Читать книгу Evenings at Home; Or, The Juvenile Budget Opened - John Aikin - Страница 35

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Little Sally Meanwell had one day been to pay an afternoon’s visit to Miss Harriet, the daughter of Sir Thomas Pemberton. The evening proving rainy, she was sent home in Sir Thomas’s coach; and on her return, the following conversation passed between her and her mother:—

Mrs. Meanwell. Well, my dear, I hope you have had a pleasant visit?

Sally. O yes, mamma, very pleasant; you cannot think how many fine things I have seen. And then it is so charming to ride in a coach!

Mrs. M. I suppose Miss Harriet showed you all her playthings?

Sally. O yes, such fine large dolls, so smartly dressed as I never saw in my life before. Then she has a baby-house, and all sorts of furniture in it; and a grotto all made of shells, and shining stones. And then she showed me all her fine clothes for the next ball; there’s a white slip all full of spangles, and pink ribands; you can’t think how beautiful it looks!

Mrs. M. And what did you admire most of all these fine things?

Sally. I don’t know—I admired them all; and I think I liked riding in the coach better than all the rest. Why don’t we keep a coach; and why have I not such fine clothes and playthings as Miss Harriet?

Mrs. M. Because we cannot afford it, my dear. Your papa is not so rich by a great deal, as Sir Thomas; and if we were to lay out our money upon such things, we should not be able to procure food and raiment and other necessaries for you all.

Sally. But why is not papa as rich as Sir Thomas?

Mrs. M. Sir Thomas had a large estate left him by his father; but your papa has little but what he gains by his own industry.

Sally. But why should not papa be as rich as anybody else? I am sure he deserves it as well.

Mrs. M. Do you not think that there are a great many people poorer than he, that are also very deserving?

Sally. Are there?

Mrs. M. Yes, to be sure. Don’t you know what a number of poor people there are all around us, who have few of the comforts we enjoy? What do you think of Ploughman the labourer? I believe you never saw him idle in your life.

Sally. No; he is gone to work long before I am up, and he does not return till almost bedtime, unless it be for his dinner.

Mrs. M. Well! how do you think his wife and children live? should you like that we should change places with them?

Sally. O, no! they are so dirty and ragged.

Mrs. M. They are, indeed, poor creatures; but I am afraid they suffer worse evils than that.

Sally. What mamma?

Mrs. M. Why I am afraid they often do not get as much victuals as they could eat. And then in winter they must be half frozen for want of fire and warm clothing. How do you think you could bear all this?

Sally. Indeed, I don’t know. But I have seen Ploughman’s wife carry great brown loaves into the house; and I remember once eating some brown bread and milk, and I thought it very good.

Mrs. M. I believe you would not much like it constantly; besides, they can hardly get enough of that. But you seem to know almost as little of the poor as the young French princess did.

Sally. What was that, mamma?

Mrs. M. Why, there had been one year so bad a harvest in France that numbers of the poor were famished to death. This calamity was so much talked of, that it reached the court, and was mentioned before the young princesses. “Dear me!” said one of them, “how silly that was! Why, rather than be famished, I would eat bread and cheese.” Her governess was then obliged to acquaint her that the greatest part of her father’s subjects scarcely ever eat anything better than black bread all their lives; and that vast numbers would now think themselves very happy to get only half their usual pittance of that. Such wretchedness as this was what the princess had not the least idea of; and the account shocked her so much, that she was glad to sacrifice all her finery to afford some relief to the sufferings of the poor.

Sally. But I hope there is nobody famished in our country.

Mrs. M. I hope not, for we have laws by which every person is entitled to relief from the parish, if he is unable to gain a subsistence; and were there no laws about it, I am sure it would be our duty to part with every superfluity, rather than let a fellow-creature perish for want of necessaries.

Sally. Then do you think it was wrong for Miss Pemberton to have all those fine things?

Mrs. M. No, my dear, if they are suitable to her fortune, and do not consume the money which ought to be employed in more useful things to herself and others.

Sally. But why might she not be contented with such things as I have; and give the money that the rest cost to the poor?

Mrs. M. Because she can afford both to be charitable to the poor, and also to indulge herself in these pleasures. But do you recollect that the children of Mr. White the baker, and Mr. Shape the tailor, might just ask the same questions about you?

Sally. How so?

Mrs. M. Are not you as much better dressed, and as much more plentifully supplied with playthings than they are, as Miss Harriet is than you?

Sally. Why, I believe I may, for I remember Polly White was very glad of one of my old dolls; and Nancy Shape cried for such a sash as mine, but her mother would not let her have one.

Mrs. M. Then you see, my dear, that there are many who have fewer things to be thankful for than you have; and you may also learn what ought to be the true measure of the expectations of children, and the indulgences of parents.

Sally. I don’t quite understand you, mamma.

Mrs. M. Everything ought to be suited to the station in which we live or are likely to live, and the wants and duties of it. Your papa and I do not grudge laying out part of our money to promote the innocent pleasure of our children: but it would be very wrong in us to lay out so much on this account as would oblige us to spare in more necessary articles; as in their education, and the common household expenses required in our way of living. Besides, it would be so far from making you happier, that it would be doing you the greatest injury.

Sally. How could that be, mamma?

Mrs. M. If you were now to be dressed like Miss Pemberton, don’t you think you would be greatly mortified at being worse dressed when you came to be a young woman?

Sally. I believe I should, mamma; for then perhaps I might go to assemblies; and to be sure I should like to be as smart then as at any time.

Mrs. M. Well, but it would be still more improper for us to dress you then beyond our circumstances, because your necessary clothes will then cost more, you know. Then, if we were now to hire a coach or chair for you to go visiting in, should you like to leave it off ever afterward? But you have no reason to expect that you will be able to have those indulgences when you are a woman. And so it is in everything else. The more fine things, and the more gratifications you have now, the more you will require hereafter: for custom makes things so familiar to us, that while we enjoy them less we want them more.

Sally. How is that, mamma?

Mrs. M. Why, don’t you think you have enjoyed your ride in the coach this evening more than Miss Harriet should have done?

Sally. I suppose I have; because if Miss Harriet liked it so well, she would be always riding, for I know she might have the coach whenever she pleased.

Mrs. M. But if you were both told that you were never to ride in a coach again, which would think it the greater hardship? You could walk, you know, as you have always done before; but she would rather stay at home, I believe, than expose herself to the cold wind, and trudge through the wet and dirt in pattens.

Sally. I believe so, too; and now, mamma, I see that all you have told me is very right.

Mrs. M. Well, my dear, let it dwell upon your mind, so as to make you cheerful and contented in your station, which you see is so much happier than that of many and many other children. So now we will talk no more on the subject.

EVENING VIII.