The Looking-Glass for the Mind Part 5

"John had nothing beyond what his trade produced him; and Margaret, his wife, being left an orphan, had only a little money which she had sc.r.a.ped together in the service of a worthy neighbouring curate. With this they bought the most necessary articles of household furniture, and a small stock of leather to begin business with. However, by dint of labour and good management, they for some years contrived to live a little comfortably.

"As children increased, so did their difficulties, and misfortunes seldom come alone. Poor Margaret, who had daily worked in the fields during hay-time, to bring home a little money to her husband at night, fell ill, and continued so all the harvest and winter. John's customers left him one after another, fearing that work could not go on properly in a sick house.

"Though Margaret at last grew better, yet her husband's work continued to decline, and he was obliged to borrow money to pay the apothecary; while poor Margaret continued so weakly that n.o.body thought it worth their while to employ her. The rent of their house and the interest of the money they had borrowed were heavy loads upon them; and they were frequently obliged to endure hunger themselves, in order to give a morsel of bread to their poor children.

"To add to their misfortune, the hardhearted landlord threatened to put poor John in jail, if he did not pay the two quarters' rent that were due; and though he is the richest man in the place, it was with the greatest difficulty that they could obtain a month's delay. He declared if they did not at the end of that time pay the whole, he would sell their furniture, and put John in prison. Their house was now a picture of melancholy and patient distress. How often have I lamented my inability to a.s.sist the distresses of this honest couple!

"I went myself to their landlord, and begged of him, for G.o.d's sake, to have some compa.s.sion on these unfortunate people, and even offered to p.a.w.n to him all I was possessed of in the world; but he treated me with contempt, and told me I was as bad as they were. I was obliged, however, being only a poor widow, to bear the insult with patience, and contented myself by easing my heart with a flood of tears.

"I advised poor Margaret to make her distresses known to the worthy clergyman, with whom she had so long lived with an unblemished character, and to beg of him to advance them a little money. Margaret replied, that she supposed her husband would not like that proposal, fearing that their friend might suspect their necessities proceeded from mismanagement.

"It is but a few days ago since she brought me her two children, and begged me to take care of them till the evening. Her intention was to go to a village at a little distance, and endeavour to get some hemp from the weaver to spin, with a view to get something towards the debt. As she could not persuade herself to wait upon the clergyman, her husband had undertaken it, and had accordingly set off on that business. As Margaret was going, she clasped her two children to her breast and kissed them, little thinking it was to be the last time she should ever see them.

"Soon after she was gone, I heard some noise in her house, but supposed it might be only the flapping of the door. However, the evening came on, and my neighbour did not come to fetch her children as usual. I therefore determined to go to her house, and see if she was come home. I found the door open and went in; but how shall I express my horror and astonishment, when I found poor Margaret lying dead at the foot of the stairs!

"After trying in vain to recover her, I fetched the surgeon, who shook his head, and said all was over. The coroner's inquest brought in their verdict accidental death; but, as her husband was missing, ill-natured people raised suspicious reports. Her death, however, was easily to be accounted for; she had returned to her house, to go up to the loft for a bag to hold her hemp, and as her eyes were still dimmed with tears, she had missed her step in coming down, and fallen from the top of the stairs, with her head foremost, on the ground. The bag that lay by her side showed this to have been the case.

"I made an offer to the parish officers to keep the two children myself, not doubting, but that the goodness of G.o.d, even a poor widow as I was, would enable me to support them. The worthy curate came yesterday to see the unfortunate Margaret, and great indeed was his affliction when I related to him what I have been now telling you. I then told him, that John was gone to him; but I was much surprised, when he declared he had seen nothing of him. The two children came up to him; and little Jack asked him, if he could not awake his mother, who had been a long time asleep. This brought tears into the eyes of the good curate, who proposed to take the two children home to his own house and bring them up under his care; but as I could not consent to part with both these innocents, it was at last agreed, that he should take the younger and leave me the elder.

"He asked little Jack if he should not like to go with him. 'What, where my mother is?' said Jack, 'oh! yes, with all my heart!' 'No, my little man,' replied the curate, 'I do not mean there, but to my handsome house and garden.'--'No, no,' answered Jack, 'I will stay here with Susan, and every day go to where my mother is; for I would rather go there than to your handsome garden.'

"This worthy curate did not choose to vex the child more, who went and hid himself behind my bed-curtains. He told me he would send his man for the younger, who would be more trouble to me than the elder child, and before he went, left me some money towards the support of this.

"This, Sir, is the whole of this unfortunate business. What makes me exceedingly uneasy at present is, that John does not return, and that it is reported in the parish, that he has connected himself with a gang of smugglers, and that his wife put an end to her life through grief.

These stories have obtained such credit in the village, that even the children have got it; and whenever poor Jack attempts to mix with them, they drive him away as though he were infectious. Hence the poor little fellow is quite dull, and now never goes out but to pay a sad visit to his mother's grave."

