Evening at Home 42
Eliz._ O yes—very well.
_Mrs. F._ Well—the maid, as soon as she saw it, set up a great scream,
and ran out of the room; and Mary might have been burnt to death for any
assistance she could give her.
_Eliz._ How foolish that was!
_Mrs. F._ Yes—the girl had not the least presence of mind, and the
consequence was, depriving her of all recollection, and making her
entirely useless. But as soon as your aunt came up, she took the right
method for preventing the mischief. The cap was too much on fire to be
pulled off; so she whipped a quilt from the bed and flung it round
Mary’s head, and thus stifled the flame.
_Eliz._ Mary was a good deal scorched, though.
_Mrs. F._ Yes—but it was very well that it was no worse. If the maid,
however, had acted with any sense at first, no harm 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 upstairs to call her
children, who slept together in the nursery overhead, and who might all
have 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 burnt in their beds.
_Eliz._ 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 have immediately 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.
_Eliz._ 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 in 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.
_Eliz._ How unhappy she must have been about it!
_Mrs. F._ Yes. It threw her into an illness which had liked 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.
_Eliz._ 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.
_Eliz._ 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 meantime, 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._
_Eliz._ 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 the field, cut his arm
dreadfully with his sickle, and divided an artery.
_Eliz._ 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 toward 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 stout-hearted 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.
_Eliz._ What a clever wench! But how did she know what to do?
_Mrs. F._ She had perhaps heard it, as you have done 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 was 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.
_Eliz._ 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 head in the most
tremendous manner.
_Eliz._ O, how I should have screamed!
_Mrs. F._ I dare say you would; and so did her companion. But she bid
her walk away behind her as gently as she could, while she herself
stopped short, and faced the bull, eying 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
him. 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 before
got. She then turned and sprung over it; and got clear out of danger.
_Eliz._ That was bravely done, indeed! But I think very few women could
have done as 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
were 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 sprung over
the fence, and plunged out of sight into the neighbouring thicket.
_Eliz._ 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 was mounted upon a spirited horse in a fox-chase, he would probably
be the most timorous man in company. The courage of women is chiefly
tried 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.
_Eliz._ 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.
_Eliz._ I think I should not be afraid again to see anybody blooded.
_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.
_Eliz._ But would that make me like to be blooded myself?
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