GEORGE.

LITTLE George was fond of walking in a wood that bordered on his father's ga [...]en: Now this wood was formed of little trees, placed very near each other, and two paths conducting through it, crossed. One day, as he was sauntering up and down, he wished to rest himself a little, with his back supported by a tree, whose stem was yet quite slender, and which therefore shook through all its branches, when his body first touched it. As it chanced, the rustling frighted a poor little bird, which flew out of a neighbouring bush, and soon disap­peared.

George saw it fly away, and was vexed. He fixed his eye upon the bush, to see if it would not return: and while he was attentively considering it, he thought he saw a­mong the branches, at a spot where they were twisted into one another, something like a tuft of hay. His curiosity induced him to draw nearer and examine it. He found this tuft of hay was hollow like a porringer: he thrust aside the branches, and saw certain little balls within it, of an oval shape, and spotted. They were placed beside each other, on a layer of grass. Sure this, said George, must be what I have heard some people call a bird's nest; and the balls are eggs. They are indeed quite little, but the bird is not so big as any of our hens.

It was his first design to carry away the nest; however, upon second thoughts, he was contented with one egg; and having taken it, ran home. He met his sister by the way, and thus addressed her: "See this little egg. I found it in a nest: there were five others with it." "Let me have it in my hand;" said George's sister. She exa­mines it, returns it to her brother, and then asks a second time to have it. In the end, they roll it up and down a [Page 2]table, just as if it were a ball. One shoves it one way, and the other pushes it another way, till, in the midst of their diversion, it falls down and breaks. They cry, and mutually accuse each other as the cause of such a great misfortune.

As it chanced, their mother hears them thus complain­ing; and not knowing why they weep, approaches to con­so [...]e them. Both begin at once. She hears their different stories, and then taking each affectionately by the hand, conducts them to a tree that overshadowed a green bank, on which she bids them both sit down.

Be comforted, dear children, said she. That you have broke the egg between you both, is truly a misfortune; but it is one, however, that should not much grieve you, since you did not mean to do so. I might notwithstanding blame you, George, with justice, for the act of having brought it from the nest. You must have seen hen's eggs disposed of in a sort of nest. The mother sits on, warms and animates them. Chickens in about three weeks are formed within them, and they pierce the shell. In some sew days, they come and feed out of your hand. This egg would also have become a sort of chick, which you have killed by bringing it away. The bird that flew out of the bush as you inform me, was the mother. Doubtless she will come again, and very shortly, to her nest: she will perceive that one egg is wanting, and perhaps forsake it altogether. This is frequently the case.

Perhaps this loss of but a single egg, informs them that their asylum is discovered; they have every thing to fear from our violence; they guess that when their little ones are hatched, he who has already robbed them, will return and seize upon their tender family. If then this nest which you have been thus robbing, as I must call it, should be totally abandoned,—tell me, would you not be sorry for it?

Yes, mama, indeed, replied little George; and I am sorry that I meddled with the egg; but then I did not know a syllable of what you have been telling us; and thought no harm in bringing it to shew my sister, which is all that I meant to do.

My little fellow, I can easily believe you, said the mo­ther. Should you do bad actions for the pleasure which some suppose there is in doing them, you would in that [Page 3]case have a very wicked heart, and I should be quite sorry that I had such a son: but that I do not fear; for, on the contrary, I know you to be a very good boy.

Mama, said the little girl, the nest, for I have seen it, out of which my brother took this egg, does not resemble in the least those swallows nests that we see about our out-house roof. My dear child, said the mother, every nest is not alike; nor yet is every bird alike; for some are great, and others little. Some are never known to perch on trees, and others live at all times in them. Some are large and stupid, others small and full of industry and cunning. Some are beautiful beyond description in their plumage, which has half a dozen colours; others are of one dull colour. Some subsist on fruits, some go in quest of insects, and a multitude of others seize on smaller birds, and eat them.

Ah the wicked creatures! cried the little girl. I do not love these last, and should be glad to spoil their nests. So too would many others, said her mama; and there­fore those great birds that constantly devour the less, construct their nests in places where they cannot easily be come at; as for instance in woods, and in the holes of rocks, where men appear but very seldom; and at heights beyond our reach, however skilful we may be in climbing.

Therefore, dearest children, since these birds are great­ly different from each other, not only in size, but also in their way of life, and in the colour of their feathers, it is but reasonable that they should have nests different also from each other. Thus the lark which never lives in any tree, but sings, as you have heard her, mounting in the air; constructs her nest upon the ground; the swallow builds about the roofs of houses, under what we call the eaves; the owl, which people only hear by night, seeks out old ruinous buildings, or some hollow tree to put her eggs in; and the eagle which I shewed you yesterday flying above the clouds and nearly out of sight, brings forth her young ones in the cliffs of craggy rocks. Those living round about us, make their nests in trees and hedges. Those that love the water, and who find their food therein, build theirs among those rushes that grow [Page 4]near it, upon little islands, and at times upon the shore itself.

If one of these fine days we go into the little valley at the bottom of our large meadow, we shall see a num­ber of these little creatures busy in selecting the materials they compose their nests of. One you will observe em­ployed in carrying off a wheaten straw; another will have in his beak some wool or feathers; or dried leaves; and very probably a third some moss. The swallow, by the border of a stream, you will take notice, moistens with the water which he takes up in his beak, a little bit of earth with which he builds his habitation. Such materi­als as are very coarse and solid, he will take to form the outside of his nest, but lines it with the softest and the warmest. Nay, there are some birds who pull out their own feathers to make up a more comfortable bed for their little ones.

They construct large nests, or small ones, in proportion to the number of young birds that they are to hatch with­in them. Some will hang their nests up by a sort of thread, which thread they have the skill to form of flax, of different sorts of weeds, and of the webs of spiders. Others place it in the middle of a soft and gluey substance, whereunto they carefully stick many feathers. All do every thing in their power to make it strong and solid, and secure themselves from every enemy that Instinct bids them fear, by resorting to retired and solitary places.

There they lay their eggs. The mother, and at times the father, sits upon them in the nest, with admirable perseverance. They are taught by nature, that the warmth proceeding from their body, when they sit upon these eggs, puts every thing within them into motion, and produces little creatures, which at last are strong enough to break the shell that holds them, and come forth.

You must have often seen a fly in winter, to appearance dead. You took it in your hands, and through the warm h [...] proceeding from them, it was brought to life. It is nearly thus with birds: the perseverance of the pa­rents, when they brood upon their eggs, converts them into living creatures.

When the mother sits alone, the cock will bring her victuals, and sit by to please her with his music. When the little ones are once alive, they help them to get clear [Page 5]of their confinement in the egg. Their diligence is now redoubled; they do every thing to nourish and defend them, and are constantly employed in this interesting office. They go very far indeed to get their food, and make an equal distribution of it, every one receiving in its turn what they have brought. As long as they are very young and helpless, they contrive to bring them vic­tuals suited to their delicacy; but when once they are grown strong and older, they provide them food more solid.

There is one, and that a very large one, called a peli­can, who being forced to go great distances in quest of victuals for her young ones, is provided with a sort of bag. She fills it with such aliments as she is sensible they love: she warms what she procures, and renders it by such means fitter for their tender stomachs: she returns, and empties it before them.

In this state of being parents, they appear as if forgetting that they want food themselves, and only think upon their little family. If either rain or tempests come, they hurry to their nests, and cover it as well as they are able with their outstretched wings, so keeping out the wind and water that might hurt the brood. All night too, they are busy in the work of cherishing the little things. The fearfullest among them, that will fly away if they but hear the slightest noise, and tremble at the least degree of danger, know not what fear is when they have once a family to protect, but become courageous and intrepid: as for instance, the common hen. As great a coward as she is when by herself, she grows a very heroine, a pat­tern of courage, when she has young ones to defend from danger. She attacks the greatest dog, and will not even fear a man, who should attempt to take them from her.

So too do the little birds endeavour to defend their young, when any one would steal or hurt them. They will flutter round the nest, will seem to call out for assist­ance, will attack the invader, and pursue him. If their young be shut within a cage, they will continue to come regularly, and at all times feed them. Frequently the mother will prefer confinement with them, rather than be freed from the necessity of tending on them, and will never quit the little creatures.

[Page 6]Poor dear birds! cried out the children, how we shall love you for the future! We will never be so cruel as to do you any harm. We will only look at your nests; and be content­ed to gaze on you, while employed in the delightful task of tending on your young, and to contemplate your little family, all flying round their parents.—Yes, dear chil­dren, said the mother, thus it should be. Keep your re­solution as you ought, and I shall love you for it. Never injure any creature, or occasion it the least degree of pain for pleasure's sake: on saying which, the mother went in doors, embracing her dear children, who were highly pleased with what they had just learnt.

JAMES.

A Merchant whom we shall here call James, had but a single son, whom he loved very tenderly. He was far from having a bad heart, his countenance was rather pretty, and his friends would all have been very fond of him, but that he shewed in every action, a covetous pro­pensity which shocked as many as had opportunities of knowing him. This covetousness made him violently wish for every thing possessed by others. It even wrought upon him to so great a pitch, that he would constantly refuse to share among his play-mates, or even shew them what he had himself. His father, who possessed a very amiable character, wished greatly to reform him of this fault, but never had been able. All that he could do, was to shew how much it grieved him.

Little James, however, lost a great deal more by his propensity to avarice, than he had ever gained thereby. Did any body give him sweetmeats? He would get away and [...]allow them like a churl, in some dark corner of the house, for fear lest any one should ask a part. Whilst he was hid, his father would give twice as much to his companions: he perceived it, and no longer hid himself: but as soon as he fixed his eye on sweetmeats, or nice things, he appeared as if he would devour them: [Page 7]he pursued the hands of those who held them, and his own were in a sort of convulsion.

Mr. James, as we have said before, was very much afflicted in perceiving this; and that he might not be afflicted further than was absolutely necessary, he ceased to give him any more nice things, or even have them in the house.

Had little James a wind-mill, boat, or other play-thing, he would never shew it: he concealed himself in the en­joyment of it, and was never happy. Or, supposing he had any sort of fruit, he would not share it with his play­mates, but devour it all alone, refusing even those whom he happened to love most, and such as might be hungry; therefore none among his play mates would in turn share any thing with him: they were indeed best pleased to leave his company; they never wished to have it. When he chanced to be in a quarrel, no one took his part, not even when they knew him in the right; but being in the wrong, all joined against him.

As it chanced, one day a little boy observed him with an apple in his hand, and gave him by surprize a knock upon the elbow, so that he was forced to let the apple go. He picked it up, however; but that moment, to avenge himself upon the boy that had contrived to play him such a trick, he set off to catch him, but in running fell into a slough, and was almost suffocated in the mud. He did his utmost to get out, but could not: he attempted, but without succeeding, to prevail upon his playmates to hold out their hands and help him; he observed that they only laughed at his distress, and, in derision, danced about the slough, from which he could not extricate himself. Their cry was, "Let him now hold out a hand to whom you have been generous! Ask assistance of those whom you have obliged!" However at length, one, more compassionate, came forward, and approach­ing where he stood, stretched forth his hand, and got him out in safety.—He shook off the mud that covered him, and then, to shew his gratitude to that good little boy who had delivered him, bit off about a quarter from the apple which had caused this sad disaster, and which still he held fast in his hand, and would fain have made him take it.

[Page 8]The good little boy, disgusted with the gift, and way of giving, took the morsel, but to fling it in his face; and this was, as it were, a signal for the rest to scout him. They pursued our little James quite home, and hallooed all the way.

He was not void of feeling, and had never yet been hooted: he was therefore thrown into a thinking humour, and did not afterwards come much into his father's pre­fence, but confined himself to his apartment for above ten days together. There he asked himself, what cause his play-mates had to hate him. He addressed himself as fol­lows: "For what reason has my little neighbour, he that even held me out his hand when I was in the mire, such a number of good friends? Why is he loved so much, while I have not a single little boy that will seek my company, nor be my friend, nor console me in affliction?"—He dis­covered very soon the reason, by comparing the good boy's behaviour with his own. He recollected that he was happy to do any one a pleasure; that whenever he had any fruit, confectionary, or the like, he felt more joy in [...]ring it with his companion, than in eating it himself, and had no sort of amusement which he did not wish all his little acquaintances to share. He saw plainly, on this view of things, how much he differed from this little boy in disposition. He resolved at last to imitate him, and went out next day with both his pockets full of fruit, ran up to every boy that he met, and gave him some: he could not all at once, however, give up self, but left a little in his pocket, which he eat in pri­vate when got home.

Although his liberality was not perfect, he found occa­sion to be satisfied with the effect of it, since his compa­nions now, on their part, were more generous to him; they shewed themselves more merry in his company; they took him as a partner in their little pastimes, they di­vided with him what they had, and he went home quite pleased.

Upon the morrow he did still a great deal better. When he met his little friends, he did not fail to pull out of his pocket every thing that he had, divided it into as many shares as there were mouths to eat it, and reserved a share no more than equal for himself. Indeed, if there was any [Page 9]difference, some thought that he took the least, and he was much more satisfied that day than the preceding.

By degrees he was habituated to be generous, and even to such as he could see had nothing in return to give: I mean to such as were in want. Of course he grew be­loved: whenever his companions saw him, they ran up to meet him with the greatest joy upon their countenances; they were glad to give him pleasure. In short, he was now quite happy.

Such a change could not escape his father's observation, and it gave him real satisfaction. He affectionately took him in his arms, refused him nothing for the time to come, and even sought occasions to delight him. Every day little James discerned, that to be happy, it was abso­lutely necessary that he should not desire a solitary hap­piness, but wish to make those round about him happy likewise.

MAN IS BEST AS HE IS.

I Fancy that unlucky Frederic will not reach it at this height. One can scarcely keep any thing from such a meddling boy.

Where, in the name of goodness, can papa have poked our poor dead parrot? I observed it in his hand, when first he came in here; but saw him afterwards go out without it.

Ah! ha! there he is!

If I were but as active as our greyhound.

Shall I never reach the mark? I want, however, sadly to find out how they have stuffed it. Let me take another jump.

Well leaped, in good truth! But do not let me disturb you; for however active you may be, you will need a thousand attempts before you reach it. Such a bit of manhood jump so high! Come down. Let me go up. I think, I shall not want your Plutarch.

Ha! ha! ha! ha! good Mr. Manhood! By the manner of your speaking, any one would certainly have fancied you as tall as the Monument.

But if I step upon the book?

It is not my fault; but the thing is, this great Plutarch does not happen to be thick enough. Only think! If there had only been a few more clever fellows in antiquity, the parrot would have certainly been mine.

Or ra [...] mine; for, in that case, I should have got it first.

Not that I care about it.

No indeed, not more than Reynard, in the fable, cared about the grapes: the parrot is possibly too green!—hey, brother?

What is the use of taking it down? I can see it very well at this distance.

Yes! it is in a charming point of view! but hark ye, Marcus, I do not think that there is so much difference between our heights at last, though you are three years older.

Only think! how vain the little creature is!— Perhaps you would like to measure with me?

Yes, with all my heart.

Ah, slyboots! is it so? Yes, yes, indeed: I grant you, if you stand so. Come, come, put down your heels.

It is a plaguy thing to be so short!

Because you cannot reach Poll? You mean so? Don't you, Frederick?

You have been watching us then, papa?

No; but do not you see? Your feet have left it written on my Plutarch.

Had we been as tall as you, we should then have been able to see Poll a great deal nearer.

Yes, and plagued him after he was dead, as much as you did while he lived. And yet you are tall enough for any sort of mischief.

O, papa: what pleasure we should have, if we were both as tall as you!

I know you well enough: you would not, even in that case, be content.

It is true, I had much rather be as tall as— what d'ye call him there, the giant, who came down to shew himself for money, at the fair?

That would be but a trifle. No; as we are wishing, and as wishes cost so little, we need hardly stop thore.—You recollect our tallest cherry-tree?—Well then, I could wish to be as tall as that.

And why pray?

Because I should not want either a ladder or a pole when the fruit was ripe. Do but think a little, brother: how delightful it would be, to walk about the orchard, with our heads among the branches of the trees, to browze on cherries, pears, and apples, and to gather them as we do currants, from the bush; would not this be charming entertainment?

One might likewise walk along the streets, and look into the rooms on either side the way, three stories high: Ha! ha! I fancy, we should put the people into a fright!

I should not fear the carriages, when I had occasion to cross the street. It would be only shaddling, [Page 12]—Lock ye,—thus:

and I should see carts, waggons, coaches, men, and horses, all pass under me, and should smile in derision of their littleness.

