Domestic Pleasures, or, the Happy Fire-side Part 13

_Mrs. B._ I do not think any one could avoid thinking favourably of Mary; nor do I wish to check a generous sentiment in favour of a stranger, at any time, my dear children. Caution is necessary, but suspicion is hateful; and I would rather you should be often deceived, than never feel a confidence. When I was young, I was once imposed upon by a person quite as pleasing in manners and appearance as the young cottager. I was warned that there was danger in trusting to appearances, but disdained the caution of those who were older and wiser than myself.

I suffered for my folly, and would have you learn prudence from my experience.

_Louisa_. Do, mamma, tell us the story. I dare say it is an interesting one.

_Mrs. B._ Not at present, my dear; your father wishes to hear what history you have read since Sat.u.r.day. Besides, an account of the depravity of a fellow-creature, can never be a very interesting topic of conversation.

_Louisa._. No mamma, certainly it is not: but how did she impose upon you? You are so careful, you know--so prudent.

_Mrs. B_ But at that time I was credulous and imprudent, as I have already told you, my dear, and was deceived by a pleasing address, and a mournful tale.

_Louisa_. Oh, do tell me, dear mamma. I do love a mournful tale.

_Mrs. B._ But this was, in all probability, a fabricated story, to impose on the incautious: at least, I have every reason to consider it so. I found out so many untruths, that I was inclined to think the whole a complete falsehood. But we will not dwell longer upon this subject at present: at some future time, if we have nothing upon which we can more profitably employ our attention, I may perhaps give you a full account of the affair; but I have mentioned it to your father before, and will not, therefore, trouble him to listen to a repet.i.tion, as nothing is more tedious than a twice-told tale.

_Ferdinand_. I want to ask you a question, papa, before we begin our history. It is quite different from any thing we have been hitherto talking of, to be sure; but I was reading a book to-day, in which, speaking of some crime, it mentioned that it was punished by death, without benefit of clergy. Now I do not know what benefit of clergy means, and I thought you would be so good as to explain it to me.

_Mr. B._ That I shall most willingly, my dear boy. In order to encourage the art of reading in England, which formerly made but slow progress, the capital punishment for murder was remitted if the criminal could read; and this, in law-language, is termed benefit of clergy.

_Edward._ I should think the art must have made very rapid progress, when so highly favoured.

_Mr. B._ It does not appear that this was the case; for so small an edition of the Bible as six hundred copies, translated into English, in the reign of Henry the Eighth, was not completely sold in three years.

_Emily._ How different, my dear father, are the happy days in which we live. No family, however indigent, need now be without a Bible.

_Edward._ And almost every poor child has an opportunity, in some of the numerous charity-schools that are every where established, of learning to read it too, which is better still.

_Mr. B._ We do, indeed, my beloved children, live in very glorious times. The scriptural prophecy seems to be fast accomplishing, which declares, that "the knowledge of the Lord shall cover the earth, as the waters cover the sea." May we prize our high privilege, and may our more virtuous conduct bespeak our grat.i.tude for the superior blessings we enjoy.

_Louisa._ In the days of the cruel Tarquin, papa, of whom we have been reading in our Roman history, the religion of Jesus Christ was not known. The wicked Tullia could not, I think, have acted so basely, had she been a Christian.

_Mr. B._ Those who act up to the _precepts_ taught by Christianity, my dear girl, must act virtuously; but the _name_ of Christian will be found by no means sufficient for any of us.

_Louisa._ Papa, it is very uninteresting to read about wicked people. I do not feel the least inclination to give you any account of Tarquin and Tullia. On the contrary, I quite enjoyed talking of the good Numa Pompilius, and Servius Tullius.

_Mr. B._ Much is to be learned from history, my dear. It unmasks the human character. You there read man as he is, and trace the fatal effects of vice upon society, as well as the pleasing consequences of virtue. But let me now hear how Tarquin behaved, on mounting the throne so basely acquired. _Emily._ The whole series of his reign was suitable to the manner of his accession to the throne. Scarcely had he seated himself there, when, from his capricious humour and arrogant behaviour, he acquired the surname of the Proud. He refused to consult, either with the senate or people; but having secured a sufficient number of soldiers to guard his person and execute his will, arbitrary power actuated all his proceedings. Informers were dispersed throughout the city, the king was sole judge of the accused, and wealth and merit were considered unpardonable crimes.

