Original Stories from Real Life

Front matter

ORIGINAL STORIES

FROM

REAL LIFE;

Chapter I: The Treatment of Animals.—The Ant.—The Bee.—Goodneſs.—The Lark's Neſt—The Aſſes

MORAL CONVERSATIONS

AND

STORIES.

CHAP. I.

The Treatment of Animals—The Ant—The Bee—Goodneſs—The Lark's Neſt—The Aſſes.

ONE fine morning in ſpring, ſome time after Mary and Caroline were ſettled in their new abode, Mrs. Maſon propoſed a walk before breakfaſt, a cuſtom ſhe wiſhed to teach imperceptibly, by rendering it amuſing.

The ſun had ſcarcely diſpelled the dew that hung on every blade of graſs, and filled the half-ſhut flowers; every proſpect ſmiled, and the ſreſhneſs of the air conveyed the moſt pleaſing ſenſations to Mrs. Maſon's mind; but the children were regardleſs of ſurrounding beauties, and ran eagerly ſome inſects to deſtroy them. Mrs. Maſon ſilently obſerved their cruel ſports, without appearing to do it; but ſtepping ſuddenly out of the foot-path into the long grasſ, her buckle was caught in it, and ſtriving to diſentangle herſelf, ſhe wet her feet; which the children knew ſhe wiſhed to avoid, as ſhe had been lately ſick. This circumſtance rouſsed their attention; and they forgot their amuſement to enquire why ſhe had left the path; and Mary could hardly reſtrain a laugh, when ſhe was informed that it was to avoid treading on ſome ſnails that were creeping acroſs the narrow footway. Surely, ſaid Mary, you do not think there is any harm in killing a ſnail, or any of thoſe naſty creatures that crawul on the ground? I hate them, and ſhould ſcream if one was to find its way from my clothes to my neck! With great gravity, Mrs. Maſon aſked how ſhe dared to kill any thing, unleſs it were to prevent its hurting her? Then, reſuming a ſmiling face, ſhe ſaid, Your education has been neglected, my child, as we walk along attend to what I ſay, and make the beſt anſwers you can; and do you, Caroline, join in the converſation.

You have already heard that God created the world, and every inhabitant of it. He is then called the Father of all creatures; and all are made to be happy, whom a good and wiſe God has created. He made thoſe ſnails you deſpiſe, and caterpillars, and ſpiders; and when he made them, did not leave them to periſh, but placed them where the food that is moſt proper to nouriſh them is eaſily found. They do not live long, but He who is their Father, as well as your's, directs them to depoſit their eggs on the plants that are fit to ſupport their young, when they are not able to get food for themſelves.—And when ſuch as great and wiſe Being has taken care to provide every thing neceſſary for the meaneſt creature, would you dare to kill it, merely becauſe it appears to you ugly? Mary began to be attentive, and quickly followed Mrs. Maſon's example, who allowed a caterpillar and a ſpider to creep on her hand. You find them, ſhe rejoined, very harmleſs; but a great number would deſtroy our vegetables and fruit; ſo birds are permitted to eat them, as we feed on animals; and in ſpring there are always more than at any other ſeaſon of the year, to ſurniſh food for the young broods.—Half-convinced, Mary ſaid, But worms are of little conſequence in the world. Yet, replied Mrs. Maſon, God cares for them, and gives them every thing that is neceſſary to render their exiſtence comfortable. You are often troubleſome—I am ſtronger than you—yet I do not kill you.

Obſerve thoſe ants; they have a little habitation in yonder hillock; they carry food to it for their young, and ſleep very ſnug in it during the cold weather. The bees alſo have comfortable towns, and lay up a ſtore of honey to ſupport them when the flowers die, and ſnow covers the ground: and this forecasſt is as much the gift of God, as any quality you poſſeſs.

Do you know the meaning of the word Goodneſs? I ſee you are unwilling to an . I will tell you. It is firſt, to avoid hurting any thing; and then, to contrive to give as much pleaſure as you can. If ſome inſects are to be deſtroyed, to preſerve my garden from deſolation, I have it done in the quickeſt way. The domeſtic animals that I keep, I provide the beſt food for, and never ſuffer them to be tormented; and this caution ariſes from two motives:—I wiſh to make them happy; and, as I love my fellow-creatures ſtill better than the brute creation, I would not allow thoſe that I have any influence over to grow habitually thoughtleſs and cruel, till they were unable to reliſh the greateſt pleaſure life affords,—that of reſembling God, by doing good.

