FOOTNOTES:[138-A]The name in the manuſcript is by miſtake written Cæſar.editor.
[138-A]The name in the manuſcript is by miſtake written Cæſar.editor.
[138-A]The name in the manuſcript is by miſtake written Cæſar.
editor.
Suchwas her ſtate of mind when the dogs of law were let looſe on her. Maria took the taſk of conducting Darnford's defence upon herſelf. She inſtructed his counſel to plead guilty to the charge of adultery; but to deny that of ſeduction.
The counſel for the plaintiff opened the cauſe, by obſerving, "that his client had ever been an indulgent huſband, and had borne with ſeveral defects of temper, while he had nothing criminal to lay to the charge of his wife. But that ſhe left his houſe without aſſigning any cauſe. He could not aſſert that ſhe was then acquainted with the defendant; yet, when he wasonce endeavouring to bring her back to her home, this man put the peace-officers to flight, and took her he knew not whither. After the birth of her child, her conduct was ſo ſtrange, and a melancholy malady having afflicted one of the family, which delicacy forbade the dwelling on, it was neceſſary to confine her. By ſome means the defendant enabled her to make her eſcape, and they had lived together, in deſpite of all ſenſe of order and decorum. The adultery was allowed, it was not neceſſary to bring any witneſſes to prove it; but the ſeduction, though highly probable from the circumſtances which he had the honour to ſtate, could not be ſo clearly proved.—It was of the moſt atrocious kind, as decency was ſet at defiance, and reſpect for reputation, which ſhows internal compunction, utterly diſregarded."
A ſtrong ſenſe of injuſtice had ſilenced every emotion, which a mixture of true and falſe delicacy might otherwiſe have excited in Maria's boſom. She only felt in earneſt to inſiſt on the privilege of her nature. The ſarcaſms of ſociety, and the condemnation of a miſtaken world, were nothing to her, compared with acting contrary to thoſe feelings which were the foundation of her principles. [She therefore eagerly put herſelf forward, inſtead of deſiring to be abſent, on this memorable occaſion.]
Convinced that the ſubterfuges of the law were diſgraceful, ſhe wrote a paper, which ſhe expreſſly deſired might be read in court:
"Married when ſcarcely able to diſtinguiſh the nature of the engagement, I yet ſubmitted to the rigid laws which enſlave women, and obeyed the man whom I could no longer love. Whether the duties of the ſtate are reciprocal, I mean not to diſcuſs; but I can prove repeated infidelities which I overlooked or pardoned. Witneſſes are not wanting to eſtabliſh theſe facts. I at preſent maintain the child of a maid ſervant, ſworn to him, and born after our marriage. I am ready to allow, that education and circumſtances lead men to think and act with leſs delicacy, than the preſervation of order in ſociety demands from women; but ſurely I may without aſſumption declare, that, though I could excuſe the birth, I could not the deſertion of this unfortunate babe:—and, while I deſpiſed the man, it was not eaſy to venerate the huſband. With proper reſtrictions however, I revere the inſtitution which fraternizes the world. I exclaim againſt the laws which throw the whole weight of the yoke on the weaker ſhoulders, and force women, when they claim protectorſhip as mothers, to ſign a contract, which renders them dependent on the caprice of the tyrant, whom choice or neceſſity has appointed to reign over them. Various are the caſes, in which a woman ought to ſeparate herſelf from her huſband; and mine, I may be allowed emphatically to inſiſt, comes under the deſcription of the moſt aggravated.
"I will not enlarge on thoſe provocations which only the individual can eſtimate; but will bring forward ſuch charges only, the truth of which is an inſult upon humanity. In order topromote certain deſtructive ſpeculations, Mr. Venables prevailed on me to borrow certain ſums of a wealthy relation; and, when I refuſed further compliance, he thought of bartering my perſon; and not only allowed opportunities to, but urged, a friend from whom he borrowed money, to ſeduce me. On the diſcovery of this act of atrocity, I determined to leave him, and in the moſt decided manner, for ever. I conſider all obligation as made void by his conduct; and hold, that ſchiſms which proceed from want of principles, can never be healed.
"He received a fortune with me to the amount of five thouſand pounds. On the death of my uncle, convinced that I could provide for my child, I deſtroyed the ſettlement of that fortune. I required none of my property to bereturned to me, nor ſhall enumerate the ſums extorted from me during ſix years that we lived together.
