“Miss Boadicea never looked at any thing; she always stared; she was excessively vulgar, and was ignorant, in spite of education. She was, too, always laughing; and when she did laugh, she might be heard from the drawing-room into the kitchen; nor was there half a note difference between the laugh of Miss Boadicea and the laugh of the cook-maid. Miss Boadicea was nearly as coarse in her manners as her brother, but much more ill-natured and satirical. Master Gobblegruel would not offend any body, unless they spoke against pigs; and Boadicea had a constant antipathy to merit in distress, or meanness in apparel; and though she sometimes deigned to assist, it was always done with the features of pity proceeding from contempt: but let us have done with this disagreeable monster; I see, my dear Caroline, that you already despise her. Another laughing character calls our attention.—I will describe him in the following story.
The History of Charles Banter.
“Charles was the son of a gentleman of very moderate circumstances, who had, however, found means to send him to Eton College, where he distinguished himself very early, not only by being the best scholar of his age, but one of the best-natured boys. When Charles was fag, he went through that service without a murmur; he was always as merry as a grig. If his schoolfellows beat him, he only laughed all the time; in short, Charles was what they called a fine fellow: but he had a very great fault, and that was an inclination to entertain himself continually with that disagreeable amusement of schoolboys, called quizzing; he used to quiz the master, quiz the mistress, quiz the inhabitants, and quiz the strangers. Charles, therefore, though he was admired as a clever boy, was not loved, and indeed had many enemies; for there are very few people who like to be laughed at. Charles Banter’s propensity was often attended with disagreeable consequences, and was a grand obstacle to his success in life. Charles was at home one vacation, when a distant relation, who happened to wear a wig, was on a visit to his father.—The old gentleman took particular notice of Charles; and having no children of his own, had left him a very handsome fortune. Charles ought, you will say, to have had a little prudence, but he could not resist the propensity to quiz. The wig was the object of his amusement; and he contrived one day, before the old gentleman put it on, to slip into his room, and pepper and salt all the curls; so that when he came down to dinner, he set the whole party at table sneezing. At length the joke was discovered; and as nobody was present on whom the slightest suspicion of such an indecency could fall, except Charles, the question was put to him, and the colour in his face pleaded guilty; in short, he confessed the joke; for Charles, to speak fairly of him, disdained to tell a lie. His father, who was not a very sensible man, was indiscreet enough to join in the laugh, and to take no farther notice of the affair. It was not so with the old gentleman; he never visited the same table afterwards, and to his will added the following codicil:—‘To master Charles Banter, for the seasoning of my wig, five shillings.’
“You will see by this event, my dear children, that it is your interest as well as duty, to pay respect to age; for old people can serve you by their experience, even if they have not money to leave you; you may fly to them for advice, and the attention you pay them is never lost. But there is a still worse character, and that is him who enjoys mischief, and who takes a pleasure in cruelty; he laughs too, but his laugh is the smile of malice. Such a wicked character was Tom Worry, who was the son of a gentleman, and who had begun very early to make war against the poor harmless animals and insects who came unfortunately in his way. To torment and to destroy was his whole delight; and a poor innocent cat was the particular object of his cruelty; and, what is very extraordinary, it was to the having hunted one of these poor animals into a cellar, that he owed all the scratches he afterwards received from ill-fortune; for while he was amusing himself in this way, he was joined by a vulgar boy ten times more wicked than himself, and who exulted with him in the distress of poor puss: this boy ingratiated himself into his favour, prevailed upon him to run away from his friends, led him into a great many very serious scrapes, and was at length his utter ruin.—Surely, my dear children, we need only to reflect for a moment on the nature of the pain we inflict, to turn from wanton cruelty: how should we like to be hunted into a corner, by creatures stronger than ourselves, and pelted by them with stones and dirt? we should think it very hard usage. If any ill accident assails, how altered are our features, how wretched, how distressed do we appear, what agony do our features express at the pain of a broken or dislocated limb! Let us see if Le Brun has described this sensation—yes, here it is.
ACUTE PAIN.
“See how the eyebrows approach each other, and rise towards the middle; the eyeball is hid under the eyebrow; the nostrils rise, and make a wrinkle in the cheeks; the mouth half opens, and draws back; all the parts of the face are agitated, in proportion to the violence of the pain.
“I think, my dear children, that I can tell you a story, which will, in its incidents, comprise several of the situations and passions which follow, in this book of Le Brun. I had it from a French lady, and it is called
The Mother and her little Family.
“A scholar of the University of Basle, named Henry D’Orange, and who was the only son of the rich Marquis D’Orange, was riding one day towards a small town, when, as he approached, he observed a great number of people gathered together, at the end of a narrow street. The scholar rode up to them, to inquire into the cause of the tumult, when one of the persons, an honest shopkeeper, who happened to be standing on the step of his door, made answer, ‘Ah, sir, a poor unhappy woman is the cause of all this disturbance.’—‘How so?’ said the scholar.—‘You don’t know, sir,’ returned the honest merchant, ‘how well this good creature deserves the pity of the poor people who are her neighbours, and who would willingly go to the greatest extremities to relieve her, did she not herself forbid it, and entreat them not to interfere with the course of justice.’—‘I cannot yet comprehend you,’ answered the young scholar; ‘what has happened to her?’—’Many misfortunes, sir, one after another.—She is a widow; she has six children; she lost her husband after he had been confined a year to his bed. I think, sir, that I see him now; his eyebrows drawn together; the eye as if fixed on some object; the nostrils raised, making a wrinkle in his worn cheeks; the mouth half opened and drawn back; and every part agitated in proportion to what he suffered.’