was finished, Mrs. Mason told them, that as she had some letters to
write, she could not take her accustomed walk; but that she would allow
them to represent her, and act for once like women. They received their
commission, it was to take the clothes to the poor woman, whom they were
intended for; learn her present wants; exercise their own judgment with
respect to the immediate relief she stood in need of, and act
accordingly.
They returned home delighted, eager to tell what they had done, and how
thankful and happy they had left the poor woman.
Observe now, said Mrs. Mason, the advantages arising from employment;
three hours ago you were uncomfortable, without being sensible of the
cause, and knew not what to do with yourselves. Nay, you actually
committed a sin; for you devoured cakes without feeling hunger, merely
to kill time, whilst many poor people have not the means of satisfying
their natural wants. When I desired you to read to me, you were amused;
and now you have been useful you are delighted. Recollect this in future
when you are at a loss what to do with yourselves; and remember that
idleness must always be intolerable, because it is only an irksome
consciousness of existence.
Every gift of Heaven is lent to us for our improvement; fancy is one of
the first of the inferior ones; in cultivating it, we acquire what is
called taste, or a relish for particular employments, which occupy our
leisure hours, and raise us above the vulgar in our conversations. Those
who have not any taste talk always of their own affairs or of their
neighbours; every trivial matter that occurs within their knowledge they
canvass and conjecture about—not so much out of ill-nature as idleness:
just as you eat the cakes without the impulse of hunger. In the same
style people talk of eating and dress, and long for their meals merely
to divide the day, because the intermediate time is not employed in a
more interesting manner. Every new branch of taste that we cultivate
affords us a refuge from idleness, a fortress in which we may resist the
assaults of vice; and the more noble our employments, the more exalted
will our minds become.
Music, drawing, works of usefulness and fancy, all amuse and refine the
mind, sharpen the ingenuity, and form insensibly the dawning judgment.
As the judgment gains strength, so do the passions also; we have actions
to weigh, and need that taste in conduct, that delicate sense of
propriety, which gives grace to virtue. The highest branch of solitary
amusement is reading; but even in the choice of books the fancy is first
employed; for in reading, the heart is touched, till its feelings are
examined by the understanding, and the ripenings of reason regulate the
imagination. This is the work of years, and the most important of all
employments. When life advances, if the heart has been capable of
receiving early impressions, and the head of reasoning and retaining the
conclusions which were drawn from them; we have acquired a stock of
knowledge, a gold mine which we can occasionally recur to, independent
of outward circumstances.
The Supreme Being has every thing in himself; we proceed from Him, and
our knowledge and affections must return to Him for employment suited to
them. And those who most resemble Him ought, next to Him, to be the
objects of our love; and the beings whom we should try to associate
with, that we may receive an inferior degree of satisfaction from their
society. But be assured, our chief comfort must ever arise from the
mind’s reviewing its own operations—and the whispers of an approving
conscience, to convince us that life has not slipped away unemployed.
CHAP. XIV.
_Innocent Amusements.—Description of a Welsh Castle.—History of a Welsh
Harper.—A tyrannical Landlord.—Family Pride._
As it was now harvest time, the new scene, and the fine weather
delighted the children, who ran continually out to view the reapers.
Indeed every thing seemed to wear a face of festivity, and the ripe corn
bent under its own weight, or, more erect, shewed the laughing
appearance of plenty.
Mrs. Mason always allowing the gleaners to have a sufficient quantity, a
great number of poor came to gather a little harvest; and she was
pleased to see the feeble hands of childhood and age collecting the
scattered ears.
Honest Jack came with his family; and when the labours of the day were
over, would play on a fiddle, that frequently had but three strings. But
it served to set the feet in motion, and the lads and lasses dancing on
the green sod, suffered every care to sleep.
An old Welsh harper generally came to the house about this time of the
year, and staid a month or more; for Mrs. Mason was particularly fond of
this instrument, and interested in the fate of the player; as is almost
always the case, when we have rescued a person out of any distress.
