Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  But, though he attended, he did not understand all that the tanner said; for the man spoke in a tone different from what Frank had been accustomed to hear.

  — “Here bees my tan-pits, master, if that bees what you’re axing for. And all that is, as I knows about it, you see, master, is this, that I puts the skins into one of these here pits, first-and-foremost, to cleanse it of the hair, like; and then I stretches it upon a horse, you see, and I scrapes off the hair.”

  “And does the horse stand still,” said Frank, “while you are doing that?”

  “O, bless you, master, it’s a wooden horse I be thinking of!”

  “O, I understand! But what is in this pit?”

  “First-and-foremost, I puts it into this pit,” said the tanner.

  “First, he puts it into this pit,” said Frank’s father, observing that Frank did no know what the man meant by first-and-foremost, which he pronounced very quickly, and like one word.

  “Master, there is what we call lime water; and then I puts it into stronger lime water, to soak again; and then I takes it out, and hangs it to dry, and then again soaks it; and so on, till it is fit for the tan-pit, here,” said the tanner, pointing to a pit.

  “And what is in this pit?” said Frank.

  “The bark, master — nothing in life, master, but the bark and water.”

  “The bark!” said Frank; “what do you mean by the bark?”

  “I means the bark, that is ground and thrown into this here pit with water.”

  Frank looked to his father for explanation; and his father told him, that the bark, of which the tanner spoke, was the bark of oak-trees.

  “This bark,” continued his father, “contains something called tannin, which, after a length of time, gets into the pores, or openings, in the leather, and makes it hard. And after that, when the leather is dry, it does not let water easily pass through it; and then it is useful for making shoes and boots, and harness, and for covering trunks, and various other purposes.”

  “But what is that something called tannin, papa?” said Frank.

  “I do not know,” said his father. “But I know that it has a particular taste, which is called astringent; and that it makes leather hard, and fit to keep out water. Dip your finger into that pit, where you see bark and water, and taste the liquor, and then you will know what is meant by an astringent taste.”

  Frank dipped his finger into the tan-pit, and tasted the bark and water; and he understood what was meant by an astringent taste. “Is this all that you can tell me, papa?”

  “All that I can tell you at present, my dear. When you are able to understand it, you can read more on this subject in Conversations on Chemistry.”

  “But I do not see here any of the red or green colored, smooth, shining leathers, which I saw at the shoemaker’s.”

  “No; they are not made at a common tanner’s. They are colored, and made smooth and shining, as you saw them, at the leather-dresser’s.”

  Frank’s next wish was, to go to a leather-dresser, and to learn how the leather was made of these beautiful colors. The tanner said, that he always sent his leather, as soon as it was tanned, to a leather-dresser who lived in a town at twenty miles’ distance from him, and from the place where Frank’s father and mother lived.

  They could not take him to the leather-dresser’s conveniently. In a book, a sort of dictionary, which his father lent to him, Frank afterwards looked for an account of the manner in which leather is dyed. He found that he could not understand it; so he turned his attention to something else, which he could understand.

  The next day, he passed by a nailer’s forge, and he asked his father to take him in, and to let him see how nails were made. In the course of a few weeks afterwards, he saw several other things which entertained him.

  Last year, when he had seen the sheep-shearing, and had been told, that the wool cut from the back of the sheep could be made into cloth for a coat, such as that which he wore, he had been curious to know how this could be done. His mother showed him how the wool is spun into woollen yarn; and this year, when he was able to understand it, his father showed him a loom, and explained to him the parts of the machine; and showed him how woollen yarn is woven into cloth, by means of a loom.

  This summer, Frank saw several other things, about which he had been curious. His father showed him how books are printed, in a printing-press. And, some time afterwards, he took Frank to a glass-house, and let him see men making several things — bottles, decanters, tumblers: he saw them pull the glass, when it was hot and soft, into various shapes; and blow air into it, and blow it out into any forms they pleased. This entertained him exceedingly.

  But, whenever Frank saw any thing that entertained him much, he always wished that he had his brother Edward, or his cousin William, or his cousin Frederick or Charles to tell it to. They were gone home, and his brother was gone to school; and Frank wished that he had some companion, of nearly his own age, to talk to and to play with.

  Frank had a little cousin Mary; and about this time little Mary, who was between five and six years old, was brought to his mother’s house. Mary was dressed all in black when Frank first saw her; and she looked very melancholy. Frank went to his father, who was standing in another part of the room; and he whispered to his father, and asked why Mary was dressed in black, and why she looked so melancholy. His father answered, —

  “Because her mother is dead.’

  “Poor girl!” said Frank. “If my mother was dead, how sorry I should be! Poor little Mary! what will she do without a mother?” —

  “Mary is to live with us,” said his father; “your mother and I will take care of her, and teach her, as well as we can; and you will be kind to her, will you not, Frank?”

  “That I will, papa,” said Frank.

