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Domestic Pleasures, or, the Happy Fire-side

by Frances Bowyer Vaux · English · Gutenberg #7830 · 338,329 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Domestic Pleasures, or, the Happy Fire-side

Author: Frances Bowyer Vaux


        
Release date: April 1, 2005 [eBook #7830]
                Most recently updated: December 30, 2020

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/7830

Credits: Produced by Ted Garvin and the Distributed Proofreading Team


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DOMESTIC PLEASURES, OR, THE HAPPY FIRE-SIDE ***




Produced by Ted Garvin and the Distributed Proofreading Team





[Illustration: Frontispiece Eddystone Light House as erected
by Lord Bywater 1759.]

       *       *       *       *       *

DOMESTIC PLEASURES;

OR

The happy Fire-side.

ILLUSTRATED
_BY INTERESTING CONVERSATIONS_.

BY F. B. VAUX.

Domestic happiness, thou only bliss Of Paradise, that has surviv'd the
fall! Tho' few do taste thee unimpair'd and pure, Or tasting, long enjoy
thee! too infirm, Or too incautious to preserve thy sweets Unmix'd with
drops of bitter, which neglect Or temper sheds into thy crystal cup;
Thou art the nurse of virtue; in thine arms She smiles, appearing, as in
truth she is, Heaven-born, and destin'd to the skies again.

COWPER.

ADDRESS.

*       *       *       *       *

MY DEAR YOUNG READERS,

When I was a child, if a new book were given to me, I recollect, my
first question invariably was:--"Is this true."  If the answer were in
the affirmative, the volume immediately assumed, in my eyes, a new
value, and was perused with far greater interest than a story merely
fictitious.  Now, as I am very desirous that you should take up this
little volume with a prepossession in its favour, I must inform you,
that the characters of the children here pourtrayed, are all _real_
characters.  The little work was undertaken for the improvement of a
family very dear to me, and was, during its progress, regarded by them
as a faithful mirror, reflecting both their virtues and defects. You
will find in it, among other subjects, a slight sketch of the early part
of the Roman history; but you must not suppose, that in offering it to
you, I mean my little book to supersede the more detailed accounts that
are usually put into the hands of children. I have often found, that
even when a volume has been read entirely through, very few of the facts
have made any deep impression on the youthful mind; and the improvement
to be derived from those facts, is still more completely overlooked.
This I discovered to be the case with my little friends: they had read
the Roman history, and I had hoped that they had read it attentively;
but upon questioning them afterwards, even upon some leading events, I
found them exceedingly deficient in information. This suggested to me
the idea of the following little volume. I recommended them to begin
again the perusal of the Roman history; to take notes as they proceeded,
and write, from them, an abridgment for themselves; promising that I
would do the same, and give my manuscript to the one who should most
deserve it. They were pleased with the plan, and regularly brought their
little productions, once a fortnight, for my inspection. I, at the same
time, read them mine. They soon discovered in it their own characters,
delineated under fictitious names, and took a still more lively interest
in their task. By the time I had completed the regal government of Rome,
I found my manuscript had attained a considerable size; I therefore had
it neatly bound, and as Emily and Louisa equally deserved the prize,
they drew lots, and it fell to the former. Several young persons who had
perused the little work, united in begging it might be printed, that
they also might have it in their libraries. This, my dear young readers,
is the origin of DOMESTIC PLEASURES.

The conversations recorded in the following pages, are chiefly such as
have, at different times, taken place between my little friends and
myself. I sincerely wish you may derive, not only amusement, but
instruction, from the transcript; and that it may convince you, no
pleasures are so pure as _domestic pleasures_; no society so delightful,
as that experienced in the affectionate intercourse of parents and
children, by a _happy fire-side_.

FRANCES BOWYER VAUX.

*       *       *       *       *

The Persons.

MR. AND MRS. BERNARD.

EMILY, aged _Fifteen_.

CHARLES, _Fourteen_.

EDWARD, _Twelve_.

LOUISA, _Ten_.

FERDINAND, _Seven_.

SOPHY, _Five_.


DOMESTIC PLEASURES.

*       *       *       *       *

CONVERSATION I.

The rain came down in torrents, and beat violently against the parlour
windows, whilst a keen autumnal blast made the children shiver, even by
the side of a good fire.  Their little hearts glowed with gratitude,
when they reflected on their happy lot, sheltered from the bitter wind
and driving sleet; and contrasted it with that of many miserable little
beings, who were, no doubt, exposed, at that very moment, to the
pitiless raging of the storm.

"Ah, mamma," said Ferdinand, a little boy of seven years old, "how I
feel for those poor children who have no home to shelter them, and no
fire to warm their cold hands.  I often think of them, and it reminds me
of the hymn I learned some time ago.

"Not more than others I deserve, Yet God hath given me more; For I have
food whilst others starve, Or beg from door to door."

"I am glad to find that you can feel for others in distress, my boy,"
said Mrs. Bernard; "and hope you will each, my dear children, cultivate
that benevolent affection called compassion, which enables us to enter
into the distresses of others, and feel for them, in worse measure, as
we do for ourselves. But we must not rest satisfied with only pitying
their sorrows; as far as lies in our power, it is our duty to relieve
them."

"That would be delightful indeed, mamma," said Ferdinand; "but what can
such children as we are, do towards assisting our fellow creatures?--at
least, such a little boy a I am. I thought it was only men and women,
who could do good to others by their charity and benevolence."

His mother endeavoured to explain to him, that, although he might not at
present be able to do any very extensive good to society, still the
attempt to be useful, as far as lay in his power, would improve his own
disposition; in which case his efforts would not be thrown away; and
that, although he was so young, he might, nevertheless, be serviceable,
in some degree, to his poorer neighbours. "And it would be very silly,
my boy," added she, "to abstain from making the trial, merely because
you could not do all the good you wished."

Ferdinand quite agreed with his mother, and the rest of the children
cordially united in his wish to render themselves useful; but how to
effect their purpose was the next consideration. Mrs. Bernard had taught
her boys to net and knit, together with several other employments of the
same kind. These occupations, she found, had the excellent effect of
completely fixing their wandering attention, whilst she read to them,
which she was daily in the practice of doing.

Ferdinand was the first to recollect that he could plat straw for a hat,
which, he had no doubt, Emily and Louisa would afterwards sew together
for him.

_Louisa_. Oh, yes, that we will most willingly, Ferdinand. But let us
think what we can do, Emily: we might make a great many things, you
know, because we can do all sorts of work.

_Emily_. Very true, Louisa: the chief difficulty will be to procure
materials for the exercise of our abilities. I have several things that
I shall not wear again; these, if mamma has no objection, might, I
think, be converted to very useful purposes.

_Mrs. B._ You have my free permission, my dear girl, to exert all your
ingenuity upon them.

Edward said, he had just thought of an employment for himself, which he
hoped would please Ferdinand. "A few days ago," added he, "when I was
drinking tea with my aunt, she was making gloves of fine white cotton,
with a little ivory instrument hooked at the end; now, if I use worsted
instead of cotton, I think I shall make some nice warm gloves, which
will do instead of fire, to keep the poor children's hands warm; and I
can knit stockings for them too, so that I do not think any one of us
need be idle."

_Louisa._ And then our prize-money--that may be set apart to purchase
materials for more clothes, when the stock we have on hand is all used.
May it not, mamma?

_Mrs. B._ It is an excellent scheme, my dear Louisa, and, as a reward
for suggesting it, you shall make the box to hold your treasure,
provided you will take pains, and endeavour to do it as neatly as you
can.

_Ferdinand._ And make it strong too, Lousia, for I expect it will soon
be full. I shall be more anxious than ever to get a prize now.

_Louisa._ I have been thinking what I shall put upon the box as a motto.
Ought it not to have one, mamma?

_Mrs. B._ By all means, my dear; but it must be something appropriate.
What do you propose, Louisa?

_Louisa._ I was thinking of painting a little wreath of flowers, and
writing very neatly in the middle, "Charity is kind."

_Mr. B._ A very well-chosen motto, Louisa. I am delighted to witness
your benevolent dispositions, my beloved children. Make haste and sit
down to your respective employments. In the mean time, I will hasten and
finish my business in the counting-house, that I may enjoy your company
this evening.

_All._ Thank you, dear papa.

While Mr. Bernard was absent, the children were all busily employed,
preparing for their new occupations, and had just taken their seats
before a cheerful fire, when their father re-entered the room.

_Mr. B._ Well, what all seated?

_Louisa._ Yes, papa, we made great haste, that we might be ready for you
when you came in. Are we to read to-night, or will you be so kind as to
talk to us?

_Mr. B._ Suppose you talk to me a little, Louisa. Tell me what you have
been reading with your mother to-day.

_Louisa._ Emily would tell you best, papa; but if you wish to hear me, I
will give you as good an account as I can.

_Mr. B._ To do your best, is all that can be expected of you, my dear.
Remember to speak very distinctly.

_Louisa._ We began the Roman history, and read as far as the deaths of
Romulus. Nobody saw him die, and so--

_Mr. B._ Stop, stop--not so fast, recollect, you have not yet told me
who Romulus was.

_Louisa._ Oh! I thought you knew that, papa; he was the first king of
Rome, and he built the city, and--

_Mr. B._ Begin again, my dear Louisa. Do not be in such a hurry; give me
a clear account of Romulus, from his birth to his death.

_Louisa._ Oh dear, papa, I do not think I can do that.

_Mrs. B._ Try, however, my dear, as your father wishes it. Emily will
help you out, if you find yourself at a loss.

_Louisa, (laying aside her work and looking attentively at her father.)_
I do not at all know where to begin, papa. I think you will not
understand me, if I do not first tell you something about Numitor and
Amulius.

_Mr. B._ Then, by all means, begin with them.

_Louisa._ Numitor and Amulius were brothers. They were sons to the king
of Lavinium. Numitor was, by his father's will, left heir to the throne,
and Amulius was to have all the treasures. This, however, did not
satisfy him; he wanted to be king too, and, by means of his riches, soon
gained his wish. He was a very bad man indeed, for he killed Numitor's
two sons, and would not let his daughter marry, for fear she should have
a little baby, which, when it grew up, might deprive him of the crown he
had so wickedly taken from his brother. Notwithstanding his precaution,
she did have two little boys, whom she named Romulus and Remus. Amulius,
their cruel uncle, found them out, and ordered them to be drowned: so
the poor little creatures were put into a cradle, and thrown in the the
river Tiber. But it happened, just at that time, it had overflowed its
banks, and at the place where they were thrown in, the water was too
shallow to drown them.--Do I get on pretty well, papa?

_Mr. B._ Admirably, my dear Louisa. Edward, can you tell us where the
river Tiber flows?

_Edward._ Yes, father, it rises in the Apenine mountains in Italy, and
empties itself into the Mediterranean Sea, ten miles from Rome. Its
present name is Tivere.

_Mr. B._ Perfectly right, my boy. Now, Louisa, go on. I beg pardon for
interrupting you.

_Louisa._ I think I left my little babies in a very dangerous situation
on the banks of the Tiber: they, however, escaped the death prepared for
them. The cradle floated some time, and on the waters' retiring, was
left on dry ground. And now, papa, do you know, I do not quite believe
what the book says, about a wolf's coming and suckling them: it seems so
unnatural.

_Mr. B._ I am inclined to doubt the fact too, my dear; but not upon the
ground of its being unnatural, as I have heard of many circumstances
quite as extraordinary, which, nevertheless, I know to have been true.
But go on with your relation.

_Louisa_. At last, Faustulus, the king's shepherd, found them, and took
them home to his wife, Laurentia, who brought them up as her own
children. They followed the employment of shepherds, but soon discovered
abilities above the meanness of their supposed birth. As they grew up,
they were not content with watching their flocks, but used often to
employ themselves in hunting wild beasts, and attacking a band of
robbers that infested the country. One day Remus was taken prisoner,
carried before the king, and accused of having robbed upon his lands.
The king sent him to Numitor, that he might punish him as he thought
proper. Numitor, however, did not punish him at all, for he, by
accident, discovered that he was his grandson. Amulius was soon
afterwards killed, and Numitor restored to the throne. Now, papa, may
Emily tell you the rest?

_Mr. B._ Louisa has acquitted herself wonderfully well. Let me hear you,
my dear Emily, continue the account.

_Emily_. The two brothers leaving the kingdom to Numitor, determined
upon building a city on the spot where they had been so cruelly exposed,
and so wonderfully preserved: but a fatal desire of reigning seized them
both, and created a difference between the noble youths, which ended in
the death of Remus. Romulus being now without a rival, laid the
foundation of a city, which, in compliment to its founder, was called
Rome. In order to people this new settlement, admission was given to all
malefactors and slaves, so that it was soon filled with inhabitants. The
next object was to establish some form of government. Romulus left them
at liberty to appoint their own king, and they, from motives of
gratitude, elected him. He was accordingly acknowledged as chief of
their religion, sovereign magistrate of Rome, and general of the army.
Besides a guard to attend his person, it was agreed that he should be
preceded, wherever he went, by twelve Lictors, each bearing an axe tied
up in a bundle of rods. These were to serve as executioners of the law,
and to impress his new subjects with an idea of his authority.

_Mr. B._  Very well, Emily: now suppose Edward gives us an account of
the legislation of Rome.

_Edward_.  The senate consisted of an hundred of the principal citizens,
who were appointed as counsellors to the king.  The first of these
senators was nominated by the sovereign, and always acted as his
representative, whenever war or other emergencies called him from the
Capitol.  The plebians, too, had considerable weight in the
administration, as they assumed the power of confirming the laws passed
by the king and senate.  Their religion was mixed with much
superstition.  They had firm reliance on the credit of soothsayers, who
pretended, from observations on the flight of birds, and from the
entrails of beasts, to direct the present, and dive into futurity.

_Mr. B._  Very well, Now can Ferdinand tell us any thing about Romulus.

_Ferdinand_.  Yes, papa, I can tell you how wickedly he deceived the
Sabines, to get wives for his Roman people.

_Mr. B._  Who were the Sabines?

_Ferdinand_.  A neighbouring nation, and reckoned the most warlike
people in all Italy.

_Mrs. B._  Well, now for your account of the treachery of Romulus.

_Ferdinand_.  Romulus proclaimed that he should give a feast in honour
of the god Neptune, and made very great preparations for it. The Sabines
came, with the rest of their neighbours, and brought their wives and
daughters with them: but the poor things had better have been at home,
papa, for in the middle of the entertainment, the young Romans rushed in
with drawn swords, seized the most beautiful women, and  carried them
off.  I think it was one of the most wicked actions I ever heard of.

_Mr. B._  I am not surprised, my dear, at your warm expressions.  If we
regard the deed merely as a breach of hospitality, we must pronounce it
both barbarous and unmanly; but to mediate such treachery, and veil it
under the cloak of religion, was indeed a sin of the deepest dye.  Can
you, Edward, tell us what was the consequence of this treachery?

_Edward._  A bloody war ensued.  Tatius, the Sabine king, entered the
Roman territories at the head of twenty-five thousand men; a force
greatly exceeding that which the Romans could bring against them into
the field.

_Mr. B._  Louisa, can you tell me how they gained possession of the
Capitoline hill?

_Louisa_.  Tarpeia, daughter of the commander, offered to betray one of
the gates to the Sabine army, if the soldiers would give her, as a
reward, what they wore on their left arms--meaning their bracelets:
they, however, willing to punish her for such treachery, pretended to
think she meant their shields, which they threw upon her as they
entered, and crushed her to death. I think, papa, she was justly
punished, for it is every one's duty to love and protect their country.
It is very base to betray it to its enemies.

_Mr. B._  I am pleased with your remark, Louisa. Indeed, I have been
delighted to hear you all answer, so properly, the different questions
that have been proposed to you. But it is growing late, as it wants but
a quarter to nine o'clock; we must therefore defer the remainder of our
history till to-morrow. Farewell, my dear children.

The young folks immediately arose, and having carefully put by their
work, took an affectionate leave of their parents, and retired for the
night.


CONVERSATION II

After a day spent happily, because it was spent in the cheerful
performance of their several duties, the little family assembled round
the tea-table, and were rewarded by the approving smiles of their
affectionate parents.

_Louisa._ Let us make haste and finish our tea, that we may sit down to
work, with papa and mamma, as comfortably as we did last night.

_Mrs. B._ Rather let us endeavour, my dear Louisa, to prolong each
moment by employing it usefully. It is wrong to wish one instant of so
short a life to pass unimproved. Recollect, the wisest of men has said,
"To every thing there is a season, and a time for every purpose under
heaven."

_Ferdinand._ When you speak of the wisest of men, do you not mean
Solomon, mamma?

_Mrs. B._ Yes, my dear.  You have read that part of the sacred
Scriptures which contains the life of that great man, have you not?

_Ferdinand_.  I have, mamma.  When God gave him his choice of many
blessings, he preferred the gift of wisdom, which was granted him; and
honours and riches were also added, as a reward for his prudent choice.

_Louisa._  Is knowledge the same thing as wisdom, pray? [Footnote: The
conversation following, was held, _verbatim_, between the author and a
little boy seven years old.]

_Ferdinand_.  I think not, Louisa.  Wisdom is a much better thing than
knowledge.  Is it not, mamma:

_Mrs. B._  I think so my dear; but you shall hear what my favourite
poet, Cowper, says upon this subject:

"Knowledge and wisdom, far from being one, Have oft-times no connexion.
Knowledge dwells In heads, replete with thoughts of other men; Wisdom,
in minds attentive to their own. Knowledge, a rude, unprofitable mass,
The mere materials with which wisdom builds, Till smooth'd, and squar'd,
and fitted to its place, Does but encumber whom it seems t'enrich.
Knowledge is proud that he has learn'd so much; Wisdom is humble that he
knows no more."

_Ferdinand_.  I do not quite understand those lines:  they say that
knowledge is a mere unprofitable mass.  You have told me, mamma, that I
ought to take pains, and gain improvement by means of books,
conversation, and observation; but if these lines are true, what good
will it do me?

_Mrs. B._  Read the next line, my dear boy. "The mere materials with
which wisdom builds."  Now, if you provide no materials, you must be
aware that wisdom cannot build her temple in your mind.  Do you
understand now the meaning of the lines?

_Ferdinand, (after a pause for consideration,)_ Yes, mamma: and I think
I understand the true meaning of the word wisdom, too.  It is such power
as God possesses:--a great deal of knowledge joined to a great deal of
goodness.

_Mrs. B._  You are quite right, my dear Ferdinand. What is Emily
reflecting upon so seriously?

