Books for Children - Charles and Mary Lamb
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Papa said, "What makes you bridle and simper so, Emily?" Then I told
him all that was in my mind. Papa asked if I did not think him as
pretty as I did mamma. I could not say much for his beauty, but I told
him he was a much finer gentleman than my uncle, and that I liked him
the first moment I saw him, because he looked so good-natured. He
said, "Well then, he must be content with that half-praise; but he
had always thought himself very handsome." "O dear!" said I, and fell
a-laughing, till I spilt my tea, and mamma called me Little aukward
girl.
The next morning my papa was going to the Bank to receive some money,
and he took mamma and me with him, that I might have a ride through
London streets. Everyone that has been in London must have seen the
Bank, and therefore you may imagine what an effect the fine large
rooms, and the bustle and confusion of people had on me; who was grown
such a little wondering rustic, that the crowded streets and the fine
shops, alone kept me in continual admiration.
As we were returning home down Cheapside, papa said, "Emily shall take
home some little books.--Shall we order the coachman to the corner
of St. Paul's church-yard, or shall we go to the Juvenile Library in
Skinner-street?" Mamma said she would go to Skinner-street, for she
wanted to look at the new buildings there. Papa bought me seven new
books, and the lady in the shop persuaded him to take more, but mamma
said that was quite enough at present.
We went home by Ludgate-hill, because mamma wanted to buy something
there; and while she went into a shop, papa heard me read in one of my
new books, and he said he was glad to find I could read so well; for I
had forgot to tell him my aunt used to hear me read every day.
My papa stopped the coach opposite to St. Dunstan's church, that I
might see the great iron figures strike upon the bell, to give notice
that it was a quarter of an hour past two. We waited some time that
I might see this sight, but just at the moment they were striking, I
happened to be looking at a toy-shop that was on the other side of
the way, and unluckily missed it. Papa said, "Never mind: we will go
into the toyshop, and I dare say we shall find something that will
console you for your disappointment." "Do," said mamma, "for I knew
miss Pearson, that keeps this shop, at Weymouth, when I was a little
girl, not much older than Emily. Take notice of her;--she is a very
intelligent old lady." Mamma made herself known to miss Pearson, and
shewed me to her, but I did not much mind what they said; no more did
papa;--for we were busy among the toys.
A large wax doll, a baby-house completely furnished, and several other
beautiful toys, were bought for me. I sat and looked at them with an
amazing deal of pleasure as we rode home--they quite filled up one
side of the coach.
The joy I discovered at possessing things I could call my own, and
the frequent repetition of the words, _My own, my own_, gave my mamma
some uneasiness. She justly feared that the cold treatment I had
experienced at my uncle's had made me selfish, and therefore she
invited a little girl to spend a few days with me, to see, as she has
since told me, if I should not be liable to fall into the same error
from which I had suffered so much at my uncle's.
As my mamma had feared, so the event proved; for I quickly adopted
my cousins' selfish ideas, and gave the young lady notice that they
were my own plaything's, and she must not amuse herself with them any
longer than I permitted her. Then presently I took occasion to begin
a little quarrel with her, and said, "I have got a mamma now, miss
Frederica, as well as you, and I will go and tell her, and she will
not let you play with my doll any longer than I please, because it
is my own doll." And I very well remember I imitated as nearly as I
could, the haughty tone in which my cousins used to speak to me.
"Oh, fie! Emily," said my mamma; "can you be the little girl, who used
to be so distressed because your cousins would not let you play with
their dolls? Do you not see you are doing the very same unkind thing
to your play-fellow, that they did to you?" Then I saw as plain as
could be what a naughty girl I was, and I promised not to do so any
more.
A lady was sitting with mamma, and mamma said, "I believe I must
pardon you this once, but I hope never to see such a thing again. This
lady is miss Frederica's mamma, and I am quite ashamed that she should
be witness to your inhospitality to her daughter, particularly as she
was so kind to come on purpose to invite you to a share in her _own_
private box at the theatre this evening. Her carriage is waiting at
the door to take us, but how can we accept of the invitation after
what has happened?" The lady begged it might all be forgotten; and
mamma consented that I should go, and she said, "But I hope, my dear
Emily, when you are sitting in the play-house, you will remember that
pleasures are far more delightful when they are shared among numbers.