  He ran directly for those of his playthings which he thought would please her the most. And he spread them before her. She looked at them, and smiled a little; but she soon put them down again, and did not seem to be amused by them. Frank took her to his garden, and gathered for her those of his flowers which he liked the best; but she did not seem to like them nearly as much as he did, or as much as he had expected she would. She said, —

  “Thank you; but mamma had nicer flowers than these at home — I wish I was with mamma — I wish mamma could come back again to me.”

  Frank knew that her mamma could not come back again to her; but he did not say so, then, to Mary. He took her to look at the house which he was building; and he showed her the sticks which his papa had given him for the roof, and he explained to her how he intended to roof it, and how he intended, afterwards, to thatch it; he said, that they two could work at it together, and he asked her if she should like it.

  She said, she believed that she should like it “by and by, but not then.”

  He asked her, “what she meant by by and by.”

  She said, “To-morrow, or some other day, out not to-day.”

  To-morrow came; and little Mary, after she had slept all night, and after she had eaten some breakfast, and after she had become better acquainted with all the people in the house, who were strangers to her, began to look more cheerful; and, by degrees, she talked a little more; and, presently, she began to run about, and to play with Frank. He played with her at whatever she liked best; he was her horse, for that was what she asked him to be; and he put a bridle of packthread round his body, and let her drive him; and he lent her his best whip, with which he let her whip him on as much as she pleased.

  After Mary had been at Frank’s home for a few days, she began to call it her home; and she called his mother “mamma,” and she seemed happy again. But Frank could not at all times play with her; he had several other things to do; and, when he did play with her, he did not choose always to play at the play which she liked best. Sometimes, at night, she wanted him to make a cat’s cradle, or a paper boat, for her, when Frank wished to read an entertaining book; and sometimes he wanted to work in his garden, or to
go on roofing his house, when she wished him to be her horse, or to roll her in the wheelbarrow. Upon these occasions, Mary was sometimes a little cross; and Frank was sometimes a little impatient.

  Frank had now finished roofing his house, and he was beginning to thatch it in the manner he saw the thatcher; he wanted Mary to help him; he told her she must wait upon him, as he had seen the laborer wait upon the thatcher who thatched the barn. He said she should be his straw man; and he showed her how to carry the straw; and he charged her always to be ready when he cried out, —

  “More straw! — more, man! — more!”

  For a little while, Mary served him well, and had the straw ready when he called, “More straw!” But she was soon tired, and Frank called, —

  “More straw! — more, man! — more!” several times before she was ready. Frank grew angry, and said she was slow, and awkward, and lazy; and she said, she was hot and tired, and that she would not be his straw man any longer. Frank tried to convince her that she was wrong; and, to prove it to her, repeated what his father had told him about the division of labor.

  “You see,” said he, “I am forced to come down the ladder every time I want straw; I lose my time, and I cannot get on nearly so quickly, as if you carried it to me. When I go on doing one thing, and you doing another, to be ready for me, you cannot think how well and quickly we get on: — that is dividing the labor — the division of labor — you understand?”

  Mary did not understand. She said, “I do not know any thing about that; but I don’t like to be your straw man any longer, and I will not.”

  Frank pushed her away, telling her that she might go wherever she pleased. She stood still, and began to cry. Then Frank was sorry he had been so angry with her; and she dried up her tears when he told her so, and she said, she would be his straw man again, if he would not call, “More straw! — more, man!” so very fast; and if he would not call her stupid or lazy.

  To this Frank agreed; and they went on again for some time, he thatching, and she carrying straw, and placing little bundles ready for him; and they were very happy; he working quickly, and she helping him nicely.

  “How much happier it is not to quarrel!” said little Mary. “ But now I am really quite tired — will you let me rest?”

  “Yes, and welcome!” said Frank; “though I am not in the least tired.”

  He came down the ladder, and he went and looked for some wood strawberries, and brought them to her, and they ate them together very happily.

  “I cut and you choose — that is fair, is not it, Mary?” said Frank.

  Whenever any pie or pudding, fruit, cake, or any thing which they both liked to eat, was given to them, Frank was usually desired to divide it; and this he did with the most accurate justice. When he had divided it as well as he could, he always desired Mary to choose whichever piece she liked for herself; so that, if there was any advantage, she might have it. This was being just; but, besides being just, Frank was generous. Every thing that was given to him, to share with his little cousin, he always gave her a part, and often a larger or a better part than that which he kept for himself. Nobody knew this but Mary and himself; for he did not want to be praised for it; the pleasure he felt in doing it, and the pleasure he saw that he gave her, was quite enough.

  But, though Frank was so good-natured to his little cousin, yet he had faults. He was passionate; and, sometimes, when he was in a passion, he did what he was afterwards very sorry for. Till little Mary came to his mother’s, he had not been used to live with any one who was weaker and younger than himself.

  When he found he was the strongest, he sometimes, in playing with little Mary, took advantage of his strength, to make her do what he commanded her; and, when he was impatient to get any thing from her, he now and then snatched or forced it rudely from her hand. One day, she had a new ball, which she held between both her hands, and she would not let Frank look at it; she was half in play, and at first Frank was playing with her also; but when she persisted in refusing to let him see it, he grew angry, and squeezed her hands, and twisted her wrist with violence, to make her open her hands. She, being in great pain, cried out so loudly that Frank’s father, who was in the room over that in which they were, came down, to inquire what was the matter. Mary stopped crying the moment he appeared; Frank looked ashamed, but he went forward to his father directly, and said, —

  “It was I who hurt her, papa — I squeezed her hands to make her give me this ball.”

