resemble what God himself enjoys, whose truth and goodness produce a
sublime degree, such as we cannot conceive, it is so far above our
limited capacities.
I did not intend to detain you so long, said Mrs. Mason; have you
finished _Mrs. Trimmer’s Fabulous Histories_? Indeed we have, answered
Caroline mournfully, and I was very sorry to come to the end. I never
read such a pretty book; may I read it over again to Mrs. Trueman’s
little Fanny? Certainly, said Mrs. Mason, if you can make her understand
that birds never talk. Go and run about the garden, and remember, the
next lie I detect I shall punish; because lying is a vice; and I ought
to punish you if you are guilty of it, to prevent your feeling Lady
Sly’s misery.
CHAP. VI.
_Anger.—Folly produces Self-contempt, and the Neglect of others._
Mrs. Mason had a number of visitors one forenoon, who conversed in the
usual thoughtless manner, which people often fall into who do not
consider before they speak: they talked of Caroline’s beauty, and she
gave herself many affected airs to make it appear to the best advantage.
But Mary, who had not a face to be proud of, was observing some
peculiarities in the dress or manners of the guests; and one very
respectable old lady, who had lost her teeth, afforded her more
diversion than any of the rest.
The children went to bed without being reproved, though Mrs. Mason, when
she dismissed them, said gravely, I give you to-night a kiss of peace,
an affectionate one you have not deserved. They therefore discovered by
her behaviour that they had done wrong, and waited for an explanation to
regain her favour.
She was never in a passion, but her quiet, steady displeasure made them
feel so little in their own eyes, they wished her to smile that they
might be something; for all their consequence seemed to arise from her
approbation. I declare, said Caroline, I do not know what I have done,
and yet I am sure I never knew Mrs. Mason find fault, without convincing
me that I had done wrong. Did you, Mary, ever see her in a passion? No,
said Mary, I do believe that she was never angry in her life; when John
threw down all the china, and stood trembling, she was the first to say
that the carpet made him stumble. Yes, now I do remember, when we first
came to her house, John forgot to bring the cow and her young calf into
the cow-house; I heard her bid him do it directly, and the poor calf was
almost frozen to death—she spoke then in a hurry, and seemed angry. Now
you mention it, I do recollect, replied Caroline, that she was angry,
when Betty did not carry the poor sick woman the broth she ordered her
to take to her. But this is not like the passion I used to see nurse in,
when any thing vexed her. She would scold us, and beat the girl who
waited on her. Poor little Jenny! many a time was she beaten, when we
vexed nurse: I would tell her she was to blame now if I saw her, and I
would not tease her any more.
I declare I cannot go to sleep, said Mary, I am afraid of Mrs. Mason’s
eyes—would you think, Caroline, that she who looks so very good-natured
sometimes could frighten one so? I wish I were as wise and as good as
she is. The poor woman with the six children, whom we met on the common,
said she was an angel, and that she had saved her’s and her children’s
lives. My heart is in my mouth, indeed, replied Caroline, when I think
of to-morrow morning, and yet I am much happier than I was when we were
at home. I cried, I cannot now tell for what, all day; I never wished to
be good—nobody told me what it was to be good. I wish to be a woman,
said Mary, and to be like Mrs. Mason, or Mrs. Trueman—we are to go to
see her if we behave well.
Sleep soon overpowered them, and they forgot their apprehensions. In the
morning they awoke refreshed, and took care to learn their lessons, and
feed their chickens, before Mrs. Mason left her chamber.
CHAP. VII.
_Virtue the Soul of Beauty.—The Tulip and the Rose.—The
Nightingale.—External Ornaments.—Characters._
The next morning Mrs. Mason met them first in the garden; and she
desired Caroline to look at a bed of tulips, that were then in their
highest state of perfection. I, added she, choose to have every kind of
flower in my garden, as the succession enables me to vary my daily
prospect, and gives it the charm of variety; yet these tulips afford me
less pleasure than most of the other sort which I cultivate—and I will
tell you why—they are only beautiful. Listen to my distinction;—good
features, and a fine complexion, I term _bodily_ beauty. Like the
streaks in the tulip, they please the eye for a moment; but this
uniformity soon tires, and the active mind flies off to something else.
