Chapter 3

_Mrs. B._ The mind of the poor girls, on the contrary, are most sadly neglected. Needlework is almost the only accomplishment thought necessary for them. There is no country in the world in which the woman are in a greater state of humiliation, than in China. Those whose husbands are of high rank, live under constant confinement; those of the second class are little better than upper servants, deprived of all liberty; whilst the poort share with their husbands the most laborious occupations.

_Louisa._ How exceedingly I should dislike it; and yet, I think, I would rather be the wife of a poor Chinese, than of a rich one.

_Emily_ I think so too; for the hardest labour would not be to me so irksome as total inactivity.

_Mrs. B._ I am quite of your opinion, Emily. The situation of these wretched beings must be rendered doubly irksome by the uncultivated state of their minds. This deprives them of those delightful resources, from which the well-educated female of our happy country may constantly derive the purest enjoyment.

_Emily._ Had not your and my dear father early installed into us a love of reading, how very much our present enjoyments would be lessened.

_Mrs. B._ We have always, my dear considered it as an important point in your education; since no amusement so delightfully occupies the vacant hours of life, even where entertainment is the principal object. It is one of those tastes that grows by indulgence: there is scarcely any enjoyment so independent of the will of others: it engages and employs the thoughts of the wretched, directs the enthusiasm of the young, and relieves the weariness of old age. Well might the amiable Fenelon say: "If the crowns of all the kingdoms of Europe were laid at my feet, in exchange for my love of reading, I would spurn them all."

_Louisa_. Now, Ferdinand, I know you long to tell mamma your droll story about the dog.

_Ferdinand_. Well, mamma, when we got into the garden, I was very much amused with a nice little terrier, and Mrs. Horton said, she thought we should be entertained with an anecdote or two she could tell us respecting him. The dog belongs to her brother, who is an elderly gentleman, and wears a wig. He used to keep one hung up on a peg in his dressing-room, and, as it was grown very shabby, he one day gave it away to a poor old man. The dog happened soon after to see him in the street. He knew the wig again in a minute; and, looking full in the man's face, made a sudden spring, leaped upon his shoulders, seized the wig, and ran off with it as fast as he could; and, when he reached home, endeavoured, by jumping, to hang it in its usual place.

_Mrs. B._ I think your story very amusing, Ferdinand: it is a curious instance of sagacity.

_Emily_. The other circumstance which Mrs. Horton mentioned, of the same animal, proves him equally sagacious. He was one day passing through a field, where a washerwoman had hung out her linen to dry; he stopped, and surveyed one particular shirt with attention, then seizing it, he dragged it through the dirt to his master, whose shirt it proved to be. [Footnote: See Bingley's Animal Biography.]

_Edward_. Well, now, mamma, please to listen to my story about the cat.

_Mrs. B._ By all means, my dear.

_Edward_. As we were walking near the house, I was surprised to see a fine cat, with a pretty little leveret gambolling and frolicking by her side. Mrs. Horton told us, that, about a fortnight ago, the farmer's boy brought this poor little creature into the house, having found it, almost starved to death, in a hole, in consequence, I suppose, of some accident having happened to its mother. Mrs. Horton gave directions that it should be fed and kept warm. The servants grew very fond of it, and were quite grieved, one day, suddenly to miss it. They concluded that some cat or dog had killed it, and never expected to see their little favourite again. However, yesterday, in the dusk of the evening, they observed the cat in the garden, with something gambolling after her, which, to their great delight, they discovered to be the leveret. They then recollected that poor puss had been deprived of a litter of kittens, on the very day that their favourite had so mysteriously disappeared. The cat had adopted him in the place of her own little ones, nourished him with her milk, and continues still to support him with the greatest affection [Footnote: See Bingley's Animal Biography].

_Mrs. B._ It is a curious circumstance, but not so extraordinary, I think, as the account Ferdinand read to me, some time ago, in "A Visit for a Week," of a cat supporting a chicken in a similar manner.