_Emily_.  I was thinking, my dear mother, how much at a loss the English
must have been, before the introduction of tea into Europe.  I have
heard my father say, it was not known here till within the last two
hundred years.

_Mr. B._  I did tell you so, my dear.  Some Dutch adventurers [Footnote:
See Macartney's Embassy to China.], seeking, about that time, for such
objects as might produce a profit in China, and hearing of the general
use, there, of a beverage from a plant of the country, endeavoured to
introduce the use of the European herb, sage, amongst the Chinese, for a
similar purpose, accepting, in return, the Chinese tea, which they
brought to Europe. The European herb did not continue long in use in
China, but the consumption of tea has been gradually increasing in
Europe ever since. The annual public sales of this article, by the East
India Company, did not, however, in the beginning of 1700, much exceed
fifty thousand pounds weight: the annual sale now, approaches to upwards
of twenty millions of pounds.

_Emily._ It is indeed an amazing increase; but I am not surprised that
is has been so universally adopted. I know of no beverage so refreshing
and pleasant. Although we take it twice a day, we never seem to grow
tired of its flavour. I suppose it is cultivated in China, as carefully
as corn is with us?

_Mr. B._ It grows wild, like any other shrub, in the hilly parts of the
country; but where it is regularly cultivated, the seed is sown in rows,
at the distance of about four feet from each other, and the land kept
perfectly free from weeds. Vast tracts of hilly ground are planted with
it. It is not allowed to grow very tall, for the convenience of the more
readily collecting its leaves, which is done first in spring, and twice
afterwards in the course of the summer. Its long and tender branches
spring up almost from the root, without any intervening naked trunk. It
is bushy, like a rose tree, and the blossom bears some resemblance to
that flower.

_Emily._ There is a very great difference in the flavour of tea. Does
that depend upon the manner of drying it?

_Mr. B._ In some degree it does; but its quality is materially affected
by the soil in which it grows, and by the age of the leaves when plucked
from the tree. The largest and oldest leaves are least esteemed, and are
generally sold to the lowest of the people, with very little previous
preparation. The younger ones, on the contrary, undergo great care and
much attention, before they are delivered to the purchaser. Every leaf
passes through the fingers of a female, who rolls it up almost to the
form it assumed before it was expanded by growth. It is afterwards
placed upon very thin plates of earthen-ware, or iron, and exposed to
the heat of a charcoal fire, which draws all the moisture from the
leaves, and renders them dry and crisp.

_Emily._ I have heard that green tea is dried on copper, which gives it
its peculiar taste and colour, and renders it less wholesome than black
tea.

_Mr. B._ This is, I believe, a mistake: the chief use of copper, in
China, is for coinage. Scarcely any utensil is made of that metal, and
the Chinese themselves confidently deny the use of copper plates for
this purpose. The colour and flavour of green tea is thought to be
derived from the early period at which the leaves are plucked, and
which, like unripe fruit, are generally green and acrid.

Emily thanked her father for the account he had given her, and all the
children gratefully felt the value of their kind parents, who were ever
willing to devote their time and attention to the improvement of their
beloved family.

_Mr. B._ I hope you are all prepared to give me a further account of
Romulus, after tea.

_All_. We hope so, papa.

_Ferdinand_. May I first tell you a very curious account of a little
dwarf, which I read today?

_Mr. B._ By all means, my boy.

_Ferdinand_. It is now seventy-four years since he was born, at a
village in France. He was a very little creature indeed, as you will
suppose, when I tell you he only weighed a pound and a quarter. When he
was baptized, they handed him to the clergyman on a plate, and, for a
long time, he used to sleep in a slipper. He could not walk alone till
he was two years old, and then his shoes were only an inch and a half
long. At six years old he was fifteen inches high. Notwithstanding he
was so very small, he was well-made and extremely handsome, but he had
not much sense. The king of Poland sent for him to his court, called him
baby, and kept him in his palace. They tried to teach him dancing and
music, but he could not learn. He was never more than twenty-nine inches
tall. By the time he was sixteen he began to grow infirm, like an old
man. From being very beautiful, the poor little creature became quite
deformed. At twenty he was extremely feeble and decrepid, and two years
after, he died.

_Mr. B._ Poor little creature: such objects are much to be pitied. There
are persons who take pleasure in seeing them; but I must confess, there
is something to me extremely unnatural, in such an exposure of our
unhappy fellow-creatures.

_Edward_. Did not Peter the Great, on some occasion, assemble a vast
number together?

_Mr. B._ He did; and I rather think Emily can give you an account of it.

_Emily_. It was in the year 1710, that a marriage between two dwarfs was
celebrated at the Russian court. The preparations for this wedding were
very grand, and executed in a style of barbarous ridicule. Peter ordered
that all the dwarfs, both men and women, within two hundred miles,
should repair to the capital, and insisted that they should be present
at the ceremony. Some of them were unwilling to comply with this order,
knowing that the object was to turn them into ridicule; but he soon
obliged them to obey, and, as a punishment for their reluctance, made
them wait on the others. There were seventy assembled, besides the bride
and bridegroom, who were richly adorned in the extreme of fashion.
Everything was suitably provided for the little company; a low table,
small plates, little glasses; in short, all was dwindled down to their
own standard. Dancing followed the dinner, and the ball was opened with
a minuet by the bride and bridegroom, the latter of whom was exactly
three feet two inches high, and the day closed more cheerfully than it
had begun.

_Edward._ I had always understood that Peter was a man of a very
barbarous disposition, and I think this circumstance is a strong proof
of it. How cruel! to make sport of the misfortunes and miseries of
others.

_Mr. B._ The Czar Peter was a most extraordinary man. No monarch ever
did more towards the civilization of his subjects, or less towards the
subduing of his own barbarous nature. My dear Ferdinand, ring the bell;
I believe the tea-things may now be removed.

_Louisa._ Oh! how pleasantly the time has passed. I have not once
thought of my work. I was afraid I should have been quite impatient to
begin the little frock which I cut out last night.

_ Emily._ You have felt interested in the conversation, Louisa, and that
has made the time pass so pleasantly. Sometimes, when you are anxious
respecting any pursuit, you think so much of its approach, that you do
not attempt to employ the preceding minutes, which is the cause of their
appearing so long.

_Mrs. B._ I was just going to make the same remark, Emily. It is very
unwise to lose the present time, in the anticipation of a moment we may
never see:

"Improve the present hour, for all beside Is a mere feather on the
torrent's side."

Whilst the servant was clearing away the tea-things, the children
employed themselves in preparing for their different occupations, and
were soon happily seated around their parents.

_Mr B._ Well, now who will give us an account of the Sabine war? As the
eldest, I believe I must call upon you, Emily.

_Emily._ The Sabines having become masters of the Capitoline hill,
through the treachery of Tarpeis, a general engagement soon took place,
which was renewed for several days, both armies obstinately refusing to
submit. The slaughter was prodigious, which seemed rather to increase
than diminish their rage. In a moment the attention of both armies was
attracted by a most interesting spectacle. The Sabine women, who had
been carried off by the Romans, rushed in between the combatants, their
hair dishevelled, their dress disordered, and the deepest anguish
pictured in their countenances; they seemed quite regardless of
consequences, and, with loud outcries, implored their husbands and
fathers to desist. Completely overcome by this distressing scene, the
combantants let fall their weapons by mutual impulse, and peace was soon
restored. It was determined that Tatius and Romulus should reign jointly
in Rome, with equal power, and that an hundred Sabines should be
admitted into the senate.

_Mr. B_. Was this union permanent, Edward?

_Edward_. Yes, father; though, as might have been expected, little
jealousies occasionally crept in among them. Tatius was, however,
murdered about five years afterwards, so that Romulus was once more sole
master of Rome.

_Mr. B_. Come, Louisa, you have been silent to-night, let me hear you
finish the account.

_Louisa_. Romulus soon began to grow very proud and haughty, now he had
no one to oppose him. The members of the senate were much disgusted by
his arrogance, and contrived to put him to death so privately, that his
body was never discovered: they then  persuaded the people that he was
taken up into heaven, and he was long afterwards worshiped as a God,
under the name of Quirinus.

_Ferdinand_.  I am glad Romulus is dead, for I never liked him.  Numa
Pompilius was a much better man.

_Mr. B._  And pray who was he?

_Ferdinand_.  He was a Sabine, papa: the second king of Rome, and was
famous for being a just, moderate, and very good man; and that is the
best kind of fame, I think.

_Mr. B._  I think so, too, Ferdinand.  Was Numa Pompilius elected to the
sovereign authority immediately upon the death of Romulus?

_Edward_.  No, father: the senators undertook to supply the place of a
king, by assuming, each of them in turn, the government for five days;
but the plebeians not choosing to have so many masters, insisted upon
the nomination of a king, and the choice fell on Numa Pompilius. He was
received with universal approbation, and was himself the only person who
objected to the nomination.  Happy at home, and contented in a private
station, he was not ambitious of higher honours, and accepted the
dignity with reluctance.

_Ferdinand_.  I should have thought just as

Numa did, papa; for I do not think kings can ever be happy.

_Mr. B._  They are certainly placed in a very responsible situation; but
those who conscientiously perform their respective duties, need not fear
being happy under any circumstances.

_Ferdinand_.  But a king has so many duties to fulfil, and they are so
important, that I am sure I had much rather be a subject.

_Mr. B._.  I am quite of your opinion, my dear boy, that there is much
more happiness to be found in the private walks of life; and I can with
truth declare, that I would not exchange my own fire-side, enlivened by
so many happy countenances, for the gilded palace of the greatest
monarch.

"Nor would we change our dear father and mother," said the cheerful
little Louisa, "to be the gayest lords and ladies in the land."

_Mr. B._.  Well, my little lady, now let me hear how Numa goes on in his
new dignity.

_Louisa_.  He was so well calculated to be a king, by his goodness as
well as his knowledge, papa, that you may suppose he made his subjects
very happy.  His whole time was spent in endeavouring to render them
pious and virtuous. He built a great many new temples for religious
worship; and, amongst others, one to Janus, which was always open in
time of war, and shut in time of peace.  He did every thing in his power
to encourage agriculture, and, for this purpose, divided the lands which
Romulus had conquered in war, among the poor people. His subjects loved
him very much, and he lived till he was eighty years old, and then died
in peace, after having reigned forty-three years. The temple of Janus
was shut during his whole reign.

_Mr. B._ You have given your account very correctly, Louisa; Numa was,
indeed, a wise and discreet prince. You have, however, omitted
mentionaing his distribution of the tradesmen of Rome into distinct
corporations, which Plutarch considered the master-piece of his policy.
The city had been long divided into two factions, occasioned by the
mixture of the Sabines with the first Romans. Hence arose jealousies,
which were an inexhaustible source of discord. Numa, to remedy this
evil, made all the artists and tradesmen of Rome, of whatever nation
they originally were, enter into separate companies, according to their
respective professions. The musicians, goldsmiths, carpenters, curriers,
dyers, tailors, &c. formed distinct communities. He ordained particular
statutes for each of them, and granted them peculiar privileges. Every
corporation was permitted to hold lands, to have a common treasury, and
to celebrate festivals and sacrifices proper to itself;--in short, to
become a sort of little republic. By this means the Sabines and Romans,
forgetting all their old partialities and party names, were brought to
an entire union.

_Ferdinand._ That was a capital contrivance. What a clever man Numa was;
and how much good such a king can do to his people.

_Edward._ You did not mention, Louisa, what pains Numa took to reform
the calendar. The year, before his time, consisted of but three hundred
and four days, which is neither agreeable to the solar nor the lunar
year. Numa endeavoured to make it agree with both: he added January and
February to the old year, which before consisted of only ten months.
Although he did not render the calendar so complete as it is at present,
he remedied the disorders as far as he was able, and put it into a
condition of more easily admitting of new corections.

_Mr. B._ Louisa has alreay told us that the temple of Janus was not
opened during the whole reign of Numa: he was, indeed a most pacific and
amiable prince. He was beloved by his neighbours, and became the arbiter
of all the differences among them; and his virtues seemed to have
communicated themselves to all the nations around Rome. As to the Romans
themselves, it might be literally said, that their weapons of war were
changed into implements of husbandry. No seditions, no ambitious desires
of the throne, nor so much as any murmurs against the person or
administration of the king, appeared amongst his subjects. When he died,
they lamented him as severely as if every man had lost his own father;
and the concourse of strangers to Rome, to pay the last tribute of
respect to his remains, was exceedingly great. Numa had forbidden the
Romans to burn his body; they therefore put it into a stone coffin, and,
according to his own orders, buried the greatest part of the books he
had written, in the same sepulchre with himself. He had made a law,
forbidding that any dead body should be buried within the city, and had,
himself, chosen a burying-place beyond the Tiber. Thither he was
carried, on the shoulders of his senators, and followed by all the
people, who bewailed their loss with tears.

_Mrs. B._ How superior to brass and marble, is such a monument of a
people's love.

_Ferdinand._ I suppose Numa named one of his new months January, in
compliment to the god Janus, to whom he had erected the temple.

_Mr. B._ Yes. Janus is always represented with two faces, one looking
backwards, the other forwards; and seems to be properly placed at the
beginning of the year, to point out to us the necessity of looking back
to the time that is past, that we may remedy our crimes in the year
ensuing.


_Louisa._ Well, really now, that is very ingenious. Are the names of the
other months all equally suitable, papa?

_Mr. B._ February was so called from the expiations signified by the
word _Februs_, which were in this month performed. March had its name
from _Mars_, the supposed father of Romulus; and on that account had
been placed first, till the alteration made by Numa. April is said to
have derived its name from _Aphrodite_, which is another name for Venus,
because of the superstitious worship at that time paid to her. May, from
_Maia_, the mother of Mercury, to whom this month was made sacred. June,
from _Juno_; or, as some suppose, from _Juventus_, the Latin word for
youth, because the season is warm, or, as it were, juvenile. The rest
had their names from their order:--as, _Quintilis_, the fifth month;
_Sextilis_, the sixth; _September_, the seventh; _October_, the eighth;
_November_, the ninth; and _December_, the tenth:--all derived, as you
know, Ferdinand, from the Latin words signifying these numbers.
_Quintilis_ and _Sextilis_ were afterwards changed into July and August,
in compliment to Julius Caesar and the emperor Augustus, of whom you
will hear as you proceed with your history. Have you read any part of
the reign of Tullius Hostilius, who was the next king of Rome?

_Louisa._ I just looked at a few pages, papa, but did not read much.
But, from the little I saw, I do not think I shall like him so well as
Numa.

_Edward_. No, that you will not, Louisa; for he was very fond of war,
which you do not like at all. The temple of Janus was soon opened when
he mounted the throne. I think Hostilius was a good name for him, for he
was hostile to all his neighbours.

_Mr. B._ You have read his reign, I suppose, Edward? We must not,
however, anticipate the history, by entering into any further detail at
present, or we shall deprive your sisters of the pleasure they would
otherwise have in the perusal of it. To-morrow, I shall expect an
account of the battle between the Hexatii and Curiatii, which was the
first remarkable event that occurred in his reign. It is now time to
retire, as I purpose taking you all on a little excursion to-morrow, if
it prove fine. You must, therefore, rise early, and prepare your lessons
before breakfast.

The children all expressed their delight at this unexpected indulgence,
promised the strictest attention to their lessons, and, affectionately
embracing their parents, withdrew.



CONVERSATION III.

On the following morning the children rose according to their promise,
and, by strict attention to their lessons, merited the treat their
father had in store for them.  It was a lovely morning! but our best-
laid schemes are subject to disappointment; and the little group felt
their pleasure greatly lessened, upon hearing that a violent headache,
to which their mother was subject, would prevent her joining the party.
I shall not enter into any detail respecting their visit, as my young
readers will hear it all from their own lips, in the conversation they
held with their mother, when they returned in the evening. They had the
pleasure of finding her much better, and able to enjoy their company,
and the account they gave of their excursion.

Emily first entered the parlour, and, gently opening the door,
affectionately enquired after her mother's health.

"My head is much better, I thank you, my dear," replied Mrs. Bernard:
"but why are you alone?--where are your brothers and sisters? All safe
and well, I hope?"

_Emily_.  Yes, quite well, and in high spirits, I assure you.  They
requested to get out at the lodge-gate, that they might have a race
through the garden.  Feeling rather tired, I preferred riding.

At this moment Louisa came running in, quite out of breath.  The others
soon followed her, laughing merrily.

_Louisa_.  Oh! mamma, how I wish you had been with us.  We have had such
a happy day, and have seen so many curious things.

_Ferdinand_.  What a nice woman Mrs. Horton is, mamma.  She has been so
kind to us.

_Edward_.  Dear me, Louisa and Ferdinand, how loud you talk.  You forget
mamma's head.

"Gently, my dears, gently," said Mrs. Bernard: "moderate your delight a
little.  I am glad to hear that you have enjoyed year day, and shall
like to have a full account of all you have seen, when you can enter
upon it quietly. In the mean time, go and put by your hats and tippets,
my dear girls, and come to tea as quickly as you can."

Louisa declared she did not want any tea, and requested that she might
go into the nursery to little Sophy, and take her some shells, which
Mrs. Horton had given her.

Mrs. Bernard willingly granted her request and added:--"I am glad, my
dear Louisa, you do not, when in the midst of enjoyment yourself, forget
your little sister, who is too young to join your pleasures. You may go
and stay with her a quarter of an hour; but do not keep her up beyond
her usual time."

_Ferdinand_. Pray take my shells too, Louisa, and tell her that little
fishes once lived in them at the bottom of the sea.

Louisa, with a light step, and a heart still lighter, left the room,
saying, she had a great deal of information to give little Sophy.

_Mrs. B._ Now, my dear Emily, ring the bell, and make haste down to tea:
I see your father coming up the garden.

The children quickly returned. They were not, however, allowed to enter
into any detail of their past pleasures, till the tea-things were
removed, and Louisa had joined their part, which she did, very
punctually, at the expiration of the promised quarter of an hour.

_Louisa_. Little Sophy is so delighted with her shells, mamma! She sends
her love to you, Ferdinand, and says she will give you a kiss tomorrow.
I do not think I shall do much work to-night, mamma, we have so many
things to tell you.

The room was soon cleared, and liberty given to begin the account of
their excursion, provided only one spoke at a time.

_Ferdinand_. Oh, Louisa, tell mamma about the dog!

_Edward_. No: tell about the cat, that is the most curious.

_Louisa_. Now, I do not think so, Edward. The story about the dog was so
very droll.

