the sake of making you understand what I mean, I will suppose, that
George has been amusing himself with counting the number of all the
trees and shrubs which he can see from the windows of the house where
he lives; and that he has taken the pains to find out who they all
belong to;--how long they have been growing;--how tall they are; and
so forth. No doubt it must have cost him much trouble to acquire all
this information; and to fix it in his memory; but then this labour
is only a sort of idleness; because knowledge of this kind can be of
no service to any one. And what will become of all the things George
has learned, if he should go to live at some place only a few miles
distant?--he must very soon forget the whole of it.
“But I dare say Fanny will ask, ‘Who would ever be so stupid as to
wish to know exactly how many trees, and shrubs, there are in the
fields and gardens?’ To this I must answer, that I do not really
believe any one could be found, who would be quite so stupid as this;
but I do really believe that some people are very desirous to know
things that are quite as foolish and unprofitable; and things too that
are much more hurtful in their consequences upon their own character.
“Suppose, now, a person wishes to hear stories about the private
affairs of all his neighbours; and endeavours to find out how many
servants they keep; what company they see; or what fortune they have;
or how their houses are furnished; or what hour they dine at; or what
their quarrels are about; or whether they are going to be married; or
whether any legacies have been left them. I say that to know things
of this sort, is of no more use than it would be to know that there
are fifty elm trees on one side of an avenue, and forty-nine on the
other: or, that there are twenty-seven currant bushes, and fourteen
gooseberry bushes in somebody’s garden.
“Besides, when persons want to know things of this sort, it makes them
so frivolous and trifling, that they become unable to attend to any
serious or important subject. It also makes them impertinent, and fond
of the company of ignorant, vulgar, and worthless people; because it
is only such people who will tell them the things they wish to know.
When young persons indulge this sort of curiosity, though it be only
from idleness, they soon become tale-bearers, and mischief-makers, and
in the end they are despised and hated by all who know them.
“When I thought of sending some little token of my affection to my
two nieces, I endeavoured to think what would be most suitable to
the taste and disposition of each. Perceiving, therefore, that Mary
is very _inquiring_, and always anxious to gain _real knowledge_,
and to learn the reasons of things, I have sent a small Encyclopedia
of Arts and Sciences, intended for the use of young persons; also a
Biographical Dictionary; and a Geographical Dictionary; of all which
I beg her acceptance. I have no doubt that she will know how to make
a good use of them; and though such books are already in her Papa’s
library, I hope she will be pleased to see them upon the shelves in
her little closet.
“In thinking of a _suitable_ present for Fanny, I confess I have been
very much puzzled. There is no book, thought I, that I remember,
in which Fanny can find answers to the sort of questions which she
usually asks. It would be charming indeed, if there were a dictionary
where one might find such things as the following, all arranged in
alphabetical order;--
“‘Bailey, Mr. John.--lives at No. 3, King Street: is a linen
draper: has six children: keeps two servants, three shopmen, and an
apprentice: his business brings him in about four hundred pounds
a year: has lately had a dispute with Mr. Smith, his next door
neighbour, about a party wall, &c. &c.’
“‘Ball, Mrs.--Is in her 70th year: keeps only one servant: often dines
a whole week upon a leg of mutton: scolds her maid very often: has not
bought a new gown for seven years: &c. &c.’
“But as I do not know of any such dictionary as this, I have sent the
only book at all like it that I am acquainted with: it is called ‘The
London Directory.’ Here Fanny may find the names of many thousand
persons in London: also, where they live; and what their business or
profession is; together with a variety of particulars of the same
sort; and I hope she will find as much amusement in learning these
names, as she seems to do in knowing the names and affairs of all her
neighbours. Wishing, however, to send more than one volume, I was
obliged to think again; and as I remembered that one day, when a
waggon load of furniture was unpacked at the next door, Fanny passed
many hours at the window, taking very particular notice of every
article; I thought she would be wonderfully pleased to have a number
of complete lists of all the furniture in several houses. I therefore
was at some trouble to procure between thirty and forty old catalogues
of auctions of furniture, which I have had bound in one volume. In the
long winter evenings, when she cannot look out of the window, she may
entertain herself with reading such particulars as the following: ‘Lot
341. Four odd chairs and stool. Lot 342. Beer cooler, and mash-tubs.
Lot 343. Wheelbarrow and pitchforks. Lot 344. Sundry odd articles,
&c.’ Will not this be as good as if she were permitted to look into
every room and closet in all the neighbours’ houses?