_Ferdinand_. Well, mamma, besides the accounts we have given you, Mrs. Horton told us several other curious things respecting the instinct of animals. She took us to an aviary in the garden, which is a large place made on purpose to keep birds in. There were some beautiful gold and penciled pheasants; but no bird, in my opinion, is so handsome as the peacock. I asked Mrs. Horton if it were originally a native of this country. She told me it was brought to us from the East, and that numerous flocks of them are still to be seen wild in Java and Ceylon.

_Mrs. B._ Where are those two islands situated, Louisa?

_Louisa_. They are both in the Indian Ocean. Java is a little to the east of Sumatra; and Ceylon, off the coast of Coromandel. All the animals with which the woods abound, are not so agreeable as the peacock, mamma; for I recollect reading, a little time ago, that there are varieties of wild beasts live there: particularly in Java, there are many large and fierce tigers.

_Mrs. B._ Did Mrs. Horton tell you any thing more respecting the peacock?

_Emily_. Yes; she made us observe its train, which does not appear to be the tail. The long feahers grow all up their backs. A range of short, brown, stiff feathers, about six inches long, is the real tail, and serves as a prop to the train when elevated. This certainly must be the case, as, when the train is spread, nothing appears of the bird but its head and neck; which could not be, were those long feathers fixed only in the rump. She also told us, that, in the time of Francis the first, king of France, it was the custom to serve up a peacock at the tables of the great, not for food, but ornament. The skin was first carefully stripped off, and the body being prepared with the hottest spices, was again covered with it; in this state it was not at all subject to decay, but preserved its beauty for several years.

_Mrs. B._ In China, a peacock's feather hanging from the cap, is considered as a mark of high distinction; and Sir George Staunton, in his account of the Embassy to China, mentions a circumstance of a legate of the emperor, who was degraded from his office, for disobeying the orders of his imperial majesty, being reduced to wear an opaque white, instead of a transparent blue button, and a crow's instead of a peacock's tail-feather pendant from his cap. The splendour of this bird's plumage certainly demands our highest admiration, but, independent of its beauty, it has few excellencies to boast. Its voice is extremely harsh and disagreeable, and its gluttony is a great counterbalance to its personal charms.

_Emily_. Mrs. Horton made a remark similar to yours, mamma. She said, beauty was certainly very pleasing when adorned by the smiles of good- humoured cheerfulness; but that the fairest face, without this charm, would soon cease to please. She also repeated to us those sweet lines from Cowper, in which he so prettily contrasts he retiring modesty of the pheasant, with the proud display made by the peacock, of his gaudy plumes.

"Meridian sun-beams tempt him to unfold His radiant glories--azure, green, and gold. He treads as if, some solemn music near, His measur'd step were govern'd by his ear; And seems to say--'Ye meaner fowl give place, I am all splendour, dignity, and grace! Not so the pheasant on his charms presumes, Though he too has a glory in his plumes; He, Christian-like, retreats, with modest mien, To the close copse, or far- sequester'd green, And shines, without desiring to be seen."

_Ferdinand_. We then walked some time in the park and gardens, mamma; after which Mrs. Horton took us into the house, that we might rest ourselves a little before dinner. When dinner was over we went into the picture-gallery, and, amongst a number of very beautiful prints and paintings, there was one representing the combat between the Horatii and Curiatii, of which we had read in the morning. How much more pleasure one has in looking at prints, when one knows a little about the subject of them.

_Mr. B._ A cultivated mind, my deal children, is a constant source of pleasure. Youth is the seed-time of life, and you must be careful so to plant now, as to ensure to yourselves hereafter, not only a plentiful, but a valuable harvest. It is growing late--we must think of our history, or we shall spend all the evening in chit-chat. Edward, suppose you begin the account.