A lark now began to ſing, as it ſoared aloft. The children watched its motions liſtening to the artleſs melody. They wondered what it was thinking of—of its young familiy, they ſoon concluded; for it flew over the hedge, and drawing near, they heard the young ones chirp. Very ſoon both the old birds took their flight together, to look for food to ſatisfy the craving of the almoſt fledged young. An idle boy, who had borrowed a gun, fired at them—they fell; and before he could take up the wounded pair, he perceived Mrs. Maſon; and expecting a very ſevere reprimand, ran away. She and the little girls drew near, and found that one was not much hurt, but that the other, the cock, had one leg broken, and both its wings ſhattered; and its little eyes ſeemed ſtarting out of their ſockets, it was in ſuch exquiſite pain. The children turned away their eyes. Look at it, ſaid Mrs. Maſon; do you not ſee that it ſuffers as much, and more than you did when you had the ſmall-pox, when you were ſo tenderly nurſed. Take up the hen; I will bind her wing together; perhaps it may heal. As to the cock, though I hate to kill any thing, I muſt put him out of pain; to leave him in his preſent ſtate would be cruel; and avoiding an unpleaſant ſenſation myſelf, I ſhould allow the poor bird to die by inches, and call this treatment tenderneſs, when it would be ſelf or weakneſs. Saying ſo, ſhe put her foot on the bird's head, turning her own another way.

They walked on; when Caroline remarked, that the neſtlings deprived of their parents, would now periſh; and the mother began to flutter in her hand as they drew near the hedge; though the poor creature could not fly, yet ſhe tried to do it. The girls, with one voice, begged Mrs. Maſon to let them take the neſt, and provide food in a cage, and ſee if the mother could not contrive to hop about to feed them. The neſt and the old mother were inſtantly in Mary's handkerchief. A little opening was left to admit the air; and Caroline pepped into it every moment to ſee how they looked. I give you leave, ſaid Mrs. Maſon, to take thoſe birds, becauſe an accident has rendered them helpleſs; if that had not been the caſe, they ſhould not have been confined.

They had ſcarecly reached the next field, when they met another boy with a neſt in his hand, and on a tree near him ſaw the mother, who, forgetting her natural timidity, followed the ſpoiler; and her intelligible tones of anguiſh reached the ears of the children, whoſe hearts now firſt felt the emotions of humanity. Caroline called him, and taking ſixpence out of her little purſe, offered to give it to him for the neſt, if he would ſhew her where he had taken it from. The boy conſented, and away ran Caroline to replace it,—crying all the way, how delighted the old bird will be to find her brood again. The pleaſure that the parent-bird would feel was talked of till they came to a large common, and heard fome young aſſes, at the door of an hovel, making a most dreadful noiſe. Nrs. Maſon had ordered the old ones to be confned, leſt the young ſhould ſuck before the neceſſary quantity had been ſaved for ſome ſick people in her neighbourhood. But after they had giventhe uſual quantity of milk, the thoughtleſs boy had left them ſtill in confinement, and the young in vain implored the food nature deſigned for their particular ſupport. Open the hatch, ſaid Mrs. Maſon, the mothers have ſtill enough left to ſatisfy their young. It was opened, and they ſaw the ſuck.

Now, ſaid ſhe, we will return to breakfaſt; give me your hands, my little girls, you have done good this morning, you have acted like rational creatures. Look, what a fine morning it is. Inſects, birds, and animals, are all enjoying this ſweet day. Thank God for permitting you to ſee it, and for giving you an underſtanding which teaches you that you ought, by doing good, to imitate Him. Other creatures only think of ſupporting themſelves; but man is allowed to ennoble his nature, by cultivating his mind and enlarging his heart. He feels diſintereſted love; every part of the creation affords an exerciſe for virtue, and virtue is ever the trueſt ſource of pleaſure.

Chapter II: The Treatment of Animals.—The Difference between them and Man.—The Parental Affection of a Dog.—Brutality puniſhsed

CHAP. II.

The Treatment of Animals.—The Difference between them and Man.—The Parental Affection of a Dog.—Brutality puniſhed.