Mr. Glover, who had silently listened to this melancholy tale, was deeply affected by it. Little Jack was now got close up to Susan; he looked at her with fondness, and often called her his mother. Mr. Glover at length broke silence, and told Susan she was a worthy woman, and that G.o.d would not fail to reward her for her generosity towards this unfortunate family.

"Ah!" said Susan, "I am happy in what I have done, and I wish I could have done more; but my only possession consists in my cottage, a little garden, in which I have a few greens, and what I can earn by the labour of my hands. Yet for these eight years that I have been a widow, G.o.d has not suffered me to want, and I trust he never will."

Mr. Glover reminded her, that keeping this little boy must be very inconvenient to her, and that she would find it difficult to supply him with clothes. She answered, "I leave the care of that to Him who clothes the fields with gra.s.s and the trees with leaves. He has given me fingers to sew and spin, and they shall work to clothe my poor little orphan. I will never part with him."

Mr. Glover was astonished at this good woman's resolution. "I must not suffer you alone," said he, "to have all the honour of befriending this poor orphan, since G.o.d has bestowed on me those blessings of affluence which you do not enjoy. Permit me to take care of the education of this sweet boy; and, since I find that you cannot live separate, I will take you both home with me, and provide for you. Sell your cottage and garden, and make my house your own, where you may spend the remainder of your life amidst peace and plenty."

Susan gave Mr. Glover a most affectionate look, but begged he would excuse her accepting his offer, as she was fond of the spot on which she was born, and had lived in so long. Besides, she added, she could not suit herself to the bustle of a great house, and should soon grow sick, were she to live upon dainties in idleness. "If you will please,"

continued Susan, "now and then to send him a small matter to pay for his schooling, and to supply him with tools when he shall take to business, G.o.d will not fail to reward you for your bounty. As I have no child, he shall be as one to me, and whatever I possess shall be his at my death."

Mr. Glover, finding she did not choose to quit her habitation, told her, he should every month send her what would be sufficient for her support, and that he would sometimes come and see them himself. Susan lifted up her hands to heaven, and bid Jackey go and ask the gentleman's blessing, which he did. He then threw down his purse on the table, bid them a farewell, and mounting his horse, took the road that led to the parish in which the worthy curate lived.

On Mr. Glover's arrival there, he found the worthy curate reading a letter, on which he had shed some tears. He explained the cause of his visit to this worthy divine, and asked him, if he knew what was become of the father of the two little unfortunate children. The curate replied, that it was not a quarter of an hour since he received a letter from him to his wife. "It was," said the curate, "inclosed in one to me, and contains a small draft for the use of his wife; he requests me to deliver it to her, and to console her for his absence. As she is dead, I have opened the letter, and here it is; be so kind as to read it." Mr.

Glover took the letter, the particulars of which were as follow:

He hoped his wife would not give herself any uneasiness on account of his absence. As he was going to the clergyman's house, he began to think that it could be of no use to go thus a begging, and, if he should borrow money, he was not sure he should be able to pay it, which he thought would be as bad as thieving. At this instant a thought struck into his head, that he was young and hearty, stout and able-bodied, and therefore could see no harm if he entered on board a man of war for a few years, where he might stand a chance of getting a fortune for his wife and children, at least get enough to pay all his debts. While he was thinking of this matter, a press-gang came up, and asked him if he would enter, telling him that they would give him five pounds bounty.

The thought of receiving five pounds fixed his determination at once, and he accordingly entered, received the money, and sent every farthing of it to his wife, with his love and blessing, and hoping they would all join in their prayers to G.o.d for him. He hoped the war would soon be over, and that he should then return with inexpressible joy to his dear wife.

Mr. Glover's eyes swimmed with tears all the time he was reading the letter. When he had finished it, "This man," said he, "may indeed be justly called a good husband, a tender father, and an honest man. There is an expressive pleasure in being a friend to such characters as these.

I will pay John's debts, and enable him to set up his trade again. Let his money be kept for the children, to be divided between them, as soon as they shall be at an age to know how to make use of it, and I will add something to this sacred deposit."

So greatly was the worthy curate affected, that he could make no reply; and Mr. Glover perfectly understanding the cause of his silence, squeezed him by the hand, and took his leave; but he completely accomplished all his designs in favour of John, who at length returned, and enjoyed an easiness of circ.u.mstances beyond any thing he had before experienced.

Nothing now disturbed John's felicity, but the sorrowful reflection of having lost his dear Margaret; she had experienced part of his misfortunes, but had not lived to share in his felicity; and John's only consolation is perpetually to talk about her to Susan, whom he looks upon as a sister to him, and as a mother to his children. Little Jack frequently visits his mother's grave; and has made so good a use of Mr.