You know the river that goes by our house in town? We needs must take a boat to cross it, or go round by Westminster or Blackfriar's bridges. Well, I might walk through it then, which would be very cooling in the summer.

And besides all this, you know, we should be stronger, were we bigger. If a bull should venture to attack me, as I crossed the field, I would twist his neck off, just as if he were a rabbit; or else chuck him up in the air, a hundred yards high, and when he was come to the ground he should be so busy thinking what a tumble he had, that he should forget entirely to get up again.

We should not then want horses for the plough, as we might draw it easily ourselves: and in ten steps, get quite across a very large field. I saw, last Thursday, more than fifty men at work, in driving piles to make a causeway. And how hard they worked! Well then, with such a hammer as my size would let me raise, one man night, in a single day, dispatch their work, and not be tired at night so much.

Fine talking truly, this; but do you know that after all these fine wishes, you are no more than two blockheads?

How, papa, two blockheads?

Yes; to think that you would be happier than at present, were you bigger.

But, papa, if we were able to do a great deal more than we do at present?

For example: would not it be quite conve­nient, could we reach things very high, and take a deal of ground in travelling at a step?

Before I answer you, inform me if, be­coming thus so very tall, you would have every thing be­sides remain as little as it was before your alteration?

Certainly, papa.

Yes, yes: there should be none but we three giants.

Thank you; but for my part, I am con­tented with my size, and would not wish to change it.

Yet I think, we ought not to be near so big as you: for otherwise, it would be the children's part to whip their father.

It is a happy circumstance for me, that I shall not, in a hurry, be exposed to so much shame and danger.

Oh! but I would spare you, recollecting how often you had shewn me favour.

You do not wish then to be bigger?

No, indeed: but let us speak in this place for your brother and you only; and observe what would result from your being bigger. In the first place then, Frederic, if, as you wished just now, you were as tall as that same cherry-tree, how would you be able, as at present, to go out and take your walk among so many trees, as fill our orchard? You would be obliged to crawl upon all fours, and even so, you would find it very diffi­cult to get along.

But you forget, papa, how easily I might put out my foot against the first tree standing in my way, and root it up. It would be nothing but a wheat-stalk to me.

Thereby you would pursue a very prudent plan! so, in proportion as you wanted much more fruit to satisfy your palate, you would destroy the trees that bear it; but let us go a little farther than an orchard. There are many roads about us, upon one side shaded by a row of trees, whose branches overhang the path-way. Men that are of common heights can walk beneath those branches at their ease, and find the shade which they give quite comfortable in the scorching heat of summer, and particularly at noon-day; but you would be obliged to walk along the middle of the road, and have no shade. And then, what would become of you, when you were to make your way through any forest? What a furious over­throw of trees you would make before you could clear yourself a path!

I should be no more fatigued than were I now to make a hole sufficient for my passage through a hedge.

I would uproot the tallest oaks, like that same made Grecian that is mentioned in my English Sophocles.

I should sincerely pity those condemned to live about you; but with such long legs as you would have, you would take it in your head, no doubt, to travel?

Travel! Why, papa, I would go from one end of the world to the other.

Like enough! And without halting, I suppose! For where, tell me, would you find a house, a chamber, or a bed, half big enough for your enormous stature? You would certainly be forced to lie all night abroad upon a hay-stack. That would be quite charming! Do not you think so?

Alas! I should find myself as badly off as poor Gulliver in Lilliput.

Ah! you have not made your system quite perfect, brother, I can see.—No, that is plain; and you must have the rest of men as big as you yourself are.

Why that is more generous, I must own. But how then would the ground suffice to feed so many monstrous giants? In a parish that subsists at present, for instance, five hundred people, twenty would not find provision. We should each of us consume our ox in eight and forty hours, and might easily drink a butt of milk at breakfast only.

Oh! but I would have the oxen bigger like­wise.

And how many of such oxen might be put to graze within a common meadow?

Truly, but a very few indeed.

I see then, that for want of pasture, we should soon want cattle

Well then, there is but one thing more to order and the matter is settled. We must have the world grow bigger also.

Nothing puzzles you, I see. To be a few yards taker, you would at a minute's notice, stretch all nature. 'Tis a great thought indeed: and yet, I fancy, you would be far from finding any capital advantage, after every thing were settled a you wished.

And why not, dear papa?

Can you inform me what proportion means?

Proportion? No.

Then stand here by your brother. Right. Now which is tallest, you or Frederic?

You can see yourself, papa: he does not reach my ear.

Come now, and stand by me. Now which is shortest?

I am; unfortunately.

It seems then, Marcus, you are at once both big and little?

No, papa: I beg your pardon, I am neither big nor little, to speak properly. I am big respecting Frederic; but I am little with respect to you.

And if we were to grow, all three toge­ther, ten times taller, would you then be less respecting me, or bigger in respect to Frederic, than you are at present?

No, papa: for there would always be an equal difference.

Then that is what proportion means. It is a regular gradation.

Ah! I understand you now.

In that case, let us come back to your idea. If, in nature, every thing were to become bigger, still preserving its present proportion, you would be exactly at the point whence you first of all set out. You would not then be capable of frighting people in their garrets, by just looking at them through the window; you would find it no less difficult to wade across the water, or drive piles without assistance, than at present; and be equally unable to twist off, as you expressed it, a bull's neck, or send him up two hundred yards into the air: he would be still much bigger than yourself.

Yes, yes; I see he would.

Frederic, have you heard us?

Yes, papa.

And understood the meaning of propor­tion?

You shall see. Proportion is when any one grows bigger, and another does the same.

But can you give me an example?

I believe, I can

as thus: It would be in vain for me to tell my brother, with a boast, that when three years were past, I should be [Page 16]three years older: he would still be oldest, as he also would be three years older than he is at present.

Excellently well conceived! And thus, though you should grow as large in stature as our cherry­tree; our cherry-tree, in turn, would have grown larger also, by the difference now between you.

Yes, that is plain.

Could you, in that case, take the cherries with more ease th [...]n now you gather currants?

No, papa, I should then be obliged to come to my ladder and my pole; not the same as formerly, for they would not serve me any longer. In this case it would be necessary that the proportion should be still preserved.

And would the carriages then pass between your legs?

No, certainly: I should be still obliged to keep upon the pavement, if I would not have them throw me down.

And what advantage, Marcus, would you then derive from such a general change of nature as your pride would introduce?

I do not see any.

Your wishes then were absurd, since the accomplishment of them could not have made you more happy.

Truly you are right, papa. It would have been much better if we had wished to be little;—yes, quite little.

What, as little, brother, as Gulliver's Lilli­putians?

Why not?

Ha! ha! Another strange conceit! And what can be your motives to this wish?

Because among a number of good conse­quences, one should never fear a famine; since a handful of wheat would make bread enough to serve a family for four and twenty hours.

Why, truly, there might be some savings!

And besides, we should not then have cause to go to war with one another, as a place no bigger than our garden, would be large enough to build a mighty city. Men therefore, having much more room than they want, [Page 17]would never go to war with one another (as I have heard you say that they do) to obtain an inch or two of land.

I would not answer for them in that point, acquainted as I am with human folly: but I will not dis­turb so charming an arrangement by my fears; and there­fore am contented to suppose that I see both peace and plenty flourishing among us, and the golden age, thanks to your good management, brought back again among us!

Oh! that is not all. My tutor tells me, little creatures are a deal more delicate and perfect in them­selves than great ones; have a much more piercing sight, a finer sense of hearing; and in smell are much superior. Is that true, papa?

In general.

Thus then were we less by a great deal than at present, we should see, and hear, and smell many things, of which, at present, we have no knowledge.

These advantages, it is true, are very pre­cious; yet I own, I should be sorry to renounce, for such advantages, the universal empire which we now exercise on every thing that breathes.

There would be no occasion to renounce it; for remember, you have often told me, that man bears rule much more by his understanding, than mere strength of body.

True; because his strength of body is exactly proportioned to his understanding. But bestow upon a Lilliputian's frame the greatest and sublimest ge­nius; give him even our inventions, and our arts ad­vanced to that perfection which they possess among us; do you think that he would be able to employ our slightest instruments, and manage properly the meanest of our numberless machines or engines? How would he defend himself against wild beasts, when even the dog that he keeps within his dwelling, would, without designing any mischief, crush him under foot?

But then, if every thing becomes proportion­ably little? There, I think, I have you.

Only to confound yourself; for granting this proportionality of littleness, and men immediately lose all the advantage that you would give them. Their deficient harvests would not keep them from the fear of [Page 18]famine, and their wars, while they were no less frequent or ferocious than at present, would be more ridiculous. The inferior animals would still have finer organs, and more delicate sensations; and perhaps too, with his littleness, which could not but be laughed at, he would take upon him, as you do, to alter and reform the uni­verse.

I think, papa, you are much too hard upon me; one can settle nothing with you.

For this reason, brother; because you know nothing about the matter. There is but one way to order things as they should be.

Bravo!—so you take the man of conse­quence upon you.

Yes, as well as Marcus.

Come, then, let me know how you would settle the affair? your system must be very curious, I suppose.

Why then, papa, we only want one thing; we only want to have a harder body, one as hard as iron.

And why so?

You see where I have pricked my finger. It seems nothing: yet you cannot imagine how much pain it gives me.

My poor little man! I am sorry for it.

And the wound that I received in my head about a month ago, by tumbling, as you remember, down stairs. It was but cured a week ago: feel here, papa:—there; that is the place.

I feel the sear indeed.

What pleasure it would be to play with Pom­pey, and not fear his biting me. And besides, when I were old enough to be a soldier, and go fight, I should, in that case, laugh at balls and bullets. Nay, my head would blunt the broadest sword that struck it: would not that be vastly pretty?

That it would indeed!

In that case we should want for nothing: we should be quite perfect; should we not, papa?

See here, my little fellow: smell this orange.

Oh, how fine! It must be very good to eat. Do you design to give it me, for having settled matters better than my brother?

No: it is not for you.

For me, then?

Nor for you. I mean it for a certain—I do not know if I should say, a certain person; but however that be—one more perfect than you are.

And who is that, papa?

You will wonder, very likely, when I tell you:—that negro figure on my mantle-piece.

You joke, papa! why he can neither see, nor eat, nor smell.

And yet he is made of iron.

Yes: and for that very reason he cannot.

What then, you would have sacrificed the satisfaction of seeing, eating, and smelling, to the boast that you could never break your head by falling from my mantle-piece? for were you made of iron, as you wished, you would be only fit to stand there with my other bronzes.

Oh, I do not mean so, papa; I would be living while I had this iron body.

And how then could it be animated by that blood, and by those juices that keep up our life? By what means could its nerves be flexible, and have that sensibility which makes us so expert or ready in the use of every limb, and readers the enjoyment of our senses so delightful?

Oh, dear me! this is sad work! I see my scheme is hardly better than my brother's.

But, papa, since you are so clever in destroy­ing our plans thus, it is your turn to provide us with a better in their stead.

And why should I provide one? I am mar­vellously satisfied with that which God's providence has already established. Yes, dear children, I am sensible, we are completely furnished with whatever can promote our happiness; superior in our conformation to all other ani­mals, we tame, by virtue of our genius, the small number of those which in strength surpass us. If we have not the rapidity of stags and horses, we can make that composi­tion which will overtake the one while he is running from [Page 20]us, and can mount the other to direct him whither we think proper. We have not the wings of a bird, yet we can give wings to those tall trees that grow in scrests, and can make them carry us to the remotest distances. Our sight, less piercing than an insect's, is not bounded to the narrow space in which we move about, but can take in an ample horizon, and contemplate the great mi­racles of nature. We are unable to gaze, like an eagle, at the sun; but we invent an instrument which seems to draw us nearer to that luminary, so that we may measure his immensity of distance, and observe the place which he possesses in the midst of an infinity of stars that are ob­scured by his superior brightness. Every other sense that we have, contributes likewise to procure us a succession of enjoyments, and effect our safety. Conscious of our genius, we are every day in search of new discoveries; we disarm the thunder, or else tell it where to fall; we make one element resist another; we oppose the beneficial warmth of fire to the inclemency of frost; and keep the land from being overflowed by inundations. Sometimes we descend into the darkest bowels of the earth, and bring out thence those precious metals which are purified, and then, by an ingenious mode of mixing them together, form new substances; and sometimes we mark out those rocks which hang just ready, as it were, to fall upon our heads, precipitate them from their height into the vallies, and soon after make them re-ascend in sumptuous edifices, or in stately pyramids that hide their summits in the clouds. The society that we form with our fellow crea­tures, for the satisfaction of our mutual wants, obtains us, in return for our own toil, the labour of ten thousand hands, all eager to procure us the conveniencies of life. Upon whatever side we turn, we have at our command the various productions of the universe, all brought toge­ther for our use. The sciences exalt our souls, and charm our faculties. The arts, by having introduced such num­berless machines, assist us in our labour, or refresh us when we seek repose. Both memory and reflection give us the advantages enjoyed by all those who have preceded us. Together with the pleasing idea of our own personal existence, we derive happiness from others also, by the virtues of compassion and beneficence, and by the con­nexions of kindred and of friendship. Nevertheless, our [Page 21]happiness depends upon ourselves alone, amid the host of creatures that surround us, being sure of obtaining it, if we but moderately use our strength, and make a constant application of our reason to the business of determining our conduct; so that, if we ever interrupt our happiness by going further than we should do, we have nothing to blame, in that case, but our own folly. We then seem children as you are, who, instead of gratefully enjoying the conveniencies and comforts of our situation, and cou­rageously enduring its few evils, vex ourselves with wish­ing for ideal blessings, or disgrace our nature by a lack of manly courage.

THE PROPER USE OF TIME.

MORGAN, though a plain companion, was a spe­cial workman. He aspired at nothing in his heart so much as to become a master; but he wanted money to set up.

A merchant, who was well acquainted with his industry, was willing to supply him with an hundred pounds, that he might open shop.

One may, without much difficulty, guess at Morgan's joy. In his imagination, he already had a warehouse full of goods. He reckoned up how many customers would crowd to buy them, and what money he should have at balancing his books.

Amidst the extravagant emotions of that transport into which these notions threw him, he perceived an ale-house. Come, said he, and entered it, I will have a little plea­sure with one sixpence of this money.

He demurred, however, some few moments, to call out for punch which was his favourite liquor, as his con­science loudly told him that the moment of enjoyment was not yet arrived; that he was, first of all, to think of paying what his friend had lent him; and at present that it was not honest for him to lay out a penny of the sum for things not absolutely necessary. He was ready to come out again, impressed by such right notions, but be­thought himself, on the other hand, that if he spent a sixpence of his money, he should still have ninety-nine pounds nineteen shillings and a sixpence left; that such a sum was full enough to set him up in trade, and that a single half-hour's industry would compensate for such a trifling pleasure as he wished to have at present.

It was thus, that taking up the glass, he sought to quiet his interior scruples; but alas, his present conduct was to open him a door to ruin.

On the morrow, so agreeable a recollection of his plea­sure at the ale-house filled his mind, that he was now less scrupulous with conscience in expentling one more sixpence at it. He had ninety-nine pounds nineteen shillings still remaining.

[Page 50]On the following days, the love of liquor had besotted him in such a manner, that he constantly returned to his beloved ale-house, but increased the quantum of his liquor, to a shilling's worth at first; then sixpence more; and so on, till he came to half-a-crown; at which he seemed to make a stand, and every time, he could console himself with saying, It is but two-and-sixpence that I am spend­ing. Oh, I need not fear but I shall have enough to carry on my trade.

Such then was his delusive way of reasoning, in reply to what his conscience whispered, which would now and then be heard. It did not strike him, that his fortune was an even hundred pounds, and that the useful applica­tion of the whole depended on the fit employ to which he put its parts.

You see then, my dear little friends, how by insensible gradation he at length plunged into a life of extravagance. He found no longer any joy in industry, employed en­tirely as he was in contemplating on his present riches, which he fancied inexhaustible; and yet, from day to day, he did not fail to find that it was diminishing. He was convinced, and his conviction all at once came over him just like a clap of thunder, that he could not make amends for his preceding dissipation, as his benefactor would not be so fond of lending him another hundred pounds, when he had seen him so misuse the first.

Quite overcome with shame and grief, the more he sought to stifle his ideas with hard drinking, so much the sooner by a great deal, did his ruin fall upon him. And at last the frightful moment came, when quite disgusted at the thought of industry, and being, as it were, an ob­ject of horror to himself, he regarded life as a burthen, since it presented him with nothing but a prospect of mi­serable poverty whenever he looked forward.

He renounced his country, followed by despair, and joined a gang of smugglers, formidable for the ravages which they spread through every country on the coast. But Heaven did not permit their violence to remain long unpunished. A disgraceful death soon ended his career of wickedness.

