"Now, my dears, have you your work prepared for the evening?" said Mrs.
Bernard, rising from the tea-table.
"Mine is quite ready, mamma," replied Emily.
"And mine too, I believe," said Louisa, opening her work-bag. "Oh!
dear, no, I have used up all my thread. I quite forgot that. And where
can my thimble be? I am sure I thought I had put it into my bag.
Emily, have you seen my thimble? I dare say you have got it, you are so
apt to take my things."
_Emily._ Oh! no, indeed, Louisa, you are mistaken, Sometimes, when I
find them left about, I put them by for you, that they may not be lost.
"Well, that is the very thing that makes me think I have lost them,"
said Louisa, rather petulantly. "It is very tiresome of you, Emily. I
do wish you never would touch any thing that belongs to me."
"Gently, gently, my Louisa," interrupted Mrs. Bernard: "you ought to
feel much obliged to your sister for her kindness. If it were not for
her attention, your carelessness would make a sad hole in your pocket-
money. In this instance, however, Emily appears to be quite innocent of
your loss: she does not seem to know any thing about the stray thimble.
She has not, therefore, been the cause of your misfortune to-day."
Louisa rose from her seat, and leaving the room, exclaimed: "I dare say
I shall find it in a minute or two."
She was, however, absent more than a quarter of an hour, and at length
returned, without having found her thimble.
"Well, mamma, it is a most extraordinary thing," said she: "I cannot
think what is become of it. It is very tiresome that things should get
lost so."
_Mrs. B._ It is rather singular that Emily seldom meets with these
misfortunes, from which you so frequently suffer, Louisa.
_Louisa_. Indeed, Emily is very fortunate, mamma. She never has
occasion to lose her time in looking for things, and, I do believe, that
is one reason why she gets on so much faster with her work than I do.
_Mrs. B._ It is a very probably conjecture, my dear; but you must not
attribute the cause merely to good-fortune: Emily is attentive to the
excellent maxim: "A place for every thing, and every thing in its
place," and if you would endeavour, in this respect, to follow her
example, you would find the same comfortable effects resulting from it.
_Louisa_. Well, mamma, and so I have a place for my things. My work-
bag is exactly like Emily's.
"But you do not make exactly the same use of it," said Mrs. Bernard.
Here Ferdinand interposed, with a proposition, that they should all go
and have a good hunt for the thimble, as it would hurt Louisa's finger
sadly, to work all the evening without one.
Louisa expressed her thanks to Ferdinand for his kindness, adding, "I am
quite sorry my carelessness has given every body so much trouble. If I
find my thimble this once, I will endeavour, in future, to copy Emily's
example, and be more careful."
Mrs. Bernard highly approved this determination, and added, "I hope you
will be able to keep your resolution, my dear. You will find the
comfort resulting from the adoption of method, an ample recompence for
any little trouble it may at first occasion you. Now, make haste; I wish
you success in your search." _They go out._
After some time, Louisa returned with a disappointed countenance, which
convinced Mrs. Bernard that her search had been in vain. The gloom was,
however, soon banished by the entrance of Ferdinand, who, smiling with
exultation, held out the stray thimble, and exclaimed, "I have found it,
Louisa! Here it is! When you went to wash your hands, you left it in the
closet."
"Oh, thank you, Ferdinand! thank you!" cried Louisa. "How glad I am to
see it again! Pray, Emily, excuse my having been so cross to you just
now."
"That I do, most willingly," said Emily. "Indeed, I had already
forgotten your little momentary fit of anger."
"Come, let us now sit down to work, without further loss of time," said
their mother. "It gives me most sincere pleasure, my dear children, to
see in you a disposition to assist each other in any little case of
difficulty. Nothing tends so much to cement brotherly love, as
politeness and attention. In many families this is a thing much
neglected; and I have seen more disagreements arise, from a rude,
contradictory disposition, than from any other cause whatever. I know
you like to have our instructions illustrated by a story, particularly
if it be founded on fact. Your father will, therefore, I am sure, give
you an account of a friend of his, who experienced the most beneficial
effects, from adopting kind, conciliatory manners, in opposition to
rudeness and incivility."
