Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild lived very far from any town; their house stood in the midst of a garden, which in the summer-time was full of fruit and sweet flowers. Mr. Fairchild kept only two servants, Betty and John: Betty's business was to clean the house, cook the dinner, and milk the cow; and John waited at table, worked in the garden, fed the pig, and took care of the meadow in which the cow grazed.Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild had three children: Lucy, who was about nine years old when these stories began; Emily, who was next in age; and Henry, who was between six and seven. These little children did not go to school: Mrs. Fairchild taught Lucy and Emily, and Mr. Fairchild taught little Henry. Lucy and Emily learned to read, and to do various kinds of needlework. Lucy had begun to write, and took great pains with her writing; their mother also taught them to sing psalms and hymns, and they could sing several very sweetly. Little Henry, too, had a great notion of singing.
Besides working and reading, the little girls could do many useful things; they made their beds, rubbed the chairs and tables in their rooms, fed the fowls; and when John was busy, they laid the cloth for dinner, and were ready to fetch anything which their parents might want.
Mr. Fairchild taught Henry everything that was proper for little boys in his station to learn; and when he had finished his lessons in a morning, his papa used to take him very often to work in the garden; for Mr. Fairchild had great pleasure in helping John to keep the garden clean. Henry had a little basket, and he used to carry the weeds and rubbish in his basket out of the garden, and do many such other little things as he was set to do.
I must not forget to say that Mr. Fairchild had a school for poor boys in the next village, and Mrs. Fairchild one for girls. I do not mean that they taught the children entirely themselves, but they paid a master and mistress to teach them; and they used to take a walk two or three times a week to see the children, and to give rewards to those who had behaved well. When Lucy and Emily and Henry were obedient, their parents were so kind as to let them go with them to see the schools; and then they always contrived to have some little thing ready to carry with them as presents to the good children.
The Birthday Walk
Good children
"It is Lucy's birthday," said Mr. Fairchild, as he came into the parlour one fine morning in May; "we will go to see John Trueman, and take some cake to his little children, and afterwards we will go on to visit Nurse, and carry her some tea and sugar."
Nurse was a pious old woman, who had taken care of Lucy when she was a baby, and now lived with her son and his wife Joan in a little cottage not far distant, called Brookside Cottage, because a clear stream of water ran just before the door.
"And shall we stay at Nurse's all day, papa?" said the children.
"Ask your mamma, my dears," said Mr. Fairchild.
"With all my heart," said Mrs. Fairchild; "and we will take Betty with us to carry our dinner."
So when the children had breakfasted, and Betty was ready, they all set out. And first they went down the lane towards John Trueman's cottage. There is not a pleasanter lane near any village in England; the hedge on each side is of hawthorn, which was then in blossom, and the grass was soft under the feet as a velvet cushion; on the bank, under the hedge, were all manner of sweet flowers, violets, and primroses, and the blue vervain.
Lucy and Emily and Henry ran gaily along before Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild, and Betty came after with the basket. Before they came up to the gate of John Trueman's cottage, the children stopped to take the cake out of Betty's basket, and to cut shares of it for John's little ones. Whilst they were doing this, their father and mother had reached the cottage, and were sitting down at the door when they came up.
John Trueman's cottage was a neat little place, standing in a garden, adorned with pinks and rosemary and southernwood. John himself was gone out to his daily work when Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild came to his house; but his wife Mary was at home, and was just giving a crust of bread and a bit of cheese to a very poor woman who had stopped at the gate with a baby in her arms.
"Why, Mary," said Mr. Fairchild, "I hope it is a sign that you are getting rich, as you have bread and cheese to spare."
"Sir," she answered, "this poor woman is in want, and my children will never miss what I have given her."
"You are very right," answered Mrs. Fairchild; and at the same time she slipped a shilling into the poor woman's hand.
John and Mary Trueman had six children: the eldest, Thomas, was working in the garden; and little Billy, his youngest brother, who was but three years old, was carrying out the weeds as his brother plucked them up; Mary, the eldest daughter, was taking care of the baby; and Kitty, the second, sat sewing: whilst her brother Charles, a little boy of seven years of age, read the Bible aloud to her. They were all neat and clean, though dressed in very coarse clothes.
When Lucy and Emily and Henry divided the cake amongst the poor children, they looked very much pleased; but they said that they would not eat any of it till their father came in at night.
"If that is the case," said Mrs. Fairchild, "you shall have a little tea and sugar to give your father with your cake;" so she gave them some out of the basket.
As Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild and their children passed through the village they stopped at the schools, and found everything as they could wish—the children all clean, neat, cheerful, and busy, and the master and mistress very attentive. They were much pleased to see everything in such good order in the schools, and having passed this part of the village, they turned aside into a large meadow, through which was the path to Nurse's cottage. Many sheep with their lambs were feeding in this meadow, and here also were abundance of primroses, cowslips, daisies, and buttercups, and the songs of the birds which were in the hedgerows were exceedingly delightful.
"They ran on before."—Page 7.
As soon as the children came in sight of Nurse's little cottage they ran on before to kiss Nurse, and to tell her that they were come to spend the day with her. The poor woman was very glad, because she loved Mr. Fairchild's children very dearly; she therefore kissed them, and took them to see her little grandson Tommy, who was asleep in the cradle. By this time Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild and Betty were come up, and whilst Betty prepared the dinner, Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild sat talking with Nurse at the door of the cottage.
Betty and Joan laid the cloth upon the fresh grass before the cottage-door, and when Joan had boiled some potatoes, Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild sat down to dinner with the children, after which the children went to play in the meadow by the brookside till it was time for them to be going home.
"What a happy day we have had!" said Lucy as she walked home between her father and mother. "Everything has gone well with us since we set out, and everyone we have seen has been kind and good to us; and the weather has been so fine, and everything looks so pretty all around us!"
"Here were abundance of flowers."—Page 7.
Mrs. Fairchild's Story
I sat down on one of the branches to eat cherries
The next morning, when Lucy and Emily were sitting at work with Mrs. Fairchild, Henry came in from his father's study.
"I have finished all my lessons, mamma," he said. "I have made all the haste I could because papa said that you would tell us a story to-day; and now I am come to hear it."
So Henry placed himself before his mother, and Lucy and Emily hearkened, whilst Mrs. Fairchild told her story.
"My mother died," said Mrs. Fairchild, "many years ago, when I was a very little child—so little that I remember nothing more of her than being taken to kiss her when she lay sick in bed. Soon afterwards I can recollect seeing her funeral procession go out of the garden-gate as I stood in the nursery window; and I also remember some days afterwards being taken to strew flowers upon her grave in the village churchyard.
"After my mother's death my father sent me to live with my aunts, Mrs. Grace and Mrs. Penelope, two old ladies, who, having never been married, had no families to take up their attention, and were so kind as to undertake to bring me up. These old ladies lived near the pleasant town of Reading. I fancy I can see the house now, although it is many years since I left it. It was a handsome old mansion, for my aunts were people of good fortune. In the front of it was a shrubbery, neatly laid out with gravel walks, and behind it was a little rising ground, where was an arbour, in which my aunts used to drink tea on a fine afternoon, and where I often went to play with my doll. My aunts' house and garden were very neat; there was not a weed to be seen in the gravel walks or among the shrubs, nor anything out of its place in the house. My aunts themselves were nice and orderly, and went on from day to day in the same manner, and, as far as they knew, they were good women; but they knew very little about religion, and what people do not understand they cannot practise.
"Mrs. Grace taught me to sew, and Mrs. Penelope taught me to read."—Page 10.
"I was but a very little girl when I came to live with my aunts, and they kept me under their care till I was married. As far as they knew what was right, they took great pains with me. Mrs. Grace taught me to sew, and Mrs. Penelope taught me to read. I had a writing-and music-master, who came from Reading to teach me twice a week; and I was taught all kinds of household work by my aunts' maid. We spent one day exactly like another. I was made to rise early, and to dress myself very neatly, to breakfast with my aunts. At breakfast I was not allowed to speak one word. After breakfast I worked two hours with my Aunt Grace, and read an hour with my Aunt Penelope; we then, if it was fine weather, took a walk, or, if not, an airing in the coach—I, and my aunts, and little Shock, the lap-dog, together. At dinner I was not allowed to speak, and after dinner I attended my masters, or learned my tasks. The only time I had to play was while my aunts were dressing to go out, for they went out every evening to play at cards. When they went out my supper was given to me, and I was put to bed in a closet in my aunts' room.
"Now, although my aunts took so much pains with me in their way, I was a very naughty girl; I had no good principles."
"What do you mean by good principles?" asked Lucy.
"A person of good principles, my dear," said Mrs. Fairchild, "is one who does not do well for fear of the people he lives with, but from the fear of God. A child who has good principles will behave just the same when his mamma is out of the room as when she is looking at him—at least he will wish to do so; and if he is by his own wicked heart at any time tempted to sin, he will be grieved, although no person knows his sin. But when I lived with my aunts, if I could escape punishment, I did not care what naughty things I did.
"My Aunt Grace was very fond of Shock. She used to give me skim-milk at breakfast, but she gave Shock cream; and she often made me carry him when I went out a-walking. For this reason I hated him, and when we were out of my aunts' hearing I used to pull his tail and his ears and make the poor little thing howl sadly. My Aunt Penelope had a large tabby cat, which I also hated and used ill. I remember once being sent out of the dining-room to carry Shock his dinner, Shock being ill, and laid on a cushion in my aunts' bedroom. As I was going upstairs I was so unfortunate as to break the plate, which was fine blue china. I gathered up the pieces, and running up into the room, set them before Shock; after which I fetched the cat and shut her up in the room with Shock. When my aunts came up after dinner and found the broken plate, they were much surprised, and Mrs. Bridget, the favourite maid, was called to beat the cat for breaking the plate. I was in my closet and heard all that was said, and instead of being sorry, I was glad that puss was beaten instead of me.
"Besides those things which I have told you, I did many other naughty things. Whenever I was sent into the store-room, where the sugar and sweetmeats were kept, I always stole some. I used very often at night, when my aunts were gone out, and Mrs. Bridget also (for Mrs. Bridget generally went out when her mistress did to see some of her acquaintances in the town), to get up and go down into the kitchen, where I used to sit upon the housemaid's knee and eat toasted cheese and bread sopped in beer. Whenever my aunts found out any of my naughty tricks, they used to talk to me of my wickedness, and to tell me that if I went on in this manner I certainly should make God very angry. When I heard them talk of God's anger I used to be frightened, and resolved to do better; but I seldom kept any of my good resolutions. From day to day I went on in the same way, getting worse, I think, instead of better, until I was twelve years of age.
"One Saturday morning in the middle of summer my aunts called me to them and said, 'My dear, we are going from home, and shall not return till Monday morning. We cannot take you with us, as we could wish, because you have not been invited. Bridget will go with us, therefore there will be no person to keep you in order; but we hope, as you are not now a little child, that you may be trusted a few days by yourself.'
"Then they talked to me of the Commandments of God, and explained them to me, and spoke of the very great sin and danger of breaking them; and they talked to me till I really felt frightened, and determined that I would be good all the while they were from home.
"When the coach was ready my aunts set out, and I took my books and went to sit in the arbour with Shock, who was left under my care. I stayed in the arbour till evening, when one of the maid-servants brought me my supper. I gave part of it to Shock, and, when I had eaten the rest, went to bed. As I lay in my bed I felt very glad that I had gone through that evening without doing anything I thought naughty, and was sure I should do as well the next day.
"The next morning I was awakened by the bells ringing for church. I got up, ate my breakfast, and when I was dressed went with the maid to church. When we came home my dinner was given me. All this while I had kept my aunts' words pretty well in my memory, but they now began to wear a little from my mind. When I had done my dinner I went to play in the garden.
"Behind the garden, on the hill, was a little field full of cherry-trees. Cherries were now quite ripe. My aunts had given me leave every day to pick up a few cherries if there were any fallen from the trees, but I was not allowed to gather any. Accordingly I went to look if there were any cherries fallen. I found a few, and was eating them, when I heard somebody call me, 'Miss! Miss!' and, looking up, saw a little girl who was employed about the house, in weeding the garden, and running errands. My aunts had often forbid me to play or hold any discourse with this little girl, which was certainly very proper, as the education of the child was very different from that which had been given me. I was heedless of this command, and answered her by saying: 'What are you doing here, Nanny?'
"'There is a ladder, Miss,' she replied, 'against a tree at the upper end of the orchard. If you please, I will get up into it and throw you down some cherries.'
"At first I said 'No,' and then I said 'Yes.' So Nanny and I repaired to the tree in question, and Nanny mounted into the tree.
"'Oh, Miss! Miss!' said she as soon as she had reached the top of the ladder, 'I can see from where I am all the town, and both the churches; and here is such plenty of cherries! Do come up! Only just step on the ladder, and then you can sit on this bough and eat as many cherries as you please.'"
"And did you get into the tree, mamma?" said Lucy.
"Yes, my dear, I did," said Mrs. Fairchild; "and sat down on one of the branches to eat cherries and look about me."
"Oh, mamma!" said Emily, "suppose your aunts had come home then!"
"You shall hear, my dear," continued Mrs. Fairchild. "My aunts, as I thought, and as they expected, were not to come home till the Monday morning; but something happened whilst they were out—I forget what—which obliged them to return sooner than they had expected, and they got home just at the time when I was in the cherry-orchard. They called for me, but not finding me immediately, they sent the servants different ways to look for me. The person who happened to come to look for me in the cherry-orchard was Mrs. Bridget, who was the only one of the servants who would have told of me. She soon spied me with Nanny in the cherry-tree. She made us both come down, and dragged us by the arms into the presence of my aunts, who were exceedingly angry; I think I never saw them so angry. Nanny was given up to her mother to be punished; and I was shut up in a dark room, where I was kept several days upon bread and water. At the end of three days my aunts sent for me, and talked to me for a long time.
"'Is it not very strange at your age, niece,' said Mrs. Penelope, 'that you cannot be trusted for one day, after all the pains we have taken with you, after all we have taught you?'
"'And,' said my Aunt Grace, 'think of the shame and disgrace of climbing trees in such low company, after all the care and pains we have taken with you, and the delicate manner in which we have reared you!'
"In this way they talked to me, whilst I cried very much.
"'Indeed, indeed, Aunt Grace and Aunt Penelope,' I said, 'I did mean to behave well when you went out; I made many resolutions, but I broke them all; I wished to be good, but I could not be good.'
"When my aunts had talked to me a long time, they forgave me, and I was allowed to go about as usual, but I was not happy; I felt that I was naughty, and did not know how to make myself good. One afternoon, soon after all this had happened, while my aunts and I were drinking tea in the parlour, with the window open towards the garden, an old gentleman came in at the front gate, whom I had never seen before. He was dressed in plain black clothes, exceedingly clean; his gray hair curled about his neck, and in his hand he had a strong walking-stick. I was the first who saw him, as I was nearest the window, and I called to my aunts to look at him.
"'Why, it is my Cousin Thomas!' cried my Aunt Penelope. 'Who would have expected to have seen him here?'
"With that both my aunts ran out to meet him and bring him in. The old gentleman was a clergyman, and a near relation of our family, and had lived many years upon his living in the North, without seeing any of his relations.
"'I have often promised to come and see you, cousins,' he said, as soon as he was seated, 'but never have been able to bring the matter about till now.'
"My aunts told him how glad they were to see him, and presented me to him. He received me very kindly, and told me that he remembered my mother. The more I saw of this gentleman, the more pleased I was with him. He had many entertaining stories to tell; and he spoke of everybody in the kindest way possible. He often used to take me out with him a-walking, and show me the flowers, and teach me their names. One day he went out into the town, and bought a beautiful little Bible for me; and when he gave it to me he said: 'Read this, dear child, and pray to God to send His Holy Spirit to help you to understand it; and it shall be a lamp unto your feet, and a light unto your path.'"
"I know that verse, mamma," said Lucy; "it is in the Psalms."
"The old gentleman stayed with my aunts two months, and every day he used to take me with him to walk in the fields, the woods, and in the pleasant meadows on the banks of the Thames. His kind words to me at those times I shall never forget; he, with God's blessing, brought me to the knowledge of my dear Saviour, and showed me the wickedness of my own heart, and made me understand that I never could do any good but through the help of God."
"When the good old gentleman was gone, did you behave better than you did before he came, mamma?" said Lucy.
"After he left us, my dear, I was very different from what I was before," said Mrs. Fairchild. "I had learned to know the weakness of my heart, and to ask God to help me to be good; and when I had done wrong, I knew whose forgiveness to ask; and I do not think that I ever fell into those great sins which I had been guilty of before—such as lying, stealing, and deceiving my aunts."
On Envy
"How lovely! How beautiful!"
"Who can go with me to the village this morning," said Mr. Fairchild, one winter's day, "to carry this basket of little books to the school?"
"Lucy cannot go," said Mrs. Fairchild, "because her feet are sore with chilblains, and Henry has a bad cold; but Emily can go."
"Make haste, Emily," said Mr. Fairchild, "and put on your thick shoes and warm coat, for it is very cold."
As soon as Emily was ready, she set off with her father. It was a very cold day, and the ground was quite hard with the frost. Mr. Fairchild walked first, and Emily came after him with the little basket. They gave the basket to the schoolmaster, and returned. As they were coming back, Emily saw something bright upon the ground; and when she stooped to pick it up, she saw that it was a ring set round with little white shining stones.
"Oh, papa, papa!" she said, "see what I have found! What a beautiful ring!"
When Mr. Fairchild looked at it, he was quite surprised.
"Why, my dear," said he, "I think that this is Lady Noble's diamond ring; how came it to be lying in this place?"
Whilst they were looking at the ring they heard the sound of a carriage; it was Sir Charles Noble's, and Lady Noble was in it.
"Oh, Mr. Fairchild!" she called out of the window of the carriage, "I am in great trouble; I have lost my diamond ring, and it is of very great value. I went to the village this morning in the carriage, and as I came back, pulled off my glove to get sixpence out of my purse to give to a poor man somewhere in this lane, and I suppose that my ring dropped off at the time. I don't know what I shall do; Sir Charles will be sadly vexed."
"Make yourself quite happy, madam," said Mr. Fairchild, "here is your ring; Emily just this moment picked it up."
Lady Noble was exceedingly glad when she received back her ring. She thanked Emily twenty times, and said, "I think I have something in the carriage which you will like very much, Miss Emily; it is just come from London, and was intended for my daughter Augusta; but I will send for another for her."
So saying, she presented Emily with a new doll packed up in paper, and with it a little trunk, with a lock and key, full of clothes for the doll. Emily was so delighted that she almost forgot to thank Lady Noble; but Mr. Fairchild, who was not quite so much overjoyed as his daughter, remembered to return thanks for this pretty present.
So Lady Noble put the ring on her finger, and ordered the coachman to drive home.
"Oh, papa, papa!" said Emily, "how beautiful this doll is! I have just torn the paper a bit, and I can see its face; it has blue eyes and red lips, and hair like Henry's. Oh, how beautiful! Please, papa, to carry the box for me; I cannot carry both the box and the doll. Oh, this beautiful doll! this lovely doll!" So she went on talking till they reached home; then she ran before her papa to her mamma and sister and brother, and, taking the paper off the doll, cried out: "How beautiful! Oh, what pretty hands! What nice feet! What blue eyes! How lovely! how beautiful!"
Her mother asked her several times where she had got this pretty doll; but Emily was too busy to answer her. When Mr. Fairchild came in with the trunk of clothes, he told all the story; how that Lady Noble had given Emily the doll for finding her diamond ring.
When Emily had unpacked the doll, she opened the box, which was full of as pretty doll's things as ever you saw.
Whilst Emily was examining all these things, Henry stood by admiring them and turning them about; but Lucy, after having once looked at the doll without touching it, went to a corner of the room, and sat down in her little chair without speaking a word.
"Come, Lucy," said Emily, "help me to dress my doll."
"Can't you dress it yourself?" answered Lucy, taking up a little book, and pretending to read.
"Come, Lucy," said Henry, "you never saw so beautiful a doll before."
"Don't tease me, Henry," said Lucy; "don't you see I am reading?"
"Put up your book now, Lucy," said Emily, "and come and help me to dress this sweet little doll. I will be its mamma, and you shall be its nurse, and it shall sleep between us in our bed."
"I don't want dolls in my bed," said Lucy; "don't tease me, Emily."
"Then Henry shall be its nurse," said Emily. "Come, Henry, we will go into our play-room, and put this pretty doll to sleep. Will not you come, Lucy? Pray do come; we want you very much."