Alas! if when his reason first of all addressed him, he had listened to the reproaches of his conscience, easy in [Page 51]his situation he might now have been enjoying, in re­pute and honour, the ease of a respectable and opulent old age.

You shudder, children, at his lamentable folly. Such is notwithstanding that of multitudes among us, in the use which they make of life. It was bestowed upon them that they might live happy in virtuous enjoyments, and yet they lavish it upon every shameful dissipation. They think that there will always be time enough left them, for the proper use thereof. However, in the interval, days, months, and years flow onward, and they find, at the conclusion of them, they have not made such a use as they fondly proposed. In some sort, they are even happy if their conduct does not plunge them finally into despair.

THE BLACKSMITH.

A Gentleman of fortune passing very late one night before a blacksmith's habitation, was surprized to see him busy at his forge, when every person in the neigh­bourhood was gone to rest. He had a curiosity to know what reason he could have for working thus at midnight, and if twelve hours labour in the day would not suffice him to provide subsistence for his family.

I do not work for myself, replied the blacksmith, but for a neighbour here of mine, who has unfortunately been burnt out. I rise two hours before the usual time of labour every morning, and continue working two hours after at at least, and sometimes longer, as is now the case, and this I do, that I may help him in his destitute condition. If I had but any thing myself, I would divide it with him; but my all is nothing, except this shop, and some small stock of metal, which I cannot sell, because it is what subsists me. Thus I work every day four hours ex­traordinary, which amounts to two days in the course of a week, and the earnings of those two days I can yield to him. Thank heaven, at this time of the year there is [Page 52]work enough! and while I have but strength, it is my duty to assist the unhappy.

This is very generous, my good friend, on your part, said the gentleman, as I suppose your neighbour never will be able to repay your kindness.

Truly, sir, I fear he will not: but I fear it on his account alone, not mine. However, I am sure he would rejoice to do as much for me, were I in his condition.

At these words, the gentleman, not wishing to intrude upon the blacksmith any longer, wished him a good night, and went away.

Upon the morrow, having put into his purse a note for twenty pounds, which he could afford to give away, he went out, and meant to leave it with the blacksmith, whose beneficence he was resolved to recompence, by putting it in his power to buy whatever metal he might want, at the cheapest market, to undertake more business, and to lay by a little from his labour, to support him in old age.

But what was his surprize, when the blacksmith bade him take his money back again! I cannot lay it out, said he, because I have not earned it. I can well afford to pay for all the iron that I use, and if ever I should be in want of more, the merchant would supply me with it, on my note. It would be absolute ingratitude in me to take that profit from him which he is used to make upon his goods, when he has never hesitated to supply me with as much as I could ask, even when I had no other coat than that upon my back: but you may make a better use, sir, of this money, if you lend it, free of interest, to my unhappy neighbour. He might then recover his affairs, and I sleep out my belly full.

The gentleman, with all his rhetoric, not being able to prevail upon the blacksmith to accept his offer, follow­ed the advice that he gave him; and was highly gratified in thinking that he had made two happy, when at first his generosity had wished to serve one only.

THE GENEROUS ORPHAN.

MRS. Fairborne had hardly lost her husband, when a law suit in which he had been engaged was deter­mined to her disadvantage; the greatest part of her pos­sessions being dependent on the verdict. She was under the necessity of selling all her furniture, and some few jewels; after which, when she had placed the produce at a bank­er's, she withdrew into a village, where the necessary things of life were not so high, and where she apprehend­ed that she might live with tolerable decency upon her trifling income.

Hardly had she passed a month or two in her retreat, before she was given to understand that her banker was gone off, and all her money with him. Let any one ima­gine the horror of her situation. Grief and sickness had long since disabled her from doing any thing like labour for her livelihood; and after having passed her youth in ease and pleasure, she had no resources left her in old age, except an alms-house, or the common refuge of the poor, beggary.

In reality, there was not one of her acquaintance who would condescend to have the least degree of interest in her sufferings. Brought by her beloved husband from a foreign country, she had no one to whom she could fly for assist­ance. None, except a tolerably near relation, whom she her­self had brought to England; and whom, by granting him her husband's credit, she had rendered wealthy. But this man, a pattern of sordid avarice, was not likely to relieve another, when he would not even allow himself the necessary things of life.

In this helpless situation, there was, luckily, one re­source still left for her subsistence. In the years of her prosperity, she had adopted a young female orphan, named Clarinda, and she now became her guardian angel. Mrs. Fairborne's former kindnesses inspired her with a wish of shewing that she was grateful for them.

No, said she, (when her unhappy mistress mentioned her design of seeking the asylum of a parish work-house.) I will never leave you. From your tenderness, I for­merly [Page 54]received the treatment of a child; and, if in your prosperity I thought it so desirable to be related to you by adoption, I still think it more so, now, in your adver­sity.

Thank Heaven and your adoption, I live comfortably. Your maternal conduct was evinced in teaching me all necessary female arts; I shall, at present, therefore, look upon it as a boast, that I can exercise my knowledge for your sake. With health and courage, I shall be at least enabled to procure a living for us both.

The unhappy widow was exceedingly affected at this generous offer. She embraced Clarinda, and with joy consented to accept it.

We are now then to suppose Clarinda, in her turn, be­come the mother, by adoption, of her former benefactress. She was far from thinking it enough to feed her with the produce of an unremitting labour; she consoled her in affliction, aided her in sickness, and endeavoured by the tenderest cares, to make up for all the injustice of her lot.

The constancy and ardour of her attention did not relax a moment for two years, in which long time her mistress was made happy by her bounty; and when death removed her, she lamented with sincerity, what she considered as a grievous loss.

Some little season af [...]er this, died also the kinsman above-mentioned, who had shewn himself so utterly in­sensible to every claim of gratitude and kindred. As he could not take his money with him, he supposed it would be making some atonement for his want of natu­ral affection, if he left the injured lady all his for­tune.

But this succour came too late, as Mrs. Fairborne was not able to avail herself thereof, she had not even the consolation, at her death, of knowing that such a change had happened in her fortune; as in that case, she might easily have turned it to the benefit of her affection­ate Clarinda.

The inheritance in question therefore fell, for want of heirship, to the King. As Providence would have it, the enquiries made on such a rare occurrence, brought him to a knowledge of the generous orphan's conduct.

[Page 55]Ah! said he, Clarinda merits this inheritance; and therefore I renounce my rights to favour her's; and will be happy to approve myself her friend and father.

All the nation joined in the applause of such a liberal action; and Clarinda, when possessed of this honourable recompence of her gratitude, employed it in maintaining orphans, such as she had been; and took the greatest plea­sure in inspiring them with sentiments, like those by which she had herself deserved her fortune.

THE DIRTY BOOTS.

FORTUNATUS, proud of his high birth, was not content with inwardly despising every one inferior to himself in point of fortune, but presumed to take such airs upon him as evinced the scorn with which he viewed them. As it chanced, one day he saw his father's foot­man cleaning shoes! Fooh! what a filthy business! cried he, as he passed him, turning up his nose: for all the world I would not be a shoe-black.—Very likely, said John; and I, for my part, hope that I shall never be your shoe-black.

All the last week's weather had been very bad, but now it was grown clear and bright; on which account young Fortunatus received his father's permission to take a ride on horseback. Now the promise of this ride afforded him the greater pleasure, as the day before, when he was out, he had been hindered, by a heavy shower of rain, from going far. However, he had been already far enough to splash his boots from top to bottom, and they were not yet quite dry.

Transported with the thought of his ride, he ran down to John, who was at breakfast in the kitchen, and with an imperious tone of voice, cried out, "John, John! I am going out on horseback! Run and clean my bo [...]ts! do you hear me?" John pretended that he did not, and continued at his breakfast, quite composed. In vain For­tunatus put himself into a passion, and called him a hun­dred names. John contented himself with answering him [Page 56]very calmly, "I have told you, sir, already, if you re­collect, that I hoped never to become your shoe-black."

In the mean time Fortunatus, seeing he could not, in spite of all his menaces, prevail upon John to do as he desired, returned quite full of rage, and made complaint about him to his father. Mr. Railton could not compre­hend why John refused a business that belonged to his em­ployment, and which hitherto he had performed without expecting orders for that purpose; so he sent to speak a little with him, and was told of the affair.

His conduct was fully approved by Mr. Railton, who not only blamed his son, but told him that he might go and clean his boots himself, or stay at home, which ever he thought proper. He forbade the other servants to assist him in this business. "You will learn, sir, (added he,) how filly it is to look with scorn on services that contribute to our comfort and convenience; services, the rigour of which you should rather strive to soften, by a gentleness of manners in yourself. Therefore, since a shoe-black's trade is so disgraceful, be so kind as to ennoble it, by being for the future your own shoe-black."

Such a sentence turned his promised pleasure into sor­row. He was very eager for a ride on horseback, it was such fine weather; but—to clean his boots himself! he could not stoop to such an office. On the other hand, his pride would not permit him to go out with dirty boots, in which case every one that he met would ridicule him. He applied successively to every servant in the house, with offers of money to corrupt them; but not one could be persuaded to disobey his master's order. Thus, then, For­tunatus was obliged to stay at home, till in the end his pride permitted him to stoop so low as the conditions laid upon him. On the next day John resumed his office with­out bidding; and the humbled Fortunatus, having ex­ercised it once, would never afterwards gratify his pride, by vilifying what was in itself so useful.

THE TATLER.

AURELIA, though sufficiently good-tempered, had contracted one great fault, and that was calumny. She published every where whatever she perceived amiss in others, though they were her dearest friends. The in­experience of her age induced her very often to ascribe indifferent actions to improper motives; and a single word or volatility of disposition, was enough to make her form the worst suspicions which, as soon as she had formed them, she would run into company, and broach as if they were undoubted facts. She frequently even added circum­stances to them drawn from her imagination, only with a view of making them more likely. You may easily con­ceive what mischiefs such a conduct must produce. It was not long before one family was set against another in her neighbourhood. The discord afterwards affected indivi­duals: wives and husbands, brothers, masters and, do­mestics, were at everlasting variance with each other. Mu­tual confidence was on a sudden done away from those whose company the little girl frequented with her mother. People went so far, at last, as to shut up their doors against her, as they would have done against a wretched creature tainted with the plague; but neither hatred nor humiliation could correct a vice which custom had so deep­ly rivetted within her heart.

This glory was reserved for Dorinda, her cousin, who was the only person now that would receive her visits, and return them; as she always lived in hopes of being able, in the end, to shew her the enormity of her behaviour, and preserve her life from sorrow.

Miss Aurelia went one day to see her cousin, and em­ployed an hour or two in telling spiteful tales of all their common friends, although she knew with what uneasi­ness her cousin heard them. It was all the same to her.

And now, dear Dorinda, said Miss Aurelia, having stopped for want of breath, your turn is come to tell me something. You see company enough to have a stock of little anecdotes at all times ready on your hands.

[Page 58]My dear Aurelia, answered Dorinda, whenever I am visiting my friends, I wish to taste the pleasure of their company; and am not such an idiot, as to lose it by remarking their defects. Besides I find within myself so many, that I cannot possibly have time to think of those in others; having every need of their indulgence, I am wise enough to grant them mine. I rather chuse to rivet my attention upon every commendable quality which they possess, and so endeavour to acquire it. One must be in a faultless state one's self, before one can pro­ceed to note the faults of others. I congratulate you on this faultless state, which I, on the contrary, am so unhappy as to want. Continue, cousin, this employment of a cha­ritable censor, who would lead mankind to virtue by ex­posing the deformity of vice. You cannot fail of merit­ing the esteem of others for such generous cares.

Aurelia could not fail of being conscious that she was, long are this, become a public object of aversion and disgust; and therefore felt the severity of her cou­sin's sarcasm. She began from that day forward, to reflect with real seriousness upon the danger of her in­discretion. She even trembled at the recollection of those mischiefs that she had caused, and now determi­ned to prevent their progress. It was difficult in the beginning, to throw off a custom which she had long indulged, of beholding things on the unfavourable side; but what can withstand a steady resolution? In the end, she was so totally reformed, that she applied her penetration to such objects only as deserved applause; and the detestable enjoyments of malignity within her, were succeeded by a purer satisfaction. She was now become the first to set equivocal or doubtful actions in such points of view, that others might excuse them. When she could not put them in a favourable light, it is likely, she would say, I do not know every cir­cumstance attending them: no doubt, there were com­mendable motives, such as I am not acquainted with. In short, whenever, as it sometimes chanced, the case would not admit of any thing approaching to the na­ture of indulgence, she would pity the offending per­son, and impute her fault to too great precipitation or ignorance of the mischief that she was committing.

[Page 59]However, it was very long indeed, before she could regain those hearts, which her former manners had alienated. She was come, by this time, to the age when most young women think of being settled, but could see no prospect of a husband. People had avoid­ed her with so much care for years, that now she seem­ed as much forgotten, as if she had withdrawn herself into a convent from the world.

No wonder then that she should suppose herself con­demned to pass her days in solitude, deprived of all those pleasures which accompany a happy marriage, and the enjoyment of a chosen set of friends: but for­tune determined otherwise; for a gentleman, who came upon a visit to her father, having heard her generously undertake to shield the reputation of an absent per­son whom some one in the company accused, was so delighted with a goodness like his own, as to con­clude that she was exactly of the turn of mind that would make him happy. He solicited her hand, and made her mistress in return both of his heart, and his fortune.

Aurelia, more and more convinced of the pernicious consequences of blazing other people's faults, and the delightful satisfaction which self-esteem, and the re­spect of worthy people cannot but bestow;—of wor­thy people! repeat, who wink at the defects of human nature;—every day proposes her example to his chil­dren, to preserve them from the ruin that she had near­ly suffered.

She has given me leave to write her story in this book, for the instruction of my little friends; if there be any like her who may read it. I, for my part, know not whether there are any such: but if there should be, I persuade my­self, that after the instruction of this story, they will be the better for it.

THE PROVIDENT FATHER.

THIS is the first time, Charles, that I have had the opportunity of being alone with you.

What have you been doing ever since our separation?

I have been incessantly tormented with a thou­sand projects that have constantly destroyed each other. I have everlastingly been working hard, yet doing nothing, like a multitude of other young people of an ardent ima­gination, who as yet have no employ to take up their attention.

I am pleased to find you wish for employ­ment, and a settled state; but Charles, we ought to wait till such time as the tree is come to its full strength, if we would wish it should bear fruit.

Do parts and wisdom constantly accompany a certain age? Is it so very strange to see a young man, not even in his twentieth year—

Have much more knowledge and intrinsic merit than old men, bent down beneath the weight of old age?—Agreed; but then it is very rare to see, at such a tender age, that strength of character which makes man active.

But there must surely be a time when a young man [...]is an irresistible degree of strength, that carries him along: a devouring fire consumes us; and I, for my part, feel a strength within me which I think equal to the la­bour of removing mountains.

And then you enter into a world where nothing of that sort exists; where every step that you take is limited; where you have constantly to combat envy, fordid interest, caprice, brutal stupidity, and illi­beral prejudice. Believe me, the most active virtue, and an upright heart, can never hope to prove successful, if the has not therewithal an indefatigable constancy, and a [...]stration almost divine, to scrutinize deceit and villainy. [...]d if these qualities are so rare, even in the wisest men, how can we hope to find them in the restless unsettled minds of youth?—Do you know to what I compare this [Page 61]inward consciousness of your strength? To a torch, that will indifferently carry you before children, women, and old men, but which the first breath of wind will infallibly put out. I would have the strength of manhood to con­centrate in the heart, as fire within the substance of a stone: eternally invisible, when once it is struck, the eye is sure of seeing sparks come forth. However, what I say is not to shew that I ought to let you pass your time away unoccupied. At present, I am even so happy as to have procured you an employ.

An employ! O sir, how much I thank you!

Be persuaded, that the greatest joy which a father can possess, is to make his children happy.

I assure you, if ever industry, and what is more, a proper disposition, are rewarded with success, you shall not have to blush for my behaviour.

I rely, indeed, upon your zeal sufficiently to be persuaded, that at no time you will look on any oc­cupation as unworthy of your care; for even the slightest inattention in you may draw after it the worst conse­quences.

I am sensible how much the honour of my king and country requires at my hands.

Such honour is a great affair, dear Charles, and should entirely occupy a feeling and an upright heart; and that your sentiments may always be adapted to each circumstance, observe and study what we call the genius of the nation; do whatever you are able to discover both its strength and weakness, and consult incessantly those most advanced in years, whose age has ripened their ex­perience. Thus, Charles, you will never have to fear a misemployment of your knowledge, which is too frequently the fault of young men, even such as have the best pro­pensities.

