Original stories from real life, Page 3

  The children eagerly enquired in what manner they were to behave, toprove that they were superior to animals? The answer was short,—betender-hearted; and let your superior endowments ward off the evils whichthey 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 thatsurrounded our house; and when I could be of use to any one of them I washappy. This employment humanized my heart, while, like wax, it tookevery impression; and Providence has since made me an instrument ofgood—I have been useful to my fellow-creatures. I, who never wantonlytrod on an insect, or disregarded the plaint of the speechless beast, cannow give bread to the hungry, physic to the sick, comfort to theafflicted, and, above all, am preparing you, who are to live for ever, tobe 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, wegrow humbler and wiser: but animals have not this advantage, and manshould not prevent their enjoying all the happiness of which they arecapable.

  A she-cat or dog have such strong parental affection, that if you takeaway their young, it almost kills them; some have actually died of griefwhen all have been taken away; though they do not seem to miss thegreatest part.

  A bitch had once all her litter stolen from her, and drowned in aneighbouring brook: she sought them out, and brought them one by one,laid them at the feet of her cruel master;—and looking wistfully at themfor some time, in dumb anguish, turning her eyes on the destroyer, sheexpired!

  I myself knew a man who had hardened his heart to such a degree, that hefound 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 fallwould kill them. And were they killed? cried Caroline. Certainly; andit 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 hetormented them: the consequence was, that they neglected him when he wasold and feeble; and he died in a ditch.

  You may now go and feed your birds, and tie some of the stragglingflowers round the garden sticks. After dinner, if the weather continuesfine, we will walk to the wood, and I will shew you the hole in thelime-stone mountain (a mountain whose bowels, as we call them, arelime-stones) in which poor crazy Robin and his dog lived.

  CHAPTER III

  The treatment of animals.—The story of crazy Robin.—The man confined inthe 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 craggypart; where a stream broke out, and ran down the declivity, strugglingwith the huge stones which impeded its progress, and occasioned a noisethat did not unpleasantly interrupt the solemn silence of the place. Thebrook was soon lost in a neighbouring wood, and the children turned theireyes to the broken side of the mountain, over which ivy grew in greatprofusion. Mrs. Mason pointed out a little cave, and desired them to sitdown 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 ofcrazy Robin. In his youth he was very industrious, and married myfather’s dairy-maid; a girl deserving of such a good husband. For sometime they continued to live very comfortably; their daily labour procuredtheir daily bread; but Robin, finding it was likely he should have alarge family, borrowed a trifle, to add to the small pittance which theyhad saved in service, and took a little farm in a neighbouring county. Iwas then a child.

  Ten or twelve years after, I heard that a crazy man, who appeared veryharmless, had piled by the side of the brook a great number of stones; hewould wade into the river for them, followed by a cur dog, whom he wouldfrequently call his Jacky, and even his Nancy; and then mumble tohimself,—thou wilt not leave me—we will dwell with the owls in the ivy.—Anumber of owls had taken shelter in it. The stones which he waded for hecarried to the mouth of the hole, and only just left room enough to creepin. Some of the neighbours at last recollected his face; and I sent toenquire what misfortune had reduced him to such a deplorable state.

  The information I received from different persons, I will communicate toyou in as few words as I can.

  Several of his children died in their infancy; and, two years before hecame to his native place, one misfortune had followed another till he hadsunk under their accumulated weight. Through various accidents he waslong 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 whenhis wife was lying-in of her last child, the landlord dying, his heirsent and seized the stock for the rent; and the person from whom he hadborrowed some money, exasperated to see all gone, arresting himimmediately, he was hurried to gaol, without being able to leave anymoney for his family. The poor woman could not see them starve, andtrying 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 caughtfrom 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 sharedtheir frugal meals.

  The children begged in the day, and at night slept with their wretchedfather. Poverty and dirt soon robbed their cheeks of the roses which thecountry air made bloom with a peculiar freshness; so that they sooncaught a jail fever,—and died. The poor father, who was now bereft ofall his children, hung over their bed in speechless anguish; not a groanor a tear escaped from him, whilst he stood, two or three hours, in thesame attitude, looking at the dead bodies of his little darlings. Thedog licked his hands, and strove to attract his attention; but for awhilehe 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 wereremoved; and he remained in an unsettled state, often frantic; at lengththe phrenzy subsided, and he grew melancholy and harmless. He was notthen so closely watched; and one day he contrived to make his escape, thedog followed him, and came directly to his native village.

