Part 2

Henry was the son of a merchant of Bristol: he was a very good-natured, obliging boy, and loved his papa and mamma, and his brothers and sisters, most affectionately; but he had one very disagreeable fault, which was, that he did not like to be directed or advised, but always appeared displeased when any body only hinted to him what he might, or what he ought not to do; he fancied he knew right from wrong perfectly well, and that he did not require any one to direct him.

He was the most amiable boy in the world, if you would let him have his own way: he never heard any body say they wished for a thing, that he did not run to get it for them, if it was in his power; and no one could be more ready to lend his toys to his brothers and sisters, whenever they appeared to desire them: but the moment he was told not to stand so near the fire, or not to jump down two or three stairs at a time, not to climb upon the tables, or to take care he did not fall out of the window, he grew directly angry, and asked if they thought he did not know what he was about--said he was no longer a baby, and that he was certainly big enough to take care of himself.

His friends were extremely sorry to perceive this fault in his disposition, for every body loved him, and wished to convince him, that, though he was not a baby, he was but a child; and that if he would avoid getting into mischief, he must, for some years, submit to be directed by his papa and mamma, and, in their absence by some other person who knew better than he did: but he never minded their advice, till he had one day nearly lost his life by not attending to it.

A lady, who visited his mamma, and who was extremely fond of him, met him in the hall on new year's day, and gave him a seven shilling piece to purchase something to amuse himself.--Henry was delighted at having so much money; but instead of informing his parents of the present he had received, and asking them to advise him how to spend it, he determined to do as he liked with it, without consulting any body; and having long had a great desire to amuse himself with some gunpowder, he began to think (now he was so rich) whether it might not be possible to contrive to get some. He had been often told of the dreadful accidents which have happened by playing with this dangerous thing, but he fancied _he_ could take care, _he_ was old enough to amuse himself with it, without any risk of hurting himself; and meeting with a boy who was employed about the house by the servants, he offered to give him a shilling for his trouble, if he would get him what he desired; and as the boy cared very little for the danger to which he exposed Henry, of blowing himself up, so as he got but the shilling, he was soon in possession of what he wished for.

A dreadful noise was, some time afterwards, heard in the nursery. The cries of children, and the screams of their maid, brought the whole family up stairs: but oh! what a shocking sight was presented to their view on opening the door! There lay Henry by the fireside, his face black, and smeared with blood; his hair burnt, and his eyes closed: one of his little sisters lay by him, nearly in the same deplorable condition; the others, some hurt, but all frightened almost to death, were got together in a corner, and the maid was fallen on the floor in a fit.

It was very long before either Henry or his sister could speak, and many months before they were quite restored to health, and even then with the loss of one of poor Henry's eyes. He had been many weeks confined to his bed in a dark room, and it was during that time that he had reflected upon his past conduct: he now saw that he had been a very conceited, wrong-headed boy, and that children would avoid a great many accidents which happen to themselves, and the mischiefs they frequently lead others into, if they would listen to the advice of their elders, and not fancy they are capable of conducting themselves without being directed; and he was so sorry for what he had done, and particularly for what he had made his dear little Emma suffer, that he never afterwards did the least thing without consulting his friends; and whenever he was told not to do a thing, though he had wished it ever so much, instead of being angry, as he used to be, he immediately gave up all desire of doing it, and never after that time got into any mischief.

MARIA;

OR,

THE LITTLE SLATTERN.

Little Maria B---- was so slatternly, and so careless of her clothes, that she never was fit to appear before any body, without being first sent to her maid to be new dressed. If she came to breakfast quite nice and clean, before twelve o'clock you could scarcely perceive that her frock had ever been white: her face and hands were always dirty, her hair in disorder, and her shoes trodden down at the heels, because she was continually kicking them off.

At dinner no one liked to sit near her, for she was sure to throw her meat into their laps, pull about their bread with her greasy fingers, and never failed to overset her drink upon the table-cloth.

One day her brother ran into the nursery in great haste, desiring she would go down with him immediately into the parlour, and telling her, that a gentleman had brought a large portfolio, full of beautiful prints of all kinds of birds and animals, which he was going to shew to them, if they were ready to come to him directly, for he could not stay with them, he said, more than half an hour.

Poor Maria was in no condition to shew herself; she had been washing her doll's clothes (though her maid had desired her not to do it, and had promised to wash them for her, if she would have patience till the afternoon), and had thrown a large basin of water all over her; after which, wet as she was, she had been rummaging in a dirty closet, where she had no kind of business, and was, when her brother came into the nursery, covered with dust and cobwebs.

