Book: Domestic pleasures

F >> F. B. Vaux >> Domestic pleasures




_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.

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