_Mrs. B._ Stop--stop, my dear children, or I shall hear nothing after
all. Begin at the beginning, and all will go on regularly. Now, set out
from our own door.

_Louisa_. Come, Emily, you will tell that part best, because I do think
you enjoyed the ride more than any of us.

_Emily_. I did, indeed, enjoy it. The country looks so rich, from the
variety of foliage; the autumnal tints are in their highest beauty, and
you know, my dear mother, how delightful the scenery is, particularly
through the park which leads to Mrs. Horton's house. She received us
with the greatest politeness, and was very sorry you were prevented
accompanying us, especially when she heard that indisposition was the
cause of your absence. After we had taken some refreshment, she proposed
a walk in the park. As we passed through a small room, opening into the
garden, I was much struck with the appearance of an elegant bird in a
glass case. It was stuffed, but so remarkably well done, that you would
have thought it still alive. From the two long feathers in its tail, I
knew it to be the bird of Paradise, and begged Mrs. Horton would give me
leave to examine it more closely. She told me it was a native of the
Molucca Islands, and that there were eight different species of them.
The plumage is very beautiful. The head, throat, and neck, are of a pale
gold colour; the base of the bill, as well as the head, is covered with
fine black feathers, soft and glossy as velvet, and varying in colour
with the different shades of light that fall upon them. The back part of
the head is of a shining green, mixed with bright yellow; the body and
wings are covered with brown, purple, and gold-coloured feathers; the
upper part of the tail is a pale yellow, and the undermost feathers are
white, and longer than those above. But what chiefly excites curiosity,
are two long, naked feathers, which spring from the upper part of the
rump, above the tail, and are, in general, two feet in length. These
birds are supposed to migrate into other countries at the time of the
monsoons, but it is not certain that they do so.

_Ferdinand_. Pray, what are the _monsoons_, Emily?

_Emily_. They are periodical winds, to which those countries are subject
lying within a certain distance of the equator. They blow in one
direction for a time, and, at stated seasons, change, and blow for an
equal space of time from the opposite point of the compass.

_Louisa_. Do not forget the little hummingbirds, Emily, which were in
the case next to the bird of Paradise. What beautiful little creatures
they were! And Mrs. Horton says that nature has provided them with
forked tongues, completely formed for entering flowers, and drawing out
the honey, which is their natural food.

_Mrs. B_. Did Mrs. Horton tell you how curiously they construct their
nests?

_Louisa_. Oh, yes; she showed us one: it was suspended on the very point
of a twig. She says, they adopt this plan to secure them from the
attacks of the monkey and the snake. They form them in the shape of a
hen's egg, cut in half. The eggs are not bigger than a pea, of a clear
white, with a few yellow specks here and there. I wish I had some of
these pretty little creatures; but Mrs. Horton says they will not live
in England, it is so much colder than the tropical climates.

_Ferdinand_. What little feet the Chinese women have, mamma! We saw one
of their shoes, and I am sure it was not a bit bigger than little
Sophy's.

_Emily_. But you know, Ferdinand, _that_ is not the natural size of the
Chinese ladies' feet: they are confined, while they are babies, with
very tight bandages, which prevent them from growing.

_Louisa._ I am glad I am not a Chinese little girl.  Such small feet
cannot be very useful to them when they grow up to be women, I think.

_Mrs. B._  Indeed, they are not:  The poor things are perfect cripples,
and are obliged to be carried wherever they go.

_Ferdinand._ Oh, how I pity them!  They can never run about and enjoy
themselves while they are little, as we do, Louisa.

_Mrs. B._ Indeed, my dear Ferdinand, an English child has great cause
for thankfulness, on many accounts.  I know of no country where the real
happiness and welfare of children is so carefully studied.

_Emily._ In China, however, the boys are educated with considerable
care.  In their early studies, geography is particularly attended to. At
six years of age, they are made acquainted with the names of the
principal parts of the world; at eight, they are instructed in the rules
of politeness; and at ten are sent to a public school, where they learn
reading, writing, and arithmetic.  From thirteen to fifteen they are
taught music; they do not, however, sing merry songs, as we do, but
serious sentences, or moral precepts.  They also practise the use of the
bow, and are taught to ride.  In every city, town, and almost in every
village, I have been told that there are public school for teaching the
more abstruse sciences.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


CONVERSATION IV.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Edward._ I did, papa.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That is perfectly right, my love," said Mrs. Bernard: "I admire your
candour, and have no doubt that, with such a desire, your efforts will
prove successful. She then requested Ferdinand to begin his story, which
he did, as follows:

"A gentleman riding one morning through a wood, saw a poor man very
busily employed in cutting down trees, whilst his wife was collecting
the branches into bundles. She sighed heavily, from heat and fatigue,
and complained sadly of their hard fate, laying all the blame upon Adam
and Eve, whose fatal curiosity was the cause of man's being obliged to
earn his bread by such hard labour. The gentleman got off his horse, and
going up to these poor people, he began to talk to the woman, and
enquired, whether, if she had been in Eve's place, she would not have
been very likely to have done the same thing. 'No,' said the woman: 'if
I had every thing necessary for me, without working, I should certainly
be quite contented." 'Well,' said the gentleman, 'in order to silence
your complaints, I will take you and your husband to my own house, where
you shall have apartments to yourselves, servants to wait upon you, a
carriage to attend you, and my park and gardens to amuse yourselves in.
The continuance of these enjoyments shall depend entirely upon
yourselves. You shall have a table spread with dishes; but the middle
dish shall always remain covered, and if ever you uncover it, to examine
its contents, you shall immediately return to your present situation.'
The poor man and woman were delighted with the gentleman's proposal. The
very next day, they removed to their new abode. The novelty of every
object with which they were surrounded, filled them with delight. For
some time they enjoyed themselves extremely, and never once thought of
the covered dish; but, by degrees, all these delights lost the charm of
novelty. Their walks were always the same, and, although they had plenty
of nice things to eat, their appetites were not so good as when they
worked hard for their living. One day the woman said: 'I wonder what
there is under that cover?' After this, their wonder increased every
day, till at last they determined, by taking a little peep, to satisfy
their curiosity. They accordingly lifted up the cover, when, instantly,
out jumped a little mouse, and away it ran. They now saw their folly,
and were sadly vexed with themselves: but it was too late to complain.
They returned to their daily labour, and from their own experience
learned a useful lesson, and never blamed Adam and Eve any more."

"I think, mamma, we may all learn a useful lesson from this story," said
Edward, as Ferdinand concluded his account: "for I am sure I often feel
curious to discover things, that are not of the least consequence to
me."

_Louisa_. Is it a true story, mamma?

_Mrs. B._ I do not know, my dear; but the picture it draws of human
nature is true, and, on that account, the instruction it conveys is
valuable.

_Mr. B._ Let us now turn our attention to history again. We concluded,
last night, with the rash murder of his sister, committed by Horatius.
Did he undergo any punishment for this crime?

_Edward_. Yes, father: it was thought of dangerous consequence to
slacken the rigour of the laws, in favour of any person, merely on
account of his bravery and success in battle. The king was puzzled how
to act. He was divided between a regard for the laws, and a desire to
save the young warrior, who had rendered him such important service.

_Mr. B._ How did Tullus extricate himself from this difficulty, Emily?

_Emily_. He turned it into a state crime, and appointed two
commissioners to try him as a traitor. As the fact was so publicly
known, and Horatius did not deny it, he was found guilty, and condemned
to be executed; but, by the king's advice, he appealed to an assembly of
the people, whose authority was superior to that of the monarch himself;
and they, from admiration of his courage, rather than the justice of his
cause, revoked the sentence that had been passed against him. However,
that he might not go wholly unpunished, they condemned him to pass under
the yoke, a disgrace to which prisoners of war were subject.

_Mr. B_. What was the yoke, Ferdinand?

_Ferdinand_. It was a kind of gallows, papa, in the shape of a door-
case.

_Mr. B._ Did Horatius, then, receive no honour for his victory, Louisa?

_Louisa_. Yes, papa: a square column was erected in the middle of the
Forum, and the spoils of the Curiatii were hung upon it.

_Mr. B._ Did the Romans continue at peace, after the victory of
Horatius?

_Edward_. No, father: they went to war, successively, with the
Fidenates, Latins, and Sabines; in all of which the Romans were
successful.

_Mr. B._ How was the life of Tullus Hostilius terminated, Emily?

_Emily_. Historians differ in their accounts. Some suppose he was struck
by lightning, whilst others imagine he fell by the hand of Ancus
Martius, his successor.

_Mr. B._ Ferdinand, can you give us a short sketch of the character of
Tullus Hostilius, from what you have heard of him.

_Ferdinand_. He was very much inclined to fighting, papa. Generosity and
personal courage were his chief merit. He rekindled in the Romans the
love of war, which Numa had endeavoured to suppress. He acquired to the
Roman state a great name, but did not add to the real happiness of his
people.

_Mr. B._ As he was so much engaged in war, I suppose he did not exert
himself much to improve the legislation of his country.

_Louisa._ We only read of one law that he established, and that was,
that, whenever three little boys should be born at one birth, they
should, in memory of the Horatii, be brought up at the public expence.

_Mr. B._ Emily, what have you to tell us of Ancus Martius, successor to
Tullus?

_Emily_. He was grandson to Numa Pompilius, and, after a short
interregnum, was unanimously chosen, both by the senate and people, to
the succession. He wished to imitate his grandfather, by reviving
husbandry and religious worship; but soon found that this pacific
disposition drew upon him the contempt of the neighbouring nations. The
Latins were the first who endeavoured to throw off their allegiance to
Rome. This provoked Ancus to declare war against them. He vanquished
them in many battles, and took several of their towns. He strengthened
Rome by new fortifications; built the port and city of Astin, at the
mouth of the Tiber; and was successful over the Fidenates, Sabines,
Veientes, and Volsci. Historians give different accounts of his death.
Some say he was destroyed by violence, whilst others speak of his
decease as altogether natural.

_Mr. B._ How long did he reign, Louisa?

_Louisa_. Twenty-three years, papa. We have not read any more yet. I
hope we shall not forget this part, as we advance further. Pray papa,
what do you think is the best means of remembering what we read?

_Mr. B._ The plan we adopt, in making it the subject of conversation, is
a very likely method to effect this desirable object; and, if you keep a
book, and take notes of the history as you proceed, you will still more
deeply impress it upon your memory. But we will talk upon this subject
some other day: it is now quite time for you to go to bed.

CONVERSATION V.


MR. AND MRS BERNARD, EMILY, EDWARD, LOUISA, AND FERDINAND.

(_A servent coming in with a parcel_.)

_Louisa_.

Ah! there is a parcel: I dare say it is from Charles. Do, pray give it
me, Mary:--I am sure I shall have a letter. He promised to write to me
the next opportunity. May I open it, mamma?

_Mrs. B_. You may, Louisa.

_Louisa_. Emily, be so good as to lend me your scissors; the string has
got into a hard knot:--I shall not have untied it this hour. I will just
give it a little snip and it will be off in a minute.

_Mr. B_. How, Louisa! Have you so soon forgotten the applicaiton of the
story with which you were so much pleased a week ago?

_Louisa_. Oh! I recollect: "Waste not--want not." But then, papa, it is
so tantalizing to know there is a letter for one, and not to be able to
get at it for such a long time; particularly when it comes from Charles,
for he does not write to me very often. Do pray let me cut it this once.
On any other occasion, I should have patience to untie the knot, I am
sure.

_Mr. B_. We are all apt, Louisa, to think it more difficult to act with
propriety under the very circumstances in which we happen to be placed,
than we should do under others; but, if we would learn wisdom, and
acquire the esteem of the good, we must _always_ endeavour to do the
very best that circumstances will allow. By making this principle the
rule of our conduct on trifling occasions, we shall acquire, as it were,
the habit of correctness and propriety of conduct, which will be very
valuable to us in the more important actions of our lives.

_Louisa_. Well, papa, I have been trying, all the time you have been
talking, to untie this string, and it really was not in so hard a knot
as I expected, for it is undone: and now I will endeavour to remember
you kind advice, and be more patient in the future. Oh! here is my
letter. What a long one it seems to be! And here is a short one for you,
mamma, with a little parcel for Sophy.

_Mrs. B_. Well, my dear Louisa, I am almost as anxious as you are, to
hear the contents of the letter: but do not be in a hurry. Read it
slowly, and very distinctly.

Louia promised to do her best, and began as follows:

"MY DEAR LOUISA,

"It is a long time since I wrote to you last, but I must not have you,
on that account, suppose I have forgotten you; for I really think more
of you now I am away, than I used to do when we were all at home
together. I am very happy in my new situation. Instead of finding a
severe master, as I sometimes feared might be the case, I seem to have
gained a second father in Mr. Lewis; and Mrs. Lewis is almost as
affectionate to me as my own dear mother. It shall be my constant
endeavour, by strict attention to my business, to prove myself grateful
for their kindness. I have my evenings completely to myself, which I
endeavour to employ profitably, according to my dear father's advice. I
am studying natural history, and, if it would afford you any amusement,
I should like to make my progress in that study, the subject of my
future letters. I shall not, however, begin that plan till I hear from
you, to know if it will be agreeable to you.

"A few evenings ago, I paid a very pleasant visit to an old friend of
Mr. Lewis's, which will afford me ample materials for this letter. He is
what Mr. Lewis calls a _virtuoso_, which signifies, a person fond of
antique and natural curiosities. You will, therefore, suppose I was not
at a loss for amusement. In one cabinet was a number of stuffed birds
and beasts; amongst others, a little animal somewhat resembling a rat,
but rather smaller. It legs are short and slender; the fore-legs longer
than the hind ones. Its head is of a pointed form; the colour of its
body tawny, and variegated with large black spots, irregularly arranged;
and the belly is white, tinged with yellow. There appeared to me so
little that was uncommon in this animal, that I could not help asking
Dr. Sinclair, on what account he had given it a place among so many
curiosities. 'I value that little animal,' said he, 'as much as any in
my collection. It is the Leming, or Lapland Marmot, and is distinguished
from other quadrupeds, by habits peculiar to itself. It is only found in
the northern part of our continent, where immense numbers of these
little animals sometimes overspread large tracts of country, especially
in Lapland, Sweden, and Norway. Their appearance happens at uncertain
periods; but fortunately for the inhabitants of these countries, not
oftener than once or twice in twenty years. As the source whence they
originate in such astonishing numbers, is as yet unexplored by the
naturalist, it is no wonder that the ignorant Laplander should seriously
believe that they are rained from the clouds.  Myriads of these animals
pour down from the mountains, and form an overwhelming troop, which
nothing can resist.  The disposition of their march is generally in
lines, about three feet asunder, and exactly parallel.  In this order
they advance with as much regularity as a well-disciplined army; and, it
is remarked, that their course is from the north-west or south-east.
They frequently cover the extent of a square mile, travelling in the
night.  They always halt in the day, and in the evening resume their
march.  No opposition can stop them; and, whatever way their course is
directed, neither fire not water can turn them out of their road.  If a
lake or river intercept their progress, they will swim across, or perish
in the attempt; if a fire interrupt their course, they instantly plunge
into the flames; if a well, they dart down into it; if a hay-rick, they
eat through it; and, if a house stand in their way, they either attempt
to climb over it, or eat through it; but, if both be impracticable, they
will rather die with famine before it, than turn out of the way.  If
thousands perish, thousands still supply their place, until the whole
column be destroyed.  Wherever they pass, they annihilate every trace of
vegetation, and, when subsistence fails, are said to divide into two
different armies, which engage with the most deadly hostility, and
continue fighting and devouring each other, till they are all entirely
destroyed. Numbers of them are devoured by foxes, weasels, &c. which
follow them in their march, so that none are ever known to return from
their migrations."

"I thanked Dr. Sinclair for his curious and entertraining account, with
which, I hope, my dear Louisa, you also have been amused. A very
beautiful, large, white cat, took possession of Dr. Sinclair's kneee,
the moment he seated himself in his elbow chair by the fire-side. It
licked his hand in a caressing manner, and seemed, by every means in its
power, to testify the greatest affection towards him. From the old
gentleman's kindness, in giving me so amusing an account of the Leming,
I was encouraged to enter into conversation with him upon the merits of
his cat. 'Some naturalists,' said I, 'have represented that animal as
insensible of kindness, and incapable of attachment; but I cannot help
thinking this is a great mistake.  We have a cat, at houme, that is very
fond of me; and yours, Sir, seems much attached to you.' 'The cat is, on
many accounts, unjustly aspersed,' said he: 'excepting the dog, I know
of no animal that appears capable of stronger attachment. It is also
reproached with treachery and cruelty; but are not the artifices it
uses, the particular instincts which the all-wise Creator has given it,
conformable to the purposes for which it is designed? Being destined to
prey upon the mouse, a lively, active animal, possessing many means of
escape, artifice is absolutely necessary for the accomplishment of its
end.  I can, however, say nothing in extenuation of its cruelty, in
sporting with the unfortunate victim that falls into its power, in
prolonging its tortures, and putting it to a lingering death.  This, it
must be confessed, is not a very favourable trait in its character.
Notwithstanding all this, it certainly renders very essential services
to man, and merits, in return, his kindness and protection.' I admired
the beauty of Tom, for so Dr. Sinclair calls his favourite.  'His beauty
is not his most remarkable property,' said the Doctor: 'this cat was
once the cause of detecting a murderer.' I was astonished, as I doubt
not, you, Louisa, will be also, and requested he would relate to me the
particulars of so extraordinary a fact. This he kindly did, as follows:

"Some time ago, when I was pursuing the duties of my profession, as a
physician, I was requested to enquire into the particulars of a murder,
that had been committed upon a woman in the city where I lived.  In
consequence of this request, I went to the habitation of the deceased,
where I found her extended lifeless on the floor, and weltering in her
blood.  This cat was mounted on the cornice of a cupboard, at the
further end of the apartment, where he seemed to have taken refuge.  He
sat motionless, with his eyes fixed on the corpse, and his attitude and
looks expressing horror and affright.  The following morning, he was
found precisely in the same position; and, when the room was filled with
officers of justice, neither the clattering of the soldier's arms, nor
the loud conversations of the company, could, in the least degree,
divert his attention.  As soon, however, as the suspected persons were
brought in, his eyes glared with increased fury, his hair bristled, he
darted into the middle of the apartment, where he stopped for a moment
to gaze at them, and then retreated precipitately under the bed.  The
countenances of the assassins were disconcerted, and they were, for the
first time during the whole course of the horrid business, abandoned by
their usual audacity.  I felt much interested for poor puss, and, as no
other person laid claim to him, I secured him for myself; and Tom and I
have been the best friends imaginable, ever since.'