“But if, after all, my dear Fanny should not be pleased with the books
I send her; and think that her Uncle has only been jesting with her, I
hope she will not be angry with him; for I assure her, I could think
of no others that seemed equally suitable to her _present_ taste.
But I shall be very happy to exchange them for books of a different
kind, as soon as it shall appear that she has learned to repress her
idle curiosity; and that she has began to cultivate the habit of
intelligent inquiry.
“My dear nieces will believe, that I am their very affectionate uncle
“THOMAS.”
IV.
THE TWO TEMPERS.
Little William Sawkins was sent by his mother, with a large basket of
eggs, to Mrs. Dobson’s shop at Langford: the distance was four miles.
“It’s too much for the boy, I declare,” said his mother, as William
took up the basket: but she had nobody else to send. William was very
willing to do all that he was able; and seemed most happy when he could
make himself useful to any body; especially to his father or his mother.
When he had walked a little way, and had changed the basket from
one arm to the other about three times, he came to a turning in the
road, and saw Hugh Bludgell, the baker’s boy, driving his master’s
cart slowly along; he was standing up in the cart, and thumping with
one heel to the tune which he whistled. Just at the place, there was
a short way across two or three fields into the road: William thought
that if he made great speed by the field path, he could come up with
the cart; and that perhaps Hugh would let him ride the rest of the way
to Langford. So off he set, sometimes walking, sometimes running, and
sometimes hobbling; till he was very hot, and quite out of breath.
While he was in the middle of the last meadow, he heard the rumbling
wheels of the cart, and saw through the gaps in the hedge, Hugh’s head
and shoulders shaking along: he set the basket down therefore, ran as
hard as he could, and got to the style by the road side, just as the
cart came up.
“Hugh! Hugh! Do stop one minute:--ar’nt you going to Langford?”
Hugh just turned his head round, without stopping his horse, or his
whistling: when he saw that it was only little William Sawkins, he
smacked his whip, and drove on; and did not so much as give him an
answer.
William, however, tumbled over the style, and ran after the cart
a little way, calling out--“Just give me a ride, Hugh;--I’ve a
great basket of eggs to carry to Langford: just give me a ride,
Hugh--do--do.” But Hugh took no notice; he only kept whistling and
cutting with his whip at the geese that were waddling along, one by
one, on the raised path by the road side. William at length, finding
Hugh Bludgell would not listen to him, returned into the field for his
basket. When he got into the road again, he set himself down to rest on
the green bank under the hedge: it had been a cloudy morning, but now
the sun shone out. William began to pluck the primroses and daisies,
which grew about, and stuck them in the band of his hat, and he very
soon forgot ill-tempered Hugh Bludgell, the baker’s boy. Perhaps he sat
half an hour; and then walked slowly on, sometimes swinging the basket
on his stick across his shoulder; sometimes putting it on his head; and
sometimes trailing it in the dust as he held it in one hand. He had
not gone more than a mile, when, all at once, he saw, at some distance
before him, the baker’s cart, half overturned against the hedge, and
one wheel deep in the ditch. Hugh was jerking and pulling the horse’s
bridle, and striking the poor beast violently on the legs and face with
the butt-end of the whip.
As soon as William came within hearing, Hugh called to him,--“Is that
you, Billy Sawkins?--There’s a good fellow, now; put your basket down
here, and run on to the Duke’s Head, and tell ’em the cart’s in the
ditch, and they must send somebody to hove ’em out:--run now--and I’ll
mind your eggs.”
While Hugh was speaking, the old horse had backed some steps, and let
the cart deeper into the ditch, and had began to munch the long grass
on the hedge, which was close to his head. The horse was quite blind,
but when he heard Hugh coming towards him again, he flung back his
head, and breathed out two long streams of steam from his nostrils.
Hugh, however, let him alone for the present. William put his basket
behind a tree in the hedge, and ran off to the Duke’s Head: the
distance was a full mile. When he got there, it was some time before
any body would attend to him: at length they promised that the hostler
should come when he had had his dinner. William therefore, having
delivered his message, returned to take up his basket, but before he
reached the place, he met Hugh, driving the cart, which he had, at
length, contrived to get out of the ditch without help.
