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THE JUVENILE SCRAP BOOK.
FOR MDCCCXLIX.
EDITED BY,
GRANDFATHER MERRYMAN.
[Illustration]
New York. D. Appleton & Company 200 Broadway
THE
JUVENILE SCRAP-BOOK
FOR
1849;
A
CHRISTMAS AND NEW YEAR’S PRESENT
FOR YOUNG PEOPLE.
EDITED BY
GRANDFATHER MERRYMAN.
WITH TWENTY-EIGHT ENGRAVINGS ON STEEL.
NEW-YORK:
D. APPLETON & CO., 200 BROADWAY.
PHILADELPHIA:
GEO. S. APPLETON, 143 CHESNUT-STREET.
MDCCCXLIX.
ENTERED, according to act of Congress, in the year 1848, by D.
APPLETON & CO.,
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court for the Southern
District of New-York.
PREFACE.
One day while sitting in my garden at my country-seat in New York State,
from which, by looking at the title, you will see I have a fine view
of the high bridge across the Harlem River, one of my favorite little
granddaughters came running to me, just as I had seated myself in my old
garden-seat, and earnestly begged me to again read her book to her. But,
as I thought she had heard those stories so often, I supposed she would
like to hear some new ones much better, so I related to her two or three.
With these, and with others that I told her during the holydays which she
was spending with me, she was so much pleased, that I thought my numerous
juvenile friends throughout the country would also like to possess them.
I have accordingly collected them into a volume, which my publishers
have made very attractive by the addition of twenty-eight beautiful
engravings; and it is now offered as a Christmas and New Year’s Present,
to amuse and instruct you, by your friend,
GRANDFATHER MERRYMAN.
PHILADELPHIA, December, 1848.
CONTENTS
PAGE
The Proud Girl 9
The Use of Punishments 17
Julian and his Rabbit 20
Queen Anne’s Physicians 25
Lizzie Carson 29
Cruelty to Animals 37
Deception Punished 40
Brothers and Sisters 43
The Geraldines 45
Faithful Fido 51
Generosity Rewarded 54
Danger of Coquetry 61
Pussy-hood 67
Harry and his Rabbits 69
The Shipwrecked on an Uninhabited Island 72
Hints on Reading 80
Scenes in the Life of a Roach 82
The Carter’s Helpmates 85
The Folly of being Vain 89
Orphan Wanderers 95
Anticipations and Realities 99
A Fox’s Tale of his Adventures 104
New Charades 119
Mary and her Little Goat 122
Confidence in an Indian 125
“The Spell of a Gentle Word” 129
Indian Children 133
The Boyhood of Washington 141
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE.
GRANDFATHER MERRYMAN Frontispiece.
THE PROUD GIRL (2 plates) 9
THE USE OF PUNISHMENTS 17
JULIAN AND HIS RABBIT 20
QUEEN ANNE’S PHYSICIANS 25
LIZZIE CARSON (2 plates) 29
CRUELTY TO ANIMALS 37
DECEPTION PUNISHED 40
BROTHERS AND SISTERS 43
THE GERALDINES 45
FAITHFUL FIDO 51
GENEROSITY REWARDED (2 plates) 54
DANGERS OF COQUETRY 61
HARRY AND HIS RABBITS 69
THE SHIPWRECKED (2 plates) 72
HINTS ON READING 80
THE CARTER’S HELPMATES 85
THE FOLLY OF BEING VAIN (2 plates) 89
ORPHAN WANDERERS 95
ANTICIPATIONS AND REALITIES 99
A FOX’S ADVENTURES (2 plates) 104
MARY AND HER GOAT 122
JUVENILE SCRAP-BOOK.
THE PROUD GIRL.
[Illustration]
“How I wish gran’pa was here!” exclaimed little Susan Fielding, one day
to her mother, who was busying herself about household affairs, and could
not devote as much of her time to her children, Susan and Robert, as
usual. Robert was about nine years old, and thought himself too much of a
little man to complain of any fancied neglect on his mother’s part; so he
amused himself by drawing horses and dogs on his new slate, a department
of the fine arts, for which, if he had no particular talent, he showed
at least a plentiful supply of industry. Susan was two years younger
than Robert, and having no female companion of her own age, to converse
with when her mother was engaged, really felt lonesome; and this is the
reason why she cried, perhaps, a little impatiently, “How I wish gran’pa
was here!”
Mrs. Fielding entered the room at this moment, and hearing Susan’s
earnest wish, inquired of her why she was so anxious to see her grandpapa
just then.
“Because, ma,” replied the little girl; “gran’pa always tells me such
nice stories when I ask him to, and I _do_ want some one to talk to me
just now.”
“Well, my dear,” replied her mother, soothingly, “you will soon have your
wish, for I saw your gran’pa coming up the lawn as I entered. He’ll be
here presently, but do not tease him the moment he comes in, for you know
he is very old, and must have time to rest after his walk.”
Susan clapped her hands for joy, and promised that she would be very
patient, but she could not conceal her anticipated pleasure. As for
Robert, as soon as he heard of his grandpapa’s being near the house,
his slate and pencil were dropped immediately, and running to the door
to meet him, his eyes fairly sparkled with delight as he cried lustily,
“Gran’pa’s coming! gran’pa’s coming!”
