purposes—two are generally obvious; I will point them out to you. First
to render our present life more comfortable, and then to prepare us for
another, by making us sociable beings; as in society virtue is acquired,
and self-denial practised. A moderate quantity of proper food recruits
our exhausted spirits, and invigorates the animal functions; but, if we
exceed moderation, the mind will be oppressed, and soon become the slave
of the body, or both grow listless and inactive. Employed various ways,
families meet at meals, and there giving up to each other, learn in the
most easy, pleasant way to govern their appetites. Pigs, you see, devour
what they can get; but men, if they have any affections, love their
fellow-creatures, and wish for a return; nor will they, for the sake of
a brutish gratification, lose the esteem of those they value. Besides,
no one can be reckoned virtuous who has not learned to bear poverty: yet
those who think much of gratifying their appetites, will at last act
meanly in order to indulge them. But when any employment of the
understanding, or strong affection occupies the mind, eating is seldom
thought a matter of greater importance than it ought to be. Let the idle
_think_ of their meals; but do you employ the intermediate time in a
different manner, and only enjoy them when you join the social circle. I
like to see children, and even men, eat chearfully, and gratefully
receive the blessings sent by Heaven; yet I would not have them abuse
those blessings, or ever let the care necessary to support the body
injure the immortal spirit: many think of the sustenance the former
craves, and entirely neglect the latter.
I remarked to you before, that in the most apparently trivial concerns,
we are to do as we would be done by. This duty must be practised
constantly; at meals there are frequent opportunities, and I hope,
Caroline, I shall never again see you eager to secure dainties for
yourself. If such a disposition were to grow up with you, you ought to
live alone, for no one should enjoy the advantages and pleasures which
arise from social intercourse, who is unwilling to give way to the
inclinations of others, and allow each their share of the good things of
this life.
You experienced yesterday, that pain follows immoderate indulgence; it
is always the case, though sometimes not felt so immediately; but the
constitution is insensibly destroyed, and old age will come on, loaded
with infirmities. You also lost a very pleasant walk, and some fine
fruit. We visited Mrs. Goodwin’s garden, and as Mary had before
convinced me that she could regulate her appetites, I gave her leave to
pluck as much fruit as she wished; and she did not abuse my indulgence.
On the contrary, she spent most part of the time in gathering some for
me, and her attention made it taste sweeter.
Coming home I called her my friend, and she deserved the name, for she
was no longer a child; a reasonable affection had conquered an appetite;
her understanding took the lead, and she had practised a virtue.
The subject was now dropped; but Caroline determined to copy in future
her sister’s temperance and self-denial.
CHAP. X.
_The Danger of Delay.—Description of a Mansion-house in Ruins.—The
History of Charles Townley._
Mrs. Mason, who always regulated her own time, and never loitered her
hours irresolutely away, had very frequently to wait for the children,
when she wished to walk, though she had desired them to be ready at a
precise time. Mary in particular had a trick of putting every thing off
till the last moment, and then she did but half do it, or left it
undone. This indolent way of delaying made her miss many opportunities
of obliging and doing good; and whole hours were lost in thoughtless
idleness, which she afterwards wished had been better employed.
This was the case one day, when she had a letter to write to her father;
and though it was mentioned to her early in the morning, the finest part
of the evening slipped away whilst she was finishing it; and her haste
made her forget the principal thing which she intended to have said.
Out of breath she joined them; and after they had crossed several
fields, Mrs. Mason turning down a long avenue, bade them look at a large
old mansion-house. It was now in ruins. Ivy grew over the substantial
walls, that still refitted the depredations of time, and almost
concealed a noble arch, on which maimed lions couched; and vultures and
eagles, who had lost their wings, seemed to rest for ever there. Near it
was a rookery, and the rooks lived safe in the high trees, whose trunks
were all covered with ivy or moss, and a number of fungusses grew about
their large roots. The grass was long, and remaining undisturbed, save
when the wind swept across it, was of course pathless. Here the mower
never whet his scythe, nor did the haymakers mix their songs with the
hoarse croaking of the rooks. A spacious bason, on the margin of which
water plants grew with wild luxuriance, was overspread with slime; and
afforded a shelter for toads and adders. In many places were heaped the
ruins of ornamental buildings, whilst sun-dials rested in the shade; and
pedestals, that had crushed the figures they before supported. Making
their way through the grass, they would frequently stumble over a
headless statue, or the head would impede their progress. When they
spoke, the sound seemed to return again, as if unable to penetrate the
thick stagnated air. The sun could not dart its purifying rays through
the thick gloom, and the fallen leaves contributed to choke up the way,
and render the air more noxious.