The soul of beauty, my dear children, consists in the body gracefully
exhibiting the emotions and variations of the informing mind. If truth,
humanity and knowledge inhabit the breast, the eyes will beam with a
mild lustre, modesty will suffuse the cheeks, and smiles of innocent joy
play over all the features. At first sight, regularity and colour will
attract, and have the advantage, because the hidden springs are not
directly set in motion; but when internal goodness is reflected, every
other kind of beauty, the shadow of it, withers away before it, as the
sun obscures a lamp.
You are certainly handsome, Caroline; I mean, have good features; but
you must improve your mind to give them a pleasing expression, or they
will only serve to lead your understanding astray. I have seen some
foolish people take great pains to decorate the outside of their houses,
to attract the notice of strangers, who gazed, and passed on; whilst the
inside, where they received their friends, was dark and inconvenient.
Apply this observation to mere personal attractions. They may, it is
true, for a few years, charm the superficial part of your acquaintance,
whose notions of beauty are not built on any principle of utility. Such
persons might look at you, as they would glance their eye over these
tulips, and feel for a moment the same pleasure that a view of the
variegated rays of light would convey to a uninformed mind. The lower
class of mankind, and children, are fond of finery; gaudy, dazzling
appearances catch their attention; but the discriminating judgment of a
person of sense requires, besides colour, order, proportion, grace and
usefulness, to render the idea of beauty complete.
Observe that rose, it has all the perfections I speak of; colour, grace,
and sweetness—and even when the fine tints fade, the smell is grateful
to those who have before contemplated its beauties. I have only one bed
of tulips, though my garden is large, but, in every part of it, roses
attract the eye.
You have seen Mrs. Trueman, and think her a very fine woman; yet her
skin and complexion have only the clearness that temperance gives; and
her features, strictly speaking, are not regular: Betty, the house-maid,
has, in both these respects, much the superiority over her. But, though
it is not easy to define in what her beauty consists, the eye follows
her whenever she moves; and every person of taste listens for the
modulated sounds which proceed out of her mouth, to be improved and
pleased. It is conscious worth, _truth_, that gives dignity to her walk,
and simple elegance to her conversation. She has, indeed, a most
excellent understanding, and a feeling heart; sagacity and tenderness,
the result of both, are happily blended in her countenance; and taste is
the polish, which makes them appear to the best advantage. She is more
than beautiful; and you see her varied excellencies again and again,
with increasing pleasure. They are not obtruded on you, for knowledge
has taught her true humility: she is not like the flaunting tulip, that
forces itself forward into notice; but resembles the modest rose, you
see yonder, retiring under its elegant foliage.
I have mentioned flowers—the same order is observed in the higher
departments of nature. Think of the birds; those that sing best have not
the finest plumage; indeed just the contrary; God divides his gifts, and
amongst the feathered race, the nightingale (sweetest of warblers, who
pours forth her varied strain when sober eye comes on) you would seek in
vain in the morning, if you expected that beautiful feathers should
point out the songstress: many who incessantly twitter, and are only
tolerable in the general concert, would surpass her, and attract your
attention.
I knew, some time before you were born, a very fine, a very handsome
girl; I saw she had abilities, and I saw with pain that she attended to
the most obvious, but least valuable gift of Heaven. Her ingenuity
slept, whilst she tried to render her person more alluring. At last she
caught the small-pox—her beauty vanished, and she was for a time
miserable; but the natural vivacity of youth overcame her unpleasant
feelings. In consequence of the disorder, her eyes became so weak that
she was obliged to sit in a dark room. To beguile the tedious day she
applied to music, and made a surprising proficiency. She even began to
think in her retirement, and when she recovered her sight grew fond of
reading.
