tea her Papa and Mamma left her, with many injunctions to
be a good girl. She had never visited any where alone, before, and she
could scarcely help crying when she saw them drive out of sight, and
leave her all alone, five miles from home. It soon grew dark, and Phebe
began to feel very tired. Mr. Mason was reading the newspaper, and Mrs.
Mason had got out her knitting; but Phebe had nothing at all to do, and
very much wished it was bed-time.
“Perhaps, my dear, you’d like to go to bed before supper,” said Mrs.
Mason, seeing her look very sleepy.
“No, thank you, Ma’am, I had much rather sit up to supper,” said Phebe,
gaping.
“I’m sure I do not know what we can find to amuse you,” said Mrs.
Mason; “for I have no playthings, and I’m afraid you’ll be sadly dull,
poor thing:--let’s see though,” said she, “I think there’s a box
of dominoes somewhere, if I can but find them. O here they are, I
declare: you’ll like them, won’t you, dear.”
Phebe was not very fond of dominoes, especially when she had no one to
play with her: she contrived however, by the help of them, to keep her
eyes open till supper-time; and directly after supper she went to bed,
thinking that, the _evening_ was not quite so pleasant at Mrs. Mason’s
as she had expected. Besides, she had never slept by herself before,
and she felt so lonely when Susan had taken her candle away, that she
was glad to go to sleep as fast as possible.
The next morning she awoke in very good spirits, and rose the moment
that Susan called her. She found her way to the parlour; but was
surprised to see that the window shutters were not open.
“No, this way, if you please, Miss;” said Susan, opening a door on the
other side the passage.
“Dear,” said Phebe, looking quite amazed as she entered a large
old-fashioned kitchen, strewed with red sand, finding that they were
really going to breakfast there. “Well, I did not know that people ever
lived in kitchens: I thought they were only made for servants. We do
not live in ours.”
“No, I dare say not,” said Mrs. Mason, “but you like this kitchen love,
don’t you?”
“Yes, I like it very well,” replied Phebe; “but I think the parlour
a great deal more pleasant:--besides the bricks are so cold to one’s
feet.--We have carpets in all our rooms except the kitchen; and I dare
say we should have one there, if we lived in it. Such nice warm thick
ones; I think they call them turkey carpets--you cannot think how
comfortable they are.”
“Aye, I dare say they are for those that like them; but I am very happy
without one, my little lady,” said Mr. Mason, who knew that he had
excellent reasons for not having a turkey carpet in his kitchen.
“But how I wonder you do not live in the parlour: I cannot think what
you have it for,” said Phebe; who was very fond of talking when her
Mamma was out of the way.
“We have it to use sometimes, when we want it, my dear;” said Mrs.
Mason: “but I like the kitchen best in common.”
“O, I suppose you only use it when you have company; that’s it, I dare
say,” said Phebe; “and that is why we were there last night, when Papa
and Mamma were here. Well, I shall tell them that, when I go home.”
“I dare say your ’Ma don’t want to hear about that, dear,” said Mrs.
Mason; “for my part I don’t think it worth remembering; not I.”
“O yes, I shall certainly tell her,” replied Phebe: “I am sure she will
think it very funny that you should live in the kitchen.”
Phebe could not help thinking just now, that she would “do a great many
tiresome jobs,” as well as submit to some of William’s teasing, rather
than always live in a kitchen; especially in a kitchen without a carpet.
She employed herself during breakfast in looking at every thing in
the kitchen; and made many observations, some of which were very
impertinent; and though Mr. and Mrs. Mason laughed at the droll things
she said, they would have felt rather uncomfortable if any body else
had been there to hear them.
“O dear, there is a gun,” said she, having at last discovered the
square hole in the ceiling, in which Mr. Mason kept his fire-arms.
“Aye, shall I take it down, and show it you, dear,” said Mr. Mason.
