Part 1

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FRONTISPIECE

JULIA

AND

THE PET-LAMB;

OR,

GOOD TEMPER AND COMPASSION

_REWARDED_.

LONDON:

PRINTED FOR DARTON, HARVEY, AND DARTON, _No. 55, Gracechurch-Street_.

1813.

Printed by Darton, Harvey, and Co. Gracechurch-Street, London.

JULIA

_AND_

_THE PET-LAMB_.

“NOW, mamma, I have finished my work: is it well done?” said little Julia, as she showed the pocket-handkerchief she had just hemmed to her mother. Her mother replied, “Yes, my love, very well done: fold it neatly up, put it into my work-bag, and then go to play.”

JULIA. May I go into the garden? The sun is in the west, but he is not set. Look, mamma, how beautiful the sky is! The clouds are like gold! And see, the fields and trees, a great way off, are of a beautiful purple colour; while the elm trees here, on this side of the garden, look almost yellow, because the sun shines on them. Mamma, may I go to the bottom of the lane, behind the elm trees? I shall have time to go there before the sun is quite gone.

MRS. VINCENT. Why, Julia, do you wish to go there?

JULIA. Because the bank, near the end of the lane, is covered with primroses, and violets, and cowslips. You know, mamma, Mary, my dear Mary, will come home to-morrow. Now I should like to pick a great many flowers, and put them into her room, to look pretty and to smell sweet. Mary is fond of primroses, violets, and cowslips. May I go, mamma? I will not be gone long: I will run very fast all the way there, and all the way back. May I go, mamma?

MRS. V. Yes, my dear, you may: you may stay out half an hour—not longer.

JULIA. Oh, thank you, mamma! Half an hour is very long: I shall come in sooner than that. I am sure I shall not stay out so long, so very long, as half an hour.

MRS. V. I do not desire you to come in sooner; but if you do not take care, you will, perhaps, stay beyond the time I have mentioned. Half an hour will pass very quickly, whilst you are busy gathering your nosegay.

JULIA. I believe you are right, mamma; for I never know when it is an hour, or when it is half an hour. When I am doing any thing that is disagreeable, the time seems so long; but when I am talking with you, or doing any thing that is very agreeable, an hour seems like a minute. How shall I know when to come in? Can you tell me, mamma?

MRS. V. It is now half past six o’clock; when the church clock strikes seven, come in.

JULIA. Oh, yes! thank you, mamma. I can hear the church clock strike very well, from the place where the primroses grow; and I can listen all the time I am gathering the flowers.

MRS. V. Well, put on your hat; make haste. If you go on chattering here, the half hour will be over before you get to the bank.

Julia put on her hat, her tippet and her gloves, and ran as fast as she could down the lane. When she reached the spot where the flowers grew, she was tired and out of breath. She sat on the bank, for a few minutes, to recover her breath: she was soon rested. Then she jumped up, and began to look about her. She looked round for the largest and freshest flowers, as she wished to have a beautiful bow-pot. She had only gathered three primroses, a few violets, and had her hand on a fine wild hyacinth, to pluck it, when she heard a rustling noise behind her: she looked to see what occasioned it. As she turned her head, something large, white, and heavy, fell over the hedge, from the field on the other side, rolled down the bank, and lay quite still. Julia wondered what it could be. At first she thought it was a large stone; but she did not see or hear any person who could have rolled it over the hedge; and stones cannot move by themselves. She stood looking towards the place where the white thing lay, unable to decide what it was. In a few moments she heard the faint bleat of a lamb. Now she guessed it was a poor lamb, which had been frightened. She supposed that, in its haste to get away from the cause of its terror, it had fallen down the high bank into the lane. She feared it was much hurt; for it cried, as if it was in pain, and did not attempt to move. She went up close to it: it lay quite still: she patted its back—it bleated piteously—it tried to lick her hand. She was surprised to find it so gentle, till she observed a blue ribbon about its neck: then she thought it was Miss Beauchamp’s pet-lamb. She had been told that Miss Beauchamp had a favourite lamb, which was so tame that it fed out of her hand. She recollected, likewise, that the field next the lane belonged to Sir Henry Beauchamp; that his house was very near, a few yards to the right. She therefore felt quite sure it was Miss Beauchamp’s lamb. Julia was sorry the poor animal was hurt: she wished somebody would come and take it home; but she feared, that if she ran to tell the people at Sir Harry Beauchamp’s to fetch it, the church-clock would strike seven before she had finished gathering her bow-pot. She turned to go back to the flowers. The poor lamb bleated again, very piteously, and seemed, to implore her to have compassion for its sufferings. Julia stopped: she said, “Mary is kind and humane: she would not leave any animal in distress, without trying to assist it. Besides, when I read, to-day, how God made the world and all things in it, mamma told me he was good and merciful; that he loved all the creatures he had made: she said too, we ought to endeavour to imitate him, that he may love us.—No; God will not love me, if I am cruel to this poor little lamb. Well, I will go and tell somebody at the house where it is. Perhaps, after all, I shall have time to get a small bow-pot.”