"I felt my respect for Tom greatly increased by this story, the detail
of which has so completely filled my letter, that I have not space to
tell you of half the curiosities contained in Dr. Sinclair's cabinet.
One thing, however, I must find room to describe; this is, a piece of
cloth, which, judging merely from its outward appearance, I considered
still more unworthy than the little Leming, of a place among so many
rarities, and again ventured to express my surprise.  'Never allow
yourself to form such hasty conclusions, my dear boy,' said Dr.
Sinclair, taking my hand in the kindest manner: 'a rough exterior often
conceals real merit.  This you will find to be the case in your future
commerce with the world, as well as in examining the cabinet of a
_virtuoso_.  That piece of cloth, and this bit of paper,' said he,
opening one of the drawers and showing it to me, 'are made from a stone
called asbestos.' 'A stone!' said I, with astonishment: 'is that
possible, Sir?' 'It is very true, my dear,' replied he: 'this kind of
linen cloth was greatly esteemed by the ancients.  It was considered as
precious as the richest pearls. The most remarkable property belonging
to it, is, its being incombustible; that is, it cannot be consumed by
fire.  Among the Romans, napkins were made of it, which when soiled,
were thrown into the fire, and by this means much more completely
cleaned, than they could have been by washing.  Its principal use was
for making shrouds, to wrap up the dead bodies of their kings, so that
their ashes might be preserved distinct from those of the wood composing
the funeral pile.'

"I enquired where this very curious stone was found.  He told me that
there were ten species of it, and that it was discovered in many of the
European mountains, particularly in those of Lapland, Sweden, and
Germany; as well as in Candia, an island of the Mediterranean; and in
China.

"I enquired, whether it was used for any other purpose than the
manufacture of cloth and paper.  To which Dr. Sinclair replied, that he
understood, the Chinese employed it as an ingredient in the formation of
their finest porcelain.

"You may easily imagine, my dear Louisa, how much I enjoyed the
conversation of this kind and sensible man.  I hope Mr. Lewis will allow
me to accompany him, the next time he pays him a visit.  And now I must
beg of you to give my love to little Sophy, and tell her I have sent her
a work-bag and pin-cushion, and hope I shall hear she grows very notable
and industrious.  Give my duty to my dear father and mother; and love to
Emily, Edward, and Ferdinand; and believe me, my dear Louisa, your
affectionate brother,

"CHARLES BERNARD."

_Mrs. B._  Very well, Louisa, you have done your brother's letter
justice, by the manner in which you have read it; and great amusement it
has afforded me, I assure you.

_Emily_.  I have been both amused and instructed by it.  I never heard
of the Leming before; it is a most curious little animal.  I am glad
Clarles is studying natural history, as, no doubt, he will meet with
many pretty anecdotes to relate to us.  Is it not a pleasing science,
mamma?

_Mrs. B._.  It is, indeed, my dear.  No study tends so greatly to
enlarge the mind.  You already know something of botany, and have
admired the wisdom manifested in the formation of the minutest flower;
for

              "Not a tree,
              A plant, a leaf, a blossom, but contains
              A folio volume.
              We may read, and read,
              And read again, and still find something new;
              Something to please, and something to instruct,
              E'en in the nuisanceweed."

A deeper research into the beauties of nature, will excite in you still
greater attentions and astonishment, and will, I am sure, fill you with
reverence towards the Divine Author of so many wonders.  I hope Charles
will not merely relate to us the amusing anecdotes he meets with, but
enter scientifically upon the subject; as it is impossible to gain clear
ideas, without great method and regularity.

_Louisa_.  I hope, mamma, we shall not, in natural history, have long
lists of classes and orders to learn by heart, as we had when we began
botany; for I cannot say I think all those hard names at all
entertaining.

_Mrs. B._  Perhaps not, my dear; but nothing that is valuable, can be
attained without difficulty.  I would wish to smooth the path for you as
much as I can, but learning is "labour, call it what you will;" and
without strict attention, and industrious perseverance, you will never
attain perfection in any thing. The classes and orders in that division
of natural history, called the animal kingdom, are, however, by no means
difficult.  There are, in botany, as you no doubt recollect, twenty-four
classes; in natural history, there are but six.

"Will you be so kind as to repeat them to us, mamma?" said Louisa.

_Mrs. B._  Willingly, my dear.  The first is called Mammalia, and
consists of Quadrupeds and Whales; the second, Birds; third, Amphibia;
fourth, Fishes; fifth, Insects; and sixth, Worms.

_Louisa_.  That seems very easy.  I think I could soon learn those six
classes.  Are there many orders, mamma?

_Mrs. B._  In the class Mammalia there are seven.  But we must not talk
of them just at present, or our Roman history will be forgotten.

_Edward_.  Before we change the subject, will you be so good as to tell
me, mamma, what you meant by saying, that division of natural history
called the animal kingdom. Are there, then, many divisions?

_Mrs. B._  There are three, my dear. The first consisting of Minerals;
the second, of Vegetables; and the third, of Animals.

_Mr. B._  Well, my dears, now do not forget what you have been already
told, and another day we will talk further on this subject: for the
present, let us attend to our history. We concluded with the death of
Ancus Martius. Who succeeded to the crown, Emily?

_Emily._  Lucius Tarquinius Priscus. He was the son of a merchant of
Corinth, which is a large city of Greece. This man had acquired a
considerable fortune by trade, which was inherited by his son Lucumo,
who took the name of Tarquinius, from Tarquinia, a city of Hetruria,
where his wife Tanaquil lived, previous to her marriage. His birth being
considered contemptible by the nobles of this place, he, by his wife's
persuasions, settled in Rome, where merit alone gave distinction.

_Mr. B._  What remarkable circumstance is said to have occurred to him
on his way thither, Ferdinand?

_Ferdinand._  As he approached the city gate, historians say, that an
eagle, stooping from above, took off his hat, and, after flying round
his chariot for some time, with a great noise, put it on again. From
this circumstance, his wife, Tanaquil, foretold that he would one day
wear the crown.

_Mr. B._  By what means, Edward, did he obtain this object of his
ambition?

_Edward._  The two sons of Ancus were left under his guardianship. He
was a skillful politician, and found out the secret of making himself a
great favourite with the people. He used every artifice to set aside
these children, and to get himself elected in their stead. For this
purpose, he contrived to have them sent out of the city, and made a long
speech, mentioning his friendship for the people, the fortune he had
spent among them, together with his knowledge of their government, and
concluded by offering himself for their king. The people, with one
consent, elected him as their sovereign.

_Mr. B._  Pray, Louisa, can you tell me how he has governed the city he
had so unjustly obtained?

_Louisa._  Much more properly, papa, than might have been expected. The
first thing he did, was to add a hundred members to the senate: so that
it now consisted of three hundred. He was disposed to live in peace, but
the Latins and Sabines rose up against him: however, after a severe
conflict, he subdued them both.  Peace being restored, he employed his
subjects in many useful works for the improvement of the city, that they
might not grow corrupted through indolence.

_Mr. B._  This conduct in Tarquinius, shows great wisdom; for it is very
true, that "idleness is the root of all evil."  In states it foments
discord, and in private life occasions misery and ruin.  Well,
Ferdinand, what have you to tell us?

_Ferdinand_.  There is a curious account of Attius Nævius, a famous
augur, (this signifies a kind of prophet, who could foretel future
events.) The Romans used to place great confidence in these people, and
Tarquinius, wishing to try this man's skill, sent for him; and, when he
was come into the midst of the Forum, said to him: "diviner, canst thou
discover, by thy art, whether what I am thinking of can be done or not?
Go and consult thy birds."  The augur did as he was ordered, and
returning quickly, answered:  "Yes, Tarquin, my art tells me, that what
thou art thinking of may be done." Upon which Tarquin pulled a razor
from under his robe, took a flint in his hand, and replied,
contemptuously, "I was thinking, whether it were possible to cut this
flint with this razor. I have taken thee in thy own craft.  The
introducing of the gods into thy decisions, is all cheat and imposture.
If thou canst do what is impossible, do."  At these words the people
burst out a laughing, but the augur did not appear at all moved.  He, on
the contrary, addressed himself to the king, with a bold air, and said,
"Put the razor to the flint and try.  I readily submit to any
punishment, if what you thought of be not done."  Upon trial, the razor
passed through with the greatest ease.  The people then gave a loud
shout, and the king's contempt for the augur was turned into admiration.
This is a very extraordinary account: but do you think it is true, papa.

_Mr. B._  I do not, my dear.  I think it is a mere fabulous invention;
and this was the opinion of the great orator, Tully, who was himself an
augur.  Writing to his brother, he says, "Look with contempt on the
razor and flint of the famous Attius.  When we reason as philosophers,
we ought to lay no stress upon fables." How did Tarquin close his long
life, Emily?

_Emily_.  In the eightieth year of his age, and thirty-seventh of his
reign, he was murdered by the artifices of the sons of Ancus Martius.
They hired two young men, who dressed themselves like peasants, with
hatchets on their shoulders, as if they had been wood-cutters.  They
approached the kings palace, pretending to have a quarrel about some
goats, and made so much disturbance, that they were carried before the
king.  At first they began to rail at each other, until a lictor
interfered, and ordered them to speak by turns.  Then one of them began
to tell his story, and, whilst the king was listening to it very
attentively, the other, lifting up his hatchet, gave him a deep wound on
his head, and instantly ran out of doors with his companion. Whilst some
of the company hastened to assist the king, others pursued the ruffians
and seized them.  On being put to the torture, they confessed by whom
they had been employed.

_Ferdinand_.  Pray, papa, what is the meaning of being put to the
torture?

_Mr. B._  It is a most barbarous punishment, my dear.  The unhappy
victim is extended upon a wheel, which stretches his limbs till they are
all dislocated; and it has frequently happened, that many poor wretches,
unable to endure such severe torments, have made confessions of crimes
they never committed, in order to free themselves from the severity of
their sufferings. How did queen Tansquil set upon the death of her
husband?

_Edward_.  She did not lose her presence of mind, but cleared the
palace of the crowd, shutting herself up in the apartment of the
expiring king, with only Servius Tullius, who was her son-in-law, his
wife, and Octivia his mother.  She pressed him to ascend the throne,
that Tarquin's two grandsons might be safe under his protection: then,
opening the window which looked into the street, she bade the people be
under no concern, since the wound was not deep, and the king, having
only been stunned by the sudden blow, was come to himself. She concluded
by expressing her hopes, that they would see him again very shortly;
declaring that it was their sovereign's orders, that, till that time,
they should obey Servius Tullius. This stratagem succeeded.  The report
that the king would soon be well again, so terrified the sons of Ancus,
that they went, of their own accord, into banishment.

_Mr. B._  How did Servius proceed, Louisa?

_Louisa_.  The second day after the murder of Tarquin, he took his seat
on the throne, in the royal robes, and heard causes; some of which he
decided himself, and, in difficult cases, pretended he would consult the
king.  He continued this management some time, and by his prudent
conduct gained the love of the people. At last, when he thought his
authority well established, the death of Tarquin was announced, as a
thing which had just happened, and Servius continued in power, without
being positively chosen as king.  That is all we have read at present,
papa.  I hope we shall hear something more about Servius, as I do not
think I clearly understand who he was, except that he was son-in-law to
Tarquinius. _Mr. B._  Oh, no doubt, all those matters will be cleared up
to your satisfaction to-morrow, Louisa. For the present we must
separate, my dears, as our conversation has been already prolonged
beyond your usual hour. Good night, my dear children.


CONVERSATION VI.


MR. AND MRS. BERNARD, EMILY, EDWARD LOUISA, FERDINAND, AND SOPHY,
_standing by her mother._

_Sophy_. Mamma, may I stay with you a little time to-night. I am not
sleepy at all.

_Mrs. B._ You may stay till seven o'clock, my dear, but not later, as we
must not break through good rules. When you are as old as Ferdinand, you
shall sit with us as long as he does; but, whilst you are such a little
girl, after tea, bed is quite the best place for you.

"Early to bed, and early to rise, Is the way to grow healthy, wealthy,
and wise."

_Sophy_. Well, mamma, I want very much to grow a clever girl, like
Emily; but how can going to bed early make me wise? If I might sit up
with you and papa, you would teach me a great many things, as you do
Fedinand; but when I am in bed, I go to sleep and learn nothing.

_Mrs. B._ But your sleep does you a vast deal of good, my little dear.
It makes you rosy and healthy, and will strengthen your memory too; so
that when you are older, you will learn your lessons much better, and
quicker, than those little unfortunate children who have been spoiled by
the silly indulgence of their nurses.

These arguments, together with an assurance that cheerful obedience
would make her dear father and mother very happy, soon convinced little
Sophy that going to bed early was very proper, though she could not
think it very agreeable; and promising to comply, the moment Mary made
her appearance, she added: "has papa ever heard grandpapa's verses,
which you taught me to-day?  If he has not, I will repeat them to him;
for it is not seven o'clock yet. Is it, mamma?"

_Mrs. B._ No my dear; there will be quite time enough for you to repeat
them to your papa. But first tell him on what occasion they were
written.

_Sophy._ A good while ago, grand-papa had two nice little pigs, and they
one day found some paint in a pot, and thinking it something nice, they
ate it.  There is something in paint that is poison, papa: pray, what is
it?

Mr. Bernard told Sophy that it was white-lead.

_Sophy._ Oh, well then, the white-lead that was in the paint, poisoned
these poor little pigs; and grand-papa had them buried in the orchard,
and wrote the verses, which mamma taught me, over their grave. Now do
you understand, papa? May I begin?

Mr. Bernard assured Sophy he understood her explanation perfectly well,
and was all attention, waiting for her recital.

Upon which she immediately repeated as follows:

"Ye passing pigs, I pray draw nigh, And hear a dreadful tragedy, Of two
fine pigs, as e'er were seen Grazing or grunting on the green: Till on a
time, and near this spot, We chanc'd to spy a painter's pot, White-lead
and oil it did contain, By which we pretty pigs were slain; Therefore a
warning let us be To future pigs, who this may see, With life prolong'd,
and free from pains, To be content with wash and grains."

_Mr. B._ Very well, Sophy. Here is a lesson for little boys and girls,
as well as pigs. Tell me what you have learnt from those lines.


_Sophy._  I do not know, papa: I learnt the verses, and that is all.

_Mr. B._  But that should not be all. There is a very useful lesson
hidden in that story. Try and find it out.

_Ferdinand._  I think I know it.

_Louisa._  And so do I.

_Mr. B._  And so will Sophy, when she has considered a little.

_Sophy._  Aye: yes. I think I have found it out, papa. You mean, that
the tale should teach little boys and girls never to taste things they
do not understand, for fear they should be killed, like the poor little
pigs.

_Mr. B._  That is exactly what I meant, Sophy; and, I assure you, I have
heard of children who have been actually poisoned, by incautiously
eating berries, and other things, which they had met with in their
country walks. You, my dear, have a sad habit of putting leaves and
flowers into your mouth. I hope you will endeavour to break yourself of
it, as, I assure you, it is very dangerous.

_Sophy._  I am going to try to leave it off, papa; for I made my tongue
very sore yesterday, by biting the stalk of a flower, that Ferdinand and
Louisa called lords and ladies.

_Mr. B._  That is an _arum_, the juice of which is, I believe, extremely
poisonous; so pray never put it in your mouth again.

_Sophy._  No, papa, I do not intend it, for it hurt me very much, I
assure you. Oh! here comes Mary. Good night, dear papa and mamma. Good
night all.

Little Sophy, after receiving many affectionate caresses, retired in
high good-humour, and soon forgot her sorrow for the little pigs, in a
gentle slumber.

_Louisa._  Mamma, I remember the names of the six classes in natural
history, which you were so kind as to teach me yesterday. Mammalia,
Birds, Amphibia, Fishes, Insects, and Worms; and now pray tell me the
seven orders, for I do like to know a little of every thing.

_Mr. B._  But that, Louisa, is exactly what I do not wish you to do. I
would greatly prefer that your information should be rather
circumscribed, provided it were correct, than that you should have a
slight smattering of many things, and a thorough knowledge of none. You
may impose upon the illiterate by this superficial information; but the
really wise will soon discover your ignorance, and despise you for
affecting a degree of knowledge you do not possess. Besides which, a
mere smattering of learning is very apt to fill the mind with self-
conceit and vanity, faults from which the really well-informed are
always free. My favourite poet, Pope, says:--

            "A little knowledge is a dangerous thing;
            Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring.
            Here shallow draughts intoxicate the brain,
            But drinking largely sobers us again."

Therefore, my dear, unless you intend to enter decidedly upon the study,
I shall certainly beg your mother not to say any thing further on the
subject.

_Louisa_. Oh, then, I assure you, papa, I will enter decidedly upon it;
as it seems to me as if it would be extremely entertaining.

_Mr. B_. I think, my dear, you have formed your opinion somewhat
prematurely, as you certainly, at present, know very little of the
matter. This, however, with the young and ignorant, is no uncommon
error. I hope your good opinion of the study, will continue when you are
better acquainted with it. There are seven orders belonging to the first
class, as your mother has already informed you; the names of which are,
Primates, Bruta, Ferae, Glires, Picora, Beluae, and Cete.

_Louisa_. Those words are harder than the classics. I doubt I shall find
them more difficult to remember: however, I must write them down, and
try my best. Please not to tell me any more at present, papa. I believe
I shall succeed best, if I do not puzzle myself by attempting too much
at a time.

"I am quite of your opinion there," replied her father.

_Louisa_. Natural history shall be one of my pleasures. I will not call
it a lesson; but will study it when I am most in the fit for it. And
will you be so kind as to help me, papa?

"Willingly, my dear, provided your fit comes on when I am at liberty,"
replied Mr. Bernard.

Louisa thanked her father, adding, "and now I must tell you, that I am
quite satisfied with the account I have read of Servius Tullius. I
perfectly understand now, who he is."

_Ferdinand_. Louisa, before we begin our history, I wish to ask papa a
question about those verses which he repeated a few minutes ago. There
is one line, which I do not think I understand. Please to say them over
once more, papa.

_Mr. B._

                 "A little knowledge is a dangerous thing;
                 Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring.
                 Here shallow draughts intoxicate the brain,
                 But drinking largely sobers us again."

_Ferdinand_. The first line is plain enough; but I do not at all know
the meaning of Pierian, which is in the second.