_Edward_. I mentioned, yesterday, that Tullus Hostilius was of a disposition very different from the peaceful Numa. He was entirely devoted to war, and more fond of enterprise, than even the founder of the empire himself had been. The Albans were the first people that gave him an opportunity of indulging his favourite inclination. Upon the death of Romulus, seeing their ancient kings extinct, they resumed their independence, with a determination to shake off the Roman yoke, and to appoint their own governors. Cluilius was at the head of this affair. He is, by some historians, styled dictator; by others, king. Being very jealous of the growing greatness of Rome, he, by a stratagem, contrived to engage them in a war. Cluilius was, however, previous to the commencement of the hostilities, found dead in his tent, surrounded by his guards, without any external marks of violence. After his death, both parties seemed to wish for an accommodation upon a amicable terms, but neither liked to submit to be inferior to their rival. It was at length proposed, that the superiority should be determined of each other, and, when the people expected to see them begin fighting furiously, they, instead of that, laid aside their arms, and flew to embrace each other.

_Mr. B._ What effect had this upon the spectators, Emily?

_Emily_. They were much moved, and began to murmur at their king, who had engaged such leader friends in a cruel rivalship for glory. But a new scene quickly put an end to their pity, fixed their attention, and employed all their hopes and fears:--the combat began, and the victory long hung doubtful. At length the eldest of the Horatii received a mortal wound, and fell: a second soon met the same fate, and expired upon the body of his brother. The Alban army now gave a loud shout, whilst consternation and despair spread themselves through the Roman camp.

_Ferdinand_. Oh, papa, how interested I felt, this morning, when we got to this part.

_Mr. B._ I do not wonder that you were, my dear: it is a circumstance calculated strongly to interest the feelings. Edward, take up the account where Emily quitted it.

_Edward_. Do not suppose the Roman cause quite desperate. It is true, they had but one champion remaining, but he was both unhurt and undaunted, while all the Curiatii were wounded. He, however, did not conceive himself able to attack the three brothers at once, and therefore made use of a stratagem to separate them. He pretended fear, and fled before them. The Curiatii pursued him at unequal distances. Horatius turned short upon the foremost, and slew him. He then flew to the next, who soon shared his brother's fate. The only remaining Curiatii was so severely wounded, that he could scarcely support his shield, and offered no resistance to the attack of the conquering Horatius. Thus ended the famous combat, which gave Rome the superiority over Alba.

_Ferdinand_. The picture at Mrs. Horton's, represented Horatius at the moment he turned upon the first Curiatii. And there was another, representing him in the act of stabbing his sister, because she grieved for the death of one of the Curiatii, to whom she was going to be married.

_Edward_. Ah! that tarnished all the glory of Horatius, in my opinion. It was so natural she should weep for such a loss.

_Mrs. B._ Flushed with conquest, Horatius lost his self-possession. Often do we find heroes, who can subdue their enemies in the field, the weakest of the weak, when the combat is against their own evil passions. Self-knowledge, and self-possession, are most important acquirements. They are excellencies I must earnestly desire for each of you, my dear children. But we have not time for further conversation to-night: you have all exerted yourselves extremely to-day, and must feel fatigued.

_Louisa_. Oh no, papa, I am not all all tired.

_Mrs. B._ Indeed, my Louisa, your heavy eyes tell a different tale. Ferdinand, too, looks very sleepy. Good night, my dear children.

They immediately arose, and, thanking their father for the great indulgence he had afforded them, retired.

CONVERSATION IV.

"Now, my dears, have you your work prepared for the evening?" said Mrs. Bernard, rising from the tea-table.

"Mine is quite ready, mamma," replied Emily.

"And mine too, I believe," said Louisa, opening her work-bag. "Oh! dear, no, I have used up all my thread. I quite forgot that. And where can my thimble be? I am sure I thought I had put it into my bag. Emily, have you seen my thimble? I dare say you have got it, you are so apt to take my things."

_Emily._ Oh! no, indeed, Louisa, you are mistaken, Sometimes, when I find them left about, I put them by for you, that they may not be lost.

"Well, that is the very thing that makes me think I have lost them," said Louisa, rather petulantly. "It is very tiresome of you, Emily. I do wish you never would touch any thing that belongs to me."

"Gently, gently, my Louisa," interrupted Mrs. Bernard: "you ought to feel much obliged to your sister for her kindness. If it were not for her attention, your carelessness would make a sad hole in your pocket- money. In this instance, however, Emily appears to be quite innocent of your loss: she does not seem to know any thing about the stray thimble. She has not, therefore, been the cause of your misfortune to-day."