_Edward_. The cruel murder of the venerable Marcus Janius, was a proof of what Emily has just mentioned. He was descended from a n.o.ble family, and possessed great riches, on which account, Tarquinius Priscus had allowed him to marry his youngest daughter. The wicked Tarquin, in order to get possession of his estate, caused both him and his son to be a.s.sa.s.sinated. His youngest son escaped the same fate, by pretending to be an idiot, from whom he supposed he had nothing to fear.

_Ferdinand_. He was mistaken, however; was he not, Emily?

_Edward_. Stop, stop, Ferdinand; you must not forestal our history.

Let Louisa give some account of Tarquin's government first.

_Louisa_. Emily has already told you it was very tyrannical. To avoid the effects of his cruelty and avarice, the most worthy men in the senate went into voluntary banishment. The people at first rejoiced to see the great thus humbled; but they were soon treated quite as ill as the patricians, and all the laws which had been made in their favour, were unmade again.

_Mr. B._ You have not expressed yourself well, my dear Louisa. When a law is unmade again, as you call it, we say it is annulled.

_Louisa_. Thank you, papa. Well then, all the laws made in favour of the people, which had pleased them so much, were annulled. The poor were obliged to pay the same taxes as the rich. Nor would they allow any meetings, even for amus.e.m.e.nt, either in the town or country.

_Mrs. B._ It is astonishing that the people bore such oppressions without revolt.

_Edward._ Indeed, mamma, Tarquin was justly afraid they would not; on which account, he gave his daughter in marriage to a man of considerable interest among the Latins, in hopes he should strengthen himself by this foreign alliance. He also employed the people in finishing the common sewers, and the great Circus which his grandfather had begun; knowing that constant employment was the best means to prevent their brooding over their oppressions, and planning schemes of revenge.

_Mr. B._ His conduct was well judged, and likely to be attended with success, as far as the common people were concerned; but he could not employ the patricians in these labours. How were they kept in subjection? for their wrongs appear to have been quite as flagrant as those of the plebeians.

_Edward._ Indeed, papa, they were not kept in subjection at all. A great number of them fled from Rome, and took refuge in Gabii, a city of Latium, about a hundred furlongs distant.

_Mr. B._ Can Ferdinand tell us how many miles that is?

_Ferdinand._ If I consider a minute, I think I can, papa. There are eight furlongs in a mile, so I must divide a hundred by eight, which will go twelve times and four over; therefore, it was exactly twelve miles and a half from Rome.

_Mr. B._ You are quite right, my boy. You may now go on, Edward.

_Edward_. The inhabitants of Gabii were touched with compa.s.sion, to see so many considerable persons thus cruelly persecuted, and resolved to espouse their cause, by beginning a war with the king of Rome. This war lasted seven years; sometimes one having the advantage, sometimes the other. The inroads and devastations made on both sides, prevented the regular sowing and reaping of the corn, which at length produced a great scarcity in Rome. This increased the discontents of the people, who were suffering so cruelly on account of the hatred borne by their neighbours, not against them, but against their king; and they urgently demanded either peace or provisions.

_Mr. B._ Affairs seem now coming to the extremities with Tarquin, I think.

_Ferdinand._ They are, indeed, papa, and you cannot think what a treacherous plan he contrived to extricate himself from his difficulties.

_Louisa_. No indeed, Ferdinand, it was not Tarquin who contrived the plot; it was his shocking son, s.e.xtus Tarquinius, who was, I really think, a more wicked man than his father.