Large companies did not now amuse her, she was no longer the object of
admiration, or if she was taken notice of, it was to be pitied, to hear
her former self praised, and to hear them lament the depredation that
dreadful disease had made in a fine face. Not expecting or wishing to be
observed, she lost her affected airs, and attended to the conversation,
in which she was soon able to bear a part. In short, the desire of
pleasing took a different turn, and as she improved her mind, she
discovered that virtue, internal beauty, was valuable on its own
account, and not like that of the person, which resembles a toy, that
pleases the observer, but does not render the possessor happy.
She found that, in acquiring knowledge, her mind grew tranquil, and the
noble desire of acting conformably to the will of God succeeded, and
drove out the immoderate vanity which before actuated her, when her
equals were the objects she thought most of, and whose approbation she
sought with such eagerness. And what had she sought? To be stared at and
called handsome. Her beauty, the mere sight of it, did not make others
good, or comfort the afflicted; but after she had lost it, she was
comfortable herself, and set her friends the most useful example.
The money that she had formerly appropriated to ornament her person, now
clothed the naked; yet she really appeared better dressed, as she had
acquired the habit of employing her time to the best advantage, and
could make many things herself. Besides, she did not implicitly follow
the reigning fashion, for she had learned to distinguish, and in the
most trivial matters acted according to the dictates of good sense.
The children made some comments on this story, but the entrance of a
visitor interrupted the conversation, and they ran about the garden,
comparing the roses and tulips.
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._
The evening was pleasant; Mrs. Mason and the children walked out; and
many rustic noises struck their ears. Some bells in a neighbouring
village, softened by the distance, sounded pleasingly; the beetles
hummed, and the children pursued them, not to destroy them, but to
observe their form, and ask questions concerning their mode of living.
Sheep were bleating and cattle lowing, the rivulet near them babbled
along, while the sound of the distant ocean died away on the ear—or they
forgot it, listening to the whistling of the haymakers, who were
returning from the field. They met a whole family, who came every year
from another county where they could not find constant employment, and
Mrs. Mason allowed them to sleep in her barn. The little ones knew their
benefactress, and tried to catch a smile; and she was ever ready to
smile on those whom she obliged; for she loved all her fellow-creatures,
and love lightens obligations. Besides, she thought that the poor who
are willing to work, had a right to the comforts of life.
A few moments after, they met a deformed woman; the children stared her
almost out of countenance; but Mrs. Mason turned her head another way,
and when the poor object was out of hearing, said to Mary, I intended to
reprove you this morning for a fault which I have frequently seen you
commit; and this moment and the other evening it was particularly
conspicuous. When that deformed woman passed us, I involuntarily looked
at something else, and would not let her perceive that she was a
disgusting figure, and attracted notice on that account. I say, I did it
involuntarily, for I have accustomed myself to think of others, and what
they will suffer on all occasions: and this lothness to offend, or even
to hurt the feelings of another, is an instantaneous spring which
actuates my conduct, and makes me kindly affected to every thing that
breathes. If I then am so careful not to wound a stranger, what shall I
think of your behaviour, Mary, when you laughed at a respectable old
woman, who, beside her virtues and her age, had been particularly civil
to you. I have always seen persons of the weakest understandings, and
whose hearts benevolence seldom touched, ridicule bodily infirmities,
and accidental defects. They could only relish the inferior kind of
beauty, which I described this morning, and a silly joy has elated their
empty souls, on finding, by comparison, that they were superior to
others in that respect, though the conclusion was erroneous, for merit,
mental acquirements, can only give a just claim to superiority. Had you
possessed the smallest portion of discernment, you would soon have
forgotten the tones, loss of teeth made drawling, in listening to the
chearful good sense which that worthy woman’s words conveyed. You
laughed, because you were ignorant, and I now excuse you; but some years
hence, if I were to see you in company, with such a propensity, I should
still think you a child; an overgrown one, whose mind did not expand as
the body grew.