Susan was called in haste to new-dress her; but she was so extremely careless of her clothes, and tore them so much every day, that one person was scarcely sufficient to keep them in order for her. Not a frock was to be found, which had not the tucks ripped, and the strings broken, nor a pair of shoes fit to put on; her face and hands could not be got clean without warm water, and that must be fetched from the kitchen; then she had to look for a comb, Maria had poked hers into a mouse-hole, and had been rubbing the grate with her brush: in short, by the time all was ready, and she was dressed, a full hour had slipped away without her perceiving it.

Down stairs, however, she went, opened the parlour-door, and was just going to make a fine courtesy to the gentleman and his portfolio, when to her very great surprise and mortification, she perceived her mamma sitting alone, at work by the fire. The gentleman had shewn his prints to her brothers and sisters, made each of them a present of a very pretty one, and had been gone some time.

When her aunt came from Bath, she brought her a nice green silk bonnet, and a cambric tippet, tied with green riband. Maria was very much delighted with it, and fancied she looked so well in it, that she could not be prevailed upon to pull it off; but she soon forgot that it was new and very pretty, and ought to be taken care of; she thought of nothing, when she could escape from her maid, but of getting into holes and corners; and having rambled into an old back kitchen, and finding herself too warm, she took off her pretty green bonnet, and threw it down on the ground, but recollecting something she had now an opportunity of doing, ran away in great haste, and left it there.

When she was asked what she had done with her bonnet, she said she did not know, and the servants lost their time in seeking for it; for who would have thought of looking for a young lady's bonnet in a dirty back kitchen?

There, however, it was found, with a black cat and four kittens lying asleep in it, and so entirely spoiled, that it could never be worn any more; and she was obliged to wear her old bonnet a great many months longer, for her mamma was extremely angry with her, and would not buy her a new one; nor did she deserve to have one, till she could learn to take more care of it, and not leave it about in such dirty places.

It is not very usual to see young ladies wandering about by themselves in stables and outhouses, but Maria had very great pleasure in it, and never lost the opportunity when she could get away without being seen; and she was so dirty, and had so often her clothes torn, that she was frequently taken by strangers for some poor child sent on an errand to the servants.

One day, when she was passing through the gate to see who was coming down the lane, a little boy upon an ass, who came up from the sea-side every week with fish, seeing her there doing nothing, called out, "Here, hark! you little girl, open the gate, I say--come, make haste, do not stand there like a post. What! are you asleep?"

Maria was so much ashamed, that she could not move, but hung down her head, and the boy (who had a mind to make her save him the trouble of getting off from his ass) continued to talk to her in the polite manner in which he had begun: "Why, you little dirty thing! open the gate I say--if you do not, I will tell the cook of you, and she will tell Madam, and I shall get you turned out of the house."

Thus was Maria B---- continually mortified by one person or another, and losing every pleasure and amusement which her brothers and sisters were indulged in, because she was never ready to join in them. They often went to walk in the charming woods and meadows which surrounded the house, and were sometimes sent with their maid to carry comfortable things to their poor sick neighbours, from whom they received in return a thousand thanks and prayers to God for their happiness; but Maria could have no share in either, for she was never with them, and they knew nothing of her.

Once, when their grandpapa sent his coach to fetch them to dine with him, Maria was not to be found; and, after seeking her all over the house to no purpose, they at length caught her in the garden with a watering pot, which she could hardly lift from the ground, her shoes wet and covered with mould, her frock in the same condition, and her hands and arms dirty quite up to the elbows. Her mamma positively declared that the horses should not be kept a moment longer, the coachman was desired to drive on, and Maria was left to spend the day in the nursery from whence she was ordered not to stir.

There she spent a melancholy day indeed, for she had no means of amusing herself to make time pass lightly on: she had no pleasure in reading, so that all the pretty books which had been bought for her were of no use; she could not play with her doll, for it had no clothes, they were all lost or burnt; and she had suffered a little puppy to play with her work-bag, till both that and the work which was in it, thread-case, cotton, and every thing else were all torn to pieces. The only thing she found to do, was to sit down by the window, look at the road and cry, till her brothers and sisters returned, and then she had the mortification of hearing them recount the pleasure they had enjoyed, talk of the curiosities their grandpapa had shewn them in the great closet at the end of the gallery, and of seeing all the pretty things they had brought home with them, and of which she might have had her share if she had been of their party.

FREDERICK'S HOLIDAYS.

"I wish," said Frederick to Mr. Peterson, "I could be with my aunt in town to spend the holidays; I shall be so tired here in the country, I shall not know what to do with myself. Two of my schoolfellows live in the next street to my aunt, and they will be going with their papa to the play, and to Astley's, and to walk in the Park, and will have so much more pleasure than I shall have--why, I might as well be at school, as here sauntering about the fields."