“O, no, pray don’t--pray don’t,” said Phebe; “I am so frightened at
it.” Phebe had often heard her Mamma tell William that guns were
dangerous things for children, because they sometimes went off when
people did not expect it; so, notwithstanding all that Mr. Mason could
say, she kept casting anxious glances at the ceiling, all breakfast
time, as if she were every instant expecting to be shot.
When breakfast was over, Phebe felt very glad that she was not wished
to go to her lessons, though she longed for somebody to play with. She
wandered for sometime about the garden; and at last ventured into the
field which joined it. “Dear,” thought she, “how courageous Mamma would
think me, if she could see me now,--walking all alone in the fields;
and I am not at all afraid.”
The meadow was covered with cowslips, daisies, and buttercups; and she
gathered a lap full of them, together with some primroses and violets,
with which the hedges were filled. She then sat down on the stump of
a tree close to the stile, at the further end of the field, and began
making them into a large nosegay. She had nearly finished it, when she
heard a noise like something breathing very loud, close to her; and
lifting up her head, she saw a terrific bull, standing, close to the
other side of the stile, looking at her. Without waiting an instant to
consider what harm it could do for a bull to look at her, she threw
down all her flowers; and set off running home as fast as she could,
not stopping even to look back at him, till she had got within the
garden gate. “O dear, the bull!” exclaimed Phebe, scarcely able to
speak.
“My patience, Miss! whatever have you been a doing of;” said Susan,
as soon as she saw her. “Why I was sitting comfortably close to
the stile, and I just happened to look up, and there was a great
bull staring at me as hard as ever he could; and I was so very much
frightened; and I am so hot and tired with running:--O dear! O dear!”
said Phebe.
“What’s the matter,--what’s the matter?” cried Mrs. Mason, running
to her; for having heard Phebe’s exclamation, she feared that some
misfortune had happened.
“Loy! loy! Ma’am,” said Susan, laughing heartily, “if Miss ha’nt been
a scampering all across the long mead as hard as ever she could tear,
just because she saw the bull a looking at her; and she is in such a
heat, poor thing.”
“Bless the child,” said Mrs. Mason, “why what did you think he could
do to you?” “O, Ma’am, he looked exactly as if he were just going to
jump over the gate at me, and then what should I have done.”
“Not he, indeed; he would soon have been tired of looking at you, and
then he would have walked away again. But it is well he was not in the
same field, for then, if he had seen you running, he would most likely
have run after you.”
“Well, I almost wish I had not minded it now,” said Phebe; “and I have
lost all my pretty flowers: dear how sorry I am.”
“O, never mind the flowers,” said Mrs. Mason, “there are plenty more to
be found: but do sit down and cool yourself, child.”
Phebe was so tired and heated with her run, that she sat still for a
very long time, thinking how wonderful it was that any body should not
be frightened at a bull, and wishing too that she had not lost her
flowers. She did not, however, feel inclined to gather any more that
day, but thought she would wait till the next morning, and then summon
up all her courage for another ramble. But what was her disappointment
at finding, when she awoke in the morning, that it rained hard; she
thought it very unfortunate, that, out of so few days, one of them
should be rainy.
“Dear! dear! what shall I find to do all day long,” said Phebe, as soon
as she came down stairs. “What a very great pity it is that it should
rain so fast.”
“O, do not make troubles out of nothing, my little lass,” said Mr.
Mason, “I dare say you will find something to do, though it is a wet
day: beside don’t you know, that we should not complain when things are
not just as we wish them to be?”
It was no wonder if poor Phebe felt rather low spirited at the prospect
of a rainy day, with neither playfellows nor playthings to amuse her.
It was really not much better than being at home. She followed Mrs.
Mason into the dairy; but the wind and rain, beating in through the
open wire-work of the window, made it so damp and chilly, that she was
soon tired of standing there. Phebe thought that of all Mrs. Mason’s
old-fashioned ways this was the oddest; to have a window without any
glass in it! “How I wonder you do not have glass instead of wire in
that window; it would be so much warmer,” said Phebe, holding her hand
against her ear, that the wind might not blow into it.