"Do let me alone," answered Lucy; "I want to read."
So Henry and Emily went to play, and Lucy sat still in the corner of the parlour. After a few minutes her mamma, who was at work by the fire, looked at her, and saw that she was crying; the tears ran down her cheeks, and fell upon her book. Then Mrs. Fairchild called Lucy to her, and said:
"My dear child, you are crying; can you tell me what makes you unhappy?"
"Nothing, mamma," answered Lucy; "I am not unhappy."
"People do not cry when they are pleased and happy, my dear," said Mrs. Fairchild.
Lucy stood silent.
"I am your mother, my dear," said Mrs. Fairchild, "and I love you very much; if anything vexes you, whom should you tell it to but to your own mother?" Then Mrs. Fairchild kissed her, and put her arms round her.
Lucy began to cry more.
"Oh, mamma, mamma! dear mamma!" she said, "I don't know what vexes me, or why I have been crying."
"Are you speaking the truth?" said Mrs. Fairchild. "Do not hide anything from me. Is there anything in your heart, my dear child, do you think, which makes you unhappy?"
"Indeed, mamma," said Lucy, "I think there is. I am sorry that Emily has got that pretty doll. Pray do not hate me for it, mamma; I know it is wicked in me to be sorry that Emily is happy, but I feel that I cannot help it."
"My dear child," said Mrs. Fairchild, "I am glad you have confessed the truth to me. Now I will tell you why you feel so unhappy, and I will tell you where to seek a cure. The naughty passion you now feel, my dear, is what is called Envy. Envy makes persons unhappy when they see others happier or better than themselves. Envy is in every man's heart by nature. Some people can hide it more than others, and others have been enabled, by God's grace, to overcome it in a great degree; but, as I said before, it is in the natural heart of all mankind. Little children feel envious about dolls and playthings, and men and women feel envious about greater things."
"Do you ever feel envious, mamma?" said Lucy. "I never saw you unhappy because other people had better things than you had."
"My heart, my dear child," answered Mrs. Fairchild, "is no better than yours. There was a time when I was very envious. When I was first married I had no children for seven or eight years; I wished very much to have a baby, as you wished just now for Emily's doll; and whenever I saw a woman with a pretty baby in her arms, I was ready to cry for vexation."
"Do you ever feel any envy now, mamma?" said Lucy.
"I cannot say that I never feel it, my dear; but I bless God that this wicked passion has not the power over me which it used to have."
"Oh, mamma, mamma!" said Lucy, "how unhappy wickedness makes us! I have been very miserable this morning; and what for? only because of the naughtiness of my heart, for I have had nothing else to make me miserable."
Then Mrs. Fairchild took Lucy by the hand, and went into her closet, where they prayed that the Holy Spirit would take the wicked passion of envy out of Lucy's heart. And as they prayed in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ, who died upon the cross to deliver us from the power of sin, they did not doubt but that God would hear their prayer; and indeed He did, for from that day Lucy never felt envious of Emily's doll, but helped Emily to take care of it and make its clothes, and was happy to have it laid on her bed betwixt herself and sister.
"She saw that it was a ring."——Page 19.
Story of the Apples
Henry stood under the apple-tree
Just opposite Mr. Fairchild's parlour window was a young apple-tree, which had never yet brought forth any fruit; at length it produced two blossoms, from which came two apples. As these apples grew they became very beautiful, and promised to be very fine fruit.
"I desire," said Mr. Fairchild, one morning, to his children, "that none of you touch the apples on that young tree, for I wish to see what kind of fruit they will be when they are quite ripe."
That same evening, as Henry and his sisters were playing in the parlour window, Henry said:
"Those are beautiful apples indeed that are upon that tree."
"Do not look upon them, Henry," said Lucy.
"Why not, Lucy?" asked Henry.
"Because papa has forbidden us to meddle with them."
Henry. "Well, I am not going to meddle with them; I am only looking at them."
Lucy. "Oh! but if you look much at them, you will begin to wish for them, and may be tempted to take them at last."
Henry. "How can you think of any such thing, Lucy? Do you take me for a thief?"
The next evening the children were playing again in the parlour window. Henry said to his sister, "I dare say that those beautiful apples will taste very good when papa gathers them."
"There, now, Henry!" said Lucy; "I told you that the next thing would be wishing for those apples. Why do you look at them?"
"Well, and if I do wish for them, is there any harm in that," answered Henry, "if I do not touch them?"
Lucy. "Oh! but now you have set your heart upon them, the devil may tempt you to take one of them, as he tempted Eve to eat the forbidden fruit. You should not have looked at them, Henry."
Henry. "Oh, I shan't touch the apples! Don't be afraid."
"There was one he could just reach."—Page 26.
Now Henry did not mean to steal the apples, it is true; but when people give way to sinful desires, their passions get so much power over them that they cannot say, "I will sin so far, and no further." That night, whenever Henry awoke, he thought of the beautiful apples. He got up before his parents, or his sisters, and went down into the garden. There was nobody up but John, who was in the stable. Henry went and stood under the apple-tree. He looked at the apples; there was one which he could just reach as he stood on his tip-toe. He stretched out his hand and plucked it from the tree, and ran with it, as he thought, out of sight behind the stable. Having eaten it in haste, he returned to the house.
When Mr. Fairchild got up, he went into the garden and looked at the apple-tree, and saw that one of the apples was missing; he looked round the tree to see if it had fallen down, and he perceived the mark of a child's foot under the tree. He came into the house in great haste, and looking angrily, "Which of you young ones," said he, "has gathered the apple from the young apple-tree? Last night there were two upon the tree, and now there is only one."
The children made no answer.
"If you have, any of you, taken the apple, and will tell me the truth, I will forgive you," said Mr. Fairchild.
"I did not take it, indeed, papa," said Lucy.
"And I did not take it," said Emily.
"I did not—indeed I did not," said Henry; but Henry looked very red when he spoke.
"Well," said Mr. Fairchild, "I must call in John, and ask him if he can tell who took the apple. But before John is called in, I tell you once more, my dear children, that if any of you took the apple and will confess it, even now I will freely forgive you."
Henry now wished to tell his father the truth; but he was ashamed to own his wickedness, and he hoped that it would never be found out that he was the thief.
When John came in, Mr. Fairchild said:
"John, there is one of the apples taken from the young apple-tree opposite the parlour window."
"Sir," said John, "I did not take it, but I think I can guess which way it went." Then John looked very hard at Henry, and Henry trembled and shook all over. "I saw Master Henry this morning run behind the stable with a large apple in his hand, and he stayed there till he had eaten it, and then he came out."
"Henry," said Mr. Fairchild, "is this true? Are you a thief—and a liar, too?" And Mr. Fairchild's voice was very terrible when he spoke.
Then Henry fell down upon his knees and confessed his wickedness.
"Go from my sight, bad boy!" said Mr. Fairchild; "if you had told the truth at first, I should have forgiven you, but now I will not forgive you."
Then Mr. Fairchild ordered John to take Henry, and lock him up in a little room at the top of the house, where he could not speak to any person. Poor Henry cried sadly, and Lucy and Emily cried too; but Mr. Fairchild would not excuse Henry.
"It is better," he said, "that he should be punished in this world whilst he is a little boy than grow up to be a liar and a thief."
So poor Henry was locked up by himself in a little room at the very top of the house. He sat down on a small box and cried sadly. He hoped that his mother and father would have sent him some breakfast; but they did not. At twelve o'clock he looked out of the window and saw his mother and sisters walking in the meadows at a little distance, and he saw his father come and fetch them in to dinner, as he supposed; and then he hoped that he should have some dinner sent him; but no dinner came. Some time after he saw Betty go down into the meadow to milk the cow; then he knew that it was five o'clock, and that it would soon be night; then he began to cry again.
"Oh! I am afraid," he said, "that papa will make me stay here all night! and I shall be alone, for God will not take care of me because of my wickedness."
Soon afterwards Henry saw the sun go down behind the hills, and he heard the rooks as they were going to rest in their nests at the top of some tall trees near the house. Soon afterwards it became dusk, and then quite dark. "Oh! dear, dear," said Henry, when he found himself sitting alone in the dark, "what a wicked boy I have been to-day! I stole an apple, and told two or three lies about it! I have made my papa and mamma unhappy, and my poor sisters, too! How could I do such things? And now I must spend all this night in this dismal place; and God will not take care of me because I am so naughty."
Then Henry cried very sadly indeed. After which he knelt down and prayed that God would forgive him, till he found himself getting more happy in his mind.
When he got up from his prayer he heard the step of someone coming upstairs; he thought it was his mother, and his little heart was very glad indeed. Henry was right: it was indeed his mother come to see her poor little boy. He soon heard her unlock the door, and in a moment he ran into her arms.
"Is Henry sorry for his naughtiness?" said Mrs. Fairchild, as she sat down and took him upon her lap. "Are you sorry, my dear child, for your very great naughtiness?"
"Oh, indeed I am!" said Henry, sobbing and crying; "I am very sorry, pray forgive me. I have asked God to forgive me; and I think that He has heard my prayer, for I feel happier than I did."
"But have you thought, Henry, of the great wrong which you have done?"
"Yes, mamma, I have been thinking of it a great deal; I know that what I did this morning was a very great sin."
"Why do you say this morning?" said Mrs. Fairchild; "the sin that you committed was the work of several days."
"How, mamma?" said Henry; "I was not two minutes stealing the apple, and papa found it out before breakfast."
"Still, my dear," said Mrs. Fairchild, "that sin was the work of many days." Henry listened to his mother, and she went on speaking: "Do you remember those little chickens which came out of the eggs in the hen's nest last Monday morning?"
"Yes, mamma," said Henry.
"Do you think," said Mrs. Fairchild, "that they were made the moment before they came out?"
"No, mamma," said Henry; "papa said they were growing in the egg-shell a long time before they came out alive."
Mrs. Fairchild. "In the same manner the great sin you committed this morning was growing in your heart some days before it came out."
"How, mamma?" said Henry. "I do not understand."
Mrs. Fairchild. "All wrong things which we do are first formed in our hearts; and sometimes our sins are very long before they come to their full growth. The great sin you committed this morning began to be formed in your heart three days ago. Do you remember that that very day in which your father forbade you to touch the apples, you stood in the parlour window and looked at them, and you admired their beautiful appearance? This was the beginning of your sin. Your sister Lucy told you at the time not to look at them, and she did well; for by looking at forbidden things we are led to desire them, and when we desire them very much we proceed to take them. Your father forbade you to touch these apples; therefore, my dear child, you ought not to have allowed yourself to think of them for one moment. When you first thought about them, you did not suppose that this thought would end in so very great a sin as you have now been guilty of."
"Oh, mamma," said Henry, "I will try to remember what you have said to me all my life."
Mrs. Fairchild kissed little Henry then, and said:
"God bless you, my child, and give you a holy heart, which may never think or design any evil."
Mrs. Fairchild then led Henry down into the parlour, where Mr. Fairchild and Lucy and Emily were waiting for them to go to tea. Mr. Fairchild kissed his little boy, and Lucy and Emily smiled to see him.
"Henry," said Mr. Fairchild, "you have had a sad day of it; but I did not punish you, my child, because I do not love you, but because I do."
Then Mr. Fairchild cut a large piece of bread-and-butter for Henry, which he was very glad of, for he was very hungry.
Story of an Unhappy Day
Lucy and Emily
It happened that Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild had had nothing for a long time to interrupt them in the care and management of their children; so that they had had it in their power to teach them and guard them from all evil influences. I will tell you exactly how they lived and spent their time; Emily and Lucy slept together in a little closet on one side of their mother and father's room; and Henry had a little room on the other side, where he slept. As soon as the children got up, they used to go into their father and mother's room to prayers; after which Henry went with Mr. Fairchild into the garden, whilst Lucy and Emily made their beds and rubbed the furniture; afterwards they all met at breakfast, dressed neatly but very plain. At breakfast the children ate what their mother gave them, and seldom spoke till they were spoken to. After breakfast Betty and John were called in and all went to prayers. Then Henry went into his father's study to his lessons; and Lucy and Emily stayed with their mother, working and reading till twelve o'clock, when they used to go out to take a walk all together; sometimes they went to the schools, and sometimes they went to see a poor person. When they came in, dinner was ready. After dinner the little girls and Mrs. Fairchild worked, whilst Henry read to them, till tea-time; and after tea Lucy and Emily played with their doll and worked for it, and Henry busied himself in making some little things of wood, which his father showed him how to do. And so they spent their time, till Betty and John came in to evening prayers; then the children had each of them a baked apple and went to bed.
Now all this time the little ones were in the presence of their father and mother, and kept carefully from doing openly naughty things by the watchful eyes of their dear parents. One day it happened, when they had been living a long time in this happy way, that Lucy said to Mrs. Fairchild, "Mamma, I think that Emily and Henry and I are much better children than we used to be; we have not been punished for a very long time."
"My dear," said Mrs. Fairchild, "do not boast or think well of yourself; it is always a bad sign when people boast of themselves. If you have not done any very naughty thing lately, it is not because there is any goodness or wisdom in you, but because your papa and I have been always with you, carefully watching and guiding you from morning till night."
That same evening a letter came for Mr. Fairchild, from an old lady who lived about four miles off, begging that he and Mrs. Fairchild would come over, if it was convenient, to see her the next day to settle some business of consequence. This old lady's name was Mrs. Goodriche, and she lived in a very neat little house just under a hill, with Sukey her maid. It was the very house in which Mrs. Howard lived about fifty years ago, as we shall hear later on.
When Mr. Fairchild got the letter he ordered John to get the horse ready by daybreak next morning, and to put the pillion on it for Mrs. Fairchild; so Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild got up very early, and when they had kissed their children, who were still asleep, they set off.
Now it happened, very unluckily, that Mrs. Fairchild, at this time, had given Betty leave to go for two or three days to see her father, and she was not yet returned; so there was nobody left in the house to take care of the children but John. And now I will tell you how these children spent the day whilst their father and mother were out.
When Lucy and Emily awoke, they began playing in their beds. Emily made babies of the pillows, and Lucy pulled off the sheets and tied them round her, in imitation of Lady Noble's long-trained gown; and thus they spent their time till Henry came to the door to tell them that breakfast was ready.
"And I have persuaded John," said Henry, "to make us toast and butter; and it looks so nice! Make haste and come down; do, sisters, do!" And he continued to drum upon the door with a stick until his sisters were dressed.
Emily and Lucy put on their clothes as quickly as they could and went downstairs with their brother, without praying, washing themselves, combing their hair, making their bed, or doing any one thing they ought to have done.
John had, indeed, made a large quantity of toast and butter; but the children were not satisfied with what John had made, for when they had eaten all that he had provided, yet they would toast more themselves, and put butter on it before the fire as they had seen Betty do; so the hearth was covered with crumbs and grease, and they wasted almost as much as they ate.
After breakfast, they took out their books to learn their lessons; but they had eaten so much that they could not learn with any pleasure; and Lucy, who thought she would be very clever, began to scold Henry and Emily for their idleness; and Henry and Emily, in their turn, found fault with her; so that they began to dispute, and would soon, I fear, have proceeded to something worse if Henry had not spied a little pig in the garden.
"Oh, sisters," said he, "there is a pig in the garden, in the flower-bed! Look! look! And what mischief it will do! Papa will be very angry. Come, sisters, let us hunt it out."
So saying, down went Henry's book, and away he ran into the garden, followed by Emily and Lucy, running as fast as they could. They soon drove the pig out of the garden, and it would have been well if they had stopped there; but, instead of that, they followed it down into the lane. Now, there was a place where a spring ran across the lane, over which was a narrow bridge for the use of people that way. Now the pig did not stand to look for the bridge, but went splash, splash, through the midst of the water: and after him went Henry, Lucy, and Emily, though they were up to their knees in mud and dirt.
"Away he ran into the garden, followed by Lucy and Emily."—Page 39.
In this dirty condition they ran on till they came close to a house where a farmer and his wife lived whose name was Freeman. These people were not such as lived in the fear of God, neither did they bring up their children well; on which account Mr. Fairchild had often forbidden Lucy and Emily and Henry to go to their house. However, when the children were opposite this house, Mrs. Freeman saw them through the kitchen window; and seeing they were covered with mud, she came out and brought them in, and dried their clothes by the fire; which was, so far, very kind of her, only the children should not have gone into the house, as they had been so often forbidden by their parents.
Mrs. Freeman would have had them stay all day and play with their children; and Henry and his sisters would have been very glad to have accepted her invitation, but they were afraid: so Mrs. Freeman let them go; but, before they went, she gave them each a large piece of cake, and something sweet to drink, which she said would do them good. Now this sweet stuff was cider; and as they were never used to drink anything but water, it made them quite giddy for a little while; so that when they got back into the lane, first one tumbled down, and then another; and their faces became flushed, and their heads began to ache, so that they were forced to sit down for a time under a tree, on the side of the lane, and there they were when John came to find them; for John, who was in the stable when they ran out of the garden, was much frightened when he returned to the house, and could not find them there.
"Ah, you naughty children!" said he, when he found them, "you have almost frightened me out of my life! Where have you been?"
"We have been in the lane," said Lucy, blushing.
This was not all the truth; but one fault always leads to another.
So John brought them home, and locked them up in their play-room, whilst he got their dinner ready.
When the children found themselves shut up in their play-room, and could not get out, they sat themselves down, and began to think how naughty they had been. They were silent for a few minutes; at last Lucy spoke:
"Oh, Henry! oh, Emily! how naughty we have been! And yet I thought I would be so good when papa and mamma went out; so very good! What shall we say when papa and mamma come home?"
Then all the children began to cry. At length Henry said:
"I'll tell you what we will do, Lucy; we will be good all the evening; we will not do one naughty thing."
"So we will, Henry," said Emily. "When John lets us out, how good we will be! and then we can tell the truth, that we were naughty in the morning, but we were good all the evening."
John made some nice apple-dumplings for the children, and when they were ready, and he had put some butter and sugar upon them (for John was a good-natured man), he fetched the children down; and after they had each ate as much apple-dumpling as he thought proper, he told them they might play in the barn, bidding them not to stir out of it till supper-time.
Henry and Lucy and Emily were delighted with this permission; and, as Lucy ran along to the barn with her brother and sister, she said:
"Now let us be very good. We are not to do anything naughty all this evening."
"We will be very good indeed," answered Emily.
"Better than we ever were in all our lives," added Henry.
So they all went into the barn, and when John fastened them in he said to himself, "Sure they will be safe now, till I have looked to the pigs and milked the cow; for there is nothing in the barn but straw and hay, and they cannot hurt themselves with that, sure."
But John was mistaken. As soon as he was gone, Henry spied a swing, which Mr. Fairchild had made in the barn for the children, but which he never allowed them to use when he was not with them, because swings are very dangerous things, unless there are very careful persons to use them. The seat of the swing was tied up to the side of the barn, above the children's reach, as Mr. Fairchild thought.
"Oh, Lucy!" said Henry, "there is the swing. There can be no harm in our swinging a little. If papa was here, I am sure he would let us swing. If you and Emily will help to lift me up, I will untie it and let it down, and then we will swing so nicely."
So Emily and Lucy lifted Henry up, and he untied the swing, and let it down into its right place; but as he was getting down, his coat caught upon a bit of wood on the side of the barn, and was much torn. However, the children did not trouble themselves very much about this accident. First Emily got into the swing, then Henry, then Lucy; and then Emily would get in again.
"Now, Lucy," she said, "swing me high, and I will shut my eyes; you can't think how pleasant it is to swing with one's eyes shut. Swing me higher! swing me higher!"
So she went on calling to Lucy, and Lucy trying to swing her higher and higher, till at last the swing turned, and down came Emily to the floor. There happened providentially to be some straw on the floor, or she would have been killed. As it was, however, she was sadly hurt; she lay for some minutes without speaking, and her mouth and nose poured out blood.
Henry and Lucy thought she was dead; and, oh! how frightened they were! They screamed so violently that John came running to see what was the matter; and, poor man! he was sadly frightened when he saw Emily lying on the floor covered with blood. He lifted her up and brought her into the house; he saw she was not dead, but he did not know how much she might be hurt. When he had washed her face from the blood, and given her a little water to drink, she recovered a little; but her nose and one eye, and her lip, were terribly swelled, and two of her teeth were out.