Glover's generosity, in improving himself, that this excellent gentleman intends placing him in a very desirable situation. John's younger son has likewise a share in his favours; and whenever Mr. Glover's mind is oppressed, a visit to this spot, where such an affecting scene pa.s.sed, and where he has been enabled to do so much good, never fails to raise his spirits.

My readers will from hence learn, that G.o.d always a.s.sists those who put their trust in him. It is on Him we must rely on every occasion, and he will not desert us, provided we ourselves also try to surmount difficulties by patience and industry.

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LEONORA AND ADOLPHUS.

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A young widow lady, whose name was Lenox, had two children, Leonora and Adolphus, both equally deserving the affections of a parent, which, however, were unequally shared. Adolphus was the favourite, which Leonora very early began to discover, and consequently felt no small share of uneasiness on the occasion: but she was prudent enough to conceal her sorrow.

Leonora, though not remarkably handsome, had a mind that made ample amends for the want of beauty; but her brother was a little Cupid, on whom Mrs. Lenox lavished all her kisses and caresses. It is no wonder that the servants, to gain the favour of their mistress, were very attentive to humour him in all his whimsies. Leonora, on the other hand, was consequently slighted by every one in the house; and, so far from wishing to study her humour, they scarcely treated her with common civility.

Finding herself frequently alone and neglected, and taken little notice of by any one, she would privately shed a torrent of tears; but she always took care, that not the least mark of discontent should escape her in the presence of any one. Her constant attention to the observance of her duty, her mildness, and endeavours to convince her mother that her mind was superior to her face, had no effect; for beauty alone attracts the attention of those who examine no further than external appearances.

Mrs. Lenox, who was continually chiding Leonora, and expecting from her perfections far beyond the reach of those more advanced in years, at last fell sick. Adolphus seemed very sorry for his mother's illness; but Leonora, with the softest looks and most languishing countenance, fancied she perceived in her mother an abatement of her accustomed rigour towards her, and far surpa.s.sed her brother in her attention to her parent. She endeavoured to supply her slightest wants, exerted all her penetration to discover them, that she might even spare her the pain of asking for any thing. So long as her mother's illness had the least appearance of danger, she never quitted her pillow, and neither threats nor commands could prevail on her to take the least repose.

Mrs. Lenox, however, at length recovered, which afforded inexpressible pleasure to the amiable Leonora; but she soon experienced a renewal of her misfortunes, as her mother began to treat her with her usual severity and indifference.

As Mrs. Lenox was one day talking to her children on the pain she had suffered during her illness, and was praising them for the anxiety they had shown on her account, she desired them to ask of her whatever they thought would be the most pleasing to them, and they should certainly be indulged in it, provided their demands were not unreasonable.

First addressing herself to Adolphus, she desired to know what he would choose: and his desire was to have a cane and a watch, which his mother promised he should have the next morning. "And pray, Leonora," said Mrs.

Lenox, "what is your wish?"--"Me, mamma, me?" answered she, trembling, "if you do but love me, I have nothing else to wish for!"--"This is not an answer;" replied the mother, "you shall have your recompense likewise, miss, therefore speak your wish instantly."

However accustomed Leonora might have been to this severe tone, yet she felt it on this occasion more sensibly than ever she had before. She threw herself at her mother's feet, looked up to her with eyes swimming in tears, and instantly hiding her face with both her hands, lisped out these words: "Only give me two kisses, such as you give my brother."

What heart could fail to relent at these words? Mrs. Lenox felt all the tender sentiments of a parent arise in her heart, and, taking her up in her arms, she clasped her to her breast, and loaded her with kisses. The sweet Leonora, who now, for the first time, received her mother's caresses, gave way to the effusion of her joy and love; she kissed her cheeks, her eyes, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and her hands; and Adolphus, who loved his sister, mixed his embraces with hers. Thus all had a share in this scene of unexpected happiness.

The affection which Mrs. Lenox had so long withheld from Leonora, she now repaid with interest, and her daughter returned it with the most dutiful attention. Adolphus, so far from being jealous at this change of his mother's affection for his sister, showed every mark of pleasure on the occasion, and he afterwards reaped a reward of so generous a conduct; for his natural disposition having been, in some measure, injured by the too great indulgence of his mother, he gave way in his early days to those little indiscretions, which would have lost him the heart of his parent, had not his sister stepped in between them. It was to the advice of this amiable girl that Adolphus at last owed his entire reformation of manners. They all three then experienced, that true happiness cannot exist in a family, unless the most perfect union between brothers and sisters, and the most lively and equal affection between parents and children, are constantly and strictly adhered to.

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FLORA AND HER LITTLE LAMB

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A poor countryman's little daughter, whose name was Flora, was one morning sitting by the side of the road, holding on her lap a pan of milk for her breakfast, into which she was breaking some bits of coa.r.s.e black bread.