“That’s the very reason why we’ve wire instead of glass, my dear,” said
Mrs. Mason, laughing; “for, if we had not a great deal of air, the milk
would not keep sweet.”
“O would not it, I did not know that,” said Phebe; who just now
recollected what her Mamma had very often told her; that children
should never attempt to teach grown people.
She returned to the kitchen again, and stood for sometime at the
window, looking into the farm yard; but there was nothing to be seen
but a few cows, standing as still as Phebe, and seeming not much
happier.
“How I should like to have that to play with,” said Phebe, pointing to
a large glass case which stood over the mantle-piece; “but I suppose I
must not.”
This glass case was indeed enough to tempt any little girl, especially
one who like Phebe had not any thing to do. It contained, among other
things, two smiling wax dolls, drest in stiff silk frocks, with some
gold lace at the bottom,--a number of shells,--a white mouse,--a
peach,--and a cucumber; some in wax and some in stone, all nicely
arranged, among large bunches of artificial flowers. But Mrs. Mason
could not consent to have this taken down and pulled to pieces, and the
mantle-piece being very high, poor Phebe’s neck ached long before she
had looked at it as much as she wished.
“Dear me,” said Mrs. Mason, laying down her work, “I’ve just thought
of something that will be the very thing for you. I’ve got a doll
up stairs, if I’m not mistaken, that I’ve had ever since I was such
another as you--how glad I am I happened to think of it.” So she went
up stairs directly, in search of it; and Phebe followed close behind,
wishing she would walk rather faster.
“O what a frightful looking thing!” exclaimed Phebe, as soon as she saw
it; and perhaps most other little girls might have thought the same;
though certainly Phebe should not have appeared so discontented, when
Mrs. Mason was trying to please her. It was a large black doll, drest
in a coarse white frock, which had grown very yellow and dusty with
lying by. The waist was very long, with tight sleeves coming just
below the elbows; and the doll had a row of pink beads round its black
neck.
“I do not like it at all,” said Phebe: “I wonder you should have kept
it so long; what ugly things old-fashioned people used to like!”
“Then I’ll put it away again, shall I, dear,” said Mrs. Mason; “’tis a
pity I left off my work to fetch it.”
“No, I think I’ll take it, as there is nothing else,” said Phebe; “but
I don’t know how I shall play with it.” “O stay though,” said she, “I
know now what I’ll do. I’ll suppose that it is a Hottentot just come to
England. It will do very well for that, will it not?” So she ran down
stairs with it, feeling in rather better spirits than she had done all
the morning.
Phebe amused herself the rest of the day with the Hottentot, the glass
case, and the box of dominoes, and went to bed hoping most earnestly
that the next morning would be fine.
To her great joy she saw the sun shining brightly into her room as soon
as she opened her eyes; but Phebe could not run about in the meadow,
because the grass was too wet; she therefore amused herself as well as
she could in the garden, and watched the carriages that passed in the
road.
In the afternoon she went with Susan to see the cows milked, and stood
looking at them for a long time very comfortably, till she happened to
turn round, and see the bull standing in the yard.
“O dear,” said she, catching hold of Susan’s apron, “I do think that’s
the very bull that looked at me on Wednesday.”
“Aye, that it is, you may depend upon it, Miss,” said Susan; “and I
shou’nt wonder but he is going to look at you again to-day, too; so be
sure you keep fast hold of me.”
Phebe did not once let go her hold of Susan’s apron, and was very glad
when she said that it was time to go in to tea.
Phebe staid two or three days longer at Mrs. Mason’s, and was surprised
to find, every day, that some little thing happened to make her rather
uncomfortable; or else, (as was often the case with Phebe,) she was
discontented when there was no _real_ occasion. So that she sometimes
thought there were as many things to tease her at Mrs. Mason’s, as at
home; only they were of a different sort.
At last the day came, on which Mrs. Mason had agreed to take her home.
