Chapter 11

"It was a generosity which those wicked Tarquins did not deserve, I am sure," said Ferdinand; "for whilst the people were employed in loading carriages with their effects, and in selling what could not be carried off, the ambassadors were trying to draw some of the nearest relations of the consuls into a plot against them. Among the conspirators were Titus and Tiberius, the two sons of Brutus. Notwithstanding the secrecy with which they carried on their designs, their plot was discovered by one of their slaves, who disclosed the affair to Valerius. Upon this information, the conspirators were taken prisoners, and their papers, with several letters which they had written to the banished king, seized."

"The trial of these unhappy men was very affecting," said Emily: "early on the following morning, the people being summoned to the hall of justice, the prisoners were brought forth.

"Brutus began with the examination of his two sons. The slave who had discovered their designs, appeared against them, and the letters they had written to the Tarquins were read. The proofs being clear, the prisoners stood quite silent, and pleaded only by their tears. Three times their father called upon them to plead their cause, but tears were still their only answer. Many of the senators were touched with compassion, and implored for their banishment rather than their deaths. All the people stood trembling, in expectation of the sentence. Their stern father at length arose, and with a steady voice, uninterrupted by a single sigh, said: "Lictors, I deliver them over to you; the rest is your part." At these words, the whole assembly groaned aloud; distress showed itself in every face, and the mournful looks of the people pleaded for pity: but neither their intercessions, nor the bitter lamentations of the young men, who called upon their father by the most endearing names, could soften the inflexible judge. The heads of the young men were struck off by the lictors, Brutus all the while gazing on the cruel spectacle, with a steady look and composed countenance."

"Oh! my dear father," exclaimed Ferdinand, "surely Brutus must have been a cruel, hard-hearted man."

"In his feelings as a patriot," returned Mr. Bernard, "those of the father appear to have been absorbed. What became of the other prisoners, Edward?"

_Edward_. Excepting the ambassadors, they all shared the fate of the sons of Brutus. His severity towards his children, greatly increased his authority in Rome; and when he was, some time after, slain in battle by Aruns, the son of Tarquin, the citizens were inconsolable for his loss. They considered him as a hero, who had restored liberty to his country, who had cemented that liberty by the blood of his own children, and who had died in defending it against the tyrant. The first funeral honours were paid him in the camp; but, the next day, the corpse was brought into the Forum, in a magnificent litter. On this occasion, Valerius gave Rome the first example of those funeral orations, which were ever after made in praise of great men. The ladies distinguished themselves on this occasion: they mourned for him a whole year, as if they had lost a common father.

"The death of such a man was, indeed, a serious misfortune to the state," said Mr. Bernard: "can you tell me what became of the banished Tarquin?"

_Emily_. After an exile of fourteen years, during which time he made many ineffectual struggles to recover the throne, he died at the advanced age of ninety.

"This, papa, is all we have read at present," said Edward; "I hope my brother and sisters will not go on with the history till my return, for this is a very good place to leave off."

_Louisa_ I am sure, Edward, we should have no pleasure in going on without you, and am certain mamma would not wish it.

It was unanimously agreed, that the Roman history should be laid aside till Edward's return.

"You have now seen," said Mr. Bernard, "the freedeom which the Romans recovered by the expulsion of Tarquin the Proud, secured to them by his death; a freedom that was undoubtedly the source of all their future grandeur. I must again repeat, my dear children, that I have been much pleased with the manner in which you have given this little sketch of the regal government of Rome. One very important point you have, however, overlooked."

"Pray, papa, what is that?" enquired the children, with one voice.

"The dates of the different events which you have mentioned," replied their father. "Geography and chronology, are desevedly called _the two eyes of history_. Without geography, which is a knowledge of the situation and extent of the different countries of the earth, no reader of history can have clear and distinct ideas of what he reads, as being transacted in them; and without chronology, which is a knowledge of the time when the various events took place, the historical facts he acquires by reading, will only be an incumbrance upon his memory. He will have a number of confused ideas, but no regular or useful information. Now, which of you can tell me in what year Rome was built?"

