E. Mary was a good deal scorched, though.

Mrs. F. Yes-but it was very well that it was not worse. If the maid, however, had acted with any sense at first, no harm at all would have been done, except burning the cap. I remember a much more fatal example of the want of presence of mind. The mistress of a family was awakened by flames bursting through the wainscot into her chamber. She flew to the staircase; and, in her confusion, instead of going up stairs to call her children, who slept together in the nursery overhead, and who might have all escaped by the top of the house, she ran down, and with much danger, made way through the fire into the street. When she had got thither, the thought of her poor children rushed into her mind, but it was too late. The stairs had caught fire, so that nobody could get near them, and they were burned in their beds.

E. What a sad thing!

Mrs. F. Sad, indeed! Now, I will tell you of a different conduct. A lady was awakened by the crackling of fire, and saw it shining under her chamber door. Her husband would immediately have opened the door, but she prevented him, since the smoke and flame would then have burst in upon them. The children, with a maid, slept in a room opening out of theirs. She went and awakened them; and, tying together the sheets and blankets, she sent down the maid from the window first, and then let down the children one by one to her. Last of all she descended herself. A few minutes after, the floor fell in, and all the house was in flames.

E. What a happy escape!

Mrs. F. Yes-and with what cool recollection of mind it was managed! For mothers to love their children, and be willing to run any hazards for them, is common; but, in weak minds, that very love is apt to prevent exertions in the time of danger. I knew a lady who had a fine little boy sitting in her lap. He put a whole plum into his mouth, which slipped into

his throat, and choked him. The poor fellow turned black, and struggled violently; and the mother was so frightened, that, instead of putting her finger into his throat and pulling out the plum, which might easily have been done, she laid him on the floor, and ran to call for assistance. But the maids who came up were as much flurried as she; and the child died before anything effectual was done to relieve him.

E. How unhappy she must have been about it! Mrs. F. Yes. It threw her into an illness, which had like to have cost her her life.

Another lady, seeing her little boy climb up a high ladder, set up a violent scream, that frightened the child, so that he fell down and was much hurt; whereas if she had possessed command enough over herself to speak to him gently, he might have got down safely. E. Dear mamma! what is that running down your arm? O, it is blood!

Mrs. F. Yes; my arm bleeds again. I have stirred it too soon.

E. Dear! what shall I do ?

Mrs. F. Don't frighten yourself. I shall stop the blood by pressing on the orifice with my finger. In the mean time, do you ring the bell.

[Eliza rings a servant comes. Mrs. F. Betty, my arm bleeds. Can you tie it up again?

Betty. I believe I can, madam.

[She takes off the bandage and puts on another. E. I hope it is stopped now.

Mrs. F. It is. Betty has done it very well. You see she went about it with composure. This accident puts me in mind of another story which is very well worth hearing. A man once reaping in a field cut his arm dreadfully with his sickle, and divided an artery. E. What is that, mamma?

Mrs. F. It is one of the canals, or pipes, through which the blood from the heart runs like water in a pipe brought from a reservoir. When one of these is cut, it bleeds very violently, and the only way to stop

it is to make a pressure between the wounded place and the heart, in order to intercept the course of the blood towards it. Well, this poor man bled profusely, and the people about him, both men and women, were so stupified with fright, that some ran one way, some another, and some stood stock still. In short, he would have soon bled to death, had not a brisk, stouthearted wench, who came up, slipped off her garter, and bound it tight above the wound, by which means the bleeding was stopped till proper help could be procured.

E. What a clever girl! But how did she know what to do?

Mrs. F. She had, perhaps, heard it, as you have now; and so probably had some of the others, but they had not presence of mind enough to put it into practice. It is a much greater trial of courage, however, when the danger presses upon ourselves as well as others. Suppose a furious bull were to come upon you in the midst of a field. You could not possibly escape him by running, and attempting it would destroy your only chance of safety.

E. What would that be?

Mrs. F. I have a story for that, too. The mother of that Mr. Day who wrote Sandford and Merton, was distinguished, as he also was, for courage and presence of mind. When a young woman, she was one day walking in the fields with a companion, when they perceived a bull coming to them, roaring, and tossing about his horns in the most tremendous manner.

E. O, how I should have screamed!

Mrs. F. I dare say you would; and so did her companion. But she bade her walk away behind her, as gently as she could, whilst she herself stopped short, and faced the bull, eyeing him with a determined countenance. The bull, when he had come near, stopped also, pawing the ground and roaring. Few animals will attack a man who steadily waits for them. In a while, she drew back some steps, still facing

the bull. The bull followed. She stopped, and then he stopped. In this manner, she made good her retreat to the stile, over which her companion had already got. She then turned and sprang over it, and got clear out of danger.

E. That was bravely done, indeed! But I think very few women could have done so much.

Mrs. F. Such a degree of cool resolution, to be sure, is not common. But I have read of a lady in the East Indies who showed at least as much. She was sitting out of doors with a party of pleasure, when they became aware of a huge tiger, that had crept through a hedge near them, and was just ready to make his fatal spring. They were struck with the utmost consternation; but she, with an umbrella in her hand, turned to the tiger, and suddenly spread it full in his face. This unusual assault so terrified the beast, that, taking a prodigious leap, he sprang over the fence, and plunged out of sight into the neighbouring thicket.

E. Well, that was the boldest thing I ever heard of. But is it possible, mamma, to make one's self courageous?

Mrs. F. Courage, my dear, is of two kinds; one the gift of nature, the other of reason and habit. Men have naturally more courage than women; that is, they are less affected by danger: it makes a less impression upon them, and does not flutter their spirits so much. This is owing to the difference of their bodily constitution; and, from the same cause, some men and some women are more courageous than others. But the other kind of courage may, in some measure, be acquired by every one. Reason teaches us to face smaller dangers in order to avoid greater, and even to undergo the greatest when our duty requires it. Habit makes us less affected by particular dangers which have often come in our way. A sailor does not feel the danger of a storm so much as a landsman; but if he were mounted upon a spirited horse in a fox-chase, he would probably be the most timorous man in

company. The courage of women is tried chiefly in domestic dangers. They are attendants on the sick and dying, and they must qualify themselves to go through many scenes of terror in these situations, which would alarm the stoutest-hearted man who was not accustomed to them.

E. I have heard that women generally bear pain and illness better than men.

Mrs. F. They do so, because they are more used to them, both in themselves and others.

E. I think I should not be afraid again to see anybody bled.

Mrs. F. I hope not. It was for that purpose I made you stand by me. And I would have you always force yourself to look on and give assistance in cases of this kind, however painful it may at first be to you, that you may as soon as possible gain that presence of mind which arises from habit.

E. But would that make me like to be bled myself? Mrs. F. Not to like it, but to lose all foolish fears about it, and submit calmly to it when good for you. But I hope you have sense enough to do that already.

SEVENTEENTH EVENING.

PHAETON JUNIOR;

OR, THE GIG DEMOLISHED.

YE heroes of the upper form,
Who long for whip and reins,
Come listen to a dismal tale,
Set forth in dismal strains.

Young Jehu was a lad of fame,
As all the school could tell;
At cricket, taw, and prison-bars,
He bore away the bell.