I have formed myself, I think, dear father, on the surest principles.

Take care how you establish novel systems; but attack all prejudice, and not that only, but injustice likewise. Be assiduous to eradicate them from the hearts of men. In general, never publish your designs before the proper time, and build not up your reputation on the ruins of a rival. Censure no one, but proceed in silence to the execution of your enterprizes.

I have frequently remarked, that the desire of imitating upon one hand, and of blaming on the other hand, are very common faults; and that enthusiastic imi­tators and malignant critics are quite indolent, while they announce themselves to others with a deal of disgusting pomp and bustle.

I should even like—But I am too verbose. It is a father's heart that now lays itself open.

O! my father, can you possibly supply the son that loves you, and is so loved by you, with too many guides, considering that he is really so inexperienced, and has such a high career displayed before him? For your salutary counsels shall be always my directors.

Well, my child, then have a veneration and regard for truth; that is the base of every principle of action. Never labour to establish even public welfare by improper measures; and if ever any one should offer to persuade you to it, on pretences of necessity, abandon him to his remorse, and look upon him as an enemy, not openly perhaps, but so in secret, to his king and country.

How my heart is lightened of a burthen that oppressed it! and how earnestly I mean to put in practice, for the welfare of my sovereign, all the observations that I have made! With how much zeal and ardour I intend to raise my voice against abuses!

Very well! But then think, think my son, that men in vain aspire to reach perfection; and remem­ber always, that the greatest art, the greatest effort of men's genius, is, amongst many inconveniencies, to chuse the least.

Aided by your counsel and experience, I shall soon arrive at some more eleva [...]ed situation.

I should rather chuse that you would en­deavour to become an useful man. To be continually going forward, and to quit one place, where we may fre­quently be necessary, with the view of filling up another where we shall not prove of so much use, is to betray our country, and to cheapen and degrade our merit. To be great, is to be nothing more than what we should be. And yet, after all, do not imagine that, proceeding in this manner, you will never meet with obstacles. You [Page 63]will, it is very likely, fail at last, oppressed beneath the burthen of those benefits that you have conferred, and be condemned to live unknown; and calumny will put upon your best intentions sinister interpretations. Be not, how­ever, upon this account discouraged, but pursue your plans with firmness; for a time will come when your assist­ance will be sought. And should even this your expecta­tion, in itself so just, be disappointed, in such case, the consciousness of your integrity will be your recompence and consolation.

JULIAN AND ROSINA.

ONCE upon a time a certain Mr. Lorimer was reading in a corner of his parlour, while his wife and daugh­ter were employed, in silence, at their tambour-frame; when, on a sudden, their little Julian entered hastily, quite out of breath, his eye brim-full of tears, his hair in great disorder, and one stocking down upon his heel. He had a raquet in his hand; and as he entered, he cried out, Come, mama, do pray, and see the mother of poor Christopher and Frederic. Alas! they have not had a bit of any thing to eat all day. Frederic asked me to play with him at shuttlecock, to make him forget, as he said, that he was hungry; and they do not know how they shall get any thing before to-morrow evening, at the soonest. I would fain have given them all the money in my purse; but, would you think it? they refused it. I made answer, Come with me, and you shall see—No, no, said they; we are already so obliged to your mama, and dare not go again to teaze her. Then too, their poor mother, hear­ing this, burst out a weeping.—But I must not cry, said Julian, (crying still more,) as my papa is reading. Ah! Rosina, had you seen them, you would certainly have cried as much as I! and stooping as he spoke, he laid hold of Rosina's apron by the corner, to wipe his eyes.

The mother, melted into tears at this recital, and the little boy's behaviour thereupon, dropped her needle; [Page 64]and the father, to conceal a tear, held up his book before him.

Come, dear children, then, said Mrs. Lorimer, em­bracing Julian and Rosina with affection, come and let us see if we can help these three unhappy people.

While Frederic, Christopher, and the afflicted mother, knelt before their benefactress, Rosina pulled her brother by the coat, and in a whisper asked him if he recollected that nice little cake which their uncle gave them in the morning? Yes, said Julian, and turned round as if he meant to run and fetch it. Keep mama in conversation here, and make believe as if you did not know that I was gone; for I will run and fetch it. No, no, said Rosina, there is no need of that; for look, it is here.—On which the little lady, lifting up poor Frederic's hat, that lay accidentally on the table, shewed her brother the nice little cake, which she had watched the opportunity of slipping underneath it.

THE SEPARATION.

HAVE you considered my propo­sals?

No; for there is nothing to consi­der. When a couple who have sworn everlasting love to one another in the church, and whom a child, the fruit of their reciprocal affection, would compel, as one might think, to the observance of their vows, proceed so far as to a separation, what is left then to consider? What can one do?

However, I am so determined in my resolution, that it rests upon some few formalities, and nothing more, to be compleat.

Well, be it so.

Tell my daughter she is wanted,

Do you approve of the allowance that I design to make her?

That shall be as you yourself think fit. I take my daughter home, and hope that she will never want.

However, it is proper that we should come to some agreement.

Very well: do you adjust that mat­ter as you please.

It will be done al­most as soon as said.

You guess, no doubt, why I have sent for you?

Yes; and as things have been carried thus far, I have expected the arrival of this moment with a deal of pleasure.

You resolve, then, to occasion me this grief.

I cannot possibly consent to live any longer with him.

This is my agreement.

By this, then, you renounce each other mutually; you, sir, agreeing to pay this lady four hundred pounds a year. Is this agreed on both sides?

Upon mine it is.

No doubt.

It is useless for me to remonstrate any longer.

Indeed, sir, it is unnecessary.

My resolution is fixed.

Then, whatever I might wish, I am necessitated to consent. Go, sign this paper.

So,—all is settled. There is, notwithstanding, one great difficulty yet. With which of you, pray, is the child to be?

I am his mother.

I, his father.

True, your rights, on either side, are equal; therefore—

I will lose my life, much rather than my child.

The child is mine, and I will never give him up.

Consider this, dear children! for this circumstance should teach, nay force you to renounce your cruel purpose. Hearts that are engrossed by one and the same child, as yours are, cannot sure be enemies to one another; and it is only a misunderstanding that sub­sists between you.—

Shall I tear it?

If you do—

By no means, father.

However, it is necessary that you should come to something of a resolution on this head. Do you consent that Charles shall stay with which of you he pleases?

Yes, with all my heart.

And mine too.

For my part, it will give me pleasure if I hear you are happy, as I part without the least re­sentment in my heart.

And I too wish that you may hereafter be as happy as you have been hitherto, though I am sure you will not.

Won't you stay with me, my dear?

Oh! yes, mama.

You wish to leave me, then, my precious little fellow?

No, no, papa, I will stay with you too.

But, my dear, your papa and mama design to part for ever; and you must absolutely tell them which you wish to live with.

You will live with me, my sweetest! won't you? Speak.

With me, my child?

With both of you.

But why do you both turn away? Why look so melan­choly? You were used [...]o be so merry in each other's com­pany.

You shall not [Page 67]go! I will live with you both at once.

I thank thee, Nature! Thou hast not forsaken me.

Will you forget the past?

Yes, every thing.

Are you determined now to part?

No, father; never.

This tender tie shall reunite us now for ever. I will love you for the time to come, and we will both be happy.

I weep; but it is for joy at such a reconcilement.

THE MOUNTAIN LUTE.

FROM the highest summit of those hills which over­look the vale of Lucca in Savoy, I was contemplating the extended landscape round about me: I was quite alone, my faithful servant being left in a neighbouring city, with orders not to expect me till at the end of three days; which interval I meant to spend in rambling over that romantic country. More than half way down the hill, I saw a hamlet, which assured me of a lodging for the night. Thus free from all inquietude, and swallowed up in thought, I let my mind roam at large in contem­p [...]ation, and my eye to wander from one object to another of the spacious view. But soon the sylvan choristers last song admonished me to think of retiring under cover for the night. The sun, already hid behind the opposite mountain, did but colour with his gold and purple rays the clouds which floated, as it were, just close above the trees that crown its summit. I descended slowly, morti­fied to see the spacious horizon, whose limits I could hardly trace, contract itself as I proceeded. The twilight now began to veil it with a shade, which by degrees grew browner, till the empress of the night dispelled this gloomy darkness with her silver beams. I sat down for a moment, to enjoy the picture. Nothing intercepted my view, throughout the vast expanse. I contemplated the infinite extent at leisure. From the trembling moon and stars which twinkled while I gazed upon them, I passed over to the calm and spotless azure of the firmament. The air was fresh, nor did the slightest breeze disturb it. Nature was absorbed in universal silence, saving the low murmur of a stream which meandered through the country at a distance. Stretched upon the grass, I might perhaps have contemplated till the rising of the sun next morning: but the music of a lute, made more harmonious by a voice, soon after struck upon my ear. I thought at first that my ravished senses were deluded by the power of my imagination, and experienced the delight of fancying my­self suddenly transported in a dream to what are called the regions of enchantment. In the midst of this illusion, while both m [...]sies still continued, A lute! said I rising, [Page 85]a lute upon the mountain! I turned round to that side whence the melody proceeded, and discovered through the dark some verdure of the trees, no great way distant, the white walls and garden paling of a cottage. I approach­ed it with a beating heart; but what was my surprize, when I beheld a youthful peasant with a lute, on which he was playing with exquisite address. A woman, seated on his [...] hand, was looking at him with an eye of the tenderest affection. At their feet, upon the turf, were many children, boys and girls, and ancient people, all in attitudes of pleasure and attention. When I first made my appearance, several of the children came to meet me, looked at one another, and then said among themselves, What gentleman is this? The young musician turned his head, but did not leave off playing. I could not possibly withstand the first emotions of my heart. I held him out my hand; he gave me his, which I laid hold of with a sort of transport. Every body upon this rose and made a circle round us. I informed them, as concisely as I could do, of my business in that quarter of the country, and at such a time of night. We have not an inn, for many miles round, remarked the youthful peasant, as our ham­let is not near the road; but if you are content to lie in a poor cabin, we will do our best to entertain you.

If at first I was astonished at his execution on the lute, and taste in singing, I was still much more surprised at the politeness of his manners, the precision of his lan­guage, and the ease with which he spoke. You were not born, said I to him, in a cabin? Pardon me, replied he with a smile; I was, and even in this. But you are fatigued, I suppose; George, bring a chair. Excuse me, sir; I owe my neighbours this nocturnal entertainment which I am now giving them.

I would not take the chair, but laid myself upon the grass, as all the rest did. Every body had, by this time, resumed his former posture; and the silence which I had interrupted by appearing as I did among them, now took place again.

The youth began immediately to play upon his lute; and in the intervals of playing, sung a favourite ballad, which he did with so much sweetness, that a tear, as I could see, stood trembling in the eye of every one about [Page 86]him, by the time that he had repeated the first couplet. I could not refrain from envying the surprizing genius of this rustic bard, whoever he might be, that could impress so powerfully an unlettered, and almost an uncivilized soci­ety of people. I was charmed in seeing how surprisingly those beauties that are drawn from nature, please the souls of all men. Of the poet's touches, none were [...]; and at the last, which was the most [...], I heard round about me, nothing but sighs, and half stifled sobs.

After some few minutes silence, the whole company rose, each wiping, as I could see, his eyes. They wished each other a good night with perfect cordiality. The neighbours, with their children, went away, and none were left, except an ancient man upon a seat beside the door, and wh [...]m till now I had not noticed; the musician, with the woman sitting by him; George, the young boy whore name I recollected; and myself.

It was painful for me to give up the charming state in which at that time I was plunged. I still continued fitting, but got up at last, and drawing near the young musician, put my arms out, as it were by instinct, to embrace him. Sweet it is, said I, to meet with people who surprize us at the first slight glance, and finish by attracting our esteem, before a quarter of an hour is passed. He answered me no other way than by an ar­dent grasp of my hand, while I was speaking. Dear sir, began the old man upon this, you are pleased, I perceive, with our evening's entertainment? I am glad you have conceived so suddenly a friendship for my dear Valentine, for which you shall repose you in my bed. No, father, interrapted George, who came running from the barn, I have been littering me some straw; and the gentleman shall he in my bed, if he pleases. I was forced to promise that I would yield to this last offer. George, upon this, held out his hand; the old man rested on his shoulder, and went in, after wishing me a good night: and now I found myself alone with Valentine, and the young woman, who, he told me, was his spouse. I asked them, if, for my sake, they would not pass fifteen minutes more, in conversation with me, where they then were, as it was moon-light? Willingly, said Louisa, who was not a little vain of [Page 87]the attention that I had paid her husband. Yes, quite willingly, replied Valentine, who saw how much his wife desired it.

I sat down between them, with a linden tree behind me; through whose foliage, the moon darted all her brightness.

My dear friends, said I, taking the woman by the hand, pray let me know how long you have enjoyed your present happiness? These six months, answered she; and now it is upwards of a twelvemonth that Valentine is happily returned among us from his travels. You have travelled then? said I, with some surprise, excited by this intimation. Yes, sir, answered Valentine: I have visited a part of Europe.—Every thing that I see about you, interrupted I, and every thing that I hear you say, excites a deal of wonder in me! if you have no secret motive for concealing the transactions of your life, do not refuse me, I beseech you, the pleasure of hearing them. Certainly you will not, answered Louisa, with great simplicity. The gentleman seems a very civil kind of a person. Besides, I take much pleasure myself in listening to them.

He consented, with a smile, to our request and the following narrative is delivered in his own words, as far as my remembrance has preserved them.

As I have mentioned, I was born, sir, in this cottage, towards the end of the year one thousand seven hundred and sixty-four; being at present, three-and-twenty years of age. I had the misfortune to lose my mother, when an infant, being hardly weaned. My father was in easy, though not in affluent circumstances, but a law-suit into which he was forced, by one who is at present no more, but was then a very wealthy farmer, ruined him entirely; and he died of grief, when he was torn from his paternal cottage, and beheld it sold for the advantage of the lawyers. The old man whom you saw just now, and who is become my father, bought and came to settle in it. He was struck with pity, seeing me an orphan at my early time of life, and, though I was so little, told me that I should be his shepherd. I was treated very kindly by him; and his children looked upon me as their brother. Notwithstanding which, the loss of my poor father, the unkindness of my other kindred [Page 88]who forsook me, with the thought of being nothing but a stranger in the cottage where I first had my existence, and the lonely life that I led upon the mountain, all united to afflict me, and my accustomed gaiety was changed to melancholy. I consumed whole days in weeping, while my flocks were grazing round me on the plain.

(Here Louisa withdrew her hand, which I held in mine, to wipe away a falling tear, and then returned it me.)

One evening I was sitting on the summit of the moun­tain, and amusing my afflicted thoughts by singing, to myself, the very ballad that you have just now heard. Towards the conclusion, I observed a man among the trees. I noticed that he was dressed in brown: his countenance was very pale; he seemed quite melan­choly; and he waited till my song was finished. He then came close to me, and enquired how far he might be from the public road? Oh very far, dear sir, said I; above five miles. Can you conduct me thither? I would do so gladly, but that I cannot quit my flock.— perhaps your parents may accommodate me with a lodging for the night?—Ah, sir! my parents are a great way off.—Where, then?—They lived like honest people upon earth, and they are happy now in heaven.

The tone of my voice, as he informed me after­wards, affected this good man, and my reply, he said, could not but touch him. He put several questions to me, and my answers pleased him. Night by this time being come, I brought him to our cottage; and my master entertained him hospitably. On the mor­row, they had some discourse together with regard to me, and when I was prepared to reassume my daily charge, they told me that George would take it in future, as the stranger meant to have me with him. I would be useless were I to tell you what was my affliction at the thought of quitting this dear cottage, though not mine, and parting from my Louisa, whom I loved even then, though she was quite a child. My situation was not any way a happy one; and yet I could not quit it without shedding tears. I could not possibly foresee that my future destination was to be decided by the present moment. Yes, to thee benefi­cent [Page 89]protector of my youth, I am a debtor for my present happiness! Thou knowest, generous man, how ardently I prayed to God for thy prosperity while thou wert living, and with what exhaustless gratitude I bless even still thy ashes! He was called Lafont, and had the place of organist in no great parish. You would judge imperfectly of his abilities, if you adverted to the nature and obscurity of his employment. Many tra­vellers turned out of their road to hear his music; but their praises only made him the more modest. I much doubt, if in the course of your acquaintance, you have ever met with such a genius. He received from the affection of his father, who, when living, was a very great physician, such an education as would certainly have made him eminent as a physician likewise; but he rather chose to yield himself entirely to the ardent passion that he had long before conceived for music. He had married the daughter of the organist, whom he succeed­ed, but was childless. His dear wife, whom he had lost for several years, still lived within his heart. Her image, and his books, were now his only society in that deep melancholy which had seized upon his mind; but still while he avoided men, he did not hate them. On the contrary, he did much good in secret. He was forty years of age when I came to him. He in­structed me at first to read and write, and afterwards took pleasure in the cultivation of my voice, and teach­ing me to play the lute, which was his favourite in­strument. He did not stop at musical instruction, he provided me selections from the works of our greatest poets. He formed at once my heart, my understand­ing, and my taste. Thus he acted, for five years, the part of an assiduous master, without any expectation of reward for all his pains and labour, but from him, who best knows how to recompence the services that we do to our fellow-creatures.