AFTER breakfaſt, Mrs. Maſon gave the children Mrs. Trimmer's Fabulous Hiſtories; and the ſubject ſtill turned on animals, and the wanton cruelty of thoſe who treated them improperly. The little girls were eager to expreſs their deteſtation, and requeſted that in future they might be allowed to feed the chickens. Mrs. Maſon complied with their requeſt; only one condition was annexed to the premiſſion, that they did it regularly. When you wait for your food, you learn patience, ſhe added, and you can mention your wants; but thoſe helpleſs creatures cannot complain. The country people frequently ſay,—How can you treat a poor dumb beaſt ill; and a ſtreſs is very properly laid on the word dumb; for dumb they appear to thoſe who do not obſerve their looks and geſtures; but God, who takes care of every thing, unserſtands their language; and ſo did Caroline this morning, when ſhe ran with ſuch eagerneſs to re-place the neſt which the thoughtleſs boy had ſtolen, heedleſs of the mother's agonizing cries!

Mary interrupted her, to aſk, if inſects and animals were not inferior to men? Certainly, anſwered Mrs. Maſon; and men are inferior to angels; yet we have reaſon to believe, that thoſe exalted beings delight to do us good. You have heard in a book, which I ſeldom permit you to read, becauſe you are not of an age to underſtand it, that angels, when they ſang glory to God on high, wiſhed for peace on earth, as a proof of the good-will they felt towards men. And all the glad tidings that have been ſent to men, angels have proclaimed: indeed, the word angel ſignifies a meſſenger. In order to pleaſe God, and our happineſs depends upon pleaſing him, we muſt do good. What we call virtue, may thus be explained:—we exerciſe every benevolent affection to enjoy comfort here, and to fit ourſelves to be angels hereafter. And when we have acquired human virtues, we ſhall have a nobler employment in our Father's kingdom. But between angels and men a much greater reſemblance ſubſiſts, than between men and the brute creation; becauſe the former ſeem capable of improvement.

The birds you ſaw to-day do not improve—or their improvement only tends to ſelf-preſervation; the firſt neſt they make and the laſt are exactly the ſame; though in their flights they muſt ſee many others more beautiful if not more convenient, and, had they reaſon, they would probably ſhew ſomething like individual taſte in the form of their dwellings; but this is not the caſe. You ſaw the hen tear the down from her breaſt to make a neſt for her eggs; you ſaw her beat the grain with her bill, and not ſwallow a bit, till the young were ſatisfied; and afterwards ſhe covered them with her wings, and ſeemed perfectly happy, while ſhe watched over her charge; if any one approached, ſhe was ready to defend them, at the hazard of her life: yet, a fortnight hence, you will ſee the ſame hen drive the fledged chickens from the corn, and forget the fondneſs that ſeemed to be ſtronger than the firſt impulſe of nature.

Animals have not the affections which ariſe from reaſon, nor can they do good, or acquire virtue. Every affection, and impluſe, which I have obſerved in them, are like our inferior emotions, which do not depend entirely on our will, but are involuntary; they ſeem to have been implanted to preſerve the ſpecies, and make the individual grateful for actual kindneſs. If you careſs and feed them, they will love you, as children do, without knowing why; but we neither ſee imagination nor wiſdom in them; and, what principally exalts man, friendſhip and devotion, they ſeem incapable of forming the leaſt idea of. Friendship is founded on knowledge of and virtue, and theſe are human acquirements; and devotion is a preparation for eternity; becauſe when we pray to God, we offer an affront to him, if we do not ſtrive to imitate the perfections He diſplays every where for our imitation, that we may grow better and happier.

The children eagerly enquired in what manner they were to behave, to prove that they were ſuperior to animals? The anſwer was ſhort,—be tender-hearted; and let your ſuperior endowments ward off the evils which they cannot foreſee. It is only to animals that children can do good; men are their ſuperiors. When I was a child, added their tender friend, I always made it my ſtudy and delight to feed all the dumb family that ſurrounded our houſe; and when I could be of uſe to any of them I was happy. This employment humanized my heart, while, like wax, it took every impreſſion; and Providence has ſince made me an inſtrument of good—I have been uſeful to my fellow-creatures. I, who never wantonly trod on an inſect, or diſregarded the plaint of the ſpeechleſs beaſt, can now give bread to the hungry, phyſic to the ſick, comfort to the afflicted, and, above all, am preparing you, who are to live for ever, to be fit for the ſociety of angels, and good men made perfect. This world, I told you, was a road to a better—a preparation for it; if we ſuffer, we grow humbler and wiſer: but animals have not this advantage, and man ſhould not prevent their enjoying all the happineſs of which they are capable.