  After I had received this account, I determined he should live in theplace he had chosen, undisturbed. I sent some conveniences, all of whichhe rejected, except a mat; on which he sometimes slept—the dog alwaysdid. I tried to induce him to eat, but he constantly gave the dogwhatever I sent him, and lived on haws and blackberries, and every kindof trash. I used to call frequently on him; and he sometimes followed meto the house I now live in, and in winter he would come of his ownaccord, and take a crust of bread. He gathered water-cresses out of thepool, and would bring them to me, with nosegays of wild thyme, which heplucked from the sides of the mountain. I mentioned before, that the dogwas a cur. It had, indeed, the bad trick of a cur, and would run barkingafter horses heels. One day, when his master was gatheringwater-cresses, the dog running after a young gentleman’s horse, made itstart, and almost threw the rider; who grew so angry, that though he knewit was the poor madman’s dog, he levelled his gun at his head—shothim,—and instantly rode off. Robin ran to his dog,—he looked at hiswounds, 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 washedoff the blood before it began to clot, and then brought him home, andlaid him on the mat.

  I observed that I had not seen him pacing up the hills as usual, and sentto enquire about him. He was found sitting by the dog, and no entreatiescould prevail on him to quit the body, or receive any refreshment. Iinstantly set off for this place, hoping, as I had always been afavourite, that I should be able to persuade him to eat something. Butwhen I came to him, I found the hand of death was upon him. He was stillmelancholy; yet there was not such a mixture of wildness in it asformerly. 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 dobefore, an
d, sobbing, he said, Will any one be kind to me!—you will killme!—I saw not my wife die—No!—they dragged me from her—but I saw Jackyand Nancy die—and who pitied me?—but my dog! He turned his eyes to thebody—I wept with him. He would then have taken some nourishment, butnature was exhausted—and he expired.

  Was that the cave? said Mary. They ran to it. Poor Robin! Did you everhear of any thing so cruel? Yes, answered Mrs. Mason; and as we walkhome I will relate an instance of still greater barbarity.

  I told you, that Robin was confined in a jail. In France they have adreadful one, called the Bastille. The poor wretches who are confined init live entirely alone; have not the pleasure of seeing men or animals;nor are they allowed books.—They live in comfortless solitude. Some haveamused themselves by making figures on the wall; and others have laidstraws in rows. One miserable captive found a spider; he nourished itfor two or three years; it grew tame, and partook of his lonely meal.The keeper observed it, and mentioned the circumstance to a superiour,who ordered him to crush it. In vain did the man beg to have his spiderspared. You find, Mary, that the nasty creature which you despised was acomfort in solitude. The keeper obeyed the cruel command; and theunhappy wretch felt more pain when he heard the crush, than he had everexperienced during his long confinement. He looked round a drearyapartment, and the small portion of light which the grated bars admitted,only served to shew him, that he breathed where nothing else drew breath.

  CHAPTER IV

  Anger.—History of Jane Fretful.

  A few days after these walks and conversations, Mrs. Mason heard a greatnoise in the play-room. She ran hastily to enquire the cause, and foundthe children crying, and near them, one of the young birds lying on thefloor dead. With great eagerness each of them tried, the moment sheentered, to exculpate herself, and prove that the other had killed thebird. 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 ofthe nest.

  The cause of the dispute was easily gathered from what they both letfall. They had contested which had the best right to feed the birds.Mary insisted that she had a right, because she was the eldest; andCaroline, because she took the nest. Snatching it from one side of theroom to the other, the bird fell, and was trodden on before they wereaware.

  When they were a little composed, Mrs. Mason calmly thus addressedthem:—I perceive that you are ashamed of your behaviour, and sorry forthe consequence; I will not therefore severely reprove you, nor addbitterness to the self-reproach you must both feel,—because I pity you.You are now inferiour to the animals that graze on the common; reasononly serves to render your folly more conspicuous and inexcusable.Anger, is a little despicable vice: its selfish emotions banishcompassion, and undermine every virtue. It is easy to conquer another;but noble to subdue oneself. Had you, Mary, given way to your sister’shumour, you would have proved that you were not only older, but wiserthan her. And you, Caroline, would have saved your charge, if you had,for the time, waved your right.

  It is always a proof of superiour sense to bear with slightinconveniences, and even trifling injuries, without complaining orcontesting about them. The soul reserves its firmness for greatoccasions, and then it acts a decided part. It is just the contrary modeof thinking, and the conduct produced by it, which occasions all thosetrivial disputes that slowly corrode domestic peace, and insensiblydestroy what great misfortunes could not sweep away.