When Emily was a little recovered, John placed her in a little chair by the kitchen fire, and he took his blue pocket-handkerchief and tied Lucy and Henry to the kitchen-table, saying:
"You unlucky rogues! you have given me trouble enough to-day—that you have. I will not let you go out of my sight again till master and mistress come home. Thank God you have not killed your sister! Who would have thought of your loosing the swing!"
In this manner Henry and Lucy and Emily remained till it was nearly dark, and then they heard the sound of the horse's feet coming up to the kitchen door, for Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild were come. John hastened to untie the children, who trembled from head to foot.
"Oh, John, John! what shall we do—what shall we say?" said Lucy.
"The truth, the truth, and all the truth," said John; "it is the best thing you can do now."
When Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild came in, they thought their children would have run to meet them; but they were so conscious of their naughtiness that they all crept behind John, and Emily hid her face.
"Emily, Lucy, Henry!" said Mrs. Fairchild, "you keep back; what is the matter?"
"Oh, mamma, mamma! papa, papa!" said Lucy, coming forward, "we have been very wicked children to-day; we are not fit to come near you."
"What have you done, Lucy?" said Mrs. Fairchild. "Tell us the whole truth."
Then Lucy told her parents everything which she and her brother and sister had done; she did not hide anything from them. You may be sure that Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild were very much shocked. When they heard all that Lucy had to tell them, and saw Emily's face, they looked very grave indeed.
"I am glad that you have told the truth, my children," said Mr. Fairchild; "but the faults that you have committed are very serious ones. You have disobeyed your parents; and, in consequence of your disobedience, Emily might have lost her life, if God had not been very merciful to you. And now go all of you to your beds."
The children did as their father bade them, and went silently up to their beds, where they cried sadly, thinking upon their naughtiness. The next morning they all three came into their mother's room, and begged her to kiss them and forgive them.
"I cannot refuse to pardon you, my children," said Mrs. Fairchild; "but, indeed, you made me and your father very unhappy last night."
Then the children looked at their mother's eyes, and they were full of tears; and they felt more and more sorry to think how greatly they had grieved their kind mother; and when Mrs. Fairchild kissed them, and put her arms round their necks, they cried more than ever.
Story of Ambition; or, The Wish to be Great
Twice every year Sir Charles and Lady Noble used to invite Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild and their children to spend a day with them at their house. Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild did not much like to go, because Sir Charles and his lady were very proud, and their children were not brought up in the fear of God; yet, as the visit only happened twice a year, Mr. Fairchild thought it better to go than to have a quarrel with his neighbour. Mrs. Fairchild always had two plain muslin frocks, with white mittens and neat black shoes, for Lucy and Emily to wear when they went to see Lady Noble. As Mr. Fairchild's house was as much as two miles distance from Sir Charles Noble's, Sir Charles always used to send his carriage for them, and to bring them back again at night.
One morning, just at breakfast-time, Mr. Fairchild came into the parlour, saying to Mrs. Fairchild:
"Here, my dear, is a note from Sir Charles Noble, inviting us to spend the day to-morrow, and the children."
"Well, my dear," said Mrs. Fairchild, "as Sir Charles Noble has been so kind as to ask us, we must not offend him by refusing to go."
The next morning Mr. Fairchild desired his wife and children to be ready at twelve o'clock, which was the time fixed for the coach to be at Mr. Fairchild's door. Accordingly, soon after eleven, Mrs. Fairchild dressed Lucy and Emily, and made them sit quietly down till the carriage came. As Lucy and Emily sat in the corner of the room, Lucy looked at Emily, and said:
"Sister, how pretty you look!"
"And how nice you look, Lucy!" said Emily. "These frocks are very pretty, and make us look very well."
"My dear little girls," said Mrs. Fairchild, who overheard what they said to each other, "do not be conceited because you have got your best frocks on. You now think well of yourselves, because you fancy you are well dressed; by-and-by, when you get to Lady Noble's, you will find Miss Augusta much finer dressed than yourselves; then you will be out of humour with yourselves for as little reason as you now are pleased."
At this moment Henry came in his Sunday coat to tell his mother that Sir Charles Noble's carriage was come. Mrs. Fairchild was quite ready; and Lucy and Emily were in such a hurry that Emily had nearly tumbled downstairs over her sister, and Lucy was upon the point of slipping down on the step of the hall-door; however, they all got into the coach without any accident, and the coachman drove away, and that so rapidly that they soon came in sight of Sir Charles Noble's house.
As it is not likely that you ever saw Sir Charles Noble's house, I will give you some account of it. It is a very large house, built of smooth white stone; it stands in a fine park, or green lawn, scattered over with tall trees and shrubs; but there were no leaves on the trees at the time I am speaking of, because it was winter.
When the carriage drove up to the hall-door, a smart footman came out, opened the carriage-door, and showed Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild through a great many rooms into a grand parlour, where Lady Noble was sitting upon a sofa, by a large fire, with several other ladies, all of whom were handsomely dressed. Now, as I told you before, Lady Noble was a proud woman; so she did not take much notice of Mrs. Fairchild when she came in, although she ordered the servants to set a chair for her. Miss Augusta Noble was seated on the sofa by her mamma, playing with a very beautiful wax doll; and her two brothers, William and Edward, were standing by her; but they never came forward to Mrs. Fairchild's children to say that they were glad to see them, or to show them any kind of civility. If children knew how disagreeable they make themselves when they are rude and ill-behaved, surely they would never be so, but would strive to be civil and courteous to everyone.
Soon after Mrs. Fairchild was seated, a servant came to say that Miss Noble's and Master William's and Master Edward's dinners were ready.
"Go, Augusta," said Lady Noble, "to your dinner, and take Master and Misses Fairchild with you; and, after you have dined, show them your playthings and your baby-house."
Miss Augusta got up, and, as she passed by Emily and Lucy, she said in a very haughty way, "Mamma says you must come with me."
So Emily and Lucy followed Miss Augusta, and the little boys came after them. She went up a pair of grand stairs, and along a very long gallery full of pictures, till they came to a large room, where Miss Augusta's governess was sitting at work, and the children's dinner set out in great order. In one corner of the room was the baby-house. Besides the baby-house, there was a number of other toys—a large rocking-horse, a cradle with a big wooden doll lying in it, and tops, and carts, and coaches, and whips, and trumpets in abundance.
"Here are Mrs. Fairchild's children come to dine with me, ma'am," said Miss Augusta, as she opened the door; "this is Lucy, and this is Emily, and that is Henry."
The governess did not take much notice of Mrs. Fairchild's children, but said, "Miss Augusta, I wish you would shut the door after you, for it is very cold."
I do not know whether Miss Augusta heard her governess, but she never offered to go back to shut the door.
The governess, whose name was Beaumont, then called to Master Edward, who was just coming in, to shut the door after him.
"You may shut it yourself, if you want it shut," answered the rude boy.
When Lucy heard this she immediately ran and shut the door, upon which Miss Beaumont looked more civilly at her than she had done before, and thanked her for her attention.
Whilst Lucy was shutting the door, Miss Augusta began to stir the fire.
"Miss Augusta," said the lady, "has not your mamma often forbidden you to touch the fire? Some day you will set your frock on fire."
Miss Augusta did not heed what her governess said this time any more than the last, but went on raking the fire; till at length Miss Beaumont, fearing some mischief, forced the poker out of her hand. Miss Augusta looked very much displeased, and was going to make a pert answer, when her mother and the other ladies came into the room to see the children dine. The young ones immediately seated themselves quietly at the table to eat their dinner.
"Are my children well behaved?" said Lady Noble, speaking to the governess. "I thought I heard you finding fault with Augusta when I came in."
"Oh, no, ma'am," said the governess; "Miss Augusta is a good young lady; I seldom have reason to find fault with her."
Lucy and Emily looked at Miss Beaumont, and wondered to hear her say that Miss Augusta was good, but they were silent.
"I am happy to say," said Lady Noble, speaking to Mrs. Fairchild, "that mine are promising children. Augusta has a good heart."
Just at that moment a servant came in, and set a plate of apples on the table.
"Miss Beaumont," said Lady Noble, "take care that Augusta does not eat above one apple; you know that she was unwell yesterday from eating too many."
Miss Beaumont assured Lady Noble that she would attend to her wishes, and the ladies left the room. When they were gone the governess gave two apples to each of the children, excepting Augusta, to whom she gave only one. The rest of the apples she took out of the plate, and put in her work-bag for her own eating.
When everyone had done dinner and the table-cloth was taken away, Lady Noble's children got up and left the table, and Henry and Emily were following, but Lucy whispered to them to say grace. Accordingly they stood still by the table, and, putting their hands together, they said the grace which they had been used to say after dinner at home.
"What are you doing?" said Augusta.
"We are saying grace," answered Lucy.
"Oh, I forgot," said Augusta; "your mamma is religious, and makes you do all these things. How tiresome it must be! And where's the use of it? It will be time enough to be religious, you know, when we get old, and expect to die."
"Oh, but," said little Henry, "perhaps we may never live to be old; many children die younger than we are."
Whilst Henry was speaking, William and Edward stood listening to him with their mouths wide open, and when he had finished his speech they broke out into a fit of laughter.
"When our parson dies, you shall be parson, Henry," said Edward; "but I'll never go to church when you preach."
"No, he shan't be parson—he shall be clerk," said William; "then he will have all the graves to dig."
"I'll tell you what," said Henry: "your mamma was never worse out in her life than when she said hers were good children."
"Take that for your sauciness, you little beggar!" said Master William, giving Henry a blow on the side of the head; and he would have given him several more had not Lucy and Emily run in between.
"If you fight in this room, boys, I shall tell my mamma," said Miss Augusta. "Come, go downstairs; we don't want you here. Go and feed your dogs."
William and Edward accordingly went off, and left the little girls and Henry to play quietly. Lucy and Emily were very much pleased with the baby-house and the dolls, and Henry got upon the rocking-horse; and so they amused themselves for a while. At length Miss Beaumont, who had been sitting at work, went to fetch a book from an adjoining room. As soon as she was out of sight, Miss Augusta, going softly up to the table, took two apples out of her work-bag.
"Oh, Miss Augusta, what are you doing?" said Emily.
"She is stealing," said Henry.
"Stealing!" said Miss Augusta, coming back into the corner of the room where the baby-house was; "what a vulgar boy you are! What words you use!"
"You don't like to be called a thief," said Henry, "though you are not ashamed to steal, I see."
"Do, Miss Augusta, put the apples back," said Emily; "your mamma said you must have but one, you know, to-day, and you have had one already."
"Hush, hush!" said Miss Augusta; "here's my governess coming back. Don't say a word."
So saying, she slipped the apples into the bosom of her frock, and ran out of the room.
"Where are you going, Miss Augusta?" exclaimed Miss Beaumont.
"Mamma has sent for me," answered Augusta; "I shall be back immediately."
When Miss Augusta had eaten the apples, she came back quietly, and sat down to play with Lucy and Emily as if nothing had happened. Soon after the governess looked into her work-bag, and found that two of the apples were gone.
"Miss Augusta," she said, "you have taken two apples: there are two gone."
"I have not touched them," said Miss Augusta.
"Some of you have," said Miss Beaumont, looking at the other children.
"I can't tell who has," said Miss Augusta; "but I know it was not me."
Lucy and Emily felt very angry, but they did not speak; but Henry would have spoken if his sister Lucy had not put her hand on his mouth.
"I see," said Miss Beaumont, "that some of you have taken the apples, and I desire that you Miss Emily, and you Miss Lucy, and you Master Henry, will come and sit down quietly by me, for I don't know what mischief you may do next."
Now the governess did not really suppose that Mrs. Fairchild's children had taken the apples; but she chose to scold them because she was not afraid of offending their parents, but she was very much afraid of offending Miss Augusta and her mamma. So she made Lucy and Emily and Henry sit quietly down by her side before the fire. It was now getting dark, and a maid-servant came in with a candle, and, setting it upon the table, said,
"Miss Augusta, it is time for you to be dressed to go down to tea with the ladies."
"Well," said Miss Augusta, "bring me my clothes, and I will be dressed by the fireside."
The servant then went into the closet I before spoke of, and soon returned with a beautiful muslin frock, wrought with flowers, a rose-coloured sash and shoes, and a pearl necklace. Emily and Lucy had never seen such fine clothes before; and when they saw Miss Augusta dressed in them they could not help looking at their own plain frocks and black shoes and feeling quite ashamed of them, though there was no more reason to be ashamed of their clothes at that time than there was of their being proud of them when they were first put on.
"Emily and Lucy had never seen such fine clothes before."—Page 52.
When Miss Augusta was dressed, she said to the maid-servant,
"Take the candle and light me down to the hall." Then, turning to Emily and Lucy, she added, "Will you come with me? I suppose you have not brought any clean frocks to put on? Well, never mind; when we get into the drawing-room you must keep behind your mamma's chair, and nobody will take any notice of you."
So Miss Augusta walked first, with the maid-servant, and Henry, and Lucy, and Emily followed. They went along the great gallery, and down the stairs, and through several fine rooms, all lighted up with many lamps and candles, till they came to the door where Sir Charles and Lady Noble, and Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild, and a great many ladies and gentlemen were sitting in a circle round a fire. Lucy and Emily and Henry went and stood behind their mother's chair, and nobody took any notice of them; but Miss Augusta went in among the company, curtseying to one, giving her hand to another, and nodding and smiling at another. "What a charming girl Miss Augusta has grown!" said one of the ladies. "Your daughter, Lady Noble, will be quite a beauty," said another. "What an elegant frock Miss Augusta has on!" said a third lady. "That rose-coloured sash makes her sweet complexion more lovely than ever," said one of the gentlemen; and so they went on flattering her till she grew more conceited and full of herself than ever; and during all the rest of the evening she took no more notice of Mrs. Fairchild's children than if they had not been in the room.
After the company had all drank tea, several tables were set out, and the ladies and gentlemen began to make parties for playing at cards. As Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild never played at cards, they asked for the coach, and, when it was ready, wished Sir Charles and Lady Noble good-night, and came away.
"Well," said little Henry, "Sir Charles Noble's may be a very fine house, and everything may be very fine in it, but I like my own little home and garden, and John, and the meadow, and the apple-trees, and the round hill, and the lane, better than all the fine things at Sir Charles's."
Now all this while Emily and Lucy did not speak a word; and what do you think was the reason? It was this: that the sight of Miss Augusta's fine clothes and playthings, and beautiful rooms in which she lived, with the number of people she had to attend her, had made them both out of humour with their own humble way of living, and small house and plain clothes. Their hearts were full of the desire of being great, like Miss Augusta, and having things like her; but they did not dare to tell their thoughts to their mother.
When they got home, Mrs. Fairchild gave a baked apple to each of the children, and some warm milk and water to drink; and after they had prayed, she sent them to bed. When Emily and Lucy had got into bed, and Betty had taken away the candle, Lucy said,
"Oh, Emily! I wish our papa and mamma were like Sir Charles and Lady Noble. What a beautiful frock that was that Miss Augusta had on! and I dare say that she has a great many more like it. And that sash!—I never saw so fine a colour."
Emily. "And then the ladies and gentlemen said she was so pretty, and even her governess did not dare to find fault with her!"
Lucy. "But Betty finds fault with us, and John, too; and papa and mamma make us work so hard! and we have such coarse clothes! Even our best frocks are not so good as those Miss Augusta wears every morning."
In this manner they went on talking till Mrs. Fairchild came upstairs and into their room. As they had thick curtains round their bed, it being very cold weather, they did not see their mamma come into the room, and so she heard a great deal of what they were talking about without their knowing it. She came up to the side of their bed, and sat down in a chair which stood near it, and putting the curtains aside a little, she said, "My dear little girls, as I came into the room I heard some part of what you were saying without intending it; and I am glad I heard it, because I can put you in a way of getting rid of these foolish thoughts and desires which you are speaking of to each other. Do not be ashamed, my dears; I am your own mamma, and love you dearly. Do you remember, Lucy, when Emily got that beautiful doll from Lady Noble, that you said you felt something in your heart which made you very miserable?"
Lucy. "Yes, mamma, I remember it very well; you told me it was envy. But I do not feel envy now; I do not wish to take Miss Augusta's things from her, or to hurt her; Emily and I only wish to be like her, and to have the same things she has."
"What you now feel, my dears," said Mrs. Fairchild, "is not exactly envy, though it is very like it; it is what is called ambition. Ambition is the desire to be greater than we are. Ambition makes people unhappy and discontented with what they are and what they have."
"I do not exactly understand, mamma," said Emily, "what ambition makes people do."
"Why, my dear," said Mrs. Fairchild, "suppose that Betty was ambitious, she would be discontented at being a servant, and would want to be as high as her mistress; and if I were ambitious, I should strive to be equal to Lady Noble; and Lady Noble would want to be as great as the duchess, who lives at that beautiful house which we passed by when we went to see your grandmamma; the duchess, if she were ambitious, would wish to be like the Queen."
Emily. "But the Queen could be no higher, so she could not be ambitious."
Mrs. Fairchild. "My dear, you are much mistaken. When you are old enough to read history, you will find that when Kings and Queens are ambitious, it does more harm even than when little people are so. When Kings are ambitious, they desire to be greater than other Kings, and then they fight with them, and cause many cruel wars and dreadful miseries. So, my dear children, you see that there is no end to the mischief which ambition does; and whenever this desire to be great comes, it makes us unhappy, and in the end ruins us."
Then Mrs. Fairchild showed to her children how much God loves people who are lowly and humble; and she knelt by the bedside and prayed that God would take all desire to be great out of her dear little girls' hearts.
The All-Seeing God
At last she fell asleep
I must tell you of a sad temptation into which Emily fell about this time. It is a sad story, but you shall hear it.
There was a room in Mrs. Fairchild's house which was not often used. In this room was a closet, full of shelves, where Mrs. Fairchild used to keep her sugar and tea, and sweetmeats and pickles, and many other things. Now, as Betty was very honest, and John, too, Mrs. Fairchild would often leave this closet unlocked for weeks together, and never missed anything out of it. One day, at the time that damsons were ripe, Mrs. Fairchild and Betty boiled up a great many damsons in sugar, to use in the winter; and when they had put them in jars and tied them down, they put them in the closet I before spoke of. Emily and Lucy saw their mother boil the damsons, and helped Betty to cover them and carry them to the closet. As Emily was carrying one of the jars she perceived that it was tied down so loosely that she could put in her finger and get at the fruit. Accordingly, she took out one of the damsons and ate it. It was so nice that she was tempted to take another; and was going even to take a third, when she heard Betty coming up. She covered the jar in haste and came away. Some months after this, one evening, just about the time it was getting dark, she was passing by the room where these sweetmeats were kept, and she observed that the door was open. She looked round to see if anybody was near, but there was no one. Her parents, and her brother and sister, were in the parlour, and Betty was in the kitchen, and John was in the garden. No eye was looking at her but the eye of God, who sees everything we do, and knows even the secret thoughts of the heart; but at that moment the fear of God was not in the heart of Emily. Accordingly, she passed through the open door and went up to the closet. There she stood still again, and looked round, but saw no one. She then opened the closet door, and took two or three damsons, which she ate in great haste. She then went to her own room, and washed her hands and her mouth, and went down into the parlour, where Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild were just going to tea.
"She took two or three damsons, which she ate in great haste."—Page 60.
Although her parents never suspected what naughty thing Emily had been doing, and behaved just as usual to her, yet Emily felt frightened and uneasy before them; and every time they spoke to her, though it was only to ask the commonest question, she stared and looked frightened.
I am sorry to say that the next day, when it was beginning to get dark, Emily went again to the closet and took some more damsons; and so she did for several days, though she knew she was doing wrong.
On the Sunday following, it happened to be so rainy that nobody could go to church, in consequence of which Mr. Fairchild called all the family into the parlour and read the Morning Service and a sermon. Some sermons are hard and difficult for children to understand, but this was a very plain, easy sermon—even Henry could tell his mamma a great deal about it. The text was from Psalm cxxxix., 7th to 12th verses.
The meaning of these verses was explained in the sermon. It was first shown that the Lord is a spirit; and, secondly, that there is no place where He is not: that if a person could go up into heaven, he would find God there; if he were to go down to hell, there also would he find God: that God is in every part of the earth, and of the sea, and of the sky; and that, being always present in every place, He knows everything we do and everything we say, and even every thought of our hearts, however secret we may think it. Then the sermon went on to show how foolish and mad it is for people to do wicked things in secret and dark places, trusting that God will not know it. "If I say, Surely the darkness shall cover me, even the night shall be light about me," for no night is dark unto God.