"Oh, we all know that," said Louisa; "it was seven hundred and fifty- three years before the birth of our Saviour."

"And the regal power was abolished four hundred and sixty-seven years before that event," continued Edward; "so that _that_ administration lasted two hundred and eighty-six years."

"But I do think, papa," said Ferdinand, "that it is very difficult to remember dates. I wish you could tell us some easy way, by which we might impress them upon our memories."

"The system of Mnemonics, lately introduced by Fineagle and Coglan, you will find a great assistance. The substitution of letters for figures, is an excellent plan, as it enables you to form the date into words, which you may associate with the event itself, and, by this means, impress it much more indelibly upon your memory."

"I do not quite understand you, papa," said Louisa.

"I will purchase one of Mr. Coglans's books, the next time I go to town," said her father, "that will explain the plan to you very clearly, and I think you will find it extremely useful. Come, my dear Edward," added he, turning to his son, "as you have so long a journey in prospect to-morrow, it is quite time for you to retire."

The rest of the children soon followed his example, and taking an affectionate leave of their parents, withdrew for the night.

CONVERSATION XI

Mr. Dormer called early the following morning, and breakfasted with the Bernard family before his departure. The little folks endeavoured to welcome him with smiles; but it was very evident that their hearts were heavy, in spite of their efforts to appear cheerful. They had never before been separated from each other, and they felt that Edward's absence would make a sad blank in their little circle. Edward himself, though delighted with the prospect of his journey, could not repress a starting tear, as his mother folded him, with maternal tenderness, to her bosom. He renewed his promise of writing them a long letter in the course of a week, giving a full account of all he should hear and learn; then, kissing his brother and sister, he hastened into the chaise, followed by Mr. Dormer, and soon lost the sadness which had crept over his spirits, in admiration of the luxuriant country through which they passed.

But with the little group at home, it was quite otherwise: they had no variety of scene to banish their sorrow for his departure; on the contrary, every object they saw reminded them of their beloved Edward. They felt, without being aware of it, the force of Scott's beautiful lines:

"When musing on companions gone, We doubly feel ourselves alone."

Their customary tasks passed off heavily, and every object, notwithstanding the cheerfulness of the day, assumed an appearance of unusual gloom.

Mrs. Bernard affectionately sympathised in their sorrow, and thinking a walk might in some measure divert their attention, proposed a visit to the old woman's cottage. Mr. Bernard had lost one of his under clerks, and intended taking Henry to supply his place, should he find him qualified for the situation. No proposition could have been more agreeable to the children, and with great alacrity they prepared to accompany their mother. It was, however, some time before they could recover their spirits, so as to enjoy their walk as usual.

"Ah, mamma," said Ferdinand, "how very different things appear when we are happy, and when we are unhappy; this walk was so delightful last Monday! How much we did enjoy ourselves! Do you not remember it? You gave us that interesting account of the British _hirundines_. Edward enjoyed it with us, and we thought it so pleasant; and now I really do not think it a particularly cheerful walk, and, to tell you the truth, mamma, it appears to me very dull to-day, and yet I see no alteration in the prospect."

_Mrs. B._ The alteration is in your own mind, my boy. Your present feelings must convince you, how important is the acquisition of that firmness of mind, which your father has so constantly endeavoured to inculcate, and which can alone enable you to bear, with fortitude, the _real_ evils you will have to encounter in after life.

"_Real_ evils, mamma!" reiterated Ferdinand; "you do not then think this a real evil?"

"Indeed, my dear, I do not," replied Mrs. Bernard; "on the contrary, I hope, to Edward it will prove a real good; and I am sure you are none of you so selfish as to wish to deprive him of any advantage, merely for the sake of your own gratification."

"Selfish! Oh, no, mamma, indeed we are not selfish," cried all the children at once: "we will convince you we are not, for we will, this minute, leave off grieving for Edward's departure, and teach ourselves to rejoice, and wish him very happy."