  “You have hurt her, indeed!” said his father, looking at little Mary’s wrist, which was very red, and was beginning to swell. “O Frank!” continued his father, “I thought you would use your strength to help, and not to hurt, those who are weaker than yourself.”

  “So I do, always, papa; except she puts me in a passion.”

  “But the ball was my own ball,” said Mary; “and you had no right to take it from me.”

  “I did not want to take it from you, Mary; I only wanted to look at it; and you began first to be cross — you were very cross.”

  “No, Frank, you were the crossest “You are both cross now, I think,” said Frank’s father; “and, since you cannot agree when you are together, you must be separated.”

  Then he sent them into different rooms, and they were not allowed to play together during the remainder of that day.

  The next morning, at breakfast, Frank’s father asked them whether they had been as happy yesterday as they usually had been; and they both answered, “No.” Then he asked, —

  “Do you like better to be together or to be separate?”

  “We like a great deal better to be together,” said Frank and Mary.

  “Then, my dear children, take care and do not quarrel,” said Frank’s father; “for, whenever you quarrel, without asking any questions about who was cross, or crosser, or crossest, or who began first, I shall end your dispute at once by separating you. You, Frank, understand the nature and use of punishment; you know — —”

  “Yes, papa, I know,” interrupted Frank, “that it is — it is pain. — Papa, will you explain it? for, though I know it, I cannot say it in good words.”

  “Try to explain it in any words.”

  “When you punish me, papa, you give me pain, or you take something from me which I like to have, or you hinder me from having something that I like, or from doing something that I like to do —— —”

  “Well, go on; when, and for what reason, do I give you pain, or prevent you from having pleasure?”

  “When I have done something wrong, and because I have done something wrong.”

  “And do I give you this pain of punishment because I like to give you pain, or for what purpose?”

  — “Not because you like to give me pain, I am sure, papa; but to cure me of my faults to hinder me from doing wrong again.”

  “And how will punishment cure you of your faults, or prevent you from doing wrong again?”

  “You know, papa, I should be afraid to have the same punishment again, if I were to do the same wrong thing; and the pain, and the shame, of the punishment, make me remember. I remember them a great while; and the punishment comes into my head — that is, I think of it again — whenever I think of the wrong thing for which I was punished; and, if I was tempted to do the same thing again, just at the very time I should recollect the punishment, and I should not do it. I believe—”

  “Then, according to your description of it, just punishment is pain given to a person, who has done what is wrong, to prevent that person from doing wrong again.”

  “Yes, papa; that is what I wanted to say.”

  “And is there no other use in punishments, do you think, Frank?”

  “O yes, papa! to prevent other people from doing wrong; because they see the person, who has done wrong, is punished; and, if they are sure that they shall have the same punishment if they do the same thing, they take care not to do it. I heard John, the gardener’s son, saying yesterday to his brother, that the boy, who robbe
d his garden last week, was taken and had been whipped; and that this would be a fine example for all the children in the village, and would hinder them from doing the same thing again.”

  “Then, just punishment is pain given, to those who do wrong, to prevent them from doing that wrong again; and to prevent others from doing wrong.”

  “Yes, papa,” said Frank; “but, papa, why do you tell me all this? why do you ask me these things?”

  “Because, my dear son, now that you are become a reasonable creature, and that you can understand me, I wish, as much as possible, to explain to you the reasons for all I do in educating you. Brutes, who have no sense, are governed by blows; but human creatures, who can think and reason, can be governed, and can govern themselves, by considering what is right, and what makes them happy. I do not treat you as a brute, but as a reasonable creature; and, on every occasion, I endeavor to explain to you what is right and wrong, and what is just and unjust.” —

  “Thank you, papa,” said Frank; “I wish to be treated like a reasonable creature. Papa, may I say one thing?”

  “As many things as you please, my dear.”

  “But, papa, this one thing is about you; and perhaps you will not like it. Papa, I do not think it is just to separate Mary and me, whenever we quarrel, without examining or inquiring which is in the wrong.”

  “When people quarrel, they generally are both in the wrong.”

  “But not always, papa; and one is often more in the wrong than the other; and it is not just that the one, who is least in the wrong, should be punished as much as the person who did the most wrong.”

  Here Frank paused, and the tears came into his eyes; and, after a little struggle with himself, he added, —

  “Now it is all over, papa, I must tell you that I was most to blame. I was the most in the wrong, in that quarrel which little Mary and I had yesterday. It was I who hurt her, by squeezing her hand violently, and she only cried out; and yet she was punished as much as I was.”

  “My dear, honest, just, generous boy!” said his father, putting his hand upon Frank’s head, “act always, feel always, as you now do; and when you have been wrong, always have candor and courage enough to acknowledge it.” —