She informed the children, that once travelling through Wales, her
carriage was overturned near the ruins of an old castle. And as she had
escaped unhurt, she determined to wander amongst them, whilst the driver
took care of his horses, and her servant hastened to the neighbouring
village for assistance.
It was almost dark, and the lights began to twinkle in the scattered
cottages. The scene pleased me, continued Mrs. Mason; I thought of the
various customs which the lapse of time unfolds; and dwelt on the state
of the Welsh, when this castle, now so desolate, was the hospitable
abode of the chief of a noble family. These reflections entirely
engrossed my mind, when the sound of a harp reached my ears. Never was
any thing more opportune, the national music seemed to give reality to
the pictures which my imagination had been drawing. I listened awhile,
and then trying to trace the pleasing sound, discovered, after a short
search, a little hut, rudely built. The walls of an old tower supported
part of the thatch, which scarcely kept out the rain, and the two other
sides were stones cemented, or rather plaistered together, by mud and
clay.
I entered, and beheld an old man, sitting by a few loose sticks, which
blazed on the hearth; and a young woman, with one child at her breast,
sucking, and another on her knee: near them stood a cow and her calf.
The man had been playing on the harp; he rose when he saw me, and
offered his chair, the only one in the room, and sat down on a large
chest in the chimney-corner. When the door was shut, all the light that
was admitted came through the hole, called a chimney, and did not much
enliven the dwelling. I mentioned my accident to account for my
intrusion, and requested the harper again to touch the instrument that
had attracted me. A partition of twigs and dried leaves divided this
apartment from another, in which I perceived a light: I enquired about
it, and the woman, in an artless manner, informed me, that she had let
it to a young gentlewoman lately married, who was related to a very good
family, and would not lodge any where, or with any body. This
intelligence made me smile, to think that family pride should be a
solace in such extreme poverty.
I sat there some time, and then the harper accompanied me to see whether
the carriage was repaired; I found it waiting for me; and as the inn I
was to sleep at was only about two miles further, the harper offered to
come and play to me whilst I was eating my supper. This was just what I
wished for; his appearance had roused my compassion as well as my
curiosity, and I took him and his harp in the chaise.
After supper he informed me, that he had once a very good farm; but he
had been so unfortunate as to displease the justice, who never forgave
him, nor rested till he had ruined him. This tyrant always expected his
tenants to assist him to bring in his harvest before they had got in
their own. The poor harper was once in the midst of his; when an order
was sent to him to bring his carts and servants, the next day, to the
fields of this petty king. He foolishly refused; and this refusal was
the foundation of that settled hatred which produced such fatal
consequences. Ah, Madam, said the sufferer, your heart would ache, if
you heard of all his cruelties to me, and the rest of his poor tenants.
He employs many labourers, and will not give them as much wages as they
could get from the common farmers, yet they dare not go any-where else
to work when he sends for them. The fish that they catch they must bring
first to him, or they would not be allowed to walk over his grounds to
catch them; and he will give just what he pleases for the most valuable
part of their pannier.
But there would be no end to my story were I to tell you of all his
oppressions. I was obliged to leave my farm; and my daughter, whom you
saw this evening, having married an industrious young man, I came to
live with them. When—would you believe it? this same man threw my son
into jail, on account of his killing a hare, which all the country folks
do when they can catch them in their grounds. We were again in great
distress, and my daughter and I built the hut you saw in the waste, that
the poor babes might have a shelter. I maintain them by playing on the
harp—the master of this inn allows me to play to the gentry who travel
this way; so that I pick up a few pence, just enough to keep life and
soul together, and to enable me to send a little bread to my poor son
John Thomas.
He then began one of the most dismal of his Welsh ditties, and, in the
midst of it cried out—He is an upstart, a mere mushroom!—His grandfather
was cow-boy to mine!—So I told him once, and he never forgot it.
The old man then informed me that the castle in which he now was
sheltered formerly belonged to his family—such are the changes and
chances of this mortal life—said he, and hastily struck up a lively
tune.