If the whole theatre were your own, and you were sitting by yourself
to see the performance, how dull it would seem, to what you will find
it, with so many happy faces around us, all amused with the same
thing!" I hardly knew what my mamma meant, for I had never seen a
play; but when I got there, after the curtain drew up, I looked up
towards the galleries, and down into the pit, and into all the boxes,
and then I knew what a pretty sight it was to see a number of happy
faces. I was very well convinced, that it would not have been half so
cheerful if the theatre had been my own, to have sat there by myself.
From that time, whenever I felt inclined to be selfish, I used to
remember the theatre, where the mamma of the young lady I had been so
rude to, gave me a seat in her own box. There is nothing in the world
so charming as going to a play. All the way there I was as dull and as
silent as I used to be in ----shire, because I was so sorry mamma had
been displeased with me. Just as the coach stopped, miss Frederica
said, "Will you be friends with me, Emily?" and I replied, "Yes, if
you please, Frederica;" and we went hand in hand together into the
house. I did not speak any more till we entered the box, but after
that I was as lively as if nothing at all had happened.
I shall never forget how delighted I was at the first sight of the
house. My little friend and I were placed together in the front, while
our mammas retired to the back part of the box to chat by themselves,
for they had been so kind as to come very early that I might look
about me before the performance began.
Frederica had been very often at a play. She was very useful in
telling me what every thing was. She made me observe how the common
people were coming bustling down the benches in the galleries, as if
they were afraid they should lose their places. She told me what a
crowd these poor people had to go through, before they got into the
house. Then she shewed me how leisurely they all came into the pit,
and looked about them, before they took their seats. She gave me a
charming description of the king and queen at the play, and shewed me
where they sate, and told me how the princesses were drest. It was a
pretty sight to see the remainder of the candles lighted; and so it
was to see the musicians come up from under the stage. I admired the
music very much, and I asked if that was the play. Frederica laughed
at my ignorance, and then she told me, when the play began, the green
curtain would draw up to the sound of soft music, and I should hear a
lady dressed in black say,
"Music hath charms to soothe a savage breast:"
and those were the very first words the actress, whose name was
Almeria, spoke. When the curtain began to draw up, and I saw the
bottom of her black petticoat, and heard the soft music, what an
agitation I was in! But before that we had long to wait. Frederica
told me we should wait till all the dress boxes were full, and then
the lights would pop up under the orchestra; the second music would
play, and then the play would begin.
This play was the Mourning Bride. It was a very moving tragedy; and
after that when the curtain dropt, and I thought it was all over, I
saw the most diverting pantomime that ever was seen. I made a strange
blunder the next day, for I told papa that Almeria was married to
Harlequin at last; but I assure you I meant to say Columbine, for I
knew very well that Almeria was married to Alphonso; for she said she
was in the first scene. She thought he was dead, but she found him
again, just as I did my papa and mamma, when she least expected it.
VII
MARIA HOWE
(_By Charles Lamb_)
I was brought up in the country. From my infancy I was always a
weak and tender-spirited girl, subject to fears and depressions.
My parents, and particularly my mother, were of a very different
disposition. They were what is usually called gay: they loved
pleasure, and parties, and visiting; but as they found the turn of my
mind to be quite opposite, they gave themselves little trouble about
me, but upon such occasions generally left me to my choice, which was
much oftener to stay at home, and indulge myself in my solitude, than
to join in their rambling visits. I was always fond of being alone,
yet always in a manner afraid. There was a book-closet which led into
my mother's dressing-room. Here I was eternally fond of being shut
up by myself, to take down whatever volumes I pleased, and pore upon
them, no matter whether they were fit for my years or no, or whether I
understood them. Here, when the weather would not permit my going into
the dark walk, _my walk_, as it was called, in the garden; here when
my parents have been from home, I have stayed for hours together,
till the loneliness which pleased me so at first, has at length
become quite frightful, and I have rushed out of the closet into the
inhabited parts of the house, and sought refuge in the lap of some one
of the female servants, or of my aunt, who would say, seeing me look
pale, that Hannah [Maria] had been frightening herself with some of
those _nasty books_: so she used to call my favourite volumes, which I
would not have parted with, no not with one of the least of them, if I
had had the choice to be made a fine princess and to govern the world.
