ORIGINAL STORIES
FROM
_REAL LIFE_;
WITH
CONVERSATIONS,
CALCULATED TO
REGULATE THE AFFECTIONS,
AND
FORM THE MIND TO TRUTH AND GOODNESS.
BY
MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT.
A NEW EDITION.
_LONDON_:
PRINTED FOR J. JOHNSON, NO. 72, ST. PAUL’S CHURCH-YARD.
1796
PREFACE.
These conversations and tales are accommodated to the present state of
society; which obliges the author to attempt to cure those faults by
reason, which ought never to have taken root in the infant mind. Good
habits, imperceptibly fixed, are far preferable to the precepts of
reason; but, as this task requires more judgment than generally falls to
the lot of parents, substitutes must be sought for, and medicines given,
when regimen would have answered the purpose much better. I believe
those who examine their own minds will readily agree with me, that
reason, with difficulty, conquers settled habits, even when it is
arrived at some degree of maturity: why then do we suffer children to be
bound with fetters, which their half-formed faculties cannot break.
In writing the following work, I aim at perspicuity and simplicity of
style; and try to avoid those unmeaning compliments, which slip from the
tongue, but have not the least connection with the affections that
should warm the heart, and animate the conduct. By this false
politeness, sincerity is sacrificed, and truth violated; and thus
artificial manners are necessarily taught. For true politeness is a
polish, not a varnish; and should rather be acquired by observation than
admonition. And we may remark, by way of illustration, that men do not
attempt to polish precious stones, till age and air have given them that
degree of solidity, which will enable them to bear the necessary
friction, without destroying the main substance.
The way to render instruction most useful cannot always be adopted;
knowledge should be gradually imparted, and flow more from example than
teaching: example directly addresses the senses, the first inlets to the
heart; and the improvement of those instruments of the understanding is
the object education should have constantly in view, and over which we
have most power. But to wish that parents would, themselves, mould the
ductile passions, is a chimerical wish, for the present generation have
their own passions to combat with, and fastidious pleasures to pursue,
neglecting those pointed out by nature: we must therefore pour premature
knowledge into the succeeding one; and, teaching virtue, explain the
nature of vice. Cruel necessity!
The Conversations are intended to assist the teacher as well as the
pupil; and this will obviate an objection which some may start, that the
sentiments are not quite on a level with the capacity of a child. Every
child requires a different mode of treatment; but a writer can only
choose one, and that must be modified by those who are actually engaged
with young people in their studies.
The tendency of the reasoning obviously tends to fix principles of truth
and humanity on a solid and simple foundation; and to make religion an
active, invigorating director of the affections, and not a mere
attention to forms. Systems of Theology may be complicated; but when the
character of the Supreme Being is displayed, and He is recognised as the
Universal Father, the Author and Centre of Good, a child may be led to
comprehend that dignity and happiness must arise from imitating Him; and
this conviction should be twisted into, and be the foundation of every
inculcated duty.
At any rate, the Tales which were written to illustrate the moral, may
recall it, when the mind has gained sufficient strength to discuss the
argument from which it was deduced.
INTRODUCTION.
Mary and Caroline, though the children of wealthy parents were, in their
infancy, left entirely to the management of servants, or people equally
ignorant. Their mother died suddenly, and their father, who found them
very troublesome at home, placed them under the tuition of a woman of
tenderness and discernment, a near relation, who was induced to take on
herself the important charge through motives of compassion.
They were shamefully ignorant, considering that Mary had been fourteen,
and Caroline twelve years in the world. If they had been merely
ignorant, the talk would not have appeared so arduous; but they had
caught every prejudice that the vulgar casually instill. In order to
eradicate these prejudices, and substitute good habits instead of those
they had carelessly contracted, Mrs. Mason never suffered them to be out
of her sight. They were allowed to ask questions on all occasions, a
method she would not have adopted, had she educated them from the first,
according to the suggestions of her own reason, to which experience had
given its sanction.
They had tolerable capacities; but Mary had a turn for ridicule, and
Caroline was vain of her person. She was, indeed, very handsome, and the
inconsiderate encomiums that had, in her presence, been lavished on her
beauty made her, even at that early age, affected.
CONTENTS.
_CHAP._ I.
_The Treatment of Animals.—The Ant.—The Bee.—Goodness.—The
Lark’s Nest.—The Asses._ Page 1
_CHAP._ II.
_The Treatment of Animals.—The Difference between them and
Man.—The Parental Affection of a Dog.—Brutality punished._ 10
_CHAP._ III.
_The Treatment of Animals.—The Story of crazy Robin.—The Man
confined in the Bastille._ 17
_CHAP._ IV.
_Anger.—History of Jane Fretful._ 25
_CHAP._ V.
_Lying.—Honour.—Truth.—Small Duties.—History of Lady Sly and
Mrs. Trueman._ 32
_CHAP._ VI.
_Anger.—Folly produces Self-contempt, and the Neglect of
others._ 44
_CHAP._ VII.
_Virtue the Soul of Beauty.—The Tulip and the Rose.—The
Nightingale.—External Ornaments.—Characters._ 47
_CHAP._ VIII.