"You are not very civil," answered Mr. Peterson. "When you came from Barbadoes last year, and had no other acquaintance, you liked very well to be with me in the holidays: however, if you desire it, my dear Frederick, you shall go to your aunt's, that you may be near your little friends, and I will write to their papa, to request that he will give you leave to be with them as much as possible, that you may partake of all their pleasures, for I do not think you will have a great deal in your aunt's house; you know she is always ill, and cannot have it in her power to procure you much amusement."

Frederick was accordingly sent to town, and his first wish was to pay a visit to his two friends in the next street. His aunt's servant was ordered to conduct him to the house, and he was shewn immediately up stairs; but, instead of meeting with those he expected, he found their papa alone in the drawing-room, sitting at a table covered with papers, and apparently very busy.

On inquiring for his schoolfellows, he was very much surprised at being informed that they were gone into the country: "for," said their papa, "they would not have liked to be confined at home all their holidays, and I should have had no time to run about with them; they might as well have remained at school as have been here; but where they are gone they will enjoy themselves; they will spend a week at their grandfather's, and from thence go to my good friend, Mr. Peterson's, where they will have all the pleasure and amusement they can possibly wish for."

Frederick was so vexed and disappointed that he could not open his lips, but made a low bow, and returned to his aunt, whom he found just risen to breakfast. She was quite crippled with rheumatism, and had so great a weakness in her eyes, that she could not bear the light, and would only allow one of the windows to have a little bit of the shutter open.

In this dismal room, without any thing to amuse himself with, was poor Frederick condemned to spend his holidays: his aunt made him read to her whenever she was awake, and it was only when she dropped asleep for half an hour in her easy chair, that he could creep softly to the other end of the room, and peep with one eye into the street, through the little opening between the shutters.

Poor Frederick now sincerely repented having been so rude and ungrateful to Mr. Peterson, and wished a thousand times a day he had been contented to stay at his house; he would have been very happy to have had it in his power to return, but dared not propose it to his aunt, and would also have been ashamed to appear before Mr. Peterson.

After many melancholy days, and tedious evenings, spent in lonely solitude, he at length saw the happy morning which was to end his captivity. "What a foolish boy I have been!" thought he, as he was putting his things together. "The day of my return to school is my first holiday, and the preparations I am making for it the only pleasure I have felt since I left it. In the country, where I might have enjoyed the liberty of running in the fields in the open air, I was discontented and restless; and I left it, to shut myself up in a sick room. I am now going back to school, to have the pleasure of hearing how agreeably all my schoolfellows have been spending their time, whilst I shall have nothing to recount to them, but how many phials were ranged on my aunt's chimney-piece, and how many hackney-coaches I could see with one eye pass through the street."

Frederick was very right; he found his two little friends just arrived, and who, for a whole week, could speak of nothing but the pleasure they had enjoyed at Mr. Peterson's. They told him of their having being several times on the river on fishing-parties, of two nice little ponies which had been procured for them, that they might ride about in the shady lanes, and round the park, and of the beautiful houses and gardens they had been taken to see in the neighbourhood.

They had a great many very pretty presents, which they shewed to Frederick, and which they had received from their friends, who had been pleased with their behaviour, and had desired they might be allowed to pay them a visit at the next vacation.

Frederick could never forget how much he had lost by his folly; he knew he had been wrong, and, as he was not a bad boy, he was not ashamed to acknowledge it, but wrote a very pretty letter to Mr. Peterson, begging him to forgive the rudeness he had been guilty of, and telling him how much he had suffered by it; assuring him that he would never again desire to quit his house to go to any other, and saying, that he never should have done it, if he had not been a foolish restless boy; that he had been severely punished for his fault, and hoped he would think it enough, and grant him his pardon as soon as possible.

Mr. Peterson readily complied with his request, and invited him, the next time he left school, to accompany his two little friends to his house, where they spent a month in the midst of pleasure and amusement; sometimes riding the ponies to the top of a hill, from whence they could see the hounds followed by the huntsman, and several gentlemen on horseback; at other times assisting their good friend to entertain his tenants with their wives and children round a Christmas fire in the great hall: in short, Frederick was so happy, that he never once thought of Astley, the Park, or the play, or had any desire to quit Mr. Peterson in search of other amusements.

THE LITTLE QUARRELLERS.

Margaret and Frances lived with their papa and mamma in a pretty white house on the side of a hill; they had a very large garden which led into a meadow, at the bottom of which ran a beautiful river.