William thought that now certainly Hugh would let him ride the rest of
the way. “Hugh,” said he, “have you brought my basket with you?”
“Basket!” said Hugh; “no, to be sure; I dare say it stands safe enough
where you left it:” and away he drove; but he presently stopped, and
looking back, bawled out,--“I say, Billy Sawkins,--mind now, you don’t
go and talk to nobody about the cart being overturned; I say,--you
promise me, you tell no tales; or I’ll make you remember it.” William
promised that he would keep the secret; and then trudged back, very
tired, out of heart, and hungry, for it was now three o’clock, and he
had had no dinner. Happily, he found his basket where he had left it:
he made the best of his way to Mrs. Dobson’s,--left his burden,--and
felt it so pleasant to have nothing to carry back, that he would have
been quite merry, if he had not been puzzled to think what he should
say to his mother, to account for his returning so late. He dared not
tell a lie; and he had promised Hugh Bludgell not to tell any one of
the overturning of the cart. It happened, however, that William’s
mother had been out all the afternoon, and did not return till after he
got home; so that he had to answer no questions.
When the hostler from the Duke’s Head came to the spot to which he had
been directed, and found no cart, he did not feel well pleased that he
had had his walk for nothing. A few days afterwards, the baker, Hugh
Bludgell’s master, called at the Duke’s Head.
“So, Mr. Needham,” said the hostler, “your lucky boy managed to
overturn the cart, or near to it, a Friday.”
“Did he though, Tom?” said the baker: “he di’nt tell me that.”
“No, I’ll warrant ye.--You don’t hear half the tricks he plays.”
“Did you see it, then?” said Mr. Needham.
“No,” replied the hostler; “but he sent a little fellow here to fetch
somebody to help him: and so I goes; but I fancy he’d contrived to help
himself before I came: but I saw the place in the ditch where the wheel
had been down: and so Mr. Needham, ye see, I’d my walk for my pains:
but we sha’nt say nothing of that.”
Mr. Needham understood the hint; and gave Tom some half-pence. “But,”
added he; “who was it that came to fetch you?” “Why,” replied the
hostler, “I don’t rightly know; but I think it was one of Sawkins’
boys.”
“Very well,” said Mr. Needham, as he rode off; “I’ll know the bottom o’
this.”
The next morning, when William Sawkins went to the baker’s shop for a
loaf, Mr. Needham began to question him relative to what had happened
to the cart. But he found William very reluctant to answer any
questions on the subject.
“Well, well;” said he, at length, “I see how ’tis, Will: Hugh made you
promise not to tell tales of him: That’s it, is’nt it now?”
“Yes;”--muttered William.
“That’s enough: that’s enough:” said Mr. Needham: “I won’t make you
break your word.”
He then took a large square of gingerbread from the window, and gave it
to William. William took it home, and divided it among his brothers and
sisters; taking only an equal share for himself.
What Mr. Needham said to his boy, Hugh Bludgell, we do not know: but it
is likely he was beaten for his ill conduct: or sent to bed without his
supper.
V.
LITTLE FANNY’S PLAN.
Little Fanny used to spend part of every afternoon in sitting at work
with her Mamma, which she liked very much, especially when she was
allowed to talk; but being apt to take very long stitches, her Mother
was, at last, obliged to make it a rule that Fanny should not talk
while she was at work; and Fanny, being upon the whole a good little
girl, seldom gave her Mamma occasion to complain; though she sometimes
found it very hard to wait till her work was put away, before she began
talking.
One afternoon, her Mother had been amused to see how much interested
Fanny looked while she was sitting at needle-work by her side;--a great
deal more so than if she had only been thinking about her work.
“What have you been thinking about, that has pleased you so much,
Fanny?” said her Mother, as she was folding it up.
