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.
She was, when a child, very beautiful; but anger ſoon diſtorted her regular features, and gave a forbidding fierceneſs to her eyes. But if for a moment ſhe looked pleaſed, ſhe ſtill reſembled a heap of combuſtible matter, to which an accidental ſpark might ſet fire; of courſe quiet people were afraid to converſe with her. And if ſhe ever did a good, or a humane action, her ridiculous anger ſoon rendered it an intolerable burden, if it did not entirely cancel it.
At laſt ſhe broke her mother's heart, or haſtened her death, by her want of duty, and her many other faults: all proceeding from violent, unreſtrained anger.
The death of her mother, which affected her very much, left her without a friend. She would ſometimes ſay, Ah! my poor mother, if you were now alive, I would not teaze you—I would give the world to let you know that I am ſorry for what I have done; you died, thinking me ungrateful; and lamenting that I did not die when you gave me ſuck. I ſhall never—oh! never ſee you more.
This thought, and her peeviſh temper, preyed on her impaired conſtitution. She had not, by doing good, prepared her ſoul for another ſtate, or cheriſhed any hopes that could disarm death of its terrors, or render that laſt ſleep ſweet—its approach was dreadful!—and ſhe haſtened her end, ſcolding the phyſician for not curing her. Her lifeleſs countenance diſplayed the marks of convulſive anger; and ſhe left an ample fortune behind her to thoſe who did not regret her loſs. They followed her to the grave, on which no one ſhed a tear. She was ſoon forgotten; and I only remember her, to warn you to ſhun her errors.