_Mr. B_. It is an epithet applied to the Muses and poetical
compositions, and takes its name from Pieria, a small tract of country
in Thessaly, in Macedonia, where stands a mountain called Pierius, on
which the nine Muses are said to have been born.

_Ferdinand_.  Are not all those places in Greece?

_Mr. B._  Yes, my dear.

_Louisa_.  Who were the Muses, pray, papa?

_Mr. B._  They were supposed to be goddesses, presiding over poetry,
music, dancing, and all the liberal arts, and were said to be daughters
of Jupiter.

_Emily_.  Those stores of the heathen gods and goddesses are all
fabulous, I suppose, papa!

_Mr. B._  Yes, my dear, completely so.  Do you understand the second
line now, Ferdinand?

_Ferdinand_.  Yes.  Pierian spring is another term for learning or
knowledge.  That makes the sense of all the lines perfectly clear, I
think.

_Mr. B_  Louisa may then give us an account of Servius Tullius, who, you
will recollect, was the sixth king of Rome.

_Louisa_.  He was the son of Ocrisia, a very beautiful and virtuous
lady, who was taken prisoner by the Romans when they sacked Corniculum.

_Mr. B._  Can you tell us, Edward, where Corniculum is situated?

_Edward_.  Yes, papa, it is a town of Latium, a country of Italy, near
the river Tiber.  This territory has now changed its name, and is called
Campagna di Roma.

_Ferdinand_.  May we look in the map for it, papa?

_Mr. B._  By all means, my dear.  I believe no plan of learning
geography is so effectual as that of finding, on the map, the different
towns that you meet with in the course of your reading. The names of
many places have been so completely changed latterly, that you will find
it useful to compare together the ancient and modern maps.  By this
means, both names will become familiar to you.  But now for the place in
question.

_Ferdinand_.  I have found it, papa.  It is bounded on the north by the
patrimony of St. Peter, on the east by Abruzzo, on the south by Terra di
Lavora, and on the west by the Mediterranean.

_Mr. B_  I see you are looking on the ancient map, Emily.  How is it
bounded there?

_Emily_.  On the north by Etruria, on the east by Salbina, on the south
by Samnium, and on the west by the Mediterranean Sea.

_Mr. B._  Very well, Now, Louisa, you may go on with your account of
Servius.

_Louisa_.  I told you that his mother's name was Ocrisia, papa; but who
his father was, seems uncertain.  Tarquin made a present of his fair
captive, to queen Tanaquil, who grew extremely attached to her, and
restored her to freedom. But as her son was born whilst she was in a
state of servitude, he took the name of Servius.

_Mr. B._ Is anything extraordinary related respecting the infancy of
this child, Ferdinand?

_Ferdinand._ Yes, papa; it is declared that a sudden flame, in the form
of a crown, surrounded his head one day whilst he was asleep, which was
supposed to foretel his future greatness.

_Mr. B._ Who had the charge of his education, Emily?

_Emily._ The king and queen, who loved him as tenderly as if he had been
their son. It was, however, chiefly to his own wise, noble, and amiable
conduct, that he owed his elevation to the throne. He distinguished
himself by his military achievements, even before he attained the age of
manhood; and his reputation increasing as he advanced in years, and
being joined to pleasing manners, manly eloquence, and uncommon
abilities in council, gained him the esteem and affection of the people.
He was twice married: first to a lady of illustrious birth, and, after
her death, to Tarquinia, daughter of the king and queen. Upon this
alliance, the king placed in him the most unbounded confidence,
entrusting him with the management, both of his public and private
affairs; of all which he acquitted himself so well, that the people were
perfectly indifferent whether they were governed by him or Tarquin. This
accounts for his having so easily gained possession of the throne, on
the death of his father-in-law.

_Mr. B._ In what manner did Servius conduct himself, after his accession
to the throne, Edward?

_Edward._ He determined, as much as possible, to make the peaceful Numa
his pattern, and directed his attention to the improvement of the civil
government of Rome. Although his accession to the throne had been
unattended by tumult, the beginning of his reign was disturbed by the
dissatisfaction of the nobles. They were not pleased at his ascending
the throne without being duly elected to it, and determined, if
possible, to oblige him to lay aside his royalty. In this emergency,
Servius endeavoured to gain over the people to his cause, that he might
employ their power against the patricians. For this purpose, he
assembled them together, and, with a grandson of Tarquin in each hand,
addressed them in a very moving speech, declared himself the protector
of the poor children, and the guardian of their helpless infancy, and
implored the assistance of the people in this arduous undertaking; at
the same time, promising them freedom from slavery.

_Mr. B_ Provided Servius performed this promise, this plan was
calculated to interest the people greatly in his behalf. "Well, papa,"
said Louisa, "he did keep his promise: for, a few days afterwards, he
commanded all those people who were too poor to pay their debts, to send
him an account of them; and then, causing counting-houses to be opened
in the Roman Forum, he there paid all with his own money. Besides which,
he made a much more equal distribution of the lands, and, by every means
in his power, endeavoured to gain the affection of the lower orders of
the people. Now, Edward, will you please to give papa some account of
the war in which Servius was obliged to engage against the Veientes; for
I like to speak about peaceable times best."

_Edward._ So do I, indeed, Louisa. I do not like war at all, I assure
you, nor did Servius Tullius. His inclination led him much more to works
of peace and civil government, than to military exploits; yet he found
himself obliged to embark in a war. It proved a very long one too, but
brought much glory, both to the Roman people and to their king. The
Veientes, whom Tarquin had often subdued, refused now to recognize the
sovereignty of Rome, and treated with scorn some ambassadors sent from
thence, to claim their submission. "We entered," said they, "into no
treaty with the _son of a slave_, nor will we ever submit to Servius's
dominion. Tarquin is dead, and our obligations to be subject to the
Romans, are dead with him."

_Mr. B._ Pray where did these haughty people reside, Edward?

_Edward._ At Veii, papa, a powerful city of Etruria, about twelve miles
distant from Rome.

_Mr. B._ Perfectly right. I imagine, the confidence of the Veientes
proceeded partly from the hopes they entertained of profiting by the
dissensions between the king and senate of Rome. Nothing weakens a state
so much as internal discord. The moral of the old man's bundle of
sticks, might be as properly applied to the larger communities of men,
as to his own little family. You all know the story to which I allude:
do you not?

_Ferdinand._ I do. You know, I read it to you the other day, papa.

_Emily._ But we do not; so, perhaps, papa, you will be so kind as to
tell is us.

_Mr. B._ We will not interrupt our Roman history now; when you have
finished your account, Ferdinand shall relate the story to you. Now,
Edward, proceed.

_Edward._ The Veientes prepared for war, and drew two other neighbouring
states, those of Caere and Tarquinia, into their party. But Servius, by
his courage and conduct, subdued the confederates, deprived them of
their lands, and transferred them to the new citizens of Rome, who had
no lands of their own. The success of Servius attached the people still
more to his interest, and he resolved to take advantage of their favour,
in order to render his title to the throne still more secure. He,
therefore, a second time assembled the citizens, and in a moving speech,
which drew tears from their eyes, complained of a design formed by the
patricians to take away his life, and bring back the sons of Ancus. In
the conclusion of his speech, he left the kingdom absolutely at their
disposal, and begged them to determine between him and his pupils on one
side, and their competitors on the other. Having finished his harangue,
he stepped down from the tribunal, and prepared to leave the assembly;
but they called to him to stay, and entreated him to be their king.
Accordingly, a day was appointed, and he was duly elected to the
sovereign power. The senate were not, however, reconciled to him, and
formed so dangerous a faction, that Servius was almost inclined to
renounce the dignity conferred upon him by the people; but imparting his
perplexities to Tanaquil, she disapproved of his intention, and
prevailed upon him to bind himself by an oath, never to resign the
kingdom.

_Mr. B._ Tanaquil was, in many respects, a great woman. She rendered
herself illustrious by her virtues, as well as by her political
abilities. Private life is the sphere most calculated for the display of
female perfection, and here her excellence conspicuously shone. The
king, to immortalize her memory, hung up her distaff in the Temple of
Hercules. I hope my dear girls will endeavour to imitate the domestic
virtues of this excellent woman, rather than her ambitious temper. I do
not wish to see them heroines.

_Emily._ I do not feel ambitious of any thing but my dear parents'
approbation.

_Mr. B._This, affection and obedience, my Emily, will never fail to
obtain. But let us now hear what further befell Servius. If Edward is to
be the recorder of his warlike achievements, I believe we must again
call upon him.

_Edward._ The Etrurians furnished him with an opportunity to increase
his glory. His victories over them obtained for him the honours of a
second triumph, and restored peace to his kingdom. Now, Emily, I again
resign the office of narrator to you.

_Emily._ Servius employed this interval of rest, in enlarging and
adorning the city. He divided the Roman territory into tribes, the
citizens into six different classes, and these classes into centuries. A
tax was levied on each century, according to the class to which it
belonged; by which means, each individual contributed towards the
exigencies of the state, in exact proportion to the amount of his
property. He also increased the number of the citizens, by giving
liberty to the unfortunate captives taken in war; permitting them either
to return to their own countries, or continue at Rome, with the
enjoyment of all the privileges of free citizens. The senate were at
first offended at this regard shown to a people they considered so mean;
but the king addressed to them a very persuasive speech, which entirely
appeased their anger, and they passed his institution into a law, that
subsisted ever after.

_Mr. B._ Another important regulation was, taking an estimate of the
population of the kingdom. It was performed every fifth year,
accompanied with sacrifices, and other religious rites, which were
called lustrations. This led to the computation of time amongst the
Romans, by _lustra_, or periods of five years.

_Louisa._ The most unfortunate thing Servius did, was marrying his
daughters so unsuitably. His two wards, Lutius Tarquinius and Aruns,
were now old enough to be capable of disturbing his government. To
secure their fidelity, therefore, he determined to marry them to his two
daughters; and, without consulting their dispositions, gave his eldest
daughter, who was mild and gentle, to the eldest of his wards, who was
fierce and haughty; and married his youngest girl, who was of a most
ungovernable disposition, to Aruns, who was extremely amiable and
virtuous. It was not likely that either of these marriages would prove
happy ones. Tarquin's wife endeavoured, by every winning way of
sweetness and insinuation, to soften the haughty fierceness of her
husband's temper; whilst her sister was always urging the quiet, good-
natured Aruns, to the most wicked attempts, in order to reach the
throne. She loudly lamented her fate, in being tied to such an indolent,
stupid husband; and being very much like Tarquin she soon began to love
him a great deal better than her own husband, and, at last, proposed to
him that he should murder her father and sister, together with the
gentle Aruns, that they might ascend the throne together. What a
dreadfully wicked woman she must have been, papa.

_Mr. B._ Dreadfully wicked, indeed, my dear. History presents us with
many very painful instances of the depravity of human nature. It is a
useful, but humiliating lesson. Proceed with your account, Louisa.

_Louisa._ A very little time afterwards, this wicked woman contrived to
poison her amiable husband, whilst Tarquin got rid of his virtuous and
gentle wife by the same means; and they were then so insolent as to ask
the consent of the king and queen to their marriage. Servius and
Tarquinia, though they did not give it, were silent. This disgraceful
marriage was celebrated shortly after, and was followed by intrigues
against the king. Tarquin and Tullia had not patience to wait till the
death of the good old monarch, which would have put them into quiet
possession of the crown, but endeavoured, by threats, to make him give
up his authority. When Tarquin found this plan was not likely to
succeed, he acted a new part. By the most affectionate behaviour, he
entirely regained the king's favour, and tranquillity seemed re-
established in the royal family. But it was not long before the cruel
Tullia put an end to it. She reproached her husband with cowardice,
insensibility, and stupidity. He was moved by these reproaches; gained a
number of young patricians over to his party; and contrived a stratagem,
which succeeded from the bold manner in which it was executed. I think
Ferdinand can explain it to you, papa.

_Mr. B._ Well, my boy, let us hear what it was.

_Ferdinand._ He clothed himself in the royal robes, sent some of
servants before, and, followed by a great number of his party, who had
swords under their robes, he crossed the Forum, and came to the gate of
the temple, where the senators used to assemble. He then sent messengers
to them all, commanding them, in king Tarquin's name, to attend
immediately, and seated himself on the throne. All the senators
assembled in haste; many concluded Servius was dead, and were afraid to
disobey the orders of the new king. When they were all collected
together, Tarquin began to rail against his father-in-law. In the midst
of his speech, Servius appeared; and, being enraged by the insolence of
Tarquin, rashly endeavoured to pull him from the throne. This raised a
loud shout, and occasioned great confusion, but nobody attempted to part
them. Tarquin, who was the strongest, seized the poor old man by the
waist, and harrying him through the temple, threw him down from the top
of the steps into the Forum. The old king, grievously hurt, and covered
with blood, raised himself up with much difficulty: but all his friends
had deserted him: scarcely a creature was found to lead him to his
palace, which he was not allowed to reach. Tullia advised her husband to
complete the bloody work he had begun; upon which he dispatched some of
his servants to overtake the venerable monarch, and deprive him of his
small remains of life. On her return home, the body of her murdered
father, still panting, lay in the street she had to pass. This inhuman
woman was not at all shocked at the horrid sight, but commanded the
charioteer to drive over it. The man, who had more feeling than the
cruel daughter, obeyed with reluctance; and, it is said, that not only
the chariot wheels, but even the clothes of the wicked Tullia, were
stained with her parent's blood.

_Edward._ Such horror was excited by these atrocities, and especially by
the barbarity of Tullia, that the street in which the transaction took
place, the day on which it was perpetrated, and the very name of the
parricide, were branded with perpetual infamy.

_Louisa._ I am glad that shocking account is finished: it really makes
one feel very uncomfortable. Servius was so good a man, too, I quite
pity him.

_Mr. B._ His wicked daughter is an object of still greater pity. The
sufferings of the good old king, we may hope, ended with this life;
whilst, we have every reason to believe, that the punishment of the
unnatural Tullia, would extend to the countless ages of eternity.
Servius was, indeed, an excellent prince: he subdued the enemies of
Rome, and was always desirous to avoid making new ones. He did not
conquer merely for the sake of glory, but for the public good. He made
Rome more formidable by twenty years' peace, than his predecessors had
done by many victories. He introduced order into the militia and public
revenues, extended the power of the senate, and yet kept its authority
within proper bounds. He was beloved by the people, and even his ancient
enemies, the patricians, esteemed his virtues; so that, if he could have
preserved the affection of his own family, he might have been said not
to have had a single enemy. He was, at the time of his death, seventy-
four years of age; of which he had reigned forty-four years. Tarquin
refused him the honours of a funeral, lest it might occasion a commotion
among the people. Tarquinia conveyed the body of her husband, privately,
by night, to his tomb, and she herself died on the following evening;
but whether from grief, or the wickedness of Tullia, is uncertain.

_Mrs. B._ This is, indeed, my dear children, a mournful account; but it
contains a very important lesson to all who are subject to the same
criminal enormities. At the commencement of her dreadful career, Tullia
would, perhaps, have recoiled with horror, from the hideous picture of
her own crimes. She might have remonstrated, as did Hazael to the
prophet: "What! is thy servant a dog, that he should do this great
thing?" The example of Tullia, forcibly teaches the progressive nature
and dreadful consequences of sin. It points out to us the danger of
entering upon a course of criminal indulgence, by showing the sad
extremes into which those are likely to be hurried, who resign
themselves slaves to ambition and to vice. Listen not, my children, to
the syren song of worldly pleasure; pursue not the gilded pageants of
time. Instead of amusing yourselces with these phantoms of a moment,
build up your happiness on the durable foundations of innocence and
virtue. Let us now turn from the dismal picture we have been
contemplating, though without forgetting the important lesson it
inculcates.  Ferdinand, my dear, tell us your promised story of the old
mand and his bundle of sticks.

_Ferdinand_.  An old man had several sons, who used very often to
quarrel with each other. Their father exerted his authority, and tried
every means in his power, in order to reconcile them, but all to no
purpose.  At length he assembled his family together, and ordered a
short bundle of sticks be brought, which he commanded them, one by one,
to endeavour to break.  They each tried, with all their might, but in
vain.  The sticks were firmly bound together, and no force they could
employ, could break them.  After this, the old man untied the bundle,
and gave a single stick to each of his sons, bidding them try to break
_that_, which they did with the greatest ease.  The father then said:
"Behold, my dear children, the power of unity.  If you would keep
yourselves strictly joined together by the bond of friendship, it would
not be in the power of any one to hurt you; but when once the ties of
brotherly love are dissolved, you are liable to be injured by the attack
of every enemy."

_Mr. B_.  It is an excellent fable, and I hope, my beloved children, you
will all attend to the lesson it conveys.  To see you united by the
tender hands of affection, is one of the first wishes of our hearts for
you.

"What a very pleasing manner of conveying instruction, is a fable," said
Edward.

"It is, my love," replied his father: "the ancients were aware of this,
and made great use of fables in their instruction of the young:
'Whatever is conceived by the mind, must enter by the senses; and moral
truth is never so easily understood, as when it is exemplified by
reference to some parallel case in nature.'  The various instincts of
brute creatures, are particularly useful for this purpose.  Moral good
and evil are, through their means, represented in a way which even
children can understand."

"Can you tell me, papa, what was the first origin of fables?" enquired
Ferdinand.

"It is not very clear, my dear," replied Mr. Bernard, "but it is
probable they are nearly as ancient as the history of mankind; or, at
least, that there never was a time, of which we have any knowledge, when
they were no familiar.  We first read of them as being used in Palestine
and Egypt, from whence they were even borrowed by the Greeks and Romans.
The earliest specimen of fables with which I am acquainted, occurs in
the book of Judges, where Jotham signifies to the people, the temper and
fate of a usurper, under the similitude of the trees going forth to
choose them a king." [Footnote: See Jones, on the Origin and Use of
Fables.]

_Ferdinand._  It is in the ninth chapter of Judges. I read it this
morning, but did not quite understand the intention of it.

_ Mr. B._  I will endeavour to explain it to you then, my love. You will
recollect, that the fruitful trees, when applied to, all declined taking
upon them the sovereign authority; but the bramble offers his services,
and gets into power. The moral of which, as applicable to the person of
Abimelech, was this:--that the desire of reigning does not prevail in
wise and good men, who should feed the people, and protect them under
the shadow of their authority; but chiefly in men of rough minds and
bloody intentions, who harass the people, and are, at last, consumed
with them, in the unjust exercise of their power.