While he was striking the strings, I thought too of the changes in life
which an age had produced. The descendant of those who had made the hall
ring with social mirth now mourned in its ruins, and hung his harp on
the mouldering battlements. Such is the fate of buildings and of
families!
After I had dismissed my guest, I sent for the landlord, to make some
farther enquiries, and found that I had not been deceived; I then
determined to assist him, and thought my accident providential. I knew a
man of consequence in the neighbourhood; I visited him, and exerted
myself to procure the enlargement of the young man. I succeeded; and not
only restored him to his family, but prevailed on my friend to let him
rent a small farm on his estate, and I gave him money to buy stock for
it, and the implements of husbandry.
The old harper’s gratitude was unbounded; the summer after he walked to
visit me; and ever since he has contrived to come every year to enliven
our harvest-home. This evening it is to be celebrated.
The evening came; the joyous party footed it away merrily, and the sound
of their shoes was heard on the barn-floor. It was not the light
fantastic toe, that fashion taught to move, but honest heart-felt mirth,
and the loud laugh, if it spoke the vacant head, said audibly that the
heart was guileless.
Mrs. Mason always gave them some trifling presents at this time, to
render the approach of winter more comfortable. To the men, she
generally presented warm clothing, and to the women flax and worsted for
knitting and spinning; and those who were the most industrious received
a reward when the new year commenced. The children had books given to
them, and little ornaments.—All were anxious for the day; and received
their old acquaintance, the harper, with the most cordial smiles.
CHAP. XV.
_Prayer.—A Moon-light Scene.—Resignation._
The harper would frequently sit under a larger elm, a few paces from the
house, and play some of the most plaintive Welsh tunes. While the people
were eating their supper, Mrs. Mason desired him to play her some
favourite airs; and she and the children walked round the tree under
which he sat, on the stump of another.
The moon rose in cloudless majesty, and a number of stars twinkled near
her. The softened landscape inspired tranquillity, while the strain of
rustic melody gave a pleasing melancholy to the whole, and made the tear
start, whose source could scarcely be traced. The pleasure the sight of
harmless mirth gave rise to in Mrs. Mason’s bosom roused every tender
feeling, and set in motion her spirits. She laughed with the poor whom
she had made happy, and wept when she recollected her own sorrows; the
illusions of youth—the gay expectations that had formerly clipped the
wings of time. She turned to the girls—I have been very unfortunate, my
young friends; but my griefs are now of a placid kind. Heavy misfortunes
have obscured the sun I gazed at when first I entered life; early
attachments have been broken; the death of friends I loved has so
clouded my days; that neither the beams of prosperity, nor even those of
benevolence, can dissipate the gloom; but I am not lost in a thick fog.
My state of mind rather resembles the scene before you, it is quiet: I
am weaned from the world, but not disgusted; for I can still do good,
and in futurity a sun will rise to chear my heart. Beyond the night of
death, I hail the dawn of an eternal day! I mention my state of mind to
you, that I may tell you what supports me.
The festivity within, and the placidity without, led my thoughts
naturally to the source from whence my comfort springs—to the Great
Bestower of every blessing. Prayer, my children, is the dearest
privilege of man, and the support of a feeling heart. Mine has too often
been wounded by ingratitude; my fellow-creatures, whom I have fondly
loved, have neglected me—I have heard their last sigh, and thrown my
eyes round an empty world; but then more particularly feeling the
presence of my Creator, I poured out my soul before him, and was no
longer alone! I now daily contemplate His wonderful goodness; and,
though at an awful distance, try to imitate Him. This view of things is
a spur to activity, and a consolation in disappointment.
There is in fact a constant intercourse kept up with the Creator, when
we learn to consider Him as the fountain of truth, which our
understanding naturally thirsts after. But His Goodness brings Him still
more on a level with our bounded capacities, for we trace it in every
work of mercy, and feel, in sorrow particularly, His fatherly care.
Every blessing is doubled when we suppose it comes from Him, and
afflictions almost lose their name when we believe they are sent to
correct, not crush us. Whilst we are alive to gratitude and admiration,
we must adore God.