_Summer Evening’s Amusement.—The Arrival of a Family of
Haymakers.—Ridicule of personal Defects censured.—A
Storm.—The Fear of Death.—The Cottage of Honest Jack the
shipwrecked Sailor.—The History of Jack, and his faithful
Dog Pompey._ 55
_CHAP._ IX.
_The Inconveniences of immoderate Indulgence._ 66
_CHAP._ X.
_The Danger of Delay.—Description of a Mansion-House in
Ruins.—History of Charles Townley._ 72
_CHAP._ XI.
_Dress.—A Character.—Remarks on Mrs. Trueman’s Manner of
Dressing.—Trifling Omissions undermine Affection._ 83
_CHAP._ XII.
_Behaviour to Servants.—True Dignity of Character._ 89
_CHAP._ XIII.
_Employment.—Idleness produces Misery.—The Cultivation of the
Fancy raises us above the Vulgar, extends our Happiness, and
leads to Virtue._ 93
_CHAP._ XIV.
_Innocent Amusements.—Description of a Welch Castle.—History
of a Welch Harper.—A tyrannical Landlord.—Family Pride._ 98
_CHAP._ XV.
_Prayer.—A Moon-light Scene.—Resignation._ 106
_CHAP._ XVI.
_The Benefits arising from Devotion.—The History of the
Village School-mistress.—Fatal Effects of Inattention to
Expences, in the History of Mr. Lofty._ 112
_CHAP._ XVII.
_The Benefits arising from Devotion.—The History of the
Village School-mistress concluded._ 119
_CHAP._ XVIII.
_A Visit to the School-mistress.—True and False Pride._ 122
_CHAP._ XIX.
_Charity.—The History of Peggy and her Family.—The Sailor’s
Widow._ 126
_CHAP._ XX.
_Visit to Mrs. Trueman.—The Use of Accomplishments.—Virtue the
Soul of All._ 131
_CHAP._ XXI.
_The Benefit of bodily Pain.—Fortitude the Basis of
Virtue.—The Folly of Irresolution._ 136
_CHAP._ XXII.
_Journey to London._ 141
_CHAP._ XXIII.
_Charity.—Shopping.—The distressed stationer.—Mischievous
Consequences of delaying Payment._ 143
_CHAP._ XXIV.
_Visit to a Poor Family in London.—Idleness the Parent of
Vice.—Prodigality and Generosity incompatible.—The Pleasures
of Benevolence.—True and false Motives for Saving._ 148
_CHAP._ XXV.
_Mrs. Mason’s farewell Advice to her Pupils.—Observations on
Letter-writing._ 153
MORAL CONVERSATIONS
AND
STORIES.
CHAP. I.
_The Treatment of Animals.—The Ant.—The Bee.—Goodness.—The Lark’s
Nest.—The Asses._
One fine morning in spring, some time after Mary and Caroline were
settled in their new abode, Mrs. Mason proposed a walk before breakfast,
a custom she wished to teach imperceptibly, by rendering it amusing.
The sun had scarcely dispelled the dew that hung on every blade of
grass, and filled the half-shut flowers; every prospect smiled, and the
freshness of the air conveyed the most pleasing sensations to Mrs.
Mason’s mind; but the children were regardless of the surrounding
beauties, and ran eagerly after some insects to destroy them. Mrs. Mason
silently observed their cruel sports, without appearing to do it; but
stepping suddenly out of the foot-path into the long grass, her buckle
was caught in it, and striving to disentangle herself, she wet her feet;
which the children knew she wished to avoid, as she had been lately
sick. This circumstance roused their attention; and they forgot their
amusement to enquire _why_ she had left the path; and Mary could hardly
restrain a laugh, when she was informed that it was to avoid treading on
some snails that were creeping across the narrow footway. Surely, said
Mary, you do not think there is any harm in killing a snail, or any of
those nasty creatures that crawl on the ground? I hate them, and should
scream if one was to find its way from my clothes to my neck! With great
gravity, Mrs. Mason asked how she dared to kill any thing, unless it
were to prevent its hurting her? Then, resuming a smiling face, she
said, Your education has been neglected, my child; as we walk along
attend to what I say, and make the best answers you can; and do you,
Caroline, join in the conversation.
You have already heard that God created the world, and every inhabitant
of it. He is then called the Father of all creatures; and all are made
to be happy, whom a good and wise God has created. He made those snails
you despise, and caterpillars, and spiders; and when he made them, did
not leave them to perish, but placed them where the food that is most
proper to nourish them is easily found. They do not live long, but He
who is their Father, as well as your’s, directs them to deposit their
eggs on the plants that are fit to support their young, when they are
not able to get food for themselves.—And when such a great and wise
Being has taken care to provide every thing necessary for the meanest
creature, would you dare to kill it, merely because it appears to you
ugly? Mary began to be attentive, and quickly followed Mrs. Mason’s
example, who allowed a caterpillar and a spider to creep on her hand.
You find them, she rejoined, very harmless; but a great number would
destroy our vegetables and fruit; so birds are permitted to eat them, as
we feed on animals; and in spring there are always more than at any
other season of the year, to furnish food for the young
broods.—Half-convinced, Mary said, But worms are of little consequence
in the world. Yet, replied Mrs. Mason, God cares for them, and gives
them every thing that is necessary to render their existence
comfortable. You are often troublesome—I am stronger than you—yet I do
not kill you.
