Part 2
_Bob_ was so impatient, in the mean time, to shew his dress, that setting both his feet against his grandfather’s stomach, he very nearly pushed himself backwards. “Look, Sir,” said he, “Pray look at my buttons! I shall _soon_ be a man now. I was four years old yesterday; and see, I have got a pocket to my waistcoat; and this is my new handkerchief.” “Well,” said the old gentleman, “I will see them all presently, but let me set you down first; you had very near tumbled us both on the grass; and you are very heavy, I can tell you, in your new cloaths.” “I dare say I am,” returned _Bob_. “To be sure, Sir, I am too big to be lifted now I am in breeches; and besides, I have got money in my pocket; so it is no wonder I am heavy, for Mr. _Goodwill_ the clergyman gave me six-pence yesterday afternoon, because, he said, I was such a good boy, that he was sure I should take care and spend it properly.—And see what a nice one it is, Sir!” Mr. _Graves_ took it in his hand, and admiring it greatly, gave it to little _Bob_, who turned it about with much pride and pleasure as he walked along, till it unfortunately dropped down upon the grass, and was lost from his sight. “O stop! stop!” said he in a hurry, “my _six-pence_! my _own dear new six-pence_! what shall I do?” and immediately fell upon his hands and knees in search of his treasure. _William_ did the same, and _Nancy_ stooped forward to assist them; while their grandfather pushed about the grass with his stick, in hopes by that mean to discover it. Their endeavours, for a long time, were in vain, and _Bob_’s impatience became so great, that he burst into tears.
“Do not cry, my love,” said his sister, “I have got a six-pence which my papa gave me last _Thursday_ when I finished his shirts, and you shall have that.” “But it is bent and ugly,” replied he: “It is not a _new_ one: I do not like it: It is an ugly one.—O my pretty six-pence! what shall I do for it?” “Not be a naughty boy! I hope, _Robert_,” said Mr. _Graves_: “you told me just now, you were almost a man; but this behaviour, and these tears, look like a baby. I think _Nancy_ is very kind to you; and I am ashamed to see you make such a return to her good-nature. However there is your six-pence,” continued he, putting his stick close to it. _Bob_ jumped at it, and picking it up, kissed it most heartily, saying, “I am glad you are found: I will put you in my pocket, and never take you out again when I am walking.” They soon reached the house; and found Mr. and Mrs. _Sedley_ waiting tea for them: to whom Mr. _Graves_ gave an account of their walk. During their conversation two gentlemen who were riding by stopped their horses, and looked up at the house. Mr. _Sedley_ got up, and walking to the window with his cup lifted to his mouth, and the saucer in his left hand, “I wonder what those gentlemen are looking for,” said he. “They seem to have mistook their way.” “O no! Papa,” replied _Bob_, “I dare say they only stand still to look at my new cloaths. They are surprised I suppose to see me in breeches.” “Upon my word, child,” said his father, “you think yourself now of prodigious consequence; but it is very silly and unlike the man you wish us to think you, to talk so much of your dress.——Your brother’s behaviour,” added he, turning to Miss _Sedley_, “puts me in mind of the little girl we met one day at Mr. _Wilmot_’s. Do not you remember her, _Nancy_? I think she was called Miss _Gaudery_: with her red silk slip, and fine gold watch. She looked so stiff as if afraid to stir. She would not walk in the garden for fear it should spoil her shoes; nor sit close to her companions, that she might not tumble her cuffs; nor would she eat any strawberries, because if one happened to drop, it would stain her apron. In short, all her attention was so evidently fixed upon her fine cloaths, that she incurred the contempt of the company; who all agreed it was much to be lamented, that her mind should be neglected for the sake of adorning her person. I know that dress is a very favorite subject with girls. And what pretty thing have you got? says one; and let me see your new cap, says another, when you have play-fellows come to see you. Is not that true, _Nancy_? And then you pull out your band-boxes; and this is my cloak; and this is my furbelowed apron; and here is my flounced petticoat; and that is my feathered bonnet; and in this drawer I put my shawl.