Old Mr. Fielding was as much delighted with the children as they were
with him, and when he seated himself in his easy chair, drawn from its
corner by the children, he kissed both affectionately, and placed one on
each knee, saying,
“Well, my children, have you been well since I saw you last?”
“Oh, yes, gran’pa,” said Susan, “but I wanted you to come here _so_ bad.
Ma has been busy all day, and could not talk to me, and Robert would talk
of nothing but dogs and horses, and you know, gran’pa, little girls don’t
care about such animals. But now you’re here, and you’ll tell us all
about the proud little girl you spoke of last week—that is when you rest
yourself, gran’pa,” exclaimed Susan, suddenly recollecting that she must
not tease him, as her mother desired.
The old gentleman smiled at his grandchild’s thoughtfulness, and after a
few moment’s spent in collecting his ideas, during which time Robert’s
slate lay quite neglected, and Susan tried to look very patient, he began
as follows:
“Caroline Ellis was the only child of parents who thought that indulging
her in every wish was all that was necessary to make her happy, which
idea, my dear children, is very erroneous, for little boys and girls are
not as well qualified to judge what is good for them as grown people
are. Caroline was delicate, and notwithstanding her father’s wealth,
she became paler and paler each day, until at last great fears were
entertained that her life would pay the forfeit of her parents’ pride,
for that was the sole cause of their daughter’s ill-health. Her mother
was not like yours, Susan; she taught her child to believe that it was
low and vulgar to play as other children do; but kept her always dressed
up in the parlor, except when she took her to balls and parties with
herself. The consequences were that she pined away, until, as I told you,
great fears were felt for her life.
“Country air was recommended by the physicians, and, accompanied by
her mother, she visited several watering places, but always dressed up
in beautiful silks and satins, so that it was impossible to go in the
fields or meadows, without soiling her expensive dresses. Although the
change of air did her a great deal of good, her health was by no means
re-established, and now the physicians told her mother that her child
must be allowed to skip and jump about with children of her own age—which
I forgot to say was twelve years—instead of promenading like an old
person.”
“What is promenading, gran’pa?” interrupted Susan.
“It is walking slowly, my child, the way vain little girls walk who think
more about fine clothes than the sweet little flowers my darling Susan
loves so well. However, her mamma was prevailed on to send her to the
country, alone, to the house of her uncle, who had four children; but
Caroline had never seen them, and it was hard to persuade her to go into
the ‘dull country,’ as she called it, and mingle with ‘vulgar country
people.’ But she discovered her error in time.
“At her uncle’s, she was treated with great kindness and attention by
her cousins, who did all that lay in their power to please her—fresh
bouquets of flowers were pulled for her daily, and although she would at
first scarcely open her lips to any one of them, their repeated acts of
kindness overcame her pride somewhat, and she would occasionally talk
with her cousin Ellen, who was nearly her own age; but sometimes she
would let her proud feelings overcome her, and exclaim to her cousin,
‘Ellen, how can you content yourself in this dull place?’ Ellen was too
much of a real little lady to notice the rudeness, which must have hurt
her feelings, for she was doing every thing in her power to make her
cousin happy.
“Caroline was too selfish to care for any one’s pleasure but her own,”
continued old Mr. Fielding, “she had never been taught that the way to be
happy is to try to make others so. Ellen had given up her own pleasures
to amuse her cousin in her own way; but she was beginning to get tired of
her constant complaints of dullness, for to her nothing could be more
charming than the sweet singing of the birds, and she had little time now
to listen to the music of nature.
“One morning Ellen and Caroline were walking, and Ellen proposed a visit
to a cottage down a long green lane, occupied by their old nurse, greatly
beloved by the whole family, who visited her almost every day in good
weather. Caroline consented, and when they arrived near the place, they
were surprised to hear the voices of children, as if in great glee. Ellen
was further surprised and delighted to discover that they were her own
brothers and sisters, who had arrived by another route, and were busily
engaged with agricultural implements in their hands. Charles and Mary had
rakes, raking the hay, Emma was gathering flowers, and calling to Charles
to come and see how sweet they looked, and little Eddie was trying to
make the hay into bundles. ‘See, sis, how nice I can make it!’ shouted
he, and his voice rang clear through the pure air, as he clasped the
sweet-scented hay in his little hands. Ellen could resist the temptation
no longer; she ran to join her little brother in his healthful exercise.
Caroline remained looking at them through the window, shocked at first
at the idea of her cousin Ellen joining in such rude and vulgar sports;
but in a few moments the rich perfume of the new-made hay tempted her to
mingle with her cousins. At first, she made sad work of it, and several
times was on the point of withdrawing from the party; but fortunately she
did not—and for two long hours these happy children laughed and played,
until the time arrived to go home to supper. Caroline’s cheeks were now
flushed with exercise—she felt like a new being, and conscious that her
cousins were right, and she wrong, she laid her head on Ellen’s lap, and
bursting out into tears, asked her forgiveness for her rudeness. But
Ellen had nothing to forgive—she was happy because she was the means of
breaking her cousin of a fashionable vice, and when next day they went
again, refreshed after a sound sleep, to ramble and run among the grass
and flowers, the cousins became better acquainted than they ever had been
before, and the healthy color soon returned permanently to Caroline’s
cheeks, and she became quite well, and her aunt prevailed on her to
remain during the whole summer with them, which she willingly did, for
she now loved her aunt and cousins dearly.