I brought you to this place on purpose this evening, said Mrs. Mason to
the children, who clung about her, to tell you the history of the last
inhabitant; but, as this part is unwholesome, we will sit on the broken
stones of the drawbridge.
Charles Townley was a boy of uncommon abilities, and strong feelings;
but he ever permitted those feelings to direct his conduct, without
submitting to the direction of reason; I mean, the present emotion
governed him. He had not any strength or consistency of character; one
moment he enjoyed a pleasure, and the next felt the pangs of remorse, on
account of some duty which he had neglected. He always indeed intended
to act right in every particular _to-morrow_; but _to-day_ he followed
the prevailing whim.
He heard by chance of a man in great distress, he determined to relieve
him, and left his house in order to follow the humane impulse; but
meeting an acquaintance, he was persuaded to go to the play, and
_to-morrow_, he thought, he would do the act of charity. The next
morning some company came to breakfast with him, and took him with them
to view some fine pictures. In the evening he went to a concert; the day
following he was tired, and laid in bed till noon; then read a pathetic
story, well wrought up, _wept_ over it—fell asleep—and forgot to _act_
humanely. An accident reminded him of his intention; he sent to the man,
and found that he had too long delayed—the relief was useless.
In this thoughtless manner he spent his time and fortune; never applying
to any profession, though formed to shine in any one he should have
chosen. His friends were offended, and at last allowed him to languish
in a gaol; and as there appeared no probability of reforming or fixing
him, they left him to struggle with adversity.
Severely did he reproach himself—He was almost lost in despair, when a
friend visited him. This friend loved the latent sparks of virtue which
he imagined would some time or other light up, and animate his conduct.
He paid his debts, and gave him a sum of money sufficient to enable him
to prepare for a voyage to the East Indies, where Charles wished to go,
to try to regain his lost fortune. Through the intercession of this
kind, considerate friend, his relations were reconciled to him, and his
spirits raised.
He sailed with a fair wind, and fortune favouring his most romantic
wishes, in the space of fifteen years, he acquired a much larger fortune
than he had even hoped for, and thought of visiting, nay, settling in
his native country for the remainder of his life.
Though impressed by the most lively sense of gratitude, he had dropped
his friend’s correspondence; yet, as he knew that he had a daughter, his
first determination was to reserve for her the greater part of his
property, as the most substantial proof which he could give of his
gratitude.—The thought pleased him, and that was sufficient to divert
him for some months; but accidentally hearing that his friend had been
very unsuccessful in trade, this information made him wish to hasten his
return to his native country. Still a procrastinating spirit possessed
him, and he delayed from time to time the arduous task of settling his
affairs, previous to his departure: he wrote, however, to England, and
transmitted a considerable sum to a correspondent, desiring that this
house might be prepared for him, and the mortgage cleared.
I can scarcely enumerate the various delays that prevented his
embarking; and when he arrived in England, he came here, and was so
childishly eager to have his house fitted up with taste, that he
actually trifled away a month, before he went to seek for his friend.
But his negligence was now severely punished. He learned that he had
been reduced to great distress, and thrown into the very gaol, out of
which he took Townley, who, hastening to it, only found his dead body
there; for he died the day before. On the table was lying, amidst some
other scraps of paper, a letter, directed in an unsteady hand to Charles
Townley. He tore it open. Few were the scarcely legible lines; but they
smote his heart. He read as follows:
“I have been reduced by unforeseen misfortunes; yet when I heard of your
arrival, a gleam of joy cheered my heart—_I thought I knew your’s_, and
that my latter days might still have been made comfortable in your
society, for I loved you; I even expected pleasure; but I was mistaken;
death is my only friend.”