But my aunt was no reader. She used to excuse herself, and say, that
reading hurt her eyes. I have been naughty enough to think that this
was only an excuse, for I found that my aunt's weak eyes did not
prevent her from poring ten hours a day upon her prayer-book, or
her favourite Thomas a Kempis. But this was always her excuse for
not reading any of the books I recommended. My aunt was my father's
sister. She had never been married. My father was a good deal older
than my mother, and my aunt was ten years older than my father. As I
was often left at home with her, and as my serious disposition so well
agreed with hers, an intimacy grew up between the old lady and me, and
she would often say, that she only loved one person in the world, and
that was me. Not that she and my parents were on very bad terms; but
the old lady did not feel herself respected enough. The attention and
fondness which she shewed to me, conscious as I was that I was almost
the only being she felt any thing like fondness to, made me love her,
as it was natural; indeed I am ashamed to say that I fear I almost
loved her better than both my parents put together. But there was an
oddness, a silence about my aunt, which was never interrupted but by
her occasional expressions of love to me, that made me stand in fear
of her. An odd look from under her spectacles would sometimes scare me
away, when I had been peering up in her face to make her kiss me. Then
she had a way of muttering to herself, which, though it was good words
and religious words that she was mumbling, somehow I did not like. My
weak spirits, and the fears I was subject to, always made me afraid of
any personal singularity or oddness in any one. I am ashamed, ladies,
to lay open so many particulars of our family; but, indeed it is
necessary to the understanding of what I am going to tell you, of a
very great weakness, if not wickedness, which I was guilty of towards
my aunt. But I must return to my studies, and tell you what books I
found in the closet, and what reading I chiefly admired. There was a
great Book of Martyrs in which I used to read, or rather I used to
spell out meanings; for I was too ignorant to make out many words; but
there it was written all about those good men who chose to be burnt
alive, rather than forsake their religion, and become naughty papists.
Some words I could make out, some I could not; but I made out enough
to fill my little head with vanity, and I used to think I was so
courageous I could be burnt too, and I would put my hands upon the
flames which were pictured in the pretty pictures which the book had,
and feel them; but, you know, ladies, there is a great difference
between the flames in a picture, and real fire, and I am now ashamed
of the conceit which I had of my own courage, and think how poor a
martyr I should have made in those days. Then there was a book not
so big, but it had pictures in, it was called Culpepper's Herbal; it
was full of pictures of plants and herbs, but I did not much care for
that. Then there was Salmon's Modern History, out of which I picked
a good deal. It had pictures of Chinese gods, and the great hooded
serpent which ran strangely in my fancy. There were some law books
too, but the old English frighted me from reading them. But above all,
what I relished was Stackhouse's History of the Bible, where there
was the picture of the Ark and all the beasts getting into it. This
delighted me, because it puzzled me, and many an aching head have I
got with poring into it, and contriving how it might be built, with
such and such rooms, to hold all the world if there should be another
flood, and sometimes settling what pretty beasts should be saved,
and what should not, for I would have no ugly or deformed beast in
my pretty ark. But this was only a piece of folly and vanity, that
a little reflection might cure me of. Foolish girl that I was! to
suppose that any creature is really ugly, that has all its limbs
contrived with heavenly wisdom, and was doubtless formed to some
beautiful end, though a child cannot comprehend it.--Doubtless a frog
or a toad is not uglier in itself than a squirrel or a pretty green
lizard; but we want understanding to see it.
[_Here I must remind you, my dear miss Howe, that one of the young
ladies smiled, and two or three were seen to titter, at this part of
your narration, and you seemed, I thought, a little too angry for
a girl of your sense and reading; but you will remember, my dear,
that young heads are not always able to bear strange and unusual
assertions; and if some elder person possibly, or some book which
you have found, had not put it into your head, you would hardly have
discovered by your own reflection, that a frog or a toad was equal in
real loveliness to a frisking squirrel, or a pretty green lizard, as
you called it; not remembering that at this very time you gave the
lizard the name of pretty, and left it out to the frog--so liable we
all are to prejudices. But you went on with your story._]
These fancies, ladies, were not so very foolish or naughty perhaps,
but they may be forgiven in a child of six years old; but what I am
going to tell I shall be ashamed of, and repent, I hope, as long as
I live. It will teach me not to form rash judgements. Besides the
picture of the Ark, and many others which I have forgot, Stackhouse
contained one picture which made more impression upon my childish
understanding than all the rest. It was the picture of the raising
up of Samuel, which I used to call the Witch of Endor picture. I was
always very fond of picking up stories about witches. There was a book
called Glanvil on Witches, which used to lie about in this closet; it
was thumbed about, and shewed it had been much read in former times.