Away Julia ran; but in a moment she heard the barking of a dog: she saw the lamb make an effort to rise and run away; but it could not stand, it fell down directly.

“Poor little lamb!” said Julia, “how terrified it is: no doubt that is the dog which hunted it. If I go away, the cruel dog may find it, and worry it to death, before any person can come to its assistance. Oh! I see the dog running across the field yonder. What can I do? I will try to carry the lamb home: it is only a little way to Sir Henry Beauchamp’s house.”

Julia returned to the lamb, and after two or three endeavours, succeeded in getting it up into her little arms. It was very heavy: it was as much as she could carry. When it bleated, she said, “Do not cry, pretty little lamb: I try not to hurt you; but you are very heavy, and if I do not hold you tight, you will fall to the ground. I am carrying you home, where you will be taken care of. I will make haste: I will walk as fast as I can—but you are very heavy.”

The lamb could not understand what the little girl said; however, it was accustomed to be petted and caressed, therefore her kindness and fondling soothed and pleased the poor animal. It lay quietly in her arms: it neither kicked nor struggled to get away.

Julia walked as fast as she could; yet she got on very slowly, for she was soon tired; so tired, that she would have sat down to have rested, had she not feared the dog might jump from the field into the lane, and follow her. Besides, if she did not make haste, there was no chance of her having time to gather the primroses before seven o’clock. She went on, therefore, only stopping a moment, now and then, to recover breath. At length she reached the end of the lane. She turned to the right; but before she had gone as far as the gate that opened into Sir Henry Beauchamp’s park, she saw several people come through it, and come towards her. A little girl ran on before the rest of the group: when she was near Julia, she exclaimed, “It is my lamb! The moment I saw you, I knew you! Dear, naughty lamb, why did you run away from me?—Thank you for bringing him to me. You look very tired. Give him to me now, if you please: I will carry him to his own house.”—“Take care,” replied Julia, “how you hold it; for it is badly hurt, I fear. It is not a naughty lamb, I believe. I think it has been hunted by a dog. I was gathering flowers in the lane, when it fell over the hedge: its leg is cut so badly, that it cannot stand. See, how it bleeds! I was coming to tell you or somebody to fetch it; only I saw a dog at a distance, and I feared he would bite it, if I came away, so I have brought it with me. I made haste, lest the dog should overtake us, if he got into the lane. See, he has found us out! Look, he is running towards us!—I am glad the lamb is safe. No, no, dog; you cannot get the lamb now.”

By the time Julia had finished speaking, Sir Henry and Lady Beauchamp, with two servants, who were all in search of the lamb, came up to her. “See, mamma,” said Miss Beauchamp, “this kind little girl has brought my lamb home. He is very much hurt. Poor Bello! you are very heavy: I can hardly hold you. Mamma, there is the dog which frightened Bello!”

Lady Beauchamp desired one of the servants to carry the lamb into the house, and the other to find out to whom the dog belonged, and to tell his master to keep him at home, that he might not do any more mischief.

Sir Henry Beauchamp returned to the house, to examine the poor lamb’s leg, and to see what could be done for it. Miss Beauchamp went likewise, to assist in nursing her favourite.