_Ferdinand._ So it was, Louisa: pray let me tell about it. He pretended to quarrel with his father, papa, declaring he was a great tyrant, who had no compa.s.sion, even for his own children. Upon this, the king ordered him to be publicly beaten in the Forum. All this was repeated at Gabii, by persons who were in the secret, and whom they thought they could trust. The Gabini believed it all, and were very anxious to get s.e.xtus amongst them. After many secret invitations, he agreed to their request, provided they first gave him their solemn promise, never, on any pretence, to deliver him up to his father. When he reached Gabii, he talked constantly of the tyranny of the king of Rome, and acted, in every respect, as the declared enemy of his country. He frequently made inroads on the Roman lands, and came back loaded with spoil; his father always contriving to send against him such weak parties, that he easily conquered them. By these means, s.e.xtus gained very great credit among the Gabini. They at last chose him general of their army, and he was as much master there, as Tarquin was in Rome.

_Louisa._ Ah! now comes the treachery. Oh, papa, what a very base thing it is to betray those who place confidence in us. I cannot bear s.e.xtus.

_Ferdinand._ Well, Louisa, now pray do not interrupt me just in this very interesting part. Finding his authority so firmly established, he sent a slave to his father, to enquire what he should do. The king dare not treat the slave with his answer, even in writing; so he took him into the garden, and there struck off the heads of all the tallest poppies. Having done this, he sent back the messenger. s.e.xtus, who understood the meaning of this action, a.s.sembled the Gabini, and pretended to have discovered a plot to deliver him up to his father. The people, who were very fond of him, fell into a great rage, and begged him to declare the names of the conspirators. He mentioned Antistius Petro, who was, from his merit, the most considerable person in the country. He, knowing his innocence, despised the accusation; but s.e.xtus had bribed his servants to convey amongst his papers some pretended letters from the king of Rome, which being produced and read, the populace, without further examination, immediately stoned him to death.

The Gabini then committed to s.e.xtus the care of discovering his accomplices, and appointing their punishment. He instantly ordered the city gates to be shut, and sent officers into every quarter, to cut off the heads of all the most eminent citizens, without any mercy; and in the midst of the confusion occasioned by this dreadful ma.s.sacre, he opened the gates to his father, who had previously had notice of his design, and who entered the city with all the pride of a conquerer.

Just as Ferdinand had finished this account, and before he had time to make any comment upon it, Mr. Dormer was announced, a gentleman who lived at no great distance from Mr. Bernard's, and who frequently, in an evening, made one at his social fire-side. His kind, conciliatory manners, had endeared him to the children, and he was, in his turn, much pleased with their amiable frankness, and tender attachment to each other.

Being a man of general information, and possessing an enlarged and cultivated mind, his conversation was both amusing and instructive, and he was always a welcome guest at Broomfield.

"I hope I have not interrupted any agreeable topic of conversation,"

said he, drawing Ferdinand between his knees.

Mr. Bernard a.s.sured him he could never be considered an interruption, and proceeded to tell him how they had been engaged previously to his entrance.

Mr. Dormer highly approved the plan of impressing instruction upon the minds of young people by conversation, and regretted that it should be generally so much neglected. "I dare say the little folks look forward with great delight to the approach of evening," said he.

"Oh yes, Sir, that we do," replied Louisa: "we see so little of our dear father in the day-time, that it is really quite a treat to sit down altogether at night, and tell him what we have said, and thought, and done, in the day; for I like that papa and mamma should know all my thoughts, as well as my actions."

_Ferdinand_. And so do I too; but mine are often very silly thoughts, not worth any one's knowing. I wish I could keep them in better order.

Those lines written by Cowper, which I learnt the other day, are very true, mamma:--

"We may keep the body bound, but know not what a range the spirit takes." [Footnote: This was an actual remark of the little boy that has been before mentioned.]

Mr. and Mrs. Bernard looked at each other, and smiled with delight, to find their dear boy entered so completely into the spirit of his lessons, and was able to apply, in so proper a manner, the knowledge he had acquired.

"Your fire-side circle seems so complete," said Mr. Dormer, "and you appear so thoroughly to enjoy each other's society, that I fear a proposition, which I have called this evening with the purpose of making, will not be received so favourably as I could wish. What do you say to my running away with one of your party?"