He read it over and over again; and cried out, Gracious God, had I
arrived but one day sooner I should have seen him, and he would not have
died thinking me the most ungrateful wretch that ever burdened the
earth! He then knocked his clinched fist against his forehead, looked
wildly round the dreary apartment, and exclaimed in a choked, though
impatient tone, You sat here yesterday, thinking of my ingratitude—Where
are you now? Oh! that I had seen you! Oh! that my repenting sighs could
reach you!—
He ordered the body to be interred, and returned home a prey to grief
and despondency. Indulging it to excess, he neglected to enquire after
his friend’s daughter; he intended to provide amply for her, but now he
could only grieve.
Some time elapsed, then he sent, and the intelligence which he procured
aggravated his distress, and gave it a severe additional sting.
The poor gentle girl had, during her father’s life, being engaged to a
worthy young man; but, some time after his death, the relations of her
lover had sent him to sea to prevent the match taking place. She was
helpless, and had not sufficient courage to combat with poverty; to
escape from it, she married an old rake whom she detested. He was
ill-humoured, and his vicious habits rendered him a most dreadful
companion. She tried in vain to please him, and banish the sorrow that
bent her down, and made wealth and all the pleasures it could procure
tasteless. Her tender father was dead—she had lost her lover—without a
friend or confident, silent grief consumed her. I have told you
friendship is only to be found amongst the virtuous; her husband was
vicious.
Ah! why did she marry? said Mary.
Because she was timid; but I have not told you all; the grief that did
not break her heart, disturbed her reason; and her husband confined her
in a mad-house.
Charles heard of this last circumstance; he visited her. Fanny, said he,
do you recollect your old friend? Fanny looked at him, and reason for a
moment resumed her seat, and informed her countenance to trace anguish
on it—the trembling light soon disappeared—wild fancy fitted in her
eyes, and animated her incessant rant. She sung several verses of
different songs, talked of her husband’s ill-usage—enquired if he had
lately been to sea; and frequently addressed her father as if he were
behind her chair, or sitting by her.
Charles could not bear this scene—If I could lose like her a sense of
woe, he cried, this intolerable anguish would not tear my heart! The
fortune which he had intended for her could not restore her reason; but,
had he sent for her soon after her father’s death, he might have saved
her and comforted himself.
The last stroke was worse than the first; he retired to this abode;
melancholy creeping on him, he let his beard grow, and the garden run
wild. One room in the house the poor lunatic inhabited; and he had a
proper person to attend her, and guard her from the dangers she wished
to encounter. Every day he visited her, the fight of her would almost
have unhinged a sound mind—How could he bear it, when his conscience
reproached him, and whispered that he had neglected to do good, to live
to any rational purpose—The sweets of friendship were denied, and he
every day contemplated the saddest of all sights—the wreck of a human
understanding.
He died without a will. The estate was litigated, and as the title to
this part could not be proved, the house was let fall into its present
state.
But the night will overtake us, we must make haste home—Give me your
hand, Mary, you tremble; surely I need not desire you to remember this
story—Be calm, my child, and remember that you must attend to trifles;
do all the good you can the present day, nay hour, if you would keep
your conscience clear. This circumspection may not produce dazzling
actions, nor will your silent virtue be supported by human applause; but
your Father, who seeth in secret, will reward you.
CHAP. XI.
_Dress.—A Character.—Remarks on Mrs. Trueman’s Manner of
dressing.—Trifling Omissions undermine Affection._
Mary’s procrastinating temper produced many other ill consequences; she
would lie in bed till the last moment, and then appear without washing
her face or cleaning her teeth. Mrs. Mason had often observed it, and
hinted her dislike; but, unwilling to burden her with precepts, she
waited for a glaring example. One was soon accidentally thrown in her
way, and she determined that it should not pass unobserved.