In the midst of all these occupations, I had never ba­nished from my mind the recollection of my cottage, or the countenance of Louisa, the partner of my childish pastimes. I was often speaking of them to my patron, and accordingly one day—I never shall forget it, the first of June, four years ago—he rose betimes, and going, as his custom was, to take a morning's walk, bade me fol­low [Page 90]him. We talked of many matters while we went along, as chance presented subjects for our conversation; till at last he brought me to the very mountain where I saw him at first. Dear Valentine, said he, I have ful­filled the duty which Providence, I thought, imposed upon me, when first I saw you. I am sensible how much you sigh when you reflect upon the habitation whence I took you; and have had no other view in undertaking to protect and educate you, than at last to put you in a way of getting possession of it once again. I now shew it you; look at it: but take notice, I forbid, on pain of my dis­pleasure, your returning thither, till such time as you have wherewithal to purchase it. I give you my own lute: I have instructed you to play upon it. Travel: you are not without a charming voice. Wherever you are heard, having no other pretensions than to the name of an itinerant musician, you will be the first of artists in your way. The novelty of the thing will never fail to bring you auditors and money: only be discreet and fru­gal; and when rich enough, return into your own coun­try, and buy out your father's cottage.

My heart beat high at this discourse, and grew enlarged with hope and joy. He held me to his bosom, shedding tears. They were the first that I ever yet had seen fall from him, and they made a singular impression on me. After this, we thought of coming back, and he conducted me in silence to his house.

Upon the morrow, at the break of day, I was to leave my benefactor: he bestowed on me, at parting, the in­struction which he imagined I most needed, together with two louis d'ors. In four years time I travelled on foot through Italy, all France, and Germany, equipped like what I was, a peasant of the mountains, with my hair as you may see at present, floating in large curls upon my shoulders. I took notice that the singularity of such a dress increased the effect proceeding from my music, and particularly in the capitals. Few noblemen. I suppose, ever travelled more agreeably than I did. Every where I found a good reception, and not only from the middling sort of people, but the most polite. The quality in cities made up concerts, for no other purpose than to hear me; and in villages, I verily believe, they married for the mirth of dancing to the music of my instrument. In many [Page 91]places I had advantageous offers made me to take up my residence among them. They seduced me sometimes, I acknowledge, for an instant; but as soon as I reflected again on my cottage, every thought of fortune vanished; nor of all my projects left one trace remaining. I re­member still what sweet sensations seized me every time when I went over a mountain in the [...]rse of my travels, or even came in sight thereof. I sought this hamlet on it, and imagined for a moment that I could see my cottage. With my mind continually full of such an idea, I endea­voured to express my notions, and these couplets were my composition.

[Page 92] Valentine sung these couplets with such sweetness and expression, as revived in my mind the fabulous ideas of Apollo; and methought I heard that exiled deity on earth, and in the vales of Thessaly, pouring forth his wishes to return to Olympus. I desired to speak, to cry out; but found my tongue without motion. Valentine could not but co [...]ive the meaning of my silence, and went on as follows:

I am now about to tell you by what means I came again into possession of this precious cottage.

Towards December last, when I had taken up my dwelling for a season at Turin, and had been twice from one extremity of Italy to the other, I examined the state of my purse, and conceived myself then rich enough to pay a visit to my native mountain. I immediately set out, and after several forced journeys, came in ten days time to the city where my benefactor had resided. With what anxious expectation did I enter it! and as I went along, ask every one that I met, what tidings he could give me of him? But, alas! I was not to enjoy the pleasure of expressing what I owed him; nor to behold him, happy in the consequences of the friendship that he had shewn me. He had been dead two months. I went to pour out my tears on his tomb, and made a vow to heaven that I would call my first child by his name, if I ever should be so happy as to prove a father. On the evening of that day I gained this hamlet. Every one. I found, spoke fa­vourably of me, without knowing at first who I was. My lute, and the remembrance of our friendship, soon obtained me Louisa's affection. I received her from her father. I bought back, with his consent, the cottage, and the field belonging to it, for two hundred crowns, with which his eldest son procured a farm below us, in the village, and has been now some time settled in it. With respect to himself, he acquiesced to pass the remnant of his days, with George his youngest son, in our cottage. It is from him that I learn the art of husbandry; for now that I am once more in possession of my little patrimony, the amount of my ambition is to be, as was my father, a good hus­band, a kind parent, and a virtuous peasant. I have not, as you may see, forgot my lute, the precious instru­ment which made my fortune; but still keep it at my side, [Page 93]and often take it up for my own recreation, or to please my family and neighbours.

He stopped short at this; but still, I thought, I heard him speaking. My attention, captivated by his narra­tive, was turned insensibly upon his person, after he had finished. His ingenuous animated countenance, the con­trast of his dress and conversation, his attachment to a rustic habitation, and the gratitude with which he che­rished the remembrance of his benefactor; his uncommon fortune, travels, and profession; every thing, I thought, exhibited the youth, in some sort, as a being of enchant­ment, and superior to the ordinary race of men. Louisa first roused me from my contemplation, by her motion in the act of leaning forward to embrace him. I compli­mented them on their happiness, and they returned my civility with the most ingenuous expressions of friendship. We went into the cottage, where I was charmed to behold such an appearance of order and cleanliness about me. After having made a plentiful, but light repast, upon such fruits as I was told the mountain yielded, George led me to a closet which was rather narrow, but the bed that filled it was both clean and wholesome. Of this bed, the little fellow told me, he disposed with pleasure in my favour. It was not long before I fell into a sound sleep, during which my thoughts were occupied upon the grand objects that I had been contemplating in the evening, and the agreeable sensations which had so recently impressed me. I did not, all the following day, once quit this happy family, when they were either busy at work or unem­ployed.

Valentine related to me many entertaining matters that occurred to him in travelling, and explained how he acquired that easiness of manners and politeness of expres­sion that had charmed me at first, and which afterwards, as I discovered, notwithstanding his great youth, conci­liated the respect and love of every aged individual through the hamlet. The acuteness of his understanding, the unstudied openness of Louisa, the old man's blunt good sense, the restless curiosity of George, made their con­versation interesting, and diffused an undescribable variety through every part thereof, which both charmed me, and connected them much closer to each other. I think, I [Page 94]could have passed my life away quite happy with them. But why, said I to myself, why brood on such a contem­plation? I was to leave them that very night. I confess, I felt a pang of sadness to reflect upon our separation, and imagined, by their looks, that it would occasion them some sorrow likewise. If my fortune should in future permit me to dispose of the remainder of my life with more liberty, I then intended, and do still, to make a yearly visit to this mountain, for the purpose of seeing my friends again, and filling my whole heart with those sensations of contentedness and peace which their society and habitation cannot but inspire.

INTERESTED KINDNESS.

GOOD morning, neighbour Simon! I have half a dozen miles to go, and should be glad if you would lend me Ball.

I should be quite rejoiced, friend Matthias, to oblige you; but I must set off myself immediately to fetch three sacks of meal home from the mill. My wife wants some this very morning.

Then she must want it still; for the mill, I can inform you, does not go to-day. I heard the miller tell Tom Groves that the water was too low.

You don't say so? That is quite unlucky; for in such case I must gallop up to London for the meal. My wife would make a fine noise, should I neglect it.

I can spare you the journey. I have several sacks of meal at home, of which I will lend your wife as much as she can want.

Ah! master Matthias, I am sure, your meal will never suit my wife. You cannot conceive how whim­sical she is!

If she were ten times more so, I am certain, she will like it, as you sold it me yourself; the best, you assured me, that ever you had.

Yes, yes, that is true indeed; I always have the best of every thing. You know, my good friend Matthias, no one is more ready to oblige than I am; but the mare refused this morning to eat straw; and truly I am afraid she would not be able to carry you.

Oh, never fear! she shall not want for oats upon the road.

Oats, neighbour! Oats are very dear!

They are so; but no matter. Having a good job in view, one never stands for trifles.

It will certainly be foggy, and the road is pretty slippery. If you should fall and break your neck—

What fear is there of that? The mare is cer­tainly sure-footed; and besides, you talked yourself of galloping to London.

Well then, to speak the truth, my saddle is all in pieces, and I have sent my bridle likewise to be mended.

Luckily, I have both a bridle and a saddle hanging up at home.

Ah, like enough! But I am sure, your saddle will not fit my mare.

Why, then, I will borrow Goodman Clod­pole's.

Clodpole's! His will no more fit than yours does.

At the worst then, there is our 'squire. His stable-boy is a friend of mine, and he can lend me one to fit her, or the deuce is in it, out of twenty that his master has, at the least.

You know, friend Matthias, no one is more willing to oblige his neighbours than myself. Believe me, you should have the beast with all my heart, but she has not been curried, I believe, these three weeks past. Her mane is quite out of order; and if any one should see her in this trim, she would not fetch two guineas, should I wish to sell her, as perhaps I may.

Oh! a horse is very quickly curried; and my plowboy shall dispatch her in a quarter of an hour.

Yes, very likely; but I have thought a little, and now I recollect, the creature must be shod.

Well, is not there a smith here, hard by?

Oh, yes! such a bungler for my mare! I would not trust him with my ass; and none but Spavin, the king's farrier in the Mews, at London, will suit me.

As luck will have it, when I get to London, I shall go quite near the Mews.

Frank! Frank!

What want you, master?

Look, here is neighbour Matthias, and he wants the loan of Ball. You know, the skin last Monday was rubbed off her back a hand's breadth, if not more.

So go and see if she is well.

I think, she must be cured by this. Oh, yes! so shake hands, my good friend! I am glad I shall be able to oblige you. We must help each other in this life. Had I flatly refused to let you have the mare, you would per­haps in your turn have refused me something or another. Yes, that is plain. The worst that can be said of Simon is, that his acquaintance always find him ready when they want assistance.

Well, how fares it with poor Ball?

How fares it with her, master? Bad enough indeed! About a hand's breadth, did you say? You meant about the breadth of both my shoulders. The poor creature cannot stir a step! And then too, I have promised her to Gossip Blaze, to carry her to market.

Do you hear that, neighbour? I am sorry that matters turn out thus. I would not for the world have disobliged you, but must not refuse the mare to goody. Trust me, I am very sorry, for your sake, dear Matthias.

And I as much for yours, dear Simon; for, to tell the truth, I had a note this morning from Lord Hazard's steward, and he tells me, that if I can but get to London time enough this very day, he will let me have the first refusal of a deal of timber that my lord is minded to cut down. It will be upwards of a hundred guineas profit to me, out of which I meant to let you have from fifteen up to twenty, as I intended that you should fell the trees. But—

What, from fifteen up to twenty guineas, did you say?

Ay, truly, did I; and perhaps it might have been a great deal more. But, since your mare is out of order, I will go see if I can get old Roan, the blacksmith's horse.

Old Roan! My mare is at your service. Here, Frank! Frank! tell Gossip Blaze that she cannot have Ball to-day, as neighbour Matthias wants her; and surely I will not refuse my best friend any thing.

But what are you to do for meal?

My wife can go without it for a fortnight.

And then your saddle, that is all in pieces?

I was speaking of the old one: I have got ano­ther since, and you shall have the first use of it.

So then, you would have me leave the mare at Spavin's, to be shod?

No, no: I had forgot, our neighbour shod her here last week, by way of trial; and, to do him justice, I must own he shoes extremely well.

But if the creature has lost so much skin from off her back, as Francis says—

Oh! I know him. He delights to make things worse a great deal than they are; and I would lay any wager, it is not bigger than my little finger.

Well then, let him curry her a little, as these three weeks past, you know—

These three weeks past! I would not have him fail to curry her a single day.

At least, however, let him give her something that she will eat, since she refuses straw.

She did, indeed, this morning; but the reason was, that she had had a belly-full of hay. Don't be afraid of any thing! She will skim along like any bird: the road is very dry, and we shall have no fog. I wish you a good journey, and a profitable job! Come, come this moment, and I will hold the stirrup for you.

THE SLOVEN.

URBAN passed, and very justly, for an excellent boy. He was extremely gentle, always ready to oblige his little friends, and never once displeased his pa­rents or instructors.

He had one great fault, however; he would lose his books, with other matters, and pay no attention to his clothes, which were in common very dirty. In one word, he was a sloven.

He had often been admonished of, and punished for, his negligence. This punishment and admonition grieved him, both on his own account, and as he knew that his friends were sorry to proceed thus harshly with him. He had many times resolved upon amendment; but the habit was so strong, that, notwithstanding every resolution, he had always the same slovenly appearance.

His papa some time ago had promised him and his three brothers, on the first fine day, to take them out upon the water. Such a day as he could wish, now came: there hardly was a capfull of wind, and he remarked the water very smooth. He therefore called the children, told them his design, and as he lived quite close beside the river, went himself into the garden and picked out the neatest beat then plying.

How rejoiced the little gentlemen appeared! and how alert to make their preparation for a day of pleasure which they had been so long expecting!

They were now all ready to set out when Mr. Weston came to take them. They jumped round about him in the transport of their joy; and Mr. Weston, on his side, was very happy to remark their satisfaction: but what was his wonder, when he saw Urban, to observe the unseem­liness of his apparel.

Of his stockings, one was, as they say, about his heels; the other negligently gartered, if at all; in some sort made his leg look like a twisted column. Two great holes were in his breeches knees; his waistcoat was from top to bottom stained with grease or ink; and there was wanting half a collar to his coat.

[Page 99]The father saw with sorrow, that it was impossible to take him in so slovenly a state; as every one would have thought, with reason, that the father of so slovenly a child must be as negligent himself, to suffer such a fault. And seeing that Mr. Weston was a man of merit, and esteemed by those who knew him, he was far from wishing such addition to his character.

Urban had another coat, but that unhappily was at the taylor's to be repaired; and it was not a trifle that would repair it, as it wanted one whole skirt, which had been torn quite off. The scowerer was to have it after­wards, and work a day, at least, in getting out the dirt and spots.

What was the consequence then, my dear little friends? There is not one of you but may easily guess.

His brothers, who had proper clothes to put on, and whose general appearance did their father credit, were admitted into the boat. The body of it was painted blue, as were the oars. The gunnel and the edges of the oars were of a deep vermillion. In the boat there was a linen awning, that is roof, supported at the corners, to pre­serve the company beneath it from the sun: the water­men had nice white linen shirts on; three musicians had their station in the stern; they were provided with a haut­boy, clarionet and violin, and began to play a march in concert when the watermen first dipped their oars into the water, upon which a crowd who were assembled at the stairs replied thereto with joyous shoutings.

Poor Urban, who had pleased himself a long time with the thoughts of such an airing, was obliged to stay at home. It is true, he had the pleasure from a window of observing his papa and brothers go into the boat, and of following it as far upon the river as his eye would let him, while a gentle breeze swelled out the sails, and made it seem to skim along upon the surface of the water: and it is true, his brothers, after their return, related all the pleasures that they had tasted in their day's excursion; and of which the recollection made them still jump for joy.

Another day, as he was playing in a meadow, with a little friend of his, he chanced to lose a buckle; but instead of seeking diligently for it, he begged his comrade for a little while to lend him his, because, in walking to [Page 100]and fro, the straps, which he trod on now and then, had already more than once been like to trip him up.

His little friend consented; and Urban, being quite intent on something, and extremely anxious to renew his motion, fastened it so negligently that in less than twenty minutes time he lost that also.

They were both exceedingly embarrassed when the time was come for their returning home. Night overtook them, and the grass was so high that a lamb might easily have hid himself entirely in it. How then could they find, at dusk, a thing so little? They came home clum­petty clump, each leaning on the other, and quite sad; particularly Urban, who, possessing real sensibility, was grieved in having thus exposed his bosom friend and play­mate to the anger of his parents.

On the morrow he appeared before the family, when they were assembled together, with a single buckle for two shoes. Sad sight for Mr. Weston! who perceived by that how much his exhortations were still thrown away.