Observe those ants; they have a little habitation in yonder hillock;
they carry food to it for their young, and sleep very snug in it during
the cold weather. The bees also have comfortable towns, and lay up a
store of honey to support them when the flowers die, and snow covers the
ground: and this forecast is as much the gift of God, as any quality you
possess.
Do you know the meaning of the word Goodness? I see you are unwilling to
answer. I will tell you. It is, first, to avoid hurting any thing; and
then, to contrive to give as much pleasure as you can. If some insects
are to be destroyed, to preserve my garden from desolation, I have it
done in the quickest way. The domestic animals that I keep, I provide
the best food for, and never suffer them to be tormented; and this
caution arises from two motives:—I wish to make them happy; and, as I
love my fellow-creatures still better than the brute creation, I would
not allow those that I have any influence over to grow habitually
thoughtless and cruel, till they were unable to relish the greatest
pleasure life affords,—that of resembling God, by doing good.
A lark now began to sing, as it soared aloft. The children watched its
motions, listening to the artless melody. They wondered what it was
thinking of—of its young family, they soon concluded; for it flew over
the hedge, and drawing near, they heard the young ones chirp. Very soon
both the old birds took their flight together, to look for food to
satisfy the craving of the almost fledged young. An idle boy, who had
borrowed a gun, fired at them—they fell; and before he could take up the
wounded pair, he perceived Mrs. Mason; and expecting a very severe
reprimand, ran away. She and the little girls drew near, and found that
one was not much hurt, but that the other, the cock, had one leg broken,
and both its wings shattered; and its little eyes seemed starting out of
their sockets, it was in such exquisite pain. The children turned away
their eyes. Look at it, said Mrs. Mason; do you not see that it suffers
as much, and more than you did when you had the small-pox, when you were
so tenderly nursed. Take up the hen; I will bind her wing together;
perhaps it may heal. As to the cock, though I hate to kill any thing, I
must put him out of pain; to leave him in his present state would be
cruel; and avoiding an unpleasant sensation myself, I should allow the
poor bird to die by inches, and call this treatment tenderness, when it
would be selfishness or weakness. Saying so, she put her foot on the
bird’s head, turning her own another way.
They walked on; when Caroline remarked, that the nestlings, deprived of
their parents, would now perish; and the mother began to flutter in her
hand as they drew near the hedge; though the poor creature could not
fly, yet she tried to do it. The girls, with one voice, begged Mrs.
Mason to let them take the nest, and provide food in a cage, and see if
the mother could not contrive to hop about to feed them. The nest and
the old mother were instantly in Mary’s handkerchief. A little opening
was left to admit the air; and Caroline peeped into it every moment to
see how they looked. I give you leave, said Mrs. Mason, to take those
birds, because an accident has rendered them helpless; if that had not
been the case, they should not have been confined.
They had scarcely reached the next field, when they met another boy with
a nest in his hand, and on a tree near him saw the mother, who,
forgetting her natural timidity, followed the spoiler; and her
intelligible tones of anguish reached the ears of the children, whose
hearts now first felt the emotions of humanity. Caroline called him, and
taking sixpence out of her little purse, offered to give it to him for
the nest, if he would shew her where he had taken it from. The boy
consented, and away ran Caroline to replace it,—crying all the way, how
delighted the old bird will be to find her brood again. The pleasure
that the parent-bird would feel was talked of till they came to a large
common, and heard some young asses, at the door of an hovel, making a
most dreadful noise. Mrs. Mason had ordered the old ones to be confined,
lest the young should suck before the necessary quantity had been saved
for some sick people in her neighbourhood. But after they had given the
usual quantity of milk, the thoughtless boy had left them still in
confinement, and the young in vain implored the food nature designed for
their particular support. Open the hatch, said Mrs. Mason, the mothers
have still enough left to satisfy their young. It was opened, and they
saw them suck.
Now, said she, we will return to breakfast; give me your hands, my
little girls, you have done good this morning, you have acted like
rational creatures. Look, what a fine morning it is. Insects, birds, and
animals, are all enjoying this sweet day. Thank God for permitting you
to see it, and for giving you an understanding which teaches you that
you ought, by doing good, to imitate Him. Other creatures only think of
supporting themselves; but man is allowed to ennoble his nature, by
cultivating his mind and enlarging his heart. He feels disinterested
love; every part of the creation affords an exercise for virtue, and
virtue is ever the truest source of pleasure.
CHAP. II
_The Treatment of Animals.—The Difference between them and Man.—Parental
Affection of a Dog.—Brutality punished._
After breakfast, Mrs. Mason gave the children _Mrs. Trimmer’s Fabulous
Histories_; and the subject still turned on animals, and the wanton
cruelty of those who treated them improperly. The little girls were
eager to express their detestation, and requested that in future they
might be allowed to feed the chickens. Mrs. Mason complied with their
request; only one condition was annexed to the permission, that they did
it regularly. When you wait for your food, you learn patience, she
added, and you can mention your wants; but those helpless creatures
cannot complain. The country people frequently say,—How can you treat a
poor dumb beast ill; and a stress is very properly laid on the word
dumb; for dumb they appear to those who do not observe their looks and
gestures; but God, who takes care of every thing, understands their
language; and so did Caroline this morning, when she ran with such
eagerness to replace the nest which the thoughtless boy had stolen,
heedless of the mother’s agonizing cries!