—Tell me, _Nancy_, is not that the way you entertain and are entertained by your visitors?” “Those with whom I am intimate,” replied Miss _Sedley_ blushing, “I sometimes shew my new cloaths to; but I do not wear half of those things you have named: it would look strange indeed to see a little girl in a furbelowed apron; at least, I am sure we should not call it by that name. But pray, Sir, inform me whether you think there is any thing wrong in this practice, and I will not do it for the future?” “I do not mean, my dear,” returned her father, “to blame that good-nature which would engage you to please your companions with the sight of a new acquisition; but to warn you from the danger of a vain temper, which is proud of fancied finery, and imagines its worth to consist in the smartness of dress rather than in real goodness. And I address myself to _you_ upon this subject; because I think, that in general, girls are apt to shew a greater tendency to this failing than boys: but I hope my _Nancy_ has too much good sense to be proud of any thing which reflects no honor upon herself, but as she behaves properly, and makes a right use of the advantage of fortune. The pleasure which _Bob_ has expressed in his new coat, has not arisen from its being finer than his other cloaths, but because he looks upon himself as so much more like a _man_ than he was before; but it is a certain proof from his speaking so much about them, that it is a new thing to him; otherwise he would have thought no more of the circumstance than does your brother _William_. So when a girl is dressed out to make a visit, and takes particular notice of her ruffles, or her frock, or any other part of her dress, you may almost always be sure she is not accustomed to it. You do not look at those shoes, nor think of that cap, because you usually wear them; and you should endeavour to be as easy in your behaviour in your _best_ as in your _common_ garb; otherwise you appear stiff and ungraceful, and will lose every advantage which your dress is designed to produce. But above all, my girl, remember, that good-nature, affability, and sweetness of manners, is the charm to render you agreeable; and will always have the power of pleasing, independent of outward decorations.” “I hope,” said Mrs. _Sedley_, “that our _Nancy_’s good sense will secure her from an error which is the strongest mark of an uninformed mind. She has just favored me with the sight of a little poetic piece, which was occasioned by the behaviour of the child you have mentioned; and as you are so well acquainted with the author, I dare say she will oblige you with the perusal. Mr. _Sedley_ expressed his wishes to that purpose, and his daughter immediately fetched them down, and presented them to her father, who read as follows:
’Twas when the harvest first began, The sky was clear, the air serene. The rustics to their toil repair’d, And _Julia_ join’d the rural scene.
(_Julia_ was fair with ev’ry grace. Which art or nature can bestow; But still her most engaging charms From _modesty_ and _sweetness_ flow.
Nor _dress_ nor beauty _claim’d_ her care, But objects of a _nobler_ kind; For well she knew _interior_ worth Is ever seated in the _mind_.
Hence was she studious to acquire Distinction worthy of her claim; For learning, genius, virtue, sense, She strove to win the prize of fame.)
With _her_ a youthful band appear’d; And blooming _Richard_ led the way, Who smiling as the nymphs advanc’d, He seated on the new-mown hay.
One only lass among the rest His offer’d hand with scorn disdain’d; And fir’d with _vanity_ and _pride_ Thus angry to her friends complain’d:
“And do you think for this I came In all my _elegant_ array, Only to treat yon rustic set, And let _their_ eyes my _dress_ survey?
D’ye think this slip was e’er design’d Upon the dirty _hay_ to rest? Or that for such a _vulgar_ scheme I paid the visit in my _best_?
What! my _best_ shoes, my _feather’d_ cap, My _new_ calash, forget them all; And like the toiling wretches there Consent upon the _hay_ to sprawl?
Rise! ladies, rise! and quit the field: I vow I blush to see you there:— For shame! such _mean_ companions leave, And to the _drawing room_ repair.
O fie! Miss _Julia_, do you smile, And really like such _vulgar_ play? At least you’ll dirt or spoil your frock, If longer you presume to stay.”
“Hey-day!” quoth _Richard_ in reply, “I really know not my offence— What! does the _dirt_ on this dry hay, The _dirt_, Miss _Flavia_, drive you hence?
The _feathers_ in your _cap_, indeed, I had not notic’d much before; And the _red shoes_ so bright and gay, I now their pardon must implore.
But if, dear Miss, they _soil_ so soon, I wish some others you had brought; As all our party to confine On their account you kindly thought.
But now that we have seen your _best_, At the _next_ visit which you pay; I hope that you will suit your _dress_ To a soft seat among the _hay_.”
Displeas’d, and frowning, up she rose, And _sullenly_ the rest forsook; No answer she vouchsaf’d to give, But darted fury in her look.
All her companions laugh’d aloud, With ridicule and just disdain, Except that _Julia_ kindly fear’d To give her haughty bosom pain.
“My brother” mildly she rejoin’d, “Your warmth will much offend, I fear; We should for others faults allow, Nor be in judgment too severe.
If _better_ taught, the _real_ worth Of _dress_ or _fortune_ we may know, Our pity should extend to those, Who on these _toys_ their care bestow.
Consider that in such array Poor _Flavia_ does but seldom shine; Then let us not, my friends, insult, Tho’ _ignorance_ with _pride_ combine.
_Our’s_ be the care with modest ease, The goods of _fortune_ to possess; Nor with mean arrogance of mind Exult o’er others who have less.