As oft as Monday came about, he was accustomed to supply Urban and his brothers with a regular allowance, that they might not be without the means of satisfying what are usually the wants of children, but particularly any impulse to be generous. Urban's brothers had con­stantly the pleasure of receiving this allowance; while he, poor fellow, hardly ever had any of it, on account of stoppages for buttons, handkerchiefs, and other things that he lost.

A silver buckle costs some money; but this was not the whole. He had lost his companion's, and was therefore obliged to pay for that likewise. How was he to do it? His allowance would not have enabled him to clear this debt in three months time.

His father luckily had taught him, even in his earliest infancy, to use a pen; and, to employ the common phrase, he wrote already an exceedingly fine hand.

This, therefore, was the only occupation by which he could earn a little money; and, to his praise I must ac­knowledge, he consented with a deal of willingness to an arrangement made on this occasion.

His companion's father was an eminent attorney, and employed above a dozen clerks to copy papers for him. Mr. Weston therefore offered him Urban's services in this [Page 101]way, 'till such time as he had earned enough to pay him for the buckle; and requested that the attorney would consent to such a way of settling matters, as it was very probable Urban might be greatly benefited by it.

The attorney freely acquiesced, and down Urban sat to work in copying law proceedings, which at best were very tedious, and in general scrawled over so that he could hardly read them, whilst his brothers went a walking in the fields, or entertained themselves by playing with each other in the garden.

Oh, how many sighs did his inattention cost him! and how much pleasure did it occasion him to lose in a very few days!

He had time for making many salutary comments on his conduct; and resolving, for the time to come, upon a change. In short, he kept his resolution; so that were I now to point him out, dear little friends, to any of you, —when you noticed the cleanliness of his person, and the neatness of his general appearance, you would find it dif­ficult to think that he could be the same little boy whose history I have just now written for your instruction as well as amusement.

THE FLOWER THAT NEVER FADES.

GOOD morrow, dear Emily; I consider it extremely kind that you are come to see me.

My mama has just now given me leave to pass the evening with you.

Has she? I am very glad of it. It is such fine weather! It appears to me as if our friends were much more welcome when all nature smiles about us.

So I think too. Give me your hand and let us walk. How sweetly we shall pass the time in talking with each other!

Yes; and running after one another! Shall we fix upon the grove for our diversions?

Oh, with all my heart! A special thought! as we shall not be interrupted there.

I shall request you only to permit my sitting down a little, so that I may give about a dozen stitches to this apron that I have brought with me.

Do [...] and more than that, I will help you.

Not for all the world, Emily; though I thank you: but the truth is, that I would not have a single stitch in what I am now making but my own.

I judge, then, you design to make a present of it?

Right.

And are you in a hurry to complete it?

I would not for a deal but that it should be finished by the 4th of this month, which is Miss Le Févre's birth-day.

Miss Le Févre, say you? I do not recollect, at pre [...]ent, any one of that name among our acquaintances.

The reason is, she is mine particularly; one who is so good to me, she seems to have no opportunity, or rather time, for being good to others. Oh an excel­lent and tender friend! to whom I am indebted very pos­sibly for all my happiness.

And how so, pray, dear Araminta? I long to know her.

Well, what think you of my governess?

Oh, she! you know you call her generally Mademoiselle.

Yes, Mademoiselle, or Miss Le Févre. Now, pray have you not remarked—I do not mean when I came from France, but nearly ten months since, a won­derous change in my behaviour?

To confess the truth, I have; and think you hardly the same person that you were formerly. What can have caused so great an alteration? Till you quitted England, ay, and unce you came from France, I must acknowledge you were proud and huffish. You offended every body without scruple, and the least familiarity from others was considered as an insult by you; but at present your behaviour is engaging. You have that complacency and affability which cannot but win people's hearts. I freely tell you, I myself even love you ten times more at present than I did. You took such airs upon you before [Page 103]as disgusted me. I was a hundred times disposed to break off all connection with you; whereas now, I find a real pleasure in your company and conversation. And what pleases me still more than all is, that you seem yourself much happier than before.

And so I am, dear friend. I was an object to be pitied at the time that you mention. I occasioned all our family, and every one that wished me well, a deal of trouble. Miss Le Févre, in particular, was grieved to think of my behaviour, as she loved me tenderly; and yet, while I was grieving her, I knew that she faithfully fulfilled the promise which she made to my dear mama, upon her dying-bed, of loving me with all the affection of a mother.

Every body must confess, you could not possibly have fallen into better hands; and the advantage of your trip to France would have been really considerable had it only been the means of introducing such a person to you, I am told, there are few families but would wish to have her for their children.

You are yet to know how much I owe her; therefore I design to tell you. It is the story of a morn­ing that will live for ever in my recollection: it was the morning of the 4th of this very month, and as I knew be­fore, her birth-day. I was awake betimes. She must be still asleep, said I; for then we did not lie together, no not even in the same apartment. I will surprise her, if I can, before she rises; so I dressed myself as nicely as I could, then took the basket which a charming little lady, you know who,

had given me as a present, and ran down into the garden to get flowers, that I might scatter them on Miss Le Févre's bed, as is the custom upon birth-days in her country. I stole secretly along the hedge, and, unperceived by any one, had gathered three fresh roses. I now looked about for honeysuckles, jessamin, and myrtle: I bethought my­self that they grew below the arbour at the bottom of the garden. I was running thither; but in passing by the arbour I saw Miss Le Févre on her knees within it, and both hands before her face; I turned to shun her, but it was all in vain; she heard my steps, on which she raised her head, perceived me, and called out that I should come that moment to her.

[Page 104]She had not as yet had time enough to wipe her eyes: I saw that she had been crying; but her tears were not like those which I had so often seen her shed at the re­cital of some just or generous action. Noting her re­ception of me, which was friendly and affectionate, I could not but observe that she had a countenance of sorrow.

With one hand she instantly took hold of mine, and passed the other round my middle. We walked up and down the terrace twice in this position, and were silent; for, as Mademoiselle forbore to say a word, I durst not move my lips, so much was I affected by it!

But at length she pressed me still more closely to her bosom, and beholding me with tenderness, and likewise glan [...]ing at my basket with the roses in it, I observe, said she, dear Araminta, you have lost no time to think upon my birth-day. This affectionate attention to me would certainly make me forget the melancholy thoughts which oppress my mind upon your account, but that your hap­piness occasioned them. Yes, dearest Araminta, attribute only to my friendship what I am now about to mention. I am anxious to discharge my bosom of its load, that I may welcome afterward those more delightful thoughts which I owe you for the present, that, I observe, you were preparing for me.

I was dumb, and in a tremble, while she thus addressed me: it was as if my conscience had addressed me by her lips.

You, Araminta, continued she, who have received from nature such a disposition, and have had that disposition so well cultivated by the example and instructions of your good mama, will you pervert it by a fault which of itself alone must put out every virtue? I will not mention it by name; and now particularly, after what I have already told you. It might make you perhaps look with too much horror on yourself; and I have no desire to mortify my lovely child. It is sufficient that your heart acknow­ledges this fault: and I persuade myself, I know you well enough to be assured that your utmost efforts will, in su­ture, be excited to destroy it.

Let us not go too fat back; but only think of your behaviour yesterday.

[Page 105]Do you remember the decisive tone of voice with which you spoke when at breakfast, to display how much you knew of history? You cited, I must own, events suffi­ciently instructive to have made the company attend to what you said, but that they saw you resolved, if I may say so, to excite their admiration. You appeared so mar­vellously well contented with yourself, that they were really afraid of praising you, which would have unavoid­ably inflamed or aggravated your self-love. Remember likewise, with how much attention they gave ear to little Arabella, and were really enchanted with the grace of her recital, and the modesty with which she blushed at being thought so well informed. I saw you, my dear, turn pale with spite and envy. Tears of rage were in your eyes, and it was in vain that you strove to hide them, while the company were inwardly rejoiced to see you so compleatly humbled.

In the afternoon, when with an air of triumph in your eyes you came to shew your writing, and it passed with­out receiving any of those praises that you expected— with what visible vexation did you receive it back when every one had seen it!

And at night, when you accompanied Miss Arabella on the harpsichord, the bad time that you kept, perhaps on purpose, put her out; and when she asked you in a whisper to play better, what a hideous look did you then put on, instead of doing as she bade you?

Ah! for heaven's sake, interrupted I, and at the same time burst out a crying: Do not go on, for you must know, Emily, her discourse had pierced me to the heart.

It was vanity, said I to Mademoiselle: that vice which you durst not mention by its name. I never saw its fright­fulness so much, believe me, as at present.

I could say no more; but she was able to discern my thoughts. Her arm in agitation pressed me once more to her bosom with a tenderness that I am unable to describe. I felt her tears fall plenteously upon my cheeks, while with her eyes she looked in silence up to heaven.

The cloquence of this mute prayer compleatly over­whelmed me. We were come, without perceiving it, to the foot of this large tree. We stopped close by this green bank, and I fell down upon it half swooning as it [Page 106]were. She instantly afforded me the tenderest succour, and restored me to new life by her affectionate caresses.

Being just upon the point of going in, I said, renewing my embraces, dry your tears up, my good friend; they are the last that you shall have cause to shed on my account.

On her part, she embraced me still more tenderly, and answered, saying, You could never have rejoiced me so compleatly on my birth-day as by this noble resolution. It is the fittest nosegay for us both, the nosegay that I hope will never lose its beauty.

By degrees we both became more tranquil. She re­marked the fineness of the morning; and my heart, now eased of an intolerable load, was in a proper disposition to enjoy the beauty of the day which came on very fine.

I grew sensible how sweet it is to have the experience of this calm within one's self. I begged her to instruct me by what means I might keep up so pleasing a serenity. Two hours thus passed away between us in a conversation full of friendship and affectionate instruction.

My papa, without informing me of his intention, had prepared a little banquet; we were present at it, and gave signs with how much joy our bosoms overflowed. Since then, dear friend, I have begun to put away that odious vice which made me insupportable to others and myself. I leave you then to think, if I can possibly omit, on the return of such a day, to testify my gratitude for such a worthy friend, who was the means of making it the are of my happiness.

My dearest Araminta, since we have still a little time, I will also prepare your friend a nosegay as a sign of gratitude for having heightened my enjoyment in continu­ing still to love you.

Come then: now I have done; and will assist you.

PHILIP.

OH! I'll be revenged, and make him heartily repent it, cried little Philip, while his countenance turned quite red with anger, and he walked along, not seeing Emilius, his dear friend, who, at that instant, hap­pened to be coming towards him, and hearing what he said with some degree of pain, asked him, of whom he meant to be revenged? Philip lifted up his eyes; he saw his friend, and reassumed the smile with which his countenance was generally glowing. Ah! said he, come, my friend, and you shall see of whom I will be revenged. You remember, I believe, my little supple Jack, that pretty cane my father gave me: see, it is all in pieces; the farmer's son, that lives at yonder thatched cottage, has broke it. And pray why did he break it? said Emilius. I was walking peaceably along, said Philip, with the greatest agitation, and was playing with my cane, by putting it quite round my body; one of the two ends, by some means or another, got out of my hand when I was opposite the gate just by the wooden bridge, and where the little blackguard had put down a pitcher full of water, which he was carry­ing home from the well. My cane, in springing, struck the pitcher, overset but did not break it. He came up close to me, and began to call me names. I seriously assured him that I had not intended to do what I did, and was extremely sorry for the accident. He would not hear me, but got hold that moment of my supple Jack, and twisted it as you may see. I will make him, however, heartily repent it; I shall sind a way to be revenged of him.

He is, indeed, a very ill-natured boy, said Emilius, but is already punished very well for being so, since every one detests and shuns him. If he wishes to enjoy a little play, he never can have a companion: if he comes where any boys are met to play, they always thrust him out; but if he will not quit them, they leave him. The hatred of all that know him cannot but sufficiently avenge you.

Yes; but he has broke my cane, said Philip. My papa gave it me but very lately; and it was a very pretty one as you know. My father will not fail to ask me what is become of it: he will imagine that I have lost his pre­sent [...]; possibly he will fall into a passion, and all on account of this little blackguard. I did him no harm. I offered to fill up his pitcher, having knocked it down without design.—The ill-natured our! I will be revenged of him.

Believe me, my dear friend, said Emilius, it will be better not to mind him. Your contempt is punishment enough for such a one. You are not like him; and, depend up [...]n it, he will shew himself at all times abler to do mischief th [...]n yourself. And now I think upon it, I must tell you what but very lately happened to him.

Unluckily for him, he saw a bee upon a flower: he tri [...]d to catch it, and pull off its wings for pastime [...]; but the bee contrived to sting him, and flew off in safety to the hive. Quite mad with rage, he said, as you did, I will be revenged for this! Accordingly he cut himself a switch, thrust it through the hole into the bee-hive, and turned it about. By these means he killed several of the little creatures; but in an instant the whole swarm flew all at once upon, and stung him in a thousand different places. You may guess how he roar­ed with the pain, and how in his agony be tumbled himself about upon the ground. His father ran up to him, and could not, without much difficulty, put the bees to flight, by flinging bowls of water on him. He was ill, in consequence of this, for several days.

You see then, his vengeance had no very great suc­cess. [...] not therefore his insults: he will meet with some [...] who will panish him, without your taking any [...] in the matter. And besides, as he is ill­natured, would you be so likewise; for, my friend, he is much stronger than you are, and, to be sure of your re­venge, you must be much more malicious than he is.

I think, said Philip, you are in the right: so come along with me. I will tell my father every thing, and he will not be angry with me, I hope; for look you, I can easily take comfort for my broken cane, but not should he imagine that I neglected to take care of what he [Page 125]gave me. After this, they went together. Philip told his father what had happened. The good gentleman consoled his son, and thanked little Emilius for the advice that he had given him.

On the day succeeding, Philip had another cane, ex­actly like the first. He passed the farmer's house: his son was at the door, and hung his head, while Philip went along.

However Philip, some days after, saw this little pea­sant fall under a heavy log of wood that he was carrying home, and which prevented him from getting up again. Philip ran up to him, took the log from off his shoulder. helped him to rise, and take his load once more upon his shoulders. The ill-natured boy was now quite over­whelmed with shame at the idea of receiving aid from him whom he had served so ill, and heartily repented his behaviour. Philip afterwards went home quite sa­tisfied. At first, he had assisted one whom he did not love, because he could not see a fellow-creature suffer without relleving him; but afterwards he was rejoiced to think of his behaviour. "This (said Philip) is the noblest vengeance. It is impossible I should repent thereof."

CHARLOTTE.

BEFORE the house in which Charlotte's parents li­ved, you must know, there was a little opening, ornamented with a grass plat, and quite overshaded with a noble tree, from whence the eye could plainly see whatever passed along the public road. Miss Charlotte frequently would come beneath this umbrage with her little chair, and in her hand the stocking that she was making for her dear mama, who had instructed her to knit. One day, as she was sitting there, she saw a poor old man advancing very slowly towards her, on the road: his hair was of a silver white, his back was b [...]nt with age, he rested on a stick and seemed to walk in pain. Poor man! said Charlottle, looking at him, he [Page 126]seems very much in pain, and perhaps is poor besides. If so then, he is doubly miserable.

Further on, she saw a company of boys together, who came after the old man. They very quickly reached him. They remarked his thread-bare coat, which was exceed­ingly long skirted, and had sleeves a deal too short. His hat, quite rusty, did not escape their notice, as the flaps hung down upon his shoulders; he had hollow cheeks; and seeing him they all burst out a laughing. As it chan­ced, there lay a stone upon the ground before him, which he stumbled over, and was almost down: this set them once again a laughing, while the poor old man, for his part, sighed.

I once was young as you are, said he to the boys, and did not laugh at the infirmities of such as I am now. You will in time be old yourselves; and every day you are approaching towards my time of life. You will then be sensible of the injustice of your ridicule. So say­ing, he went on again, but made a second stumble, and in struggling to preserve himself from falling, drop­ped his lick. At this, the boys renewed their laugh a third time, crying, let us see now, how he will lift it up again?

Miss Charlotte, who had heard the old man speak, and was touched with pity for him, saw his situation, put her stocking down upon the chair, ran towards him, took up his stick, put it back into his hand, and taking hold of his other arm, as if she had been very strong, exhorted him to lean upon her, and not notice any thing that the boys might say. The poor old man looked at her. "Lovely child," said he, "how good you are! I am at once consoled for all the ridicule with which they treat me. May you be for ever happy!" and so saying, they walked on together; but the boys no longer followed him as they had done before: perhaps they were ashamed of their proceeding.