Mary interrupted her, to ask, if insects and animals were not inferior
to men? Certainly, answered Mrs. Mason; and men are inferior to angels;
yet we have reason to believe, that those exalted beings delight to do
us good. You have heard in a book, which I seldom permit you to read,
because you are not of an age to understand it, that angels, when they
sang glory to God on high, wished for peace on earth, as a proof of the
good-will they felt towards men. And all the glad tidings that have been
sent to men, angels have proclaimed: indeed, the word angel signifies a
messenger. In order to please God, and our happiness depends upon
pleasing him, we must do good. What we call virtue, may be thus
explained:—we exercise every benevolent affection to enjoy comfort here,
and to fit ourselves to be angels hereafter. And when we have acquired
human virtues, we shall have a nobler employment in our Father’s
kingdom. But between angels and men a much greater resemblance subsists,
than between men and the brute creation; because the two former seem
capable of improvement.
The birds you saw to-day do not improve—or their improvement only tends
to self-preservation; the first nest they make and the last are exactly
the same; though in their flights they must see many others more
beautiful if not more convenient, and, had they reason, they would
probably shew something like individual taste in the form of their
dwellings; but this is not the case. You saw the hen tear the down from
her breast to make a nest for her eggs; you saw her beat the grain with
her bill, and not swallow a bit, till the young were satisfied; and
afterwards she covered them with her wings, and seemed perfectly happy,
while she watched over her charge; if any one approached, she was ready
to defend them, at the hazard of her life: yet, a fortnight hence, you
will see the same hen drive the fledged chickens from the corn, and
forget the fondness that seemed to be stronger than the first impulse of
nature.
Animals have not the affections which arise from reason, nor can they do
good, or acquire virtue. Every affection, and impulse, which I have
observed in them, are like our inferior emotions, which do not depend
entirely on our will, but are involuntary; they seem to have been
implanted to preserve the species, and make the individual grateful for
actual kindness. If you caress and feed them, they will love you, as
children do, without knowing why; but we neither see imagination nor
wisdom in them; and, what principally exalts man, friendship and
devotion, they seem incapable of forming the least idea of. Friendship
is founded on knowledge and virtue, and these are human acquirements;
and devotion is a preparation for eternity; because when we pray to God,
we offer an affront to him, if we do not strive to imitate the
perfections He displays every where for our imitation, that we may grow
better and happier.
The children eagerly enquired in what manner they were to behave, to
prove that they were superior to animals? The answer was short,—be
tender-hearted; and let your superior endowments ward off the evils
which they cannot foresee. It is only to animals that children _can_ do
good; men are their superiors. When I was a child, added their tender
friend, I always made it my study and delight to feed all the dumb
family that surrounded our house; and when I could be of use to any one
of them I was happy. This employment humanized my heart, while, like
wax, it took every impression; and Providence has since made me an
instrument of good—I have been useful to my fellow-creatures. I, who
never wantonly trod on an insect, or disregarded the plaint of the
speechless beast, can now give bread to the hungry, physic to the sick,
comfort to the afflicted, and, above all, am preparing you, who are to
live for ever, to be fit for the society of angels, and good men made
perfect. This world, I told you, was a road to a better—a preparation
for it; if we suffer, we grow humbler and wiser: but animals have not
this advantage, and man should not prevent their enjoying at the
happiness of which they are capable.
A she-cat or dog have such strong parental affection, that if you take
away their young, it almost kills them; some have actually died of grief
when all have been taken away; though they do not seem to miss the
greatest part.
A bitch had once all her litter stolen from her, and drowned in a
neighbouring brook: she sought them out, and brought them one by one,
laid them at the feet of her cruel master;—and looking wistfully at them
for some time, in dumb anguish, turning her eyes on the destroyer, she
expired!
I myself knew a man who had hardened his heart to such a degree, that he
found pleasure in tormenting every creature whom he had any power over.
I saw him let two guinea-pigs roll down sloping tiles, to see if the
fall would kill them. And were they killed? cried Caroline. Certainly;
and it is well they were, or he would have found some other mode of
torment. When he became a father, he not only neglected to educate his
children, and set them a good example, but he taught them to be cruel
while he tormented them: the consequence was, that they neglected him
when he was old and feeble; and he died in a ditch.
You may now go and feed your birds, and tie some of the straggling
flowers round the garden sticks. After dinner, if the weather continues
fine, we will walk to the wood, and I will shew you the hole in the
limestone mountain (a mountain whose bowels, as we call them, are
lime-stones) in which poor crazy Robin and his dog lived.
CHAP. III.
_The treatment of Animals.—The Story of crazy Robin.—The Man confined in
the Bastille._
In the afternoon the children bounded over the short grass of the
common, and walked under the shadow of the mountain till they came to a
craggy part, where a stream broke out, and ran down the declivity,
struggling with the huge stones which impeded its progress, and
occasioned a noise that did not unpleasantly interrupt the solemn
silence of the place. The brook was soon lost in a neighbouring wood,
and the children turned their eyes to the broken side of the mountain,
over which ivy grew in great profusion. Mrs. Mason pointed out a little
cave, and desired them to sit down on some stumps of trees, whilst she
related the promised story.