This was my treasure. Here I used to pick out the strangest stories.
My not being able to read them very well probably made them appear
more strange and out of the way to me. But I could collect enough to
understand that witches were old women who gave themselves up to do
mischief;--how, by the help of spirits as bad as themselves, they
lamed cattle, and made the corn not grow; and how they made images of
wax to stand for people that had done them any injury, or they thought
had done them injury; and how they burnt the images before a slow
fire, and stuck pins in them; and the persons which these waxen images
represented, however far distant, felt all the pains and torments in
good earnest, which were inflicted in show upon these images: and such
a horror I had of these wicked witches, that though I am now better
instructed, and look upon all these stories as mere idle tales, and
invented to fill people's heads with nonsense, yet I cannot recall to
mind the horrors which I then felt, without shuddering and feeling
something of the old fit return.
[_Here, my dear miss Howe, you may remember, that miss M----, the
youngest of our party, shewing some more curiosity than usual, I
winked upon you to hasten to your story, lest the terrors which you
were describing should make too much impression upon a young head, and
you kindly understood my sign, and said less upon the subject of your
fears, than I fancy you first intended._]
This foolish book of witch stories had no pictures in it, but I made
up for them out of my own fancy, and out of the great picture of the
raising up of Samuel in Stackhouse. I was not old enough to understand
the difference there was between these silly improbable tales which
imputed such powers to poor old women, who are the most helpless
things in the creation, and the narrative in the Bible, which does not
say, that the witch or pretended witch, raised up the dead body of
Samuel by her own power, but as it clearly appears, he was permitted
by the divine will to appear, to confound the presumption of Saul; and
that the witch herself was really as much frightened and confounded
at the miracle as Saul himself, not expecting a real appearance; but
probably having prepared some juggling, slight-of-hand tricks and
sham appearance, to deceive the eyes of Saul: whereas she, nor any
one living, had ever the power to raise the dead to life, but only
He who made them from the first. These reasons I might have read in
Stackhouse itself, if I had been old enough, and have read them in
that very book since I was older, but at that time I looked at little
beyond the picture.
These stories of witches so terrified me, that my sleeps were broken,
and in my dreams I always had a fancy of a witch being in the room
with me. I know now that it was only nervousness; but though I can
laugh at it now as well as you, ladies, if you knew what I suffered,
you would be thankful that you have had sensible people about you to
instruct you and teach you better. I was let grow up wild like an ill
weed, and thrived accordingly. One night that I had been terrified in
my sleep with my imaginations, I got out of bed, and crept softly to
the adjoining room. My room was next to where my aunt usually sat when
she was alone. Into her room I crept for relief from my fears. The
old lady was not yet retired to rest, but was sitting with her eyes
half open, half closed; her spectacles tottering upon her nose; her
head nodding over her prayer-book; her lips mumbling the words as she
read them, or half read them, in her dozing posture; her grotesque
appearance; her old-fashioned dress, resembling what I had seen in
that fatal picture in Stackhouse; all this, with the dead time of
night, as it seemed to me, (for I had gone through my first sleep,)
all joined to produce a wicked fancy in me, that the form which I had
beheld was not my aunt but some witch. Her mumbling of her prayers
confirmed me in this shocking idea. I had read in Glanvil of those
wicked creatures reading their prayers _backwards_, and I thought
that this was the operation which her lips were at this time employed
about. Instead of flying to her friendly lap for that protection which
I had so often experienced when I have been weak and timid, I shrunk
back terrified and bewildered to my bed, where I lay in broken sleeps
and miserable fancies, till the morning, which I had so much reason to
wish for, came. My fancies a little wore away with the light, but an
impression was fixed, which could not for a long time be done away.
In the day-time, when my father and mother were about the house, when
I saw them familiarly speak to my aunt, my fears all vanished; and
when the good creature has taken me upon her knees, and shewn me any
kindness more than ordinary, at such times I have melted into tears,
and longed to tell her what naughty foolish fancies I had had of her.