A ſhe-cat or dog have ſuch ſtrong parental affection, that if you take away their young, it almoſt kills them; ſome have actually died of grief when all have been taken away; though you do not ſeem to miſs the greatest part.

A bitch had once all her litter ſtolen from her, and drowned in a neighbouring brook: ſhe ſought them out, and brought them one by one, laid them at the feet of her cruel matter;—and looking wiſtfully at them for ſome time, in dumb anguiſh, turning her eyes to the deſtroyer, ſhe expired!

I myself knew a man who had hardened his heart to ſuch a degree, that he found pleaſure in tormenting every creature whom he had any power over. I ſaw him let two guinea-pigs roll down the ſloping tiles, to ſee if the fall would kill them. And were they killed? cried Caroline. Certainly; and it is well they were, or he would have found ſome other mode of torment. When he became a father, he not only neglected to educate his children, and ſet them a good example, but he taught them to be cruel while he tormented them: the conſequence was, that they neglected him when he was old and feeble; and he died in a ditch.

You may now go and feed your birds, and tie ſome of the ſtraggling flowers round the garden ſticks. After dinner, if the weather continues fine, we will walk to the wood, and I will ſhew you the hole in the limeſtone mountain (a mountain whoſe bowels, as we call them, are lime-ſtones) in which poor crazy Robin and his dog lived.

Chapter III:The Treatment of Animals.—The Story of crazy Robin.—The Man confined in the Baſtille

CHAP. III.

The Treatment of Animals.—The Story of crazy Robin.—The Man confined in the Baſtille.

IN the afternoon the children bounded over the ſhort graſs of the common, and walked under the ſhadow of the mountain till they came to a craggy part, where the ſtream broke out, and ran down the declivity, ſtruggling with the huge ſtones which impeded its progreſs, and occaſioned a noiſe that did not unpleaſantly interrupt the ſolmen ſilence of the place. The brook was ſoon loſt in a neighbouring wood, and the children turned their eyes to the broken ſide of the mountian, over which ivy grew in great profuſion. Mrs. Maſon pointed out a little cave, and deſired them to ſit down on ſome ſtumps of trees, whilſt ſhe related the promiſed ſtory.

In yonder cave once lived a poor man, who generally went by the name of crazy Robin. In his youth he was very induſtrious, and married my father's dairy-maid; a girl deſerving of ſuch a good huſband. For ſome time they continued to live very comfortably; their daily labour procured their daily bread; but Robin, finding it was likely he ſhould have a large family, borrowed a trifle, to add to the ſmall pittance which they had ſaved in ſervice, and took a little farm in the neighbouring county. I was then a child.

Ten or twelve years after, I heard that a crazy man, who appeared very harmleſs, had piled by the ſide of the brook a great number of ſtones; he would wade into the river for them, followed by a cur dog, whom he would frequently call his Jacky, and even his Nancy; and then mumble to himſelf,—thou wilt not leave me—we will dwell with the owls in the ivy.—A number of owls had taken ſhelther in it. The ſtones which he waded for he carried to the mouth of the hole, and only juſt left room enough to creep in. Some of the neighbours at laſt recollected his face; and I ſent to enquire what misfortune had reduced him to ſuch a deplorable ſtate. The information I received from different perſons, I will communicate to you in as few words as I can.

Several of his children died in their infancy; and, two years before he came to his native place, one misfortune had followed another till he had ſunk under their accumulated weight. Through various accidents he was long in arrears to his landlord; who, ſeeing that he was an honeſt man, who endeavoured to bring up his family, did not diſtreſs him; but when his wife was lying-in of her laſt child, the landlord dying, his heir ſent and ſeized the ſtock for the rent; and the perſon from whom he had borrowed ſome money, exaſperated to ſee all gone, arreſting him immediately, he was hurried to gaol, without being able to leave any money for his family. The poor woman could not ſee them ſtarve, and trying to ſupport her children before ſhe had gained ſufficient ſtrength, ſhe caught cold; and through neglect, and her want of proper nouriſhment, her illneſs turned into a putrid fever; which two of her children caught from her, and died with her. The two who were left, Jack and Nancy, went to their father, and took with them a cur dog, that had long ſhared their frugal meals.