"I shall relate the circumstance with much pleasure," replied Mr.
Bernard, "because I am convinced, a most excellent lesson may be learnt
from it; and, as I know the parties, I can assure you it is perfectly
true. An elderly gentleman, with a very large fortune, but no family,
adopted a nephew and niece, the orphan children of two of his sisters.
His object was, when they were of a proper age, to unite them to each
other by marriage, intending that the whole of his immense possesions
should centre in them; but he was much disappointed to find, instead of
the affection which he expected to witness, an extreme dislike
subsisting between the young people, which strengthened as they advanced
in years. Their uncle's presence imposed upon them some restraint, but,
when alone, they gave full scope to their dislike, teasing and
tormenting each other by every means in their power. When the young man
attained his twenty-second, and the young lady her nineteenth year, they
lost their uncle, who had been to them as a parent. The only sentiment
in which they united, was a tender regard to this common friend; and
deeply did they lament his death. The idea that they should now be freed
from the irksome incumbrance of each other's company, however, afforded
them some consolation. Under these impressions, you may judge of the
dismay they both experienced, upon opening their uncle's will, to find
that his fortune was left equally between them, provided they
accomplished his wish, by uniting their destinies; but, whichever
refused fulfilling these conditions, was to forfeit all claim to the
money and estates. Thunder-struck at this appalling sentence, the young
man retired to his chamber, and spent some hours in solitude,
considering what line of conduct it would be best for him to pursue.
Always accustomed to affluence, the horrors of poverty presented
themselves before him in dreadful array; yes, a union with his cousin,
seemed an alternative still more formidable:--he knew not how to
determine. She, in the mean time, suffered no less anxiety. The same
fears agitated her mind. She was well aware of her cousin's dislike to
her, and hoped it would prevent his making those proposals which she
dreaded to hear. At length, he joined her in the garden, and addressed
her as follows:--'You have heard the contents of our uncle's will, Emma.
It places us both in a most painful situation. It were vain to profess
for you an affection, I neither can, or do I believe I ever shall feel;
but, yielding to the necessity of my circumstances, I offer you my
hand.' 'The same sentiment induces me to accept your offer,' said the
dejected Emma, with a heavy sigh; but surely, by such a union, we both
bid adieu to happiness for ever.'--'Our prospect certainly does not
promise us much felicity,' rejoined the young man, 'yet I cannot help
thinking, a moderate share of happiness may still be within our power.
Hitherto, our chief andeavour has been to thwart and irritate each
other; let us, henceforth, employ the same pains to conciliate and
oblige. Great affection, on either side, we will not expect: but let us
resolve to maintain, on all occasions, a spirit of politeness and of
good-will towards each other.' To this the young lady readily assented,
and, under those circumstances, they were married. They persevered in
their wise resolution. I have known them many years, and never did I see
a couple more affectonately attached to each other."
_Edward_. It is a very interesting account, indeed, papa.
_Mr. B._ It is a story from which much solid instruction may be
derived, my dear. People in general, are by no means aware what a
powerful influence those attentions, which they deem trifling, leave
upon the happiness of life. They think, on _important_ occasions, they
should be willing to make great sacrifices for those they love; but do
not reflect how rarely such occasions present themselves; whereas,
opportunities are daily, nay, hourly occurring, for the discharge of
mutual kind offices, which powerfully tend to cement the affectionate
ties of friendship. Edward, did you not commit to memory the passage
upon politeness, we read in Xenophon's Cyropaedia the other day?
_Edward._ I did, papa.
Mr. B. Repeat it to us, my dear.