“When at last her time arrived to go home, she cried heartily at the
thought of parting, and promised to come again next summer, and every
letter sent by her afterwards told of her continued good health, and was
full of thanks to her country cousins for their persevering kindness to
her until her proud spirit was completely broken, and she was enabled to
become a happy child of nature, and no longer worthy of the title of the
PROUD GIRL.”
[Illustration]
Susan and Robert both thanked their grandpapa for telling them such a
nice story, and hoped that they would never become proud and despise any
body; and they felt thankful to God for giving them such a good mamma, to
lead them in the way to do right.
THE USE OF PUNISHMENTS.
[Illustration: NEW-YORK
D. APPLETON & CO. 200 BROADWAY.]
Frank had a little cousin Mary; when Mary was six years old, she was
brought to live at his father’s house. Frank soon grew fond of Mary
and played with her at whatever she liked; sometimes he was her horse;
sometimes she was his horse; sometimes he rolled her in his wheelbarrow,
and sometimes she made a cat’s cradle for him.
Though Mary and Frank were good-natured, yet they had faults. Frank was
sometimes impatient; and Mary was sometimes a little cross. Frank had not
been used to play with children younger and weaker than himself. When he
found that he was the strongest, he made use of his strength to force
Mary to do as he commanded her; and when he wanted any thing she had, he
would snatch it rudely from her hands. Once Frank took a ball from her in
this manner, and hurt her so much that she roared out with the pain.
Frank’s father, who was in the next room, heard her, and came to inquire
what was the matter. Mary stopped crying; and Frank, though he felt much
ashamed, told his father how he had hurt her.
Frank’s father was pleased with his honesty, in telling the truth, but he
ordered the children into different rooms, and they were not allowed to
play together any more that day.
The next morning, at breakfast, Frank’s father asked if they liked best
to be together, or to be separate.
“To be together,” answered Frank and Mary.
“Then, my children, take care and do not quarrel,” said Frank’s father,
“for whenever you quarrel, I shall end your dispute at once, by
separating you. You, Frank, know the use of punishment.”
“Yes, I know,” answered Frank, “that when I have done wrong, you give me
pain; you take away what I like; or hinder me from doing as I like.”
“Do you think,” asked his father, “that I like to give pain—for what
purpose do I punish you?”
“Not because you like to give me pain, but to hinder me from doing wrong
again.”
“How will punishment hinder you from doing wrong again?”
“You know, papa, I should be afraid to have the same punishment again,
if I were to do the same wrong action; and the pain, and the shame of
the punishment, make me remember them a long while. Whenever I think of
doing the wrong action again, for which I was punished, I recollect the
punishment, and then I determine not to do wrong again.”
“Is there any other use in punishments, do you think, Frank?”
“Yes, to prevent other people from doing wrong: when they see a person
who has done wrong punished, if they are sure they shall have the same
punishment, if they do the same wrong thing, they take care not to do
it.”
JULIAN AND HIS RABBIT.
One day little Susan Clare came to her mother, with the request that
she would tell her a short story. Her mother, after satisfying herself
that Susan had been industriously employed during the morning, promised
to comply with her request, and the following conversation took place
between them.
“What shall I tell you about, my little girl?” said Mrs. Clare; “do you
know the story of the grateful Julian?”
“No, mother,” was the reply.
“Well, you shall hear it,” said Mrs. Clare. “There once lived a very poor
man, who had one child six years old, whose name was Julian. This little
boy was the owner of but one thing in the wide world, and that was a
rabbit.”
“Ah, mother,” exclaimed Susan, “it is a pretty little animal—the rabbit.
I wish that I had one.”
[Illustration: NEW-YORK
D. APPLETON & CO. 200 BROADWAY.]
“My dear Susan,” replied her mother, “you have so many nice things to
make you happy, that you can do very well without a rabbit. You have
nice clothes, good food and drink, and a clean bed on which to lie down
at night. You have a pretty doll, a couple of pigeons, and a whole closet
full of books and playthings. Poor little Julian had nothing of all
these.”
“What!” said Susan, “had he not even good clothes to keep him warm?”
“Some old rags hastily patched together, were all he had to cover
himself.”
“And did he have no bed?”
“A little straw in the corner, upon the ground.”
“And nothing to eat or drink?” asked Susan.
“Oftentimes nothing to eat,” said Mrs. Clare; “or, when he was very
hungry, a morsel of dry brown bread with some water.”
“O, poor Julian!” exclaimed Susan. “If he were here, I would give him
every day half of my breakfast and of my luncheon.”
“Now hear the rest of my story,” said her mother. “Notwithstanding he was
so poor, Julian was contented, for his little rabbit made up for all his
privations, and it was indeed a charming animal. Its hair was as white as
snow glittering in the sunshine, and soft as silk. Its eyes were bright
as diamonds, and then it was so tame, so fond of its little master! When
his father gave him a bit of bread, Julian would go behind the hut, and
sit down upon the grass; and then he had but to call, ‘Jeannot, Jeannot;’
and instantly his rabbit would run to him, leap upon his arm, and take
from him the morsels of bread one by one in his mouth.”