While Mr. Fairchild was reading, Emily felt frightened and unhappy, thinking of the wickedness she was guilty of every day; and she even thought that she never would be guilty again of the same sin; but when the evening came all her good resolutions left her, for she confided in her own strength; and she went again to the room where the damsons were kept. However, when she came to the door of the closet, she thought of the sermon which her father had read in the morning, and stood still a few moments to consider what she should do. "There is nobody in this room," she said; "and nobody sees me, it is true, but God is in this room; He sees me; His eye is now upon me. I will not take any more damsons. I will go back, I think. But yet, as I am come so far, and am just got to the closet, I will just take one damson—it shall be the last. I will never come here again without mamma's leave." So she opened the closet door and took one damson, and then another, and then two more. Whilst she was taking the last, she heard the cat mew. She did not know that the cat had followed her into the room; and she was so frightened that she spilled some of the red juice upon her frock, but she did not perceive it at the time. She then left the closet, and went, as usual, to wash her hands and mouth, and went down into the parlour.
When Emily got into the parlour, she immediately saw the red stain on her frock. She did not stay till it was observed, but ran out again instantly, and went upstairs and washed her frock. As the stain had not dried in, it came out with very little trouble; but not till Emily had wetted all the bosom of her frock and sleeves, and that so much that all her inner clothes were thoroughly wet, even to the skin; to hide this, she put her pinafore on to go down to tea. When she came down, "Where have you been, Emily?" said Mrs. Fairchild; "we have almost done tea."
"I have been playing with the cat upstairs, mamma," said Emily. But when she told this sad untruth she felt very unhappy, and her complexion changed once or twice from red to pale.
It was a cold evening, and Emily kept as much away from the fire and candle as she could, lest any spots should be left in her frock, and her mother should see them. She had no opportunity, therefore, of drying or warming herself, and she soon began to feel quite chilled and trembling. Soon after a burning heat came into the palms of her hands, and a soreness about her throat; however, she did not dare to complain, but sat till bedtime, getting every minute more and more uncomfortable.
It was some time after she was in bed, and even after her parents came to bed, before she could sleep; at last she fell asleep, but her sleep was disturbed by dreadful dreams, such as she had never experienced before. It was her troubled conscience, together with an uneasy body, which gave her these dreadful dreams; and so horrible were they, that at length she awoke, screaming violently. Her parents heard her cry, and came running in to her, bringing a light; but she was in such a terror that at first she did not know them.
"Oh, my dear," said Mrs. Fairchild, "this child is in a burning fever! Only feel her hands!"
It was true, indeed; and when Mr. Fairchild felt her, he was so much frightened that he resolved to watch by her all night, and in the morning, as soon as it was light, to send John for the doctor. But what do you suppose Emily felt all this time, knowing, as she did, how she had brought on this illness, and how she had deceived for many days this dear father and mother, who now gave up their own rest to attend her?
Emily continued to get worse during the night: neither was the doctor able, when he came, to stop the fever which followed the severe chill she had taken, though he did his uttermost. It would have grieved you to have seen poor Lucy and Henry. They could neither read nor play, they missed their dear sister so much. They continually said to each other, "Oh, Emily! dear Emily! there is no pleasure without our dear Emily!"
The next day, when the doctor came, Emily was so very ill that he thought it right that Lucy and Henry should be sent out of the house. Accordingly, John got the horse ready, and took them to Mrs. Goodriche's. Poor Lucy and Henry! How bitterly they cried when they went out of the gate, thinking that perhaps they might never see their dear Emily any more! It was a terrible trial to poor Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild. They had no comfort but in praying and watching by poor Emily's bed. And all this grief Emily brought upon her friends by her own naughtiness.
Emily was exceedingly ill for nine days, and everyone feared that if the fever continued a few days longer she must die; when, by the mercy of God, it suddenly left her, and she fell asleep and continued sleeping for many hours.
When she awoke, she was very weak, but her fever was gone. She kissed her parents, and wanted to tell them of the naughty things she had done, which had been the cause of the illness, but they would not allow her to speak.
From that day she got better, and at the end of another week was so well that she was able to sit up and tell Mrs. Fairchild all the history of her stealing the damsons, and of the sad way in which she had got the fever.
"Oh, mamma," said Emily, "what a naughty girl have I been! What trouble have I given to you, and to papa, and to the doctor, and to Betty! I thought that God would take no notice of my sin. I thought He did not see when I was stealing in the dark. But I was much mistaken. His eye was upon me all the time. And yet how good, how very good, He has been to me! When I was ill, I might have died. And oh, mamma! mamma! how unhappy you would have been then!"
Emily's Recovery, and the Old Story of Mrs. Howard
"What sound is that I hear?" said Emily
After Emily's fever was gone, she got rapidly better every day. Her kind mother never left her, but sat by her bed and talked to her, and provided everything which was likely to do her good.
When she was well enough, Mr. Fairchild borrowed Farmer Jones's covered cart for two days; and he set out, with Mrs. Fairchild and Emily, to fetch Henry and Lucy from Mrs. Goodriche's. It was a lovely morning at the finest season of the year. The little birds were singing in the hedges, and the grass and leaves of the trees shone with the dew. When John drove the cart out of the garden-gate and down the lane, "Oh," said Emily, "how sweet the honeysuckles and the wild roses smell in the hedges! There, mamma, are some young lambs playing in the fields by their mothers; and there is one quite white—not a spot about it. It turns its pretty face towards us. How mild and gentle it looks!"
Whilst they were talking, the cart had come alongside a wood, which was exceedingly shady and beautiful. Many tufts of primroses, violets, and wood-anemones grew on the banks by the wayside; and as the wind blew gently over these flowers, it brought a most delightful smell.
"What sound is that which I hear among the trees?" said Emily. "It is very sweet and soft."
"That is the cooing of wood-pigeons or doves," said Mr. Fairchild. "And look, Emily, there they are! They are sitting upon the branch of a tree; there are two of them."
"Oh, I see them!" said Emily. "Oh, how soft and pretty they look! But now the noise of the cart has frightened them; they are flown away."
By this time the cart had passed through the wood, and they were come in sight of Mrs. Goodriche's white house standing in a little garden under a hill.
"Oh, mamma, mamma!" said Emily, "there is Mrs. Goodriche's house! And I shall see my dear Lucy and Henry in a very little time."
Just as Emily spoke, they saw Lucy and Henry step out of the house-door, and come running towards the cart. It would have pleased you to the heart had you seen how rejoiced these dear children were to meet each other. Mr. Fairchild lifted Henry and Lucy into the cart; and they cried for joy when they put their arms around dear Emily's neck.
"Oh, Emily, Emily!" said Henry. "If you had died, I never would have played again."
"God be praised!" said Mr. Fairchild. "Our dear Emily has been spared to us."
When the cart came up to Mrs. Goodriche's garden-gate, the good old lady came to receive Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild, and to kiss Emily; and Sukey peeped out of the kitchen-window, not less pleased than her mistress to see Emily in good health.
Whilst Sukey was getting the dinner, Emily and her brother and sister went to play in the garden. Henry showed Emily some rabbits which Mrs. Goodriche had, and some young ducks which had been hatched a few days before, with many other pretty things. When dinner was ready, Mrs. Fairchild called the children in, and they all sat down, full of joy, to eat roast fowl and some boiled bacon, with a nice cold currant and raspberry pie.
"Emily and her brother and sister went to play in the garden."—Page 68.
After dinner Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild and Mrs. Goodriche, with the children, walked as far as the wood where Emily had seen the doves, to gather strawberries, which they mixed with some cream and sugar at night for their supper.
The next morning, after breakfast, Mr. Fairchild went out to take a walk. Then Mrs. Goodriche called the three children to her, and said:
"Now, my dear children, I will tell you a story. Come, sit round me upon these little stools, and hearken."
The children were very much pleased when they heard Mrs. Goodriche say she would tell them a story, for Mrs. Goodriche could tell a great many pretty stories.
The Old Story of Mrs. Howard
"About fifty years ago," said Mrs. Goodriche, "a little old lady, named Mrs. Howard, lived in this house with her maid Betty. She had an old horse called Crop, which grazed in that meadow, and carried Betty to market once a week. Mrs. Howard was one of the kindest and most good-natured old ladies in England. Three or four times every year Betty had orders, when she went to market, to bring all manner of playthings and little books from the toy-shop. These playthings and pretty little books Mrs. Howard used to keep by her till she saw any children whom she thought worthy of them. But she never gave any playthings to children who did not obey their parents, or who were rude or ill-mannered, for she would say, 'It is a great sin in the eyes of God for children to be rude and unmannerly.' All the children in the neighbourhood used from time to time to visit Mrs. Howard; and those who wished to be obliging never came away without some pretty plaything or book.
"At that time there were in this country two families of the name of Cartwright and Bennet; the former much beloved by the neighbours on account of their good qualities; the latter as much disliked for their bad ones.
"Mr. Bennet was a rich farmer, and lived in a good old house, with everything handsome and plentiful about him; but nobody cared to go near him or to visit his wife, because their manners were so rough and disobliging; and their two children, Master Jacky and Miss Polly, were brought up only to please themselves and to care for nobody else. But, on the contrary, Mr. and Mrs. Cartwright made their house so agreeable by their civil and courteous manners that high and low, rich and poor, loved to go there; and Master Billy and Miss Patty Cartwright were spoken well of throughout the whole neighbourhood for their pretty and modest behaviour.
"It happened once upon a time that Betty went to town at the end of the Midsummer Fair, and brought some of the prettiest toys and books which had been seen in this country for a long time; amongst these was a jointed doll with flaxen hair, and a history of the Bible full of coloured pictures, exceedingly pretty. Soon after Betty brought these things home, Mrs. Howard said to her: 'Betty, you must make a cake and put some plums in it, and a large apple-pie, and some custards and cheesecakes; and we will invite Master and Miss Cartwright, and Master Bennet and his sister Miss Polly, and some other children, to spend a day with us; and before they go home, we will give those who have behaved well during the day some of those pretty toys which you brought from the Midsummer Fair.'
"Accordingly, Betty made the cake, and the cheesecakes, and custards, and the large apple-pie; and Mrs. Howard sent to invite Master and Miss Cartwright, and Master Bennet and his sister, to spend the next day with her.
"In those days little misses did not wear muslin or linen frocks, which, when they are dirtied, may easily be washed and made clean again; but they wore stuff, silk, and satin slips, with lace or gauze ruffles, and bibs, and aprons, and little round caps with artificial flowers. Children were then taught to be very careful never to dirty their best clothes, and to fold them up very smooth when they pulled them off.
"When Mrs. Bennet received Mrs. Howard's invitation for her children, she called them to her, and said:
"'My dears, you are to go to-morrow to see Mrs. Howard; and I have been told that she has by her some very pretty toys, which she means to give away to those children who please her best. You have seen the gilt coach-and-four which she gave last year to Miss Cartwright, and the little watch which Master Cartwright received from her last Christmas; and why should not you also have some of these fine toys? Only try to please the old lady to-morrow, and I dare say she will give you some; for I am sure you are quite as good as Master and Miss Cartwright, though you are not quite so sly.'
"'Oh!' said Master Bennet, 'I should like to get the toys, if it was only to triumph over Master Cartwright. But what must we do to please Mrs. Howard?'
"'Why,' said Mrs. Bennet, 'when your best things are put on to-morrow, you must take care not to rumple or soil them before you appear in Mrs. Howard's presence; and when you come into her parlour you must stop at the door, and bow low and curtsey; and when you are desired to sit down, you must sit still till dinner is brought in; and when dinner is ready, you must stand up and say grace before you eat; and you must take whatever is offered you, without saying, "I will have this," and "I will have that," as you do at home.'
"Mrs. Bennet gave her children a great many other rules for their behaviour in Mrs. Howard's presence, which I have not time to repeat now," said Mrs. Goodriche; "all of which Master Jacky and Miss Polly promised to remember, for they were very desirous to get the playthings.
"And now I will tell you what Mrs. Cartwright said to her children when she got Mrs. Howard's invitation. She called them to her, and said:
"'Here, Billy—here, Patty, is a note from Mrs. Howard to invite you to spend the day with her to-morrow; and I am glad of it, because I know you love to go to Mrs. Howard's, she is so good to all children, and has been particularly kind to you. I hear she has some pretty playthings by her now to give away; but don't you be greedy of them, my dears. You have a variety of playthings, you know—more than most children have, and it does not become anyone to be covetous. And remember, my dear children, to behave civilly and politely to everybody.'
"And now I will tell you how these children behaved. About eleven o'clock Mrs. Cartwright had her two children dressed in their best, and sent them with the maid-servant to Mrs. Howard's. As they were walking quietly over a corn-field, through which they must needs pass, they saw Master and Miss Bennet with their servant sitting on a stile at the farther end of the field.
"'Oh!' said Miss Patty, 'there are Master and Miss Bennet—on the way, I suppose, to Mrs. Howard's. I am sorry we have met with them; I am afraid they will get us into some mischief.'
"'Why should you say so?' said Master Cartwright. 'Let us speak of things as we may find them.'
"When Master and Miss Cartwright came near the stile, Master Bennet called to them:
"'What a long time you have been coming over the field! We have been waiting for you this half-hour,' said he. 'Come, now, let us join company. I suppose that you are going, as we are, to Mrs. Howard's.'
"Master Cartwright answered civilly, and all the children, with the two servants, got over the stile and went down a pretty lane which was beyond.
"The children walked on quietly till they came to a duck-pond, partly overgrown with weeds, which was at the farther end of the lane. When they came near to this, Master Bennet whispered to his sister:"'I'll see now if I can't spoil Miss Patty's smart silk slip.'
"I'll see now if I can't spoil Miss Patty's smart silk slip."—Page 77.
"'Do, Jack,' answered Miss Polly.
"Master Bennet then, winking at his sister, went up to the pond, and pulling up some of the weeds, which were all wet and muddy, he threw them at Miss Cartwright's slip, saying, at the same time:
"'There, Miss, there is a present for you.'
"But, as it happened, Miss Cartwright saw the weeds coming, and caught them in her hand, and threw them from her. Upon this Master Bennet was going to pluck more weeds, but Mr. Cartwright's maid-servant held his hands, whilst little Billy and his sister ran forwards to Mrs. Howard's house, which was just in sight, as fast as their feet would carry them.
"'There, now,' said Miss Polly, 'those spiteful children have gone to tell Mrs. Howard what you have done, brother, and we shall not get any toys. You are always in mischief, that you are.'
"'I am sure you told me to throw the weeds,' answered Master Bennet.
"'I am sure I did not,' said Miss Polly.
"'But you knew that I was going to do it,' said he.
"'But I did not,' said she.
"'But you did, for I told you,' said he.
"In this manner this brother and sister went on scolding each other till they came to Mrs. Howard's gate. There Miss Polly smoothed her apron, and Master Jacky combed his hair with his pocket-comb, and they walked hand-in-hand into Mrs. Howard's parlour as if nothing had happened. They made a low bow and curtsey at the door, as their mamma had bidden them; and Mrs. Howard received them very kindly, for Master and Miss Cartwright had not mentioned a word of their ill-behaviour on the road.
"Besides Master and Miss Cartwright, there were several other children sitting in Mrs. Howard's parlour, waiting till dinner should be set on the table. My mother was there," said Mrs. Goodriche—"she was then a very little girl—and your grandmother and great-uncle, both young ones; with many others now dead and gone. In one corner of the parlour was a cupboard with glass doors, where Mrs. Howard had placed such of those pretty toys (as I before spoke of) which she meant to give away in the afternoon. The prettiest of these was the jointed doll, neatly dressed in a green satin slip, and gauze apron and bib.
"By the time Master and Miss Bennet had made their bow and curtsey, and were seated, Betty came in with the dinner, and Mrs. Howard called the children to table. Master and Miss Bennet, seeing the beautiful toys before them through the glass doors of the cupboard, did not forget to behave themselves well at table; they said grace and ate such things as were offered them; and Mrs. Howard, who noticed their good behaviour, began to hope that Farmer Bennet's children were becoming better.
"After the children had got their dinner, it being a very pleasant afternoon, Mrs. Howard gave them leave to play in the garden, and in the little croft, where she kept her old horse Crop.
"'But take care, my dears,' she said to the little girls, 'not to soil your slips or tear your aprons.'
"The children were much pleased with this permission to play; and after they were gone out, Mrs. Howard put on her hood and cloak, and said to Betty:
"'I shall drink tea, Betty, in my bower at the end of the grass walk; do you bring my little tea-table there, and the strawberries and cream, and the cake which you made yesterday; and when we have finished our tea, bring those toys which are in the glass cupboard to divide amongst the children.'
"'And I think, madam,' said Betty, 'that Master and Miss Bennet will gain some of them to-day, for I thought they behaved very well at dinner.'
"'Indeed, Betty,' said Mrs. Howard, 'I must say I never saw them behave so mannerly as they did at dinner, and if they do but keep it up till night, I shall not send them home without some pretty present, I assure you.'
"When Mrs. Howard had given her orders to Betty, she took her gold-headed stick in her hand, and went down the grass walk to her bower. It was a pretty bower, as I have heard my mother say, formed of honeysuckles and other creeping shrubs nailed over a framework of lath in the old-fashioned way. It stood just at the end of that long green walk, and at the corner of the field; so that anyone sitting in the bower might see through the lattice-work and foliage of the honeysuckles into the field, and hear all that was said. There good Mrs. Howard sat knitting (for she prepared stockings for most of the poor children in the neighbourhood), whilst her little visitors played in the garden and in the field, and Betty came to and fro with the tea-table and tea-things.
"Whilst the children were all engaged with their sports in the croft, a poor old man, who had been gathering sticks, came by that way, bending under the weight of the load. When he appeared, the children ceased from their play, and stood looking at him.
"'Poor man!' said Miss Patty Cartwright, 'those sticks are too heavy for you to carry. Have you far to go?'
"'No, my pretty miss,' said the old man; 'only a very little way.'
"'I cannot help to carry your sticks,' said Master Cartwright, 'because I have my best coat on. I could take off that, to be sure, but then my other things would be spoiled; but I have got a penny here, if you please to accept it.' So saying, he forced the penny into the poor man's hand.
"In the meantime, Master Bennet went behind the old man, and giving the sticks a sly pull, the string that tied them together broke, and they all came tumbling on the ground. The children screamed, but nobody was hurt.
"'Oh, my sticks!' said the poor man; 'the string is broke! What shall I do to gather them together again? I have been all day making this little faggot.'
"'We will help you,' said Master Cartwright; 'we can gather your sticks together without fear of hurting our clothes.'
"So all the little ones set to work (excepting Master and Miss Bennet, who stood by laughing), and in a little while they made up the poor man's bundle of sticks again, and such as had a penny in their pockets gave it him. Miss Patty Cartwright had not a penny, but she had a silver sixpence, which she gave to the old man, and ran before him to open the gate (which led out of the field), wishing him good-night, and curtseying to him as civilly as if he had been the first lord of the land.
"Now the children never suspected that Mrs. Howard had heard and seen all this, or else Master and Miss Bennet, I am sure, would not have behaved as they did. They thought Mrs. Howard was in the parlour, where they had left her.
"By this time everything was ready for tea, and the cake set upon the table, with the strawberries and cream.
"'And now, Betty,' said Mrs. Howard, 'you may call the children; and be sure, when tea is over, to bring the toys.'
"Master and Miss Bennet looked as demure when they came in to tea as they had done at dinner, and a stranger would have thought them as well-behaved children as Master and Miss Cartwright; but children who behave well in the sight of their parents, or in company, and rudely or impertinently in private, or among servants or their playfellows, cannot be called well-bred.
"After the young people had had their tea and cake, and strawberries and cream, Betty came with the playthings, and placed them on the table before Mrs. Howard. You would, perhaps, like to know what these playthings were:—First of all was the jointed doll, dressed, as I before said, in a green satin slip, and a gauze bib and apron, and round cap, according to the fashion of those days; then there was the History of the Bible, with coloured pictures; then came a little chest of drawers, for dolls' clothes; a doll's wicker cradle; a bat and ball; a red morocco pocket-book; a needle-book; and the History of King Pepin, bound and gilt. These beautiful books and toys were placed on the table before Mrs. Howard, and the little ones waited in silence to see what she would do with them. Mrs. Howard looked first at the playthings, and then at the children, and thus she spoke:
"'My dear children, I sent for these pretty toys from the fair, in order to encourage you to be good: there is nothing that gives me greater pleasure than to see children polite and mannerly, endeavouring to please everybody, "in honour preferring one another," as God hath commanded us to do. Pride and ill manners, my dear children, are great faults; but humility, and a wish to please everyone rather than ourselves, make us resemble the blessed Lord Jesus Christ, who did not despise the poorest among men. Many persons are polite and good-mannered when in company with their betters, because, if they were not so, people would have nothing to say to them: but really well-behaved persons are courteous and civil, not only when they are among their betters, but when they are with servants, or with poor people.'