Lady Beauchamp took Julia by the hand, and said, “I am much obliged to you, my dear, for all the trouble you have taken. Come with me, and eat some strawberries and milk, to cool and refresh yourself: you appear fatigued and heated.”

JULIA. Thank you, ma’am; I should like to rest myself, for I am tired; but I do not think mamma would be pleased, if I went with you without her permission; and she only gave me leave to go into the lane to pick flowers. Besides, I am to go into the house again at seven o’clock; and I wish very much indeed to get some primroses and violets, to ornament Mary’s room against to-morrow.

LADY B. You are right, my dear, not to do any thing your mamma would disapprove. What is your name, my love? Where does your mamma live? I should like so good a child to come and play with my little girl. If I ask your mamma, perhaps she will allow you to come, some evening, and drink tea with us. I do not think you would dislike strawberries and milk for supper, if your mamma approved it. Should you?

Julia, smiling, answered, “Oh, no, ma’am! I like strawberries very much. I used to eat them, last summer; but I did not know there were any ripe now: we have none in our garden. The strawberry-plants are only in blossom.”

LADY B. I have none ripe in the garden. Those I shall give you will come out of a hot-house. Where do you live, my dear? What is your name?

JULIA. My name is Julia Vincent, ma’am: mamma lives at the top of the lane.

LADY B. At the pretty white cottage, which stands in a garden? I recollect it. Mrs. Vincent has not lived there long, I think?

JULIA. No, ma’am; only a little while. We lived in London before. I do not like London. Mary will come down to-morrow, for the first time. I forget, I shall not be able to gather the flowers for her, if I do not make haste. Good bye, ma’am.

LADY B. Who is Mary?

JULIA. My sister. She is very good. I try to be like her. I hope I may be as good and as wise as Mary, when I am as old. Mamma came here because London made her ill. She brought me with her, but Mary staid with my aunt. To-morrow they will both come here. Then I shall be happy; for I love Mary, she is so kind to me. Mary likes primroses, cowslips, and violets. She will be pleased to see her room so pretty: she will not expect to find so many flowers blown, for there are none in London.

As Julia ended her speech, the church-clock began to strike: she added, in a melancholy tone, “So, it is seven! I must go in: Mary will have no flowers.”

LADY B. I am sorry, my love, your kindness to Bello has been the cause of this disappointment to you.

Julia added, more cheerfully—“Perhaps I shall have time to-morrow to get some, before she comes. It is my own fault: if I had gone back directly, I should have been able to have gathered a few. I have lost the time chattering. If I chatter any more, mamma will wonder where I am. Good evening. I hope the lamb will soon be well.”

Julia ran home. Her mother was surprised to see her return empty-handed. “Where are your flowers, Julia?” asked Mrs. Vincent: “I expected to have seen a bow-pot almost as big as yourself.”

JULIA. Oh, mamma! just as I was beginning to gather it, a poor lamb fell over the hedge. It was so badly hurt, that it could not walk—it could not stand. It was very tame, and had a collar of blue ribbon round its neck. So I guessed it belonged to the young lady who lives at the large house in the park. You know, mamma, Mrs. Thomson, who called to see you yesterday, talked a great deal about Miss Beauchamp, and her pet-lamb, which fed out of her hand.

MRS. V. Yes, I remember she did. Now tell me what became of the lamb.

JULIA. Mamma, I carried it home:—no, not quite home; because I met Miss Beauchamp, and her papa and mamma, before I reached the gate. The lamb was very heavy: I could not walk fast whilst I had it in my arms. By the time the servant took it from me, and that I had talked a little, the church-clock struck seven, and I was obliged to come in without the flowers. I am very sorry—very sorry, indeed; because Mary will come home to-morrow.

MRS. V. Very sorry, for what, Julia? because the lamb is hurt? because you have no flowers? or because Mary will come home to-morrow?

JULIA. Oh, no, mamma, not that. I am glad my dear Mary will come home to-morrow. I am sorry I have no flowers to put into her room. I wished, so very much, to ornament her room with flowers, to surprise her, that though I was sorry to see the lamb in pain, and bleeding, do you know, mamma, I was near leaving it where it was, and gathering the bow-pot, instead of carrying it to Miss Beauchamp.