The children begged in the day, and at night ſlept with their wretched father. Poverty and dirt ſoon robbed their cheeks of the roſes which the country air made bloom with a precular freſhneſs; ſo that they ſoon caught a jail fever,—and died. The poor father, who was now bereft of all his children, hung over their bed in ſpeechleſs anguiſh; not a groan or a tear eſcaped from him, whilſt he ſtood, two or three hours, in the ſame attitude, looking at the dead bodies of his little darlings. The dog licked his hands, and ſtrove to attract his attention; but for awhile he ſeemed not to obſerve his careſſes; when he did, he ſaid, mournfully, thou wilt not leave me—and began to laugh. The bodies were removed; and he remained in an unſettled ſtate, often frantic; at length the phrenzy ſubſided, and he grew melancholy and harm . He was not then ſo cloſely watched; and one day he contrived to make his eſcape, the dog followed him, and came directly to his native village.

After I had received this account, I determined he ſhould live in the place he had choſen, undiſturbed. I ſent ſome conveniences, all of which he rejected, except a mat; on which he ſometimes ſlept—the dog always did. I tried to induce him to eat, but he conſtantly gave the dog whatever I ſent him, and lived on haws and blackberries, and every kind of traſh. I uſed to call frequently on him: and he ſometimes followed me to the houſe I now live in, and in winter he would come of his own accord, and take a cruſt of bread. He gathered water-creſſes out of the pool, and would bring them to me, with noſegays of wild thyme, which he had plucked form the ſides of the mountain. I mentioned before, that the dog was a cur. It had, indeed, the bad trick of a cur, and would run barking after horſes heels. One day, when his maſter was gathering water- , the dog running after a young gentleman's horſe, made it ſtart, and almoſt threw the rider; who grew ſo angry, that, though he knew it was the poor madman's dog, he levelled his gun at his head—ſhot him—and inſtantly rode off. Robin ran to his dog—he looked at his wounds, and not ſenſible that he was dead, called to him to follow him; but when he found that he could not, he took him to the pool, and waſhed off the blood before it began to clot, and then brought him home, and laid him on the mat.

I obſerved that I had not ſeen him pacing up the hills as uſual, and ſent to enquire about him. He was found ſitting by the dog, and no entreaties could prevail on him to quit the body, or receive any reſreſhment. I inſtantly ſet off for this place, hoping, as I had always been a favourite, that I ſhould be able to perſuade him to eat ſomething. But when I came to him, I found the hand of death was upon him. He was ſtill melancholy; yet there was not ſuch a mixture of wildneſs in it as formerly.

I preſſed him to take ſome food; but, inſtead of anſwering me, or turning away, he burſt into tears—a thing I had never ſeen him do before, and ſobbing, he ſaid, Will any one be kind to me!—you will kill me!—I ſaw not my wife die—No! they dragged me from her—but I ſaw Jacky and Nancy die—and who pitied me?—but my dog! He turned his eyes to the body—I wept with him. He would then have taken ſome nouriſhment, but nature was exhauſted—and he expired.

Was that the cave? ſaid Mary. They ran to it. Poor Robin! Did you ever hear of any thing ſo cruel? Yes, anſwered Mrs. Maſon; and as we walk home I will relate an inſtance of ſtill greater barbarity.

I told you, that Robin was confined in a jail. In France they have a dreadful one, called the Baſtille. The poor wretches who are confined in it live entirely alone; who have not the pleaſure of ſeeing men or animals; nor are they allowed books. They live in comfortleſs ſolitude. Some have amuſed themſelves by making figures on the wall; and others have laid ſtraws in rows. One miſerable captive found a ſpider; he nouriſhed it for two or three years; it grew tame, and partook of his lonely meal. The keeper obſerved it, and mentioned the circumſtance to the ſuperior, who ordered him to cruſh it. In vain did the man beg to have his ſpider ſpared. You find, Mary, that the naſty creature which you deſpiſed was a comfort in ſolitude. The keeper obeyed the cruel command and the unhappy wretch felt more pain when he heard the cruſh, than he had ever experienced in his long confinement. He looked round a dreary apartment, and the ſmall portion of light which the grated bars admitted only ſerved to ſhew him, that he breathed where nothing elſe drew breath.

Chapter IV: Anger.—Hiſtory of Jane Fretful

CHAP. IV.

Anger.—Hiſtory of Jane Fretful.

A FEW days after theſe walks and converſations, Mrs. Maſon heard a great noiſe in the play-room. She ran haſtily to enquire the cauſe, and found the children crying, and near them, one of the young birds lying on the floor dead. With great eagerneſs each of them tried, the moment ſhe entered to exculpate herſelf, and prove that the other had killed the bird. Mrs. Maſon commanded them to be ſilent; and, at the ſame time, called an orphan whom ſhe had educated, and deſired her to take care of the neſt.