“Thank you, my dear,” said Mr. _Sedley_, when she had concluded. “These lines, I see, are the production of _Dick Wilmot_, as he has signed them. You must know Sir,” added he, addressing Mr. _Graves_, “that our young friend discovers a propensity to the Muses, and often employs his leisure in the composition of such little pieces. But he has made two long a parenthesis at the beginning, which is only excusable from the laudable motive of praising a sister, who is one of the most accomplished and best tempered girls I am acquainted with. The design of a parenthesis is only to include a short sentence in a long one, and therefore should not be too long itself, as the sense of the author ought to be complete without it. But when it is extended to too great a length, we forget the foregoing passage, and the continuation of the subject appears awkward and perplexing.” “But if the sense is as good without, then what is its use?” said Miss _Sedley_. “It is sometimes by way of explanation, my dear,” replied he, taking up a book from the table: “as thus, _Alexander_ reaped great advantage from the fine taste with which his master (than whom no man possessed greater talents for the education of youth) had inspired him with from his infancy.” “Now perhaps the reader might not be acquainted with the character of _Alexander_’s master; and this commendation of him will inform him, that he was a man of abilities, and therefore better qualified for his employment; and yet the sense would have been perfect without this addition. But it sometimes is likewise used as an exception. Suppose I was to say, you shall all go to _Windsor_ to-morrow (except little _Bob_) to see the castle and the royal family.”—“O! but pray do not leave _me_ at home,” said _Robert_, starting up from the ground, where he had been sitting spinning his six-pence on the carpet. “Pray, Sir, take me with you, and _I_ will shew you some verses as well as my sister.” “Will you?” replied Mr. _Sedley_; “and pray where did you get them? but I am not going to _Windsor_: I was only teaching _Nancy_ the use of a parenthesis.” “Was _that_ all?” cried _Bob_ in a tone of disappointment. “But you shall see the poetry however. I have it in my _pocket_,” with an emphasis he pronounced the word. “My brother gave it to me yesterday. They were inscribed,”
_To Master_ ROBERT SEDLEY, _on his_ BIRTH-DAY.
Permit me now, my dearest boy, Again to wish you ev’ry joy On this your natal day: Now cast your former cloaths aside, To dress with more becoming pride In _masculine_ array.
And, _Robert_, sure with _manly_ air, You’ll hence each _infant_ trick forbear, And scorn the sense of pain: Ne’er whimper tho’ to earth you fall, Break a new _cart_ or lose your _ball_, Nor like a _child_ complain.
But learn to _speak_, and learn to _read_, And your own cause distinctly plead, And be asham’d to _cry_; Or, trust me, else they will restore The _baby_’s _petticoats_ once more, And on the _back-string_ tie.
The next morning was as fine as the preceding one; and _William_ and his sister rose in high spirits with the idea of spending the day together.
When the family assembled to breakfast, Mr. _Graves_ proposed to take them to dine with a friend of his at _Windsor_, but without excepting little _Bob_, who begged to be of the party. After a very pleasant ride they arrived at Mr. _Rich_’s, who received them with great affability and politeness. They found there several play-fellows, as Mr. _Rich_ had a son and daughter; and there were two young ladies and a young gentleman, who had been likewise invited to dine with them. The name of the eldest was Miss _Lofty_: the other Miss _Snap_; and the boy was called Master _Tradewell_.
As it was early when they arrived, Mr. _Sedley_, Mrs. _Rich_, and the young folk, took a walk to see the castle, with which they were all highly entertained. On their return they met with a pretty girl, who was running along with a basket of apples, and who stumbling over a loose stone in her way, fell down with great violence on the pavement. _William_ and his sister immediately hastened to her assistance, and very tenderly enquired whether she was hurt; at the same time assisted her to gather up the fruit, which she seemed much concerned about, as the pippins had rolled to a great distance. “How far were you going, _Fanny_,” said Mrs. _Rich_. “Don’t be frightened, my child; your apples are not the worse, and your mother will not be angry.” “They were for you, Ma’am,” replied she, curtesying and weeping, “and I was charged to make haste; but I am sure I could not _help_ falling.” “To be sure you could not,” returned the lady; “and as you are a good girl, you may stay and dine at our house if you please.” _Fanny_ thanked her, and promised to ask her mother’s leave so to do. Mrs. _Rich_ then informed her company, that the child they had seen was daughter to a servant of theirs, who had married a gardener, and whose good behaviour recommended her so much, that she frequently came to play with her children.
In the afternoon the young party retired to amuse themselves in the garden; and Miss _Rich_ asked them if it would be agreeable for _Fanny Mopwell_ to be with them? _William_ said, “by all means;” and _Nancy_ was quite pleased with the proposal: but Miss _Lofty_ bridled up her head, and said, “she had never been _used_ to play with such _creatures_:” and Master _Tradewell_ said, “he thought they were better _without_ her; for a _merchant_’s son was rather above a girl of that sort.”