Some few moments after, one of them fell down him­self, and all the rest burst out a laughing as they had done before; for his part, he was very angry, and when up again, ran after his companions, pelting them with stones. He was convinced then how unjust it is to laugh at any one's distress: he formed a resolution never, for the time to come, to laugh at any old man's pain, and fol­lowed [Page 127]at a distance him whom he had before made the object of laughter, hoping to have the opportunity of making some atonement for his fault.

In the mean time the good old man, assisted by the friendly aid of Charlotte, went on with flow, but yet sure steps. She offered him the opportunity of stopping to repose himself a little. Do you see our house, said she? Pray stay and sit a little under that large tree: my parents are neither of them at home; you will on that account be not so well entertained; yet still, you will enjoy a little rest. The poor old man accepted Charlotte's offer. Charlotte brought him out a chair; and then, to hearten up his spirits, let him have some good small beer and bread and cheese. The child had nothing else to give.

Her guest could not refrain from thanking her conti­nually. "Your parents are still alive?" said he. "They love you; you love them? They cannot therefore but be very happy: may they always be so!"—"And you, good old man," said Charlotte, "have you no children?"— "I had once a son," said he, "who was settled in London: he loved me affectionately, and often came to see me; but alas! he is now dead, and I am left without the least degree of consolation. Indeed, his widow is rich: she takes the lady on her, and imagines it not worth her while to know if I am dead or living, as she wishes to forget that her husband's father is a peasant. I do not even know her children, which in truth are mine."—He was so much affected while he spoke these words, that tears rolled down his withered cheeks.

The gentle Charlotte likewise was affected, and cried out, Can any one be so cruel! Ah! my mother, my dear mother, would not act so wickedly. On this, she spoke of other matters, that she might not grieve him; when he arose, and thanked Charlotte with a blessing: but she would not leave him so; she meant to go a little way still farther with him.

On the way, they saw the little boy who had been fol­lowing them; for he had run a great way on before, and now was sitting on the grass. He cast [...]is eyes down when they looked upon him; rose up after they had passed, and followed them again. The [...]itt [...]e girl observed him, but would not speak of him. She asked the old man, if he lived alone. No, little lady, answered he, I have a cot­tage: [Page 128]see, there it is, beside you tree across the meadow. You observe, it is no great distance off: it is in the middle of a little garden. I have an orchard, and a field like­wise; and I told a poor old neighbour, who some years since left his cottage, which fell down through age, that if he would but come and live with me, he should in fu­ture cultivate my ground. I told him, that I would live with him, that he should enjoy whatever I might have, and I would only ask him to provide me necessaries. He agreed. He never had a child: he is extremely good and honest; and, for my part, I am quite at ease in his so­ciety. And yet, in spite of all his diligence, at times I think myself deserted. I no longer see my son, and I was constantly accustomed to receive from him the tenderest tokens of affection. In the very place where I have seen him run to meet me, I am now assisted only by the hand of strangers. I no longer see his children, who have utterly forgot me: I shall live far distant from them: I shall die, and very likely never see them more.—Alas! if their poor father were but still living!—He could not utter one word more.

The gentle Charlotte, touched with these complaints, said to him, I will come and see you with my mother: we will frequently be with you. But her kindness only served to aggravate his grief. The sensibility and kind­ness of the little girl made him recollect of how much consc [...]ation he was utterly deprived; and in returning her his thanks, the tears, which he could not help shedding, hindered him from seeing where he walked.

He took his handkerchief to wipe his eyes, and, trou­bled by sad thoughts, instead of putting it again into his pocket, let it drop upon the ground, without perceiving what he did; nor did his young companion notice it. The boy however, who was following them, observed the whole transaction, picked it up, and ran to give it him. "Here, good old man," said he, "you dropped your han [...]kerchief: it was on the ground."

Thank you, thank you heartily, my little friend, an­swered the old man. God's providence be praised for all things! Here is an honest little gentleman, who does not ricicule old age, and laugh at the afflictions that attend it. Oh! no, no; you do not look with scorn upon a poor old man. I see it in your eyes. You are not of the num­ber [Page 129]of those wicked little fellows whom you must certainly have passed, although you were not with them. Char­lotte recollected having seen the little boy among them, and remarked his laughing just as they did, but she would not say a word about it; for although she did not at all approve the boy's behaviour, yet her good nature would not suffer her to give him pain, by telling what she knew.

The little culprit, in the mean time, held down his head, and thought of lying more than once; but he had not been used to such a crime. His heart, besides, was not so wicked that he needed to conceal the truth, lest people should despise him. "Pardon me," said he; "I was among them, and insulted you as they did; but am now very sorry for it. I have found out, some time past, that when I mix with children of my age, or thereabouts, I am more mischievous than when alone. Had I been by myself, I should never have laughed at your stumbling; but, on the contrary, my first desire would certainly have been to help you. I should be very happy to assist you now, if I could, in order to make amends for my of­fence."

"You have already done so, my good little friend," said he. You have a deal of candour and good-nature, and will certainly become an honest man. I dare believe as much. Come, therefore, both of you to my abode. It is just before us; but a few steps more, and we shall be there. I will let you have some milk, and we will drink together."—At this invitation of the good old man, our little boy was very happy. Charlotte would have wished to decline it, but did not, from a fear of grieving him. They reached the habitation: he brought out some milk, two porringers, and a loaf of bread a little coarse, it must be owned, but very good. They all sat down upon the grass, and made a comfortable meal. "What pleasure you both give me," said the good old man. "Yes, truly, I am very much delighted upon this occasion. I have found out two good little friends, who neither scorn the poor man, nor the infirm. My [...]eep at night will be the sweeter for it."

Both the boy and girl, as they sat beside him, testified their joy and gratitude; but yet their looks were more expressive than their words. However, they began to [Page 130]think of going. Charlotte feared lest her parents might come home, and be uneasy at her absence; and the little man expressed how he was grieved so soon to quit him: but his mother, he feared, would scold him, should he think of staying longer.

"She must then be very cross, this mother that you dread so much," said the poor old man.—"Not always," said the little boy. "However, she is sometimes so; and though she loves me, yet I fear her greatly."—"And your father?"—"Oh! I scarce knew him: he has been dead these four years."—"Dead these four years!" interrupted the old man, and fixed his eyes upon the child. "Should it be he?—I have s [...]me recollection of his features!— Should it be little Francis?"—"Yes, Francis is my name."

The old man stood for some few moments motionless, and with an altered voice, his eye brim full of tears, and with extended arms, cried out to Francis, "My dear child! you do not recollect your grandfather?—Embrace me!—You have the very features of my son. My dearest child, you no longer thought of me."—Francis tenderly caressed him, but endeavoured all in vain to speak. Little Charlotte too shed tears of joy, to see the old man com­forted.

"You see him," said the good man, "you see him!" He is in reality the living picture of his father. Yes, he is my son!—My son affectionately loved me, and his son will love me too. I shall not be so wretched as I feared in my old age; nor will the evening of my life be passed without some joy. I shall depart in peace. But I forget that by detaining you, I may subject you to your mother's anger: I was so much pleased, that I forgot that circum­stance. Depart then, my dear boy! I do not wish that my joy should cost you tears. Depart, and love your mother; be obedient to her, even though you should not come and see me. It will be very hard, however, should you quit me now for ever. Come and see me, if you can, provided you do not disobey, or tell a story, to obtain permission."

Turning then to Charlotte: "And for you, dear little maid," said he, "I am convinced, you ought to leave me, as your parents would be certainly uneasy, should you stay too long. I owe you all my joy, and shall for ever [Page 131]bless you. Come at times, and see me. Do not, I be­seech you, my dear children, utterly forget me! May you both be happy!"

At these words the children went away, affectionately holding one another by the hand. They did not speak, but every now and then they looked behind them; while the old man, on his side, continued looking constantly at them, and did not turn to go into his cottage until they were out of sight. Little Charlotte got home safe. Her parents were not yet returned; however, they came home very soon after her. She told them where she had been, and what she had done. It was the subject of their even­ing's conversation.

On the morrow, they all went to see the good old man; and in the sequel, frequently repeated their kind visit. Francis likewise came to see his grandfather, who was re­joiced to see him, to hear him speak, and to receive the most affectionate caresses from him; while, for his part, Francis was as much rejoiced, excepting when he did not see his Charlotte: he was then quite sorrowful, and went home sad. The more he grew towards manhood, still the more he loved her; and accordingly, when he was old enough to take a wife, he would espouse no other woman, though she was not rich. The old man lived to see them married, blessed them, and soon after died in peace.

THE WATCH.

YOUNG Clara, at her return from a visit which she had just before been paying to an intimate ac­quaintance, appeared quite pensive and sad. She found her sisters entertaining one another with that innocent and lively joy which heaven seems delighted to infuse into the sports of infancy. Instead of making one among them with her usual playfulness, she moved to a corner of the [...]oom, sat there as if it vexed her to behold their gaiety, and when the little ones began to prattle, in hopes that she would join in their diversion, replied peevishly to what they asked her. When the father, who loved Clara ex­ceedingly, [Page 132]beheld her thus dejected, which was but very seldom the case, he began to be uneasy, put her on his knee, and taking her affectionately by the hand, enquired what ailed his little child, that she appeared so melan­choly? "Nothing, nothing," answered Clara at first, to all his questions; but at length, on being pressed more earnestly to tell him every thing, she replied, that all the little ladies whom she had seen that evening at her friend's, where she had been a visiting, had each received a very pretty present from their parents, or else friends, by way of fairing; though not one among them was so far ad­vanced in learning as herself. She mentioned more par­ticularly one Miss Richmond, whose uncle had, that very morning, purchased her a very fine gold watch. "Oh! what pleasure," added she, "Miss Richmond must feel, in having such a handsome watch beside her!"

"This then is the cause of your uneasiness, I find?" said Mr. Ford with a smile. "Thank heaven, it is not so bad as I imagined! I supposed that you might have met with some unhappy accident. And what would you do then, my dear sweet Clara, with a watch?

What others do, papa. I would have it fastened to my girdle, and look at it every moment of the day, that I might know what time it was.

What! every moment, Clara? Your mo­ments then are very precious; or perhaps your hours of needle-work and study hang too heavy on you?

No, papa; for you have often told me that I am at present in the happiest season of my life.

Well then, my child, if you have no occa­sion for a watch, but to know the hour, we have a clock here, at the stair-case foot, and that will always tell you.

Yes, papa; but then I need not mention, that up stairs I cannot always hear it strike, and Bridget is very se [...]dom there, to come down for me, and see what o'clock it is. Now, when I want to know, if I descend myself, that takes up much time; whereas a watch at hand would let me know the time at once: nor should I then [...]eed trouble any one, or lose a moment of the day myself.

It is true, a watch must be exceedingly con­venient, though it were but to inform one's writing-master [Page 133]that he has staid his time out, if through friendship or politeness he should wish to sit a little longer with one.

Dear papa! how pleased you are to vex me upon all occasions with your banter!

Well then, Clara, if you desire more serious conversation, tell me frankly, why you so much wish to have a watch?

I have, papa, already.

But I wish to know your real motive. You are sensible, words alone never satisfy me.—You are afraid, perhaps, to tell me. Well then, I will for you; and you will say yourself, that I deal more frankly with you, than you with me. The reason why you want a watch is this: that when folks pass you, they may say, "Oh! see what a charming watch that little lady has! She must be vastly rich indeed!"—Now tell me, do not you think it very pitiful to boast of being richer than other people, and to display fine things about you for the multitude to admire? Do you fancy that any reasonable person will esteem a little lady more, because her father has a great deal of money? You yourself, do you esteem those more who may be richer than you are? When you behold a handsome watch, and are not in the least acquainted with the wearer of it, far from saying, "There is a worthy little lady with a pretty watch before her!" do not you rather say, "What a charming watch that little lady wears!"—It is plain, that if a watch does honour to any body, it is to the workman; but the wearer of it, if she claims any merit from the possession of such a bauble, I should despise for her vanity.

You speak, papa, as if you were persuaded that I desire a watch from such a motive.

I must confess, I grievously suspect as much; but you will not allow it. Well then, I think, I shall compel you very soon to such a confession.

Oh! do not tell me so, papa! for you must own, a watch is very useful, since you always have one— you that talk so much against my vanity.

It is true; but then you know, I cannot do without one. What I have to do at home is often inter­rupted by my public avocations or employment; so that I must be exact and punctual in allowing each the necessary time.

And must not I attend, papa, to a dozen dif­ferent studies in the day? What would any of my masters say, if, when they came, I had prepared to sit down with another, knowing nothing of the hour?

You are right. You see, by this, I am not obstinate. Whenever I hear reason, I can say, I love to be persuaded: and so, Clara, you may depend upon a watch. I will give you one.

Ah! now you joke, papa!

No, certainly; for you shall have one: but on this proviso, that you do not forget to take it with you when you go abroad.

Can you suppose that I shall forget it? Oh! how glad I should have been of one this afternoon, when I was visiting at Miss Mills's!

You may go there again to-morrow morning.

So I may; and very probably Miss Richmond will still be there, so let me have it early in the morning.

You shall have it now. You know my little room up [...]irs? Beside my bed, you will find a watch: that shall be yours, Clara.

What! that great kettle of a watch, papa! as old, for aught I know, as King Harry the Eighth. The case of it would serve to hold my little Pompey's break­fast of bread and milk.

It is a very good one, I assure you; and was all the fashion at the time it was made, for so my father told me. When he died, I found it with the rest of his effects, and was resolved to keep it for myself. But since I put it into your possession, I consider that it will not leave the family; and, as I shall often see it at your side, it will still serve to remind me of my father.

Yes; but what will people say, who are but ten years younger than my grandpapa would be at pre­sent?

Just the thing I expected! You perceive, the motive of utility which you insisted on just now with such importance, was merely a pretext to hide your va­nity; for this same watch would do you all the service that you could possibly derive from one enriched with dia­monds. Why take up your thoughts with what the world may say concerning you? However, in this case they will [Page 135]applaud your judgment, which could chuse a watch for real service, not for empty appearance.

But, papa, why hinder me from having such a watch, as will at once be strong, and cut a handsome figure?

You suppose, then, that would make you happy?

Yes; quite happy.

I could wish that my fortune were sufficient to convince you, by experience, how fallacious is the happiness proceeding from such trifles. Look ye; I would lay whatever wager you thought proper, that before a fortnight were well over, you would hardly cast a look upon your watch; that in a month you would forget to wind it up, and very quickly after cease to keep it in a better state of order than your own ideas.

Do not talk of wagers, papa! You would be sure to lose!

No, I will not lay; not that I apprehend I should come off the loser, but because a trial would be necessary, which might cost you dear as long as you live.

So then you think, papa, that a handsome watch would only make me miserable?

Think so, Clara? I am sure it would have that effect; for all our happiness on earth consists in being satisfied with such a situation as the will of Providence has meant us. There is no condition in the world so humble, or so elevated, but a vain ambition in it may induce us to imagine ourselves in want of every thing that our neigh­bour possesses. It is ambition that torments the husband­man, however easy in his circumstances, and inclines him to behold his neighbour's field with envy, while it stimu­lates the master of a mighty empire, and persuades him that some province bordering on his realm is wanting to complete the figure of its boundary. Thence spring those cruel wars which princes carry on to desolate their people; and those law-suits in which individuals are engaged, or those quarrels that disgrace man's nature. What were your ideas with regard to that Miss Richmond that you men­tioned just now, when you were looking at the handsome watch that she displayed at her side? Did you feel within your bosom that alacrity of friendship, still subsisting in her favour, which you once cherished? Think, would [Page 136]you have done her, at that moment, any service, or at least with equal joy as yesterday? That secret enmity with which her watch inspired you against her, would not such a watch inspire your friend, or very possibly your sisters, with the same against you also? Think then, for how despicable an enjoyment you would break the dearest ties of friendship and alliance, and the affection which nature plants within us! Who would think herself happy upon such conditions?

O papa, you make me shudder!