_Edward._ Politeness is an evenness of soul, which excludes, at the same
time, both insensibility and too much earnestness. It supposes a quick
discernment, to perceive, immediately, the different characters of men;
and, by a sweet condescension, adapts itself to each man's taste, not to
flatter, but to calm his passions. In a word, it is a forgetting of
ourselves, in order to seek what may be agreeable to others, but, in so
delicate a manner, as to let them scarce perceive that we are so
employed. It knows how to contradict with respect, and to please without
adulation; and is equally remote from an insipid complaisance, and a low
familiarity.
_Louisa._ Pray, papa, who was the gentleman you were speaking of, a
little time ago?
_Mr. B._ That cannot concern you at all, Louisa. His name is of no
consequence to the moral of my tale.
_Edward._ Louisa is always so curious; we often laugh at her for it.
_Mrs. B._ It is a foolish and dangerous propensity, when it is carried
into the minor concerns of life. A laudable curiosity, whose object is
the improvement of the mind, should at all times be encouraged; and you
will never, on such occasions, find either your father or myself,
backward in satisfying it to the best of our abilities.
_Louisa._ I have been often told that it is wrong, mamma, and will
really try to amend.
_Mr. B._ I most earnestly wish you success in your endeavour, Louisa.
Curiosity was the fault of our first parents, you know. How much misery
did this fatal propensity in Eve, entail upon the human race!
_Ferdinand._ Oh, mamma, may I tell Louisa that droll story, which I read
to you the other day, about the poor wood-cutter's wife?
_Mrs. B._ I have no objection, provided Louisa would like to hear it.
_Louisa._ Yes, I should, mamma; for I do not mind being told of my
faults, because I wish to amend them.
"That is perfectly right, my love," said Mrs. Bernard: "I admire your
candour, and have no doubt that, with such a desire, your efforts will
prove successful. She then requested Ferdinand to begin his story, which
he did, as follows:
"A gentleman riding one morning through a wood, saw a poor man very
busily employed in cutting down trees, whilst his wife was collecting
the branches into bundles. She sighed heavily, from heat and fatigue,
and complained sadly of their hard fate, laying all the blame upon Adam
and Eve, whose fatal curiosity was the cause of man's being obliged to
earn his bread by such hard labour. The gentleman got off his horse, and
going up to these poor people, he began to talk to the woman, and
enquired, whether, if she had been in Eve's place, she would not have
been very likely to have done the same thing. 'No,' said the woman: 'if
I had every thing necessary for me, without working, I should certainly
be quite contented." 'Well,' said the gentleman, 'in order to silence
your complaints, I will take you and your husband to my own house, where
you shall have apartments to yourselves, servants to wait upon you, a
carriage to attend you, and my park and gardens to amuse yourselves in.
The continuance of these enjoyments shall depend entirely upon
yourselves. You shall have a table spread with dishes; but the middle
dish shall always remain covered, and if ever you uncover it, to examine
its contents, you shall immediately return to your present situation.'
The poor man and woman were delighted with the gentleman's proposal. The
very next day, they removed to their new abode. The novelty of every
object with which they were surrounded, filled them with delight. For
some time they enjoyed themselves extremely, and never once thought of
the covered dish; but, by degrees, all these delights lost the charm of
novelty. Their walks were always the same, and, although they had plenty
of nice things to eat, their appetites were not so good as when they
worked hard for their living. One day the woman said: 'I wonder what
there is under that cover?' After this, their wonder increased every
day, till at last they determined, by taking a little peep, to satisfy
their curiosity. They accordingly lifted up the cover, when, instantly,
out jumped a little mouse, and away it ran. They now saw their folly,
and were sadly vexed with themselves: but it was too late to complain.
They returned to their daily labour, and from their own experience
learned a useful lesson, and never blamed Adam and Eve any more."
"I think, mamma, we may all learn a useful lesson from this story," said
Edward, as Ferdinand concluded his account: "for I am sure I often feel
curious to discover things, that are not of the least consequence to
me."
_Louisa_. Is it a true story, mamma?