_Tom Rich_, who had loved _Fanny_ from her infancy, and whose mother had been his nurse, was not a little offended at the scorn which they expressed for his favorite, and very angrily told Miss _Lofty_, “that if she was _poor_, she was _good-natured_, and would not refuse to oblige any body.” _William_ also joined heartily in her favour; for he was of such a gentle disposition, that he always wished to promote the happiness of every one he saw; and _Nancy_ seconded him with great ardor. Upon this mighty question, a warm debate ensued. Miss _Snap_ said, “she did not care for the _girl_, but she had no patience to have her _play_ so interrupted.” _Charlotte Rich_, who was a school-fellow of Miss _Lofty_’s, began to be ashamed of having asked her to take notice of such an humble companion; and though she was in her heart very fond of little _Fanny_, yet she felt her pride hurt at having shewn her such a degree of regard. So forcibly does a bad example often operate upon a mind which would be otherwise not ungenerous.
During the dispute, the innocent cause of it happened to pass by; and _Fanny_, with a modest curtesy, asked Miss _Rich_ how she did? To which question the foolish girl, for the reason above-mentioned, would not condescend to give her an answer. As she was a child of great sensibility, she was a little distressed by the contempt which _Charlotte_ affected. She knew too well the duties of her station to offer to put herself upon an equality with the other young ladies; but as she was always accustomed to be treated by Miss _Rich_ with the freedom of an equal, she felt her contempt as a hardship to which she had not been used. She hung down her head, and was walking silently away, when _Tom_ took hold of her gown, and enquired whither she was going? desiring her to stay with him and his friend _William_, adding, “that Miss _Sedley_ and _Bob_ should be of their party; and they would leave the proud boarding-school _ladies_, since that was their title, to keep company with the _merchant_’s son.”
Miss _Lofty_, who was daughter of a nobleman, replied, “that a _merchant_’s son was no better than a _tradesman_; and she was not over fond of your _city_ gentry.” This speech equally offended Master _Tradewell_ and Miss _Snap_; who, rouzed at the indignity offered to her rank, declared, “she always heard, that a _gentleman_ of _fortune_ was as good as a _Lord_; and her father, who was an _Alderman_, was known, though a grocer, to be worth thousands and thousands of pounds, and therefore she did not understand such treatment.” In short, the disagreement ran so high, that Miss _Snap_ could not be persuaded to play at all; and when the rest of the disputants had agreed to make up matters, she would accept of no proposal, nor join in any diversion which they offered to her choice. During the latter part of the engagement, Master _Sedleys_, with their sister and _Tom_, had accompanied _Fanny_ to an arbour at some distance, where they quietly sat down to play. Her good-nature inclined her always to give way to her companions; and she had been taught to do whatever her superiors desired (if it was not wrong) so that they found her a most agreeable and entertaining girl, and rejoiced that they had admitted her to be of their party. Among the rest of their amusements, it was proposed that they should each tell a story for the entertainment of the rest; and as none of the others could immediately recollect one, _Fanny_ was desired to begin, which she very readily did in the following manner, out of a little book which she had in her pocket.
“_John Active_ was a very good sort of man, and was beloved by his neighbours. He was kind to every body; and would always help those who were in distress. As he had a good trade (though it was a laborious one) he got a pretty fortune; and he did not mind the fatigue, for the sake of providing for his family. His wife too was a worthy woman, and always took care to have things ready against he came home, received him with good-humour, and thanked him for the trouble he took in getting the money to keep her and her children. They had three daughters; whose names were _Nanny_, _Susan_, and _Kate_; and she taught them to read and work; and when they were gone to-bed, would sit up to mend their cloaths, and do what was necessary for them. While they were young, this family all lived extremely comfortable. The parents were contented and thankful for their condition; and the children were as happy as it was in their power to make them. But when they grew older, and ought to have known better, the two eldest became perverse and disobedient. They would not mind what they were taught; and only grumbled and found fault if they were set to work. In short, they became so obstinate, that they at all times did the contrary to what their parents desired: _Susan_ one day in jumping from the top of a gate, which she had often been forbid to do, broke her leg, an accident that confined her a great while, and cost her father a vast deal of money for surgeons; and her mother in lifting her about, got a hurt in her back, which never could be cured, and occasioned her to be lame all the rest of her life. Any body would have thought that such an accident might have taught the naughty girl to have been more obedient for the future; but she was unmoved by it; and added to the trouble of nursing her, by being cross and dissatisfied; and poor Mrs. _Active_ would often shed tears at the unkind speeches which she returned for her care and indulgence. Nor did _Nancy_ afford them any greater comfort. She would never assist in those things of which she was capable: but was mighty eager to do what was out of her power.