"The parables made use of by our Saviour, are, I think, very much in the
form of fables," said Emily.

_Mrs. B._  They are, my love. They were delivered in this manner, for
the sake of some moral, which would either be obscure without an
illustration, or offensive to the bearers, if it were delivered in plain
terms.

_Louisa._  Nathan's reproof to king David, when he took away the wife of
Uriah the Hittite, is very beautiful. I read it a little time ago, in
the twelfth chapter of the second book of Samuel. He made use of a fable
to gain his attention.

_Mrs. B._  He did, my love. By putting a case in which David seemed to
have no immediate concern, he interested his affections; and when his
indignation was raised against a fictitious person, the prophet turned
it upon himself, with that striking application: "Thou art the man."
Then there was no retracting: he had already condemned himself, in the
judgement he had passed upon the cruel offender in the parable.

Mrs. Bernard now took out her watch, and expressed her surprise upon
finding it near ten o'clock.

Their father immediately requested them to prepare to retire, adding:
"To-morrow will be Sunday: I hope you will be in my study by seven
o'clock, that we may begin early the important duties of that sacred
day."

_Ferdinand._  I have been often surprised to find, that many people lie
longer in bed on Sundays, then on the other mornings of the week. This
must be wrong. They can rise six days a week to work, and not one to
worship. [Footnote: This was an observation, _verbatim_, of the same
little boy before mentioned.]

_Mr. B._ Your remark is a just one, my dear boy; let us, in our own
family, endeavour to set a different example. Good night, my children.


CONVERSATION VII.


The little party assembled this evening, as usual; but, being Sunday,
the conversation was less general, though not less cheerful than at
other times. Mr. and Mrs. Bernard possessed the happy art of presenting
religious instruction to their children, under the most pleasing form;
consequently, they did not dread the approach of the sabbath, as a day
when all pleasure must be excluded. On the contrary, it was hailed with
gladness: the business of the week was entirely laid aside, and their
minds were naturally turned, in thankfulness, towards the Divine Being
to whom they owed so much. The gracious God was always presented to
their view, surrounded by his benign attributes. They were instructed to
regard him, not only as the author of their existence, but as the source
whence every comfort flowed. They were taught to consider him, not a
severe judge, delighting in punishment, but a merciful father, who
withheld not even his only Son, but freely gave him up to die for
sinners, that they might be pardoned through his blood.  They were
instructed, fully to appreciate that mercy, which delighteth not in the
death of a sinner, but would rather that he should be converted and
live.  The beautiful prayers in the Liturgy, were explained to them in a
manner suitable to their different capacities; consequently, they were
not repeated by rote, as is too frequently the case, where the same
attention is not paid. Mr. and Mrs. Bernard took unremitted pains with
their children, and felt themselves amply rewarded by their conduct; for
though, like other human beings, they were fallible, and, consequently,
often did wrong, yet religious principle being the ground-work of their
characters, conviction instantly followed the commission of a fault, and
sorrow and repentance succeeded.

I hope, my dear young readers, you feel some degree of interest in my
little family, and some of you, perhaps, may wish to be as good and as
happy as they were: let me then most earnestly and affectionately
entreat you, to "remember your Creator in the days of your youth: while
the evil days come not, nor the years draw nigh, when you shall say, I
have no pleasure in them."

After Ferdinand had repeated the text, and Emily, Edward, and Louisa,
had given an abstract of the sermon they had heard in the morning,
Louisa added: "I should have liked the sermon much better, mamma, if the
preacher had not been such a disagreeable-looking man."

"I should not have expected to have heard my little Louisa make so
foolish and improper a remark," replied Mrs. Bernard: "it reminds me of
an anecdote which I read a short time ago.  I will relate it to you, as
I think I cannot give you a more suitable reproof.  A person once
excusing his non-attendance at public worship, by pleading the
disagreeable appearance and manner of the minister, 'Let us look,' said
the good Bishop of Alet, to whom this man was addressing himself, 'more
at our Saviour, and less at the instrument.  Elijah was as well
nourished, when the bread from heaven was brought to him by a raven, as
Ishmael, when the spring of water was revealed to him by an angel.'"

"Thank you, my dear mamma," said Louisa: "it is a beautiful anecdote,
and I shall endeavour not to merit another reproof upon that subject."

Mrs. Bernard then produced a letter, which she had received from a
friend the day before, and desired Emily to read it aloud, as it
contained an account which she thought would both interest and instruct
the children.  "Read it slowly, my dear girl," continued she, "endeavour
to avoid hesitation, and lay your emphasis properly.  This is a very
material point. Lindley Murray, in his excellent Introduction to the
English Reader, says: 'It is one of the most decisive trials of a true
and just taste, and must arise from feeling delicately ourselves, and
from judging accurately of what is fittest to strike the feelings of
other.'"

Emily promised to attend to her mother's instructions, and taking the
letter, read the following extract.

"In the autumn of the year 1808, eight passengers, consisting of seven
gentlemen and one lady, embarked on board an American vessel, bound from
the port of Cronstadt to America, purposing to touch at England, in
company with a brig and another vessel.  They had scarcely proceeded
fifty leagues, when a violent storm arose.  The night was unusually
dark, and the ship ungovernable.  In this extremity, the brig suddenly
dashed against them with such force, that every plank seemed rent
asunder, and an instant after, they found themselves transfixed upon a
rock.  It was now near five o'clock in the morning.  They repeatedly
fired guns of distress, hung out signals, and at daybreak beheld, with
grateful delight, a large boat, rowed by two stout females, approaching
their ship.  The captain insisted that his eight passengers should go on
board the boat, whilst he and the seamen hastened to attempt the
preservation of their luggage and stores.  He entreated the women to
land their charge in safety, and then return, as expeditiously as
possible, for himself and his six sailors; as the ship leaked very fast,
and though the storm was abated, they were surrounded by such a cluster
of rocks, as to deprive them of all hope of getting off in safety.  The
two heroines steered their charge to the island of Stameo, a barren
rock, which they reached in about an hour. They conducted them to the
best hut on the island.  It was built of mud, and was the habitation of
two sisters, and several other females, who resided under the same roof.
They produced milk, dried fish, and rye bread, for the refreshment of
their wearied and exhausted guests.  They prepared a room, with beds,
for the gentlemen; and one of the boat-women gave up her own to the
lady, sleeping herself upon the oven.  Hospitality, affectionate
civility, and tender solicitude for their comfort, accompanied every
action, and occupied every thought.

"In vain they sought to gain the ship a second time: the swell was so
great, and the surf so strong, that no boat could venture--no vessel
dared approach.  Meanwhile, the generous crew were agitated by a
thousand fears. In vain they waited for the wished-for boat: no answer
was returned to their signals of distress--no pity shown for their
perilous state.

"Distracted by this delay, the captain ordered them to man the jolly-
boat, and arming himself and sailors with swords and pistols: 'My lads,'
said he, 'we will instantly seek our friends, and if the merciless
barbarians have robbed and murdered them, their lives shall pay the just
forfeit of their treachery.'

"The sailors instantly prepared to obey their commander.  They struggled
successfully against the roaring billows, and, benumbed with horror and
despair, at length reached the shore.  Here they wandered from one
wretched hovel to another, but no human voice broke upon their ear.  At
length they espied a solitary cow, and, mute with apprehension, sword in
hand, they hastened to the cot near which she was trying to graze.  With
a trembling hand and beating heart, the captain lifted up the latch,
and, on opening the door, imagine his joy on beholding his happy
shipmates safe.  His tongue denied him utterance--tears gushed
spontaneously to his eyes: with eager grasp he pressed his lost
companions to his heart, and in the rapture of that moment, all his
former sufferings were forgotten.  The hospitable board was filled
again, and every guest received a cordial welcome.

"Eleven days elapsed before the ship was again fit to put to sea.  When
the hour of departure arrived, a mutual interest animated their breasts,
and gratitude broke forth in thanks, from every tongue.  They begged
their kind hostesses to name the sum that would pay, as far as money
could, their offices of Christian charity. Fourteen persons, for eleven
days, to board, wash, and lodge, had nearly exhausted all their winter
store.  After a short consultation, the elder sister returned, with a
large Bible, translated into the Fins language, and given to the
islanders by Gustavus Adolphus, and said: 'We are not aware that we have
acted beyond what every Christian is in duty bound to do.'  Then,
opening the Bible, 'in this,' continued she, 'we learn that duty which
all our Christian brethren practise.  Distress, which claims, must
always find relief while it can be obtained; if, however, it will make
you more happy, that we should take some reward, provided two rubles
(four shillings and eight-pence) be not thought too much, that sum will
amply repay us.'  Then, taking the lady's hand, 'we regret,' continued
she, 'that we can never be assured of what would rejoice our hearts, and
reconcile us most to your departure, which is, that you all reach your
native land in safety, and find your parents and relations well.  Then
wishing them prosperous gales, they bid farewell, and parted, probably
for ever.

"Stameo is situated in the Gulph of Finland. It is one of the small
islands nearly opposite Fredericstadt, and distant about twenty verstes
[Footnote: A Verste is about 3½ English miles.]. It is a barren rock of
granite, with scarcely any herbage, and only a few fir-trees here and
there. It is about three miles in extent, and has ten or twelve mud
huts, containing, men, women, and children, fifty souls. They were
formerly under the dominion of Sweden; but at the defeat of Charles the
Twelfth, by Peter the Great, became subject to the Russian government.
They are of the Lutheran church, though there is no place of public
worship on the island. Both men and women are expert at fishing, on
which they chiefly depend for subsistence; and keep up a sort of traffic
with Fredericstadt, exchanging fish, both dried, fresh, and pickled, for
rye, flax, wood, and vegetables. Their labour exceeds belief: they rise
at four o'clock, and instantly begin the labour of the day. The hut is
first cleaned and put in order: they then commence spinning, in which
they particularly excel, and continue working till eight at night. Their
breakfast is dispensed by the hostess of the hut, to all the family, who
eat it standing. It consists of black bread, fish dried or pickled, and
goat milk, when it is to be had: when that cannot be procured, they are
satisfied with pure water. Sixteen persons out of the fifty lived in
this hut, and were in possession of more comforts than might have been
expected.

"They are very net in their houses, persons, and dress. The bedding is
excellent: the blankets and linen are fine, warm, and white; the pillow-
cases and sheets have fine, open-worked, deep borders. Their dress is
becoming and modest, uniting warmth with convenience. The married women
hide their hair under a close, embroidered, silk cap, with a plain lace
border over their cheeks. The single women exhibit their beautiful
flaxen tresses, which they plat round their heads, or let it hang at
full length, with a knot of ribbon at the end, to confine the braid.

"Their government is truly patriarchal. The mistress of the house is
called mamma, and when advice is wanted, they assemble five or seven of
the elders, who confer on the subject, and decide, in a few minutes, on
the best means of acting. Such was the case when they determined on the
sum to be paid by the strangers.

"As soon as their youth attain the age of fourteen years, they go every
Sunday in boats to Fredericstadt, to learn their creed and catechism,
and to hear the word of God: they are also taught to read and write. In
winter, the clergyman crosses twice to them, to administer the sacrament
to the sick and aged.

"One Christian charity unites their minds. They are faithful to their
promises, honest, temperate, sober, and benevolent. They fear God, and
honour their king. In a word, they are virtuous, innocent, and happy;
and when told of vices, they seem to consider it as we do fairy tales:--
stories to listen to, but not believe.

"Two cows supply them all with milk; a few pigs with animal food: when
these fail, fish and water are the substitutes."

_Edward_.  It is a very interesting account, my dear mother; but I did
not think that any people in the world were so innocent--so free from
vice.  The Scriptures tell us, that the heart of man is deceitful above
all things, and desperately wicked; but this happy little community
seems quite an exception to the general rule.

"No doubt, their hearts, like those of the rest of mankind, are prone to
evil," replied Mrs. Bernard, "but being, from their insulated situation,
in a great measure removed from the commerce of men, and, consequently,
from many temptations by which the inhabitants of large societies are
beset, and making the sacred Scriptures the guide of their conduct, they
appear happily preserved from the commission of those crimes, to which
many individuals, more exposed to the temptations of the world, so
fatally fall victims. Nothing is so destructive to the morals of the
young, as indiscriminate intercourse with the world. In the bosom of
your own family, you are most likely to be secured from a temptation to
false pleasures; and there do I earnestly hope, my dear children, you
will ever find your chief enjoyment; since no felicity is so pure and
innocent, as that which results from an affectionate attachment to your
domestic circle."

_Emily_.  We should be ungrateful, indeed, were we not happy at home; as
I am sure it is the constant endeavour of both you and our dear father,
to make us so.

"We are amply repaid for all our efforts," said her tender mother, "when
the smile of good-humour enlivens your countenances, and beams delight
around our little circle.

"Now, Edward, read us the extract you have made from Sir Matthew Hale's
Contemplation upon Contentment," said Mr. Bernard.

"Indeed, my dear father," replied he, "I am sorry to say I have not
finished it. I put it off on Monday and Tuesday, when I had, certainly,
plenty of time, thinking I should readily accomplish it before the end
of the week; but in consequence of this delay, and several unexpected
circumstances intervening, to employ my time, it is wtill unfinished. I
hope you will excuse this neglect, and by next Sunday I will endeavour
to be prepared."

_Mr. B_.  I am sorry to see in you a sad habit of procrastination, and
want of punctuality. I assure you, my dear boy, that, to a man of
business, such a habit is more ruinous; and if not subdued in youth,
will surely grow the more confirmed by age, and blight his fairest
prospects.

Edward felt the justice of his father's reproof, and, bending his eyes
upon the ground, remained silent, forming a resolution to amend, and
hoping that he might never again incur his father's displeasure for a
similar fault.

Mr. Bernard perceived, by his countenance, what was passing in his mind,
and affectionately taking his hand, confirmed his good resolve by a
smile of approbation. Then, taking up Cecil's Remains, that lay upon the
table, he opened it, and read aloud the following passage:

"Method, as Mrs. More says, is the very hinge of business, and there is
no method without punctuality. Punctuality is important, because it
subserves the peace and good-temper of a family. The want of it not only
infringes on necessary duty, but sometimes excludes this duty.
Punctuality is important, as it gains time: it is like packing things in
a box; a good packer will get in as much again as a bad one. The
calmness of mind which it produces, is another advantage of punctuality.
A disorderly man is always in a hurry: he has no time to speak with you,
because he is going elsewhere; and, when he gets there, he is too late
for his business, or he must hurry away to another before he can finish
it. It was a wise maxim of the Duke of Newcastle:--'I do one thing at a
time.' Punctuality gives weight to character. Such a man has made an
appointment;--then I know he will keep it. And this generates
punctuality in you; for, like other virtues, it propagates itself.
Servants and children must be punctual, where their leader is so.
Appointments, indeed, become debts.--I owe you punctuality, if I have
made an appointment with you; and have no right to throw away your time,
if I do my own."

When Mr. Bernard had finished reading, Edward thanked his father, and
promised to endeavour to correct his bad habit. His parents united in
encouraging him to make a steady effort, assuring him that they felt
convinced that it would be attended with success, and recommending him
to commit to memory the preceding admirable paragraph. His father then
changed the subject, by enquiring whether Louisa had any thing new to
repeat to them before they separated.  She answered in the affirmative,
and immediately recited the following lines from Miss Carter's Poems.

"Grant me, great God, a heart to thee inclin'd, Increase my faith, and
rectify my mind; Teach me by times to tread thy sacred ways, And to thy
service consecrate my days. Still, as through life's perplexing maze I
stray, Be thou the guiding star to mark my way; Conduct the steps of my
unguarded youth, And point their motions to the paths of truth. Protect
me by thy providential care, And warm my soul to shun the tempter's
snare. Through all the shifting scenes of varied life, In calms of ease,
or ruffling storms of grief; Through each event of this inconstant
state, Preserve my temper equal and sedate. Give me a mind that nobly
can despise The low designs, and little arts of vice, Be my religion
such, as taught by thee, Alike from pride and superstition free. Inform
my judgment, regulate my will, My reason strengthen, and my passions
still. To gain thy favour, be my first great end, And to that scope may
every action tend. Amidst the pleasures of a prosperous state, Whose
fluttering chains the untutor'd heart elate, May I reflect to whom those
gifts I owe, And bless the bounteous hand from whence they flow. Or, if
as adverse fortune be my share, Let not its terrors tempt me to despair;
But, fix'd on thee, a steady faith maintain, And own all good, which thy
decrees ordain; On thy unfailing providence depend, The best protector,
and the surest friend. Thus on life's stage may I my part sustain, And
at my exit, thy applauses gain. When the pale herald summons me away,
Support me in that dread catastrophe; In that last conflict guard me
from alarms, And take my soul, aspiring, to thy arms."

_Mrs. B._  The lines are excellent, Louisa, and you have repeated them
as if you understood their meaning.  What is the "pale herald," alluded
to in the last verse?

_Louisa_.  Is it not Death, mamma?

_Mrs. B._  It is, my dear.  The concluding lines contain a supplication
for fortitude and serenity at that awful hour, which every individual
must one day meet.

_Emily_.  There is something very solemn in the contemplation of death,
my dear mother. It is an idea that often casts a gloom over my gayest
hours.

_Mrs. B._  A firm reliance on the power and mercy of God, with an humble
confidence in the redeeming love of Christ, will banish that fearful
dread which might otherwise obscure the closing scene.  Even in that
extremity, the true Christian has nothing to fear; he may say, with the
Psalmist, "though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I
will fear no evil, for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they
comfort me."

At this moment the clock struck eight, at which hour the servants always
joined the family, that they might have the advantage of hearing their
excellent master read such portions of the sacred Scriptures as were
best adapted to their capacities and circumstances; after which, the
solemn duties of the day were closed with prayer and thanksgiving, and
the children retired to their pillows, serene and happy.


CONVERSATION VIII


A very fine autumnal morning induced Mrs. Bernard to excuse the children
some of their lessons, that they might avail themselves of the
opportunity it afforded of enjoying a country walk, at this delightful
season of the year.  She considered every object in nature, as a book
from which, with a careful guide, much useful instruction might be
derived; and she never neglected any opportunity of enlarging their
minds, and elevating their thoughts, by directing their attention from
the various beauties of creation, to the kind and omnipotent Father, who
has graciously prepared for his dependent children, so many unmerited
blessings.

"Pray, mamma, what has become of all the swallows we saw flying about a
few weeks ago?" enquired Ferdinand: "I cannot see one now.  I was very
much amused, when we last walked this way, in watching their rapid
motions: other birds are here as usual, but I do not observe a single
swallow."