  I will tell you a story, that will take stronger hold on your memory thanmere remarks.

  Jane Fretful was an only child. Her fond weak mother would not allow herto be contradicted on any occasion. The child had some tenderness ofheart; but so accustomed was she to see every thing give way to herhumour, that she imagined the world was only made for her. If any of herplayfellows had toys, that struck her capricious sickly fancy, she wouldcry for them; and substitutes were in vain offered to quiet her, she musthave the identical ones, or fly into the most violent passion. When shewas an infant, if she fell down, her nurse made her beat the floor. Shecontinued the practice afterwards, and when she was angry would kick thechairs and tables, or any senseless piece of furniture, if they came inher way. I have seen her throw her cap into the fire, because some ofher acquaintance had a prettier.

  Continual passions weakened her constitution; beside, she would not eatthe common wholesome food that children, who are subject to the small-poxand 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 hertender, though mistaken, mother, she was her greatest torment. Theservants all disliked her; she loved no one but herself; and theconsequence was, she never inspired love; even the pity good-naturedpeople felt, was nearly allied to contempt.

  A lady, who visited her mother, brought with her one day a pretty littledog. Jane was delighted with it; and the lady, with great reluctance,parted with it to oblige her friend. For some time she fondled, andreally felt something like an affection for it: but, one day, it happenedto snatch a cake she was going to eat, and though there were twentywithin reach, she flew into a violent passion, and threw a stool at thepoor creature, who was big with pup. It fell down; I can scarcely tellthe rest; it received so severe a blow, that all the young were killed,and the poor wretch languished two days, suffering the most excruciatingtorture.

  Jane Fretful, who was now angry with herself, sat all the time holdingit, 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 hertemper. All the blessings of life were thrown away on her; and, withoutany real misfortune, she was continually miserable.

  If she had planned a party of pleasure, and the weather provedunfavourable, the whole day was spent in fruitless repining, or ventingher ill-humour on those who depended on her. If no disappointment ofthat kind occurred, she could not enjoy the promised pleasure; somethingalways disconcerted her; the horses went too fast, or, too slow; thedinner was ill-dressed, or, some of the company contradicted her.

  She was, when a child, very beautiful; but anger soon distorted herregular features, and gave a forbidding fierceness to her eyes. But iffor a moment she looked pleased, she still resembled a heap ofcombustible matter, to which an accidental spark might set fire; ofcourse quiet people were afraid to converse with her. And if she everdid a good, or a humane action, her ridiculous anger soon rendered it anintolerable burden, if it did not entirely cancel it.

  At last she broke her mother’s heart, or hastened her death, by her wantof 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 afriend. She would sometimes say, Ah! my poor mother, if you were nowalive, I would not teaze you—I would give the world to let you know thatI am sorry for what I have done: you died, thinking me ungrateful; andlamenting 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 impairedconstitution. She had not, by doing good, prepared her soul for anotherstate, or cherished any hopes that could disarm death of its terrors, orrender that last sleep sweet—its approach was dreadful!—and she hastenedher end, scolding the physician for not curing her. Her lifelesscountenance displayed the marks of convulsive anger; and she left anample fortune behind her to those who did not regret her loss. Theyfollowed her to the grave, on which no one shed a tear. She was soonforgotten; and I only remember her, to warn you to shun her errors.

  CHAPTER 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 behaviour, to prove to her that they wereashamed of themselves. It was one of Mrs. Mason’s rules, when theyoffended her, that is, behaved improperly, to treat them civilly; but toavoid giving them those marks of affection which they were
particularlydelighted to receive.

  Yesterday, said she to them, I only mentioned to you one fault, though Iobserved 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 Iperceive in your faces gives me pleasure; because it convinces me that itis not a confirmed habit: and, indeed, my children, I should be sorrythat 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 orhead, if they make another believe what they ought not to believe, arelies, and of the worst kind; because the contrivance aggravates theguilt. I would much sooner forgive a lie told directly, when perhapsfear entirely occupied the thoughts, and the presence of God was notfelt: for it is His sacred Majesty that you affront by telling anuntruth.

  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 ofhearts reads your very thoughts; that nothing is hid from him.

  You would blush if I were to discover that you told a lie; yet wantonlyforfeit the favour of Him, from whom you have received life and all itsblessings, to screen yourselves from correction or reproof, or, what isstill worse, to purchase some trifling gratification, the pleasure ofwhich would last but a moment.