A lady, who was remarkable for her negligence in this respect, spent a
week with them; and, during that time, very frequently disconcerted the
œconomy of the family. She was seldom fit to be seen, and if any company
came by chance to dinner, she would make them wait till it was quite
cold, whilst she huddled on some ill-chosen finery. In the same style,
if a little party of pleasure was proposed, she had to dress herself,
and the hurry discomposed her, and tired those, who did not like to lose
time in anticipating a trifling amusement.
A few hours after she had left them, Mrs. Mason enquired of Mary, what
effect this week’s experience had had on her mind? You are fond of
ridicule, child, but seldom in the right place; real cause for it you
let slip, and heed not the silent reproof that points at your own
faults:—do not mistake me, I would not have you laugh at—yet I wish you
to feel, what is ridiculous, and learn to distinguish folly. Mrs.
Dowdy’s negligence arises from indolence; her mind is not employed about
matters of importance; and, if it were, it would not be a sufficient
excuse for her habitually neglecting an essential part of a man’s as
well as a woman’s duty. I said habitually; grief will often make those
careless, who, at other times, pay a proper attention to their person;
and this neglect is a sure indication that the canker-worm is at work;
and we ought to pity rather than blame the unfortunate. Indeed when
painful activity of mind occasions this inattention, it will not last
long; the soul struggles to free itself, and return to its usual tone
and old habits. The lady we have been speaking of ever appears a sloven,
though she is sometimes a disgusting figure, and, at others, a very
taudry flirt.
I continually caution Caroline not to spend much time in adorning her
person; but I never desired you to neglect yours. Wisdom consists in
avoiding extremes—immoderate fondness for dress, I term vanity; but a
proper attention to avoid singularity does not deserve that name. Never
waste much time about trifles; but the time that is necessary, employ
properly. Exercise your understanding, taste flows from it, and will in
a moment direct you, if you are not too solicitous to conform to the
changing fashions; and loiter away in laborious idleness the precious
moments when the imagination is most lively, and should be allowed to
fix virtuous affections in the tender youthful heart.
Of all the women whom I have ever met with, Mrs. Trueman seems the
freest from vanity, and those frivolous views which degrade the female
character. Her virtues claim respect, and the practice of them engrosses
her thoughts; yet her clothes are apparently well chosen, and you always
see her in the same attire. Not like many women who are eager to set off
their persons to the best advantage, when they are only going to take a
walk, and are careless, nay slovenly, when forced to stay at home. Mrs.
Trueman’s conduct is just the reverse; she tries to avoid singularity,
for she does not wish to disgust the generality; but it is her family,
her friends, whom she studies to please.
In dress it is not little minute things, but the _whole_ that should be
attended to, and that every day; and this attention gives an ease to the
person because the clothes appear unstudily graceful. Never, continued
Mrs. Mason, desire to excel in trifles, if you do, there is an end to
virtuous emulation, the mind cannot attend to both; for when the main
pursuit is trivial, the character will of course become insignificant.
Habitual neatness is laudable; but if you wish to be reckoned a well, an
elegantly dressed girl, and feel that praise on account of it gives you
pleasure, you are vain; and a laudable ambition cannot dwell with
vanity.
Servants, and those women whose minds have had a very limited range,
place all their happiness in ornaments, and frequently neglect the only
essential part in dress—neatness.
I have not the least objection to your dressing according to your age; I
rather encourage it, by allowing you to wear the gayest colours; yet I
insist on some degree of uniformity: and think you treat me
disrespectfully when you appear before me, and have forgotten to do,
what should never be neglected, and what you could have done in less
than a quarter of an hour.
I always dress myself before breakfast, and expect you to follow my
example, if there is not a sufficient and obvious excuse. You, Mary,
missed a pleasant airing yesterday; for if you had not forgotten the
respect which is due to me, and hurried down to breakfast in a slovenly
manner, I should have taken you out with me; but I did not choose to
wait till you were ready, as your not being so was entirely your own
fault.
Fathers, and men in general, complain of this inattention; they have
always to wait for females. Learn to avoid this fault, however
insignificant it may appear in your eyes, for that habit cannot be of
little consequence that sometimes weakens esteem. When we frequently
make allowance for another in trifling matters, notions of inferiority
take root in the mind, and too often produce contempt. Respect for the
understanding must be the basis of constancy; the tenderness which flows
from pity is liable to perish insensibly, to consume itself—even the
virtues of the heart, when they degenerate into weakness, sink a
character in our estimation. Besides, a kind of gross familiarity takes
place of decent affection; and the respect, which alone can render
domestic intimacy a lasting comfort, is lost before we are aware of it.