_Mrs. B._ You will do quite right, my dears; and now let us change the subject, for that is the best way to banish your regret.

_Ferdinand_. I was very much amused yesterday, mamma, with reading the new book you gave me for a prize a little time ago.

_Mrs. B._ Miss Edgworth's "Early Lessons," do you mean, my dear Ferdinand?

"Yes, mamma: I was reading that part of Harry and Lucy, in which their father so clearly explains to them the expansibility of air, and the power of steam; and I thought this might, perhaps, account for a thing that has always puzzled me extremely, and that is, earthquakes. [Footnote: Another remark of the child before mentioned.] I was reading a description of one a few days ago, and feel very anxious to know what can occasion such dreadful convulsions in the bowels of the earth. Will you be so kind, mamma, as to tell me what is supposed to be the cause?"

_Mrs. B._ On this, as well as on most other philosophical subjects, the opinions of the learned vary. Mr. *****, who was a great naturalist, imagines some to be produced by fire, in the manner of volcanoes; others, by the struggles of confined air, expanded by heat, and endeavouring to get free. But there does not appear any sufficient reason for this distinction. The union of fire and air seems necessary to effect the explosion; since the former is an agent of no power, without the aid of the latter.

_Ferdinand_. But pray, mamma, how does heat get into the inside of the earth?

_Mrs. B._ There are hidden in the bowels of the earth, immense quantities of inflammable matter: pyrites, bitumens, and other substances of a similar nature, which only require moisture to put their fires in motion. Water readily finds its way into the greatest depths of earth: or even from subterraneous springs, this dreadful mixture may occur, when immediately new appearances ensue; those substances which have lain dormant for ages, and which, had they not met with this new element, would have remained so for ages longer, appear suddenly to have changed their nature: they grow hot, produce new air, and require room for expansion. The struggles this air then makes to get free, throw all above into convulsions, and produce those dreadful catastrophes which we so properly denominate earthquakes. This appears the most rational means of accounting for this phenomenon; I have not, therefore, thought it needful to enter into the theoretical speculations of philosophers upon the subject.

_Ferdinand._ Well, mamma, directly I read, in Henry and Lucy, an account of those experiments, I felt almost sure, the expansion of the air in the earth, was the cause of earthquakes; though I did not exactly understand how it could be. I am much obliged to you for your explanation.

_Mrs. B._ You are very welcome, my dear. You lately read an account of one of these dreadful convulsions of nature. Where did it happen?

_Ferdinand._ In Jamaica, mamma, in the year 1692: it is a most dreadful account. In two minutes' time, the town of Port Royal was destroyed, and the houses sunk in a gulph forty fathoms deep. In every fathom, there are six feet, you know, mamma; so, if we multiply forty by six, we shall find that these poor creatures were instantly buried, with their houses, to the depth of two hundred and forty feet under ground. In other parts of the island, the sand rose like the waves of the sea, lifting up all who stood upon it, and then dashing them into pits. The water was thrown out of the wells with the greatest violence; the openings of the earth were in some places so broad, that the streets appeared twice as wide as they were before: in others, the ground yawned and closed again continually, swallowing, at each yawn, two or three hundred of the wretched inhabitants: sometimes the chasms suddenly closing, caught them by the middle, and crushed them instantly to death. From openings still more dreadful than these, spouted up cataracts of water, drowning such as the earthquake had spared. Every thing was destroyed: houses, people, and trees, shared one universal ruin. Great pools of water afterwards appeared, which, when dried by the sun, left only a plain of barren sand, without a single trace of its former inhabitants.

_Mrs. B._ I recollect to have read the account, as well as that of a very similar one that occurred some years ago at Lisbon, which is, you know, the capital of Portugal. I have, at home, a very interesting narrative of an earthquake that happened at Calabria, in the southern part of Italy. It is related by Father Kircher, who was considered as a prodigy of learning, and was also a very excellent man. When we return home, I will look for the paper, and let you read it.