Every thing looked so cheerful and pretty that morning, that Phebe
thought she should have been quite happy if she could only have staid
one more day; but this was out of the question, for very soon after
breakfast Mrs. Mason was ready to set off, and after what Phebe thought
a very short ride, they reached the bustling town.
“Well, Ma’am, I’ve brought her home safe and sound you see,” said Mrs.
Mason, when they went in. “She has been a very good girl, and we were
delighted to hear her talk; but she is so timid, pretty dear, she’s
afraid of every thing.”
To prove this, Mrs. Mason told the story of the bull, which Phebe had
not intended to mention, because she knew that William would be sure
to laugh at her for it, and so he did very much.
Mrs. Mason did not stay long, but kissing Phebe, left her to tell all
the particulars of her visit; and her Mamma did not forget to ask if
any thing had happened, “_to make her in the least uncomfortable while
she was there_.”
III.
CURIOSITY AND INQUIRY.
Mary and Fanny were both very fond of asking many questions: they were
_inquisitive_ little girls. Their Papa and Mamma, however, very seldom
answered Fanny’s questions; and yet they almost always answered the
questions of Mary. We shall see why they made this difference.
Whenever any one was going out, Fanny used to run after them, saying,
“Where are you going, tell me; pray tell me?--Are you going to Mrs.
Smith’s, or to Mr. Johnson’s?--What are you going for?--When will you
be back again?” And when any one of the family returned home, she would
hardly be satisfied till she had asked a hundred questions of this sort.
The moment any strangers left the house Fanny must know who they were;
and what business they called to talk about. She was fond of being
in the room when ladies called; because they often talked about the
affairs of their neighbours; and this sort of conversation she listened
to very eagerly.
There was a Grocer’s shop opposite her Papa’s house. Fanny would stand
at the dining-room window for hours together, to watch who went in and
who came out; and to see what they bought: and if any body would listen
to her, she was sure to ask the name of every person whom she did not
know: but, in truth, she had learned the names of most of the people
who usually came to the shop. So she would stand talking to herself
thus, as she peeped between the window blinds:--
“There is Mary Wheeler. I wonder what she has been to buy, this
afternoon; because she was at the shop just before dinner. I dare say
it is tea; or else a piece of bacon for supper. Oh, no; I can just
see the end of a candle under the lid of the basket. It is a pound of
candles; or else three pounds; because, I think, they always buy three
pounds of candles at a time, for then they save three half-pence.--That
is old Mrs. West; la! how droll she looks. She is come herself to the
shop: she hardly ever comes herself to the shop; because she sends her
maid. I dare say her maid is gone out for a holiday, this Michaelmas. I
can see her through the shop window, talking to Mr. Hyson. Mr. Hyson is
come out of the counting-house on purpose to wait on her: he is taking
down something to show her: I wonder what it is? I wish the shop window
was not so dirty; and then I could see what people buy a great deal
better.--Ho! ho! there is the London Carrier stopping at Mr. Hanbury’s;
he has brought a parcel for them: dear! dear! what an odd parcel: such
a long parcel: and there is something sticking out at the end: it looks
like an iron shovel: oh, no; it is the tail of a fish. I suppose they
have sent for a fish from London, because they are going to have a
dinner party: then we shall see, to-morrow, who it is.--There is the
coach coming! I hear the horn: now let me be all ready to see who is on
the top of the coach: if it is any body that I know: but they always
gallop by so fast that I can hardly see the people’s faces.”
In the morning when the Postman came with his two loud raps at the
door, wherever she might be, Fanny always ran to the door; and then she
would follow the servant to her Papa’s study, to read the directions on
the letters, that she might guess who they came from.
Thus Fanny was very curious about many things that did not concern her;
and things that it was of no consequence for her to be acquainted with:
but as for her lessons, it was very difficult to make her attend to
them at all.