CHAP. XII.
_Behaviour to Servants.—True Dignity of Character._
The children not coming down to breakfast one morning at the usual time,
Mrs. Mason went herself to enquire the reason; and as she entered the
apartment, heard Mary say to the maid who assisted her, I wonder at your
impertinence, to talk thus to me—do you know who you are speaking
to?—she was going on, but Mrs. Mason interrupted her, and answered the
question—to a little girl, who is only assisted because she is weak.
Mary shrunk back abashed, and Mrs. Mason continued: as you have treated
Betty, who is ten years older than yourself, improperly, you must now do
every thing for yourself; and, as you will be some time about it,
Caroline and I will eat our breakfast, and visit Mrs. Trueman. By the
time we return, you may perhaps have recollected that children are
inferior to servants, who act from the dictates of reason, and whose
understandings are arrived at some degree of maturity, while children
must be governed and directed till _their’s_ gains strength to work by
itself: for it is the proper exercise of our reason that makes us in any
degree independent.
When Mrs. Mason returned, she mildly addressed Mary. I have often told
you that every dispensation of Providence tended to our improvement, if
we do not perversely act contrary to our interest. One being is made
dependent on another, that love and forbearance may soften the human
heart, and that linked together by necessity, and the exercise of the
social affections, the whole family on earth might have a fellow-feeling
for each other. By these means we improve one another; but there is no
real inferiority.
You have read the fable of the head supposing itself superior to the
rest of the members, though all are equally necessary to the support of
life. If I behave improperly to servants, I am really their inferior, as
I abuse a trust, and imitate not the Being, whose servant I am, without
a shadow of equality. Children are helpless. I order my servants to wait
on you, because you are so; but I have not as much respect for you as
for them; you may possibly become a virtuous character.—Many of my
servants are really so already; they have done their duty, filled an
humble station, as they ought to fill it, conscientiously. And do you
dare to despise those whom your Creator approves?
Before the greatest earthly beings I should not be awed, they are my
fellow servants; and, though superior in rank, which, like personal
beauty, only dazzles the vulgar; yet I may possess more knowledge and
virtue. The same feeling actuates me when I am in company with the poor;
we are creatures of the same nature, and I may be their inferior in
those graces which should adorn my soul, and render me truly great.
How often must I repeat to you, that a child is inferior to a man;
because reason is in its infancy, and it is reason which exalts a man
above a brute; and the cultivation of it raises the wise man above the
ignorant; for wisdom is only another name for virtue.
This morning, when I entered your apartment, I heard you insult a worthy
servant. You had just said your prayers; but they must have been only
the gabble of the tongue; your heart was not engaged in the sacred
employment, or you could not so soon have forgotten that you were a
weak, dependent being, and that you were to receive mercy and kindness
only on the condition of your practising the same.
I advise you to ask Betty to pardon your impertinence; till you do so,
she shall not assist you; you would find yourself very helpless without
the assistance of men and women—unable to cook your meat, bake your
bread, wash your clothes, or even put them on—such a helpless creature
is a child—I know what you are, you perceive.
Mary submitted; and in future, after she said her prayers, remembered
that she was to endeavour to curb her temper.
CHAP. XIII.
_Employment.—Idleness produces Misery.—The Cultivation of the Fancy
raises us above the Vulgar, extends our Happiness, and leads to Virtue._
One afternoon, Mrs. Mason gave the children leave to amuse themselves;
but a kind of listlessness hung over them, and at a loss what to do,
they seemed fatigued with doing nothing. They eat cakes though they had
just dined, and did many foolish things merely because they were idle.
Their friend seeing that they were irresolute, and could not fix on any
employment, requested Caroline to assist her to make some clothes, that
a poor woman was in want of, and while we are at work, she added, Mary
will read us an entertaining tale, which I will point out.