“O, my dear mother,” Susan here exclaimed, “I must, indeed, I must have a
rabbit exactly like it.”
“But you might tame with equal ease your lamb and your pigeons,” answered
Mrs. Clare. “Believe me, my child, all animals are indued with gratitude,
and they all love us, when they see that we love them. But let me return
to little Julian. Although he had often to suffer hunger, cold, and
numerous other hardships and privations, he still kept a good heart,
because his little rabbit was to him every day a source of new pleasure.
“But at last a sad misfortune befell poor Julian; he became very sick.
His father, for want of money, could not take care of him, which his
sickness needed. So the poor little fellow lay stretched upon the damp
floor, enduring great pain, without any one to cure him.
“His little rabbit soon came to find him, and took a place by his side on
the straw. The little creature even looked at him so mournfully, that it
seemed as if he would say to him:—‘Ah, my poor master, how I pity you!’
And Julian regarded his rabbit with looks so forlorn, that he seemed
ready to reply: ‘Ah, my little rabbit; I shall soon have to leave you!’
“Fortunately there resided in the neighborhood a rich and benevolent man,
who chanced to hear of Julian’s sickness and his father’s poverty. He
immediately resolved to visit their hut, to learn if what he heard was
true, and to see what aid he could render. When this good man entered the
hut, and saw poor Julian sick, thin and pale, upon his bed of straw, he
could hardly refrain from shedding tears.
“‘My poor child,’ said he, ‘be consoled. I come to bring you assistance.’
“So, without more delay, this kind friend caused Julian to be carried to
his house, where a proper bed was prepared for him, and every care was
taken to restore him to health. The means employed for his cure were so
successful that, at the end of two weeks, he was able to return to his
father’s hut.
“During that time the rich man had also afforded some aid to the father,
and had presented little Julian with a whole new suit of clothes. So the
father and son found themselves happier than they had ever been before.
The little rabbit leaped up with joy on again beholding its dear Julian.
“The father now said to his son: ‘You see, my dear Julian, how happy
this gentleman has made us. What shall we do to show him our gratitude?’
“Julian reflected a moment; and then exclaimed, full of joy: ‘Oh! I will
go and carry him my little rabbit!’ ‘Yes, my child,’ said his father; ‘it
is the most valuable thing that you have; it is all your wealth; you can
do nothing better to prove to him your gratitude. Tell him, also, that
your father will work for him, without pay, one day every week.’
“Julian took his rabbit, and, although much attached to it, he went
nevertheless with a good deal of joy, to offer it to his benefactor. This
worthy man first heard all that he had to say, but then fondly embraced
him, and said: ‘It is well, my dear boy: we ought to be grateful towards
those who do us a kindness; I am content with your good will. Not only I
do not wish to deprive you of your rabbit, but I wish to do more for you
than I have yet done.’ To be brief, the good gentleman paid the expense
of Julian’s schooling, that he might have a good education; then he
employed the boy’s father so profitably, that both were soon above want.
“Julian grew up an intelligent and industrious lad. Every thing prospered
with him; and when the parents of other children wished to inspire their
children with gratitude, they used to tell them the story of Julian and
his little rabbit.”
QUEEN ANNE’S PHYSICIANS.
[Illustration]
Anne, who was Queen of England from 1702 to 1714, was not a woman of
strong mind, and among other whimsies, she had that of frequently
fancying herself indisposed, when no one else could discover that any
thing ailed her. One day, a fit of this sort seizing her, she sent in
all haste for her physician, who was then Dr. Radcliffe, founder of
the Radcliffe Library, Oxford. This functionary replied that he would
“be at St. James’ presently after.” But he not appearing so quickly
as was desired, a second and a third messenger were sent after him in
succession, whereat the Doctor, well acquainted with the princess (Anne
was then Princess of Denmark only), asseverated, in terms more energetic
than courtly, that “her highness had nothing but the vapors, that she was
in as good a state of health as any woman breathing, could she but give
into the belief of it.” This outrageous assertion so greatly offended
the princess, that Dr. Radcliffe was immediately superseded, and Dr.
Gibbons, his rival and antagonist, appointed in his place.
It was not until the mortal illness of her husband, Prince George, awoke
all the anxieties of the queen, that she consented once again to admit
her offending servant to her presence; but the prince’s physicians all
declaring that Dr. Radcliffe was the only person from whom help could
be hoped for, her majesty sent her own coach to bring him to court, and
was pleased to tell him that “no favors or rewards should be thought too
much, could he but remove the convulsions she was troubled with in the
cure of those that were racking the prince.” But it was too late—neither
had the Doctor yet learned to flatter. He assured her majesty that
nothing but death could release his Royal Highness from the pangs he
suffered, and gave her further to understand, that there was nothing in
the art of physic which could keep her consort in life more than six days
from that period. The prince died accordingly, to the deep grief of the
queen and her whole court.
The exact fulfillment of Radcliffe’s predictions as to the precise
moment when his patients would cease to exist, was a subject of
frequent surprise, and gave his contemporaries very exalted ideas of
his knowledge. The Duchess of Marlborough, applying to him to go to
Cambridge for the purpose of visiting her son, the Marquis of Blandford,
who had been improperly treated for the small-pox by the medical men
in attendance, Radcliffe replied, with more bitterness against his
blundering compeers, than sympathy for the suffering mother—“Madam, I
shall only put you to expense for no purpose, for you can do nothing for
his lordship now, but send down an undertaker to take care of a funeral,
for I can assure your grace that he is dead even by this time, and that
of a disease called doctor; but for which unfortunate malady he might
have recovered well enough.” Nor were his conjectures unfounded, as was
proved by the next messenger.