The sky began to thicken, and the lowing of the cattle to have a
melancholy cadence; the nightingale forgot her song, and fled to her
nest; and the sea roared and lashed the rocks. During the calm which
portended an approaching storm, every creature was running for
shelter.—We must, if possible, said Mrs. Mason, reach yon cottage on the
cliff, for we shall soon have a violent thunder-storm. They quickened
their pace, but the hurricane overtook them. The hail-stones fell, the
clouds seemed to open and disclose the lightning, while loud peals of
thunder shook the ground; the wind also in violent gusts rushed among
the trees, tore off the slender branches and loosened the roots.
The children were terrified; but Mrs. Mason gave them each a hand, and
chatted with them to dispel their fears. She informed them that storms
were necessary to dissipate noxious vapours, and to answer many other
purposes, which were not, perhaps, obvious to our weak understandings.
But are you not afraid? cried the trembling Caroline. No, certainly, I
am not afraid.—I walk with the same security as when the sun enlivened
the prospect—God is still present, and we are safe. Should the flash
that passes by us strike me dead, it cannot hurt me, I fear not death!—I
only fear that Being who can render death terrible, on whose providence
I calmly rest; and my confidence earthly sorrows cannot destroy. A mind
is never truly great, till the love of virtue overcomes the fear of
death.
By this time they had mounted the cliff, and saw the tumultuous deep.
The angry billows rose, and dashed against the shore, and the loud noise
of the raging sea resounded from rock to rock.
They ran into the cottage; the poor woman who lived in it sent her
children for wood, and soon made a good fire to dry them.
The father of the family soon after came in, leaning on crutches; and
over one eye there was a large patch. I am glad to see you honest Jack,
said Mrs. Mason; come and take your seat by the fire, and tell the
children the story of your shipwreck.
He instantly complied. I was very young, my dear ladies, said Jack, when
I went to sea, and endured many hardships,—however I made a shift to
weather them all; and whether the wind was fair or foul, I ran up the
shrouds and sung at the helm. I had always a good heart, no lad fore or
aft had a better; when we were at sea, I never was the first to flinch;
and on shore I was as merry as the best of them. I married she you see
yonder, (lifting his crutch to point to his wife) and her work and my
wages did together, till I was shipwrecked on these rocks. Oh! it was a
dreadful night; this is nothing to it; but I am getting to the end of my
story before I begin it.
During the war, I went once or twice to New York. The last was a good
voyage, and we were all returning with joy to dear England, when the
storm rose; the vessel was like a bird, it flew up and down, and several
of our best hands were washed clean overboard—My poor captain! a better
never plowed the ocean, he fell overboard too, and it was some time
before we missed him, for it was quite dark, except that flashes of
lightning now and then gave us light. I was at the helm, lashing it to
the side of the ship—a dreadful flash came across me, and I lost one of
my precious eyes.—But thank God I have one left.
The weather cleared up next day, and, though we had been finely mauled,
I began to hope, for I hate to be faint-hearted, and certainly we should
have got into the channel very soon, if we had not fell in with a French
man of war, which took us; for we could not make any resistance.
I had a dog, poor Pompey! with me. Pompey would not leave me, he was as
fond of me as if he had been a christian. I had lost one eye by the
lightning, the other had been sore, so that I could hardly call it a
peep-hole. Somehow I fell down the hatchway, and bruised one of my legs;
but I did not mind it, do ye see, till we arrived at Brest and were
thrown into a French Prison.
There I was worse off than ever; the room we were all stowed in was full
of vermin, and our food very bad; mouldy biscuits, and salt fish. The
prison was choke full, and many a morning did we find some honest fellow
with his chops fallen—he was not to be waked any more!—he was gone to
the other country, do ye see.
Yet the French have not such hard hearts as people say they have!
Several women brought us broth and wine; and one gave me some rags to
wrap round my leg, it was very painful, I could not clean it, nor had I
any plaister. One day I was looking sorrowfully at it, thinking for
certain I should lose my precious limb; when, would you believe it?
Pompey saw what I was thinking about, and began to lick it.—And, I never
knew such a surprizing thing, it grew better and better every day, and
at last was healed without any plaister.