Mrs. Bernard took him by the hand, saying, "You have, my dear boy,
put a question to me, which I shall not be able to answer to your
satisfaction. It is a subject that has puzzled naturalists more than
many others, and opinions upon it are still very various.  Some suppose
that they migrate into milder climates, whilst others conclude, they
conceal themselves in some warm spot, and lie dormant, as is the case
with many animals during the severity of the winter months. In
confirmation of this latter opinion, some few have been discovered in
sandbanks, apparently dead, but, upon being laid before the fire, have
recovered their former vigour. If, however, the vast multitudes that
visit us, universally adopted this mode of concealment, they would be,
no doubt, frequently discovered in their winter retreats, which is not
the case. Mr. White, of Selborne, a man of great observation,
particularly directed his attention to this point, but was not able to
decide it to his own satisfaction. I think he seems of opinion, that the
majority of them migrate, and that some few of late broods, which have
not attained sufficient strength to join the travellers, conceal
themselves as before mentioned, reviving upon the return of spring."

_Ferdinand_. They seem to be curious birds: will you be so kind, mamma,
as to tell us some particulars respecting them? Pray, are not martins
very similar in their habits to swallows?

_Mrs. B._ They belong to the same order, called _hirundines_. There are
four kinds of British _hirundines_:--the house-martin, the swallow, the
swift, and the bank-martin, which have each habits peculiar to
themselves. The swallow is the first that makes its appearance in
spring; generally about the middle of April. It frequently builds in
chimneys, five or six feet from the top, and prefers those stacks where
there is a constant fire; no doubt, for the sake of the warmth. It does
not select the immediate shaft where there is a fire, but prefers one
adjoining the kitchen, and disregards the smoke by which it is almost
continually enveloped. The nest of the swallow, like that of the house-
martin, consists of a shell, composed of dirt or mud, mixed with short
pieces of straw to strengthen it. The shape is, however, somewhat
different: it is lined with fine grass and feathers, which are collected
by the little architects as they float in the air. Having constructed
their dwelling, the hen lays from four to six white eggs, dotted with
red specks, and brings out her first brood about the last week in June.
I have been frequently amused in watching the progressive method by
which the young ones are introduced into life: they first emerge from
their place of concealment with difficulty, and frequently I have found
a young one in the parlour, which had fallen down the chimney in its
first attempt to leave the next. For a day or two, the old ones feed
them on the chimney-top, after which, they conduct them to the dead
bough of some tree near at hand, where they continue attending them with
the greatest assiduity. In a few days after this, the young brood is
enabled to fly, but it is some time longer before the little creatures
can take their own food; until which time, they are fed by the parent
birds, with the most affectionate solicitude. As soon as they are
disengaged from their necessary attendance on their first brood, they
betake themselves to the business of rearing a second, which they bring
out towards the end of August. This little bird is an instructive
pattern of unwearied industry and affection; for, from morning till
night, whilst their young ones require support, they spend the whole day
in their service. Their food consists of flies, gnats, and a small
species of beetle, and they drink as they fly along, sipping the surface
of the water. They settle, occasionally, on the ground, to pick up
gravel, which is necessary to grind and digest the food of all birds.
[Footnote: for the preceding and following account, see White's Natural
History of Selberne.]

_Ferdinand_. Pray mamma, how can we distinguish a swallow from the other
species of _hirundines_? I think that is the name by which you call
them.

"By the length and forkedness of their tails," returned Mrs. Bernard:
"they are much more nimble, too, than the other species."

_Louisa_. Do they always build in chimneys, pray, mamma?

_Mrs. B._ Although the shaft of a chimney is the place of which they
usually make choice for this purpose, they sometimes vary their plan.
In Sir Ashton Lever's Museum, was the nest of a swallow built on the
wings and body of an owl, which happened, by accident, to hang dead and
dry from the rafter of a barn; and another in a large shell, which was,
the following year, suspended in the same place. You have, no doubt, my
dear children, all observed vast flocks of swallows assemble together on
the roofs of houses; they chirp, and chatter, and seem very busy,
preparing for their ensuing migration, and consulting, as it were, upon
the plan most proper to be adopted on this occasion. I have often
wished, at such times, that I could understand their language. There is
seldom one of these birds to be seen after the middle of October; but to
what regions they fly, we do not exactly know; though I read, in Dr.
Russel's account of Aleppo, that numbers of these birds visit that
country towards the end of February, when they build as in Europe, and,
having hatched their young, disappear about the end of July.  They are
also said to be by no means uncommon North America. Sir Charles Wager
and Captain Wright, saw vast flocks of them at sea, when on their
passage from one country another.  White, in a pretty little poem, which
he calls "The Naturalist's Summer Evening Walk," addresses them as
follows:

"Amusive birds! say where your hid retreat, When the frost rages, and
the tempests beat; Whence your return, by such nice instinct led, When
spring, soft season, lifts her bloomy head? Such baffled searches mock
man's prying pride, The God of nature is your secret guide."

Professor Kahn, in his travels into America, relates an interesting
anecdote, of a pair of swallows which built their nest in a stable
belonging to a lady of his acquaintance. The female laid her eggs, and
was about to brood them: some days elapsed, and the people saw the
female still sitting on the eggs, but the male, flying about the nest,
and sometimes settling on a nail, was herd to utter a very plaintive
note, which betrayed his uneasiness. On a nearer examination the female
was found dead on the nest, and, on her being removed, the male took his
seat upon the eggs; but after remaining upon them about two hours, he
went out, and returned in the afternoon, bringing with him another
female, which sat upon the nest, and afterwards fed the young ones till
they were able to provide for themselves, with as much assiduity and
kindness as their natural parent could have done.

The children were all much interested in the account which their mother
had given them, and united in requesting some information respecting the
other species of _hirundines_. This, Mrs. Bernard most willingly gave
them, as follows:

"The house-martin, my dears, usually appears a few days later than the
swallow. For some time after their arrival, they play and sport about,
without any preparation for constructing their nests, which they do not
attempt to build till about the middle of May. At this season, if the
weather be fine, they begin seriously to think of providing a mansion
for their little family. This bird usually builds against a
perpendicular wall, without any projection to support the fabric; it is,
therefore, very necessary that the first foundation should be firmly
fixed. For this purpose, the prudent little architect is careful not to
advance in her work too rapidly. By building only in the morning, and
dedicating the remainder of the day to food and amusement, she gives it
sufficient time to dry and harden, seldom building more than half an
inch in a day."

_Ferdinand_.  Mamma, I have seen workmen, when they build mud walls,
raise but a little at a time, and then leave off: very likely it was
their observation of the martin's plan, which first taught them this
prudent caution.

_Mrs. B._  Very probably, my dear. We might learn many a useful lesson
from the sagacity and careful economy of animals, were we not above
attending to such humble instructors.

_Ferdinand_.  Yes, mamma; the shepherd, in one of Gay's Fables, which I
learned the other day, gained almost all his wisdom from his observation
of animals.  You know, he says to the philosopher:----

"The cheerful labours of the bee, Awake my soul to industry, Who can
observe the careful ant, And not provide for future want? My dog, (the
trustiest of his kind,) With gratitude inflames my mind; I mark his
true, his faithful way, And in my service, copy Tray--In constancy and
nuptial love, I learn my duty from the dove. The hen, who from the
chilly air, With pious wing protects her care, And every fowl that flies
at large, instruct me in a parent's charge.

                 Thus every object in creation;
                 Can furnish hints to contemplation;
                 And from the most minute and mean,
                 A virtuous mind can morals glean."

_Mrs. B._  Very true, my dear: and I am pleased to find you have
materials at hand to support your opinion.

_Ferdinand_.  But I have interrupted you, mamma, in your account.  Pray
go on, for I am very much interested in it, and want to know in how many
days the careful little laborers complete their house.

_Mrs. B._  In about ten or twelve days the mansion is finished; strong,
compact, warm, and perfectly fitted for all the purposes for which it
was intended; but very often, after this industrious little bird has
finished the shell of its nest, the house-sparrow seizes it as its own,
turning out the rightful master, and lining it after its own manner.

_Ferdinand_.  Poor little bird!  how I should pity him, to be deprived
of his house after having constructed it with so much labour.  I should
think, such strong nests would last more than one season, mamma?

_Mrs. B._  And so they do, my dear.  Martins will continue to breed for
several years together in the same nest, when it happens to be well
sheltered, and secure from the injuries of the weather.  The hen lays
from four to six white eggs; and, like the swallow, as soon as the young
are able to shift for themselves, the old ones turn their thoughts to
the business of rearing a second brood.  About the beginning of October,
they retire in vast flocks together.

_Louisa_. How are house-martins distinguished from the others, pray,
mamma??

_Mrs. B._ By having their legs covered with feathers quite down to their
toes.  They are no songsters, but twitter in their nests, in a pretty,
inward, soft manner.

_Louisa_. Now, pray mamma, give us some account of the swift.

_Mrs. B._ Most willingly, my dear Louisa. This is the largest of the
British _hirundines_, and makes its appearance much later in the season
than the others I have mentioned; being seldom seen before the last week
in April, or the first week in May. It is by no means so skilful an
architect as the two species I have already noticed. Making no crust or
shell to its nest, it forms it of dry grass and features, very rudely
put together, and constructing it in some dark corner of a castle,
tower, or steeple; this species cannot, therefore, be so narrowly
watched as the others, which build more openly. They are almost
constantly on the wing, never settling, either on the ground, on the
roofs of houses, or in trees, as is the case with the other species. The
female lays only two eggs, which are milk-white, long, and peaked at the
small end. It is a very lively bird, rising early and retiring to rest
late, and is observed, in the height of summer, to be on the wing
sixteen hours a day. Like the martin, they are no songsters, having only
one harsh, screaming note, which, however, I cannot consider
disagreeable. It is never heard but in the most lovely summer weather,
and, consequently, the sound occasions in my mind a pleasing association
of ideas, which I like to indulge. If by any accident they settle upon
the ground, they find great difficulty in rising, on account of the
shortness of their legs and the length of their wings: neither can they
walk conveniently, they only crawl along.

_Louisa_. They seem, in many respects different in their habits from the
other species you have mentioned, mamma: how may we distinguish them by
their outward appearance?

_Mrs. B_. The peculiar formation of the foot plainly discriminates them,
for it is so disposed, as to carry all its four toes forward; which
clearly accounts for the difficulty it finds in walking. As they arrive
later, so they retire sooner than the others, being seldom seen after
the middle of August. Are you not tired, my children, with my long
account of these birds?

"Oh no, dear mamma: pray tell us something about sand-martins too,"
exclaimed each of the children; "we shall then be able to distinguish
each of the four species of British _hirundines_."

Mrs. Bernard assured them, she would willingly comply with their
request, as far as she was able to do it: "but," added she, "it is
difficult to gain full and exact information respecting the lives and
habits of these little birds, which are extremely wild by nature,
disclaiming all domestic attachments, and haunting heaths and commons,
far from the resorts of man.  They are very fond of water, and are never
known to abound but near vast pools or rivers.  They form their nests in
a manner totally different from the varieties I have mentioned; boring a
round hole in the sand, in a serpenting direction, and about two feet
deep.  At the further end of this burrow, they form their rude nest;
consisting of fine grass and feathers, laid together with very little
art.  It is wonderful to observe what arduous undertakings perseverance
will accomplish.  One would suppose it almost impossible that this
feeble bird, with its soft bill and tender claws, should be able to bore
a stubborn sand-bank, without injury.  Sand-martins are much smaller
than any other species of _hirundines_, and also differ from them in
colour, being what is termed mouse-colour, instead of black.  They fly
also in a peculiar manner, by jerks, somewhat resembling a butterfly.
They are by no means so common as the other species; for there are few
towns or large villages that do not abound with house-martins; few
churches, towers, or steeples, but what are haunted by swifts; scarcely
a cottage chimney that has not its swallow; whilst the bank-martins,
scattered here and there, live a sequestered life, in sand-hills and in
the banks of rivers."

_Ferdinand_. Do they sing, mamma?

_Mrs. B._ No, my dear; they are particularly mute, only making a little
harsh noise when any person approaches their nest.  They lay from four
to six white eggs, and breed twice in the season.

_Louisa_.  Have you any thing more to tell us on this amusing subject,
my dear mother?

_Mrs. B._  No, my dear: I believe I have now told you most of the
important particulars respecting these curious little birds.  But I have
an account in my pocket-book, which I extracted from a book I was
reading last week--"Bingley's Animal Biography:"  I will read that to
you, if you please.  It is respecting a foreign species of _hirundines_,
called the esculent martin.

The children all united in begging to hear this account; upon which Mrs.
Bernard took it from her pocket, and read the following extract:

"The esculent martin is said to less in size than the wren. The bill is
thick; the upper parts of the body brown, and the under parts white. The
tail is forked, and each feather is tipped with white. The legs are
brown.

"The nest of this bird is excessively curious, and composed of such
materials, that it is not only eatable, but is considered one of the
greatest dainties that the Asiatic epicures possess. It generally weighs
about half an ounce, and is, in shape, like half a lemon; or, as some
say, like a saucer with one side flatted, which adheres to the rock. The
texture is somewhat like isinglass, or rather more like fine gum-dragon;
and the several layers of the matter it is composed of, are very
apparent; being fabricated from repeated parcels of a soft slimy
substance, in the same manner as the common martins form theirs of mud.
Authors differ much as to the materials of which it is composed: some
suppose it to consist of sea-worms, of the mollusca kind; others, of a
kind of cuttle-fish, or a glutinous sea-plast called agal-agal. It has
also been supposed, that the swallows rob other birds of their eggs,
and, after breaking the shells, apply the white of them to that purpose.

"The best sorts of nests, which are perfectly free from dirt, are
dissolved in broths, in order to thicken them, and are said to give them
an exquisite flavour. They are soaked in water to soften, then pulled to
pices, and, after being mixed with ginseng, are put into the body of a
fowl. The whole is then stewed in a pot, with a sufficient quantity of
water, and left on the coals all night. The following morning it is
ready to be eaten."

"Pray, mamma, what is _ginseng?_ I never heard of it before," said
Louisa.

_Mrs. B._ It is the root of a small plant, growing in China, Tartary,
and likewise in some parts of North America, particularly Canada and
Pennsylvania, from whence considerable quantities have lately been
brought over here. Amongst the Chinese, it is esteemed a medicine of
extraordinary value.

"A medicine! mamma," exclaimed Louisa; "I thought you said they put it
into the stuffing of their fowl!"

"And so they do, my dear," returned Mrs. Bernard, "it is by no means of
an unpleasant taste, as it has a mucilaginous sweetness, approaching to
that of liquorice, accompanied with an agreeable bitterness, and a
slight aromatic warmth, with little or no smell."

_Louisa._ Thank you mamma. Now will you go on with your account?

_Mrs. B._ "The nests of which I was speaking, are found in vast numbers
in many islands of the Eastern Archipelago. The best kind sell in China,
from one thousand to fifteen hundred dollars the picle, a weight of
about twenty-five pounds. The black and dirty ones only sell for twenty
dollars.

"Sir George Staunton, in his Embassy to China, says: 'These nests are a
considerable object of traffic among the Javanese, and many are employed
in it from their infancy. The birds having spent near two months in
preparing their nests, usually lay two eggs, which are hatched in about
fifteen days. When the young birds become fledged, it is thought time to
seize upon their nests, which is done regularly three times a year, and
is effected by means of ladders of bamboo and reeds, by which the people
descend into the caverns; but when these are very deep, rope-ladders are
preferred. This operation is attended with much danger, and several lose
their lives in the attempt. The inhabitants of the mountains generally
employed in it, begin always by sacrificing a buffalo; a custom which is
constantly observed by the Javanese, on the eve of every extraordinary
undertaking. They also pronounce some prayers, anoint themselves with
sweet-scented oils, and smoke the entrance of the cavern with gum-
benjamin. Near some of these caverns, a tutular goddess is worshipped,
whose priest burns incense, and lays his protecting hand on every person
intending to descend. A flambeau is carefully prepared at the same time,
with a gum which exudes from a tree growing in the vicinity, and is not
easily extinguished by fixed air, or subterraneous vapours.'"

The children were delighted with this account, and thanked their mother
for the amusement and instructions she had kindly afforded them. They
each determined, before the following spring, to provide themselves with
a book, for the purpose of keeping a diary, and noticing the different
objects that might engage their attention. They had been so much
interested by their mother's conversation, that the beauties of the
surrounding scenery had almost passed unnoticed. She now directed their
attention to the fine open country that lay behind them. A beautiful
little copse they were just entering, quite charmed Emily, who was a
great admirer of rural scenery. "The autumnal tints add to the riches of
the foliage, and improve our present prospect, my dear mother," said
she, "but make us fear that a very few weeks will deprive us of our
pleasure."

"That is very true, Emily," added Louisa, "but we shall have new
pleasures in the place of those we love. Think of the delightful winter
evenings which we always so much enjoy. I really scarcely know what
season to prefer. Spring is very charming; in summer too we have many
pleasures; and, at this moment, I feel as if a morning walk in autumn
were the best of all."

Mrs. Bernard smiled at the cheerful vivacity of Louisa, and recommended
to each of the children the cultivation of a contented disposition,
which knows how to derive comfort from circumstances in themselves
unpromising.

At this moment they turned into a little glen, and were delighted with
the rural appearance of a cottage, shaded by lofty trees. They
approached its humble door, which stood open, and beheld a young
cottager, who was singing at her spinning-wheel, and too much engaged by
her occupation to notice their approach. Mrs. Bernard drew back a few
paces, and whispered to Emily the following lines, which this sweet
scene recalled to her mind:

"E'en from the straw-roof'd cot, the note of joy Flows full and
frequent, as the village fair, Whose little wants the busy hour employ,
Chaunting some rural ditty, soothes her care.

"Verse softens toil, however rude the sound; She feels no biting pang
the while she sings, Nor, as she turns the giddy wheel around, Revolves
the sad vicissitude of things."

Then, again approaching the cottage, she accosted the young girl, who,
with a modest blush, arose from her wheel, and hastily pushing it on one
side, invited her unexpected visitors to take a seat, and rest
themselves after their walk.

Pleased with their reception, Mrs. Bernard accepted her invitation; and,
upon entering into conversation with the young cottager, became more and
more interested in her favour. There was that modest reserve in her
manner, which is particularly pleasing in youth.