MRS. V. What determined you, my dear, to assist the lamb?

JULIA. Why first, mamma, I thought it was not like Mary, to leave it in its distress. Then I remembered, she would know nothing about the matter, so I fixed to gather the primroses; but just as I settled so to do, I recollected that you told me, this morning, that God was merciful and kind to all things, and that we ought to endeavour to resemble Him: I mean, to resemble Him as much as we can. You know, mamma, if we try and try for ever, we shall never be as good as God is. I was afraid God would be displeased if I were cruel to the poor lamb. Now, though Mary would not know I had been naughty, I was sure God would, as he sees and knows all that is done in the world. Did I think rightly, mamma?

MRS. V. You did, my dear.

JULIA. Are you glad, mamma?

MRS. V. I am; I am always glad when you are good. I am pleased you remember what you read, and what you are taught. I rejoice too, to find that you make a proper use of the knowledge you possess. It is of no use to know that God sees and hears us at all times, if we do not take care to act in a manner that is pleasing to him.

Mrs. Vincent then kissed her little daughter, and patted her rosy cheek, Julia stood by her mother’s side a few minutes, without speaking, and then said,

“After all, my being good was of no use, mamma?”

MRS. V. How so? I do not understand you, Julia.

JULIA. Do not you recollect, mamma, I told you, Sir Henry and Lady Beauchamp, and two servants, as well as Miss Beauchamp, were all come out to look for the lamb. They would have turned up the lane where the lamb was; so that if I had gathered my bow-pot, Bello (that is the name of the lamb) would have been taken care of, just the same. It would have been the same thing—no, not the same thing, for I should have had the flowers for Mary.

MRS. V. Stop, Julia; let us consider a little before you proceed. Perhaps it would not have been the same thing to the lamb; certainly it would not have been so to you. First, it is possible Sir Henry and Lady Beauchamp might not have turned up the lane where the lamb was; they might have walked straight on. Supposing, after they had looked in other places, they had, at last, found the poor animal, the length of time it might have lain without assistance, would have added greatly to its sufferings. The other day, when you fell off the stile, cut your hand, and beat the gravel into the wound, I fancy it would not have been the same thing to you, whether I had attended to it or not? If, instead of returning directly to the house, soaking your hand in warm water, cleaning it from the stones and dirt, and putting sticking plaster over it to keep the air from it, I had first finished my walk and had left your hand bleeding, with the gravel sticking in it, for an hour or two, you would have suffered a great deal more pain.

JULIA. Yes, mamma, indeed I should. My hand smarted sadly, and hurt me extremely at first; but after you had dressed it, and tied it up so neatly, it was soon easy. We had a charming walk afterwards. I am sure I should not have enjoyed the walk, or any thing else, whilst the pain continued. Pain is very disagreeable. Well, if I saved the lamb some misery, I am glad; though by doing so, I have lost the flowers. I do not think Mary would have admired them when she found out that I had left Bello in order to gather them. Every time she looked at them, she would have thought more of the poor animal, than of their pretty colours or sweet smell. Every time she spoke to me, I should have feared she had discovered the truth. When she said, “thank you, dear Julia, for these flowers, I like them very much,” I should have thought, You would not love me, if you knew all. I should not be your dear Julia, if you knew I had been cruel and unkind to a dumb animal, on purpose to get this bow-pot. So, after all, mamma, it is well I did not gather the flowers: they would not have made me happy. Mamma, you said, just now, that certainly it would not have been the same thing to me, if I had left the lamb. Why not, mamma?

MRS. V. Goose-cap! why ask that silly question? Reflect on what you have yourself said, and find out the reason if you can.

JULIA. Oh, now I guess, mamma! Because, though the lamb might have been taken care of, I should not have had any merit: I should have been cruel all the same, though chance might have brought some one else to its assistance.

MRS. V. True, my dear; you would have been conscious of having acted improperly.

JULIA. Mamma, if I get up early to-morrow morning, may I go and gather the primroses, violets, and cowslips, before breakfast?

MRS. V. You may; I am glad this idea has occurred to you. I hope you will still enjoy the pleasure of ornamenting Mary’s room.