"Then Mrs. Howard took the jointed doll, and the History of the Bible, and gave the one to Miss Patty Cartwright, and the other to Master Billy, saying:
"'I give you these, my children, because I observed your good manners, not only to me, but to the poor old man who passed through the croft with his bundle of sticks. To you, Master Bennet, and to you, Miss Polly, I shall not give anything; because you showed, by your behaviour to the old man, that your good manners were all an outside garb, which you put on and off like your Sunday clothes.'
"Then Mrs. Howard gave the rest of the toys among the lesser children, commending them for helping the old man to gather his sticks together; and thus she dismissed them to their own houses, all of them, except Master Jacky and Miss Polly, jumping and skipping for joy."
When Mrs. Goodriche had finished her story, Lucy said:
"What a pretty story that is! I think Master and Miss Cartwright deserved those pretty toys—they were nice children: but I did not know that having rude manners was so very great a fault."
"If you will think a minute, my dear," said Mrs. Goodriche, "you will find that rude manners must be one sign of badness of heart: a person who has always a lowly opinion of himself, and proper love for his neighbour, will never be guilty of rudeness; it is only when we think ourselves better than others, or of more consequence than they are, that we venture to be rude. I have heard you say how rude Miss Augusta Noble was the last time you were at her house. Now, why was she rude, but because she thought herself better than her company? This is pride, and a great sin it is."
Sad Story of a Disobedient Child
When Mr. Fairchild returned from his walk he found John ready with the cart, so, wishing Mrs. Goodriche a good-evening, and thanking her for her kindness, they returned home.
The next morning Mr. Fairchild got up early, and went down to the village. Breakfast was ready, and Mrs. Fairchild and the children waiting at the table, when he came back.
"Get your breakfast, my dear," said he to Mrs. Fairchild; "don't wait for me." So saying, he went into his study and shut the door.
Mrs. Fairchild, supposing that he had some letters to write, got her breakfast quietly; after which she sent Lucy to ask her father if he would not choose any breakfast. When Mr. Fairchild heard Lucy's voice at the study-door, he came out, and followed her into the parlour.
When Mrs. Fairchild looked at her husband's face she saw that something had grieved him very much. She was frightened, and said:
"My dear, I am sure something is the matter; what is it? Tell me the worst at once; pray do!"
"Indeed, my dear," said Mr. Fairchild, "I have heard something this morning which has shocked me dreadfully. I was not willing to tell you before you had breakfasted. I know what you will feel when you hear it."
"Do tell me," said Mrs. Fairchild, turning quite white.
"Poor Augusta Noble!" said Mr. Fairchild.
"What, papa?" said Lucy and Emily and Henry, in one voice.
"She is dead!" exclaimed Mr. Fairchild.
The children turned as pale as their mother; and poor Mrs. Fairchild nearly fainted.
"Oh! poor Lady Noble! poor Lady Noble!" said she, as soon as she could speak. "Poor Lady Noble!"
Whilst the children were crying over the sad news Mrs. Barker came into the parlour. Mrs. Barker was a kind woman, and, as she lived by herself, was always at liberty to go amongst her neighbours in times of trouble.
"Ah, Mrs. Fairchild," she said, "I know what troubles you: we are all in grief through the whole village."
"What was the cause of the poor child's death?" asked Mrs. Fairchild. "I never heard that she was ill."
"Ah! Mrs. Fairchild, the manner of her death is the worst part of the story, and that which must grieve her parents more than all. You know that poor Miss Augusta was always the darling of her mother, who brought her up in great pride; and she chose a foolish governess for her who had no good influence upon her."
"I never thought much of Miss Beaumont," said Mrs. Fairchild.
"As Miss Augusta was brought up without the fear of God," continued Mrs. Barker, "she had, of course, no notion of obedience to her parents, further than just trying to please them in their presence; she lived in the constant practice of disobeying them, and the governess continually concealed her disobedience from Lady Noble. And what is the consequence? The poor child has lost her life, and Miss Beaumont is turned out of doors in disgrace."
"But," said Mrs. Fairchild, "how did she lose her life through disobedience to her parents? Pray tell me, Mrs. Barker."
"The story is so sad I hardly like to tell it you," answered Mrs. Barker; "but you must know it sooner or later. Miss Augusta had a custom of playing with fire, and carrying candles about, though Lady Noble had often warned her of the danger of this habit, and strictly charged her governess to prevent it. But it seems that the governess, being afraid of offending, had suffered her very often to be guilty of this piece of disobedience, without telling Lady Noble. And the night before last, when Lady Noble was playing at cards in the drawing-room with some visitors, Miss Augusta took a candle off the hall table, and carried it upstairs to the governess's room. No one was there, and it is supposed that Miss Augusta was looking in the glass with a candle in her hand, when the flame caught her dress; but this is not known. Lady Noble's maid, who was in the next room, was alarmed by her dreadful screams, and, hastening to discover the cause, found poor Augusta in a blaze from head to foot. The unhappy young lady was so dreadfully burnt that she never spoke afterwards, but died in agonies last night."
When Mrs. Fairchild and the children heard this dreadful story they were very much grieved. Mrs. Barker stayed with them all day; and it was, indeed, a day of mourning through all the house.
The Two Books
"Please choose a book for me"
It was the time of the Midsummer Fair, and John asked Mr. Fairchild's leave to go to the fair.
"You may go, John," said Mr. Fairchild; "and take the horse, and bring everything that is wanting in the family."
So John got the horse ready, and set out early in the morning to go to the fair; but before he went Emily and Lucy gave him what money they had, and begged him to bring them each a book. Emily gave him twopence, and Lucy gave him threepence.
"You must please choose a book for me with pictures in it," said Emily.
"I do not care about pictures," said Lucy, "if it is a pretty book. So pray don't forget, John."
In the evening, after tea, the children and their father and mother, as usual, got ready to take a walk; and the children begged Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild to go with them to meet John. "For John," said Henry, "will be coming back now, and will have brought us some pretty books."
So Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild took the road which led towards the town where the fair was held, and the children ran before them. It was a fine evening. The hedges were full of wild roses, which smelt most sweet; and the haymakers were making hay in the fields on each side of the road.
"I cannot think where John can be," said Henry. "I thought he would be here long before now."
By this time they were come to the brow of a rising ground; and looking before them, behold, there was John at a distance! The children all ran forward to meet him.
"Where are the books, John? Oh, where are the books?" they all said with one voice.
John, who was a very good-natured man, as I have before said, smiled, and, stopping his horse, began to feel in his pockets; and soon brought out, from among other things, two little gilt books; the largest of which he gave to Lucy, and the other to Emily, saying:
"Here is two pennyworth—and here is three pennyworth."
"Indeed, John, you are very good," said the children. "What beautiful books!"
"My book," said Emily, "is 'The History of the Orphan Boy,' and there are a great many pictures in it: the first is a picture of a funeral—that must be the funeral of the poor little boy's papa and mamma, I suppose."
"Let me see, let me see," said Henry. "Oh, how pretty! And what's your book, Lucy?"
"There are not many pictures in my book," said Lucy; "but there is one at the beginning: it is the picture of a little boy reading to somebody lying in a bed; and there is a lady sitting by. The name of my book is 'The History of Little Henri, or the Good Son.'"
"Oh, that must be very pretty," said Henry.
By this time Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild were come up.
"Oh, papa! oh, mamma!" said the little ones, "what beautiful books John has brought!"
"Indeed," said Mr. Fairchild, when he had looked at them a little while, "they appear to be very nice books, and the pictures in them are very pretty."
"Henry shall read them to us, my dears," said Mrs. Fairchild, "whilst we sit at work; I should like to hear them very much."
"To-morrow," said Mr. Fairchild, looking at his wife, "we begin to make hay in the Primrose Meadow. What do you say? Shall we go after breakfast, and take a cold dinner with us, and spend the day under the trees at the corner of the meadow? Then we can watch the haymakers, and Henry can read the books whilst you and his sisters are sewing."
"Oh, do let us go! do let us go!" said the children; "do, mamma, say yes."
"With all my heart, my dears," said Mrs. Fairchild.
The next morning early the children got everything ready to go into the Primrose Meadow. They had each of them a little basket, with a lid to it, in which they packed up their work and the new books; and, as soon as the family had breakfasted, they all set out for the Primrose Meadow: Mr. Fairchild, with a book in his pocket for his own reading; Mrs. Fairchild, with her work-bag hanging on her arm; Betty, with a basket of bread and meat and a cold fruit-pie; and the children with their work-baskets and Emily's doll, for the little girls seldom went out without their doll. The Primrose Meadow was not a quarter of a mile from Mr. Fairchild's house: you had only the corner of a little copse to pass through before you were in it. It was called the Primrose Meadow because every spring the first primroses in the neighbourhood appeared on a sunny bank in that meadow. A little brook of very clear water ran through the meadow, rippling over the pebbles; and there were many alders growing by the water-side.
The people were very busy making hay in the meadow when Mr. Fairchild and his family arrived. Mrs. Fairchild sat down under the shade of a large oak-tree which grew in the corner of the coppice, and Lucy and Henry, with Emily, placed themselves by her. The little girls pulled out their work, and Henry the new books. Mr. Fairchild took his book to a little distance, that he might not be disturbed by Henry's reading, and he stretched himself upon a green bank.
"Now, mamma," said Henry, "are you ready to hear my story? And have you done fidgeting, sisters?" For Lucy and Emily had been bustling to make a bed for their doll in the grass with their pocket-handkerchiefs.
"Brother," answered Lucy, "we are quite ready to hear you—read away; there is nothing now to disturb you, unless you find fault with the little birds who are chirping with all their might in these trees, and those bees which are buzzing amongst the flowers in the grass."
"First," said Henry, "look at the picture at the beginning of the book—the picture of the funeral going through the churchyard."
"Let me see, brother," said Emily.
"Why, you have seen it several times," said Henry; "and now I want to read."
"Still, my dear," said Mrs. Fairchild, "you might oblige your sister. Good manners and civility make everybody lovely. Have you forgotten Mrs. Goodriche's story of Master Bennet?"
Henry immediately got up, and showed his sister the picture, after which he sat down again and began to read the story in Emily's book.
The History of the Orphan Boy
Marten behaved well at breakfast
"In a little flowery valley near Tenterden there lived once a certain farmer who had a wife and one little boy, whose name was Marten. The farmer and his wife were people who feared God and loved their neighbours, and though they were not rich, they were contented. In the same parish lived two gentlemen, named Squire Broom and Squire Blake, as the country people called them. Squire Broom was a man who feared God; but Squire Blake was one of those men who cared for nothing beyond the things of this world. He was a very rich man, and was considered by the neighbours to be good-tempered. His lady kept a plentiful house, and was glad to see anyone who came. They had no children, and, as they had been married many years, it was thought they never would have any. Squire Broom was not so rich as Squire Blake, and, though a very worthy man, was not of such pleasing manners, so that many people did not like him, though in times of distress he was one of the kindest friends in the world. Squire Broom had a very large family, which he brought up in an orderly, pious manner; but some of the neighbours did not fail to find fault with him for being too strict with his children.
"When little Marten was about three years of age his father was killed as he was going to Tenterden market by a fall from his horse. This was so great a grief to his mother, who loved her husband very dearly, that she fell immediately into a bad state of health; and though she lived as much as two years after her husband, yet she was all that time a dying woman. There was nothing in the thoughts of death which made this poor woman unhappy at any time, excepting when she considered that she must leave her little Marten to strangers; and this grieved her the more because little Marten was a very tender child, and had always been so from his birth.
"It happened a few weeks before her death, as little Marten's mother was lying on her couch, that one Mrs. Short, who lived in Tenterden, and spent her time in gossiping from house to house, came bustling into the room where Marten's mother lay.
"'I am come to tell you,' said she, 'that Squire Blake's lady will be here just now.'
"'It is some time since I have seen Mrs. Blake,' said Marten's mother; 'but it is kind of her to visit me in my trouble.'
"Whilst she was speaking Mr. Blake's carriage came up to the door, and Mrs. Blake stepped out. She came into the parlour in a very free and friendly manner, and, taking Marten's mother by the hand, she said she was very sorry to see her looking so ill.
"'Indeed,' said the sick woman, 'I am very ill, dear madam, and I think that I cannot live longer than a few weeks; but God's will be done! I have no trouble in leaving this world but on account of little Marten; yet I know that God will take care of him, and that I ought not to be troubled on his account.'
"Mrs. Blake then answered:
"'As you have begun to speak upon the subject, I will tell you what particularly brought me here to-day.'
"She then told her that, as she and Mr. Blake had a large fortune and no family, they were willing to take little Marten at her death and provide for him as their own. This was a very great and kind offer, and most people would have accepted it with joy; but the pious mother recollected that Mr. Blake was one who declared himself to be without religion; and she could not think of leaving her little boy to such a man. Accordingly she thanked Mrs. Blake for her kind offer—for a very kind offer it was—and said that she should feel obliged to her till her dying moment.
"'But,' added she, 'I cannot accept of your friendship for my little boy, as I have a very dear Friend who would be disobliged if I did so.'
"Mrs. Blake turned red, and was offended; for she had never once thought it possible that Marten's mother should refuse her offer; and Mrs. Short lifted up her hands and eyes, and looked as if she thought the poor sick woman little better than a fool.
"'Well,' said Mrs. Blake, 'I am surprised, I must confess. However, you must know your own affairs best; but this I must say, that I think Marten may live long enough without having such another offer.'
"'And I must say that you are standing in the child's way,' said Mrs. Short. 'Why, Mr. Blake can do ten times more for the child than his father could have done, had he lived a hundred years; and I think it very ungrateful and foolish in you to make such a return for Mr. and Mrs. Blake's kindness.'
"'And pray,' said Mrs. Blake, 'who is this dear Friend who would be so much disobliged by your allowing us to take the boy?'
"'I suppose it is Squire Broom,' said Mrs. Short; 'for who else can it be?'
"'Yes,' said Mrs. Blake, 'I have no doubt it is, for Mr. Broom never loved my husband. But,' added she, looking at Marten's mother, 'you do very wrong if you think Mr. Broom could do as much for the child (even if he were willing) as my husband. Mr. Broom is not rich, and he has a great many children; whereas Mr. Blake has a very handsome fortune, and no near relation in the world. However, as you have once refused, I do not think I would take the boy now if you were to ask me.'
"'I am very sorry,' answered Marten's mother, 'to appear unthankful to you; and perhaps, as I am a dying woman, I ought to tell you the true reason of my refusing your offer, though it may make you angry. I do not doubt but that you would be kind to little Marten, and I know that you have more to give him than his father could have had.'
"She then, in a very delicate manner, hinted at Mr. Blake's irreligious opinions, and acknowledged that it was on the account of these that she had refused his protection for her son.
"'The Lord Jesus Christ,' added she, 'is the dear Friend I spoke of, my dear madam, and the One I am afraid to offend by accepting Mr. Blake's offer. You are welcome to tell Mr. Blake all I say.'
"Mrs. Blake made no answer, but got up, and, wishing Marten's mother and Mrs. Short a good-morning, went away very much offended.
"When Mrs. Short was left with the sick woman she failed not to speak her mind to her, and that very plainly, by telling her that she considered her little better than a fool for what she had done.
"Marten's mother answered: 'I am willing to be counted a fool for Christ's sake.'
"The next day Marten's mother sent for Squire Broom; and when she had told him all that had passed between herself and Mrs. Blake, she asked him if he would take charge of poor little Marten when she was dead, and also of what little money she might leave behind her; and see that the child was put to a good school. Squire Broom promised that he would be a friend to the boy to the best of his power, and Marten's mother was sure that he would do what he promised, for he was a good man. And now, not to make our story too long, I must tell you that Marten's mother grew weaker and weaker, and about three weeks after she had had this conversation with Mrs. Blake she was found one morning dead in her bed; and it was supposed she died without pain, as Susan, the maid, who slept in the same room, had not heard her move or utter a sigh. She was buried in Tenterden churchyard, and Squire Broom, as he had promised, took charge of all her affairs.
"And now, after having done with little Marten's good mother, I shall give you the history of the little boy himself, from the day when he was awoke and found his poor mother dead; and you shall judge whether God heard his mother's prayer, and whether He took care of the poor little orphan.
"Marten's mother was buried on Saturday evening. On Sunday little Marten went and stood by his mother's grave, and no one but Susan could persuade him to come away. On Monday morning Squire Broom came in a one-horse chaise to take him to school at Ashford. The master of the school at that time was a conscientious man but Squire Broom did not know that he was so severe in the management of children as he proved to be.
"Little Marten cried very much when he was put into the one-horse chaise with Squire Broom.
"'Oh, let me stay with Susan! let me live with Susan!' he said.
"'What!' said Squire Broom, 'and never learn to read? You must go to school to learn to read, and other things a man should know.'
"'Susan shall teach me to read,' said little Marten.
"Squire Broom promised him that he should come back in the summer, and see Susan, and little Marten tried to stop crying.
"When little Marten got to Ashford school he was turned into a large stone hall, where about fifty boys were playing; he had never seen so many boys before, and he was frightened, and he crept into a corner. They all got round him, and asked him a great many questions, which frightened him more; and he began to cry and call for Susan. This set the boys a-laughing, and they began to pull him about and tease him.
"Little Marten was a pretty child; he was very fair, and had beautiful blue eyes and red lips, and his dark brown hair curled all over his head; but he had always been very tender in his health; and the kickings and thumpings and beatings he got amongst the boys, instead of making him hardy, made him the more sickly and drooping.
"The boys used to rise very early, and, after they had been an hour in school, they played in the churchyard (for the schoolroom stands in the churchyard) till the bell rang to call them to breakfast. In the schoolroom there was only one fireplace, and the lesser boys could never get near it, so that little Marten used to be so numbed with cold in the mornings (for winter was coming) that he could scarcely hold his book; and his feet and hands became so swelled with chilblains that, when the other boys went out to play, he could only creep after them. He was so stupefied with cold that he could not learn; he even forgot his letters, though he had known them all when his mother was alive; and, in consequence, he got several floggings. When his mother was living he was a cheerful little fellow, full of play, and quick in learning; but now he became dull and cast down, and he refused to eat; and he would cry and fret if anyone did but touch him. His poor little feet and hands were sore and bleeding with cold; so that he was afraid anyone should come near to touch him.
"As the winter advanced it became colder and colder, and little Marten got a very bad cough, and grew very thin. Several people remarked to the schoolmaster, 'Little Marten is not well; he gets very thin.' 'Oh, he will be better,' the master would answer, 'when he is more used to us. Many children, when they first come to school, pine after home; but what can I do for him? I must not make any difference between him and the other boys.'
"One morning in the beginning of December, when the boys were playing in the churchyard before breakfast, little Marten, not being able to run, or scarcely to walk, by reason of his chilblains, came creeping after them; his lips were blue and cold, and his cheeks white. He looked about for some place where he might be sheltered a little from the cold wind; and at length he ventured to creep into the porch of an old house, which stood on one side of the churchyard. The door of the house was open a little way, and Marten peeped in: he saw within a small neat kitchen, where was a bright fire; an elderly maid-servant was preparing breakfast before the fire; the tea-kettle was boiling; and the toast-and-butter and muffins stood ready to be carried into the parlour. A large old cat slept before the fire; and in one corner of the kitchen was a parrot upon a stand.
"Whilst Marten was peeping in, and longing for a bit of toast-and-butter, a little old lady, dressed in a gray silk gown, wearing a mob-cap and long ruffles, came into the kitchen by the inner door. She first spoke to the parrot, then stroked the cat; and then, turning towards the porch-door, she said (speaking to the maid):
"A little old lady, dressed in a gray silk gown, came into the kitchen."—Page 101.
"'Hannah, why do you leave the door open? The wind comes in very cold.' So saying, she was going to push the door to, when she saw poor little Marten. She observed his black coat, his little bleeding hands, and his pale face, and she felt very sorry for him. 'What little fellow are you?' she said, as she held the door in her hand. 'Where do you come from, and what do you want at my door?'
