1 10 7 https://d1y502jg6fpugt.cloudfront.net/4347/archive/files/9ffcdc5b38235a0a6d1d7a9feaea7a6c.pdf?Expires=1792627200&Signature=dtq8MzF5yiVvN8JO1QE-XC31xEm5NtOFHAtB0kTVxLfhCMlHphV8LYYkoUjtisS8q5-fMkly%7E9bBqF8aQQh52X2pll1f9AUZWBvvbi-mNYnktVKAKXXwFk8EEq8cYUkDJaWxCZ8nigXYc4fWfgDXb%7EXtOc2QsDWRUd-DotR-1uCkDxHCW14qk-n7x1wfTSUMJLsWpAdmQlWN2dWPGN%7EOmOIvKbMkYAJBezrWKXUdiAZk6A01Xp7Uq0wKhdVmECdZbok54cMzTE047rK5pkA5S5cnLcrFz%7EDsr2bYnc9O%7EZsrDXBZtN-XI2ZAfGOIRuGj2YjRwzGxxGe4RriV03GWqw__&Key-Pair-Id=K6UGZS9ZTDSZM 0c1e03630cda1b6a2a27e28a456baa67 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource 1829 Subject The topic of the resource Stories published in 1829. Document A resource containing textual data. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre text. Text Any textual data included in the document. The Good Son. Mr. William Smith was a respectable merchant in Boston. He had two children, William and Mary; whom he used, in sport, to call his little King and Queen, after William and Mary, who once reigned in England. Both Mr. and Mrs. Smith were wise and good people; and though they were very rich, and had but these two children, they were not treated with any improper indulgence, for having but two, Mr. Smith said, he could not afford to spoil them. Mr. Smith was engaged in extensive business; his property was, of course, at risk. After a long run of prosperity, he met with severe losses, and a failure was the consequence. He had so carefully managed his affairs, that he found, by giving up all his property, he could pay all his debts. He did not hesitate. His beautiful house in town— his country-seat— all his furniture— his horses and carriages, and every luxury that had been suitable to his prosperity, was disposed of. He determined again to enter into business; and in order to do this, he found it necessary to go to Europe, to remain for two or three years. It was decided that Mrs. Smith should, in the mean time, go with her children to a neat cottage in Brookline, where they might live with great economy, till Mr. Smith’s return. William had been for a year at one of the best, and of course, most expensive schools in the country; and Mr. Smith deeply regretted the necessity of withdrawing him from it. William’s term at school was to expire on the last day of September. Mr. Smith was to sail for Europe on the previous 15th; consequently he did not expect to see his boy again. On the evening of the 14th, he was sitting in his rocking chair, looking in the fire, and seeming very sad, when little Mary took his hand, and said, “Do not let us be so dismal yet, father— you don’t go till to-morrow.” “Ah, my dear Mary, you are at a happy age; you cannot realize any evil that will not come till to-morrow.” “But I can realize good, papa, that will not come till a great many to-morrows are past. I am all the time thinking how happy we shall be when you get home again, and we are back in our own house, and Willie is here, and you call us your King and Queen again.” But her father was too melancholy to be cheered even by that sweetest music to a parent’s ear— the happy tones of his child’s voice; he threw his handkerchief over his face, and remained silent. Little Mary placed her bench beside him, and sat down close to him, took his hand, and laid her smooth, warm cheek on it. After they had continued thus for some minutes, her father seemed to feel her tenderness, he removed the handkerchief from his face, took her on his knee, and kissing her, exclaimed, “Oh, my dear children, if it were not for you I could bear my misfortunes like a man !” At this moment, Mrs. Smith entered the parlor with a letter in her hand, and gave it to her husband. “I cannot read letters now,” he said, and threw the packet on the table—“Then I will read it to you,” replied his wife. “It is from Mr. Norton; and I believe contains one from William.” Mr. Norton was William’s teacher, and a particular friend of Mr. Smith. Mrs. Smith read aloud his letter, which was as follows: “My dear friend, I enclose you a letter from our boy, which I have with difficulty persuaded him to write—like most boys, his tongue moves much more readily than his pen; and besides, I believe on this occasion he felt a little modesty, on the score of being the hero of his own tale—you will perceive that I kept from him as long as I could the news of your misfortune. He is a noble boy, my dear friend; and I am sure you must think the loss of fortune not worth minding, while heaven spares you such a child—you must not take him from me; I shall stand father to him in your absence. It will cost me little to supply all his wants; as freely as I give, so freely would I receive, if my child needed your kindness. William is an honor to my school—I cannot spare him. Never have I known a boy, of ten years of age, make such progress. God grant you a prosperous voyage, and safe return. Yours very sincerely, R. Norton “There, Father, now you really smile, for all you are going tomorrow,” said little Mary. “I have reason to smile, indeed, my dear child,” replied her father; “but now let us see what William says; poor little god, he is no great letter writer.” Mrs. Smith opened his letter, and taking from it a small roll in a white paper, she laid it on the table and proceeded to read as follows—but before giving the letter, we must beg our readers not to expect an elegant epistle. Writing a letter is a great task to most boys; and William disliked it as much as any child I ever knew. I have seen him sit for half an hour, biting his pen, and knitting his brow, and looking in deep distress, — when if he had only let his pen tell what his tongue would have spoken, he would have written a very agreeable letter, without any trouble. On this occasion however, he had a good deal to say, and the letter was written with much more ease than usual; so that on the whole this is rather a favorable specimen of his composition. But here it is, to speak for itself: “Dear Father, — I am well, and very happy; and so I hope are Mother and Queen Mary; at least, I am very happy, only when I am thinking about your going so far away; but I have not much time for that, — I have so many lessons to get. When I go to bed I always think of you, and I should then feel very unhappy, but I fall to sleep so quick— I am sure it is not because I may tell you that I get on famously in all my studies, except my Latin, and I do tolerably well in that. I really do try, but it is awful hard; I think Greek would be easier. I am glad Mary is a girl, because she wont have to be plagued with learning Latin. Mr. Norton is very, very kind to me; and if you were not my father, I believe I should love him as well as I do you. I felt very bad when I heard you had sold our house and all of the furniture, though I could not think of any thing in particular that I cared much about, but the picture of Burgoyne’s surrender, and my crickets, that we used to call our thrones, and sit upon every evening, each side of Mother, while she told us a story. Oh, what good times we had! As soon as I grow up, I am determined to buy the picture back again, on account of grandfather’s having been at the battle of Saratoga, and having told me all about it.” It was evident William had proceeded thus far very glibly; but here it appeared he had stopped, — had got his pen mended, — and had started again with more difficulty. “My dear father, I have been thinking a very long time how I shall ask you to accept some money from me, but Mr. Norton says it in time my letter was finished, — and so I have written it plain out. It seems so strange for me, who have always had presents from you, to give you any thing. I never knew before how pleasant it was to give; I should think every body would give away all they had to spare. Mr. Norton says I must tell you how I came by my money. It is just two months since he told me you had failed; and explained to me what failing was. I cried a great deal; not because we should not be rich any more, — for I don’t care a fig about that; but Mr. Norton told me you were afraid you should not be able to pay your debts, and that I knew was dreadful; for you have talked to me so much about the shame of contracting debts which could not be paid, that I knew how you would feel. It seemed to me that I could bear any thing better than the thought of you having to be ashamed; and so when I went to bed, I lay awake till I hit on my plan— and, the next morning, I asked Mr. Norton if he did not want somebody to do Steve Summer’s work in the garden. Steve ran away last week, and went to sea. Mr. Norton said he did; and he did not know where to look for another boy. Then I asked him if he would hire me; Mr. Norton laughed and said he was afraid I could not do the work. ‘But, Sir,’ says I, ‘wont you please to let me try?’ ‘Why what do you want to work for? Says he. So I had to tell him that I wanted to help you pay your debts, father— then he stroked my head, and I thought he was going to consent; but he said you have a great many hard lessons to get, William; and all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. ‘ But, I told him, if it made Jack a dull boy, it should not make one of Will; and besides, I would call it my play and that would do just as well; and then he was so kind as to say he would hire me, if I would take my play-time, and would not slight any of my lessons. From the first, I could weed full as well as Steve; but the hoeing was pretty hard, — and the first week I blistered my hands; but I did not let any body know it, and they soon hardened; and now they are worth something, I can tell you, father. At first, Bob Shaw and Sam Rogers were mad, because I would not go and play with them as usual; and once they called me ‘grub-worm,’ and made fun of me. Mr. Norton overheard them, and he told them what I was working for, and then they both came to me, and said they were very sorry; and ever since they help me, so that I can get done in time to play a little. They are capital fellows; and I hope their fathers will fail, so I can pay them for it. Mr. Norton says I must tell you that I have fairly earned the ten dollars, — that he should have been obliged to pay it to somebody else, if he had not to me; and he says I must tell you, I am a much neater workman than Steve. I hope you wont think I mean to brag father. It was very lucky for me, that it was summer time, because wages are at the highest then. I wonder people don’t always prefer to work in the summer, on that account. I should like, sir, if you please, that you should pay Mr. Reed’s bill out of this money; because he has given me many a ride in his milk-cart, and because of poor little Harry Reed; for you know when he comes from the deaf and dumb asylum, Mr. Reed means to have him learn to paint, if he can afford it; but he says it costs a ‘master sight,’— I suppose he means a large sum of money. Oh! I am very glad now, that the meeting house Harry drew for me was not framed, for then you would have to sell it. I am afraid, my dear father, you wont have time to read this long letter— if you have not, you can take it, and read it on board ship, where, I suppose, you will have plenty of leisure, I did not know that I could write such a long letter. Give my love to dear mother, and queen Mary; and tell Mary that I am very glad she is going to have a garden at Brookline; for now I can advise her about it, and work in it too, — that is, when I am at home. My dear father, I shall try to do my duty, when you are gone; and every morning and every night, I shall pray to God to bless you. I used to forget my prayers sometimes, when I was a little boy; but now I never forget them, — how can I, when I have so much to ask of my Heavenly Father? After all, it is not so very hard to write a letter, when you have plenty to say. Good Bye, my dear, dear father. Your ever affectionate son, William Smith, Junior Postscript. I don’t mean that I shall be glad to have the boys’ fathers fail; but if they do, I shall be glad to help them. - W.S., Jr. It may seem strange to some of our readers, who have never shed any tears but the tears of sorrow, that William’s letter should have drawn tears from his father’s and mother’s eyes; but they will find, by and by, that the happiest feelings they ever have, will make them weep. The first words that Mr. Smith uttered were, “Thank God! – thank God! — My boy is a treasure— worth all– and ten times all that I have lost— I said that if it were not for my children, I could bear my misfortunes like a man— I now feel, that with such children, I can bear any thing.” Mrs. Smith said nothing but she laid her head on little Mary’s shoulder, who had jumped into her lap while she was reading the letter, and, from her heart, she offered a silent thanksgiving to God, for the virtuous conduct of her boy. Mr. Smith had paid all his debts when he received William’s present, and he determined, at once, that the money should be devoted to Harry Reed’s benefit; accordingly, he placed it to his account in the savings bank. Oh! If children could look into their parents’ hearts, and see the sweet emotions, the delightful feelings, their good conduct produces, then, I think, they would be more earnest to improve every opportunity to do well. In the next number of the Miscellany, we shall give some account of little Mary; and we hope to show, that she deserved her royal title as well as her brother— and to show, moreover, that there are other ways of doing good, than by bestowing money; though the virtuous poor envy the rich, that privilege, more, perhaps, than any other they possess. Stockbridge. S. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource The Good Son Subject The topic of the resource Financial loss, filial piety, the value of physical labor. Description An account of the resource After a father's financial loss, his young son secretly works as a gardener while at boarding school to help earn money for his family. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Sedgwick, Catharine Maria Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived The Juvenile Miscellany [edited by Lydia Maria Child] (January 1829): 217-29. Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1829 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Hannah L. Drew, L. Damon-Bach, D. Gussman Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Document 1829 boys Brookline deafness fathers filial piety financial loss gardening God Juvenile fiction Juvenile Miscellany King William III letter writing letters Lydia Maria Child muteness Queen Mary II Saratoga sons Surrender of General Burgoyne virtue virtuous poor https://d1y502jg6fpugt.cloudfront.net/4347/archive/files/a1ef55ba481533ba18b8a96ecdb2fd05.pdf?Expires=1792627200&Signature=jcmuI56UWKBvqrTMjtI91XzYHLsRnDC91UhUNS6plOdArpfKxkIUhA7hKeuvRZF3Cc1KZE1cERbewmwsKScW3%7EQVTdRJyPQbtDWriSZ2sD48YWu8-JXMroWAa8qlPXi1ticaMADuzDgv6J%7EXgQkj11rK3cdTGQ3yJGmuSb6Z0Dk%7ECiB5pe8j7%7Eh4iPqg36T7QM-2bwdMnG1O93iA4R365WTayCotsbiDrXxI4TePBKymYHGafQzx%7EbqLUuCfsVfWvwNnRh0DDsCZ%7EzBrNsS9eFBcZGX%7EfmSOMex98lQnGvS8vMEU7mBBv9PMzmA9RU-RFcQcWyROqR3UiS6YBVP9uA__&Key-Pair-Id=K6UGZS9ZTDSZM de1c5f9b6ef1a1337e5cf4b0e9edff60 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource 1833 Subject The topic of the resource Stories published in 1833. Document A resource containing textual data. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre text. Text Any textual data included in the document. [p. 237] WEST POINT. BY MISS SEDGWICK. My young readers have all heard of West Point. Many of them must have visited it; and they will agree with me that it is the most interesting of all our summer resorts. In the first place, it is rich in historic associations. It was for a long period the head quarters of the heroes of our Revolution. It was considered the most important position in the country; and as such was anxiously and jealously guarded. Names, at the very mention of which our hearts beat quicker, are indelibly written there. "Washington Valley " is a quiet spot, deeply indented by the river, where at one time was his station, whose presence has consecrated and set it apart as a shrine. "Fort Putnam," whose picturesque ruins and position remind the traveller of the crumbling castles on the Rhine, recalls to us the brave, blunt old German, who, though he fought single-handed with a wolf in his own dark rocky den, and with men on many a battle field, "never was afraid, because he never saw anything to be scared at." "General Knox's house" the haunt of social pleasure, even during the [p. 238] anxious period of war. "Kosciusko' s garden," a rocky, and deeply-shaded nook in the bank of the river, completely sequestered from the plain above, and irregularly sloping to the water's edge. In the midst of this little area, which nature seems to have formed for her favorites, bubbles up a clear fountain. Colonel T _____ , the late superintendent, caused a marble basin to be made to receive it, on which, with the taste and refinement that marks all his works, he had inscribed simply the name of Kosciusko. I have seen one, young and beautiful, kneel and kiss this name, while a tear softened her eye, — one of the brightest that genius ever kindled. Do my young friends ask why is this homage? Kosciusko was a devotee to liberty. He was one of our most generous friends in the day of adversity. And, to give him a larger claim upon our hearts, he was a Pole. Tradition informs us that the garden we have described was his favorite resort. There, no doubt, while reposing from his labors for us, he has seen glorious visions of the future freedom and happiness of his own beloved country. The deepest shades of tyranny, midnight, and starless darkness, has settled over Poland. We can do nothing to disperse the clouds, but [p. 239] we can do something to succor the countrymen of our Kosciusko! We can assist those brave exiles, who, having sacrificed all in the glorious cause of freedom, are now penniless in our cities. But I have been led far away from West Point. There is the Military Academy, surpassed by no school in America; and its friends say, equalled by none but the Polytechnic School at Paris. Our young lady-friends, who do not care to investigate the abstruse pursuits of the cadets, may be gratified with the fine specimens of scientific drawings in their Academy. They may learn in the model-room, better than even My Uncle Toby and Corporal Trim could teach them, the mysteries of attack and defence; for there is accurately moulded, a battered town, a fortress, curtains, bastions, glacis, and all those things, whose names puzzle the readers of old histories, and Scott's novels. In the same room are beautiful models of the Colisseum, Diogenes's lantern, and many other classic wonders. If these same young ladies are not, as the old woman said she was, "afeard of a gun without lock, stock, or barrel ; " — if they blend a little antiquarianism with their patriotism, — they will do well to look [p. 240] into the gun-house, and survey the venerable pieces that were surrendered to us by the unfortunate Burgoyne, at Saratoga. But if young ladies hate “these vile guns"; if they care not for the military art, and have no enthusiasm about dead heroes, we can assure them their ears will tingle at the far-famed music of the West Point band; at the evening gun, answered from hill to hill by the spirits of the highlands; and, (alas! we must descend to vulgar animal life, the air and the walks at West Point are such whetters of the appetite,) and at the sound of Mr Cozzens's dinner-bell. This bell will summon them to a table, spread with the luxuries and elegance, and conducted with the refinement of the best private table. "There be divers gifts." Some are blind to the scenery of West Point. Some care not about the School; and others have no historic associations; but none are insensible to the charms of Mr Cozzens's hotel; a pattern hotel, a model landlord. Mike Lambourne says truly, "there is something about the real gentry, that few men come up to, that are not bred and born to the mystery." But who shall deny to our friend Cozzens "the true grace of it"? And [p. 241] who will deny that his luxurious table might content gourmands, and epicures, and even English travellers? But this is no theme for our young lady readers, who, doubtless, like a cracker, as well as a troufle, and a glass of the pure element better than the best champagne. At West Point there are festival hours, and days for the most refined and intellectual appetite. The eye devours unsated the beautiful pictures nature has spread, before it, and which she varies every moment by her magic change of light and shade. This is a feast that does not pass away like the table, which is removed and forgotten. Who that ever sat in Mr Cozzens's piazza, has not a most lovely cabinet-picture on the tablets of memory. Who cannot, by a single impulse of the mind, see those bold precipices, that seem to have withdrawn their rocky portals to give a passage to the river, and to stand, its gigantic guardians, while it playfully glides on its permitted course? And what a rough, but sublime, and well-defined frame work these same stern rocks form for the smiling picture beyond! Polypus Island, the pretty town of Newburg, and the blue soft back-ground of the Kaatskills! [p. 242] I forbear. I know how imperfectly the pen paints such a scene, even in a hand far more skilful than mine; and I will finish this sketch with some particulars of an old friend, in whose company I lately visited West Point. Agrippa Hull (why should I not give the true name? Though unknown to fame, it has never been sullied, during a life of seventy years;) Agrippa Hull is one of the most respectable yeomen of a village in the western part of Massachusetts. He has "fleecy locks and black complexion," but beneath them, a mind as sagacious as Sancho's, and a gift of expression, resembling in its point and quaintness that droll sage. He is, however, far superior to Sancho; for with his humor he blends no small portion of the sentiment and delicacy of Sancho's master. More than fifty years ago, Agrippa was the servant of Kosciusko. The impression that hero made on the mind of his humble friend does him almost as much honor as his immortal record on the page of history. Grippy (this is the affectionate contraction by which we know him,) concludes all his stories of the General, by saying, "he was a lovely man!" These stories are so characteristic of the playful humor and gentleness of [p. 243] Kosciusko, that at the risk of marring the tale in the telling, I will repeat one, as nearly as possible in Grippy's own words. Imagine a colored man, seventy three years old, slightly bent by the rheumatism, and his locks somewhat grizzled, but still retaining a striking resemblance to the picture of Prince Le Boo, of the Pelew Islands, leaning on his staff, and beginning in the doggerel rhyme, with which he usually interlards his discourse, to please his young and uncritical auditors: "If you wish it, young ladies, you shall have a tale; for when it's about the General, love and memory never fail. "The General was going away to be gone two days. ' When the cat 's away, the mice will play!' as the proverb says. The servants wanted a frolic. They persuaded me to dress up in the General's Polish clothes. So I put on his laced coat, his Polish cap, sash, sword and all. His boots I could not wear; so they black-balled my legs and feet. Then I strutted about, took a book, and stretched myself on the sofa, ordered the servants here and there, and bade one of them bring me a glass of water. He did not return soon ; and I, to play my part well, rang, and rang again ; the glass of water came, brought [p. 244] by General Kosciusko himself! I was neither red nor pale; but my knees began to fail. " ‘ I deserve to be punished, sir,' said I. " ' No, no, Grippy,' said he, 'come with me. I’ll take you round to the officers' tents, and introduce you as an African Prince. Don't speak, but mind my signs, and obey them.' " ' I shall die, sir,' said I. " ' Oh, no Grippy, you will not die; follow me." “ The General had his beautiful smile on; but I was past smiling. I looked solemn enough. The General took me from one tent to another, called me by a long name, made me shake hands, and sit down by the first of the army. Mercy on us! the blood run through my heart like a mill-race. One officer gave me wine, and another brandy, and another offered me a pipe. General Kosciusko motioned to me to take them all. (Poor Agrippa! this was the hardest trial of the gauntlet he had to run; for smoking and drinking were ever odious to him.) " My heart was sick, and dizzy grew my head, and I looked to the General, wishing I were dead; and he took pity on me; for he was not a man to enjoy riding on a lame horse. So he laughed out; clapped me on my back, and told me to go about my business. [p. 245] "From that day to this, I have never tried to play any part but my own. I have made many mistakes in that; but a kind Master is forgiving." As he spoke, he raised his eyes reverently towards Heaven. After the lapse of more than fifty years, Agrippa revisited West Point, a pilgrim to a holy shrine! Time and art have so changed the aspect of the place, that when the old man had ascended the step, he looked mournfully around him, and said, "I see nothing here that I know, but Fort Putnam, and the North River!" He soon, however, recognised Washington Valley; and memory gradually restored many forgotten haunts. Agrippa was one of a large party that included the young, the gay, and the beautiful; but he was, as was most fitting, the most noticed and honored of them all. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource West Point Subject The topic of the resource West Point as a summer resort and its relation to the Revolutionary War. Description An account of the resource The narrator describes West Point's attractions for visitors, and relates a story about General Kosciusko and his former servant, Agrippa Hull. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Sedgwick, Catharine Maria Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Juvenile Miscellany [edited by Lydia M. Child] Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource November and December 1833 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource L. Damon-Bach, D. Gussman Language A language of the resource English 1833 African American Agrippa Hull Coliseum Corporal Trim Diogene's lantern exiles Fort Putnam freedom General Henry Knox George Washington Juvenile Miscellany Mike Lambourne patriotism Pelew Islands pilgrimage Poland Polypus Island Prince Lee Boo Sancho Panza Saratoga servants Sir Walter Scott summer resorts Tadeusz Kościuszko the Kaatskills Uncle Toby https://d1y502jg6fpugt.cloudfront.net/4347/archive/files/8aa249acaaf1419da5d2e0c5c766209c.pdf?Expires=1792627200&Signature=lO5EWdajNeGhd14SBDSAM1HPpVbgC6D91wjvmbxKN-e24Mn3tyLyGQoW3Mf1Pt64JE4yXppA9HLGKf40Cv-mCgOud7C9bcLUP0f1stcXUZOwFSQITAtLCa5JmOOP34pbRHX7edv-09N07tZWADT9swktClQj5hRLEd2OGOewd2ZPOc5%7Eh%7ElDpz666cTgDku4frjSH8OXD7oPR4UmhRUibfN7VNu0NANPLstCkpKmcPLKUsvdTQkK0CHWIJI3LsHWkJ2xq-59KOn7o2YXRHyld3N1QVl4QmruPJixgHeBYCSX0pUp16MhMXj8bOl17Jdn2ELKrTP3cEidWcxGJ3PTSQ__&Key-Pair-Id=K6UGZS9ZTDSZM 1f3337d28b37d64bd8a5fe27ef712f9d Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource 1827 Document A resource containing textual data. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre text. Text Any textual data included in the document. SATURDAY NIGHT. _________ [p. 146] Ellen and Charles, two good and happy children, had just been undressed, and were jumping into bed, when their mother came into the room where they were. “Oh, come, mother,” they both cried in the same breath, “and lie down by us, and tell us a story.” “Lie my side,” said Ellen. “Oh no, lie my side,” said Charles. “I cannot do both,” said their mother. “Then come between us,” said Ellen; “that is the fairest way.” “Yes, that is the fairest way,” said Charles; and both the children moved, and left a good place for their mother between them. “Do, mother,” said Ellen, “tell us a fairy story—you know I delight in fairies—now dancing over the flowers, without even bending their slender stems; and now hiding away in acorn cups. Oh! I wish I had lived in fairy-land. I should so have liked to have had a magic lamp, or a ring for a talisman, that would have pinched my finger when I did wrong.” “Pooh, Ellen!” exclaimed Charles, “you know there is no such place in reality, as fairy-land—is there mother?” “I know that, as well as you do, Charles; but [p. 147] then there is no harm in talking of it, as if there were. That you call one of the pleasures of the imagination—don’t you mother?” Ellen’s mother smiled, and said, “yes my dear; but when you are wishing for such a fairy gift as the wonderful ring you spoke of, do not forget that God has given you some thing much more wonderful, to you when you do right, and when you do wrong.” “You mean my conscience, mother,” said Ellen; for her mother had so often spoken to her of conscience, that she very well knew what she meant. “Now Ellen,” said Charles, is a beseeching tone, “don’t interrupt mother again; and do, mother tell me a story of a lion or a panther, or a faithful dog. A faithful dog, like that you read about in your Natural History, Ellen, is worth a sea full of fairies.” “Fairies live in the green wood, Charles, and not in the sea,” said Ellen, a little hurt at Charles’ contempt for her favourites. “To-night I shall not tell you about either beasts, or fairies,” said their mother. “Oh it is Saturday night!” exclaimed Ellen; “I had forgotten that. A Bible story then—I am sure I think the story about Joseph, or that about Isaac, or the Prodigal Son, or Lazarus and his sisters, as interesting as a fairy story.” “They are a hundred times more interesting,” said Charles. Ellen’s mother was glad to find that the true and instructive histories to find that the true and instructive histories from the good book interested her children as much as those stories were contrived to delight them. “My dear chil- [p. 148] ren,” she said “I shall not tell you a story from the Bible, to-night; but relate an anecdote (which, you know, means a short story,) of some little children of our acquaintance. “There are two children, who have a great and kind Friend, who is always taking care of them, whether they are awake, or asleep.” “I suppose you mean their mother,” said little Charley, who was always impatient to get at the story. “No, my love. This Friend gave them their father and their mother.” “Oh you mean God!” whispered Ellen. Her mother did not reply to her, but proceeded—“This bountiful Friend has given to them, the most beautiful and wonderful gems in the world; worth as Charles would say, a whole sea full of diamonds.” “Gems, what are gems, mother?” asked Charles. “Precious jewels, my dear. Those I am speaking of are very small, but so curiously formed, that as soon as the casket which contains them is opened, there is immediately painted on them a beautiful picture of all the objects towards which they are turned. If a landscape, like that you see every morning from your chamber window, there appear on the gems those beautiful mountains, that rise one above and beyond another; the mist that curls up their sides, as if, Ellen, to hide troops of your tiny fairies behind its silvery curtain; the bright lake which glitters in the depth of the valley, and which you call the mountain mirror, Ellen; the large orchards, with their trees, gracefully [p. 149] bending with their ruddy and golden fruit; the neat house opposite us, with its pretty curtain of vines hanging over the door, and rose bushes clustering about the windows.” “What, mother!” exclaimed Charles, “all these things painted on a little gem?” “Yes, Charles, all. The high mountain, and the rose-bushes, every leaf and bud of them; and then, if the gems are turned towards the inside of the house, the landscape disappears, and all the furniture is painted on them, and the perfect pictures of their friends: not such pictures, as you see done by painters, looking grave and motionless; but smiling, speaking, and moving.” “Oh, mother, mother!” exclaims Ellen, this is a fairy story after all.” “Are there, in reality, any such gems?” asked Charles; who did not like that the story should turn out a fairy story. “There are, my dear Charles;” and the same Friend, who gave the children these gems, has given to them, many other gifts, as wonderful. He has given to them an instrument, by which they can hear the music of the birds, the voices of their friends, and all other sounds; and another, by which, they enjoy the delicious perfume of the flowers; the fragrance you so often spoke of, Ellen, when the fruit-trees were in blossom; and the locust trees in flower, and the clover in bloom.” “Oh what a generous Friend that must be,” said Charles, “to give such valuable presents, and so many of them! Are there any more, mother?” “Yes, Charles, more than I could describe to you, if I were to talk till to-morrow morning; [p. 150] there is a very curious instrument, by which, they can find out the taste of every thing that is to be eaten; and another, that by just stretching out their fingers, they can tell whether a thing is smooth or rough, hard or soft.” “Why, I can tell that with my fingers!” exclaimed Charles. “Yes, my dear,” said his mother, “and cannot you taste, by putting food in your mouth? And is there not an instrument set in your head, by which, you can hear?” “My ear, mother?” asked Charles. “Yes, my child, your ear.” And do you mean the eyes, by those wonderful gems?” asked Ellen. “Yes.” But, I am sure there is no painting in the eyes.” “Yes, Ellen, every object you behold, is painted upon the part of the eye, called the retina; but that you cannot understand now; and you must let me go on with my anecdote of the two children. When they arose in the morning, they found that their Friend had taken such good care of them, when they slept, that they felt no pain; that their limbs were all active; and they could every moment receive pleasure from the precious gems, and instruments I have mentioned. They, both looked out of the window, and exclaimed “What a beautiful morning!” The little girl turned her gems towards her multiflora, now full of roses, and glistening with dew-drops, and she clapped her hands, and asked her brother, if he ever saw anything so beautiful; and he turned his gems to a [p. 151] pair of humming-birds, that were fluttering over the honeysuckle, and thrusting their tiny pumps into the necks of the flowers, and as their bright images shone on his gems, he shouted, “Did you ever see anything so handsome?” “You mean, mother,” said Charles, “that he looked at the humming birds, when you say he turned his gems?” “Yes, my dear; and when he heard the pleasant humming they make with their wings, it was by the instrument set in the head, which you call the ear. There was not a moment of the day, but the children enjoyed some good thing, their Friend had given to them. They learned their lessons, by using the memories He had given to them; the books they read, delighted them, because their Friend had given to them minds by which they understood them. They loved their parents, and relations, and companions, because their Friend had given them affections.” “It seems to me,” interrupted Charley, “that Friend gave them every thing. It must be God, you mean, mother; for I know he gives us every thing we have.” “Yes, my dear Charley; and I am sorry to say, these two children neglected their Friend. They had often been told by their mother never to get in bed without first kneeling and thanking him for all his gifts; but they did not think of him. They used and enjoyed the gifts, but they sometimes forgot the Giver.” Ellen laid her head on her mother’s bosom. “Mother,” she said, “you mean us.” “My dear Ellen,” replied her mother, “your [p. 152] conscience is like the ring, in the fairy tale. Yes, I did mean you and Charles. I was sorry, when I came into the room, to-night, to see you getting into bed, without saying your prayers. God has given you a voice, to speak my children. Your dog, Stumah, Charles, cannot speak, to thank God for anything he receives, but you can.” “And I will,” said the good little boy; ashamed that he had been ungrateful and thoughtless. “Come, Ellen; we’ll jump up, and say our prayers; and,” he added, in a whisper; “we’ll speak for Stumah, too.”