But when night returned, that figure which I had seen recurred;--the
posture, the half-closed eyes, the mumbling and muttering which I
had heard, a confusion was in my head, _who_ it was I had seen that
night:--it was my aunt, and it was not my aunt:--it was that good
creature who loved me above all the world, engaged at her good task
of devotions--perhaps praying for some good to me. Again, it was a
witch,--a creature hateful to God and man, reading backwards the good
prayers; who would perhaps destroy me. In these conflicts of mind I
passed several weeks, till, by a revolution in my fate, I was removed
to the house of a female relation of my mother's, in a distant part
of the county, who had come on a visit to our house, and observing my
lonely ways, and apprehensive of the ill effect of my mode of living
upon my health, begged leave to take me home to her house to reside
for a short time. I went, with some reluctance at leaving my closet,
my dark walk, and even my aunt, who had been such a source of both
love and terror to me. But I went, and soon found the good effects of
a change of scene. Instead of melancholy closets, and lonely avenues
of trees, I saw lightsome rooms and cheerful faces; I had companions
of my own age; no books were allowed me but what were rational or
sprightly; that gave me mirth, or gave me instruction. I soon learned
to laugh at witch stories; and when I returned after three or four
months absence to our own house, my good aunt appeared to me in the
same light in which I had viewed her from my infancy, before that
foolish fancy possessed me, or rather, I should say, more kind, more
fond, more loving than before. It is impossible to say how much good
that lady, the kind relation of my mother's that I spoke of, did to me
by changing the scene. Quite a new turn of ideas was given to me. I
became sociable and companionable: my parents soon discovered a change
in me, and I have found a similar alteration in them. They have been
plainly more fond of me since that change, as from that time I learned
to conform myself more to their way of living. I have never since had
that aversion to company, and going out with them, which used to make
them regard me with less fondness than they would have wished to shew.
I impute almost all that I had to complain of in their neglect, to my
having been a little unsociable, uncompanionable mortal. I lived in
this manner for a year or two, passing my time between our house, and
the lady's who so kindly took me in hand, till by her advice, I was
sent to this school; where I have told to you, ladies, what, for fear
of ridicule, I never ventured to tell any person besides, the story of
my foolish and naughty fancy.
VIII
CHARLOTTE WILMOT
(_By Mary Lamb_)
Until I was eleven years of age, my life was one continued series of
indulgence and delight. My father was a merchant, and supposed to be
in very opulent circumstances, at least I thought so, for at a very
early age I perceived that we lived in a more expensive way than any
of my father's friends did. It was not the pride of birth, of which,
miss Withers, you once imagined you might justly boast, but the mere
display of wealth that I was early taught to set an undue value on.
My parents spared no cost for masters to instruct me; I had a French
governess, and also a woman servant whose sole business it was to
attend on me. My play-room was crowded with toys, and my dress was
the admiration of all my youthful visitors, to whom I gave balls and
entertainments as often as I pleased. I looked down on all my young
companions as my inferiors; but I chiefly assumed airs of superiority
over Maria Hartley, whose father was a clerk in my father's
counting-house, and therefore I concluded she would regard the
fine show I made with more envy and admiration than any other of
my companions. In the days of my humiliation, which I too soon
experienced, I was thrown on the bounty of her father for support.
To be a dependent on the charity of her family, seemed the heaviest
evil that could have befallen me; for I remembered how often I had
displayed my finery and my expensive ornaments, on purpose to enjoy
the triumph of my superior advantages; and with shame I now speak it,
I have often glanced at her plain linen frock, when I shewed her my
beautiful ball-dresses. Nay, I once gave her a hint, which she so well
understood that she burst into tears, that I could not invite her to
some of my parties, because her mamma once sent her on my birthday in
a coloured frock. I cannot now think of my want of feeling without
excessive pain; but one day I saw her highly amused with some curious
toys, and on her expressing the pleasure the sight of them gave her,
I said "Yes, they are very well for those who are not accustomed to
these things; but for my part, I have so many, I am tired of them, and
I am quite delighted to pass an hour in the empty closet your mamma
allows you to receive your visitors in, because there is nothing there
to interrupt the conversation."