"After leaving, what the law conſiders as my home, I was hunted like a criminal from place to place, though I contracted no debts, and demanded no maintenance—yet, as the laws ſanction ſuch proceeding, and make women the property of their huſbands, I forbear to animadvert. After the birth of my daughter, and the death of my uncle, who left a very conſiderable property to myſelf and child, I was expoſed to new perſecution; and, becauſe I had, before arriving at what is termed years of diſcretion, pledged my faith, I was treated by the world, as bound for ever to a man whoſe vices were notorious. Yet what are the vices generally known, to the various miſeries that awoman may be ſubject to, which, though deeply felt, eating into the ſoul, elude deſcription, and may be gloſſed over! A falſe morality is even eſtabliſhed, which makes all the virtue of women conſiſt in chaſtity, ſubmiſſion, and the forgiveneſs of injuries.
"I pardon my oppreſſor—bitterly as I lament the loſs of my child, torn from me in the moſt violent manner. But nature revolts, and my ſoul ſickens at the bare ſuppoſition, that it could ever be a duty to pretend affection, when a ſeparation is neceſſary to prevent my feeling hourly averſion.
"To force me to give my fortune, I was impriſoned—yes; in a private mad-houſe.—There, in the heart of miſery, I met the man charged with ſeducing me. We became attached—I deemed, and ever ſhall deem, myſelf free. Thedeath of my babe diſſolved the only tie which ſubſiſted between me and my, what is termed, lawful huſband.
"To this perſon, thus encountered, I voluntarily gave myſelf, never conſidering myſelf as any more bound to tranſgreſs the laws of moral purity, becauſe the will of my huſband might be pleaded in my excuſe, than to tranſgreſs thoſe laws to which [the policy of artificial ſociety has] annexed [poſitive] puniſhments.——While no command of a huſband can prevent a woman from ſuffering for certain crimes, ſhe muſt be allowed to conſult her conſcience, and regulate her conduct, in ſome degree, by her own ſenſe of right. The reſpect I owe to myſelf, demanded my ſtrict adherence to my determination of never viewing Mr. Venables in the light of a huſband, nor could it forbid me fromencouraging another. If I am unfortunately united to an unprincipled man, am I for ever to be ſhut out from fulfilling the duties of a wife and mother?—I wiſh my country to approve of my conduct; but, if laws exiſt, made by the ſtrong to oppreſs the weak, I appeal to my own ſenſe of juſtice, and declare that I will not live with the individual, who has violated every moral obligation which binds man to man.
"I proteſt equally againſt any charge being brought to criminate the man, whom I conſider as my huſband. I was ſix-and-twenty when I left Mr. Venables' roof; if ever I am to be ſuppoſed to arrive at an age to direct my own actions, I muſt by that time have arrived at it.—I acted with deliberation.—Mr. Darnford found me a forlorn and oppreſſed woman, and promiſedthe protection women in the preſent ſtate of ſociety want.—But the man who now claims me—was he deprived of my ſociety by this conduct? The queſtion is an inſult to common ſenſe, conſidering where Mr. Darnford met me.—Mr. Venables' door was indeed open to me—nay, threats and intreaties were uſed to induce me to return; but why? Was affection or honour the motive?—I cannot, it is true, dive into the receſſes of the human heart—yet I preſume to aſſert, [borne out as I am by a variety of circumſtances,] that he was merely influenced by the moſt rapacious avarice.
"I claim then a divorce, and the liberty of enjoying, free from moleſtation, the fortune left to me by a relation, who was well aware of the character of the man with whom I had tocontend.—I appeal to the juſtice and humanity of the jury—a body of men, whoſe private judgment muſt be allowed to modify laws, that muſt be unjuſt, becauſe definite rules can never apply to indefinite circumſtances—and I deprecate puniſhment upon the man of my choice, freeing him, as I ſolemnly do, from the charge of ſeduction.]
"I did not put myſelf into a ſituation to juſtify a charge of adultery, till I had, from conviction, ſhaken off the fetters which bound me to Mr. Venables.—While I lived with him, I defy the voice of calumny to ſully what is termed the fair fame of woman.—Neglected by my huſband, I never encouraged a lover; and preſerved with ſcrupulous care, what is termed my honour, at the expence of my peace, till he, who ſhould have been its guardian, laid traps to enſnare me. From that moment I believed myſelf, in the ſight of heaven, free—and no power on earth ſhall force me to renounce my reſolution."