"'My name is Marten,' he answered, 'and I am very cold.'
"'Do you belong to the school, my dear?' said she.
"'Yes, ma'am,' he answered; 'my mother is dead, and I am very cold.'
"'Poor little creature!' said the old lady, whose name was Lovel. 'Do you hear what he says, Hannah? His mother is dead, and he is very cold! Do, Hannah, run over to the school-house, and ask the master if he will give this little boy leave to stay and breakfast with me.'
"Hannah set down a tea-cup which she was wiping, and looking at Marten:
"'Poor young creature!' she said. 'It is a pity that such a babe as this should be in a public school. Come in, little one, whilst I run over to your master and ask leave for you to stay a little with my mistress.'
"Hannah soon returned with the master's leave, and poor little Marten went gladly upstairs into Mrs. Lovel's parlour. There Mrs. Lovel took off his wet shoes and damp stockings, and hung them to the fire, while she rubbed his little numbed feet till they were warm. In the meantime Hannah brought up the tea-things and toast-and-butter, and set all things in order upon the round table.
"'You are very good,' said little Marten to Mrs. Lovel; 'I will come and see you every day.'
"'You shall come as often as you please,' said Mrs. Lovel, 'if you are a good little boy.'
"'Then I will come at breakfast-time, and at dinner-time, and at supper-time,' said Marten.
"Mrs. Lovel smiled and looked at Hannah, who was bringing up the cream-pot, followed by the cat. Puss took her place very gravely at one corner of the table, without touching anything.
"'Is that your cat, ma'am?' said Marten.
"'Yes,' said Mrs. Lovel; 'and see how well she behaves: she never asks for anything, but waits till she is served. Do you think you can behave as well?'
"'I will try, ma'am,' said Marten.
"Mrs. Lovel then bade Marten fetch himself a chair, and they both sat down to breakfast. Marten behaved so well at breakfast that Mrs. Lovel invited him to come to her at dinner-time, and said she would send Hannah to his master for leave. She then put on his dry shoes and stockings; and as the bell rang, she sent him over to school. When school broke up at twelve o'clock, she sent Hannah again for him; and he came running upstairs, full of joy.
"'This is a half-holiday, ma'am,' he said, 'and I may stay with you till bed-time: and I will come again to breakfast in the morning.'
"'Very well,' said Mrs. Lovel; 'but if you come here so often you must do everything I bid you, and everything which Hannah bids you.'
"'The same as I did to my poor mother, and to Susan?' said Marten.
"'Yes, my dear,' said Mrs. Lovel.
"'Then I will, ma'am,' said Marten.
"So Marten sat down to dinner with Mrs. Lovel; and at dinner he told her all he knew of himself and his mother; and after dinner, when she gave him leave, he went down to the kitchen to visit Hannah, and to talk to the parrot, and to look about him till tea-time. At tea-time he came up again; and after tea Mrs. Lovel brought out a large Bible full of pictures, and told him one or two stories out of the Bible, showing him the pictures. At night Hannah carried him home, and he went warm and comfortable to bed.
"Mrs. Lovel grew every day fonder of little Marten; and, as the little boy promised, he went to Mrs. Lovel's at breakfast, dinner, and supper; and Mrs. Lovel took the same care of him as his mother would have done, had she been living. She took charge of his clothes, mending them when they wanted it; prepared warm and soft woollen stockings for him, procured him a great-coat to wear in school, and got him some thick shoes to play in. She also would see that he learned his lessons well every day, to carry up to his master: she then practised him in reading out of school hours, so that it was surprising how quickly he now got on with his books. But the best of all was, that Mrs. Lovel from day to day gave such holy teaching to little Marten as was best adapted to make him a good man in after-life; and God blessed her teaching, and the boy soon became all that she could desire.
"A little before Christmas, Squire Broom came over to Ashford to see little Marten, and determined in his own mind, if he saw the child unwell, or not happy, to take him home and bring him up amongst his own children; for Mrs. Broom had said that she thought little Marten almost too young to be at a public school, without a friend near him. Marten was standing in Mrs. Lovel's parlour window, which looked into the churchyard, when he saw Squire Broom's one-horse chaise draw up to the school-house door. Without speaking a word, he ran downstairs, and across the churchyard; and, taking Squire Broom's hand, as he stepped out of the chaise:
"'I have got another mother, sir,' he said, 'a very good mother; and I love her with all my heart; and her name is Lovel; and you must come to see her.'
"'Why, my little man,' said Squire Broom, 'you look very well, and quite fat.'
"When Squire Broom heard from the master what a kind friend Marten had found, and was told by all his friends in Ashford what a worthy woman Mrs. Lovel was (everybody in Ashford knew Mrs. Lovel's good character), he was very much pleased on little Marten's account, and said his poor mother's prayers were now answered.
"Little Marten could not be contented till he had brought Squire Broom to see Mrs. Lovel, and to drink tea with her. During this visit, Mrs. Lovel asked Mr. Broom if Marten might spend his Christmas holidays with her; and from that time the little boy spent all his holidays with Mrs. Lovel. In the summer holidays she often took him to a farmhouse in the country, where she had lodgings; and there he had the pleasure of seeing the haymaking, and hop-gathering, and all the country work, and of running about the fields. Once or twice she took him to Tenterden to see his old friends, particularly Susan, who lived with her mother in Tenterden.
"Marten became a fine boy; and as he grew in stature he grew in grace. He was very fond of reading; and soon he became one of the best scholars of his age in the school. As Mrs. Lovel got older, her eyes became dim; and then Marten read to her, and managed her accounts, and was in all things as a dutiful son to her.
"Marten continued with Mrs. Lovel till it was time he should leave school; and as he wished to become a clergyman, in order that he might spend his life in the service of God, Mrs. Lovel paid for his going to the University.
"When Marten had been the proper time at the University, he was ordained a clergyman; and he then returned to Mrs. Lovel, and soon afterwards he got a living in a pretty village in Kent. There he went to reside; and Mrs. Lovel, who was now become very old indeed, lived with him. He was as kind to her, and to Hannah, as if he had been their own child: and, indeed, it was but his duty to be so: he did everything to make their last years happy, and their deaths easy. Mrs. Lovel left all she had, when she died, to Marten; so that he was enabled to live in great comfort. Some time after Mrs. Lovel's death, he married Squire Broom's youngest daughter, who made him a kind and good wife, and helped him to bring up their children well. Susan, who was now an elderly woman, took the place of Hannah when Hannah died, and never left her master till she herself died of old age."
By this time it was one o'clock; and the haymakers left off their work, and sat down in a row, by the brook-side, to eat their dinner. Mr. Fairchild called to his children from the place where he was lying, at a little distance, saying:
"My dears, I begin to feel hungry. Lucy and Emily, see what Betty brought in the basket this morning; and you, Henry, go to the brook, and bring some water."
So Henry took an empty pitcher out of the basket, and ran gaily down to the brook to fetch some water, whilst Lucy and Emily spread a clean napkin on the grass, on which they placed the knives and forks and plates, with the loaf and cheese, and the fruit-pie, and a bottle of beer for their papa; for Betty was gone back to the house; and when they had said grace, they dined: after which the children went to play in the coppice and amongst the hay, for a little while. When they had played as much as their mamma thought fit, they came back, and sat down to work, as they had done in the morning, whilst Henry read the story in Lucy's book.
Marten goes to school
The History of Little Henri; or, The Good Son
Henri stood at the window
"Every person who lives in England has heard of France. A small arm of the sea parts this country from France; but though a person may pass from England to France in a few hours, yet there is a great difference in the manners and customs of the French and English. A few years ago the French were governed by a king who had so much power, that, if he did not like any person, he could condemn him to be shut up for life at his pleasure, and nobody dared to inquire after him. The religion of the French was, and still is, Roman Catholic.
"About one hundred and fifty years ago, there lived in France a certain great man, called the Baron of Bellemont: he was a proud man, and very rich; and his castle stood in one of the beautiful valleys of the Pyrenees, not far from the dwelling-places of those holy people the Waldenses."
"What are Waldenses, mamma?" said Henry.
"Why, my dear," answered Mrs. Fairchild, "many hundred years ago, when many of the nations of Europe were very wicked, a certain set of persons retired from the sight of the rest of mankind, and hid themselves in valleys amongst hills, where they led innocent and holy lives. These people, in some places, were called Waldenses; in others, Valdenses; and some were called The poor Men of Lyons, because there was a city called Lyons near their dwelling-places."
"The Baron de Bellemont," continued Henry, reading again, "lived in a castle not far from the valley of the Waldenses. He had one daughter, of the name of Adelaide, who was very beautiful; and as she was to have much of her father's riches at his death, everybody flattered and seemed to admire her, and many rich and great men in France sought to marry her. The Baron had also a poor niece living with him, named Maria. Maria was not handsome, and she was poor; therefore, nobody who came to the castle took any notice of her: and her cousin Adelaide treated her more like a servant than a relation. Maria had been nursed among the Waldenses, and had learned, with God's blessing, all the holy doctrines of these people from her nurse.
"When Adelaide and Maria were about twenty years of age, they were both married. Adelaide was married to the young Marquis de Roseville, one of the handsomest and richest men in France, and went to live in Paris with her husband, where she was introduced to the court of the king, and lived amongst the greatest and gayest people in France."
"Where is Paris, mamma?" said Lucy.
"You know, my dear," answered Mrs. Fairchild, "that London is the chief town of England, and the residence of the Queen: in like manner, Paris is the chief town of France, and the Emperor of France's palace is in Paris."
"Maria's husband," continued Henry, "was one of the pastors of the Waldenses, of the name of Claude: he lived in a small and neat cottage in a beautiful valley; he was a holy young man, and all his time and thoughts were given up to teaching his people and serving his God. Maria was much happier in her little cottage with her kind husband than she had been in the castle of the Baron. She kept her house clean, and assisted her husband in dressing their little garden and taking care of a few goats, which afforded them abundance of milk.
"When the Marchioness of Roseville had been married twelve months she brought the Marquis a son, to whom his parents gave the name of Theodore. This child was so beautiful that he was spoken of in Paris as a wonder, and his parents, who were very proud and vain before, became more and more so. All the Marchioness's love seemed to be fixed upon this child, so that when, at the end of two years more, she had a second son born, she showed no affection whatever for him, although he was a lovely infant, not less beautiful than his brother, and of a tender and delicate constitution.
"When this little infant, who was called Henri, was little more than two months old, the Marquis and Marchioness undertook a journey to the Castle of Bellemont, to visit the old Baron, bringing their two sons with them. The fatigue of the journey was almost too much for poor little Henri, who, when he arrived at his grandfather's castle, was so ill that it was supposed he could not live; but his mother, having no love but for the eldest child, did not appear to be in the least troubled by Henri's sickness.
"As soon as Maria heard of her cousin's arrival at Bellemont she hastened over to see her, though she did not expect to be very kindly received. Maria, by this time, had two children, the youngest of which was more than a year old, and a very healthy child. When this kind woman saw poor little Henri, and found that his parents did not love him, she begged her cousin to allow her to take the poor infant to her cottage in the valleys, where she promised to take great care of him, and to be as a tender mother to him. The Marchioness was glad to be freed from the charge of the sick child, and Maria was equally glad to have the poor baby to comfort. Accordingly, she took the little Henri home with her, and he was brought up amongst her own children.
"When the Marquis and Marchioness had remained a while at the Castle of Bellemont, they returned with their favourite Theodore to Paris; and there they delivered themselves up to all the vicious habits of that dissipated place. The Marchioness never stayed at home a single day, but spent her whole time in visiting, dancing, and playing at cards, and going to public gardens, plays, and musical entertainments. She painted her face, and dressed herself in every kind of rich and vain ornament, and tried to set herself off for admiration; but she had little regard for her husband, and never thought of God. She was bold in her manners, fond of herself, and hardhearted to everybody else. The only person for whom she seemed to care was her son Theodore; for as for little Henri, she seemed to have forgotten that she had such a child; but she delighted in seeing her handsome Theodore well dressed, and encouraged him to prattle before company, and to show himself off in public places, even when he was but an infant. She employed the most famous artists in Paris to draw his picture; she hired dancing-masters to teach him to carry himself well, and music-masters to teach him to sing and play; and sometimes, when he was to go out with her, she herself arranged his glossy hair, in order that he might look the handsomer. She employed many servants to attend upon him, and commanded them never to contradict him, but to do everything to please him. As she continued to lead this life she became every year more and more bold, and more hardened in wickedness; so that, from beginning to be careless about God, she proceeded in time to mock at religion. Nor was the Marquis any better than his wife; he was proud and quarrelsome, and loved no one but himself. He spent all his time amongst a set of wicked young men of his own rank; they sat up all night drinking and swearing and playing at cards for large sums of money.
"In this manner they went on till Theodore was as much as fifteen years of age. In the meantime the old Baron had died and left all his money to his daughter; but the Marquis and Marchioness were none the better for all the riches left them by the Baron, for they became more and more wasteful, and more and more wicked.
"About this time the King, who was a very wicked man, began to talk of driving the Waldenses out of their pleasant valleys, or forcing them to become Roman Catholics. He consulted the great men in Paris about it; and they gave it as their opinion that it would be right either to make them become Roman Catholics, or drive them out of the country. The Marquis, among the rest, gave his opinion against the Waldenses; never considering that he had a relation amongst them, and that his little son Henri was at that very time living with them.
"Whilst these things were being talked of in the King's palace, Theodore was seized with a violent fever, and before anything could be done for him, or his father or mother had any time for consideration, the poor boy died. The Marchioness was like a distracted woman when Theodore died; she screamed and tore her hair, and the Marquis, to drive away the thoughts of his grief, went more and more into company, drinking and playing at cards. When the grief of the Marquis and Marchioness for the loss of their beautiful Theodore was a little abated, they began to turn their thoughts towards their son Henri, and they resolved to send for him. Accordingly, the Marquis sent a trusty servant to the valley of Piedmont, to bring Henri to Paris. The servant carried a letter from the Marquis to the Pastor Claude, thanking him for his kind attention to the child, and requesting him to send him immediately to Paris. The servant also carried a handsome sum of money as a present from the Marquis to Claude; which Claude, however, would not take.
"Whilst all these things of which I have been telling you were happening at Paris, little Henri had been growing up in the humble yet pleasant cottage of Maria and the pious Claude. During the first years of his infancy he had been very delicate and tender, and no one would have reared him who had not loved him as tenderly as Maria had done; but from the time that she first saw him in the Castle of Bellemont, she had loved him with all the love of the tenderest mother.
"Henri was very beautiful, though always pale, never having very strong health. He always had the greatest fear of doing anything which might displease God; he was gentle and humble to all around him, and to his little cousins, the sons of Claude, he was most affectionate and mild. When they were old enough, these three little boys used to go with the Pastor Claude when he went to visit his poor people in their little cottages among the valleys; and heard him read and pray with them. Thus they acquired, when very young, such a knowledge of God, and of the Holy Bible, as might have put to shame many older people.
"Many of the cottages which Claude and his little boys used to visit were placed in spots of ground so beautiful that they would have reminded you of the Garden of Eden; some in deep and shady valleys, where the brooks of clear water ran murmuring among groves of trees and over mossy banks; some on high lawns on the sides of the mountains, where the eagles and mountain birds found shelter in the lofty forest trees; some of these cottages stood on the brows of rugged rocks, which jutted out from the side of the hills, on spots so steep and high that Claude's own little stout boys could scarcely climb them; and Claude was often obliged to carry little Henri up these steeps in his arms. In these different situations were flowers of various colours and of various kinds, and many beautiful trees, besides birds innumerable and wild animals of various sorts. Claude knew the names and natures of all these; and he often passed the time, as he walked, in teaching these things to his children. Neither did he neglect, as they got older, to give them such instructions as they could get from books. He taught his little boys first to read French, and afterwards he made them well acquainted with Latin and the history of ancient times, particularly the history of such holy people as have lived and died in the service of God—the saints and martyrs of old days. He also taught his little boys to write; and they could sing sweetly many of the old hymns and psalms which from time immemorial had been practised among the Waldenses.
"Claude's own little sons were obliged to do many homely household jobs, to help their mother. They used to fetch the goats to the cottage door, along the hill-side path, and milk them and feed them; they used to weed the garden, and often to sweep the house and make up the fire. In all these things little Henri was as forward as the rest, though the son of one of the greatest men in France. But though this family were obliged to labour at the lowest work, yet they practised towards each other the most courteous and gentle manners.
"In this manner Henri was brought up amongst the Waldenses till he was more than twelve years of age, at which time the servant came from his father, the Marquis, to bring him to Paris.
"When the Marquis's letter arrived, all the little family in the Pastor Claude's house were full of grief.
"'You must go, my dear child,' said the Pastor; 'you must go, my beloved Henri, for the Marquis is your father, and you must obey him; but oh! my heart aches when I think of the hard trials and temptations to which you will be exposed in the wicked world.'
"'Yet I have confidence,' said Maria, wiping away her tears; 'I have prayed for this boy—this my dear boy; I have prayed for him a thousand and a thousand times; and I know that he is given to us: this our child will not be lost; I know he will not. He will be able to do all things well, Christ strengthening him.'
"'Oh, Maria!' said the Pastor Claude, 'your faith puts me to shame; why should I doubt the goodness of God any more than you do?'
"In the meantime Henri's grief was so great that, for some hours after the servant came, he could not speak. He looked on his dear father and mother, as he always called Claude and Maria, and on their two boys, who were like brothers to him; he looked on the cottage where he had spent so many happy days, and the woods and valleys and mountains, saying, beyond this he knew nothing; and he wished that he had been born Claude and Maria's child, and that he might be allowed to spend all his life, as Claude had done, in that delightful valley.
"Whilst Maria, with many tears, was preparing things for Henri's journey, the Pastor took the opportunity of talking privately to him, and giving him some advice which he hoped might be useful to him. He took the child by the hand, and leading him into a solitary path above the cottage, where they could walk unseen and unheard, he explained to him the dangerous situation into which he was about to enter; he told him, with as much tenderness as possible, what his father's and his mother's characters were; that they never knew the fear of God, and that they acted as most persons do who are rich and powerful, and who are not led by Divine grace; and he pointed out to him how he ought to behave to his parents, telling him that he must not be led away, but must persevere in well-doing. These, with many other things, the good Claude besought Henri always to have in remembrance, as he hoped to see his Redeemer in the land which is very far off; and he ended by giving him a little Bible, in a small velvet bag, which he had received from his own father, and which he had been accustomed to carry in his pocket in all his visits to his poor people. In these days, Bibles are so common that every little boy and girl may have one; but this was not the case in former days; Bibles were very scarce and very difficult to get; and this Henri knew, and therefore he knew how to value this present.
"It would only trouble you were I to describe the sorrow of Claude's family when, the next morning, Henri, according to his father's orders, was dressed in a rich suit of clothes, and set upon a horse, which was to carry him from among the mountains to the Castle of Bellemont, where the Marquis's carriage waited for him. Henri could not speak as the horses went down the valley, but the tears fell fast down his cheeks; every tree and every cottage which he passed, every pathway winding from the highroad among the hills, reminded him of some sweet walk taken with Claude and his sons, or with his dear foster-mother. As the road passed under one of the cottages which stood on the brow of a hill, Henri heard the notes of one of those sweet hymns which Maria had been accustomed to sing to him when he was a very little boy, and which she had afterwards taught him to sing himself. Henri's heart at that moment was ready to burst with grief, and though the servant was close to him, yet he broke out in these words:
"'Farewell, farewell, sweet and happy home! Farewell, lovely, lovely hills! Farewell, beloved friends! I shall never, never see you again!'
"'Do not give way to grief, sir,' said the servant; 'you are going to be a great man; you will see all the fine things in Paris, and be brought before the King.'
"The servant then gave him a long account of the grandeur and pleasures of Paris; but Henri did not hear one word he said, for he was listening to the last faint sounds of the hymn, as they became more and more distant.
"Nothing particular happened to Henri on his journey; and at the end of several days he arrived at the gates of his father's grand house at Paris. The Marchioness that evening (as was common with her) gave a ball and supper to a number of friends; and on this occasion the house was lighted up, and set off with all manner of ornaments. The company was just come, and the music beginning to play, when Henri was brought into the hall. As soon as it was known who was come, the servants ran to tell the Marquis and Marchioness, and they ran into the hall to receive their son. The beauty of Henri, and his lovely mild look, could not but please and delight his parents, and they said to each other, as they kissed him and embraced him:
"'How could we live so long a stranger to this charming child?'