Every body thought them the happiest children in the world, and certainly they might have been so, if their dispositions had been more amiable; for their papa and mamma were very fond of them, and indulged them in every thing proper for their age, and their friends were continually bringing them presents of toys and dolls, or some pretty thing or other.

They had each a little garden of their own, full of sweet flowers and shrubs, currants, gooseberries, and strawberries. Margaret had a squirrel, in which she took great delight, for it would jump joyfully about its cage whenever she came near it, and would eat nuts and biscuit out of her hand; and Frances had a beautiful canary-bird in a nice gilt cage, which awoke her every morning with a song, and told her it was time to rise. Margaret's nurse had brought her a white hen with eight little chickens, and Frances had the prettiest bantams that ever were seen.

Their mamma sent them to walk with their maid every evening, either over the hill where the sheep and cows were feeding, or along the side of the clear river, to pick up pebbles, to hear the merry songs of the fishermen, and see the boats pass with the market-people, going to the town with their fruit and their vegetables. Sometimes their papa took them in his pleasure-boat across the river, to eat strawberries and cream at a farm-house; and sometimes they were permitted to accompany their mamma when she went to dine with her friends in the neighbourhood.

It is scarcely to be believed, that two children who might have lived so happily, should have found their greatest pleasure in tormenting each other; and though, before their parents and strangers, they appeared to be all sweetness and good-humour, that they should have been continually contriving how to vex and teaze each other. The moment they were alone, they did nothing but fight and quarrel, and dispute about trifles.

Not contented with this, whenever they were displeased, they did not care what mischief they did, but tried, by every means in their power, to vex each other, by spoiling and destroying every thing which came in their way. Margaret was quite delighted when she had been running over all Frances's garden, and treading down every thing which was growing in it; and Frances, to be revenged on her sister, never failed to go directly and pull up all her flowers by the roots, throw stones at her little chickens, and tear her doll's clothes to pieces.

One day when they had had a great quarrel about some foolish thing not worth mentioning, Margaret was so extremely angry, that she got her mamma's ink-stand, and threw the ink all over her sister's work, and then walked out of the room, leaving it on the table, Frances, who was gone to ask her mamma for some thread, no sooner returned to the parlour, and found her work in so sad a condition, but guessing immediately how it came so, instead of seeking for her sister, and telling her in a gentle manner how wrong she had acted, and begging that all their quarrels might be ended, and that they might live together as sisters should do, and endeavour to make each other happy, instead of spending their time in vexing and teazing each other--instead of doing this, the malicious girl thought of nothing but how she might be revenged; and watching for a favourable opportunity, she seized on a fine damask napkin which had been given to Margaret to hem and mark, threw it down on the hearth, contriving to let one end of it lie over the fender, and then began to poke the fire as violently as she could, hoping some of the cinders would fall upon it, and burn a few holes in it. Her wish was soon accomplished, and even beyond what she desired, for the napkin was in an instant in a blaze, and the house in danger of being burnt to the ground. Terrified almost to death, she began to scream for help, and the whole family were immediately assembled in the parlour; Margaret among the rest, with the bottom of her frock covered with ink, though she had not perceived it, and which too plainly shewed who had done the first mischievous exploit.

They were now both strictly examined, and their tricks soon discovered: their papa and mamma watched them very narrowly, and found that they were quite different when alone, to what they appeared when in their presence; and they no longer treated them with the kindness and indulgence they had hitherto done. Their gardens were taken from them, the squirrel and the canary-bird given away, and the white hen, with her little brood of chickens, sent back to the nurse: they were deprived of all their amusements, and they had lost the good opinion of their parents and friends, for the servants had told their story to every body they met with, and they were never mentioned without being called the Sly Girls, or the Little Quarrellers.

THE VAIN GIRL.

Caroline was trifling away her time in the garden with a little favourite spaniel, her constant companion, when she was sent for to her music-master; and the servant had called her no less than three different times before she thought proper to go into the house.

When the lesson was finished, and the master gone, she turned to her mamma, and asked her, in a fretful and impatient tone of voice, how much longer she was to be plagued with masters--said she had had them a very long time, and that she really thought she now knew quite enough of every thing.

"That you have had them a very long while," answered her mamma, "I perfectly agree with you; but that you have profited so much by their instruction, as you seem to imagine, I am not so certain. I must, however, acquaint you, my dear Caroline, that you will not be _plagued_ with them much longer, for your papa says he has expended such large sums upon your education, that he is quite vexed and angry with himself for having done so, because he finds it impossible to be at an equal expense for your two little sisters; I would therefore advise you, whilst he is so good as to allow you to continue your lessons, to make the most of your time, that it may not be said you have been learning so long to no purpose."