“I have been thinking, Mamma,” replied Fanny, “what a pleasant thing
it is to be generous and to do good; and, if you please, I will tell
you what I should very much like to do.--I should like to have some
poor children come every day for me to teach them to read and work;
and so I should like to have a nice snug little room, about as large
as your dressing-room, Mamma, with two little new forms in it, and a
chair beside, for myself, and all sorts of books, and some needles,
and thread, and every thing that I should want: and then I should like
to have six little girls, nice, clean, good tempered, clever little
girls, just the size of Susan Hervey, that would not be much trouble
to teach; and for me to be their governess: and I should like them to
learn to read and work very fast, (I dare say they would) and then for
Papa to give me some money, and I would buy six pretty frocks, (pink
ones, I think,) and sister Harriet, I dare say, would cut them out for
me, and I would let the little girls make them, but I would not say who
they were for; but one day they should all come, and I would pull off
their old frocks and put on these nice new ones, and they would be so
surprised;--only think what a delightful plan it would be, Mamma, would
it not?” said Fanny, almost out of breath.
“It would be delightful, indeed, my love,” said her Mother, smiling:
“but, Fanny, did you ever hear of a little governess of ten years old?”
“O, Mamma, I think I am old enough to teach some very little girls; for
you know you often let me hear little Edward say his spelling.”
“But suppose there were six little Edwards all saying their spelling
together, then what would you do, Fanny?”
“O, Mamma, I think I could manage it,” said Fanny, looking rather
puzzled:--“I think I could.”
“And pray where would you find six such very nice little girls as you
wish for, Fanny; all clean, and good tempered, and clever, and just the
size of Susan Hervey?”
“Why, Mamma, only think how many poor little girls there are in the
town: I am sure nothing would be easier than to get such as I should
like.”
“I am not quite so certain about that as you seem to be, my love; for
really, Fanny, I do not know _one_ little girl who never gives _any_
trouble, and who always does _exactly_ as she ought. However, as you
seem so fond of teaching children to read, I think you will be very
glad when you are old enough to teach at the Sunday School with sister
Harriet.”
“I do not think I shall like that very much,” said Fanny.
“Why not, my love; I know of nothing which is so much like your own
plan?”
“Dear Mamma, I think it is very different, and not nearly so pleasant;
for sister Harriet often comes home very tired, and says that some of
the children behave very badly, and some will not learn at all; beside,
you know, Mamma, it would be so nice to have it all to myself, and for
me to be the governess.”
“I hope, Fanny, you are not more anxious to please _one_ little girl
than you are to do good to half a dozen,” said her Mother.--“But I do
not wish to discourage you, my love, for I quite approve of your wish
to be generous; and I dare say we shall find some way in which you may
be able to do a little good before you are old enough to be a Sunday
School Teacher.”
“Well,” said Fanny to herself, as her Mother left the room, “I really
believe that Mamma begins to think this a good plan, for she allowed
that it would be very delightful; and she says, too, that she approves
of my wish to be generous; and as to their being no nice little girls
in the town, I really quite wonder at her thinking so.--very likely
it would be rather troublesome sometimes if they were at all naughty;
but I should soon learn to manage them; beside, if they were ever very
naughty, I would ask Mamma to come and help me, and they must mind her.”
So Fanny thought a great deal about it; and the longer she thought, the
more sure she felt, not only that it was a good plan, but what is still
more strange,--that her Mother approved of it. But several days passed
without any thing more being said on the subject, at which Fanny
wondered very much, and was many times going to say something about it,
only she knew it was best not to teaze, and therefore she resolved, if
possible, to wait patiently till her Mother mentioned it.
At last, her Mamma said to her, one morning at breakfast, “Fanny, my
love, do you remember telling me a few days ago that you thought it was
very pleasant to be generous?”
“O, yes, Mamma;” said Fanny, and her eyes sparkled with joy at the
thought of the School.
“Well, my love, we shall see now whether you _really_ wish to do good.”
“O, I am sure I do, Mamma,” interrupted Fanny.
“Then, my love, I think you will cheerfully give some of your own
money to the poor woman whom we called on yesterday;--you saw how
very ill she was, and how ragged and hungry the poor children looked,
because they had nobody to work for them, and take care of them.--Do
you think you can afford two shillings, Fanny?”
“O, is that all,” said Fanny, looking very much disappointed.
“You may give as much more as you please, my love; but I thought,
perhaps, you could not spare more, as you have not much pocket money.”
“O, no;” said Fanny, hastily, “I cannot afford any more, for I have
very little money, very little indeed, just now; but”--
“But what, my love,” said her Mother; “do you feel less generous now
than you did a few days ago?”
“No, Mamma, not at all,” said Fanny; “for I was hoping that you were
going to say something about the School, and you know that is a much
more generous thing.”