Just as Mrs. Bernard had finished speaking, a little girl, about six years old, came running towards them, crying most bitterly, and exclaiming: "Oh! dear lady, do pray come to my poor mammy, for she is very bad indeed: I do think she is going to die, as my daddy did last week; and then poor baby, and Tommy, and I shall die too, for there will be nobody to take care of us when mammy is gone."

"Where does your mammy live, my poor little girl?" enquired Mrs. Bernard.

"By the hill-side, Ma'am, at yonder cottage," said the child, pointing to a low-roofed shed at no great distance.

Mrs. Bernard, accompanied by Emily, Louisa, and Ferdinand, proceeded towards the spot pointed out by the little girl, and on entering the cot, beheld a sight which wrung their gentle hearts with pity. On a bundle of straw in one corner of the hovel, (for it deserved no better name,) lay a young woman, apparently fast sinking into the arms of death; at the foot of this wretched bed, sat a poor little half naked boy, crying for that food his wretched mother could not supply; an infant at her breast, was vainly endeavouring to procure the nourishment which nature usually provides, but which want and misery had now nearly exhausted.

Mrs. Bernard approached the poor sufferer, and took her hand. It was cold and clammy: her lips moved, but no sound met the ears of the attentive listeners Mrs. Bernard then enquired of the child, what food her mother had lately taken.

"Oh! none, Ma'am, since the day before yesterday. When my poor daddy was carried away, we had but one loaf left, and that she _giv'd_ all to Tommy and me."

This account, though it shocked Mrs. Bernard extremely, still gave her hopes that disease was not the sole cause of the poor woman's deplorable situation, and induced her to believe, that proper nourishment, with other attentions, might be the means of preserving a life so valuable to her infant family.

Emily proposed hastening home for medical assistance, and also for that nourishment which seemed not less necessary.

Mrs. Bernard requested she would take charge of her brother and sister, as it was her intention to remain at the cottage till the poor woman should revive a little. She also begged her to send Jane as quickly as possible, who was an excellent nurse, and would cheerfully afford the assistance of which the poor sufferer stood so much in need.

Emily immediately set off, accompanied by Louisa and Ferdinand. Before they had proceeded far, they met a rosy milk-maid, singing with her pail upon her head.

"Oh!" exclaimed Louisa, "I do think some milk would be good for the poor woman and the children, till we can get them something better. Do let me ask the young woman to take some to the hut."

Emily quite approved her sister's plan, and pointing out to the girl the path that led to the hovel, they received her promise to call with the milk, and proceeded on their way, their hearts already lightened of a load of anxiety.

Mrs. Bernard was delighted at the sight of the milk-girl, and much pleased with the consideration of the children in sending her. She purchased a sufficient quantity, to supply, for the half starved children, a plentiful meal.

"Have you no bread in the house, my dear," said she to Susan, for that was the little girl's name.

"Yes, Ma'am, a little," returned she; "because I did not eat my last bit, for fear we should not get any more; and then, if poor little Tommy was ever so hungry, he would have nothing to eat, for mammy is too ill to work for us now."

"But are you not hungry yourself?" enquired Mrs. Bernard.

"Oh yes, Ma'am," replied Susan, "that I am; but I don't mind it: I am the biggest and the strongest, so it won't hurt me to be hungry a bit."

Mrs. Bernard looked the surprise and admiration at this truly good child. "Well, my poor little Susan, you shall have a good meal now, as soon as we can boil the milk. But the fire is almost out."

"Oh, Ma'am, I'll make a cheerful blaze in a minute," said Susan, whose usual alacrity was increased by the hopes of a plentiful meal: and instantly running into the lane, she, in a few minutes, collected a large bundle of sticks, which she placed with much judgment upon the expiring embers, and exciting them with her breath, a blazing fire soon lighted the cold walls of the hut, and cast a ray of cheerfulness around the gloomy scene. The heat from the fire, together with reflection from its flame, gave to the child's before pallid countenance, a momentary flush of health; and Mrs. Bernard thought, as she gazed upon her, she had never seen a more interesting little creature. She supplied the fire with a fresh bundle of faggots, which maintained the genial warmth; and producing a saucepan, which for brightness might have vied with any in Mrs. Bernard's kitchen, she put on the milk to boil.