JULIA. Why do you say _hope_, mamma? I am now sure of the flowers, as you have given me permission to gather them.

MRS. V. You considered yourself sure of them, this evening, when you left me; yet, Julia, you were disappointed. No one is sure of the future. It is possible, something we do not at present foresee may again disappoint you.

JULIA. I do not think so: Miss Beauchamp has no more pet-lambs to fall over the hedge.

MRS. V. Are Miss Beauchamp’s pet-lambs the only things in the world? Suppose it should rain to-morrow morning, I should not then allow you to go out in the wet: I should fear you would catch cold, and be ill, as you were in the winter.

JULIA. Do you think it will rain, mamma?

MRS. V. No, Julia; I do not expect a rainy day to-morrow. The appearance of the evening promises a fine morning. I do not think you will be again disappointed: I hope not. I only said, it was possible you might not be able to accomplish your wishes.

JULIA. Oh dear! If I am disappointed again, what shall I do, mamma?

MRS. V. Bear the trial well, my love. If you should not have all you wish for, you will still have a great deal to make you happy. Do not look sorrowfully, Julia. You are not disappointed yet. It will be time enough for that dismal face, when the evil is come. It is wise to resolve to behave well when we are tried: it is silly to fret about misfortunes which may never happen. You told me you talked a little—to whom?

JULIA. To Lady Beauchamp.

MRS. V. What did she say to you? What did you say to her?

JULIA. She thanked me for carrying the lamb home: she asked me to go with her, to eat strawberries and milk.

MRS. V. Did you go?

JULIA. No, mamma. Might I have gone? I thought you would not approve of my going, without your knowing where I was.

MRS. V. You judged correctly. I should not have confidence in you, if, when I permitted you to go to one place, you went to another, without my knowledge. I should not then trust you out of my sight.

JULIA. I am glad you have confidence in me: but, mamma, do you know, Lady Beauchamp said she would ask you to give me leave to spend an evening with her little girl. Shall you permit me to go, mamma?

MRS. V. I cannot decide now, my dear: when Lady Beauchamp fixes a time for your visit, I shall be able to judge whether it will be convenient and proper for you to accept the invitation or not.

JULIA. I hope it will be convenient and proper. I dare say I should be very happy, and spend the evening very agreeably. Do not you think so, mamma?

MRS. V. Yes, most probably you would.

JULIA. Mamma, did you know strawberries were ripe?

MRS. V. It is too early for them in the open air. Those that are ripe at this season of the year, must be forced.

JULIA. Yes, Lady Beauchamp said they grew in—in some house.

MRS. V. In a hot-house.

JULIA. Yes, yes, in a hot-house; that is what she said. What is meant by a hot-house, mamma?

MRS. V. A house built on purpose to hold plants. The top and sides are made of glass, in frames, something like windows, which shut tight to keep out the cold air. At one end there is a stove for a fire, to heat the air within the house. Round the walls are flues, to let the heat from the fire reach every part. Flues are passages left in the inside of the walls: they are somewhat like pipes. When the frames are shut, no cold air can get into the house from the outside, so the gardener can keep the plants as warm as he chooses. The flowers and fruit blow and ripen in a hot-house, as they do in the gardens in summer. This is called forcing them; that is, making them more forward than they would naturally be at this season. When you go to see Lady Beauchamp, perhaps she will allow you to look at her hot-house; then you will understand better what I have said.

JULIA. Thank you, mamma; I believe I understand you. But why is so much glass used? If it be necessary to keep a hot-house very warm, I think brick walls would answer better than glass: bricks are thicker than glass.

MRS. V. True, they are so; yet glass excludes the air as perfectly as a brick wall does. The frames are made to open and shut like windows; and this circumstance enables the gardener to let in fresh air when proper. Brick walls could not be moved about at his pleasure. Besides, glass admits the light: it is transparent. Flowers and trees require light, in order to make them grow, as well as air. They would never come to perfection if they were shut up in darkness.

JULIA. How strange, mamma! They could grow as well in the dark, I think: they do not want light to show them how to grow. Why will they not grow in the dark?