“Indeed, Fanny! I must confess I do not think so;--but, on the
contrary, I think you would show much more generosity by giving two
shillings of your own money to this poor woman, (which you say is as
much as you can afford,) than you would, by being governess over six
little girls, in a nice snug room, who were to be so good tempered and
clever that they would be no trouble to teach, and whose pretty new
frocks were to be bought with Papa’s money.--What do you really think,
my love?”
Fanny’s eyes filled with tears when she found that she had been
totally mistaken in her expectations about the School, and yet she
could not help secretly thinking that there was much truth in what her
Mother said.--She therefore, after pausing a moment, only said, “I do
not know;” in a tone of voice which convinced her Mother that she did
know.
“I am very sorry, my love,” said her Mother, “if you imagined that
I was going to let you keep a School, because it is what I never
intended; and I should have supposed that if you had thought a moment
about it, you would have seen how many objections there must be to it.”
“I thought you seemed to think it a very nice plan, Mamma,” said Fanny,
almost crying.
“It was, indeed, a very nice plan for spending _my_ money,” said
her Papa, good naturedly; “but the way to be generous, Fanny, is to
consider how much good we have it in our _own_ power to do; and this,
if done cheerfully, though ever so little, is better than a great deal
more, done at another person’s expense.”
Fanny felt too much disappointed at first to be quite convinced by her
Father and Mother’s arguments; she, however, soon grew reconciled, and
was very willing to give her two shillings towards the relief of the
poor sick woman and her starving children.
VI.
THE VISIT TO LONDON.
A gentleman who lived in the country had three sons,--Henry, Samuel,
and John. When Henry was about ten years old, he took them with him
to London, which they had never seen before. They arrived late in the
evening; and slept at an inn in Fleet Street. They felt very much
bewildered by the rattling of the carriages in the street, and by the
bustle at the inn; and, perhaps, if they had not been very much tired
by their journey, they would not have been able to sleep. They rose,
however, the next morning, in high spirits; and were very happy in
expectation of all the wonderful things which they supposed they should
see during the day.
As soon as breakfast was over, their Father took them out to walk: he
was obliged to take great care of them, or they would have been pushed
down, while they were looking eagerly at every shop window: indeed,
they were so much engaged by the variety of objects about them, that
they had proceeded half way up Ludgate Street before they perceived St.
Paul’s: all at once Henry stopped, and staring up at the vast building
before him, exclaimed, quite loud,--“Dear Papa! Papa! what a grand
church!” This attracted the attention of his brothers, who immediately
turned away from the shop window at which they were gazing.
The three boys seemed for some time fixt in astonishment at the
first sight of an object so different from any thing they had ever
seen before. After they had made many exclamations, their Father
led them on, and they walked within the enclosed space, where they
might converse more freely: at length, John began a more regular
conversation, by saying,--“I suppose, Papa, the men who built this
great church, or cathedral as you call it, were very--very tall, strong
men.”
_Father._ Why do you think so, John?
_John._ Because it is so very high; and because the stones it is built
with are so large. I don’t think the men that built our new stables
last summer could build such a tall church as this. Besides, what would
be the use of building it so high, if the men who built it were not
taller than you are, Papa?
_Father._ Before I answer you, John, let us hear what Samuel thinks.
_Sam._ Why, Papa, I think the men who built this cathedral must have
had a great deal of patience and perseverance. I dare say, that if
twenty or thirty men all tried together, they might lift the stones:
but perhaps it would take them a whole day to put one stone in its
proper place. So that it would take a very long time to build these
great walls and pillars. I think that if the men were very industrious,
and were determined not to leave off till they had done it, they might
finish it perhaps in twenty years.
_Father._ And now, Henry, what do you think?
_Henry._ I have been thinking, Papa, of a reason to prove that the men
that built St. Paul’s Cathedral were not so tall as John thinks they
must have been.
_Father._ What is that reason, Henry?
_Henry._ Because these stone steps up to the door, are just the proper
size for us to walk up: but if the men who lived when this church was
built had been as tall as those houses, they would have made every step
as high as your head, Papa.
_Father._ That is a good reason to prove that the people for whom the
cathedral was built, were not taller than we are: but perhaps John may
imagine that the workmen employed to build it were giants; but do you
think, Henry, that men not taller or stronger than the bricklayers who
built the stables at home, could ever erect such a building as this?