Louisa rose from her seat, and leaving the room, exclaimed: "I dare say I shall find it in a minute or two."

She was, however, absent more than a quarter of an hour, and at length returned, without having found her thimble.

"Well, mamma, it is a most extraordinary thing," said she: "I cannot think what is become of it. It is very tiresome that things should get lost so."

_Mrs. B._ It is rather singular that Emily seldom meets with these misfortunes, from which you so frequently suffer, Louisa.

_Louisa_. Indeed, Emily is very fortunate, mamma. She never has occasion to lose her time in looking for things, and, I do believe, that is one reason why she gets on so much faster with her work than I do.

_Mrs. B._ It is a very probably conjecture, my dear; but you must not attribute the cause merely to good-fortune: Emily is attentive to the excellent maxim: "A place for every thing, and every thing in its place," and if you would endeavour, in this respect, to follow her example, you would find the same comfortable effects resulting from it.

_Louisa_. Well, mamma, and so I have a place for my things. My work- bag is exactly like Emily's.

"But you do not make exactly the same use of it," said Mrs. Bernard.

Here Ferdinand interposed, with a proposition, that they should all go and have a good hunt for the thimble, as it would hurt Louisa's finger sadly, to work all the evening without one.

Louisa expressed her thanks to Ferdinand for his kindness, adding, "I am quite sorry my carelessness has given every body so much trouble. If I find my thimble this once, I will endeavour, in future, to copy Emily's example, and be more careful."

Mrs. Bernard highly approved this determination, and added, "I hope you will be able to keep your resolution, my dear. You will find the comfort resulting from the adoption of method, an ample recompence for any little trouble it may at first occasion you. Now, make haste; I wish you success in your search." _They go out._

After some time, Louisa returned with a disappointed countenance, which convinced Mrs. Bernard that her search had been in vain. The gloom was, however, soon banished by the entrance of Ferdinand, who, smiling with exultation, held out the stray thimble, and exclaimed, "I have found it, Louisa! Here it is! When you went to wash your hands, you left it in the closet."

"Oh, thank you, Ferdinand! thank you!" cried Louisa. "How glad I am to see it again! Pray, Emily, excuse my having been so cross to you just now."

"That I do, most willingly," said Emily. "Indeed, I had already forgotten your little momentary fit of anger."

"Come, let us now sit down to work, without further loss of time," said their mother. "It gives me most sincere pleasure, my dear children, to see in you a disposition to assist each other in any little case of difficulty. Nothing tends so much to cement brotherly love, as politeness and attention. In many families this is a thing much neglected; and I have seen more disagreements arise, from a rude, contradictory disposition, than from any other cause whatever. I know you like to have our instructions illustrated by a story, particularly if it be founded on fact. Your father will, therefore, I am sure, give you an account of a friend of his, who experienced the most beneficial effects, from adopting kind, conciliatory manners, in opposition to rudeness and incivility."