The death of Queen Anne was almost immediately followed by that of her
physician, and this last is said to have been hastened by the vexation
Dr. Radcliffe suffered from a report that he had refused to attend the
queen in her last illness. It appears that he had never been sent for by
the council and authorized attendants of her majesty, but that a message
had been sent by Mrs. Masham two hours only before the queen’s death.
Dr. Radcliffe had received constant reports of her majesty’s condition
from his friend Dr. Mead, and knew she was irrecoverable. “But had it not
been so, the Doctor, says our authority, could not have attended through
such an intimation.” By court etiquette it would seem that he could not,
but the common sense view of the case would be, that the mere knowing
her majesty to be ill was sufficient to warrant his attendance. Leaving
these knotty points, however, we return to the fact, which was, that
the Doctor’s life was so heavily embittered by threatening letters and
attacks of various kinds after the queen’s death, that he no longer durst
stir out of his house, and could have no peace within it. This preyed
upon his health, already declining, and, “to conclude, this great and
excellent man, who had made all manner of diseases fly before him, fell
a victim to the ingratitude of a thankless world, _and the fury of the
gout_, on the 1st of November, 1714, the Feast of All Saints: on that day
being numbered with the blessed spirits, among whom sits enthroned our
late sovereign lady, whose decease has been so injuriously and falsely
laid to his charge.”
LIZZIE CARSON.
[Illustration: Franklin, del. Davenport, sc.]
“Let me draw your chair nearer the window, dear mother; you will be
better able to see your knitting, while I can sketch off my pattern on
the pane.”
It was a childish and cheerful voice that woke the silence of that
little cottage, where mother and daughter had long sat absorbed in their
different employments, and it may be in melancholy thought. But Lizzie
Carson, though only fourteen, had learned the necessity of subduing
her sadness in the presence of her mother, that she might not add one
unnecessary pang to the already burdened heart of her beloved and only
parent.—My little readers will ask what grief can they have?—if the
mother is kind, and the daughter dutiful, and living in a cottage, which
must of course be in the country, among the birds and flowers—why should
they not be happy? Some of you, whose bright eyes are glancing over
these pages, a present among many others perhaps from a fond father,
can scarcely understand the many trials of the poverty-stricken and
fatherless child. The constant toiling for mere sustenance—the anxious
fear that illness may put a stop to their labors, and grim want stare
them yet more steadily in the face—these and a thousand other ills, the
pampered child of wealth can never know. Oh, if I could by any effort of
my pen induce some of you, dear children, to _think_ of these things—if
I could persuade you how much happier you would feel in giving from your
little stores, than in hoarding up all you receive, thereby engendering a
selfish disposition—if, I say, I could induce you to be generous to the
poor, I should think my time well spent in writing you this little story.
The mother of Lizzie Carson having received a good education from her
parents, all they had to give, accepted the situation of teacher in a
little village school, which she left to become the wife of John Carson,
a small farmer in the neighborhood. Upright and honest, he had yet too
little energy, owing to ill health, to succeed in the world, and year
after year saw them sliding back instead of becoming more independent.
At last, when almost every thing had been sold to pay the rent, distress
and anxiety did their work upon the enfeebled frame of the husband and
father, and his plain deal coffin was among the last articles borne from
the now desolate cottage.
[Illustration: NEW-YORK
D. APPLETON & CO. 200 BROADWAY.]
Lizzie was at this time in her twelfth year, and accustomed as she had
been from infancy to habits of self-denial, her manners were gentle
and serious beyond her years. Deeply grieved at the death of her kind
father, she yet strove hard to win back her mother to some degree of
cheerfulness; and consulted with her upon their future means of support.
It was at last decided that they should rent a room in a cottage not
many miles distant from their former residence, where the mother hoped,
by means of her needle, to keep themselves from want. But they were to
be yet further tried in affliction, for Mrs. Carson, after obtaining
work, was taken suddenly ill, and though able in a few weeks to get about
the house, the rheumatism had settled in her hands, utterly preventing
the use of her needle. Now was she to reap the reward of the religious
instruction so carefully bestowed upon her daughter, now was “the bread
cast upon the waters” returning “after many days,” for Lizzie’s noble
spirit rose to meet their stem necessities.
“I am young, dear mother, but I am strong, and with God’s blessing upon
my endeavors, will yet be able to support you. If I could obtain some
paper and pencils, I think I could draw patterns for embroidery, and the
storekeeper at the next town tells me they are quite in demand.”
Mrs. Carson drew her daughter to her bosom, inwardly blessing her;
and promised she should have the materials, if they could borrow the
requisite pence from their neighbor. This was obtained, and Lizzie soon
completed a number of patterns, which she carried to the neighboring
town, a distance of three miles. Here she was doomed to a disappointment,
for owing to the number of patterns in the store, the woman, though
kind-hearted and much interested in the appearance of the little girl,
could not afford to give her so large a sum as she had first promised.