In yonder cave once lived a poor man, who generally went by the name of
crazy Robin. In his youth he was very industrious, and married my
father’s dairy-maid; a girl deserving of such a good husband. For some
time they continued to live very comfortably; their daily labour
procured their daily bread; but Robin, finding it was likely he should
have a large family, borrowed a trifle, to add to the small pittance
which they had saved in service, and took a little farm in a
neighbouring county. I was then a child.
Ten or twelve years after, I heard that a crazy man, who appeared very
harmless, had piled by the side of the brook a great number of stones;
he would wade into the river for them, followed by a cur dog, whom he
would frequently call his Jacky, and even his Nancy; and then mumble to
himself,—thou wilt not leave me—we will dwell with the owls in the
ivy.—A number of owls had taken shelter in it. The stones which he waded
for he carried to the mouth of the hole, and only just left room enough
to creep in. Some of the neighbours at last recollected his face; and I
sent to enquire what misfortune had reduced him to such a deplorable
state. The information I received from different persons, I will
communicate to you in as few words as I can.
Several of his children died in their infancy; and, two years before he
came to his native place, one misfortune had followed another till he
had sunk under their accumulated weight. Through various accidents he
was long in arrears to his landlord; who, seeing that he was an honest
man, who endeavoured to bring up his family, did not distress him; but
when his wife was lying-in of her last child, the landlord dying, his
heir sent and seized the stock for the rent; and the person from whom he
had borrowed some money, exasperated to see all gone, arresting him
immediately, he was hurried to gaol, without being able to leave any
money for his family. The poor woman could not see them starve, and
trying to support her children before she had gained sufficient
strength, she caught cold; and through neglect, and her want of proper
nourishment, her illness turned to a putrid fever; which two of the
children caught from her, and died with her. The two who were left,
Jacky and Nancy, went to their father, and took with them a cur dog,
that had long shared their frugal meals.
The children begged in the day, and at night slept with their wretched
father. Poverty and dirt soon robbed their cheeks of the roses which the
country air made bloom with a peculiar freshness; so that they soon
caught a jail fever,—and died. The poor father, who was now bereft of
all his children, hung over their bed in speechless anguish; not a groan
or a tear escaped from him, whilst he stood, two or three hours, in the
same attitude, looking at the dead bodies of his little darlings. The
dog licked his hands, and strove to attract his attention; but for
awhile he seemed not to observe his caresses; when he did, he said,
mournfully, thou wilt not leave me—and then he began to laugh. The
bodies were removed; and he remained in an unsettled state, often
frantic; at length the phrenzy subsided, and he grew melancholy and
harmless. He was not then so closely watched; and one day he contrived
to make his escape, the dog followed him, and came directly to his
native village.
After I had received this account, I determined he should live in the
place he had chosen, undisturbed. I sent some conveniences, all of which
he rejected, except a mat; on which he sometimes slept—the dog always
did. I tried to induce him to eat, but he constantly gave the dog
whatever I sent him, and lived on haws and blackberries, and every kind
of trash. I used to call frequently on him: and he sometimes followed me
to the house I now live in, and in winter he would come of his own
accord, and take a crust of bread. He gathered water-cresses out of the
pool, and would bring them to me, with nosegays of wild thyme, which he
plucked from the sides of the mountain. I mentioned before, that the dog
was a cur. It had, indeed, the bad trick of a cur, and would run barking
after horses heels. One day, when his master was gathering
water-cresses, the dog running after a young gentleman’s horse, made it
start, and almost threw the rider; who grew so angry, that, though he
knew it was the poor madman’s dog, he levelled his gun at his head—shot
him—and instantly rode off. Robin ran to his dog—he looked at his
wounds, and not sensible that he was dead, called to him to follow him;
but when he found that he could not, he took him to the pool, and washed
off the blood before it began to clot, and then brought him home, and
laid him on the mat.
I observed that I had not seen him pacing up the hills as usual, and
sent to enquire about him. He was found sitting by the dog, and no
entreaties could prevail on him to quit the body, or receive any
refreshment. I instantly set off for this place, hoping, as I had always
been a favourite, that I should be able to persuade him to eat
something. But when I came to him, I found the hand of death was upon
him. He was still melancholy; yet there was not such a mixture of
wildness in it as formerly. I pressed him to take some food; but,
instead of answering me, or turning away, he burst into tears—a thing I
had never seen him do before, and sobbing, he said, Will any one be kind
to me!—you will kill me!—I saw not my wife die—No! they dragged me from
her—but I saw Jacky and Nancy die—and who pitied me?—but my dog! He
turned his eyes to the body—I wept with him. He would then have taken
some nourishment, but nature was exhausted—and he expired.
Was that the cave? said Mary. They ran to it. Poor Robin! Did you ever
hear of any thing so cruel? Yes, answered Mrs. Mason; and as we walk
home I will relate an instance of still greater barbarity.