_Mrs. B._ I do not know, my dear; but the picture it draws of human
nature is true, and, on that account, the instruction it conveys is
valuable.
_Mr. B._ Let us now turn our attention to history again. We concluded,
last night, with the rash murder of his sister, committed by Horatius.
Did he undergo any punishment for this crime?
_Edward_. Yes, father: it was thought of dangerous consequence to
slacken the rigour of the laws, in favour of any person, merely on
account of his bravery and success in battle. The king was puzzled how
to act. He was divided between a regard for the laws, and a desire to
save the young warrior, who had rendered him such important service.
_Mr. B._ How did Tullus extricate himself from this difficulty, Emily?
_Emily_. He turned it into a state crime, and appointed two
commissioners to try him as a traitor. As the fact was so publicly
known, and Horatius did not deny it, he was found guilty, and condemned
to be executed; but, by the king's advice, he appealed to an assembly of
the people, whose authority was superior to that of the monarch himself;
and they, from admiration of his courage, rather than the justice of his
cause, revoked the sentence that had been passed against him. However,
that he might not go wholly unpunished, they condemned him to pass under
the yoke, a disgrace to which prisoners of war were subject.
_Mr. B_. What was the yoke, Ferdinand?
_Ferdinand_. It was a kind of gallows, papa, in the shape of a door-
case.
_Mr. B._ Did Horatius, then, receive no honour for his victory, Louisa?
_Louisa_. Yes, papa: a square column was erected in the middle of the
Forum, and the spoils of the Curiatii were hung upon it.
_Mr. B._ Did the Romans continue at peace, after the victory of
Horatius?
_Edward_. No, father: they went to war, successively, with the
Fidenates, Latins, and Sabines; in all of which the Romans were
successful.
_Mr. B._ How was the life of Tullus Hostilius terminated, Emily?
_Emily_. Historians differ in their accounts. Some suppose he was struck
by lightning, whilst others imagine he fell by the hand of Ancus
Martius, his successor.
_Mr. B._ Ferdinand, can you give us a short sketch of the character of
Tullus Hostilius, from what you have heard of him.
_Ferdinand_. He was very much inclined to fighting, papa. Generosity and
personal courage were his chief merit. He rekindled in the Romans the
love of war, which Numa had endeavoured to suppress. He acquired to the
Roman state a great name, but did not add to the real happiness of his
people.
_Mr. B._ As he was so much engaged in war, I suppose he did not exert
himself much to improve the legislation of his country.
_Louisa._ We only read of one law that he established, and that was,
that, whenever three little boys should be born at one birth, they
should, in memory of the Horatii, be brought up at the public expence.
_Mr. B._ Emily, what have you to tell us of Ancus Martius, successor to
Tullus?
_Emily_. He was grandson to Numa Pompilius, and, after a short
interregnum, was unanimously chosen, both by the senate and people, to
the succession. He wished to imitate his grandfather, by reviving
husbandry and religious worship; but soon found that this pacific
disposition drew upon him the contempt of the neighbouring nations. The
Latins were the first who endeavoured to throw off their allegiance to
Rome. This provoked Ancus to declare war against them. He vanquished
them in many battles, and took several of their towns. He strengthened
Rome by new fortifications; built the port and city of Astin, at the
mouth of the Tiber; and was successful over the Fidenates, Sabines,
Veientes, and Volsci. Historians give different accounts of his death.
Some say he was destroyed by violence, whilst others speak of his
decease as altogether natural.
_Mr. B._ How long did he reign, Louisa?
_Louisa_. Twenty-three years, papa. We have not read any more yet. I
hope we shall not forget this part, as we advance further. Pray papa,
what do you think is the best means of remembering what we read?
_Mr. B._ The plan we adopt, in making it the subject of conversation, is
a very likely method to effect this desirable object; and, if you keep a
book, and take notes of the history as you proceed, you will still more
deeply impress it upon your memory. But we will talk upon this subject
some other day: it is now quite time for you to go to bed.