"His mother had expected that her son would have had an awkward and low appearance; she was, therefore, greatly surprised at his courteous and polite manners, which delighted her as much as his beauty.
"All that evening Henri remained silent, modest, and serious, and as soon as his parents would give him leave, he asked to go to bed. He was shown into a room richly furnished, and so large that the whole of Claude's little cottage would have gone into it. The servant who attended him would have undressed him; but he begged to be left alone, saying he had been used to dress and undress himself. As soon as the servant was gone, he took out his Bible and read a chapter; after which, kneeling down, he prayed his Almighty Father to take care of him now, in this time of temptation, when he feared he might be drawn aside to forget his God.
"The young son of the Marquis de Roseville did not awake early, having been much tired with his journey. When he had dressed, he was taken to breakfast in his mother's dressing-room; she was alone, as the Marquis had gone out after the ball the night before, and was not returned. The Marchioness kissed Henri, and made him sit down by her, showing him every proof of her love; nevertheless, everything he saw and heard made him wish himself back again in the cottage amongst the hills. He could perceive by the daylight what he had not found out the night before, that his mother was painted white and red, and that she had a bold and fretful look, which made her large dark eyes quite terrible to him.
"Whilst the Marchioness and Henri sat at breakfast, she asked him a great many questions about his education and manner of life among the mountains. He did not hide anything from her, but told her that he never intended to become a Roman Catholic. She answered that there was time enough yet before he need trouble himself about religion.
"'You have a long life before you, Henri,' she said, 'and have many pleasures to enjoy; it will be well enough to become devout when you are near death.'
"'May not death be near now?' said Henri, looking very serious. 'Had my brother Theodore any greater reason to expect death than I have? And yet he was suddenly called away.'
"The Marchioness looked grave for a moment; then smiled, and said:
"'Oh Henri, Henri, how laughable it is to hear one at your age speaking so seriously! Yet everything sounds prettily out of your mouth,' she added, kissing him, 'for you are a charming boy. But come,' she said, 'I will be dressed; and we will go out and pay visits, and I will show you something of this fine city.'
"When the Marchioness was dressed, she and Henri went out in the carriage; and, returning at dinner-time, they found the Marquis at home: he looked pale and fatigued, but was pleased to embrace his son, with whom he seemed better and better satisfied as he saw more of him.
"The next day a tutor was appointed for Henri: he was a Roman Catholic priest; but although he bore the character of a clergyman, he seemed to have no thought of religion; he took great pains to teach Henri such things as he thought would please his father and mother, and make him appear clever before his fellow-creatures, but he had no desire to make him a good man. Besides this tutor, Henri had masters to teach him music and dancing and drawing, and all such things as were wont to be taught to the children of the great men at that time in France. Thus Henri's mornings were employed by attending on his masters; and his mother often in the evening took him out to pay visits, and to balls and public amusements. He was introduced several times to the King, and became acquainted with all the nobility in Paris. But, amongst all these worldly pleasures and enjoyments, God still held the heart of Henri; so that he took no delight in all these fine things, and would have preferred Claude's cottage to all the splendours of Paris.
"When Henri had been in Paris about six months, it happened that one day his father went to the King's palace to pay his court: so it was, that something had vexed the King that day, and he did not receive the Marquis so cordially as he had been used to do. This affronted the Marquis so much (for he was a very proud man) that from that time he gave himself up altogether to abusing the King, and contriving how to do him mischief; and he invited to his house all the people of consequence in Paris who were discontented with the King: so that his house was filled with bad people, who were always contriving mischief against the King. These people used to meet almost every evening to sup at the Marquis's; and you would be shocked if I were to repeat to you the language which they used, and how they used to rail against their King. On these occasions they drank abundance of wine; after which they used to play at cards for large sums of money; and the Marquis and Marchioness not being so clever in play as some others of the party, lost a great deal of money; so that what with their extravagance, and what with the money they lost at cards, they had almost wasted all they possessed, and were in debt to everybody who supplied them with anything.
"Poor Henri, although so young, understood very well the wicked way in which his father and mother went on; and though he did not dare to speak to his father about the manner of life he led, yet he spoke several times to his mother. Sometimes the Marchioness would laugh at Henri when he talked to her in this way; and sometimes she would be quite angry, and tell him that he was meddling with things he could not understand.
"Abusing the King, and forming schemes against the Government, are called treason. It was not long before the treasonable practices of the Marquis, and the bad company he kept, were made known to the King, who, one night, without giving notice to anyone, sent certain persons with a guard to seize the Marquis, and convey him to a strong castle in a very distant part of France, where he was to be confined for life; at the same time the King gave orders to seize all the Marquis's property for his own use. It was one night in the spring, just after the Marquis's wicked companions had taken their leave, that the persons sent by the King rushed into the Marquis's house, and making him a prisoner in the name of the King, forced him into a carriage, with his wife and son, scarcely giving them time to gather together a little linen, and a few other necessary things, to take with them: amongst these, Henri did not forget his little Bible, and an old Book of Martyrs, which he had bought at a bookstall a few days before.
"The Marquis and his family, well guarded, were hurried away so fast that before the dawn of morning they were some miles from Paris. The Marquis then asked the person who rode by the carriage where they were taking him: they answered that his plots against the King had been found out, and that he was going to be put into a place where it would be out of his power to execute any of his mischievous purposes. On hearing this, the Marquis broke out into a violent rage, abusing the King, and calling him every vile name he could think of; after which he became sullen, and continued so to the end of his journey. The Marchioness cried almost without ceasing, calling herself the most miserable of women, and wishing she had never seen the Marquis.
"At the end of several days, towards the evening, they entered into a deep road between two high hills, which were so near each other that from one hill the cottages and little gardens and sheepfolds, with the cows and sheep feeding, might be plainly seen on the other. As they went on farther, they saw a little village on the right hand among some trees; and, above the village, a large old castle, with high walls and towers, and an immense gateway with an iron gate.
"When the Marquis saw the castle he groaned, for he supposed that this was the place in which he was to be confined; and the Marchioness broke out afresh in crying and lamenting herself; but Henri said not one word. The carriage took the road straight to the castle, and the guard kept close, as if they were afraid the Marquis should strive to get away. They passed through the little village, and then saw the great gate of the castle right before them higher up the hill. It was almost dusk before the carriage stopped at the castle gate; and the guards called to the porter (that is, the man who has the care of the gate) to open the gate, and call the Governor of the castle. When the porter opened the gate, the guard took the Marquis out of the carriage, and, all gathering close round him, led him through the gates into the outer court of the castle, which was surrounded by dark high buildings; Henri and his mother following. From thence he went through another gate, and up a number of stone steps, till they came to an immense hall, so big that it looked like a large old church; from the roof of this hall hung several lamps, which were burning, for it was now quite dark. There the Governor of the castle, a respectable-looking old officer, with a band of soldiers, met the Marquis, and received him into his charge. He spoke civilly to the Marquis, and kindly to Henri and his mother.
"'Do not afflict yourself, madam,' he said: 'I am the King's servant, and must obey the King's orders; but if I find that you and the Marquis are patient under your punishment, I shall make you as comfortable as my duty to the King will allow.'
"To this kind speech the Marchioness only answered by breaking out like a child, crying afresh; and the Marquis was so sullen that he would not speak at all; but Henri, running up and kissing the hand of the old gentleman, said:
"'Oh, sir, God will reward you for your kindness to my poor father and mother: you must pardon them if they are not able to speak.'
"'You are a fine boy,' said the old gentleman; 'and it is a pity that at your age you should share your parents' punishment, and be shut up in this place.'
"'Where my father and mother are,' answered Henri, 'I shall be best contented, sir; I do not wish to be parted from them.'"The Governor looked pleased with Henri; and giving his orders to his soldiers, they took up a lamp, and led the poor Marquis to the room where he was to be shut up for the remainder of his life. They led him through many large rooms, and up several flights of stone steps, till they came to the door of a gallery, at which a sentinel stood; the sentinel opened the door, and the Marquis was led along the gallery to a second door, which was barred with iron bars. Whilst the soldiers were unbarring this door, the Marquis groaned, and wished he had never been born; and the poor Marchioness was obliged to lean upon Henri, or she would have fallen to the ground. When the iron-barred door was opened, the guard told the Marquis and his family to walk forward: 'For this,' said they, 'is your room.' Accordingly, the Marquis and his wife and Henri went on into the room, whilst the guard shut and barred the door behind them. One little lamp, hanging from the top of the room, but high above their reach (for the rooms in those old castles are in general very lofty), was all the light they had: by this light they could just distinguish a large grated window, a fireplace, a table, some chairs, and two beds placed in different corners of the room. However, the unhappy family offered not to go near the beds; but the Marquis and Marchioness, throwing themselves on the ground, began to rail at each other and at the King. Poor Henri endeavoured to soothe and comfort them; but they pushed him from them, like people in a frenzy, saying, 'Go, go! Would to God you were in your grave with your brother Theodore!' Henri withdrew to a distance, and, kneeling down in a dark part of the room, he began to pray; till, being quite weary, he fell fast asleep on the floor.
"When Henri awoke, he was surprised to find it was daylight; he sat up and looked around him on the prison-room; it was a large and airy room, receiving light from a window strongly grated with iron. In two corners of the room were two old-fashioned but clean and comfortable-looking beds; opposite the beds were a chimney-piece and hearth for burning wood; and several old-fashioned chairs and a table stood against the wall; there were also in the room two doors, which led into small closets.
"Henri's poor father and mother had fallen asleep on the floor, after having wearied themselves with their violent grief; the Marquis had made a pillow of his cloak, and the Marchioness of a small bundle which she had brought in her hand out of the carriage. Henri looked at them till his eyes were full of tears; they looked pale and sorrowful even in their sleep. He got up gently, for fear of disturbing his poor parents, and went to the window: the air from the opposite hill blew sweet and fresh in at the casement; it reminded Henri of the air which he used to breathe in Claude's cottage. The window was exceedingly high from the court of the castle; so that the little village below, and the opposite green hill, with its cottages and flocks and herds, were all to be seen from thence above the walls of the court.
"'What reason have we to be thankful!' said Henri; 'I was afraid my poor father might have been shut down in a dismal vault, without light and fresh air. If the Governor of the castle will but allow us to stay here, and give us only bread and water, we may be happy; and I have my little Bible, and my Book of Martyrs.'
"Whilst Henri stood at the window, he heard someone unbar the door; and an old man came in with a basket, in which was a comfortable breakfast.
"'I have orders,' said he, 'from my lord the Governor, to give you everything which is convenient.'
"'God bless your lord,' said Henri; and he begged the old man to return his thanks to him.
"'I shall come again presently,' said the old man, 'and bring you the things which you brought with you in the carriage.'
"'Your lord the Governor is a kind man,' said Henri.
"'Yes,' said the old man, 'and if your noble father will but make himself contented, and not try to get away, he will have nothing to complain of here, and you would do well to tell him so. My young gentleman, excuse an old man for giving his advice.'
"Henri went up to the old man, and, taking his hand, thanked him for his kindness.
"When the old man was gone, Henri, full of joy and thankfulness, began to take the things out of the basket, and to set them in order upon the table; and now Henri found the use of having been brought up to wait upon himself and upon others; he soon set out the little table in the neatest way, and set a chair for each of his parents; and all this so quietly that the poor Marquis and Marchioness did not wake till he had done. The Marchioness first opened her eyes, and looked round her. Henri ran to her, and kissing her, said:
"'Dear mother, see what comforts we have still got! We are fallen into good hands; look around on this room, how light, how airy, and how pleasant it is!'
"Henri then told her all the kindness of the Governor, and showed her the breakfast prepared for them; but she still looked sullen and unthankful, and began to blame the Marquis, as he lay asleep, as the cause of all her affliction.
"'Oh, mother, dear mother!' cried Henri. 'Look at my poor father; how pale he looks, and how he sighs in his sleep! You once loved him, dear mother; oh now, love him again, and comfort him in his trouble!'
"In this manner Henri talked to his mother, till she broke out into tears, and putting her arms round his neck:
"'My child, my Henri,' she said, 'you are too good for me!'
"Yet still Henri could not persuade her to take any breakfast; she placed herself in a chair in a corner of the room, and, leaning her head upon her hands, continued crying without ceasing.
"When the Marquis awoke, Henri endeavoured to comfort him, as he had done his mother; the Marquis embraced him, and called him his beloved child and only comfort, but he complained that he was ill, and put his hand to his head. Henri brought him a cup of coffee, which he made him drink; and the old man coming in with the linen and other things which had been brought from Paris, they put some clean linen on the Marquis, and the old man and Henri assisted him to bed. The Marquis continued to get worse, and before night he was in a violent fever. This fever continued many days, and brought him very near to death. Whilst this illness lasted Henri never left him, and the Governor of the castle not only provided him with everything he wanted, but brought a doctor from the village to see him.
"For many days the poor Marquis did not seem to know anything that passed, or to know where he was, or who was with him, but seemed in great horror of mind, expressing great dread of death; but when his fever left him, though he was very weak, he recovered his recollection, and expressed himself very thankful for the kindness he had received, particularly from the Governor and the doctor. As to Henri, he kissed him often, called him his darling son, and could not bear him to leave him for a moment. It was lovely to see how Henri watched by his poor father, and how he talked to him, sometimes soothing and comforting, and sometimes giving him descriptions of the happy manner in which he used to live in Claude's cottage.
"'And all this happiness, dear father,' he would say, 'came from our being religious; for all the ways of religion are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace.'
"'Claude and Maria,' said the Marquis one day to Henri, 'were very good people; they always led innocent lives; they had no sins to trouble their consciences, therefore they were happy; but I have many evil actions to remember, Henri.'
"'Oh, dear father,' said Henri, 'do let me read the Bible to you. I have got a little Bible, and I will, if you please, read a little to you every day, as you can bear it.'
"The Marquis did not refuse to hear Henri read; accordingly, every day his good son used to read certain portions of Scripture to his father. The Marquis, having nothing else to take his attention—no cards, no wine, no gay companions—and being still confined by weakness to his bed, often lay for many hours listening to the Word of God. At first, as he afterwards owned, he had no pleasure in it, and would rather have avoided hearing it; but how could he refuse his darling son, when he begged him to hear a little—only a little more?
"In the meantime, the Marchioness appeared sullen, proud, and unforgiving: she seldom came near her husband, but sometimes spent the day in crying and lamenting herself, and sometimes in looking over the few things which she had brought with her from Paris. The Governor of the castle, seeing her so miserable, told her that he had no orders from the King to keep her or her son in confinement, and that she had liberty to depart when she pleased, and to take her son with her; but Henri would not hear of leaving his poor father, and used all his endeavours to persuade his mother to stay.
"When the Marquis was first able to leave his bed, and sit in his chair opposite the window, Henri was very happy: he brought him clean linen, and helped him to dress; and when he had led him to his chair, he set a table before him, and arranged upon it, as neatly as he could, the little dinner which the old man had brought in the basket, with a bottle of weak but pleasant wine which the Governor had sent him.
"'Dear father,' said Henri, 'you begin to look well; you look even better than you did when you were at Paris. Oh! if you could but learn to love God, you might now be happier than ever you were in all your life; and we might all be happy if my poor mother would but come to you and love you as she used to do. Oh! come, dear mother,' added Henri, going up to her and taking her hand; 'come to my father, come to my poor father! You loved him once, love him again.'
"In this manner Henri begged and entreated his mother to be reconciled to his father. The Marchioness at first seemed obstinate; but at last she was overcome, and running to her husband, put her arms round his neck, and kissed him affectionately; whilst he, embracing her, called her his beloved wife, his own Adelaide. This little family then sat down to their dinner, enjoying the lovely prospect, and the soft and delightful breezes from the opposite hill; and after they had dined, Henri sang to his parents some of the sweet hymns he had learnt when living in the valleys of Piedmont.
"Henri had done a great work; he had made peace between his father and his mother; and now he saw, with great delight, his poor father gaining strength daily; and though sometimes full of sorrow, yet upon the whole composed, and never breaking out in impatient words.
"About this time the Governor of the castle invited Henri to dine with him. Henri was much pleased with the Governor, who received him kindly, and took him to walk with him in the village.
"'I am glad to hear,' said the Governor, 'that your father is more contented than he was at first; and you may tell him from me, that if he will endeavour to make himself easy, and not attempt to escape, I will always do everything in my power to make him comfortable; and now, if you can tell me what I can send him which you think will please him or your mother, if in my power you shall have it.'
"'Oh, sir!' said Henri, 'God has certainly put it into your heart to be kind to my dear father.'
"Henri then mentioned that he had heard his father say that in his younger days he had been very fond of drawing; and he begged of the Governor a small box of colours, and some paper; and also needles and thread and linen for his mother. With what joy did Henri run back to his father and mother, in the evening, with these things! They received him as if he had been a long while absent from them, instead of only a few hours.
"What Henri had brought afforded great amusement to the poor Marquis and Marchioness; the Marquis passing his time in drawing, and the Marchioness with her needlework, whilst Henri continually read and talked to them, giving them accounts of the holy and happy lives which the Waldenses led, and the sweet lessons which Claude used to give to his children.
"In this manner the summer passed away, and the winter came. The Governor then, finding that the Marquis was content, and made no attempt to escape, allowed the prisoners abundance of wood for fire, and candles, with every convenience which could make the winter pass away pleasantly; and he often came himself and passed an evening with them, ordering his supper into the room. The Governor was an agreeable man, and had travelled into many countries, which he used to describe to Henri. When he paid his evening visit it was a day of festivity to the Marquis and his little family; and when he did not come, their evenings passed pleasantly, whilst Henri read the Bible aloud and the Marchioness sewed. In the meantime the work of grace seemed to advance in the heart of the Marquis, and he who but a year ago was proud, insolent, self-indulgent, boasting, blasphemous, was now humble, gentle, polite, in honour preferring all men. His behaviour to the Marchioness was quite changed: he was tender and affectionate towards her, bearing with patience many of her little fretful ways.
"In this manner the winter passed away, and the spring arrived, at which time the Governor gave the Marquis permission, attended by a guard, to walk with his family every day upon the roof of the castle. There the Marquis enjoyed the fresh air and the beautiful prospect, and he said that all the pleasures of Paris were not to be compared to his happiness on such occasions.
"At the end of the fourth year of the Marquis's confinement the small-pox broke out in the village, and the infection was brought to the castle. The Marquis and Henri were both seized by the dreadful disease, and both died in consequence. After their deaths, the poor Marchioness, hearing that the Waldenses had been driven from their happy valleys by the King, removed into a small house in the village near, where the Governor supported and protected her till her dying day."
A Story of Besetting Sins
"Do you remember anything of the sermon?"
One Sunday, soon after the death of poor Miss Augusta Noble, Mrs. Fairchild, having a bad cold, could not go to church with the rest of the family. When the children were come home from church, Mrs. Fairchild asked Lucy what the sermon was about.
"Mamma," said Lucy, taking her Bible out of her little basket, "I will show you the text; it is in Heb. xii. 1: 'Let us lay aside every weight, and the sin which doth so easily beset us.'"
When Mrs. Fairchild had looked at the text, she said:
"And do you remember anything more of the sermon, Lucy?"
"Indeed, mamma," said Lucy, "I did not understand the sermon; it was all about besetting sins. What are they, mamma?"
"I will explain," said Mrs. Fairchild. "Though our hearts are all naturally sinful, yet every man is not inclined alike to every kind of sin. One man, perhaps, is inclined to covetousness, another to swear and use bad words, another to lie and deceive, another to be angry and cruel; and that sin which a man feels himself most inclined to is called his besetting sin."
"Oh! now I know what besetting sins mean," answered Lucy. "Has everybody a besetting sin, mamma?"
"Yes, my dear," answered Mrs. Fairchild; "we all have, although we do not all know what they are."
"Have I a besetting sin, mamma?" said Lucy.
"Yes, my dear," said Mrs. Fairchild.
"What is it, mamma?" asked Lucy.
"Can you not tell what fault you fall into oftener than any other?" said Mrs. Fairchild.
Lucy considered a little, and then answered she did not know.
"I think, my dear," said Mrs. Fairchild, "although it is hard to judge any other person's heart, that your besetting sin is envy. I think I have often observed this fault in you. You were envious about Emily's doll, and about poor Miss Augusta Noble's fine house and clothes and servants, and about the muslin and ribbon I gave to Emily one day, and the strawberry your papa gave to Henry; and I have often thought you showed envy on other occasions."