* * This reply of the child is true. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Saturday Night Subject The topic of the resource Teaching children to appreciate the gifts of the five senses and God. Description An account of the resource A mother tells her children a bedtime story about a mysterious Friend who gives children precious gifts, and teaches a lesson about gratitude and prayer. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Sedgwick, Catharine Maria Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Stories for Young Persons, 146-52. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Harper & Brothers Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1840 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Heather Harman, Nicole Wheatley, D, Gussman Relation A related resource Originally published "by Stockbridge S." in the Juvenile Miscellany, [edited by Lydia M. Child] (January 1827): 31-39. Collected in A Short Essay to Do Good, 18-24, 1828 Language A language of the resource English 1827 1840 bible children Dogs fairies God Joseph Juvenile Miscellany Lazarus Mothers Stories for Young Persons the five senses the Prodigal Son https://d1y502jg6fpugt.cloudfront.net/4347/archive/files/586320d73c995b63356b88ec8c491dd0.pdf?Expires=1792627200&Signature=QJWtI3ZvuG1Tc%7E-DYq459dpYt-2O6jqHV0Vwj7KnlCcNk3sRUMd1ygq%7EWj1W0RAy4kumWchs-ZsUXdKczLeoGvEqb%7EdKVO0kqMvciCbumQvAc63ZOuZEIAMUNfIT-PlMVLMhHM36vSKqZiRlDVHIYtDYyGUCOTtWR4nYZ%7E1xd5j%7EgD3LeLZTaZKuTmTzcsjDDtzytvQq%7EcXKUZKMnrx5%7EXcxmHgJN6Gj5X-YoTMoIWBeLPFkKv9UgCIuPY4W0PAg%7ES-z6gpC%7ET%7E%7EsqGYngW28CYN3gmhBYaFn-qJ7EOIAPp2GMKDCatlVcArnoKXRzuSD0WUurY58TjB4mIWVD7iIA__&Key-Pair-Id=K6UGZS9ZTDSZM 8c9f93ccbb7e090aa61f362f898b849d Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource 1828 Document A resource containing textual data. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre text. Text Any textual data included in the document. Dogs. William Russel resides in one of our Massachusetts villages. He has recently been to New York; and on the evening after his return, while his brothers and sister were arranging their new toys, he began to describe, as well as he was able, the wonders he had seen in the great city. The toys were soon forsaken to listen to him—John’s stag-hunt was but half set up—Anne’s city looked as if an earthquake had tumbled down churches and houses in hopeless ruin—Mary’s doll was permitted to remain half-dressed—and even little Bess, the baby, caught the spirit of listening, ceased to jingle her silver bells, and , in sympathy with the rest, fixed her eager eye on William. “Of all that I saw in the city of New York,” proceeded William, “that which pleased me most, was the learned dog, Apollo.” “That is exactly like you, William,” exclaimed little Mary—“You always seem to care more about dogs, than any thing else.” “Not one half so much as I care about you, Mary,” said the affectionate boy, kissing his sister’s round, red cheek. [31] Mary’s eyes sparkled—she threw her arm over her brother’s shoulder, “Well, tell us all about Apollo, Will,” she said. William then went on to recount the wonderful performances of this most wonderful of all speechless animals—“Apollo,” he said, “is a Greek by birth,--like many other heroes, a native of the celebrated city of Athens; but he is owned, and has been educated, by an Englishman.” “Educated, William!” exclaimed John—“a dog educated!—that is a good one!” “Yes educated, or taught, if you like that better, John,--and if you will please to listen, instead of laughing, you will find that your education had been going on a long time, before you knew as much as Apollo does. When he was exhibited, a circular piece of baize was spread on the floor, and twenty six cards placed around its edge, with the alphabet printed on one side of them, and numbers, up to twenty-six, on the other. The spectators encircled the baize. They were requested, by Apollo’s master, to ask him to spell any name, that occurred to them. Several names were put to him, which he invariably spelt right.” “Could he speak?” asked Mary. [32] “Oh! no—no Mary—I never heard of but one dog, that could speak—a dog belonging to a peasant of Misnias; and he could pronounce but twenty-five words.” “A dog speak!” said Mary, shaking her head incredulously—“that I never will believe.” “Neither should I believe it, Mary, but papa read me the account, which is by Leibnitz, a great philosopher, who saw the dog,--and I had rather believe a dog could speak, than that a great man would give a false report. But though my dog Apollo cannot speak, he makes himself perfectly understood. For instance, if I say ‘Apollo, spell Mary!’ He walks slowly round the cards—stops before M a r y , and puts his nose down to each; or, if you choose, he will bring them, and lay them at your feet.” “Ah, but Mary is a very, very short name; do you believe he could spell Alexander?” asked the little girl. “Yes—I put that to him myself, and several other names; but he astonished me still more when he came to his arithmetic.” “Arithmetic!” exclaimed John—“well, if a dog can learn arithmetic, I hope I shall have a little more patience with it.” [33] “Yes, arithmetic. He will multiply, or subtract, any number within twenty-five. For instance, you ask him, ‘Apollo, how much is five times four?’ and he will bring you the card, on which twenty is printed. Or, if you say ‘Apollo, add together three times five, and subtract six,’ he will bring you the card, on which nine is printed.” “Oh!” said John, “he could not know all that. It is a mere trick. I dare say his master makes him some private sign.” “Ah John, as a gentleman said at the show, to get rid of one difficulty, you make a greater. Many of the spectators were watching the master, and they could not perceive the least communication between him and the dog; so the dog, to see these signs, which you suppose, must have had keener wits than any of us. He did many other things; but they did not appear so wonderful to me, because they were uniform answers to certain questions, which might have been often repeated to him. For instance, he would tell the capitals of all our States, and of the countries of Europe:--where he was born—his age—the places he had visited, &c. He had even made acquaintance with the stars; could tell you the [34] names of the planets, their distance from one another; and from the earth—the time they take to make their revolutions round the sun; and, in short,” continued William, smiling, “he is quite a Newton among dogs.” After the children had exhausted their inquiries and expressions of admiration, William asked his mother if she did not think that, at some future time, there would be schools for dogs, as there were now for children. His mother thought no. “Men,” she said, “teach one another. One race of boys educated, teaches the next; but God, in denying speech to dogs, has denied them the power of transmitting their knowledge. Apollo, learned as he is, cannot impart his knowledge to another dog;--and it is not probable that man will ever make it his business to teach inferior animals, since such knowledge could be of no use after it ceased to be a curiosity. But, my children, we ought to be very glad to see the art of man employed on any other powers in dogs than the power of destruction. How much pains have been taken to train this interesting and useful animal to pursue and destroy other animals. In England, our mother country, dogs have been trained to fight, and tear bulls, for [35] the amusement of the people. This disgusting sport was called bull-baiting. Even queens forgot the gentleness of their sex so far, as to be present at these sports. Queen Mary entertained a French ambassador, for two days successively, with an exhibition of this kind, only fit for Hottentots—and was herself present.” “Perhaps, mamma,” said William, “these horrid spectacles made her cruel; for that Mary was the queen who put to death so many of her own subjects that she was called ‘bloody Mary!’” “Yes, William, such sports would certainly have a tendency to confirm a cruel disposition. You will find that most kind-hearted people are kind to animals. He who treats his horses and cows with care and tenderness, will not neglect his wife and children.” “You agree with the poet Cowper, mamma. Do you remember those lines you once pointed out to me: ‘The heart is hard in nature, and unfit For human fellowship, as being void Of sympathy, and therefore dead alike To love and friendship both, that is not pleased With sight of animals enjoying life.’” [36] “Yes, my dear—and I thank you for remembering them. Cowper is a case in point himself. He was one of the most tender-hearted men that ever lived; and the history of his three little pet hares, Tiny, Puss, and Bet, which he has told so beautifully himself, and which you have all read, is a proof of his love of animals. But we were speaking of the cruelties taught to dogs. Do you know, William, that formerly blood-hounds were trained to pursue malefactors? This might be excused, on the ground that murderers and robbers deserved no mercy; but no apology can be made for the French of St. Domingo, one of the West India islands. Their slaves rebelled, and, determined to be free, carried on a war against their masters, by which they finally obtained their liberty. During this contest, the French trained blood-hounds to pursue and devour the negroes. I will read you the description of this mode of training the dogs, as it is given in the Encyclopedia.” William’s mother took down the book, and read the following extract:-- “In training the hounds to this inhuman pursuit, they are confined in a kennel, sparred like a cage, and sparingly supplied with the [37] blood of other animals. The figure of a negro, in wicker-work, stuffed with blood and entrails, was occasionally exhibited in the upper part of the cage: the dogs struggled against their confinement, and as their impatience increased, the effigy was brought nearer and nearer, while their usual subsistence was gradually diminished. At length the figure was resigned to them; and while voraciously tearing it up, and devouring its contents, they were encouraged by the caresses of their keepers. Thus their hatred to black, and their love to white men, were, at the same time, excited. When their training was complete, they were sent out to the chase. The miserable negro had no means of escape; he was hunted down, and torn to pieces; his wife and children, perhaps, sharing his misfortune. This, however, was not the full extent of the calamity. The dogs frequently broke loose, and infants were devoured in an instant form the public way—sometimes the proceeded to the neighbouring woods, and surprising a harmless family of labourers, at their simple meal, tore the babe from the breast of its mother, or devoured the whole party, and returned with their jaws drenched in gore.” [38] The children were loud in their expressions of indignation at these base cruelties; and, turning from them to the more agreeable subject of Apollo, they again discussed his accomplishments. “After all, mother,” said Mary, “though I should like of all things to see Apollo, and I know I should admire him, yet I never could love him so much as I do poor Clara’s little dog, Foot.” “No, my dear—because though talents, in man, woman, child, or dog, may excite our admiration, it is goodness that touches our hearts. Your eyes are wide open with wonder when you hear of Apollo; but the other day, when you witnessed the fidelity of Foot, they were moistened with tears of sympathy and tenderness.” “Tears! Did we shed tears, mother?” asked Mary. “I am sure my feelings were pleasant.” “They were indeed, Mary; but some of our pleasantest feelings bring tears to our eyes.” That our young readers may understand what were the pleasant feelings, that brought tears to the eyes of these good children, we must tell the story of Clara, and her dog Foot. [39] Clara, or rather Clary, (for I would give the accustomed sound to her name) is a poor girl in our village, who has suffered from epileptic fits; which, for the time, suspend her faculties, and have gradually impaired them, till she has become, in country phrase, quite “underwitted.” She leads, for the most part, an idle, vagrant life, straying about the field, gathering fruits, and collecting roots, and wildflowers. She may be seen every day, sauntering through our village-street, in rain, snow, and driving wind, heedless of the weather, excepting in the bitterest cold of winter, when she steals to some kindly hearth, and putting to the fire her feet, which appear half frozen through her torn shoes, she looks up with a vacant smile, and says, like Shakespeare’s fool, “poor Clary’s a-cold.” Her little terrier dog, Foot, is always by her side—the only living thing that seems to love her—the only one she loves. When she ploughs through the deep snows, he follows, jumping and frisking, and half buried at every plunge;--and through the dismal rains, the poor fellow appears, still performing his forlorn duty, his head drooping, and his tail curled close to his legs. But in the fine, bright summer days, Foot has his pleasures too. [40] When Clary is marching under the shade of the beautiful maples, that line our street—her torn frock trailing on the ground—her calico bonnet hanging back from her weather-beaten face—her alms-basket dangling on her arm,--and her knitting, (her constant occupation) in her hands, little Foot appears full of life and spirits. Every child in the street knows Foot—all respect his devoted friendship for Clary, (for true friendship, even in dogs, is beautiful,) and every little girl and boy gives him a kind word, or caress, or perchance a bit of gingerbread from the school-basket. Even the dogs—and there is an uncommon population of that race in our village—even the dogs bound towards little Foot with kind salutations, while he returns their greeting with a frolicksome play, and a short, joyous bark. But that which is most worthy of record about Foot, and that which excited the admiration of our young friends, yet remains to be told. Poor Clary is sometimes seized with her fits by the road-side. During the paroxysms, and the long sleep, which sometimes succeeds them, Foot never quits her side. I saw him on one of these occasions, his paws placed on her arm, looking intently in his poor mistress’ [41] face, and yelping most piteously. “What,” thought I, “must be the tenderness of that Great Being, who has put such compassionate feelings into the breast of this little dog!” Foot sometimes renders Clary essential service. Once, when she was returning from the fields, with a basket of fine strawberries, she sat down to rest herself, and was seized with a fit. A boy was passing, with an empty basket. He espied Clary’s beautiful strawberries, he saw she was unconscious, and he was tempted to steal them. He knew it was wicked to steal, and that this was cruel stealing,--but the pleasure of gratifying his appetite with the delicious fruit, was uppermost in his mind. He stole softly towards the strawberries, and was just emptying them into his own basket, when Foot sprang on him, grasped his coat between his teeth, and held him fast. The boy in vain tried to beat him off—he snarled, and threatened to bite him, but did not quit his hold. The boy then thought of screaming for help, but then whoever came to his relief, would be a witness of his disgrace. He stood, for a few moments, pondering in silence—then stooped down, poured the pilfered strawberries again into Clary’s basket, and placed it [42] close to her side. When he had thus repaired his fault, Foot quietly released his prisoner, and returned to his mistress’ side. To the honor of the boy, it should be told, that he afterwards related the story himself; and said, that no spoken reproof—no whipping, ever made him suffer so much as the shame he felt, when he compared his dishonesty with the fidelity of this little brute. I have often thought, when I looked on Clary and Foot, that there was no creature which walked on the earth, for whom God had not provided some pleasure. The possession of this little dumb friend, seems, in some measure, to be a compensation to Clary for her misfortunes. I thought so last week, when I went to her mother’s house, on a sorrowful occasion. She has been the most afflicted woman in our village; and last week, her husband, an industrious, hard-working man, died, after a few hours’ sickness. When I entered their miserable dwelling, I found that some kind neighbours had already been there, and the poor man was decently laid out, in an inner room. His son, a boy ten years old, who, a short time before, had his arms crushed in a mill, and afterwards amputated, sat by him, weeping bitterly; the mother, a poor paralytic,--one half of her body dead, [43] was attempting to hush a famishing, crying baby; a little girl, the image of gentleness and patience, but pale, and emaciated with disease, and deformed with dropsy, lay on a ragged coverlet, in the middle of the floor. Clary sat on the door-stone, caressing Foot, in happy unconsciousness of the misery around her. Her eye rested on me for a moment, while I sat feeding the baby, and she seemed to notice the tears I dropped on the helpless little thing, as if she half understood my emotion; but presently turning again to Foot, and renewing her play with him, she said, with one of her strange, vacant laughs, “But you and I have pleasant times, for all—don’t we, Foot?” I will not write out the moral of my story; for I well remember when I was a child, how I hated those formal morals to Aesop’s fables; how I thought them a dead weight, which almost crushed the life out of the pleasant story that went before them; and beside, I do not doubt my readers have sagacity enough to perceive, that little Mary preferred Foot, on account of his affection and fidelity, and we hope, that like her, they will always set the qualities of the heart above the faculties of the mind—goodness above genius. Stockbridge. S. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Dogs Subject The topic of the resource Dogs, dog-training, cruelty to animals, loyalty, goodness versus genius.. Description An account of the resource After an older brother tells his younger siblings all about an extraordinary dog he encountered in New York City, his mother criticizes animal cruelty and reminds them of the fidelity and goodness of dogs. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Sedgwick, Catharine M. "Stockbridge S." Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived <em>The Juvenile Miscellany</em> [edited by Lydia Maria Child], (March 1828): 30-43 Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1828 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource L. Damon-Bach, D. Gussman Relation A related resource Reprinted as <em>The Sagacity of Dogs.</em> Boston: Marsh &amp; Capen, 1828. Collected in <em>Stories for Young Persons</em>, 153-63, 1840. Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Document Animal Cruelty Bloodhounds Dog Fighting Dogs Fidelilty Goodness Juvenile fiction Juvenile Miscellany Mothers Siblings https://d1y502jg6fpugt.cloudfront.net/4347/archive/files/b5170ace0a5e71f14a241266bff9a4f7.pdf?Expires=1792627200&Signature=veEQJFSo39qSdX4IlwDvOJRCc8W4gmKooWkQdQ0FCIMyEY5KJJfeKj5A0523URJzb%7EnB4yIaS%7EZ20FJ3h%7EgkHZG8gXh0er0h5b6nKT79dFQ0xmPqoGw3hJNMtNbIKJdyI0Kf8oxIOUM6ToPgH07cyNPNoYtbv%7E11%7EJ0GWTvKbriAzbdz-kVjprMfa16dCFFC4zIeronNLrjzLTxBRVFui%7Ei9alhuYeOPz-z3Uron9XLvafIrAT-BO%7Ew6xHA5Shv7VmYQ0kyLHqTFJfcpvlyaMnnLw%7ErmjMqWs-D-VOYkBZ218D3zPO5NQmEBwsKMVqAkmFFQSR4b95RQimcuSL30ag__&Key-Pair-Id=K6UGZS9ZTDSZM 38fe14cdc1357de75d3c600d0affdbbe Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource 1832 Subject The topic of the resource Stories published in 1832 Document A resource containing textual data. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre text. Text Any textual data included in the document. “Country Pleasures” by Miss Sedgwick Mr. Astley, a gentleman residing in New York, --whether last year, or twenty years ago, I am not bound to tell,--had one child, Lucy, a little girl ten years old. Mr. Astley had been very unfortunate in the loss of an only son; and one year after that event, the death of Lucy’s mother had bereft him of all that was very near or dear to him, excepting this child, in whom his affections were now fearfully concentrated. Lucy’s health, too, had suffered from the diseases incident to childhood, and perhaps from anxious tenderness of her father, the zeal of her physician, and the watching of her nurses. She looked like a delicate flower that the first rude blast must sweep from its parent-stem. The loss of her little playfellow had affected her spirits. She missed her mother too, every hour in the day; and though it is not common for children to look back on the past, poor Lucy could not help it. Every desire and feeling that rose in her bosom reminded her of her mother; for to her she had gone to tell every want, every joy, and every sorrow. The nursery, where her mother always sat ready to join in the sports of her children, to assist their studies, or settle their little disputes, seemed now like a tomb to poor Lucy; and though it was filled with books and toys of every description, Lucy would sit there without the power of occupying or amusing herself. “Do take a book, Lucy,” said her kind nurse, Mary: “Here is this beautiful Arabian Nights, with the large pictures.” “There is no pleasure in reading it now,” replied Lucy. “I can’t go to mamma to explain it.” “Well then, Lucy, take these nice painted bricks, and build you a castle.” Lucy complied, for she hated to be sulky; and when it was done, she burst into tears, saying, “Oh, poor Willie! if he were only here to toss it over, and build another.” The nurse gently put away the bricks, drew out the table, and placed on it some paper, brushes, and a paint-box that had been bought for Lucy’s amusement; for she had not yet taken lessons in drawing. Lucy attempted a bunch of flowers, but soon pushed away the paper, saying she could do nothing now. The nursery was shut up, and another apartment of the large house fitted up for Lucy and her nurse; but still her health and spirits did not return. Her father was advised to send her into the country for the summer; but his business kept him in the city, and he had not resolution to part with her. He hoped that short excursions would revive her. He took her often to Rockaway, and Staten Island, and sent her almost every afternoon to the beautiful walks of Hoboken. Still poor Lucy remained pale and spiritless. At last, the physician advised Mr. Astley so earnestly to send her for two or three months into the country, that he became alarmed, and consented. She was sent to her aunt Ames, in Massachusetts. I am obliged to tell my young readers some particulars that I had rather not communicate; but it is perhaps best they should know what a mixed material human character is. Generosity is sometimes found with much selfishness; and a person who has lived a long while without manifesting it may, if addressed in the right way, or by the right person, be found capable of this noble quality. Though Lucy’s father was by no means an avaricious man, he set a high value on his wealth. He lived in expensive style, and gave on all common occasions of giving; but the truth that he was merely God’s steward, and bound to apply the fortune in his hands to the best uses for others, as well as himself, seemed not to have occurred to him. When his son died, he felt more than ever the insecurity of every earthly possession, and endeavoured to secure his property from the mischances that might befall it. Might it not have been the design of Heaven in removing his only son, that he should open his heart and his doors to the unportioned children of others? We must go back a few months in our story. Lucy’s aunt Ames was the only sister of her mother. Both sisters were born to fortune and delicately bred. Mrs. Ames’ husband was a man of integrity and wit—a man of the soundest judgement I have ever known, in other people’s affairs; his own he fatally mismanaged; and finally, when but a remnant of their property remained, he sent his wife and boys to live on a farm in Massachusetts, while he went forth full of admirable plans and plausible projects to seek his fortune. Mrs. Ames suffered the changes in her condition without repining. If she had ceased to hope for much, she desired little, and seemed to regret nothing but that she had not the means to educate her boys. Liston, the eldest, was obliged to work on the farm. He had early shown a talent for painting. When he was but four years old, he drew on his slate his father’s dog, Argus, (the dog then twice the size of the artist,) saying as he did so, “Ah! Argy, I can do it all but the wagging of your tail.” As he grew older, his passion for the art increased to such a degree that he had little interest in any other study or pursuit. His tasks done,--he did them, for he was a most dutiful child,--he was sketching his mother, his brothers, his dog, his cat, the mountains, the trees, the clouds, the fences, the old well, the broken horse-block; nothing was too high or too humble for Liston’s pencil. “The best thing you could do with that boy, Mrs. Ames,” said a friend, who had been looking over Liston’s drawings, “is to send him to live with his uncle Astley, to be bred to the profession of painting.” Mrs. Ames, whatever she thought, merely replied, “I could not ask such a favour of Mr. Astley.” “Nothing ask, nothing have,” said her adviser; and the conversation was dropped. Was it not strange that Mr. Astley did not endeavor to supply society to his daughter by taking into his family one of her cousins? I have often wondered at seeing persons who had large and half-fulfilled houses, neglect those charitable hospitalities that would cost them so little, and do so much good to others. We have much to wonder at in this world of ours, with the evil that is done, and the good that is not done! After much hesitation, and much anxiety, lest Mr. Astley might think she meant indirectly to ask his aid, Mrs. Ames addressed a letter to him, stating Liston’s decided taste and talent for painting; and requesting Mr. Astley to show some specimens which she enclosed to a judicious artist, and if they should be approved, to tell her if he knew any mode by which Liston could support himself while he was acquiring the art. In a few days, she received the following reply:-- “My dear Sister, “I send you back the specimens, which you will perceive I have not opened, as I feared I would not be able to do them up so neatly again, and I have no curiosity in such matters. “I did not think it worth while to trouble an artist to look at them, as I am decidedly against Liston entering on the business. It is a beggarly profession to all but those who are at the head of it; which he would have a slender chance of being. I advise you by all means to enter him in the mercantile line. A country store is as good a place as can be for beginning. Remember me to Liston and your other boys. As the nephews of my dear and lamented wife, their welfare will always interest me. I enclose $20, which you will do me the favour to use for them; and believe me. “Your affectionate brother, R. Astley.” Had Mrs. Ames been a proud, or an impetuous woman, she might have thrown the letter and the bank-note into the fire; but she was gentle, reasonable, and thoroughly disciplined; and after the first sharp pang of disappointment had subsided, she said, “It is possible that Mr. Astley judges better than I do. I ought not to have expected he would enter into our views. At any rate, poor Liston shall not have the mortification of knowing that his sketches were never looked at;” and she carefully locked them in her desk. It was not long after this that Mr. Astley wrote to request she would receive Lucy and her nurse for a few weeks. She answered him that nothing could gratify her so much as to have Lucy with her; but she strongly advised against the nurse being sent, as she thought an entire change of life would be best for her niece. Mr. Astley perceived the good sense of this suggestion; and accordingly the nurse was ordered, after leaving Lucy with her aunt, to return immediately to New-York. It was a bitter parting. The kind nurse doated on Lucy, and Lucy thought she must be miserable without her, who had supplied all her wants, even to the brushing of her hair, and tying up her shoe-strings. “Oh dear, Mary,” said she, “what shall I do without you? who will dress me in the morning, and fix me for dinner? and put me to bed? Do tell aunt I can’t go to sleep without a light in my room; and do not ask her, as father told you, to have a fire made for me to dress by, of damp mornings; and do tell her I am afraid of dogs, and horribly afraid of cats;--oh, Mary, what shall I do!” The nurse soothed and promised; but poor Lucy was left with the conviction that she must be miserable till she saw her again. It so happened, that just at the time of Lucy’s visit, Mrs. Ames’ sons were all absent from home, excepting Liston; who was usually employed on the farm during the day; and of course Lucy was left very much alone with her aunt. On the day of the nurse’s departure, Mrs. Ames in vain tried to interest the poor girl. Her aunt proposed a walk. Walking, Lucy said, tired her. Her aunt brought to her all her boys’ store of books; some Lucy had read, and some she did not care to read. Her aunt proposed her beginning a little fancy-work on muslin; Lucy said she had never loved to work since her mother died; and hiding her starting tears, she turned her back to her aunt, sat down at the window, the picture of despair, for half an hour; then complained of a violent head-ache, and got a bottle of Cologne and some drops her nurse had left for her; and asking her aunt if she might write a few lines to Mary, (the nurse,) she wrote the following; on which might be easily seen the traces of her tears. “Oh, Mary, I am dreadfully homesick! Pray ask father to come next week. I am sure the country will not agree with me, for I have a miserable head-ache already. I have forgotten which box of pills you told me to take first; pray send me word by the first mail, for you known the doctor wished me to be particular about taking them; though aunt don’t seem to think it of any consequence. She says she thinks country air is the best medicine for me. She is very, very kind to me; but I cannot be happy, for all that. Now, Mary, don’t you for the world tell papa, or any body, what I am going to tell you; for I don’t suppose aunt can afford any thing better. We had nothing for dinner to-day but boiled eggs and bread and butter!! I am afraid I shall starve to death. Give my love to papa, but do not show him this letter. Only beg him to come for me as soon as possible.” Before Lucy had quite finished her letter, she heard her cousin Liston’s pleasant voice calling her. She threw her paper into her trunk, and ran down stairs. He had brought her home a nest with two young blackbirds. A sportsman had shot the mother-bird, and Liston told her he had brought them home to her care, and she must be their foster-mother. He fixed them snugly in a basket, which was to be placed out of the cat’s reach; and he instructed Lucy how to take care of them. Lucy was delighted. Above all things she said she had desired to see the wild, little living birds, in a real nest; and now she should rear them herself, and see for herself if all she had heard of their instinct was true; and she sat, with the basket on her lap, watching them till it was quite dark, and they had lain their heads under their wings, and were fast asleep. She then covered them with wool, that they might not miss the warmth of their mother brooding over them; ate a hasty but very hearty supper, (as the abundant country tea was called;) for she was anxious to see Liston prepare the mother-bird (that he had brought home for that purpose) for stuffing. The next day she had not time to finish the letter; nor the next; nor the next; and at last, when reminded by her aunt that she had promised her father should hear once a week, she added the following “Postscript.—My dear Mary, I have a great deal to tell you, but I shall leave it for a letter to papa. You need not speak to the doctor about the pills, for I do believe aunt was right about the country air. I have not felt a head-ache since the day you went away. For pity’s sake do not say a word about aunt’s dinners. To be sure, they are very different from ours; but I eat twice as much as I did at home, and it tastes forty times as good. Give my love to papa. Oh, above all, don’t hurry his coming for me. In great haste, dear Mary, your affectionate and grateful friend, Lucy.” I think my young readers would prefer to have Lucy’s own account of her country pleasures. I have therefore copied the letter she wrote to her father. “My dear Papa,--you wished me to write to you every thing that occurred to me, and especially about my health. I have not thought of it this three weeks, only when my belts pinched me; and aunt has been kind enough to let them out. I have delightful walks with aunt; and sometimes Liston is with us; but he is at work most almost all day, and it is only in the evening he can do what he chooses. Then he stuffs birds, and mounts them, and draws and paints, and reads poetry to me; and now for the first time I enjoy that which describes nature; for Liston teaches me to observe where it is true, and where it is not. I think Mr. Bryant must have lived in this part of the country; for, as Liston says, his poetry is like a mirror, in which you see these very mountains, and trees, and flowers, reflected. There is a beautiful piece about the death of the flowers, in which he says: ‘The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, And the briar-rose and the orchids died amid the summer glow; But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sunflower by the brook in autumn beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland glade and glen.’ “Now, papa, as you love truth, just observe how true the poetry is. Yesterday afternoon we were walking; the air was soft, and had that sweet smell of the wild woods, that comes from the fallen leaves. The mountains, and the hollows among them, looked blue, and smoky, and far off; the golden-rod and the asters were as bright as summer flowers, and the fringed gentian ‘With its sweet and quiet eye Looked through its fringes to the sky’ I gathered my hands full of these flowers—I repeated to aunt the poetry that describes them; and I felt grateful to the poet, who had made these wild flowers seem as if they were giving me the welcome of friends to their home on the hill-side. Last night ‘fell the frost from the clear cold heaven’ and the flowers are blighted black, and shriveled in ‘glad and glen.’ Still there is beauty, and, as Liston says, a ‘visible poetry’ in the woods; such as I never dreamed of when I was shut up in the city. The keen frost has suddenly turned the leaves to glowing and glorious colours. I cannot describe them; but if you were here I should say, ‘See, papa, just below those bare flinty crags of the mountain, see the young oaks a bright red; then masses of evergreen; a towering pine there; and there slender graceful tameracks: and oh, see where the sun’s rays slanting from that dark cloud dance along the tops of that long line of maples. The foliage of other trees turns of one colour; but that of the maple is yellow, orange, crimson, red, scarlet, purple, and bronze. Some of the branches appear as if every leaf had been dipped in sun-set dyes; and others seem as if the edge of the leaves had been crimsoned or gilded by some careful hand. “It is as Liston says, the maple is among trees like trout among fish, and swans among birds—most beautiful in dying. But I am tiring you. I forget that which is so beautiful to me can be dull to you. I now feel what little Lizzy said after she came back to New-York: ‘Oh, we have but one battery here, and it is all battery in the country.’ We have such a variety of pleasures; Liston makes friends of every thing, even of bees and wasps; at least, friends of the first, and acquaintance of the last. He has opened some wasps’ cells, to show me some little spiders that the wasps had enclosed in these prisons, to be food for their young. I must tell you two anecdotes of Liston’s bees. “Liston has several hives, and Mr. Davis, who lives on the next farm to aunt’s, has several more. One of Mr. Davis’ swarms came and made war on one of Liston’s. They fought desperately, for two or three days; at last Mr. Davis’ swarm submitted; but the curious part of it is, that the conquerors made slaves, or as Liston calls them, helots of their captives, and the poor creatures were compelled to convey their whole store of honey to the hives of their vanquishers. The other story is more pleasing: for, as Liston says, I hate to see that even bees can be, like men, cruel and oppressive. Liston examined one of his hives some weeks since, and found the bees had made very little honey—not enough he thought to last them through the winter—and so thought the bees; for they went to the woods, and struck a bargain with some wild bees, whom Liston observed working with his bees, and after days they all disappeared. Liston examined the hive, and found they had carried off every particle of honey. He believes they, finding their provision was like to fall short, agreed with the wild bees to join stocks. What a long letter I have written! Farewell, dear papa. Give my love to Mary, and tell her I am no longer a drone in the hive, but as busy and happy as she would wish me. “Your affectionate daughter, Lucy.” “My dear Papa,--I remember once reading a true story of the Caliph Abdelrahman, who was one of the greatest and richest of all the Caliphs of Bagdad. He had an immense retinue of slaves, dressed in gold and gems. His palace was hung with tapestry of silk, embroidered with gold. Among other beautiful things, he had a large tree of solid gold, spreading into branches, and covered with gold and silver birds. There was machinery, so arranged that the leaves moved as if stirred by the wind, and the birds sang. In short, this Caliph had every thing that riches could procure; and when he died a paper was found in his closet, on which he had written: ‘Riches, honor, power, and pleasure have waited on my call, nor does any earthly blessing appear to have been wanting to my felicity. In this situation I have diligently numbered the happy days that have fallen to my lot; the amount to fourteen!’ “Poor Caliph Abdelrahman! In all your life, you had not half so many happy days as I have had since I came to aunt Ames’! And yet here are no riches, no slaves, no gems, no gold trees, and silver birds. But here are kind hearts,--the kindest in the world,--and minds taught to perceive the wisdom and goodness that appear in God’s works. Liston makes every thing interesting. His dog and his cat seem to have more character than most of men. “I suppose it is because we observe them narrowly, and because Liston cultivates all their faculties. Argus, the dog, seems to hear Liston’s footstep when he is returning home, at the distance of half a mile, and runs half frantic with joy to meet him. If Liston reproves him, nobody can console him; he will not eat, nor even wag his tail, till his master receives him into favour again. But the best thing of all is to see his friendship for the cat. Argus had been gone for two days, and when he returned he fawned over Juno, and licked her face as lovingly as if they had been born friends. Liston says he does not believe there is any natural enmity between men or beasts but what may be overcome. Our cat, Juno, is a most sagacious and, as Liston says, loyal cat. Would you believe it, papa,--if she takes any mice, or other prey, when her master is absent, she hides it till he returns—does not disturb a hair of it; and when he comes in she lays it at his feet; and after he has patted and stroked her, she drags it away into some dark corner and devours it,* as cats will. “Last year Liston had a pair of grey squirrels quite tame, who used to leap on his head and shoulders, and feed from his hand; most amusing little pets they were. Liston named them Robin Hood and Little John. They built them a cunning little house of leaves on the maple trees before the door, and they hid their winter store of nuts in different parcels. Liston says it was curious to observe the accuracy of their memories. After the snow fell, they would go precisely to the places where they had deposited their nuts, brush off the snow, and bring them to their leafy house. When the spring came, the little rogues, like Robin Hood and little John of old, preferred the revels of the merry green wood, and they scampered off; but every now and then they come to pay their liege-lord a visit. Oh, dear papa, aunt is to me what the green wood is to the squirrel; and my visit is almost finished! Do not think I shall be sorry to go home to you; but how shall I ever again live without Liston? Our big house will seem very solitary after being where we can talk to one another from one end of the house to the other—the advantage of this old rickety house, as Liston says. Old and rickety it may be; but I am sure no palace was ever pleasanter. My love to Mary, and tell her I wish she could live in the country, so that she might be sure of being far happier than the Caliph Abdelrahman. “Your affectionate child, Lucy.” My friend Lucy was a more faithful correspondent than most young ladies of her age, and I have still another letter of hers to present to my young readers, which I hope they will have the patience to read. “Dear Papa, --I send you with this letter a picture which Liston has been painting, and which he says I must tell you is a present from myself! Do write me by the next mail, and tell me if you think the picture like me; and how you like the bird, and Argus; and if Juno does not look very funnily with my necklace on; and if you do not think my black prince” (the name Lucy had given her blackbird) “is a most graceful little fellow. Poor Liston; I have found out that he is not so perfectly happy as I supposed. *As some of my readers may doubt the accuracy of Lucy’s statement, I assure them that this anecdote is literally true, of a well trained favourite, as well as the other particulars she relates of Liston’s squirrels, &c. Her cousin Liston is a friend of mine, who has La Fontaine’s power of making animals almost as interesting as his own species. He very seldom paints now; and aunt says it is because he is so fond of it that if he indulges himself he cannot relish any other employment. I asked aunt why he did not go to N. York and learn painting for a profession. For a good while she did not give me any satisfactory answer; but I teased her, till she told me he could not support himself there while learning. Oh, papa! the thought came into my head like a flash, how pleasant it would be to have Liston live with us! And as to his support, I am certain you would rather give him that, than not. Since my dear brother is gone, should not his vacant place be filled, and that which he cannot now enjoy be given to another? If we have Liston with us, he will make all our days happy days. He is better than all the gold and gems of the Caliph of Bagdad. Do please let me know very soon how you like the plan. I have not hinted it to Liston, for I wish him to think it first comes from you; and so I am sure it would, if you knew Liston as well as I do, and had not so much business to think of. I am afraid Liston would not like to go, if he knew I had asked you to invite him. In haste, dear papa, for I am going walnutting. Oh, how pleasant to hear the nuts rattle down, when Liston throws a club among the branches. In haste, “Your affectionate Lucy.” The picture Lucy sent was a sketch of herself—her pretty blackbird perched on her hand, and picking a seed from off her rosy lip; Argus and Juno were playing at her feet. This pacquet met with a kinder fate than the one sent by Mrs. Ames. Though done up in the neatest manner, Mr. Astley opened it, and the next day wrote the following letter to Lucy:-- “My dear child,--I have received your letter and the picture. The picture surprised me. The drawing is beautiful; and the portrait precisely like you, except that my pale sickly little girl appears as ruddy and fat as a Hebe. Heaven grant your cousin has not flattered you. The hope of seeing you looking as healthy as your picture does, has already given me one of your Sultan’s happy days. I sent Liston’s picture to Mr. -----, whom I took upon as our first artist. I asked him to give me his honest opinion of the boy’s talent, and also to inform me on what terms he would give him the necessary instruction to fit him for his profession. You will like to see his answer, and I hear transcribe it for you. “’Mr. ---- presents his compliments to Mr. Astley, and informs him that he would not receive his nephew for ten thousand dollars. The boy would take the bread out of Mr. ------‘s mouth. “’Seriously, my dear sir, send the lad to me as soon as possible; no time is to be lost. As to terms, I can scarcely fail to be his debtor; for all the instruction I can give will be more than remunerated by the aid he can give me in my pictures. I shall be proud of such a pupil.’ “Now, my dear Lucy, this gratifies me. I like to have young men pay their own way; it inspires them with an honorable feeling of independence, and a sense of the value of time and talent. You are right, my child; when it pleased God to take my boy, I should have given the portion thrown back upon my hands to another. Liston shall have a home with us. I will take care of his necessary expenses. If he make you happy, my dear Lucy, he will far more than repay me; for he will give us what the Caliph Abdelrahman could not buy with all his wealth.” Inclosed in Lucy’s letter was a very kind one to Mrs. Ames, from Mr. Astley, apologizing for the neglect with which he had, on a former occasion, treated her views for Liston, and closing with a proposal that he should be sent to town with Lucy; and that Mrs. Ames, her other boys being disposed of at school, should pass the winter at his house. Perhaps my young readers have yet to learn, that it is far more difficult for a generous and delicate person to receive a favour with grace, than to bestow one. Mrs. Ames could do both. One month had not passed away before she was happily established in Mr. Astley’s house; and Liston was pursuing the profession, now happily within his grasp, with the avidity and joy that belong to talent and diligence united. Lucy did not forget her mother, but she constantly felt that the friend next dearest was with her. Neither did she forget her beloved brother; but his spirit of love and cheerfulness seemed restored to her in her cousin. Gloom was banished from the house, and the sweet music of quick footsteps and happy voices resounded there. My young friends, had the Caliph Abdelrahman employed his wealth to make others happy, would he not himself have enjoyed more than fourteen happy days? Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Country Pleasures Subject The topic of the resource Country versus city life. Description An account of the resource The narrator writes of a little girl, Lucy, who recently lost her mother and brother to death. Her father sends her to live with her aunt and cousin for a year in the country. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Sedgwick, Catharine M. Miss Sedgwick Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived <em>Juvenile Miscellany</em> [edited by Lydia M. Child] (May and June 1832): 111-34. Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1832 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource L. Damon-Bach, Meghan Smith Relation A related resource Collected in <em>Stories for Young Persons</em>, 125-41, 1840. Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Document "The Death of the Flowers" "To the Fringed Gentian" Arabian Nights Bees Blackbirds Caliph Abdelrahman cats Country Depression Dogs Hoboken Juvenile fiction Juvenile Miscellany letters Little John Massachusetts New York City Painting poetry Robin Hood Rockaway Sketching squirrels Staten Island Wildlife William Cullen Bryant Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource 1829 Subject The topic of the resource Stories published in 1829. Document A resource containing textual data. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre text. Text Any textual data included in the document. In the January number of the Miscellany, we promised to show how far little Mary Smith merited her royal title. We did not mean to imply that Queens were better—they are often not half as good as their subjects; but as no one is born to a title in our Republican country, it is supposed to be a badge of merit. We left Mary's father on the eve of sailing for Europe. About a year after his departure, Mrs. Smith, who was living in her economical cottage in Brookline, received a visit from Mrs. Gray, a lady who had been her neighbor in Boston, and who had a beautiful country seat in Brookline. She brought with her, her daughter Helen, a girl about a year older than Mary. She was dressed very beautifully in a French Frock, sent to her, with many other presents, by her aunt, who resided in Paris. Mary Smith was a very polite little girl—she had true politeness; the only politeness of any value. She attended to others from a real desire to make them happy. While her mother was talking with Mrs. Gray, she asked Helen if she would like to go out and see the pigeons . "No I thank you," said Helen. "Perhaps you do not like pigeons," said Mary modestly; "will you go and see ray Bantam chickens? They are perfectly white and the cunningest things you ever saw. Will you go?" "No I thank you." "What is Miss Mary saying to you?" asked Helen's mother. Helen ran to her and whispered loud enough to be heard, "She wants me to go out and see her pigeons; and I am afraid that I shall soil my frock and not be fit for the party." "Oh, go my dear," said her mother, "if Miss Mary wishes it." Helen went; but not in a humour to be pleased with any thing. -As they went out, Mary took a basket from a shelf on the piazza, and when they were in the yard she said, "Now Helen, I will show you something;" and she took a handful of oats from her basket and strewed them on the ground, and whistled for her pigeons. They came from all points of the compass; from the roof of the house and the eves of the barn. As they descended, their beautiful throats glittered in the sun; and as they lighted they folded their wings to their graceful bodies. "Oh are they not sweet creatures?" exclaimed Mary. "Why, they are nothing but common pigeons; are they?" said Helen. “I suppose they are called common pigeons," replied Mary. "Then, my dear child, you can't expect we to admire them; we have so many kinds of uncommon ones." "But do yours come like these, when you call them 1—Our Nancy says I put her in mind of Eve in Paradise calling down her birds." "I wish Nancy could see ours once; to be sure they don't come down like yours, because papa keeps them confined, for fear we shall lose them. Some of them are beautiful ring-doves, and one kind we call blood pigeons, because they have a bright red stain on their white bosoms, and look as if they had just had a knife plunged into them." "They must be very curious," said Mary. "I wish I had some like them." "Oh my dear child," replied Helen, "I don't think it is very probable you can get them. Papa sent a great way for ours, and he says they cost quite a sum of money; but come Mary, if you have any thing more to show, you must make haste, for I would not be late at Anne Rush's for any thing. It is her birth day; and we expect a most elegant time." Mary turned away from her pigeons without giving them her usual parting look of admiration, and passed by the coop where her bantam chickens were, without pointing them out to Helen. She did not know exactly why, but she did not want to show them, after what Helen had said about the pigeons. "Would you like to see my little garden, Helen?" she asked. "Yes—if you will make haste." Mary led the way to the gate as quick as she could, and as soon as they entered, Helen laughed and said, " Why, what a little bit of a place." "It is quite big enough for mother and I, and little Ben Lacy to take care of," said Mary, in a tone of slight displeasure: for she could not bear to have her garden, which was her pride and her delight, spoken of with contempt. "You need not be angry Mary," said Helen; "come let us see what is in your garden." "You do see, Helen, almost all I have—asters, and mary-golds, and cockscombs, and this pretty crimson dalia." "Are these all?" asked Helen, scarcely looking at them. "Almost all I have now; you know Helen, it is the fall of the year—and we cannot have such a very great variety of autumnal flowers; mother says so." " Oh my dear child, you are very much mistaken—our green house is full of flowers now ; geraniums, and myrtles, and jessamines, and heliotropes, and three kinds of passion flowers, one perfumed—of course, you know, seeing so many at home, I cannot think much of these, which one sees in every garden patch by the road side. Oh, this cockscomb is decent!"