Bearing up with what spirits she might, Lizzie turned her steps homeward,
after purchasing some few necessaries for her mother. But the way seemed
very long, and her little feet ached with traveling on the stones, so
that it was with a heavy heart that she greeted her mother on her return.
Still Lizzie Carson persevered, though her mother’s increased debility
made severe inroads in her little earnings; and the evening on which
we introduce them to our readers there was not a penny in the house,
and they were beside in debt to a neighbor. Had they not cause for sad
thoughts?
“I think, mother,” said Lizzie, after she had finished her drawing,
“I will take this to the store to-night, and then I can get you some
mixture. It distresses me so to hear you coughing when you should be
sleeping.”
“Is it not too far? I am afraid it will be dark before you get
back—beside there are some heavy clouds in the west.”
“Oh, I do not feel the least fear, and you know, mother, there is nothing
in the house to eat, and no money to buy with, unless I sell my patterns
to-night.”
The widow bowed her head upon her clasped hands, and remained silent a
few moments,—when she raised it, there was a holy calm upon her face as
she replied, “God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb; our prospects look
very dark now, my daughter, and we have no earthly friend to turn to, but
always remember, my beloved child, when I am no longer here to counsel
you, that ‘God will never forsake those who trust in Him.’”
Pondering upon her mother’s words, the little girl set out upon her
errand; but after walking some distance, the clouds, which had been long
lowering, broke into a storm—the vivid lightning blinding her eyes so
that she was obliged to cover them with her hands. Lizzie stopped and
looked around her, in hopes of seeing a place of shelter, but though she
could discern a farmhouse, it was at too great a distance to be reached
in such a pelting rain. The scene was indeed a fearful one for that
lonely child to gaze upon—the trees bending and creaking with the mighty
wind, the forked lightning wreathing around and above her, while the
crouching forms of the frightened cattle added terror to the picture.
“God will never forsake those who trust in him,” murmured the trembling
child, as she sunk on her knees beneath the shelter of a large elm. At
that instant came a flash so vivid that the whole heavens seemed in a
blaze, and the crashing thunder deafened her for the instant, then rolled
echoing away among the distant hills. Stunned and terrified, Lizzie
remained for some moments on her knees, her face buried in her lap; and
when she gazed once more around her, her heart had well nigh stopped its
beatings. Within a few feet of where she had been kneeling, a noble oak
was riven by the storm, and a nest of little birds lay dead among its
branches—beside a fence at a little distance was the stiffening body of a
fine horse—and still further to the right, flames were issuing from the
barn belonging to the farmhouse she had seen. All, all around breathed
the desolation of the tempest, save that little child, who, with upraised
hands and streaming eyes, again repeated, “God will never forsake those
who trust in him.”
The storm had done its worst—that last peal had broken up its fury, and
the sun was already struggling through the parting clouds, as Lizzie
Carson continued her memorable walk. By the time she reached the store,
all traces of it had disappeared, and her wet dress was almost dried. A
carriage was drawn up before the house, and a richly-dressed lady was
standing at the counter, while a benevolent-looking gentleman, apparently
her father, leaned upon his cane in the doorway. The storekeeper turned
to Lizzie with a smile, remarking, however, “I hope you have not brought
me any more patterns; my stock is so large, and the demand for them
decreasing.”
“Patterns for embroidery—I should like to look at some,” said the lady,
turning again to the counter.
“Will you please to look at mine, dear madam,” said Lizzie earnestly,
catching hold of her dress and reaching up one, which the lady took to
examine. “Indeed it will be a charity to buy of me, I have walked so far
through the storm, and my poor mother has no bread.”
“Walked through this storm! why child, were you not afraid?”
“My mother told me God would protect me, and he did,” replied Lizzie,
raising her pure innocent eyes to the lady’s face.
“Tell me of your mother, sweet child; she deserves assistance for
instilling such sentiments in her child.”
We must not make our story too long, suffice it that Lizzie and her
mother found kind and substantial friends in these strangers, through the
piety, industry, and filial obedience of this little girl.
M. G. W⸺.
CRUELTY TO ANIMALS.
[Illustration: NEW-YORK
D. APPLETON & CO. 200 BROADWAY.]
It is impossible to view the cheerfulness and happiness of animals
and birds without pleasure; the latter, especially, appear to enjoy
themselves during the fine weather, in spring and summer, with a degree
of hilarity which might be almost envied. It is astonishing how much man
might do to lessen the misery of those creatures which are either given
to him for food or use or for adding to his pleasure, if he were so
disposed. Instead of which he often exercises a degree of wanton tyranny
and cruelty over them, which cannot be too much deprecated, and for which
no doubt he will be one day held accountable. Animals are so capable of
showing gratitude and affection to those who have been kind to them, that
I never see them subjected to ill-treatment without feeling the utmost
abhorrence of those who are inflicting it. I know many persons who, like
myself, take a pleasure in seeing all the animals about them appear happy
and contented.
Cows will show their pleasure at seeing those who have been kind to
them, by moving their ears gently, and putting out their wet noses. My
old horse rests his head on the gate with great complacency when he sees
me coming, expecting to receive an apple or a piece of bread: I should
even be sorry to see my poultry and pigs get out of my way with any
symptoms of fear.