The human soul is so framed, that goodness and truth must fill it with
ineffable pleasure, and the nearer it approaches to perfection, the more
earnestly will it pursue those virtues, discerning more clearly their
beauty.
The Supreme Being dwells in the universe. He is as essentially present
to the wicked as to the good; but the latter delight in His presence,
and try to please Him, whilst the former shrink from a Judge, who is of
too pure a nature to behold iniquity. The wicked wish for the rocks to
cover them, mountains, or the angry sea, which we the other day
surveyed, to hide them from the presence of that Being, in whose
presence only they could find joy. You feel emotions that incite you to
do good; and painful ones disturb you when you have resisted the
faithful internal monitor. The wiser, and the better you grow, the more
visible, if I may use the expression, will God become: for wisdom
consists in searching Him out, and goodness in endeavouring to copy his
attributes.
To attain any thing great, a model must be held up to exercise our
understanding, and engage our affections. A view of the disinterested
goodness of God is therefore calculated to touch us more than can be
conceived by a depraved mind. When the love of God is shed abroad in our
hearts, true courage will animate our conduct; for nothing can hurt
those who trust in Him. If the desire of acting right is ever present
with us, if admiration of goodness fills our souls, we may be said to
pray constantly. And if we try to do justice to all our
fellow-creatures, and even to the brute creation, and assist them as far
as we can, we prove whose servants we are, and whose laws we transcribe
in our lives.
Never be very anxious, when you pray, what _words_ to use; regulate your
_thoughts_; and recollect that virtue calms the passions, gives
clearness to the understanding, and opens it to pleasures that the
thoughtless and vicious have not a glimpse of. You must, believe me, be
acquainted with God to find peace, to rise superior to worldly
temptations. Habitual devotion is of the utmost consequence to our
happiness, as what oftenest occupies the thoughts will influence our
actions. But observe what I say—_that_ devotion is mockery and
selfishness, which does not improve our moral character.
Men, of old, prayed to the devil, sacrificed their children to him; and
committed every kind of barbarity and impurity. But we who serve a
long-suffering God should pity the weakness of our fellow creatures; we
must not beg for mercy and not shew it; we must not acknowledge that we
have offended, without trying to avoid doing so in future. We are to
deal with our fellow-creatures as we expect to be dealt with. This is
practical prayer!—Those who practice it feel frequently sublime
pleasures, and lively hopes animate them in this vale of tears; that
seem a foretaste of the felicity they will enjoy, when the understanding
is more enlightened, and the affections properly regulated. To-morrow I
will take you to visit the school-mistress of the village, and relate
her story, to enforce what I have been saying.
Now you may go and dance one or two dances; and I will join you after I
have taken a walk, which I wish to enjoy alone.
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._
The next morning Mrs. Mason desired the children to get their work, and
draw near the table whilst she related the promised history; and in the
afternoon, if the weather be fine, they were to visit the village
school-mistress.
Her father, the honourable Mr. Lofty, was the youngest son of a noble
family; his education had been liberal, though his fortune was small.
His relations, however, seemed determined to push him forward in life,
before he disobliged them by marrying the daughter of a country
clergyman, an accomplished, sensible woman.
Some time after the birth of his daughter Anna, his elder brother, the
Earl of Caermarthen, was reconciled to him; but this reconciliation only
led him into expences, which his limited fortune could not bear. Mr.
Lofty had a high sense of honour, and rather a profuse turn; he was
beside a very humane man, and gave away much more than he could afford
to give, when his compassion was excited. He never did a mean action;
but sometimes an ostentatious pride tarnished the lustre of very
splendid ones, and made them appear to judicious eyes more like tinsel
than gold. I will account for it. His first impulse arose from
sensibility, and the second from an immoderate desire of human applause:
for he seemed not to be alive to devotional feelings, or to have that
rock to rest on, which will support a frail being, and give true dignity
to a character, though all nature combined to crush it.
Mrs. Lofty was not a shining character—but I will read you a part of a
letter, which her daughter, the lady we are to visit, wrote to me.