Whilst this operation was performing, Susan swept up the hearth, reached out of a cupboard two black porringers, and crumbled into them her little store of bread.

Tommy, in the mean time, had crept from the bed, and was warming his half-frozen limbs at the cheerful fire, eyeing with delight the meal that was preparing for him.

As soon as the milk boiled, Mrs. Bernard poured it upon the bread, and persuaded the poor woman to take a few spoonfuls. It appeared to revive her much; and a violent flood of tears, which at this moment came to her relief, proved still more salutary. Mrs. Bernard did not wish to stop their flow: she took the little infant in her arms, and gave it a good meal of bread and milk; after which it dropped into a sweet sleep, and was again laid on the humble bed of its mother.

Susan and her brother ate their portion with the eagerness of real hunger, and with hearts glowing with gratitude; though in a style of infantine simplicity, they tanked their generous benefactress for her kindness.

In about an hour Jane arrived, accompanied by Mr. Simmons, the medical friend of the family. He was a man possessed of a liberal fortune, but of a still more liberal mind. His skill in his profession was great, and he was always ready to exert it to the utmost, for the relief of the needy sufferer. He warmly entered into Mrs. Bernard's benevolent plan on this occasion, and confirming her suspicion, that the poor woman required nourshing diet and care, rather than medicine, it was determined that Jane should remain at the cottage as nurse, and that the children should be removed to a more comfortable abode, till their mother was sufficiently recovered to attened properly to them. No persuasions, however, could prevail upon poor little Susan to leave her mother; she was, therefore, permitted to remain as Jane's assistant, whilst her brother and the baby were conveyed to the hospitable mansion of Mr. Bernard.

Under the kind care of Jane, and with the necessary assistance from her benevolent mistress, the cottage soon assumed a new appearance. The wretched pallet of straw was removed, and gave place to a comfortable bed. A table and chairs were provided, and a degree of comparative comfort reigned around.

The poor woman endeavoured to express her gratitude for so many unexpected blessings, but was prevented by the positive commands of Mrs. Bernard, who insisted upon her keeping herself, for this day at least, perfectly tranquil.

The children at home had not been less busily, or less benevolently employed, than their mother at the cottage. The moment little Tommy and the baby entered the house, the charity-box, so recently stored by the hand of industry, was recollected with delight. Some warm undergarments, with a neat frock and petticoat, were soon found, that exactly fitted little Tommy, and the baby was still more easily provided for.

"See, see, the effects of industry!" cried Ferdinand, jumping with delight around his sisters, as Louisa tied the last string of Tommy's frock, and Emily put on the baby's cap, which she declared made it look quite beautiful: "Oh! how delightful to be able to be so useful. Now I wish mamma would come home: how pleased she would be. What a pity that poor little Susan is not here, to have some new clothes too; but we must take her some, Emily. Let us go to the box, and look for some that will fit her."

"We have none large enough, Ferdinand," said Emily.

"Oh yes, I do think this pink frock will be big enough," exclaimed Ferdinand, drawing one out from underneath the others: "here is a great tuck in it, let us pull it out; that will make it a great piece longer." Saying these words, he was going to immediately to proceed to business, when Louisa loudly exclaimed:

"Oh, stop, Ferdinand, stop; that is not a real tuck; there is a great join under it, because my stuff was not long enough to make it all in one piece."

"What a pity! How shall we manage then?" said Ferdinand, putting on a look of great consideration.

"We must have patience till we can make one of proper size, I believe," added Emily: "but here comes mamma."

Ferdinand and Louisa instantly seized each a hand of little Tommy, and led him forward, whilst Emily followed with the baby.

[lacuna]

_protegeis_, and thanked her children for the assistance they had rendered her.