Let us take notice of the great variety of creatures which are made for
our use; some for labor, some for food, some for clothing, some for
pleasure. At the same time let us remember, that our right in these
creatures is not absolute; we hold them from God, and he can deprive us
of them whenever he sees fit, and whenever we abuse them:—and therefore
the Spirit of God has given us this rule: “The merciful man is merciful
to his beast.” And whoever abuses any of God’s creatures, or tortures
them, or destroys such as are neither hurtful when they are alive, nor of
use when they are killed, will have more to answer for than many usually
think.
I hope none of you, after reading what I have written above will kill
cats, or stone frogs or toads, as many naughty boys do; or rob birds of
their nests and little ones, as you see those children in the picture
are doing. No matter how much you may like to have the young birds, you
should not touch them. Just think how your parents would feel if some
giant, if there were such people, should come and carry you off and shut
you up in a cage. Your parents do not love you any more than the birds do
their little ones; then remember how they feel when you rob them.
DECEPTION PUNISHED.
There was an old woman who lived in the country, and who had two
daughters, the eldest of whom was fourteen years old, and the youngest
twelve. Their mother was often obliged to go to market to sell the
produce of her small farm, and to leave her baby to the care of Anna, her
eldest daughter. Anna was old enough to take care of the child, if she
had liked the trouble, but that was not the case. As soon as her mother
had gone, she placed the little creature in the cradle, and told Mary to
sit by it for a minute or two, and she would return directly; but she
seldom came back, till she heard old Dobbin trotting down the lane, and
then she ran in, and, if her sister had the baby on her lap, snatched it
up in her arms, so that her mother might think she had not left it.
[Illustration]
Little Mary never told tales of her sister, though her mother was
sometimes angry that she had not finished her task of knitting; and she
could not help it, for the baby often cried, and would not stay in the
cradle, and Mary was obliged to hold it on her lap all the time her
mother was away.
One morning, the good woman was making ready to go to market, and as she
had a great deal to do, she said that she should not return so soon as
usual. So she put some food for the baby by the fire, to keep it warm,
and told Anna to be careful to feed it if it cried, and to sing it to
sleep. But Anna had something to do that she liked better. So away she
went, and Mary hardly knew what to do; for the baby did nothing but cry.
It was crying when the naughty girl put it into the cradle, and left it,
but she did not trouble her head about the matter.
Poor Mary warmed the food, and then took the child upon her lap, and fed
it as well as she was able, and as she had seen her mother do. At last
it became quiet, and Mary began to sing lullaby with such a sweet little
voice, that it fell fast asleep.
I do not think you will be sorry to hear that Anna’s naughtiness was now
discovered. Her mother had forgotten something which she was to have
taken with her; so instead of staying longer than usual, she came back
half an hour sooner. She was much surprised to find Mary alone with the
baby. Anna was not to be found, though she called and inquired for her
all round the house; but she soon heard from her neighbors that this was
the way she always did. So her mother, as she was of no use to her, sent
her to a farmer’s house, where she could not play any of her tricks, but
was made to work very hard; and Mary, as she grew older, became every
year more useful, and lived very happy with her mother and the little
baby.
BROTHERS AND SISTERS.
[Illustration: NEW-YORK
D. APPLETON & CO. 200 BROADWAY.]
A gentleman of Marseilles, named Remonsat, shortly before his death,
desired that his numerous family might be assembled about his bed. As he
was now an old man, he had children who had been long married and who
now had children of their own. There were sons and daughters who were
married, and who had two daughters, and one son about nine years old, who
was so much of a cripple as to be obliged to walk with a crutch. The old
gentleman acknowledged the delight which his children had afforded him
by their affection and attachment, and especially for the tender love
which they bore to one another. “But,” continued he, “I have a secret to
disclose, which will remove one of you from this circle. So long as I
had any hopes of living I kept it from you, but I dare not violate your
rights in the division of the property which I leave you. One of you is
only an adopted child—the child of the nurse at whose breast my own child
died. Shall I name that child?” “No, no,” said they with one accord,
“let us all continue to be brothers and sisters.”
What a noble and beautiful example of disinterestedness! How often do
we sigh for opportunities of doing good, whilst we neglect the openings
of Providence in little things, which would frequently lead to the
accomplishment of most important usefulness! Dr. Johnson used to say, “He
who waits to do a great deal of good at once, will never do any.” How
many of my readers do you think would have acted towards their brothers
and sisters in the same way?
It is related by St. Jerome, that “the blessed apostle John, living at
Ephesus to extreme old age, was with difficulty carried to church in the
arms of his disciples, and being unable to make a long discourse, every
time they assembled, was wont to say nothing but this: ‘Little children,
love one another.’ At length, the disciples and brethren who attended,
tired of hearing so often the same thing, said, ‘Sir, why do you always
say this?’ Who then made this answer, worthy of himself: ‘Because it is
the Lord’s command; and if that alone be done, it is sufficient.’”
THE GERALDINES.
A NARRATIVE OF PERSECUTION BY HENRY THE EIGHTH.