After that I was very sick, and the same tender-hearted creature who
gave me the rags, took me to her house; and fresh air soon recovered me.
I for certain ought to speak well of the French; but for their kindness
I should have been in another port by this time. Mayhap I might have
gone with a fair wind, yet I should have been sorry to have left my poor
wife and her children. But I am letting all my line run out! Well,
by-and-by, there was an exchange of prisoners, and we were once more in
an English vessel, and I made sure of seeing my family again; but the
weather was still foul. Three days and nights we were in the greatest
distress; and the fourth the ship was dashed against these rocks. Oh! if
you had heard the crash! The water rushed in—the men screamed, Lord have
mercy on us! There was a woman in the ship, and, as I could swim, I
tried to save her, and Pompey followed me; but I lost him—poor fellow! I
declare I cried like a child when I saw his dead body. However I brought
the woman to shore; and assisted some more of my mess-mates; but,
standing in the water so long, I lost the use of my limbs—yet Heaven was
good to me; Madam, there, sent a cart for us all, and took care of us;
but I never recovered the use of my limbs. So she asked me all about my
misfortunes, and sent for wife, who came directly, and we have lived
here ever since. We catch fish for Madam, and I watch for a storm,
hoping some time or other to be as kind to a poor perishing soul as she
has been to me. Indeed we are very happy—I might now have been begging
about the streets, but for Madam, God bless her!
A tear strayed down Mrs. Mason’s cheek, while a smile of benevolence
lighted up her countenance—the little girls caught each hand—They were
all silent a few minutes, when she, willing to turn the discourse,
enquired whether they had any fish in the house? Some were produced,
they were quickly dressed, and they all eat together. They had a
chearful meal, and honest Jack sung some of his seafaring songs, and did
all he could to divert them and express his gratitude. Getting up to
reach the brown loaf, he limped very awkwardly, Mary was just beginning
to laugh, when she restrained herself; for she recollected that his
awkwardness made him truly respectable, because he had lost the use of
his limbs when he was doing good, saving the lives of his
fellow-creatures.
The weather cleared up, and they returned home. The children conversed
gaily with each other all the way home, talking of the poor sailor, and
his faithful dog.
CHAP. IX.
_The Inconveniences of immoderate Indulgence._
The children were allowed to help themselves to fruit, when it made a
part of their meal; and Caroline always took care to pick out the best,
or swallow what she took in a hurry, lest she should not get as much as
she wished for. Indeed she generally eat more than her share. She had
several times eaten more than a person ought to eat at one time, without
feeling any ill effects; but one afternoon she complained of a pain in
her stomach in consequence of it, and her pale face and languid eyes
plainly shewed her indisposition. Mrs. Mason gave her an emetic, and
after the operation she was obliged to go to bed, though she had
promised herself a pleasant walk that evening. She was left alone, for
Mary was not permitted to stay at home with her, as she offered to do.
Had her sickness been accidental, we would both have tried to amuse her,
said Mrs. Mason; but her greediness now receiving its natural and just
punishment, she must endure it without the alleviation which pity
affords; only tell her from me, that the pleasure was but momentary,
while the pain and confinement it produced has already lasted some
hours.
The next morning, though scarcely recovered, she got up, as usual, to
have a walk before breakfast. During these walks, Mrs. Mason told them
stories, pointed out the wisdom of God in the creation, and took them to
visit her poor tenants. These visits not only enabled her to form a
judgment of their wants, but made them very industrious; for they were
all anxious that she might find their houses and persons clean. And
returning through the farmyard, Mrs. Mason stopped according to custom,
to see whether the poor animals were taken care of—this she called
earning her breakfast. The servant was just feeding the pigs, and though
she poured a great quantity into the trough, the greedy creatures tried
to gobble it up from one another. Caroline blushed, she saw this sight
was meant for her, and she felt ashamed of her gluttony. But Mrs. Mason,
willing to impress her still more strongly, thus addressed her.