In answer to Mrs. Bernard's questions, she informed her, that she was,
in very early life, left an orphan; having lost both her parents before
she had attained her third year. Since which time, she had been indebted
to an aged grandmother for protection and support.

"We have both worked hard for our livelihood," said Mary, (for that was
the young cottager's name,) "and, thank Heaven, we have never wanted the
_necessaries_ of life; _more_ we have never wished for. My grandmother
weeds in the squire's garden hard by, and I earn a trifle at my wheel."

Just as Mary had said these words, they perceived an old woman
approaching. She was leaning on the arm of a fine, healthy-looking
youth. A deeper blush, which at this moment dyed the cheeks of the
pretty young cottager, told a tale she would wittingly have concealed.

"Is that your grandmother, Mary?" enquired Mrs. Bernard.

_Mary_. Yes, Madam.

_Mrs. B._ And the young man is your brother, I suppose?

"No, Ma'am," said Mary, blushing still more deeply: "I have no brother.
That is Henry, our neighbour Farmer Wilson's son; and he is always very
kind to my grandmother."

By this time, the old woman had reached the cottage door, and was
introduced by Mary to her new guests. The young man made a rustic bow
and retired.

Mrs. Bernard soon entered into conversation with the old woman, and was
not less pleased with her, than she had before been with her grand-
daughter. There was an air of cheerful content in her countenance, which
bespoke that all was peace within, and prepossessed you more completely
in her favour than any words could have done.

After some conversation, the old woman, turning to her grand-daughter,
said: "The ladies will perhaps eat an apple, Mary."

Mary instantly left the cottage to gather some; and her grandmother took
that opportunity of passing upon the good girl, a well-merited eulogium.
"She is my greatest comfort, Madam," said she; "and I may truly say.
from the day she was born, she never willingly gave me a single moment's
uneasiness. To be sure, I do feel very anxious about her at times;
particularly since she and Henry have taken such a fancy to each other.
Times are so hard, Ma'am, and money so scarce, that I dare not consent
to their marrying. And yet it grieves me to the heart to keep them
asunder; for he is as good as she herself, and almost as dear to me."

Mrs. Bernard enquired what means Henry had of supporting a wife, and
found he was the younger son of a small farmer in the neighbourhood, who
had a large family to establish in the world, and very little to
accomplish it with.

Mary's return at this moment, with a basket of fresh-gathered apples,
interrupted the conversation; and the children, after regaling
themselves with her little offering, took their leave, and, accompanied
by their mother, bent their steps towards home.

Ferdinand, who was a child of great observation, seldom proceeded far
without discovering some object to interest his attention. He had
remained a considerable distance behind his mother, exploring the hedges
for some new flower or insect that he had not before examined, when his
attention was attracted by a wasp, which, having seized a fly almost as
large as himself, was endeavouring to carry the prize to his nest; but
the wind blowing in a contrary direction, acted so forcibly upon the
extended wings of the fly, that the poor wasp, with all his efforts,
could make no progress. Ferdinand was anxious to see how he would act in
this difficulty, and called his mother and sisters, to smile with them
at the insect's perplexity. In a few minutes, the wasp alighted upon the
ground, and, with the most persevering industry, sawed off, with his
teeth, the two wings of the fly, and then flew away with the body, in
triump, to his young ones.

"Well done, wasp," cried Ferdinand; "you do deserve that meal, however.
But is it not a wonderful instance of sagacity, mamma?  Who would expect
it in an insect! Do you suppose it knew this by instinct?"

"We are led to believe, my love," repied Mrs. Bernard, "that man alone
acts by the higher principle of reason; but I have met with many
instances of sagacity in the brute creation, which almost puzzle me,
when I ascribe their actions merely to instinct:

            Remembrance and reflection -- how allied!
            What thin partitions sense from thought divide!"

"It is astonishing how completely some animals will accommodate
themselves to circumstances. I will relate to you an anecdote which a
friend of mine told me a few weeks ago."

"Pray do, dear mamma," said Ferdinand; "I quite enjoy an anecdote.  I
suppose it is true?"

"Yes, my dear, it is quite true," returned Mrs. Bernard:  "the gentleman
of whom I spoke, has a little monkey, which frequently affords him much
amusement, by his sagacious, imitative tricks.  As he was one day
sitting near the pen in which the monkey was confined, he observed him
making many ineffectual efforts to regain a nut which had rolled beyond
his reach.  After several vain attempts, he took up a stick, and with
this he endeavoured to draw it towards him, but still without success.
Baffled, but not discouraged, he proceeded to select a second stick,
from a bundle that lay beside him, measuring it against the one he had
before found useless.  With this longer twing he set himself again to
his task.  This proving aslo insufficient, he adopted the same plan in
the selection of a third, and so on; always discarding the shortest, til
he found one that was long enough to touch the nut.  But this increased
his difficulty, by rolling it to a still greater distance. Upon this he
sat himself in a contemplative posture for a few minutes, as if
considering what was best to be done in this emergency; when, hastily
turning over the whole bundle of sticks he made choice of one of
considerable length, and hooked at the end, by means of which he, with
much apparent delight, accrued his prize."

"Well, that was a most capital contrivance," said Ferdinand; "and it
puts me in mind of a clever plan which I saw our own dog, Brush, adopt
yesterday. A bone that was thrown him, fell, like the monkey's nut,
beyond the reach of his chain, and, finding he could not obtain it by
means of his fore paws, he turned round, and throwing out his hinder
legs, readily reached it, and drew it to his kennel."

Just as Ferdinand had concluded his story of Brush, his attention was
caught by a beautiful dragon-fly, which flitted above his head. He
hastily threw up his handkerchief, and took the insect prisoner.

"It is rather late in the season, is it not, mamma, to see these insects
abroad?" said he, carefully unfolding his handkerchief, and discovering
his prize. "Do look what a beautiful crature. Do they sting, pray?"

"No, my dear, but they bit sometimes, rather fiercely. Their bite,
however, is perfectly harmless, therefore you need not look so much
alarmed, Ferdinand. Examine its eyes. You perceive they are very large
and prominent, covering almost the whole head. As it seeks its food
flying in the air, this seems a very necessary provision. By means of
these eyes, it can see in almost every direction at the same instant.
Dragon-flies are extremely voracious, and are the greatest tyrants of
the insect tribe. When we think them idly and innocently flitting about
in the cheerful sunshine, they are, in fact, only hovering up and down
to seize their prey."

"Which are the insects upon which they particularly feed, mamma?"
enquired Ferdinand.

_Mrs. B There is none, how large soever, that they will not attack and
devour. The blue fly, the bee, the wasp, and the hornet, are their
constant prey; and even your favourite butterfly is often caught, and
treated without mercy. Their appetite seems to know no bounds; and they
have been seen to devour three times their own size, in the space of a
single hour.

"Oh, the greedy creatures; I cannot forgive them for destroying the
pretty butterflies," said Ferdinand: "to wasps and hornets they are
perfectly welcome. Are they produced from eggs, like other insects,
pray, mamma?"

"Yes, my dear: the female deposits her eggs in the water, where they
remain some time, apparently without life or motion. The form they first
assume, is that of a worm with six legs, much resembling the dragon-fly
in its winged state, the wings being as yet concealed within a sheath
peculiar to this animal."

"What do they feed upon in this state, pray, mamma?" enquired Louisa.

"Upon the soft mud and glutinous earthy substances that are found at the
bottom," replied her mother.

"Pray, mamma, how long do they continue in their reptile state?" said
Emily.

"For a whole year, my dear," returned her mother. "When they parepare to
change to their flying state, they move out of the water to a dry place;
such as into grass, to pieces of wood, stone, or any thing else they may
meet with. There they firmly fix their sharp claws, and, for a short
time, continue quite immovable. It has been observed, that the skin
first opens on the head and back, and out of this aperture they exhibit
their real head and eyes, and at length their six legs; whilst the
hollow and empty skin remains firmly fixed in its place. After this the
creature creeps forward by degrees; drawing, first its wings, and then
its body, out of the skin; it then sits at rest for some time. The
wings, which were moist and folded together, now begin to expand. The
body is likewise insensibly extended, until all the limbs have attained
their proper size. The insect cannot at first make use of its new wings,
and is, therefore, obliged to remain stationary until its limbs are
dried by the air. It soon, however, begins to enter upon a more noble
life than it had before led at the bottom of the brook; and from
creeping slowly, and living accidentally, it now wings the air, adorning
the fields with beauty, and expanding the most lively colours to the
sun."

"Well, my pretty fly," said Ferdinand, "you have afforded me much
amusement, and now I will release you from your captivity." So saying,
he opened his handkerchief, and gave his prisoner liberty.

In a few minutes they reached home, highly pleased with their morning's
ramble.


CONVERSATON IX.


Mr. Bernard having dined from home, the children had not, till they met
round the tea-table in the evening, an opportunity of telling him how
pleasantly they had spent their morning, and how much information their
mother had given them respecting the habits of the swallow tribes.  "But
even now," added Edward, "I do not feel quite satisfied with regard to
their migration.  Pray, papa, what is your opinion upon that subject?"

_Mr. B._  I am decidedly of opinion that they do migrate, my dear.  The
internal structure of such animals as continue during winter in a torpid
state, is peculiar: both the formation of the stomach, and the organs of
respiration, differ from such as are constantly in a state of activity
and vigour.  Mr. John Hunter, one of our most celebrated English
anatomists, dissected several of these birds, but did not find them in
any respect different from the other tribes; from which he concludes the
accounts of their turpitude to be erroneous.  Now, although I feel no
doubt myself, that such instances have occurred, yet I by no means
believe them to be frequent. Indeed, a particular friend of mine, a
skilful navigator, tells me he has not infrequently seen, when many
hundreds of miles distant from shore, large flights of these birds; and
that his ship has often afforded the poor little travellers a most
seasonable resting-place, in their toilsome journeys.

"Oh, well papa," said Edward, "if a friend of yours has really seen
them, I can believe they do migrate; but I do not like to give up an
enquiry, till my mind is satisfied upon a subject."

_Mr. B_.  Within certain restrictions, your resolution is good, Edward;
but if you can believe nothing but what I, or some friend of mine, can
attest from our own observation, your incredulity will deprive you of
much valuable information. The great advantage of reading is, that it
enables us to gain instruction from the observation of others, on
subjects beyond the reach of our own experience.

_Edward._  Very true, papa: but do you not think that many authors make
mistakes, and put things in books that are not facts?

_Mr. B._ I do, my dear boy; and I always endeavor, when I meet with a
difficulty, to consult a variety of authors upon the same subject, and,
by this means, generally find I can discover the truth.

"In future I will endeavour to do so too, papa," said Edward, "and will
not allow my doubts to prevent my improvement; for I am sure I am at
present very ignorant. Every day, and almost every hour, I meet with
something that I do not understand--something that surprises me. Papa,
you have read, and thought, and seen so much, I should think you would
never meet with any thing new."

_Mr. B._ Indeed, my dear boy, you are much mistaken; I seldom read any
book without gaining from it some new idea, or some additional
information upon a subject with which I was before but imperfectly
acquainted. This very morning, for instance, in the book you saw me
reading at breakfast-time, I gained information that was entirely new to
me.

_Louisa._ Oh, pray papa, was it upon a subject we could understand, if
you were to be so kind as to tell us?

_Mr. B._ Yes, my dear girl, I think you might understand it, if you were
to pay attention to it; although it was a treatise upon comparative
anatomy I was reading.

_Louisa._ Oh, then, papa, I am sure I could not understand any thing
about it. I never heard of such a subject before.

_Mr. B._ Is that any proof that you will not understand it when you do
hear of it, Louisa? Do not allow yourself to be frightened by a hard
name, my dear; it is a proof of great weakness of mind. Edward,
endeavour to explain to your sister the meaning of the word anatomy.

_Edward._ I believe, papa, it is the study of animal bodies; more
particularly, their internal organization.

_Mr. B._ Yes and it also implies the dissecting, or cutting them to
pieces, to ascertain the structure and uses of their several parts.
Well, Louisa, what do you now think of anatomy? You have been much
pleased with your mother's description of the external structure and
habits of the swallow, this morning; now pay the same attention to my
account of the internal organization of the ostrich and cassowary, to-
night, and I think you will find it quite within the limits of your
comprehension.

_Louisa._ I will, indeed, attend, papa; and I hope I shall understand
you.

_Mr. B._ The more minutely, my dear children, you investigate the hidden
wonders of nature, the more firmly will you be convinced of the
unlimited power, as well as infinite mercy, of its Supreme Author. The
superintending providence of God, is as plainly manifested in the
provision made for the meanest reptile, as it is in the wonderful
formation of man.  Each bird, beast, fish, and insect, is endowed with
powers best suited to its wants, and most calculated to promote its
enjoyment.  In the cassowary of Java, a region of great fertility, the
colon is no more than one foot long; whilst in the ostrich, doomed to
seek its food in the wide and sandy deserts of the African continent, it
is _forty-five_ feet in length.

"Pray, papa, what is the _colon?_? enquired Louisa.

"It is one intestine," replied Mr. Bernard, which converts the food into
nourishment. You will now instantly perceive the wisdom of this
arrangement.  In the cassowary, the food passes very quickly through
this short channel, by which means, but a very small portion of its
nutritive particles is taken into the system, and the bird is thereby
preserved from many diseases, to which it would be liable, if the whole
of the food it devoured were converted into fat and nourishment.  The
ostrich, on the contrary, who can gain but a slender supply of food in
the desolate regions which it inhabits, is provided with a colon so
long, that every particle of nourishment is extracted, before it has
passed this channel; hence, the latter derives as much actual support
from her slender supply of food, as the former does from her abundance.

_Louisa_.  Thank you, papa.  I understand what you have told us, quite
well, and think it a very curious and a very wise contrivance.

_Mr. B._  Now then, tell me, in your turn, Louisa, how history has gone
on since we last met.

_Louisa_.  But, papa, we have not yet concluded the account of our walk.
Had we not better finish one subject first?

Mr. Bernard agreed to the propriety of Louisa's remark, and she entered
with great animation upon the description of the beautiful little
cottage, the pretty, innocent cottager, the nice, neat old woman, and
the bashful-looking youth, and concluded by expressing her sorrow, that
Mary and Henry could not be married; because she was such a pretty
creature, she had no doubt they would make the happiest couple in the
world.

Mr. Bernard endeavour to explain to Louisa, that beauty was by no means
the only requisite in a companion, where happiness was the object.

"Oh, no! I know that, papa," returned Louisa; "I recollect that Mrs.
Horton told us, that the peacock, beautiful as it is, has but few really
amiable qualities; but I cannot help admiring pretty people, and if you
saw Mary, I am sure you would admire her too; for she looks so good-
humoured and so modest, so cheerful, so industrious, and so very pretty,
papa, that you could not help loving her.  Don't you think so, mamma?

_Mrs. B._  I think there certainly is something very interesting in her
appearance, and, I assure you, Louisa, I am quite disposed to think
favourably of her; but we shall have an opportunity of seeing more of
her, probably, and then we can form a more decided opinion of her
character.  There is always danger in giving way to a sudden
prepossession in favour of a stranger.

_Edward._  But, mamma, do you think it possible not to feel a
prepossession in favour of such a sweet-looking girl as Mary?

_Mrs. B._  I do not think any one could avoid thinking favourably of
Mary; nor do I wish to check a generous sentiment in favour of a
stranger, at any time, my dear children.  Caution is necessary, but
suspicion is hateful; and I would rather you should be often deceived,
than never feel a confidence.  When I was young, I was once imposed upon
by a person quite as pleasing in manners and appearance as the young
cottager. I was warned that there was danger in trusting to appearances,
but disdained the caution of those who were older and wiser than myself.
I suffered for my folly, and would have you learn prudence from my
experience.

_Louisa_.  Do, mamma, tell us the story.  I dare say it is an
interesting one.

_Mrs. B._  Not at present, my dear; your father wishes to hear what
history you have read since Saturday.  Besides, an account of the
depravity of a fellow-creature, can never be a very interesting topic of
conversation.

_Louisa._.  No mamma, certainly it is not: but how did she impose upon
you?  You are so careful, you know--so prudent.

_Mrs. B_  But at that time I was credulous and imprudent, as I have
already told you, my dear, and was deceived by a pleasing address, and a
mournful tale.

_Louisa_.  Oh, do tell me, dear mamma.  I do love a mournful tale.

_Mrs. B._  But this was, in all probability, a fabricated story, to
impose on the incautious: at least, I have every reason to consider it
so.  I found out so many untruths, that I was inclined to think the
whole a complete falsehood.  But we will not dwell longer upon this
subject at present:  at some future time, if we have nothing upon which
we can  more profitably employ our attention, I may perhaps give you a
full account of the affair; but I have mentioned it to your father
before, and will not, therefore, trouble him to listen to a repetition,
as nothing is more tedious than a twice-told tale.

_Ferdinand_.  I want to ask you a question, papa, before we begin our
history. It is quite different from any thing we have been hitherto
talking of, to be sure; but I was reading a book to-day, in which,
speaking of some crime, it mentioned that it was punished by death,
without benefit of clergy. Now I do not know what benefit of clergy
means, and I thought you would be so good as to explain it to me.

_Mr. B._ That I shall most willingly, my dear boy. In order to encourage
the art of reading in England, which formerly made but slow progress,
the capital punishment for murder was remitted if the criminal could
read; and this, in law-language, is termed benefit of clergy.

_Edward._ I should think the art must have made very rapid progress,
when so highly favoured.

_Mr. B._ It does not appear that this was the case; for so small an
edition of the Bible as six hundred copies, translated into English, in
the reign of Henry the Eighth, was not completely sold in three years.

_Emily._ How different, my dear father, are the happy days in which we
live. No family, however indigent, need now be without a Bible.

_Edward._ And almost every poor child has an opportunity, in some of the
numerous charity-schools that are every where established, of learning
to read it too, which is better still.

_Mr. B._ We do, indeed, my beloved children, live in very glorious
times. The scriptural prophecy seems to be fast accomplishing, which
declares, that "the knowledge of the Lord shall cover the earth, as the
waters cover the sea." May we prize our high privilege, and may our more
virtuous conduct bespeak our gratitude for the superior blessings we
enjoy.

_Louisa._ In the days of the cruel Tarquin, papa, of whom we have been
reading in our Roman history, the religion of Jesus Christ was not
known. The wicked Tullia could not, I think, have acted so basely, had
she been a Christian.

_Mr. B._ Those who act up to the _precepts_ taught by Christianity, my
dear girl, must act virtuously; but the _name_ of Christian will

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