Her sister Mary was very different: she not only learned her lessons
willingly; but she was never satisfied till she understood every part
of them. She always asked the meaning of every new word she met with:
and she was eager to be acquainted with the nature and use of all she
saw, or read about. Fanny could remember the names over most of the
shop doors in the town: but Mary was acquainted with the nature of
the principal trades and manufactures: she knew what countries the
different articles of food, dress, or furniture come from, and how they
are prepared for use.
Fanny not only knew the names of most of the neighbours; but also,
how many servants they kept; or what their business was; or who their
relations were: but Mary knew the names of the most famous men who
have lived in different ages of the world; and what they were famous
for. Fanny could describe all the London coaches that regularly passed
through the town: she knew also what hour they came in; and what inn
they changed horses at: but Mary knew the names of the constellations
in the heavens; and also of the planets;--in what times they revolve
in their orbits;--what their distance from the sun is;--how many moons
they have;--when they may be seen;--and when eclipses of the sun or
moon will happen. She wished to understand the _reason_ of every thing
she observed; and her Papa always took the pains to tell her as much
as she was able to comprehend: and sometimes he told her in what book
she would find an answer to her questions. Sometimes, also, when she
asked a question, her Papa would say, “You cannot understand that at
present, Mary;” and then she would be contented, and not ask any more
about it.
One morning, Fanny came bouncing into her Papa’s study, with a letter
in her hand, which she had just snatched from the servant; crying
out,--“O, Papa! Papa! Here is a letter from Uncle Thomas; I _know_ it
is from Uncle Thomas; it is his hand; and his seal too, there are the
birds on the fire-screen, and the crooked arm over it. I dare say it is
to ask me and Mary to go and spend some time with cousins: I dare say
it is.”
“Yes, Fanny,” said her Papa, when he had read the letter, “it is from
your Uncle Thomas; but he says nothing about asking you to come and see
him; he sends his love to you, however, and he says he hopes to spend a
few days with us, soon.”
“Soon! Soon! but when, Papa?”
“He does not fix the day, Fanny.”
“Then I will stand at the window, and watch all the coaches and chaises
that drive by, till I see him.”
Mary, too, was very much pleased to hear that her Uncle Thomas was
coming. He was very fond of his little nieces. He had travelled in
different parts of Europe; and he had always many interesting things to
tell them.
Fanny actually spent a great part of every day before her Uncle
arrived, in standing at the window, and looking eagerly into every
carriage that passed. Mary found something better to do: she knew
that her Uncle would examine into the progress which she had made in
her studies, since his last visit. She therefore applied herself with
more than ordinary diligence to her lessons: and she looked over what
she had been learning for some months past. She also thought of many
questions, relative to the countries her Uncle had seen, and about
which she was now better able to ask questions, than at the time of his
last visit.
All the time Fanny spent watching at the window to see her Uncle
arrive, was quite thrown away; for, at last, he came late in the
evening; after she and her sister were gone to bed.
When they came down stairs the next morning, they saw a pair of boots
and a portmanteau, placed at the door of the room which had been
prepared for their Uncle, and they would certainly have awoke him by
their exclamations, if their Mamma, who happened to come by at the
moment, had not beckoned to them to be silent. They hardly had patience
to wait till he came down, which was not till some time after the usual
breakfast hour.
It would quite fill a book to write all that these little girls said
to their Uncle, during the first day of his visit. He staid a week
with them: and in this time he had sufficient opportunity to observe
their dispositions and tempers. When he went away, he promised that he
would write a letter to them as soon as his engagements would permit.
Mary and Fanny were delighted with this promise; and waited eagerly,
day after day, in expectation of the letter. It was nearly a month,
however, before it arrived: and they had began to think that their
Uncle had forgotten his promise. At length a parcel was brought, at
the corner of which, under the direction, was written, “For M. and
F.”--“For M. and F.” cried Fanny; “that is for us, Mary: that is the
letter from Uncle Thomas; and something else, too.”
The parcel was quickly untied; when there appeared a letter, and two
separate parcels; one directed “For Mary;” the other, “For Fanny.”