The judge, in ſumming up the evidence, alluded to "the fallacy of letting women plead their feelings, as an excuſe for the violation of the marriage-vow. For his part, he had always determined to oppoſe all innovation, and the new-fangled notions which incroached on the good old rules of conduct. We did not want French principles in public or private life—and, if women were allowed to plead their feelings, as an excuſe or palliation of infidelity, it was opening a flood-gate for immorality. What virtuous woman thought of her feelings?—It was her duty to love and obey the manchoſen by her parents and relations, who were qualified by their experience to judge better for her, than ſhe could for herſelf. As to the charges brought againſt the huſband, they were vague, ſupported by no witneſſes, excepting that of impriſonment in a private mad-houſe. The proofs of an inſanity in the family, might render that however a prudent meaſure; and indeed the conduct of the lady did not appear that of a perſon of ſane mind. Still ſuch a mode of proceeding could not be juſtified, and might perhaps entitle the lady [in another court] to a ſentence of ſeparation from bed and board, during the joint lives of the parties; but he hoped that no Engliſhman would legalize adultery, by enabling the adultereſs to enrich her ſeducer. Too many reſtrictions could not be thrown in theway of divorces, if we wiſhed to maintain the ſanctity of marriage; and, though they might bear a little hard on a few, very few individuals, it was evidently for the good of the whole."
Veryfew hints exiſt reſpecting the plan of the remainder of the work. I find only two detached ſentences, and ſome ſcattered heads for the continuation of the ſtory. I tranſcribe the whole.
I.
"Darnford's letters were affectionate; but circumſtances occaſioned delays,and the miſcarriage of ſome letters rendered the reception of wiſhed-for anſwers doubtful: his return was neceſſary to calm Maria's mind."
II.
"As Darnford had informed her that his buſineſs was ſettled, his delaying to return ſeemed extraordinary; but love to exceſs, excludes fear or ſuſpicion."
The ſcattered heads for the continuation of the ſtory, are as follow[159-A].
I.
"Trial for adultery—Maria defends herſelf—A ſeparation from bed andboard is the conſequence—Her fortune is thrown into chancery—Darnford obtains a part of his property—Maria goes into the country."
II.
"A proſecution for adultery commenced—Trial—Darnford ſets out for France—Letters—Once more pregnant—He returns—Myſterious behaviour—Viſit—Expectation—Diſcovery—Interview—Conſequence."
III.
"Sued by her huſband—Damages awarded to him—Separation from bed and board—Darnford goes abroad—Maria into the country—Provides for her father—Is ſhunned—Returns to London—Expects to ſee her lover—The rack of expectation—Finds herſelf again with child—Delighted—A diſcovery—A viſit—A miſcarriage—Concluſion."
IV.
"Divorced by her huſband—Her lover unfaithful—Pregnancy—Miſcarriage—Suicide."
[The following paſſage appears in ſome reſpects to deviate from the preceding hints. It is ſuperſcribed]
"She ſwallowed the laudanum; her ſoul was calm—the tempeſt had ſubſided—and nothing remained but an eager longing to forget herſelf—to fly from the anguiſh ſhe endured to eſcape from thought—from this hell of diſappointment.
"Still her eyes cloſed not—one remembrance with frightful velocity followed another—All the incidents of her life were in arms, embodied to aſſail her, and prevent her ſinking into the ſleep of death.—Her murdered child again appeared to her, mourning for the babe of which ſhe was the tomb.—'And could it have a nobler?—Surely it is better to die with me, than to enter on life without a mother's care!—I cannot live!—but could I have deſerted my child the moment it was born?—thrown it on the troubled wave of life, without a hand to ſupport it?'—She lookedup: 'What have I not ſuffered!—may I find a father where I am going!'—Her head turned; a ſtupor enſued; a faintneſs—'Have a little patience,' ſaid Maria, holding her ſwimming head (ſhe thought of her mother), 'this cannot laſt long; and what is a little bodily pain to the pangs I have endured?'
"A new viſion ſwam before her. Jemima ſeemed to enter—leading a little creature, that, with tottering footſteps, approached the bed. The voice of Jemima ſounding as at a diſtance, called her—ſhe tried to liſten, to ſpeak, to look!
"'Behold your child!' exclaimed Jemima. Maria ſtarted off the bed, and fainted.—Violent vomiting followed.