"I shall relate the circumstance with much pleasure," replied Mr. Bernard, "because I am convinced, a most excellent lesson may be learnt from it; and, as I know the parties, I can assure you it is perfectly true. An elderly gentleman, with a very large fortune, but no family, adopted a nephew and niece, the orphan children of two of his sisters. His object was, when they were of a proper age, to unite them to each other by marriage, intending that the whole of his immense possesions should centre in them; but he was much disappointed to find, instead of the affection which he expected to witness, an extreme dislike subsisting between the young people, which strengthened as they advanced in years. Their uncle's presence imposed upon them some restraint, but, when alone, they gave full scope to their dislike, teasing and tormenting each other by every means in their power. When the young man attained his twenty-second, and the young lady her nineteenth year, they lost their uncle, who had been to them as a parent. The only sentiment in which they united, was a tender regard to this common friend; and deeply did they lament his death. The idea that they should now be freed from the irksome incumbrance of each other's company, however, afforded them some consolation. Under these impressions, you may judge of the dismay they both experienced, upon opening their uncle's will, to find that his fortune was left equally between them, provided they accomplished his wish, by uniting their destinies; but, whichever refused fulfilling these conditions, was to forfeit all claim to the money and estates. Thunder-struck at this appalling sentence, the young man retired to his chamber, and spent some hours in solitude, considering what line of conduct it would be best for him to pursue. Always accustomed to affluence, the horrors of poverty presented themselves before him in dreadful array; yes, a union with his cousin, seemed an alternative still more formidable:--he knew not how to determine. She, in the mean time, suffered no less anxiety. The same fears agitated her mind. She was well aware of her cousin's dislike to her, and hoped it would prevent his making those proposals which she dreaded to hear. At length, he joined her in the garden, and addressed her as follows:--'You have heard the contents of our uncle's will, Emma. It places us both in a most painful situation. It were vain to profess for you an affection, I neither can, or do I believe I ever shall feel; but, yielding to the necessity of my circumstances, I offer you my hand.' 'The same sentiment induces me to accept your offer,' said the dejected Emma, with a heavy sigh; but surely, by such a union, we both bid adieu to happiness for ever.'--'Our prospect certainly does not promise us much felicity,' rejoined the young man, 'yet I cannot help thinking, a moderate share of happiness may still be within our power. Hitherto, our chief andeavour has been to thwart and irritate each other; let us, henceforth, employ the same pains to conciliate and oblige. Great affection, on either side, we will not expect: but let us resolve to maintain, on all occasions, a spirit of politeness and of good-will towards each other.' To this the young lady readily assented, and, under those circumstances, they were married. They persevered in their wise resolution. I have known them many years, and never did I see a couple more affectonately attached to each other."

_Edward_. It is a very interesting account, indeed, papa.

_Mr. B._ It is a story from which much solid instruction may be derived, my dear. People in general, are by no means aware what a powerful influence those attentions, which they deem trifling, leave upon the happiness of life. They think, on _important_ occasions, they should be willing to make great sacrifices for those they love; but do not reflect how rarely such occasions present themselves; whereas, opportunities are daily, nay, hourly occurring, for the discharge of mutual kind offices, which powerfully tend to cement the affectionate ties of friendship. Edward, did you not commit to memory the passage upon politeness, we read in Xenophon's Cyropaedia the other day?

_Edward._ I did, papa.

Mr. B. Repeat it to us, my dear.

_Edward._ Politeness is an evenness of soul, which excludes, at the same time, both insensibility and too much earnestness. It supposes a quick discernment, to perceive, immediately, the different characters of men; and, by a sweet condescension, adapts itself to each man's taste, not to flatter, but to calm his passions. In a word, it is a forgetting of ourselves, in order to seek what may be agreeable to others, but, in so delicate a manner, as to let them scarce perceive that we are so employed. It knows how to contradict with respect, and to please without adulation; and is equally remote from an insipid complaisance, and a low familiarity.

_Louisa._ Pray, papa, who was the gentleman you were speaking of, a little time ago?

_Mr. B._ That cannot concern you at all, Louisa. His name is of no consequence to the moral of my tale.

_Edward._ Louisa is always so curious; we often laugh at her for it.

_Mrs. B._ It is a foolish and dangerous propensity, when it is carried into the minor concerns of life. A laudable curiosity, whose object is the improvement of the mind, should at all times be encouraged; and you will never, on such occasions, find either your father or myself, backward in satisfying it to the best of our abilities.

_Louisa._ I have been often told that it is wrong, mamma, and will really try to amend.

_Mr. B._ I most earnestly wish you success in your endeavour, Louisa. Curiosity was the fault of our first parents, you know. How much misery did this fatal propensity in Eve, entail upon the human race!

_Ferdinand._ Oh, mamma, may I tell Louisa that droll story, which I read to you the other day, about the poor wood-cutter's wife?

_Mrs. B._ I have no objection, provided Louisa would like to hear it.

_Louisa._ Yes, I should, mamma; for I do not mind being told of my faults, because I wish to amend them.