—and she pulled off a very fine one; the finest in the garden. Mary's heart beat hard when she saw Helen snap off the stalk: but she did not speak. "I have nothing more to show you, Helen," she said, "but one tube-rose," and she turned round a high seringa bush, on the other side of which was the tube-rose. "Oh yes," exclaimed Helen, “here is something really worth showing;" and as she said this, she plucked, without the slightest hesitation, from a fine grape vine, its only bunch of grapes. Mary jumped up as if she had been shot; then walked away; and then as suddenly returned. She tried hard to help it, but in spite of her efforts the tears were running down her cheeks. "Do pray take your grapes, Miss Mary," said Helen, bridling up.—" I had no idea a bunch of grapes was such a mighty affair—how should I, when we have bushels and bushels in our grapery." "It is not for the grapes I care," said Mary, "but"— "But what, child?" "I had rather not tell you, if you please, Helen," replied Mary with a dignity that would have become a true Queen; "but I hope you will excuse my appearing rude to you." Helen at this moment perceived that in her haste to devour the grapes, she had permitted the juice to run down on her precious frock. She was vexed with herself, and vexed with Mary; and she threw down the grapes, and trampled on them. She was relieved from her awkward and disgraceful position by a call from the coachman, who told her that her mother was already in the carriage awaiting her. She ran off without bidding Mary good by. Mary did not follow her; she stood bending over her grapes till she heard another carriage drive up to the door, and saw her aunt Ray, and her cousins, Julia and Mary, alight from it. The girls ran to her, and embraced her most affectionately. "Come back in the garden with us, Mary," they both said in a breath, and both exclaimed, as they entered, "How sweet pretty your flowers look! Oh Mary, mother is in such a hurry, we must tell you right off what we came for. Mother wants you to come and live with us this winter, and go to dancing-school with us. Oh how delightful it will be! We are to have cotillion parties ; and father says he will take us all to the theatre to see Aladdin, and we are all to spend Thanksgiving at uncle Henry's— but what is the matter, Mary? You do not seem at all pleased." "Because you know, girls, I cannot go and leave mother." "Ah, but that is the best of it—your mother is going too—mamma has come to persuade her." "Oh that will be delightful," said Mary; and she forgot her grapes and her cockscomb, and every trouble on earth, and ran with her cousins to the house. There they found their mothers so earnestly engaged in conversation, that they did not venture to interrupt them, but returned to the garden, and staid merrily talking till the girls went away. Their last parting words were, "We shall soon be together, and for the whole winter." As the carriage drove away, Mary sprang up the door steps—ran into the parlor, and jumping into her mother's lap, she threw her arms around her neck, exclaiming, “Oh, how glad I am we are going to stay at Aunt Ray's." "We are not going there, my dear Mary." "Not going mother?" exclaimed Mary with a look and tone of dismay—"did not aunt Ray ask us?” "Yes, she did ask us very kindly." "And you are not going; and all the dismal winter I must stay here, where there is nothing pleasant." "Nothing pleasant! my child, you forget your garden." "In winter, mother, that is nothing; and beside, Helen Gray does not think it is pretty at all, now. "And your Bantams, Mary, and your pet pigeons—have you forgotten them?" "Why, they are nothing but common pigeons, mother; Helen says so. But why don't you go to aunt Ray's." "I have good reasons my child, for not going; but you could not perfectly understand them if I were to tell them. You are a little unreasonable just now; but I trust you will soon be as happy as ever." "No, mother—no! I never shall be happy again here. Julia and Mary are going to have pleasures all winter; and Helen Gray is living away in all her grandeur. Oh, I wish we were rich again, and had our carriage, and could ride away from this desert place." Mrs. Smith was distressed at seeing Mary, usually as happy as a lamb frisking on the grass, so discontented and repining. "My dear child," she said,” I am mortified to hear you express such wrong feelings and foolish wishes; and you really think riches would make us happier than we are?” "I am sure of it; for then we should not have to live in the country." "You said yesterday, Mary, you could live any where with me." Mary coloured a little, but quickly replied, "So I could, mother; but that does not make it out that it is not far pleasanter to live in one place than another." Mary saw her mother looked very grave; and she thought of another reason, which she felt very sure her mother could not answer. "If we were rich, mother, we should have something to give away; but now, what good can we do?" Mrs. Smith did not reply to her question, but she said, “Mary, something has curdled your sweet disposition to-day. Your head is full of wrong thoughts and false notions. But every body has them, old and young. Some are cured in one way, some in another; and some are never cured at all. I will not talk any more with you now. Get your hat, and we'll take a walk." The result of this walk will be seen from Mary's letter to her brother. "To his Majesty, King William; or what is far better, to my own dear brother, Will." "I have a great deal to say to you, and cannot wait till you get home, though it will be so soon. Soon mother calls it; but to me it seems a great while. "I have counted the time every way, and ciphered it into hours, minutes and seconds, but I can't shorten it—21 days, 504 hours, 30240 minutes, 1814400 seconds. Only think what a horrible number of seconds! Mother tells me that some great man says, 'an hour may be tedious; but cannot be long.' 1 guess if he had spent an hour waiting for his only darling brother, it would have seemed both tedious and long too. But then we can't expect great folks can know how little ones feel. "Now, William, as we agreed to tell one another every thing that happened, I am going to tell you how badly I behaved the other day; and the good way mother took to drive away all my cross, wrong feelings. Don't you wonder if there are any real children that talk so wise and so good, and always do just the right thing, if it be ever so difficult, as children do in books ? I guess there are no such children in the world; though they really seem alive in some of the books I have read. How I do run on without coming to my story; but some how or other, when I am writing to you, William, I think of so much to say, that I wish I had a pen that would write two lines at once—something like an old woman's tongue, I have heard of, that was fastened in the middle and talked at both ends. But to begin with my story. A certain young lady came here yesterday, I will only write her initials—H. G. She was dressed as fine as a toy shop doll. Mother says Mrs. Grey is almost the only mother in Boston that dresses her children fine. I think it is very silly of her. I will tell you one thing, William, that I have found out—and that is, that there are several grown up people very silly. Well, I wished to please H. and I offered to show her whatever we had that was pretty. In the first place, I called the pigeons; they never looked more beautiful—the sun shone on their necks and they glittered, and looked as if they had been dipped in a rainbow; but Miss H. did not admire them in the least; but tried to make me sick of them. I did not show her my little Bantams, for I knew she would scorn them too; but I led her to the garden, for I thought she could not possibly help admiring that. But no—my lady walked straight along the alley, as if she had neither nose nor eyes, though the flowers were on each side like a rich fringe—till she came near to my most beautiful cockscomb. It was the one you sowed the seeds of, the very last thing you did before you went away, after we carried your trunk to the gate, and while you was waiting for the stagecoach—you remember it. As we were both stooping over the flower bed, you dropped a tear on it. I thought of what Mr. Brown said in his sermon,' that tears often produced good fruits,' and if they did fruits, I did not see why they should not flowers ; so I took particular care of this one cockscomb, and watered it, and grubbed about it every day ; and to be sure it was the most superb one I ever saw— twice, yes, five times as big as our rooster's, that was frozen last winter.* By the way, I have made the funniest little fur-cap for my bantam cockscomb against next winter. Well, Miss H. marched up to this cockscomb, and snapped it off, as if it had been any common thing. I liked to have screamed out; but I kept my lips fast together, and we turned round the seringa and came full in view of my grape vine. Now you know this is my pet and darling, above every thing else. I never look at it without thinking how kind it was of Mr. Perkins to give us such a valuable vine, three years old! And what a tug you had of it bringing it home with all the soil about it; and how you taught me to take care of it, and told me Mr. Perkins said girls and ladies might take the whole care of grape vines, if they would. I never let any body touch it but myself. Every day I bid it good morning with my little trowel, and good night with my watering-pot; *and I have tied it up, and taken out all the false wood. It put out four bunches in the spring; but they all died away but one, and that was a grand one. I looked at it twenty times a day: it grew larger and larger, and the grapes seemed almost crowding one another off the stem, and they had turned purple, and were darker and brighter every day, and mother, and I, and Ben Lacy, all thought they would be just perfectly ripe when you came home. How do you think I felt then, William, when Helen Grey—I must write her name full out this time—jumped forward, and before I could speak, tore off the stem, and began to devour the grapes? I cried, I must own it. I could not possibly help it; and then she was affronted, and threw them down, and trod on them. As I told mother, it was a dreadful sight to see my beautiful grapes all covered with dirt, and trampled on! Mother says, after all, it is one of the lesser miseries of life. If that is the case, don't you hope we shall never have any of the greater, William 1 "As good luck would have it, H.'s mother called her, and they went away; and in their place came our dear Aunt, and Julia and Mary? as rich as Miss H.; but oh how different!— Aunt came to ask mother and I to pass the winter with her, but mother did not consent; and I was so disappointed, and had been so plagued with Helen, that I was cross as a cat, or, as mother says, unreasonable. I fretted about living at Brookline, and about being poor ; and what is worse, William—I will tell you all, for that is the bargain—I tried to excuse myself by turning it off upon our having so little to give away. Now that was not what made me feel so bad— it was not the real truth—and that was what mother cared most about; for you know she hates above all things to have us pretend to be better than we are. However, she did not scold me—that she never does—she did not talk to me either, then; but asked me to go and walk with her. We went down the green lane. It was just at evening, and you know ‘how sweet the hedge smells then—and there was an uncommon number of birds, and especially one bob o'lincoln, singing deliciously, what mother calls their evening hymn; but I don't think it sounds at all like a hymn. I began to think to myself that the country was a pretty decent place after all. Pretty soon we came in sight of Mrs. Warner's house. I must stop and tell you a little about her. She is a very poor woman; but not so very, very poor as some others, because she has a house, and a little land and a cow. Her husband died last spring, and left her with five children and his old bed-ridden mother to take care of. I said five, but I forgot the one in New York, who, she has lately heard, has the consumption. He is a very good young man, and used to help his mother a great deal; but now he has not even money enough to get home. As soon as mother turned towards the house—" There," said I, " if we were only as rich as we used to be, you could have brought Mrs. Warner money enough to send for her son." “Yes, Mary," she said,” but if we do all we can for the poor, we shall not so much regret what we cannot do. I spoke to Mrs. Grey about poor Mrs. Warner— she gives away a great deal of money, and I do not doubt she has stopped and left her something." By this time we got to the house and went in. Mrs. Warner did not appear at all, as she usually does: instead of stepping about quick, and smiling, and speaking pleasantly, she just bowed her head, and after she had set out the chairs for us, she went into the other room; to wipe the tears out of her eyes, I rather think, by their looks when she came back. Old Mrs. Warner, her mother in law, seemed really cross for the first time in her life, though when mother asked her how she was, she answered just the same she always does. 'Thank 'e, ma'am, little better than I was yesterday; but not quite so well as the day before.' I took up the baby and began to play with it; and then the old woman began to talk. You must know William, she is a queer old woman: she talks in such an old fashioned way, and never stops; and her teeth are all gone, and her nose and chin almost meet, and her head shakes all the time. But I will give you a specimen: I shan't put any commas and periods to the sentences, because she has neither pauses nor stops. 