"When ſhe was reſtored to life, Jemima addreſſed her with great ſolemnity: '——— led me to ſuſpect, that your huſband and brother had deceived you, and ſecreted the child. I would not torment you with doubtful hopes, and I left you (at a fatal moment) to ſearch for the child!—I ſnatched her from miſery—and (now ſhe is alive again) would you leave her alone in the world, to endure what I have endured?'
"Maria gazed wildly at her, her whole frame was convulſed with emotion; when the child, whom Jemima had been tutoring all the journey, uttered the word 'Mamma!' She caught her to her boſom, and burſt into a paſſion of tears—then, reſting the child gently on the bed, as if afraid of killing it,—ſhe put her hand to her eyes, to conceal as it were theagonizing ſtruggle of her ſoul. She remained ſilent for five minutes, croſſing her arms over her boſom, and reclining her head,—then exclaimed: 'The conflict is over!—I will live for my child!'"
A few readers perhaps, in looking over theſe hints, will wonder how it could have been practicable, without tediouſneſs, or remitting in any degree the intereſt of the ſtory, to have filled, from theſe ſlight ſketches, a number of pages, more conſiderable than thoſe which have been already preſented. But, in reality, theſe hints, ſimple as they are, are pregnant with paſſion and diſtreſs. It is the refuge of barren authors only, to crowd their fictions with ſo great a number of events, as to ſuffer no one of them to ſink into the reader's mind. It is the province of true genius to develop events, to diſcover their capabilities, to aſcertain the different paſſions and ſentiments with which they are fraught, and to diverſify them with incidents, that give reality to the picture, and take a hold upon the mind of a reader of taſte, from which they can never be looſened. It was particularly the deſign of the author, in the preſent inſtance, to make her ſtory ſubordinate to a great moral purpoſe, that "of exhibiting the miſery and oppreſſion, peculiar to women, that ariſe out of the partial laws and cuſtoms of ſociety.—This view reſtrained her fancy[166-A]." Itwas neceſſary for her, to place in a ſtriking point of view, evils that are too frequently overlooked, and to drag into light thoſe details of oppreſſion, of which the groſſer and more inſenſible part of mankind make little account.
FOOTNOTES:[159-A]To underſtand theſe minutes, it is neceſſary the reader ſhould conſider each of them as ſetting out from the ſame point in the ſtory,viz.the point to which it is brought down in the preceding chapter.[166-A]See author's preface.
[159-A]To underſtand theſe minutes, it is neceſſary the reader ſhould conſider each of them as ſetting out from the ſame point in the ſtory,viz.the point to which it is brought down in the preceding chapter.
[159-A]To underſtand theſe minutes, it is neceſſary the reader ſhould conſider each of them as ſetting out from the ſame point in the ſtory,viz.the point to which it is brought down in the preceding chapter.
[166-A]See author's preface.
[166-A]See author's preface.
Thefollowing pages will, I believe, be judged by every reader of taſte to have been worth preſerving, among the other teſtimonies the author left behind her, of her genius and the ſoundneſs of her underſtanding. Toſuch readers I leave the taſk of comparing theſe leſſons, with other works of the ſame nature previouſly publiſhed. It is obvious that the author has ſtruck out a path of her own, and by no means intrenched upon the plans of her predeceſſors.
It may however excite ſurpriſe in ſome perſons to find theſe papers annexed to the concluſion of a novel. All I have to offer on this ſubject, conſiſts in the following conſiderations:
Firſt, ſomething is to be allowed for the difficulty of arranging the miſcellaneous papers upon very different ſubjects, which will frequently conſtitute an author's poſthumous works.
Secondly, the ſmall portion they occupy in the preſent volume, will perhaps be accepted as an apology, by ſuch good-natured readers (if any ſuch there are), to whom the peruſal of them ſhall be a matter of perfect indifference.
Thirdly, the circumſtance which determined me in annexing them to the preſent work, was the ſlight aſſociation (in default of a ſtrong one) between the affectionate and pathetic manner in which Maria Venables addreſſes her infant, in the Wrongs of Woman; and the agoniſing and painful ſentiment with which the author originally bequeathed theſe papers, as a legacy for the benefit of her child.
The firſt book of a ſeries which I intended to have written for my unfortunate girl[175-A].
LESSON I.
Cat.Dog. Cow. Horſe. Sheep. Pig. Bird. Fly.