Lucy looked grave when her mother spoke, and the tears came into her eyes.
"Mamma," she said, "I am a naughty girl; my heart is full of envy at times; but I pray that God would take this sin out of my heart; and I hate myself for it—you don't know how much, mamma."
"My dear child," said Mrs. Fairchild, kissing Lucy, "if you really grieve for your sins, and call in faith upon the Lord Jesus Christ, you will surely in God's good time be set free from them. And now, my dear," added Mrs. Fairchild, "you know what is meant by the sin which doth so easily beset us; and you understand that every person has some one besetting sin."
"Yes, mamma," said Lucy, "and you have told me what my own besetting sin is, and I feel that you have found out the right one. But mamma, you said that many people do not know their own besetting sins."
"Yes, my dear," answered Mrs. Fairchild. "Careless people do not know their hearts, and have no idea of their besetting sins; indeed, they would laugh if you were to speak of such things before them."
Whilst Mrs. Fairchild was speaking these last words, they heard the dinner-bell ring; so they broke off their talk and went downstairs. Whilst Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild and all the family were sitting at dinner, they saw through the window a man on horseback, carrying a large basket, ride up to the door. Mrs. Fairchild sent John out to see who this person was; and John presently returned with a letter, and a haunch of venison packed in a basket.
"Sir," said John, "the man says that he is one of Mr. Crosbie of London's servants; and that he has brought you a letter with his master's compliments, and also a haunch of venison."
"Mr. Crosbie's servant!" said Mr. Fairchild, taking the letter and reading it aloud as follows:
"Dear Mr. Fairchild,
"I and my wife, and my sister Miss Crosbie, and my daughter Betsy, have been taking a journey for our health this summer. We left London three months ago, and have been down as far as Yorkshire. We are now returning home, and have turned a little out of our way to see you, as it is as much as twelve years since we met; so you may look for us, no accident happening, to-morrow, a little before two. We hope to dine with you, and to go on in the evening to the next town, for our time is short. I have sent a fine haunch of venison which I bought yesterday from the innkeeper where we slept; it will be just fit for dressing to-morrow; so I shall be obliged to Mrs. Fairchild to order her cook to roast it by two o'clock, which is my dinner-hour. My man Thomas, who brings this letter, will tell the cook how I like to have my venison dressed; and he brings a pot of currant jelly, to make sauce, in case you should have none by you; though I dare say this precaution is not necessary, as Mrs. Fairchild, no doubt, has all these things by her. I am not particular about my eating; but I should be obliged to you if you would have the venison ready by two o'clock, and let Thomas direct your cook. My wife and sister and daughter Betsy send best compliments to our old friend, Mrs. Fairchild, and hoping we shall meet in health to-morrow,
"I remain, dear Mr. Fairchild,
Your old friend,
"Obadiah Crosbie.
"P.S.—You will find the haunch excellent; we dined upon the neck yesterday, and it was the best I ever tasted."
When Mr. Fairchild had finished the letter, he smiled, and said:
"I shall be very glad to see our old friends, but I am sorry poor Mr. Crosbie still thinks so much about eating. It always was his besetting sin, and it seems to have grown stronger upon him as he has got older."
"Who is Mr. Crosbie, papa?" said Lucy.
"Mr. Crosbie, my dear," said Mr. Fairchild, "lives in London. He has a large fortune which he got in trade. He has given up business some years, and now lives upon his fortune. When your mamma and I were in London, twelve years ago, we were at Mr. Crosbie's house, where we were very kindly treated; therefore we must do the best we can to receive Mr. and Mrs. Crosbie kindly, and to make them as comfortable as possible."
When John went to church that same evening, Mr. Fairchild desired him to tell nurse to come the next day to help Betty, for nurse was a very good cook; and the next morning Mrs. Fairchild prepared everything to receive Mr. and Mrs. Crosbie; and Mr. Fairchild invited Mr. Somers, the clergyman of the parish, to meet them at dinner. When the clock struck one, Mrs. Fairchild dressed herself and the children, and then went into a little tea-room, the window of which opened upon a small grass plot, surrounded by rose-bushes and other flowering shrubs. Mr. Somers came in a little before two, and sat with Mrs. Fairchild.
When the clock struck two, Mr. Crosbie's family were not come, and Mr. Fairchild sent Henry to the garden gate to look if he could see the carriage at a distance. When Henry returned he said that he could see the carriage, but it was still a good way off.
"I am afraid the venison will be over-roasted," said Mrs. Fairchild, smiling.
Henry soon after went to the gate, and got there just in time to open it wide for Mr. Crosbie's carriage. Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild ran out to receive their friends.
"I am glad to see you once again," said Mr. Crosbie, as he stepped out of the coach, followed by Mrs. Crosbie, Miss Crosbie, Miss Betsy, and Mrs. Crosbie's maid.
Mr. Crosbie was a very fat man, with a red face, yet he looked good-humoured, and had, in his younger days, been handsome. Mrs. Crosbie was a little thin woman, and there was nothing in her appearance which pleased Emily and Lucy, though she spoke civilly to them. Miss Crosbie was as old as her brother, but she did not look so, for her face was painted red and white; and she and Miss Betsy had sky-blue hats and tippets, with white feathers, which Lucy and Emily thought very beautiful.
"Have you any company, Mrs. Fairchild?" said Miss Crosbie, as Mrs. Fairchild was leading them into the parlour.
"Only one gentleman, Mr. Somers, our rector," said Mrs. Fairchild.
"Oh! then I must not appear in this gown! and my hair, too, is all rough," said Miss Crosbie; "I must put on another gown; I am quite frightful to look at!"
"Indeed," said Mrs. Fairchild, "your dress is very nice; there is no need to trouble yourself to alter it."
"Oh, sister," said Mrs. Crosbie, "don't think of changing your dress; Mrs. Fairchild's dinner is ready, I dare say."
Miss Crosbie would not be persuaded, but, calling the maid to attend her, ran upstairs to change her dress: and Mrs. Fairchild sent Lucy after her. The rest of the company then went into the tea-room, where they sat round the window, and Mr. Crosbie said:
"What a pretty place you have here, Mr. Fairchild; and a good wife, as I well know—and these pretty children! You ought to be a happy man."
"And so I am, thank God," said Mr. Fairchild, "as happy as any man in the world."
"I should have been with you an hour ago," said Mr. Crosbie, "that I might have walked over your garden before dinner, but for my wife there."
"What of your wife there?" said Mrs. Crosbie, turning sharply towards him. "Now mind, Mr. Crosbie, if the venison is over-roasted, don't say it is my fault."
Mr. Crosbie took out his watch.
"It is now twenty-five minutes past two," said he; "the venison has been down at the fire twenty-five minutes longer than it should have been. And did you not keep us an hour waiting this morning, at the inn where we slept, whilst you quarrelled with the innkeeper and his wife?"
Mrs. Crosbie answered:
"You are always giving people to understand that I am ill-tempered, Mr. Crosbie; which I think is very unhandsome of you, Mr. Crosbie. There is not another person in the world who thinks me ill-tempered but you. Ask Thomas, or my maid, what they know of my temper, and ask your sister, who has lived with me long enough."
"Why don't you ask me what I think of it, mamma?" said Miss Betsy, pertly.
"Hold your tongue, miss!" said Mrs. Crosbie.
"Must I not speak?" said Miss Betsy in a low voice, but loud enough for her mamma to hear her.
When Miss Betsy first came in, Emily admired her very much; for, besides the sky-blue hat and feather, she had blue satin shoes, and a very large pair of gold earrings; but when she heard her speak so boldly to her mother she did not like her so much. By this time John came to tell the company that dinner was on the table; and Mr. Crosbie got up, saying:
"The venison smells well—exceedingly well."
"But where is Miss Crosbie?" asked Mr. Fairchild.
"Oh, my aunt thought herself not smart enough to show herself before Mr. Somers," said Miss Betsy pertly.
"Be silent, miss," said Mrs. Crosbie.
"Don't wait for her, then," said Mr. Crosbie; "let us go in to dinner. My sister loves a little finery; she would rather lose her dinner than not be dressed smart; I never wait for her at any meal. Come, come! Ladies lead the way; I am very hungry."
So Mrs. Fairchild sent Emily to tell Miss Crosbie that dinner was ready, and the rest of the company sat down to table.
"Mrs. Crosbie," said Mr. Crosbie, looking at the venison, then at his wife, "the venison is too much roasted; I told you it would be so."
"What! finding fault with me again, Mr. Crosbie?" said Mrs. Crosbie. "Do you hear Mr. Fairchild finding fault with his wife in this manner?"
"Perhaps the venison is better than you think, Mr. Crosbie," said Mr. Somers; "let me help you to some. Mr. Fairchild, I know, is not fond of carving."
Mr. Crosbie thanked Mr. Somers; and Mr. Somers had just begun to cut the venison, when Mr. Crosbie called out, as if in agony:
"Oh, Mr. Somers, you will spoil the venison! You must not cut it that way upon any account. Do put the haunch by me, and let me help myself."
"What confusion you are making at the table, Mr. Crosbie!" said Mrs. Crosbie. "You are putting every dish out of its place! Surely Mr. Somers knows how to carve as well as you do."
"But papa is afraid Mr. Somers won't give him all the nice bits," said Miss Betsy.
"Learn to be silent, miss!" said Mr. Crosbie.
Miss Betsy was going to answer her father, when Miss Crosbie came into the room, newly dressed in a very elegant manner. She came smiling in, followed by Lucy and Emily, who went to sit at a small table with Henry.
"Sister," said Mrs. Crosbie, "where was the need of your dressing again? If we had waited for you, the dinner would have been spoiled."
"But we did not wait for Miss Crosbie, so there was no harm done," said Mr. Fairchild, smiling.
"My aunt would not lose an opportunity of showing her new-fashioned gown for the world!" said Miss Betsy.
"Indeed, niece," answered Miss Crosbie, "I do not know why you should say that I am fond of showing my clothes. I wish to be neat and clean, but no person cares less than I do about fashions and finery."
"La!" says Miss Betsy, whispering to Mrs. Fairchild "hear my aunt! she says she does not care about finery! That's like mamma saying how good-natured she is!"
"Fie, fie, Miss Betsy!" said Mrs. Fairchild, speaking low; "you forget your respect to your elders."
Miss Betsy coloured, and stared at Mrs. Fairchild. She had not been used to be found fault with; for she was spoiled by both her parents; and she felt quite angry.
"Indeed!" she said, "I never was thought disrespectful to anyone before. Can't I see people's faults? Can't I see that mamma is cross, and my aunt fond of fine clothes, and that papa loves eating?"
"Hush! hush!" said Mrs. Fairchild, in a low voice; "your papa and mamma will hear you."
"And I don't care if they do," said Miss Betsy: "they know what I think."
"What's that you are saying there, Miss Betsy?" said Mr. Crosbie.
"Oh, don't ask, brother," said Miss Crosbie; "I know it is something saucy, by my niece's looks."
"And why should you suppose I am saying anything saucy, aunt?" said Miss Betsy; "I am sure you are not accustomed to hear me say saucy things."
"Miss! Miss! be quiet!" said Mrs. Crosbie; for she was afraid Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild would think her daughter ill-behaved.
"What, mamma!" answered Miss Betsy, "am I to sit quietly and hear my aunt find fault with me before company—and for being impertinent, too, to my elders—as if I were a mere child?"
"Well, well—enough!" said Mr. Crosbie. "What is that pie, Mrs. Fairchild, in the middle of the table? I must have some, if you please."
Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild were not sorry when dinner was over, and Mrs. Crosbie proposed that Mrs. Fairchild should show her the garden. Accordingly, the ladies and children got up, and left the gentlemen together; for Mr. Crosbie never stirred for some time after dinner. When Mrs. Crosbie had got into the garden, and had looked about her, she said:
"Ah, Mrs. Fairchild, how happy you are! Such a pretty house and garden!—such a kind husband!—such good children!" Then she sighed, and gave Mrs. Fairchild to understand that she was not so happy herself.
After tea, Mr. Crosbie and his family took their leave, and went off to the next inn upon the London road, where they were to sleep; for Mr. Crosbie was in haste to be at home, and would not stay, although Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild begged that they would—at least till the next day. When they were gone, Mr. Fairchild and Henry took a walk towards the village with Mr. Somers, whilst the little girls remained at home with their mother.
"Dear Lucy," said Mrs. Fairchild, as soon as she was alone with her little girls, "do you remember what we were speaking about yesterday, before Mr. Crosbie's letter came?"
"Yes, mamma," said Lucy; "we were speaking of besetting sins, and you said that everybody has a besetting sin, and you told me what you believed mine to be."
"True, my dear," answered Mrs. Fairchild: "I told you that, without the help of the Holy Spirit of God, very few people know what their own besetting sins are. You had an opportunity to-day of observing this: every individual of our friend Mr. Crosbie's family has a very strong besetting sin; Mr. Crosbie loves eating; Mrs. Crosbie is ill-tempered; Miss Crosbie is vain, and fond of finery; and Miss Betsy is very pert and forward. We can see these faults in them, and they can see them in each other; but it is plain they do not see them in themselves. Mr. Crosbie said several times that he was not particular about what he ate or drank; Mrs. Crosbie said that there was not a person in the world who thought her ill-tempered but her husband; Miss Crosbie said that nobody in the world cared less for finery than she did; and Miss Betsy was quite offended when she was told she was not respectful in her manners to her elders."
"Oh, yes!" said Emily; "she said, 'I am not saucy; of all faults, sauciness is not one of my faults, I am sure;' and I thought all the time she looked as saucy and impertinent as possible."
"And how Mr. Crosbie did eat!" said Lucy; "he ate half the haunch of venison! And then he was helped twice to pigeon-pie; and then he ate apple-tart and custard; and then——"
"Well, well! you have said enough, Lucy," said Mrs. Fairchild, interrupting her. "I do not speak of our poor friends' faults out of malice, or for the sake of making a mockery of them; but to show you how people may live in the constant practice of one particular sin without being at all conscious of it, and perhaps thinking themselves very good all the time. We are all quick enough, my dear Emily and Lucy, in finding out other people's faults; but, as I said before, we are often very blind to our own."
"Mamma," said Lucy, "do you know any prayer about besetting sins?"
"Yes, my dear," answered Mrs. Fairchild; "I have one in my own book of prayers; and I will copy it out for you to-morrow morning."
So Mrs. Fairchild broke off her conversation with her little girls, and bade them go and play a little before bedtime.
A Visit to Mary Bush
The children looked at the kittens
Not very long after the death of poor Miss Augusta Noble, a note came from Sir Charles and Lady Noble, inviting Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild to dinner the next day; but not mentioning the children, as they used to do when they sent their invitations.
"Poor Lady Noble!" said Mr. Fairchild; "I wish we could give her any comfort! but we will certainly go."
The next day, when Sir Charles's carriage came for Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild, they kissed the children, and told them when they had dined, they might, if they pleased, go with Betty to see old Mary Bush. Mary Bush was one of the old women who lived at the end of the coppice; and, being a good woman, Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild were not afraid of trusting their children with her. The children were very much pleased, and made haste to get their dinner; after which Lucy packed up a little tea and sugar, which her mamma had given her, in a basket; and the little girls, having put on their bonnets and tippets, went into the kitchen to see if Betty was ready. Betty was tying up a small loaf and a pot of butter in a clean napkin; and she had put some nice cream into a small bottle, for which John was cutting a cork.
"Betty, are you ready?" said Henry; "Lucy has got the tea and sugar, and Emily has got Miss Dolly, and I have got my hat and stick. So come, Betty, come!"
"But who is to milk the cow?" said John, pretending to look grave; "Betty must stay to milk the cow at five o'clock."
"No, John!" said the children, all gathering round him; "good John, will you be so kind as to milk the cow, and let Betty go?"
"Well, I will see about it," said John, putting the cork into the cream bottle.
"There's a good John!" said Emily.
"I love you, John!" said Henry. "And now, Betty, come, make haste away."
So the children set out; and they went out across the garden to a little wicket-gate which Mr. Fairchild had opened towards the coppice, and came into Henry's favourite Sunday walk. The green trees arched over their heads; and on each side the pathway was a mossy bank, out of which sprang such kind of flowers as love shady places—such as the wood anemone and wild vetch: thrushes and blackbirds were singing sweetly amongst the branches of the trees.
"This is my walk," said Henry; "and I say it is the prettiest in the country."
"No, Henry," said Emily; "it is not so pretty as the walk to the hut at the top of the hill: for there you can look all over the coppice, and see the birds flying over the tops of the trees."
"Sister," said Lucy, "now you shall carry my basket, and I will have the doll a little."
"With all my heart," said Emily.
"Why don't you give Miss to me?" said Henry.
"Oh, yes!" said Emily. "Did I not give her to you one day; and did you not hang her upon a tree in the garden, with a bit of string round her neck, and say she was a thief?"
"Lucy," said Henry, "let us have a race to that tree which has fallen down over the path."
So away they ran; and when they got to the tree they sat down upon the trunk until Betty came up with Emily. On one side of the fallen tree was a place where the wood had been cut away, and the woodmen had made themselves a little hut, which they had now left empty. Round this hut were scattered many dry sticks and chips.
"Master Henry," said Betty, "here are some nice sticks: let us gather a few together; they will do to make a fire to boil Mary Bush's kettle."
"Oh, yes, Betty," answered the children: and they set to work, and soon gathered a great many sticks; and Betty tied them together with a piece of packthread which Henry pulled out of his pocket; then Betty took off her bonnet, and placed the bundle upon her head. They went on to Mary Bush's. The children wanted to help to carry the sticks, but Betty would not let them, saying they were too heavy for them.
"But we can carry the bread and butter," said Lucy; so Betty allowed them to do it.
When they had walked a little farther, they came in sight of Mary Bush's house, down in a kind of little valley or dingle, deeply shaded by trees. In the very deepest part of the dingle was a stream of water falling from a rock. The light from above fell upon the water as it flowed, and made it glitter and shine very beautifully among the shady trees. This was the same which took its course through the Primrose Meadow, and on towards the village, and so to Brookside Cottage, where nurse lived—a clear and beautiful stream as could be.
Mary Bush's cottage was so large, that, after the death of her husband, she had let half of it to one Goodman Grey, who lived in it, with his old wife Margery, and cultivated the garden, which was a very good one. John Trueman's wife was Mary Bush's eldest daughter; and Joan, nurse's son's wife, her youngest; and it was said of them that there were not two better wives and mothers in the parish: so Mary Bush was very happy in her children.
When the children and Betty came up to the cottage, they found Mary Bush spinning at the door.
"We are come to drink tea with you, Mary," said Lucy.
"And we have brought bread and butter, and tea and cream with us," said Emily.
"And a bundle of sticks," said Henry, "to boil the kettle."
"Welcome, welcome, my little loves," said old Mary, as she got up and set her spinning-wheel on one side. "Come in, little dears."
Mary had but one room, and a little pantry, but it was a very neat room; there was a bed in one corner, covered with a clean linen quilt; there were also a nice oaken dresser, a clock, two arm-chairs, two three-legged stools, a small round table, a corner cupboard, and some shelves for plates and dishes. The fireplace and all about it were always very neat and clean, and in winter you would probably see a small bright fire on the hearth.
"How does the cat do?" said Henry, looking about for Mary Bush's cat.
"Oh, here she is, Henry!" said Emily, screaming with joy, "in this basket under the dresser, with two such beautiful tortoiseshell kittens! Do look, Lucy—do look, Henry!"
"Miss Lucy," said old Mary, "would you like to have one of the kittens when it is big enough to leave its mother?"
"Oh, yes, yes! and thank you, Mary," answered Lucy, "if mamma pleases."
When the children had looked at the kittens and kissed them, they went to visit Margery Grey, and to talk to old Goodman Grey, who was working in the garden, whilst Betty, in the meantime, and old Mary Bush, set out the tea-cups, and set the kettle to boil for tea. When the tea was ready, Betty called the children, and they would make Margery Grey come and drink tea with them. Henry would have the old man come too.
"No, master," said the old man: "I know my place better."
"Well, then," said Lucy, "I will send you a nice cup of tea, and some bread-and-butter, into the garden."
I wish you could have seen them all drinking tea at the door of the cottage, round the little table, the two old women sitting in the arm-chairs, for Lucy would have them do so, Betty making tea, and the three children sitting on stools—and how pleased and happy they were.
"Drinking tea at the door of the cottage, round the little table."—Page 149.