I told you, that Robin was confined in a jail. In France they have a
dreadful one, called the Bastille. The poor wretches who are confined in
it live entirely alone; who have not the pleasure of seeing men or
animals; nor are they allowed books. They live in comfortless solitude.
Some have amused themselves by making figures on the wall; and others
have laid straws in rows. One miserable captive found a spider; he
nourished it for two or three years; it grew tame, and partook of his
lonely meal. The keeper observed it, and mentioned the circumstance to a
superior, who ordered him to crush it. In vain did the man beg to have
his spider spared. You find, Mary, that the nasty creature which you
despised was comfort in solitude. The keeper obeyed the cruel command,
and the unhappy wretch felt more pain when he heard the crush, than he
had ever experienced during his long confinement. He looked round a
dreary apartment, and the small portion of light which the grated bars
admitted only served to shew him, that he breathed where nothing else
drew breath.
CHAP. IV.
_Anger.—History of Jane Fretful._
A few days after these walks and conversations, Mrs. Mason heard a great
noise in the play-room. She ran hastily to enquire the cause, and found
the children crying, and near them, one of the young birds lying on the
floor dead. With great eagerness each of them tried, the moment she
entered, to exculpate herself, and prove that the other had killed the
bird. Mrs. Mason commanded them to be silent; and, at the same time,
called an orphan whom she had educated, and desired her to take care of
the nest.
The cause of the dispute was easily gathered from what they both let
fall. They had contested which had the best right to feed the birds.
Mary insisted that she had a right, because she was the eldest; and
Caroline, because she took the nest. Snatching it from one side of the
room to the other, the bird fell, and was trodden on before they were
aware.
When they were a little composed, Mrs. Mason calmly thus addressed them:
I perceive that you are ashamed of your behaviour, and sorry for the
consequence; I will not therefore severely reprove you, nor add
bitterness to the self-reproach you must both feel, because I pity you.
You are now inferior to the animals that graze on the common; reason
only serves to render your folly more conspicuous and inexcusable. Anger
is a little despicable vice: its selfish emotions banish compassion, and
undermine every virtue. It is easy to conquer another; but noble to
subdue one’s self. Had you, Mary, given way to your sister’s humour, you
would have proved that you were not only older, but wiser than her. And
you, Caroline, would have saved your charge, if you had, for the time,
waved your right.
It is always a proof of superior sense to bear with slight
inconveniences, and even trifling injuries, without complaining or
contesting about them. The soul reserves its firmness for great
occasions, and then it acts a decided part. It is just the contrary mode
of thinking, and the conduct produced by it, which occasions all those
trivial disputes that slowly corrode domestic peace, and insensibly
destroy what great misfortunes could not sweep away.
I will tell you a story, that will take stronger hold on your memory
than mere remarks.
Jane Fretful was an only child. Her fond, weak mother would not allow
her to be contradicted on any occasion. The child had some tenderness of
heart; but so accustomed was she to see every thing give way to her
humour, that she imagined the world was only made for her. If any of her
playfellows had toys, that struck her capricious, sickly fancy, she
would cry for them; and substitutes were in vain offered to quiet her,
she must have the identical ones, or fly into the most violent passion.
When she was an infant, if she fell down, her nurse made her beat the
floor. She continued the practice afterwards, and when she was angry
would kick the chairs and tables, or any senseless piece of furniture,
if they came in her way. I have seen her throw her cap into the fire,
because some of her acquaintance had a prettier.
Continual passions weakened her constitution; beside, she would not eat
the common wholesome food that children, who are subject to the
small-pox and worms, ought to eat, and which is necessary when they grow
so fast, to make them strong and handsome. Instead of being a comfort to
her tender, though mistaken mother, she was her greatest torment. The
servants all disliked her; she loved no one but herself; and the
consequence was, she never inspired love; even the pity good-natured
people felt, was nearly allied to contempt.
A lady, who visited her mother, brought with her one day a pretty little
dog. Jane was delighted with it; and the lady, with great reluctance,
parted with it to oblige her friend. For some time she fondled, and
really felt something like an affection for it: but one day it happened
to snatch a cake she was going to eat, and though there were twenty
within reach, she flew into a violent passion, and threw a stool at the
poor creature, who was big with pup. It fell down—I can scarcely tell
the rest—it received so severe a blow, that all the young were killed,
and the poor wretch languished two days, suffering the most excruciating
torture.
Jane Fretful, who was now angry with herself, sat all the time holding
it, and every look the miserable animal gave her, stung her to the
heart. After its death she was very unhappy, but did not try to conquer
her temper. All the blessings of life were thrown away on her; and,
without any real misfortune, she was continually miserable. If she had
planned a party of pleasure, and the weather proved unfavourable, the
whole day was spent in fruitless repining, or venting her ill-humour on
those who depended on her. If no disappointment of that kind occurred,
she could not enjoy the promised pleasure; something always disconcerted
her; the horses went too fast, or too slow; the dinner was ill-dressed,
or, some of the company contradicted her.
She was, when a child, very beautiful; but anger soon distorted her
regular features, and gave a forbidding fierceness to her eyes. But if
for a moment she looked pleased, she still resembled a heap of
combustible matter, to which an accidental spark might set fire; of
course quiet people were afraid to converse with her. And if she ever
did a good, or a humane action, her ridiculous anger soon rendered it an
intolerable burden, if it did not entirely cancel it.