[Illustration]
Among the many acts of severity practised against his nobles by Henry
VIII, few are more remarkable than the terrible persecution suffered
by Fitzgerald, Earl of Kildare, and his unhappy family. This nobleman,
whose second wife, Lady Elizabeth Grey, was a daughter of the Marquis of
Dorset, and first cousin to the king, was for some time favored at court,
and had been made Lord Deputy of Ireland; but the country being much
disturbed, he was summoned to answer for this before the king in council,
and proceeded to London, leaving his eldest son to administer the Irish
affairs in his absence.
But on reaching the court, Fitzgerald was committed to the Tower; and
his son, exasperated by a false report of his father’s being beheaded,
broke into open rebellion. Succeeding for a short time, but afterwards
reduced to difficulty, Thomas Fitzgerald received a promise of pardon;
and confiding in this, he surrendered himself to Lord Leonard Grey,
brother of his step-mother, the Countess of Kildare. His five uncles, who
had taken part with him in the rebellion, also submitted, and the whole
six were conveyed to London; but in spite of the remonstrances of Lord
Leonard Grey, who declared his honor pledged for their safety, they were
all hanged at Tyburn.
The Earl, worn down by these heavy sorrows, died in the Tower; an
attainder was issued against him (after his death), and his lands and
goods declared forfeited to the crown. Not content with this cruel
injustice, the king sought by all means to get into his power the young
heir of this unhappy house, Gerald Fitzgerald, then not more than twelve
years old; but his evil designs were frustrated by the zeal and affection
of the martyred earl’s foster-brother, a priest named Leverous, to whom
the boy had been confided for education. When this good man received
notice that the brother and uncles of his ward had been sent to England,
he became fearful for the young Gerald’s safety; the child was then lying
ill of the small-pox, but intrusting the care of his nursling to no arm
less zealous than his own, he wrapped him up warmly, and as carefully as
he could, and carried him by night to the house of his sister, where he
was nursed in concealment till quite recovered. But, justly judging that
the child would not be safe with any one known to be connected, however
humbly, with his own family, the good priest removed him successively
into the territories of two or three different Irish chieftains, by whom
he was sheltered for nearly twelve months; after this he contrived to
place the boy in the protection of his aunt, the Lady Eleanor, widow of
a chieftain named Macarty Reagh. Now this lady had been long sought in
marriage by O’Donnel, lord of Tyrconnel, whom she had hitherto refused;
but hoping to secure an efficient protector for her nephew, she now
consented to an immediate marriage, and taking Gerald with her to her new
home in Donegal, she hoped he would here remain in safety.
The devoted Leverous had refused to leave his charge even in care so
seemingly unexceptionable as this; and the king, having ordered a large
reward to be offered for the boy, O’Donnel was soon discovered by this
watchful guardian to be meditating the baseness of delivering the orphan
into Henry’s hands. Seeking the Lady Eleanor, Leverous unfolded this
intended villany, and causing Gerald to assume a sufficient disguise,
his aunt gave him what money she could gather in haste, and shipped
him at once with his tutor and another old servant of his father’s, in
a vessel bound to St. Malo, in Brittany. The safety of the boy thus
secured, she next sought her husband, and bidding him remember that her
interest in this child had been the sole cause of her marriage with him,
she declared that all future intercourse with a man who had so basely
broken his promise, and that for so mercenary a motive, was impossible,
and gathering her possessions together, she departed to her own country.
Gerald meanwhile had been well received by the King of France; but Sir
John Wallop, the English ambassador, having demanded him in the name of
King Henry, the French king took time to consider; and Leverous, fearing
the result, again bore his charge from the threatening danger, and took
refuge with him in Flanders, in the house of a cottager, whose daughter
waited upon Gerald with the utmost kindness. They had not been long here
before it was perceived that their every step was dogged by an Irish
servant of Sir John Wallop. The governor of Valenciennes, befriending the
orphan, threw this man into prison; but he was liberated by the generous
intercession of the youth whom he had sought to betray, and Gerald
reached the Emperor’s court at Brussels without farther molestation.
He was here again demanded by the English ambassador, but the Emperor
excused himself on the plea that Gerald’s youth sufficiently attested his
innocence, and sent him privately to the Bishop of Liege, with a pension
of one hundred crowns a month. Here he remained in comfort and safety for
six months, when Cardinal Pole, his mother’s kinsman, invited him into
Italy, and, allowing him an annuity, placed him first with the Bishop of
Verona, and afterwards with the Duke of Mantua; but would not admit him
to his own presence until he had first acquired the Italian language, an
extraordinary condition, the Cardinal’s English parentage considered.
This accomplished, however, the Cardinal summoned his young kinsman
to Rome, and had him instructed, under his own eye, in all the
accomplishments then required to constitute the finished gentleman. At
the age of nineteen, his generous patron permitted him to choose between
continuing his studies or traveling for adventures, as was then the
custom. Gerald chose the latter, and falling in with some knights of
Rhodes, he joined them in the fierce wars they were then waging against
“the Turks and miscreants.”
Returning to Rome laden with rich booty, “proud was the Cardinal to hear
of his exploits,” and proud also we may be sure was another priest; for
the faithful Leverous still clung to the fortunes of the child he had
saved. Soon after this “fighting with Turks and miscreants,” the Cardinal
having increased the pension of Gerald to £300 a year (a very large
income in those days), permitted him to enter the service of Cosmo, Duke
of Florence, with whom he remained three years as master of the horse; a
very honorable appointment.