Man. Boy. Girl. Child.
Head. Hair. Face. Noſe. Mouth. Chin. Neck. Arms. Hand. Leg. Foot. Back. Breaſt.
Houſe. Wall. Field. Street. Stone. Graſs.
Bed. Chair. Door. Pot. Spoon. Knife. Fork. Plate. Cup. Box. Boy. Bell.
Tree. Leaf. Stick. Whip. Cart. Coach.
Frock. Hat. Coat. Shoes. Shift. Cap.
Bread. Milk. Tea. Meat. Drink. Cake.
LESSON II.
Come. Walk. Run. Go. Jump. Dance. Ride. Sit. Stand. Play.Hold. Shake. Speak. Sing. Cry. Laugh. Call. Fall.
Day. Night. Sun. Moon. Light. Dark. Sleep. Wake.
Waſh. Dreſs. Kiſs. Comb.
Fire. Hot. Burn. Wind. Rain. Cold.
Hurt. Tear. Break. Spill.
Book. See. Look.
Sweet. Good. Clean.
Gone. Loſt. Hide. Keep. Give. Take.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.
White. Black. Red. Blue. Green. Brown.
LESSON III.
STROKE the cat. Play with the Dog. Eat the bread. Drink the milk. Hold the cup. Lay down the knife.
Look at the fly. See the horſe. Shut the door. Bring the chair. Ring the bell. Get your book.
Hide your face. Wipe your noſe. Waſh your hands. Dirty hands. Why do you cry? A clean mouth. Shake hands. I love you. Kiſs me now. Good girl.
The bird ſings. The fire burns. The cat jumps. The dog runs. The bird flies. The cow lies down. The man laughs. The child cries.
LESSON IV.
LET me comb your head. Aſk Betty to waſh your face. Go and ſee for ſome bread. Drink milk, if you are dry. Play on the floor with the ball. Do not touch the ink; you will black your hands.
What do you want to ſay to me? Speak ſlow, not ſo faſt. Did you fall? You will not cry, not you; the baby cries. Will you walk in the fields?
LESSON V.
COME to me, my little girl. Are you tired of playing? Yes. Sit down and reſt yourſelf, while I talk to you.
Have you ſeen the baby? Poor little thing. O here it comes. Look at him. How helpleſs he is. Four years ago you were as feeble as this very little boy.
See, he cannot hold up his head. He is forced to lie on his back, if his mamma do not turn him to the right or left ſide, he will ſoon begin to cry. He cries to tell her, that he is tired with lying on his back.
LESSON VI.
PERHAPS he is hungry. What ſhall we give him to eat? Poor fellow, he cannot eat. Look in his mouth, he has no teeth.
How did you do when you were a baby like him? You cannot tell. Do you want to know? Look then at the dog,with her pretty puppy. You could not help yourſelf as well as the puppy. You could only open your mouth, when you were lying, like William, on my knee. So I put you to my breaſt, and you ſucked, as the puppy ſucks now, for there was milk enough for you.
LESSON VII.
WHEN you were hungry, you began to cry, becauſe you could not ſpeak. You were ſeven months without teeth, always ſucking. But after you got one, you began to gnaw a cruſt of bread. It was not long before another came pop. At ten months you had four pretty white teeth, and you uſed to bite me. Poor mamma! Still I did not cry, becauſe I am not a child, butyou hurt me very much. So I ſaid to papa, it is time the little girl ſhould eat. She is not naughty, yet ſhe hurts me. I have given her a cruſt of bread, and I muſt look for ſome other milk.
The cow has got plenty, and her jumping calf eats graſs very well. He has got more teeth than my little girl. Yes, ſays papa, and he tapped you on the cheek, you are old enough to learn to eat? Come to me, and I will teach you, my little dear, for you muſt not hurt poor mamma, who has given you her milk, when you could not take any thing elſe.
LESSON VIII.
YOU were then on the carpet, for you could not walk well. So when you were in a hurry, you uſed to runquick, quick, quick, on your hands and feet, like the dog.
Away you ran to papa, and putting both your arms round his leg, for your hands were not big enough, you looked up at him, and laughed. What did this laugh ſay, when you could not ſpeak? Cannot you gueſs by what you now ſay to papa?—Ah! it was, Play with me, papa!—play with me!