The cauſe of the diſpute was eaſily gathered from what they both let fall. They had conteſted which had the beſt right to feed the birds. Mary inſiſted that ſhe had a right, becuaſe ſhe was eldeſt; and Caroline, becauſe ſhe took the neſt. Snatching it from one ſide of the room to the other, the bird fell, and was trodden on before they were aware.

When they were a little compoſed, Mrs. Maſon calmly thus addreſſed them: I percieve that you are aſhamed of your behaviour, and ſorry for the conſequence; I will not therefore ſeverely reprove you, nor add bitterneſs to the ſelf-reproach you muſt both feel, becauſe I pity you. You are now inferior to the animals that graze on the common; reaſon only ſerves to render your folly more conſpicuous and inexcuſable. Anger is a little deſpicable vice: its ſelſiſh emotions baniſh compaſſion, and undermine every virtue. It is eaſy to conquer another; but noble to ſudue one's ſelf. Had you, Mary, given way to your ſiſter's humour, you would have proved that you were not only older, but wiſer than her. And you, Caroline, would have ſaved your charge, if you had, for the time, waved your right.

It is always a proof of ſuperior ſenſe to bear with ſlight inconveniences, and even trifling injuries, without complaining or conteſting about them. The ſoul reſerves its firmneſs for great occaſions, and then it acts a decided part. It is juſt the contrary mode of thinking, and the conduct produced by it, which occaſions all thoſe trivial diſputes that ſlowly corrode domeſtic peace, and inſenſibly deſtroy what great misfortunes could not ſweep away.

I will tell you a ſtory, that will take ſtronger hold on your memory than mere remarks.

Jane Fretful was an only child. Her fond, weak mother would not allow her to be contradicted on any occaſion. The child had ſome tenderneſs of heart; but ſo accuſtomed was ſhe to ſee every thing give way to her humour, that ſhe imagined the world was only made for her. If any of her playfellows had toys, that ſtruck her capricious, ſickly fancy, ſhe would cry for them; and ſubſtitutes were in vain offered to quiet her, ſhe muſt have the identical ones, or fly into the moſt violent paſſion. When ſhe was an infant, if ſhe fell down, her nurſe made her beat the floor. She continued the practice afterwards, and when ſhe was angry would kick the chairs and tables, or any ſenſeleſs piece of furniture, if they came in her way. I ahve ſeen her throw her cap into the fire, becauſe ſome of her acquaintance had a prettier.

Continual paſſions weakened her conſtitution; beſide, ſhe would not eat the common wholeſome food that children, who are ſubject to the ſmall-pox and worms, ought to eat, and which is neceſſary when they grow ſo faſt, to make them ſtrong and handſome. Inſtead of being a comfort to her tender, though miſtaken mother, ſhe was her greateſt torment. The ſervants all diſliked her; ſhe loved no one but herſelf; and the conſequence was, ſhe never inſpired love; even the pity good-natured people felt, was nearly allied to contempt.

A lady, who viſited her mother, brought with her one day a pretty little dog. Jane was delighted with it; and the lady, with great reluctance, parted with it to oblige her friend. For ſome time ſhe fondled, and really felt ſomething like an affection for it: but one day it happened to ſnatch a cake ſhe was going to eat, and though there were twenty within reach, ſhe flew into a violent paſſion, and threw a ſtool at the poor creature, who was big with pup. It fell down—I can ſcarcely tell the reſt—it received ſo ſevere a blow, that all the young were killed, and the poor wretch languiſhed two days, ſuffering the moſt excruciating torture.

Jane Fretful, who was now angry with herſelf, ſat all the time holding it, and every look the miſerable animal gave her ſtung her to the heart. After its death ſhe was very unhappy, but did not try to conquer her temper. All the bleſſings of life were thrown away on her; and, without any real misfortune, ſhe was continually miſerable. If ſhe had planned a party of pleaſure, and the weather proved unfavourable, the whole day was ſpent in fruitleſs repining, or venting her ill-humour on thoſe who depended on her. If no diſappointment of that kind occurred, ſhe could not enjoy the promiſed pleaſure, ſomething always diſconcerted her; the horſes went to faſt, or too ſlow; the dinner was ill-dreſſed, or, ſome of the company contradicted her.