Mrs. B. True. This was discovered, as your father has informed you, by Pythagoras, several hundred years before the birth of our Saviour. This great man was as humble as he was wise; and when the appellation of sophist was given him, which signifies a wise man, he requested rather to be called a philosopher, or lover of wisdom.
Ferdinand. I like Pythagoras very much, mamma; I wish you would be so kind as to tell me some more about him.
Mrs. B. That I will do most willingly, my dear. I see the sun is breaking out, and I believe we may venture to take a little walk. Go and put on your cloaks and bonnets, Emily and Louisa, and we will talk about Pythagoras as we go along.
The children were soon equipped, and joined their mother in the garden. The plantations were extensive, and as the clouds still looked dark and lowering, they did not venture to extend their ramble beyond them.
Mrs. Bernard aroused them for some time, with relating the most interesting particulars of the life of Pythagoras.
Louisa thought his forbidding his pupils to speak in his presence, till they had listened five years to his instructions, was not a good plan; declaring, that she should learn very little, were she not allowed to ask the meaning of such things as she did not understand, and to mention her own notions upon various subjects.
"The plan adopted by Pythagoras," said Mrs. Bernard, "was calculated to teach his pupils those amiable virtues—diffidence, humility, and forbearance. These charms give a brilliant lustre to every other acquirement; indeed, they are so necessary, that knowledge without them, far from improving a character, is apt to produce conceit and arrogance, which are great failings in all, but particularly disgusting in youth."
Louisa fully agreed to the truth of her mother's remark, and was going on with the conversation upon the character of the philosopher, when her attention was attracted by her favourite tortoise. He was creeping slowly out of his hole, to enjoy the sun-beams, which at this instant, with splendour, shone through the dark cloud, that a moment before had obscured his rays.
"Mamma, does not the tortoise live a great many years?" enquired Louisa.
"It does, my dear," returned Mrs. Bernard: "I was reading an account in the 'Monthly Magazine,' this morning, of one which lives in the garden of the Bishop of Peterborough, and is known to have been two hundred and sixteen years in the country."