Papa began to ſmile, and you knew that the ſmile was always—Yes. So you got a ball, and papa threw it along the floor—Roll—roll—roll; and you ran after it again—and again. How pleaſed you were. Look at William, he ſmiles; but you could laugh loud—Ha! ha! ha!—Papa laughed louder than the little girl, and rolled the ball ſtill faſter.
Then he put the ball on a chair, andyou were forced to take hold of the back, and ſtand up to reach it. At laſt you reached too far, and down you fell: not indeed on your face, becauſe you put out your hands. You were not much hurt; but the palms of your hands ſmarted with the pain, and you began to cry, like a little child.
It is only very little children who cry when they are hurt; and it is to tell their mamma, that ſomething is the matter with them. Now you can come to me, and ſay, Mamma, I have hurt myſelf. Pray rub my hand: it ſmarts. Put ſomething on it, to make it well. A piece of rag, to ſtop the blood. You are not afraid of a little blood—not you. You ſcratched your arm with a pin: it bled a little; but it did you no harm. See, the ſkin is grown over it again.
LESSON IX.
TAKE care not to put pins in your mouth, becauſe they will ſtick in your throat, and give you pain. Oh! you cannot think what pain a pin would give you in your throat, ſhould it remain there: but, if you by chance ſwallow it, I ſhould be obliged to give you, every morning, ſomething bitter to drink. You never taſted any thing ſo bitter! and you would grow very ſick. I never put pins in my mouth; but I am older than you, and know how to take care of myſelf.
My mamma took care of me, when I was a little girl, like you. She bade me never put any thing in my mouth, without aſking her what it was.
When you were a baby, with no moreſenſe than William, you put every thing in your mouth to gnaw, to help your teeth to cut through the ſkin. Look at the puppy, how he bites that piece of wood. William preſſes his gums againſt my finger. Poor boy! he is ſo young, he does not know what he is doing. When you bite any thing, it is becauſe you are hungry.
LESSON X.
SEE how much taller you are than William. In four years you have learned to eat, to walk, to talk. Why do you ſmile? You can do much more, you think: you can waſh your hands and face. Very well. I ſhould never kiſs a dirty face. And you can comb your head with the pretty comb you alwaysput by in your own drawer. To be ſure, you do all this to be ready to take a walk with me. You would be obliged to ſtay at home, if you could not comb your own hair. Betty is buſy getting the dinner ready, and only bruſhes William's hair, becauſe he cannot do it for himſelf.
Betty is making an apple-pye. You love an apple-pye; but I do not bid you make one. Your hands are not ſtrong enough to mix the butter and flour together; and you muſt not try to pare the apples, becauſe you cannot manage a great knife.
Never touch the large knives: they are very ſharp, and you might cut your finger to the bone. You are a little girl, and ought to have a little knife. When you are as tall as I am, you ſhall have a knife as large as mine; andwhen you are as ſtrong as I am, and have learned to manage it, you will not hurt yourſelf.
You can trundle a hoop, you ſay; and jump over a ſtick. O, I forgot!—and march like the men in the red coats, when papa plays a pretty tune on the fiddle.
LESSON XI.
WHAT, you think that you ſhall ſoon be able to dreſs yourſelf entirely? I am glad of it: I have ſomething elſe to do. You may go, and look for your frock in the drawer; but I will tie it, till you are ſtronger. Betty will tie it, when I am buſy.
I button my gown myſelf: I do not want a maid to aſſiſt me, when I amdreſſing. But you have not yet got ſenſe enough to do it properly, and muſt beg ſomebody to help you, till you are older.
Children grow older and wiſer at the ſame time. William is not able to take a piece of meat, becauſe he has not got the ſenſe which would make him think that, without teeth, meat would do him harm. He cannot tell what is good for him.
The ſenſe of children grows with them. You know much more than William, now you walk alone, and talk; but you do not know as much as the boys and girls you ſee playing yonder, who are half as tall again as you; and they do not know half as much as their fathers and mothers, who are men and women grown. Papa and I were children, like you; and men and womentook care of us. I carry William, becauſe he is too weak to walk. I lift you over a ſtile, and over the gutter, when you cannot jump over it.
You know already, that potatoes will not do you any harm: but I muſt pluck the fruit for you, till you are wiſe enough to know the ripe apples and pears. The hard ones would make you ſick, and then you muſt take phyſic. You do not love phyſic: I do not love it any more than you. But I have more ſenſe than you; therefore I take care not to eat unripe fruit, or any thing elſe that would make my ſtomach ache, or bring out ugly red ſpots on my face.