'I hope Miss Smith,' she began, ' you and Mary wont surmise we ant glad to see you because we seem so frusticated (frustered) I am sure you are both as pleasant to our sight as light to the eyes; butmy darter and I are as it were upset by a visit from Miss Grey and her gal an airy little piece she is (mother says she meant full of airs) she walked into the room here as if she had been coming into a kanel (kennel) and stood in the middle of the floor and held up her frock as if she were in a muddy road, to be sure Miss Warner had just been mopping and when the baby went up to look at her fine bag she cried out ' hands off hands off and when poor Jemmy come in all covered with mud from being knocked down by a big dog in the road her mother there that Miss Grey gave him ninepence and told him to buy some water to wash his face— Jemmy took the ninepence and chucked it out of the window and if it had been a goold guinea much as we want money I would have been glad to see him do the same when his mother was reflected on for occrdoingness is Miss Warner's besetment—(mother says that she meant that her daughter was too nice) and Ma'am knows the house and the children are always kept like silver—and I too—the Lord reward her—a poor bedridden old soul as I am and not her own mother—I hope ma'am wont be affronted for when I boil over I cant help the words coming out—Miss Grey may be ma'ams friend as she called herself but they are as different as black and white—she gave us money to be sure but that was nothing but an aggravation—she asked me if I had been confined to my bed long, and I told her ten years and I was nothing but an atomy (an anatomy) and I was going to show her my arm— and she said ' keep it under the blanket good woman it makes me sick at my stomach—many is the time ma'am has looked at it and rubbed it too with her soft hand, and I guess her stomach is full as weak as Miss Grey's ; but I can tell her her difficulty lies in her heart and not in her stomach—sick at her stomach indeed ! what does she expect to do when its the Lord's pleasure to send sickness to her and hers—and when I told her I had terrible turns of lethercdge (lethargy) her gal laughed out— but the crowner of all was she came up to the bed and said ' Goody do stop talking one minute, and let me see if your nose and chin really meet'—Does ma'am think money could pay for such insults? To be sure she gave my darter ten dollars and she wants it bad enough to getjpoor John home—but its the hardest piece of humiliation we ever experienced yet to take it from her—I tell you what it is Mary Smith that does ithe poor most good—a kind word kindly spoken—when your mother comes here and sits down by my bed and convarses with me about my difficulties and talks to my darter and the young ones jist like a book only more understandingly (intelligibly) and when you come down and read to me you read full equal to a church minister—and teach Jemmy and Sally their hymns and writing—that's what feels good to us—it seems as if you thought we had the same natur and I guess that is what Miss Grey never thought of—and if she were to make me a present of the bank of England I should not feel thankful for it." "I have given you a pretty large sample of the poor woman's talk, but I had no idea how much paper it would fill. The hardest hearted thing of all was, Mrs. Grey's telling Mrs. Warner she ought to send her mother to the alms-house; and when Mrs. Warner told her she did not feel as if she could ever do that—' oh' says she, ' when poverty comes into the door, you should let your feelings fly up the chimney !' Mrs. Warner said, ' my feelings are my greatest comfort ma'am.' Mother says she believes this is true; for there was never any body who had better feelings. “My letter is so very long I am afraid you will be tired; and I will only just tell you what mother said coming home, because I think it will do me good and may do you good too. I wish I could put mother's sweet voice into my letter; but you will remember well enough how it sounds. " My dear child,' she said, ' old Mrs. Warner has answered the question you asked me before we came out: ' Mother, what good can we do, when we have nothing to give away?' It would be a grief indeed, Mary, if in losing our fortune we had lost the power of doing good. But you see there are charities the poor value more than the gift of money. In all our intercourse with the poor we should never forget they have, as old Mrs. Warner said, the same nature we have; the same faculties and affections; that the accidents of life, far more than our own merits, have placed them in one station, and us in another: that though they may have uncultivated minds in awkward bodies, yet those minds are immortal, like our own; those bodies, like ours, destined to suffer and perish. That the only difference our Creator and Judge will mark between us, will be the degrees of goodness; and when you think of Mrs. Grey, seeking her own pleasure, frivolous and selfish; and Mrs. Warner, humble and patient, and devoting her life to others, you will perceive the justice of the reverse in another world, of the condition in this. 'The high shall be cast down and the humble exalted.' Sympathy, Mary, is the key that unlocks all hearts. By sympathy I mean the feeling you have when you dismiss all thoughts of yourself, and enter into the feelings of another. It is my sympathy and yours, with this poor family that has won their hearts. I listen to all the old woman's tedious complaints. I enter into her daughter's sorrows and apprehensions and disappointments: and you my dear child, are patient in instructing the children: you show that you have their improvement at heart, because no weather keeps you at home, when the time comes for giving them their lessons. You do not carry them money; but you seldom So without a little basket of strawberries, or of some other fruit, or a bunch of flowers; and they see you take pleasure in their pleasure. 'Now Mary' you know it is not my habit to praise ourselves—I think it far better to go to others for examples of virtue when I am instructing you : but now I thought the best way to tell you what ' good we can do,' was to fix your mind on the good, the old woman says we have done. “One thing, my child, let me caution you against. It is a vulgar notion that all rich people are selfish and cold hearted. I know many, many rich people who bestow their gifts so freely and so tenderly, that we may say they are ' like apples of silver in baskets of gold :' that is, that the manner and feeling with which they are given, are still more beautiful and valuable than the gift.' "Dear William, I made a great many mistakes in writing down what mother said; but she corrected them for me; and the rest of my letter I have written without being helped at all. I hate to be helped; don't you? “Mother has not yet told me why she does not go to aunt Ray's to spend the winter: but now my bad feelings have cleared off, I am sure she does right; and besides, as the old ladies say, I don't think it would be at all suitable to leave my family, (pigeons and bantams,) in the winter: and mother and I have a great many plans of reading and studying, and making new-year's gifts. But hush; I must not let out that secret. Writing to you, William, is just like opening the door of a bird-cage; everything that is in my heart flies out. "21 days, 504 hours, 30240 minutes, 1814400 seconds, and then dear Will, you will return to your affectionate sister MARY. "Postscript. Mother says you must not skip her little bit of a sermon when you read the letter; but I am not afraid—you are never tired of what mother says.—M. S. "N. B. A pretty long letter, I think, for a girl not eight years old!—M. S," *Our young town readers may not know that the fowls are very apt to have their combs frozen in extreme cold weather. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource "Mary Smith" Subject The topic of the resource Children's Fiction, Class Difference, Letter Writing, Republicanism Description An account of the resource A young girl from a modest family is hurt by another young girl from a wealthy family. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Sedgwick, Catharine M. Stockbridge, S. Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Juvenile Miscellany V2 (edited by Mrs. LM [Lydia Maria] Child) Boston: p. 110-134 Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Allen and Ticknor Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource May 1829 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource J. Robinson Relation A related resource Sequel to “The Good Son” in Juvenile Miscellany (Jan. 1829): 217-29 Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Document Consumption Country Fall Juvenile Miscellany Nature New York religion tears Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource 1834 Document A resource containing textual data. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre text. Text Any textual data included in the document. " Is your trunk packed, Ella ? " " Yes, mamma, — all to putting in my little box of treasures." " Your treasures ! — What can they be ? " Ella sat down in her mother's lap, and opening a painted wooden box, said, " In the first place, there are your's and father's profile — there is the guard-chain Sarah made for me — there are the garters Kate knit — there is the hair ring Anne made — and there is the lavendar Mary gave me off her own little bed. This little stone Willie picked up when he saw all the rest giving me something; ' Here, sissy, is my teepsake,' said he : dear Willie! though it be but a common pebble, it will be a precious stone to me. This little mite of a fan, mamma, you remember ?— I made it the week before James died, out of the wing of the last bird he ever shot." " Yes, I remember," answered her mother, with a sigh. " And there is a lock of the baby's hair," continued Ella; " forgive me, mother, for stealing it; it was almost hidden by her cap-lace. You will not miss it, and it will be such a comfort to me." " You are welcome to it, my dear child; it is but a small return for all your patient care of Bessie." " Oh, mamma, Bessie more than pays me every day. She knows my voice — she smiles whenever I play to her, and yesterday she cried for me." " I am afraid I shall cry for you too, when you are gone, Ella. I am glad to see your little Bible among your treasures: but what are all these paper marks in it?" " Those I put in to mark the places where you have marked the verses with your pencil, so that I may turn to them at a minute's warning." Ella's mother had marked those passages that contain the plainest precepts — precepts that may be applied to the lives of the highest and the humblest -— that appear very simple, but that require such exertion, disinterestedness and self-sacrifice, that no life but that of our divine Master ever perfectly fulfilled them. " I cannot tell you, my dear Ella," said Mrs Mayhew, " how glad I am that you are aware that to this book you must come for counsel and consolation. You say you wish to be able to find particular passages at a minute's warning; you are right—you are going where you may often want a present help in time of trouble." Ella was soon after this conversation transferred to her new residence, unlike her home in all respects. Her father, Doctor Mayhew, was a physician, with a large family and very moderate income, with which he must support and educate a large family of children. Of course, frugality and industry, those prime virtues, were habitual with them. But their humble fortune did not prevent the Mayhews from associating on an equal footing with the best society in their town and county. Perhaps there may be some of our young city ladies, who are not yet aware that there are families and individuals throughout the country, as intelligent and refined as those in our cities. Mrs Anderson, the cousin and friend of Ella's mother, — who had invited Ella to pass a year with her, and had generously offered to support her during that time, and furnish her the best instruction in New York, — was a fashionable lady of large fortune, with two grown up daughters, and half a dozen growing up boys and girls. She announced the expected arrival of Ella to her children. They were at breakfast. " Dear me! " exclaimed Miss Anderson, "I forgot you had such a cousin as Mrs Mayhew. I make it a rule, as Colonel Crane says, to forget all relations beyond the degree of brother and sister; indeed, the Colonel says, upon his honor, he does not know how many brothers and sisters he has." "I am glad he is not my brother," said one of the younger children. " What sort of a person is this Miss Ella Mayhew? " asked Miss Julia Anderson. " A North American savage, as Colonel Crane says, you may be sure," replied her elder sister. " Pardon me, Miss Anderson," said her mother, who found she must be the champion, as well as the patroness of her young friend — " Ella Mayhew is a clever, quiet little girl, not quite thirteen, who will in no way interfere with you. She is going to school, and will get her lessons in the nursery." " Poor Ella Mayhew! " thought James Anderson, a good-natured boy, who had often attempted getting his lessons in the nursery. "But why," pursued Miss Anderson, "does she not stay at home and go to school ? I thought New England was one great school, and all the men and women there school-masters, and school-mistresses." " She is coming here to acquire some accomplishments she cannot get in the country." " Absurd, mamma! What does a country doctor's daughter want of accomplishments?" " She wants the means of assisting her parents in the education of their family, which she can get by qualifying herself to teach the expensive branches, called accomplishments." " Oh ! then she is to be a regular schoolma'am apprentice, is she?—I request, children," the young lady added, turning to the youngest persons at table, " that you don't call this Miss Ella cousin. She’ll be sure to begin with cousining you; for that is country fashion ; — and, mamma, I hope you mean Ella shall eat in the nursery — it is always disagreeable having these equivocal characters at the table." " I shall do no such thing, Mary. I have not asked Ella here to mortify, or degrade her." Miss Anderson would have replied, but they were interrupted by a ring at the door, a bustle in the entry — the door of the breakfast room was opened, and Ella appeared. Nothing can be much more appalling than the transfer from a retired, simple country home to a magnificent town-house — from familiar objects and loving looks, to strangeness, indifference, coldness — it may be, scorn. Mrs. Anderson received Ella kindly. Her elder daughters merely bowed when she was presented to them. The children stared. James, and only James, advanced and greeted her cordially as " Cousin Ella." The tone would have fallen like music on Ella's heart, had she not followed the involuntary direction of James's eye, as he pronounced her name, and seen a very significant and a very disagreeable twist of Miss Anderson's mouth. After she had taken her breakfast, Ella was conducted by her aunt to the nursery, and told that a cot-bed should be placed there for her. — " You are used to children, Ella," she said, "and I hope, therefore, mine will not disturb you." " Oh, no, ma'am," said Ella, hardly knowing what she said; for she perceived by the expressive countenance of “Mammy," the mistress of the nursery, that she was looked upon as a very unwelcome interloper in her premises. The nursery looked dreary to her, and her thoughts were in her own little quiet room at home. Ella soon found that she was not only to sleep in the nursery, but to live there. For the first two days she took her work-box, or her book, and seated herself in the drawing-room, imagining that, like her mother's social, cheerful parlor, it was the family resort. The first day her cousins were " not at home," and they passed the morning, from ten to three, alone. The second morning, company was ushered in. The ladies received them, but took no notice of Ella, who sat by the window, plying her needle, and keeping her eye modestly fixed on her work. Once the ladies followed some particular friends into the entry. One lingered behind the rest, and Ella heard her ask in a tone, so loud that it was evident she did not care whether she were heard or not, " What, in the name of wonder, is that little sempstress perched up in your drawing-room for? " Ella did not hear the reply ; but it was followed by a loud laugh. Her cousins retired to their own apartment. A servant soon after came in, and with a grin, asked " if Miss would please to go and sit in the nursery ? " adding, " Miss Julia bids me tell you, Miss, nobody comes in the drawing-room as is not called for." Poor Ella, stung by the insult, and mortified that she had even involuntarily intruded, retired to the nursery. But there, was no rest for her. Mammy was engaged in some deeply interesting chat with a visiter, and she said, rather pettishly, " I wish you would not come in here just now, Miss." "Where shall I go?" asked Ella with a tremulous voice. Mammy, who was really not an ill-natured woman, though she was fidgetty, and did not like to be interfered with, was struck with Ella's gentleness and her faltering tone ; and rising, she opened a door into a dressing-room. — " There," said she, " Miss Ella, is a nice, quiet place, that you may have almost any time to yourself." "Oh, thank you—thank you," said Ella; and as soon as she was alone, she sat down, and overcome with homesickness, and a sense of loneliness, she wept bitterly for a few moments. Then suddenly wiping away her tears, she took her little Bible from its hiding-place in her basket, and opened it at one of her mother's marks. Her eyes fell on these words: " In whatsoever state you are, learn therewith to be content."