“This being the anniversary of the day on which an ever loved, and much
revered parent was released from the bondage of mortality, I observe it
with particular seriousness, and with gratitude; for her sorrows were
great, her trials severe—but her conduct was blameless: yet the world
admired her not; her silent, modest virtues, were not formed to attract
the notice of the injudicious crowd, and her understanding was not
brilliant enough to excite admiration. But she was regardless of the
opinion of the world; she sought her reward in the source from whence
her virtue was derived—and she found it. He who, for wise and merciful
purposes, suffered her to be afflicted, supported her under her trials;
thereby calling forth the exercise of those virtues with which He had
adorned her gentle soul; and imparting to her a degree of heart-felt
comfort, which no earthly blessing could afford.”
This amiable parent died when Anna was near eighteen, and left her to
the care of her father, whose high spirit she had imbibed. However, the
religious principles which her mother had instilled regulated her
notions of honour, and so elevated her character, that her heart was
regulated by her understanding.
Her father, who had insensibly involved himself in debt after her
mother’s death, tried many different schemes of life, all of which at
first wore a promising aspect; but wanting that suppleness of temper,
that enables people to rise in the world, his struggles, instead of
extricating, sunk him still deeper. Wanting also the support of
religion, he became sour, easily irritated, and almost hated a world
whose applause he had once eagerly courted. His affairs were at last in
such a desperate state, that he was obliged, reluctantly, to accept of
an invitation from his brother, who with his wife, a weak fine lady,
intended to spend some time on the continent; his daughter was, of
course, to be of the party.
The restraint of obligations did not suit his temper, and feeling
himself dependent, he imagined every one meant to insult him.
Some sarcasms were thrown out one day by a gentleman, in a large
company; they were not personal, yet he took fire. His sore mind was
easily hurt, he resented them; and heated by wine, they both said more
than their cool reason would have suggested. Mr. Lofty imagined his
honour was wounded, and the next morning sent him a challenge. They
met—and he killed his antagonist, who, dying, pardoned him, and declared
that the sentiments which had given him so much offence fell from him by
accident, and were not levelled at any person.
The dying man lamented, that the thread of a thoughtless life had been
so suddenly snapped—the name of his wife and children he could not
articulate, when something like a prayer for them escaped his livid
lips, and shook his exhausted frame—The blood flowed in a copious
stream—vainly did Mr. Lofty endeavour to staunch it—the heart lost its
vital nourishment, and the soul escaped as he pressed the hand of his
destroyer, who, when he found him breathless, ran home, and rushed in a
hurry into his own chamber. The dead man’s image haunted his
imagination—he started—imagined that he was at his elbow, and shook the
hand that had received the dying grasp; yet still it was pressed, and
the pressure entered into his very soul. On the table lay two pistols,
he caught up one—and shot himself. The report alarmed the family: the
servants and his daughter, for his brother was not at home, broke open
the door, and she saw the dreadful sight! As there was still some
appearance of life, a trembling ray, she supported the body, and sent
for assistance: but he soon died in her arms without speaking, before
the servant returned with a surgeon.
Horror seized her; another pistol lay charged on the table; she caught
it up, but religion held her hand; she knelt down by a dead father, and
prayed to a superior one. Her mind grew calmer, yet still she
passionately wished she had but heard him speak, or that she had
conveyed comfort to his departing spirit—where, where would it find
comfort? again she was obliged to have recourse to prayer.
After the death of her father, her aunt treated her as if she were a
mere dependent on her bounty; and expected her to be an humble companion
in every sense of the word. The visitors took the tone from her
ladyship, and numberless were the mortifications she had to bear.
The entrance of a person about business interrupted the narration; but
Mrs. Mason promised to resume it after dinner.
CHAP. XVII.
_The Benefits arising from Devotion.—The History of the Village
School-mistress concluded._
As soon as the cloth was removed, Mrs. Mason concluded the narration;
and the girls forgot their fruit whilst they were listening to the
sequel.