At last she broke her mother’s heart, or hastened her death, by her want
of duty, and her many other faults: all proceeding from violent,
unrestrained anger.
The death of her mother, which affected her very much, left her without
a friend. She would sometimes say, Ah! my poor mother, if you were now
alive, I would not teaze you—I would give the world to let you know that
I am sorry for what I have done: you died, thinking me ungrateful; and
lamenting that I did not die when you gave me suck. I shall never—oh!
never see you more.
This thought, and her peevish temper, preyed on her impaired
constitution. She had not, by doing good, prepared her soul for another
state, or cherished any hopes that could disarm death of its terrors, or
render that last sleep sweet—its approach was dreadful!—and she hastened
her end, scolding the physician for not curing her. Her lifeless
countenance displayed the marks of convulsive anger; and she left an
ample fortune behind her to those who did not regret her loss. They
followed her to the grave, on which no one shed a tear. She was soon
forgotten; and I only remember her, to warn you to shun her errors.
CHAP. V.
_Lying.—Honour.—Truth.—Small Duties.—History of Lady Sly and Mrs.
Trueman._
The little girls were very assiduous to gain Mrs. Mason’s good opinion;
and, by the mildness of their behavior, to prove to her that they were
ashamed of themselves. It was one of Mrs. Mason’s rules, when they
offended her, that is, behaved improperly, to treat them civilly; but to
avoid giving them those marks of affection which they were particularly
delighted to receive.
Yesterday, said she to them, I only mentioned to you one fault, though I
observed two. You very readily guess, I mean the lie that you both told.
Nay, look up, for I wish to see you blush; and the confusion which I
perceive in your faces gives me pleasure; because it convinces me that
it is not a confirmed habit: and indeed, my children, I should be sorry
that such a mean one had taken deep root in your infant minds.
When I speak of falsehood, I mean every kind; whatever tends to deceive,
though not said in direct terms. Tones of voice, motions of the hand or
head, if they make another believe what they ought not to believe, are
lies, and of the worst kind; because the contrivance aggravates the
guilt. I would much sooner forgive a lie told directly, when perhaps
fear entirely occupied the thoughts, and the presence of God was not
felt; for it is His sacred Majesty that you affront by telling an
untruth.
How so? enquired Mary.
Because you hope to conceal your falsehood from every human creature:
but, if you consider a moment, you must recollect that the Searcher of
hearts reads your very thoughts; that nothing is hid from him.
You would blush if I were to discover that you told a lie; yet wantonly
forfeit the favour of Him, from whom you have received life and all its
blessings, to screen yourselves from correction or reproof; or, what is
still worse, to purchase some trifling gratification, the pleasure of
which would last but a moment.
You heard the gentleman who visited me this morning, very frequently use
the word Honour. Honour consists in respecting yourself; in doing as you
would be done by; and the foundation of Honour is Truth.
When I can depend on the veracity of people, that is to say, am
convinced that they adhere to truth, I rely on them; am certain they
have courage, because I know they will bear any inconvenience, rather
than despise themselves for telling a lie. Besides, it is not necessary
to consider what you intend to say, when you have done right. Always
determine, on every occasion, to speak the truth, and you will never be
at a loss for words. If your character for this scrupulous attention is
once fixed, your acquaintance will be courted; and those who are not
particularly pleased with you will, at least, respect your honourable
principles.
It is impossible to form a friendship without making truth the basis; it
is indeed the essence of devotion, the employment of the understanding,
and the support of every duty.
I govern my servants, and you, by attending strictly to truth; and this
observance keeping my head clear and my heart pure, I am ever ready to
pray to the Author of good, the Fountain of truth.
While I am discussing the subject, let me point out to you another
branch of this virtue; Sincerity.—And remember that I every day set you
an example; for I never, to please for the moment, pay unmeaning
compliments, or permit any words to drop from my tongue, that my heart
does not dictate. And when I relate any matter of fact, I carefully
avoid embellishing it, in order to render it a more entertaining story;
not that I think such a practice absolutely criminal; but as it
contributes insensibly to wear away a respect for truth, I guard against
the vain impulse, lest I should lose the chief strength, and even
ornament, of my mind, and become like a wave of the sea, drifted about
by every gust of passion.
You must in life observe the most apparently insignificant duties—the
great ones are the pillars of virtue: but the constant concurrence of
trifling things makes it necessary that reason and conscience should
always preside, to keep the heart steady. Many people make promises and
appointments, which they scruple not to break, if a more inviting
pleasure occurs, not remembering that the slightest duty should be
performed before a mere amusement is pursued—for any neglect of this
kind embitters play. Nothing, believe me, can long be pleasant, that is
not innocent.
As I usually endeavour to recollect some persons of my acquaintance, who
have suffered by the faults, or follies, I wish you to avoid; I will
describe two characters, that will, if I mistake not, very strongly
enforce what I have been saying.