— " The very words for me," thought she — and she kissed them, and kissed the delicate trace of her mother's pencil beside them. " It will be pretty hard work to be contented in this house," thought Ella; " but I can try. — Mamma has often told me one of the surest ways of driving away disagreeable thoughts was to keep busy, and to be doing for others, and not for yourself." So opening the door into the nursery, she said, " I don't mean to interrupt you, Mrs Hardy, but I heard you say you had two aprons to finish for the little girls today. If you will give me one of them, I will do it for you." " That's real thoughtful, Miss Ella," replied Mammy, bustling about to get the work. " Do, Josephine, be still! Sam, put down that whip! Oh dear, I wish I ever could have a quiet minute! " " Let the children come in with me," said Ella; " I can tell them a story while I am sewing. I often do so to our children at home." The children were immediately tranquillized and happy. Mammy enjoyed her comfortable hour's talk with her friend; and Ella was happiest of all; for the light she shed upon others was reflected upon herself. Some young persons in Ella's condition would have shed thousands of tears, and would have written home letters filled with grievances. Instead of this, Ella concluded a letter, that night, to her mother, which she had chiefly filled with an account of her journey, thus : 'Aunt received me very kindly. They were at breakfast when I arrived; and as aunt did not expect me till the next day, they all appeared surprised. James shook hands with me, as if we had been old friends; he has just sent me up a delightful new book; is not this very kind of him? the children already begin to love me. I thought Mrs Hardy, aunt's nurse, rather a hard-favored cross concern at first; but she takes pains to make me as comfortable as possible. This is very important to me, as I sleep in the nursery. She has just emptied one of her drawers for my accommodation. I shall, as you charged me, dear mamma, do my best to give her, and all the family, as little trouble as possible." Our readers will perceive there were no false statements in Ella's letter; only a suppression of whatever might give her mother pain, and a careful communication of every circumstance that could give her pleasure. If my young readers should be pleased with Ella's disinterestedness, we hope that, in similar circumstances, they will imitate her. The little dressing-room, which Mrs Hardy had given Ella leave to occupy, communicated with the nursery by a door, the upper part of which, being glazed, lighted the small apartment. Ella, on the morning after her expulsion from the drawing-room, was seated in her quiet asylum, when she heard her aunt and her daughter Caroline enter the nursery. There was a pane of the window broken. This compelled Ella to hear whatever was said. " Mamma," asked Caroline, who was a year older than Ella, " what school is Ella to attend?" " Madame C.'s, of course." " Oh, mamma, you do not mean so," exclaimed Caroline. " And oh, mamma, do let her go with us! " exclaimed the two younger girls in a breath. " Why not mean so, Miss Caroline? " " Because it would be so ridiculous to send her to such a school as Madame C.'s." "And why?" " Because it would." " Admirable reason; have you no better ? " Caroline pouted and looked sulky: and then muttered something of having heard her mother say a hundred times that she liked Madame C.'s school, because there were none but genteel children there. Truth compels us to pause for a moment to confess (and we are sorry for it,) that Mrs Anderson had the weakness of anxiously desiring to see her elder daughter distinguished in fashionable society; and of keeping the younger ones within the magic circle of what are called the genteel. And when her children often heard her say, " What a mixed party Mrs ___ had! "— " Why should you call on Miss___ , or Miss____, nobody visits them," — or "Children, do not ask those girls here; their parents are not in good society." When they heard her make those restrictions, instead of saying, " Miss ____ is a well-bred, charming girl ; I wish you would make her acquaintance" — or, if those children are, as you say, very intelligent and well behaved, I should like you to ask them here," — is it strange they should early get false ideas? and that these ideas should become principles of action? I return to the conversation which poor Ella, much to her discomfort, was obliged to hear. " Certainly you have heard me say so, Caroline; but there is no reason why Ella should not be genteel. As your cousin and friend, she will be on an equal footing with the other girls." " That's the worst of it; if I could just say Ella was a country girl, that you had taken up out of charity, I should not mind it; but I am sure it will come out she is my cousin; and then the girls will laugh at me." " I cannot help that; it is very important that Ella should have the best instruction. I have engaged a place for her at Madame C.'s ; so you must make the best of it." Caroline actually burst into tears. At this moment Ella moved towards the door of the dressing-room. Her cheeks were flushed with pride and indignation. " I will ask to be sent home," she thought; " I will not stay here, to endure such mortifications! " She paused — the thought of her parents, and of their disappointment if she should lose the opportunity of improvement from which they had expected so much, arrested her. Then her heart yearned for her home, where she loved and was beloved. She thought of the humiliation she had endured, in one way and another, ever since she crossed Mrs Anderson's threshold ; and her hand was again on the door. " But Mrs Anderson has been very kind to me; to her, at least, I should be grateful; " and once more she slipped into her seat, and taking up her Bible, opened to the words, " Be patient in tribulation." There was her mother's mark against the passage; and it seemed to Ella that her mother had pointed her to the words. A tear fell on them. She wiped it off, and meekly raising her eyes to heaven, her heart replied, " I will try to be patient." Perhaps some of my readers will think that Ella gave too big a name to her little trials. They were the severest she had ever felt. A hill appears as high to a child, as the Alps to a man. The next morning came, and Ella was to enter the school. " I never can walk up Broadway beside that plaid cloak and dowdy hood," said Caroline Anderson to her sister. "Never mind, Cary," said her sister; "it's useless speaking to mamma about it; for do you know she says she wishes she could persuade you to wear anything so suitable for the purpose, as Ella's school rigging. C'est un horreur! I pity you, my child, but you can easily cut her, as soon as you get into the street." " After today, I can and will; but now she does not know the way to Madame C.'s." " Oh, trust to' her finding it. She 's ' an exceeding clever little person,' as Col. Crane says." Caroline left her sister and joined Ella, whose sweet and somewhat sad countenance awakened her better feelings. " It would be cruel to leave her to go alone," thought Caroline. Few girls of thirteen, (we hope none) have their hearts so hardened by worldliness that they can be cruel. Caroline roused her courage to what seemed to her a pitch of great generosity; and resolved that for this morning, at least, she would not flinch from the "plaid cloak and dowdy hood;" so she and Ella proceeded side by side up Broadway. Caroline found Ella very agreeable, and in the feeling that she had a delightful companion, had actually forgotten the cloak and hood, when she saw approaching her, though still at some distance, the very Col. Crane so often quoted by her sister. Now this Col. Crane belonged to a species, unknown, we trust, to our simple young readers. He was a travelled gentleman; and it would seem had gone about the world for no better purpose than to bring the coxcombries of other countries into his own. He declared that "existence without silver forks would be a burden to him;" and that "to eat an egg out of a glass instead of the shell was 'decidedly sauvage.' "And there were certain young ladies who listened to these sage aphorisms of the Colonel, and regulated their conduct by them. Caroline so often heard him quoted by her sisters, that, without knowing why exactly, he was the last person in the world whose eye she would have chosen to have encountered, while she was in company with the plaid cloak and hood. Therefore the moment she saw him, she muttered something of an errand for her sister; and turning into a cross street, she disappeared, leaving poor Ella at an utter loss whether to proceed, or turn back. The conversation she had overheard recurred to her ;and she very naturally concluded that Caroline had left her to avoid introducing her into the school. Ella felt the unkindness keenly; but she remembered that she had resolved to be patient. "I will not return," she thought; " it will only be giving Mrs Anderson trouble, and making her angry with Caroline; everybody must know where Madame C.'s school is ; and I can find out by inquiring. It will, to be sure, be forlorn enough going alone the first day; but then it will soon be over; and there will not be another first day." Certainly everybody in the city of New York did not know where even Madame C.'s celebrated school was; but fortunately Ella went into a French shop to inquire, and was very politely directed by a young woman, who was in the habit of serving Madame C. She found the house without further trouble; entered it, and hung up the offending cloak and hood in an ante-room filled with the young ladies' outer garments. What different feelings from Caroline's were called forth in her bosom by the sight of that hood! It was the last article her mother had made for her; and as she hung it on the nail, it seemed to speak to her of her mother, and of the dear familiar things at home. She was alone in the room, and she kissed it, brushed away a tear, and proceeded, with all the courage she could muster, to the school-room door. She opened it; and it must be confessed, that for one short moment she was appalled by the sight of two very large apartments communicating by open folding-doors, and filled with well dressed young ladies, arranged according to their ages and different pursuits. Some at a table with an Italian master; others at their desks with their drawing master; others who were awaiting their teachers, fixed their eyes on Ella. Madame C., a middle aged lady, with a countenance worn by care, but intelligent and benevolent, sat at the upper end of a long table; and fortunately at this moment her eye meeting Ella's, she beckoned to her. Ella, from being the eldest of her family, had been accustomed to act independently, much more than most young ladies of her age; and she now advanced and introduced herself with so much modesty and propriety, and communicated her parents' wishes in relation to her studies with so much clearness, that Madame C. was quite charmed with her. Assigning Ella a desk, and introducing her in the kindest manner to her teacher of music, she relieved her at once of half her uncomfortable feeling of strangeness. Of half, I say; for I believe to most girls the first day at school, is more or less a day of little miseries. The young ladies, who are established at the school, get together in coteries or tete-d-tetes, and discuss the parentage, residence, appearance, and dress of the new comer; casting the while sidelong, inquiring, it may be quizzical glances at her, of which her burning cheeks betray that she is painfully conscious. I have often seen, and I have felt what I describe; and I have wondered that girls reared in civilized society, in well bred families, and girls with kind hearts, too, should receive a poor stranger cast among them, with almost as much inhumanity, as if they were Cornwall wreckers. This purgatory, that every new scholar passes through, was made more painful to Ella by Caroline's carefully keeping aloof from her. Besides Caroline's false and foolish fear to explain to her fashionable friends her relationship to a raw country girl, she felt secretly ashamed of having deserted Ella in the street. The only certain relief in such a case, is to make what amends can be made for the fault; but Caroline had not magnanimity for this; and all the morning she kept close to her desk; avoided seeming to hear the remarks that were made about the stranger; and only now and then cast a stolen glance towards her. The hour of recreation arrived; and the young ladies rushed from their tasks to the yard which was fitted up for calisthenic exercises. Some ran to the balancing boards; some jumped into the swings, and the air was filled with the loud laugh and the merry shout. All joined, I say, — but I should have said all but but poor Ella, — who sat alone in the porch, looking on, not ill-naturedly, but with a sad feeling of loneliness. At last one of the young ladies, if not more kind hearted, far more thoughtful than the rest, broke away from her companions, and with a sweet voice, that went to Ella's heart, and which she never forgot, was begging her to join in their sports, when they were startled by a sudden noise and a piercing shriek. Caroline had fallen from a wooden horse, and striking a glass, that had carelessly been left standing on the ground, received a deep cut on the cheek. She was stunned, and the blood gushed from the wound. The girls were terrified; no one knew what to do; no one but Ella; who was instantly at Caroline's side, raised her head and carefully closing the gaping wound, bound her handkerchief tight around it, saying while doing it in a low calm tone, " Caroline ! Caroline ! don't be frightened, Caroline!" In a few moments, Madame C. and a physician were on the ground. The physician, with Ella's aid, carried Caroline in, and laid her on the sofa; and after examining the wound said it must be immediately sewed up to prevent an ugly scar. Caroline consented to the operation; for though she dreaded the Doctor's needle, she dreaded an ugly scar more. Madame C. was nervous at the sight of blood; and Ella, who had no inconvenient nerves, and who never seemed to remember herself when anything was to be done for another, held Caroline's head, and gently encouraged and soothed her, while the Doctor was performing the operation. That done, " I will hurry home and tell your mother all about you," said Ella; " and she will send the carriage for you." " Oh no — no, Ella ! do not leave me — ask Madame to send a servant to tell mamma." " I am afraid your mother will be very much alarmed, if we send a servant." " But she will soon know just how it is." Ella still hesitated. "Well, go yourself, Ella ; but do come back in the carriage for me. — How she does think of everybody but herself," thought Caroline, as Ella tying on her cloak and hood, hastened away. Quiet was deemed best for Caroline; and she was left alone for the hour that intervened before the coach arrived with Ella. It was a blessed hour to Caroline. Her heart was softened, and the incidents of the morning impressed a lesson there, that was never effaced. Not long after this she took up Ella's little Bible, and opening to the passage (one of the marked passages) "Do good to those who despitefully use you," she wrote with her pencil on the margin, " Illustrations of Scripture — Ella Mayhew's first day at school." She showed what she had written to Ella. It was the first time she had ever alluded to her own contemptible conduct on that first day; for Caroline, like many others, had found it easier to repent a fault than to say she repented it. Ella took up her India rubber and effaced what Caroline had written ; then affectionately kissing her, she said, "All that I desire to remember of that first day, Cary, is, that it was the first day we began to love one another." Now, my reader, whoever you may be, I fear you are thinking "there is nothing after all in this long story worth telling." Certainly it contains no striking incidents; but it may serve to show you that our happiness depends chiefly on the state of our own hearts; and farther, that in most circumstances we may improve the virtue, and consequently the happiness, of those around us. Do you think you would have been happy in Ella's condition? Would you not have thought, " I cannot, and will not, and ought not, to bear the insults and slights of these proud, rich people! Or, if you had borne them, would you not have suffered many an hour of homesickness and tears?—Would you not, — sure of their sympathy and love, — have poured out your heart in some letter to your father or mother ?— Not so Ella. Her trials did not end with her first day at school; for she was surrounded by the self-indulgent and selfish, but they became from week to week less and less. God had given her a very sweet temper, and a happy disposition. Her mind was enlightened and fortified by Christian principles. She was the eldest of a large family at home; she was in the habit of exertion for others, and of sacrificing her own inclinations; so that it was easy for her to bear and forbear. But after all, what seemed to me to help Ella along in her difficult position, more than anything else, was a way she had of finding some good point in every one; and by always addressing herself to good feelings instead of bad, she was sure to bring the best into exercise. Evil she sometimes met, but she overcame evil with good. She lost no opportunity of doing kindness; and this in so unostentatious and natural a way, that she did not seem herself to be aware she was doing a favor. Before she returned home, she was a favorite with every member of Mrs Anderson's family. " I never thought," said Miss Anderson, " that I should like Ella Mayhew so much; but, as Col. Crane says, ' she is a charming little person.' " Miss Julia, who, as it may be remembered, requested that Ella would not sit in the drawing-room — Miss Julia gave a musical soiree in honor of Ella's birthnight. — The boys said "who will mend our gloves?—who will sew up our balls ? — who will fix our kites ? — who can we always tease, and she never will be angry with us, when Ella is gone?" " Angry !" exclaimed one of the children ; " Ella is just like the angels; for mamma says they are never angry." " Oh, Miss Ella, come back to us," said Mammy ; " the luckiest day that ever happened to us was that which brought you among us ! " " Mamma," said Caroline, " do let me go home with Ella and pass the summer. If you will, I will try to be like her." —I venture, in conclusion, to borrow a sentence which contains the whole meaning of my story. " It is happy for us, when a being of noble sentiments, and beneficent life, enters our circle, becomes an object of interest to us, and by affectionate intercourse takes a strong hold on our hearts." Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource "Ella" Subject The topic of the resource Children's fiction, Christian behavior, class difference. Description An account of the resource A modest young woman from the country comes to live with her city cousins, and uses Biblical and parental precepts to adjust and thrive. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Sedgwick, Catharine M. Miss Sedgwick Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived <em>Juvenile Miscellany</em>, 3rd Series, V4, (edited by Mrs. D. L. [Lydia Maria] Child), Boston: Allen and Ticknor, 11-35. Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource March and April, 1834. Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource D. Gussman Relation A related resource Also collected in <em>Stories for Young Persons</em>, 95-112, 1840. Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Document bible children Christianity class Country education Juvenile fiction Juvenile Miscellany New York City virtue