When I was a child, my mamma choſe the fruit for me, to prevent my making myſelf ſick. I was juſt like you; I uſed to aſk for what I ſaw, without knowing whether it was good orbad. Now I have lived a long time, I know what is good; I do not want any body to tell me.
LESSON XII.
LOOK at thoſe two dogs. The old one brings the ball to me in a moment; the young one does not know how. He muſt be taught.
I can cut your ſhift in a proper ſhape. You would not know how to begin. You would ſpoil it; but you will learn.
John digs in the garden, and knows when to put the ſeed in the ground. You cannot tell whether it ſhould be in the winter or ſummer. Try to find it out. When do the trees put out their leaves? In the ſpring, you ſay, after thecold weather. Fruit would not grow ripe without very warm weather. Now I am ſure you can gueſs why the ſummer is the ſeaſon for fruit.
Papa knows that peas and beans are good for us to eat with our meat. You are glad when you ſee them; but if he did not think for you, and have the ſeed put in the ground, we ſhould have no peas or beans.
LESSON XIII.
POOR child, ſhe cannot do much for herſelf. When I let her do any thing for me, it is to pleaſe her: for I could do it better myſelf.
Oh! the poor puppy has tumbled off the ſtool. Run and ſtroak him. Puta little milk in a ſaucer to comfort him. You have more ſenſe than he. You can pour the milk into the ſaucer without ſpilling it. He would cry for a day with hunger, without being able to get it. You are wiſer than the dog, you muſt help him. The dog will love you for it, and run after you. I feed you and take care of you: you love me and follow me for it.
When the book fell down on your foot, it gave you great pain. The poor dog felt the ſame pain juſt now.
Take care not to hurt him when you play with him. And every morning leave a little milk in your baſon for him. Do not forget to put the baſon in a corner, leſt ſomebody ſhould fall over it.
When the ſnow covers the ground, ſave the crumbs of bread for the birds. In the ſummer they find feed enough,and do not want you to think about them.
I make broth for the poor man who is ſick. A ſick man is like a child, he cannot help himſelf.
LESSON X.
WHEN I caught cold ſome time ago, I had ſuch a pain in my head, I could ſcarcely hold it up. Papa opened the door very ſoftly, becauſe he loves me. You love me, yet you made a noiſe. You had not the ſenſe to know that it made my head worſe, till papa told you.
Papa had a pain in the ſtomach, and he would not eat the fine cherries or grapes on the table. When I brought him a cup of camomile tea, he drank it without ſaying a word, or makingan ugly face. He knows that I love him, and that I would not give him any thing to drink that has a bad taſte, if it were not to do him good.
You aſked me for ſome apples when your ſtomach ached; but I was not angry with you. If you had been as wiſe as papa, you would have ſaid, I will not eat the apples to-day, I muſt take ſome camomile tea.
You ſay that you do not know how to think. Yes; you do a little. The other day papa was tired; he had been walking about all the morning. After dinner he fell aſleep on the ſopha. I did not bid you be quiet; but you thought of what papa ſaid to you, when my head ached. This made you think that you ought not to make a noiſe, when papa was reſting himſelf. So you came to me, and ſaid to me, very ſoftly, Pray reach me my ball, andI will go and play in the garden, till papa wakes.
You were going out; but thinking again, you came back to me on your tip-toes. Whiſper——whiſper. Pray mama, call me, when papa wakes; for I ſhall be afraid to open the door to ſee, leſt I ſhould diſturb him.
Away you went.—Creep—creep—and ſhut the door as ſoftly as I could have done myſelf.
That was thinking. When a child does wrong at firſt, ſhe does not know any better. But, after ſhe has been told that ſhe muſt not diſturb mama, when poor mama is unwell, ſhe thinks herſelf, that ſhe muſt not wake papa when he is tired.
Another day we will ſee if you can think about any thing elſe.
FOOTNOTES:[175-A]This title which is indorſed on the back of the manuſcript, I conclude to have been written in a period of deſperation, in the month of October, 1795.editor.
[175-A]This title which is indorſed on the back of the manuſcript, I conclude to have been written in a period of deſperation, in the month of October, 1795.editor.
[175-A]This title which is indorſed on the back of the manuſcript, I conclude to have been written in a period of deſperation, in the month of October, 1795.
editor.