Before they opened the separate parcels, their Mamma recommended them
to read their Uncle’s letter: it was as follows:--
“I am afraid, my dear Mary and Fanny, you have thought I had forgotten
my promise; but I assure you I have not forgotten it; though I have
been prevented from writing as soon as I had intended: one reason was,
that I could not immediately procure some of the books which accompany
this letter.
“Perhaps my dear Fanny may think the books of which I beg her
acceptance rather odd ones for a little girl. I must therefore explain
to her why I made choice of them for her: and in order to do this, I
must write rather a long letter, which, however, I hope may give her
some useful hints.
“The minds of some children, I must observe, are so dull and
inactive, that they seem to have no curiosity: they seldom ask any
questions: they take very little notice of what they see or hear;
and never learn any more than what they are forced to learn by their
Parents and Masters. When such young persons grow up, they generally
care about nothing but eating and drinking; and become more and more
stupid and selfish every year that they live.
“But this cannot be said of either of my nieces: my dear Mary and
Fanny, have both of them very active minds: they are very inquisitive,
and very observant of every thing they see or hear. I think I have
sometimes passed many months, in which I have not had to reply to half
the number of questions that were put to me, in one week, by the two
little girls to whom I am now writing.
“It is necessary for me to remark, however, that Mary’s questions
were always of a different kind from those of Fanny. Now, in order to
explain exactly what I mean, I must observe, that there are two sorts
of knowledge with which we may fill our minds; but one sort is much
more valuable in itself, and much more beneficial in its effects upon
our minds, than the other. The most valuable kind of knowledge is that
which consists in being acquainted with all the different sorts of
things, that exist in the earth or in the heavens. The other kind of
knowledge, consists in being acquainted with those particular things,
or persons, that are to be found in the place where we happen to live.
Now, for the sake of shewing, by an example, what I mean, I shall
suppose there are two persons, whom I will not call Mary and Fanny;
but John and George. I will suppose then that these two persons are
equally inquisitive; and also, that they spend exactly the same time
in gratifying their curiosity.
“We will imagine then, that John observes that there are many
different kinds of trees, and shrubs, and plants, and flowers,
growing in the fields, hedges, and gardens, in the neighbourhood
where he lives. Now he wishes to know how many different kinds there
are;--in what respects they resemble each other; and in what respects
they differ:--what their uses are; and how they are cultivated. He
therefore procures books which treat of the science of botany; and
in these books he learns that there are many thousand kinds of trees
and plants, found in different countries: but though there are so many
thousand sorts, he learns how to distribute them all into several
classes, according to certain rules; so that he can think of them all
regularly, one after another, as they are arranged in his mind. And
if he meets with some new plant, which he has never seen before, by
examining it, he soon finds out what class it belongs to; and so he
does not forget it; because he has put it _in its right place_ in his
memory.
“Then he learns the various uses of all those trees, plants, and
flowers which can be converted to the service of man, either for food,
medicine, or building. He knows also the countries where they grow
naturally; the method of cultivating them; and the manner of preparing
them for use.
“Now we see that John has acquired a great stock of most delightful
and important knowledge. His mind is like a large room that is filled
with many hundred pictures of the most beautiful objects; so that he
can never want entertainment for his thoughts. Wherever he may travel,
he will find in every garden, and field, and wood, new objects, which
are yet like old friends to him; because he has so often heard of
them, and thought of them before. Besides all this pleasure, which he
derives from his knowledge, he is instructed in many of those arts
which are most important and necessary to human life.
“It is this sort of knowledge which consists in being acquainted
with all _the different sorts of things_ in the world, that makes all
the difference between men who live in woods and deserts, like wild
beasts, and those who live as we do, in, what is called, a civilized
state.
“I must also remark, that, while John has been employed in acquiring
this knowledge, he has been kept from many mischievous or frivolous
pursuits, which gradually make people worthless, or wicked; and at the
same time, his mind has become so much strengthened by exercise, that
he is much better able to think about any subject, than those persons
are, who suffer their minds to remain idle and empty.