Last week you saw Lady Sly, who came to pay me a morning visit. Did you
ever see such a fine carriage, or such beautiful horses? How they pawed
the ground, and displayed their rich harnesses! Her servants wore
elegant liveries, and her own clothes suited the equipage. Her house is
equal to her carriage; the rooms are lofty, and hung with silk; noble
glasses and pictures adorn them: and the pleasure-grounds are large and
well laid out; beside the trees and shrubs, they contain a variety of
summer-houses and temples, as they are called. Yet, my young friends,
this is _state_, not _dignity_.
This woman has a little soul, she never attended to truth, and obtaining
great part of her fortune by falsehood, it has blighted all her
enjoyments. She inhabits that superb house, wears the gayest clothes,
and rides in that beautiful carriage, without feeling pleasure.
Suspicion, and the cares it has given birth to, have wrinkled her
countenance, and banished every trace of beauty, which paint in vain
endeavours to repair. Her suspicious temper arises from a knowledge of
her own heart, and the want of rational employments.
She imagines that every person she converses with means to deceive her;
and when she leaves a company, supposes all the ill they may say of her,
because she recollects her own practice. She listens about her house,
expecting to discover the designs of her servants, none of whom she can
trust; and in consequence of this anxiety her sleep is unsound, and her
food tasteless. She walks in her paradise of a garden, and smells not
the flowers, nor do the birds inspire her with chearfulness.—These
pleasures are true and simple, they lead to the love of God, and all the
creatures whom He hath made—and cannot warm a heart which a malicious
story can please.
She cannot pray to God—He hates a liar! She is neglected by her husband,
whose only motive for marrying her was to clear an incumbered estate.
Her son, her only child, is undutiful; the poor never have cause to
bless her; nor does she contribute to the happiness of any human being.
To kill time, and drive away the pangs of remorse, she goes from one
house to another, collecting and propagating scandalous tales, to bring
others on a level with herself. Even those who resemble her are afraid
of her; she lives alone in the world, its good things are poisoned by
her vices, and neither inspire joy nor gratitude.
Before I tell you how she acquired these vicious habits, and enlarged
her fortune by disregarding truth, I must desire you to think of Mrs.
Trueman, the curate’s wife, who lives in yonder white house close to the
church; it is a small one, yet the woodbines and jessamins that twine
about the windows give it a pretty appearance. Her voice is sweet, her
manners not only easy, but elegant; and her simple dress makes her
person appear to the greatest advantage.
She walks to visit me, and her little ones hang on her hands, and cling
to her clothes, they are so fond of her. If any thing terrifies them,
they run under her apron, and she looks like the hen taking care of her
young brood. The domestic animals play with the children, finding her a
mild, attentive mistress; and out of her scanty fortune she contrives to
feed and clothe many a hungry, shivering wretch, who bless her as she
passes along.
Though she has not any outward decorations, she appears superior to her
neighbours, who call her the _Gentlewoman_; indeed every gesture shews
an accomplished and dignified mind, that relies on itself, when deprived
of the fortune which contributed to polish and give it consequence.
Drawings, the amusement of her youth, ornament her neat parlour; some
musical instruments stand in one corner; for she plays with taste, and
sings sweetly.
All the furniture, not forgetting a bookcase, full of well-chosen books,
speak the refinement of the owner, and the pleasures a cultivated mind
has within its own grasp, independent of prosperity.
Her husband, a man of taste and learning, reads to her, while she makes
clothes for her children, whom she teaches, in the tenderest and most
persuasive manner, important truths and elegant accomplishments.
When you have behaved well for some time you shall visit her, and ramble
in her little garden; there are several pretty seats in it, and the
nightingales warble their sweetest songs, undisturbed, in the shade.
I have now given you an account of the present situation of both, and of
their characters; listen to me whilst I relate in what manner these
characters were formed, and the consequence of each adhering to a
different mode of conduct.
Lady Sly, when she was a child, used to say pert things, which the
injudicious people about her laughed at, and called very witty. Finding
that her prattle pleased, she talked incessantly, and invented stories,
when adding to those that had some foundation was not sufficient to
entertain the company. If she stole sweetmeats, or broke any thing, the
cat or the dog was blamed, and the poor animals were corrected for her
faults; nay, sometimes the servants lost their places in consequence of
her assertions. Her parents died and left her a large fortune, and an
aunt, who had a still larger, adopted her.
Mrs. Trueman, her cousin, was, some years after, adopted by the same
lady; but her parents could not leave their estate to her, as it
descended to the male heir. She had received the most liberal education,
and was in every respect the reverse of her cousin; who envied her
merit, and could not bear to think of her dividing the fortune which she
had long expected to inherit entirely herself. She therefore practised
every mean art to prejudice her aunt against her, and succeeded.
A faithful old servant endeavoured to open her mistress’s eyes; but the
cunning niece contrived to invent the most infamous story of the old
domestic, who was in consequence of it dismissed. Mrs. Trueman supported
her, when she could not succeed in vindicating her, and suffered for her
generosity; for her aunt dying soon after, left only five hundred pounds
to this amiable woman, and fifty thousand to Lady Sly.
They both of them married shortly after. One, the profligate Lord Sly,
and the other a respectable clergyman, who had been disappointed in his
hopes of preferment. This last couple, in spite of their mutual
disappointments, are contented with their lot; and are preparing
themselves and children for another world, where truth, virtue and
happiness dwell together.