Then, my sweet Clara, entertain no more of these unreasonable wishes; they cannot but destroy your happiness. What is there wanting, that you can find really useful, in the situation which [...]rovidence allots you? Have you not good food in plenty? and convenient raiment for the various seasons of the year? Does not my love provide you masters to improve your understanding, while I form your heart, and do my utmost to endue you with those several accomplishments that will in future make you welcome to all decent company? You want, it seems, at present, a gold watch enriched with diamonds! Should I get you such a watch, how would you look to­morrow upon your false pearl ear-rings? Would you leave off teazing me, till I had bought you real pearls? Nor would this be all; for you would then want foreign lace, fine silks, and waiting-women to attend you. People cannot go on foot, like others, through the streets, when they are pompously set out from head to foot; but must have footmen, fashionable carriages, and high-bred horses. You would want all these, and having once obtained them, would be fit indeed to go to operas and assemblies, or pay visits at the houses of our first-rate quality; but to receive them in your turn, you must possess a splendid habitation, and give sumptuous entertainments. Consider then, if I should satisfy your first caprice, how many wants would follow! They would every day go on in­creasing, till in consequence of having wished to rise above your station in one article of luxury, you would, perhaps, come to want the necessary things of life. Look round about you, and observe how many suffer real indigence at present, who so lately, as I may say, as yesterday, were wasting an estate sufficient for their happiness. Re­flect what very probably would be your case, and that too [Page 137]of your sisters, if my great affection for you did not, as it does at present, turn these sad examples into matters of instruction! I have frequently been tired while I was walking through the streets upon my business. A good carriage would have eased my fatigue, as much as it would have flattered my vanity. By allotting to the purchase of a coach the money that I lay out on your education, maintenance and amusements, I might possibly be rolling in it for a time; but in the end, what would my fortune be, and yours? I should behold you every day sink deeper than the day before into stupidity, and have no reason to expect from you, in my old age, those cares which I had refused your childhood. For a few short years, consumed in all the insolence of luxury, I should be doomed to languish out the remnant of my life in that well merited contempt which a guilty poverty draws after it. With what assurance could I think to answer at the judgment­seat of God, for the omission of those duties towards you, which the will of Providence imposes upon every father; when I should have nothing to leave you for your inhe­ritance but the sad example of my guilty conduct? I should then finish my life in the convulsions of remorse, despair, and terror; and your curses might even execrate my ashes.

O! papa, cried Clara, embracing him, how foolishly have I been wishing! But no watch set with diamonds now! On the contrary, if I had one, I would instantly return it.

Mr. Ford was rejoiced to see his daughter so open to reason and persuasion, and embraced her with the greatest heart-felt satisfaction.

From that happy moment, Clara resumed her former gaiety; and whenever afterwards she saw any of her little friends make boast of precious stones, or other ornaments about them, was inclined much rather to take pity on their vanity, than to look on them with the slightest envy.

CAROLINE.

THE amiable little Caroline, of whom I have spoken once or twice before, went out to Hampstead for a few weeks with her mama. She had taken some new shoes for wear during her stay there; but by dint of run­ning about in the garden, which was the usual scene of her play, they were all very soon out at the toes. Her mama bought her a pair for the present in the village, and having occasion for some herself, sent orders to her shoe­maker in town to make her a few pair, and to bring them up to Hampstead himself. The man came in a few days, and when Caroline's mother had tried hers, she sent for the little girl to have her measure taken; but she was not to be found. The servants went to seek for her in the garden, the pleasure-ground, and all the rooms in the house: but no Caroline. The shoe-maker, after waiting a considerable time, went away; and he had not been gone many minutes, before, all of a sudden, Miss Caro­line made her appearance.

Where have you been my dear? said her mother. Be­hind the curtain, mama, in your bed-chamber, answered she.

But why did you hide yourself child? Because the shoe­maker was here.

Well, are you frightened at the sight of your shoe­maker? No, mama, but he would have seen, by my shoes, that they were not of his making. All that I could say would have been of no service. He would have thought that I had taken away my custom from him. Poor Mr. Vamp, how grieved he would have been!

THE WILD GEESE.

LITTLE Richard Delaval one morning saw a great number of wild geese flying through the air; and was astonished at the height and order of their progress.

Look, papa, said Richard, you take care to feed your geese, but pray who feeds these wild geese?

Nobody, my dear.

Then how do they live?

By seeking food themselves; you see they have wings.

So have our geese that walk about the poultry­yard. Why do not they fly?

Because all creatures that are once made tame, degenerate, as we say, or lose a great deal of their strength and instinct.

Luckily they are not very badly off; for Mar­tha gives them as much food as they want.

It is true, she feeds them regularly: but I need tell you why;—that we may eat them, when they are fat: but the wild geese have no fear of this sort hang­ing over them. As they get food without assistance, they enjoy the privileges of their freedom: and thus it is too among mankind. He that should without a blush rely entirely on the care and forethought of another for his maintenance, would lose his birth-right, and be forced to sell himself for bread; while he, who on the other hand provides for what he wants, acquires new faculties, and is abundantly supported. Not that we should live apart from one another, or be wholly occupied upon ourselves; for on the contrary, these birds, by whose behaviour I would have you regulate your conduct, form among themselves a regular society. They sit upon the eggs, and nurse the young ones of such mothers as have lost their lives by any accident. They likewise aid each other in their long and painful flights. They take their station in the front, by turns, to guide the flock, and regulate their flight. Now, Richard, you must know, these forts of geese originally formed but one. Such difference will a different way of life effect in every creature!

O papa! no creeping in a poultry-yard for me! Give me those that enjoy their liberty and fly where­ever they please.

A TRIFLING PLEASURE EXCHANGED FOR ONE MUCH GREATER.

DO you see, mama, we are ready? I could wish the boat were come.

A little patience! It is not fix yet. And till the watermen appear, I think we had best walk up and down the garden.

Yes, yes; up and down the path that leads directly to the water. When the boat comes, we may then step in, sit down, and off directly.

Dear mama! how fine a morning! one can hardly see a cloud. And look how bright the sun makes the water; just as if it were full of diamonds. We shall have a great deal of pleasure, and be very happy to see our good nurse.

And she will be as happy, I am sure, to see you likewise.

Pray mama, how far does Maria live from this?

We shall be at least an hour upon the water; and then we shall have almost another hour's walk; for Maria's house is at a good distance from the water.

Charming! charming! we shall have a better appetite for breakfast. And when breakfast is over, tell us how shall we divert ourselves, mama?

We will take a turn or two, if you think proper, in a grove that is near the house. And there you may amuse yourselves, and not be interrupted; run about, catch butterflies, and let them go again.

Let me conduct you, sisters. I have been there before with my mama; and I will take you to a little pond, so clear that any one may see the gravel at the bottom.

Right. I wonder that I forgot the pond. We will sit beside it in the shade, and read a little book that I have taken care to put into my pocket.

What! a story-book, mama? And will it make us laugh?

You shall see.

But pray, mama, do not let us come from nurse's till the moon is up; and then you will sing us that sweet song, you know, that makes one cry so much. To be by moon-light on the water, and hear such a song, must be delightful, sure!

The boat! the boat! I see it coming. Where is Louisa? At the bottom of the garden, when the boat stays for us!—Louisa,

the boat! the boat!

The boat? that is charming!— However, give me each of you a six-pence: there is a woman and a poor old man, with four small children, at the garden-gate, to whom I will take the money, with a six-pence of my own. I shall not detain you long.

Where did you meet with these poor peo­ple?

At the gate below: the gardener opened it to throw out some weeds that he had been raking up just be­fore. I put my head out, to observe if any one was going by, and two poor children came up to me. O mama, how tattered! and how hungry they both seemed! there were two other children, not far off, as little as my bro­ther Paul.

Come; we will go and see them.

Yes, yes, that we will. I bade them wait till I returned with something for them.

What a piteous sight!

Poor woman! you can hardly stand. Sit down upon this stone. Whence come you, pray?

From Portsmouth, my good lady. I was married to a fisherman. One night they pressed him, and he served two years on board a man of war. He came home almost dying with the scurvy. He had lost his strength, and could not work. I was obliged to sell his [Page 142]nets, that I might buy him physic; but his illness lasted very long. Our creditors laid hold of every thing that we had; and as we could not pay our debts, our landlord turned us out of doors. A neighbour, very nearly as dis­tressed as we were, took us in, and robbed his children of a part of what they had to eat, that we might not be left to perish. Being brought to such a distressed situation, I fell ill with grief; and shortly after, my poor husband died. As soon as I was a little better, I resolved to be no further burthensome to my good benefactor, but set out to seek assistance from a worthy lady with whom I once lived as servant, at Epsom. We are still a great way from it; and I do not know how we shall be able to reach it. I am not able to go any farther.

And who may that poor man be?

He is my father, madam. He has lived a great while with us; and I thought I should have been in circumstances to have still provided for him, but I am disappointed in my hopes. Alas! his situation adds to my affliction. Having neither shoes nor stockings, he was walking yesterday across a common, and unfortu­nately a thorn run into his foot. I took it out; but his fatigue has grievously inflamed the wound: his leg is now quite swelled, and he can hardly touch the ground, it gives him so much pain; for heaven's sake, my good lady, have the charity to give me two or three old rags to wrap the wound up when I have washed it, and a bit of bread for these poor children.

You shall have whatever you want. I will go up into the house, and see what I have that I can give you. In the mean time come into the garden, and sit down on these four chairs.

Well, children, what think you of these six poor people? Run you, Celia, with your sister, to the cook, and help her to prepare them [Page 143]something for their breakfast. I will pay a visit to your father's wardrobe, and get linen, shoes, and stockings for the poor old man. I am sorry that I can be of no great service to them.

Indeed, it will be no great matter for them in their situation. Do not you recollect, they are still to walk as far as Epsom? They must go very slowly, as the old man is lame. If then they should be taken ill upon the road?—Mama, you are very charitable to the poor; suppose you were to let them have a little money that they may go by some waggon, and have a trifle over, to supply them when they come to Epsom, until they find the lady that they mention?

Do you know me then so little, my dear Celia, as to think that I should not have this notion of myself, if I were able? But alas! it is no way in my power; for you are sensible, we are not rich. I cannot possibly afford them as much as would be necessary for their relief in that way.

If what we have were sufficient?

We would give it to them with all our hearts.

And how much have you?

I have—let me see—one, two, three, four, and six-pence, and these half-pence; four and ten-pence.

I have half-a-crown.

And you, Louisa?

I have nothing left me; I had six-pence just this moment, but I slipt it into the poor man's hand.

You have then, you two, but seven and six-pence nearly; which is half enough to pay their carriage? I can think of but, [...] way to complete the money.

And what is that, mama?

I do not know how to mention it.

Why not?

Fear nothing; let us know it.

The excursion that we intend to make to­day, I have promised you a long time: it is to recompense your good behaviour; and believe me, I have denied my­self this month past, many things, that I might save as much as it will cost us; for you know we must not only pay for the boat, but when we reach a town, we must lay out a little to give Maria, as a present, for the expence [Page 144]that we put her to in treating us. This money is in my purse; but I consider it belongs to you, and leave you to employ it at your pleasure. Should we add it to your pocket-money, there would be then a sufficiency to have a cart for these poor people, and to procure them victuals until they reach Epsom: but the sacrifice, I must acknowledge, is too great. I dare not recommend it. Our long wished for day's excursion would be lost this year.

Dear me!

To say the truth, I shall myself be sorry it were lost. So run Louisa, and tell the watermen that we are coming.

Presently, mama.

What shall we do?

For my part, I know what I would do.

And I, too, were it not for poor Louisa.

Oh! do not pity me! I am only grieved upon Maria's account: but I will write to her by the coach that goes at nine.

Well then, mama, we are all of us agreed. So take our money, and let these poor people have it.

But perhaps you have not thought enough. Refiect how fine a day it is; and what pleasure you would have.

But I shall have no pleasure when I think that I am sailing at my ease, while six poor people drag along the road, just ready to drop down with weariness, because I had no pity on them.

Are they not the same as we are? They will certainly have enough to suffer before they die, and we should not grudge them the small assistance that we can give them.

Do you say nothing, Louisa?

I was thinking all the while, mama, that our pleasure is not lost; for we shall follow them a mile or two, while they are riding in the cart, which will be still a walk for us, and very pleasant.

O my lovely children! How rejoiced I am to find that you have such feeling and compassion! You will never want enjoyments in the world, [Page 145]since you can turn your disappointments into pleasures. Come then, we will not lose a moment's time in having this enjoyment.

Ah, my dear mama! you should have seen with how much eagerness and joy the children looked at both Louisa and myself, when we were come with milk and bread to feed them! They all crouded about their mother, looked up in her face, and were so glad that they did not know what to do!

For my part, I began to be afraid they would have eat me up, so famished were they, and desirous to be eating!

Sure, mama, the elder girl must be a charming child. She would not touch a bit till she had made her little brother eat, who is too young as yet to feed alone.

Poor thing! she is greatly to be pitied. If the care of looking to the little ones be always laid upon her, she will have no opportunity of getting any thing like knowledge, and be very miserable all her life-time; whereas, had she the means of learning some business, she might prove of service to her mother, and assist her in bringing up the others.

Well, mama, do one thing for her. Let her stay with us. I will teach her whatever I know myself. She will be able very soon to knit and few, when she may sell her work, and send the money to her mother.

No bad thought, mama, I take it.

Yes; do us this pleasure, pray mama; for what a pity that the poor girl should come to want, merely for not knowing how to work at any business, like the poor old woman that we all know. She would then turn beg­gar, and receive no benefit from what we are now doing for her.

But do you know, my dear, what you would undertake? Reflect a little.

Why, mama?

I will tell you why. If we should take this girl into the house, we must give her cloaths. I can­not go to the expence, unless you are willing that I shall take a little from your dress, and make up by that means what it will cost. And so, instead of those silk slips that I meant to give you very shortly, you must be content with linen gowns, or perhaps stuff, and have no feathers or Italian flowers upon your head; nothing but a ribband round your hat.

And yet, mama, I told Miss Raby and her sister Kitty that I should very shortly have a fine silk slip as good as theirs.

A linen gown will never look so well as one of silk, will it, pray?

Certainly it will not.

But if that will not become me so well as silk would, the poor girl will cut a much worse figure in her rags.

And then, if she continues thus half uncovered much longer, she may run the risque of being taken ill, besides the inconveniences that want of clean cloathing may bring upon her; for you know, mama, you have often told me how unwholesome dirty cloaths are.

Yes, indeed, I have; but you, Louisa, what say you to my proposal? Should you like to put a stuff gown on?

Oh! very much, mama. One jumps the better for it. I remember what the Children's Friend said lately in the story of poor Matilda, whose fine cloaths occasioned her so much anxiety, when she was out a walk­ing with her little friends and sought to mortify them with the sight of her silk slip, embroidered shoes, and frizzled head of hair.

Well then, we are likely, I perceive, to fix on something; and yet this is not the whole. Louisa, it was you that first offered to instruct the little girl in sewing; and of course I ought to give the preference to you in such a charge; but then you must confess yourself a [...] too giddy for it, and besides not qualified entirely. Neither I or Celia can pretend to undertake it, as the business of the house already takes up our attention. W [...] then, Harriet, I give that employment to you.

Thank you, dear mama.

Wait some few days, however, till you thank me. You can hardly guess what patience you will need to go through the employ. I know you, Harriet; you are sometimes very hasty; and at first you must expect that the little girl will hardly comprehend your meaning. You will beat her perhaps; if you do so, I shall then be forced, against my will, to punish you. Well, dare you promise me that you will never let your peevish disposition get the better of you?

I must say the truth, mama, that is what I cannot promise: I suppose, you recollect the other day when you reproved me. I could then have laid my life that I should never do the same again; but you had hardly left the room, when poor Louisa went to put her stockings on, and broke a stitch that ran from top to bottom. I had so much work to take it up again, I fell into a passion, and even beat her. I was quite ashamed a moment after; but it was done, and could not be mended then.

It is singular, indeed, that children who have need themselves of such indulgence, should have none for others! Truly, you would cut a pretty figure in society if I were never to correct you for this fault.

I wish for nothing half so much as to be cured of it.

For my part, dear mama, I think, no method can be half so good for such a purpose, as to trust her with this office.

I may quarrel with my sister, since she is not my debtor: but depend upon it. I will be much more patient and good-natured with my scholar, otherwise she might imagine that I was grieved for having been of ser­vice to her.

And dear Celia, you must have an eye to see that they do things properly.

Yes, yes, mama, I will be the inspector general.

Come then, let us make haste, and carry our poor people this good news. I hope, their joy will both encourage and reward your kindness.

MATILDA.

YOU remember, my dear little friends, the raging heat that made last summer so remarkable. I recol­lect it, I assure you, to my sorrow; since by having an effect upon my health, it hindered me, for many weeks, from satisfying your impatience to hear from me. To indemnify you, therefore, for so tedious, though un­willing a delay, I shall relate an interesting circumstance which happened when that heat was at the greatest.

I went down to Windsor on a visit to a lady, who instils such excellent principles into her children as justify the choice that was made of her mother to superintend the education of a certain august family. We were all engaged in innocent amusement, when a furious storm began to rise: the thunder rolled above us with a dreadful noise, and shook the house to its very foundation, while the lightning seemed as if it would consume the dwelling every moment. One young lady of the company could not help being frightened. There were heard cries and shrieks pro­ceeding from a chamber-maid in one of the apartments. In the midst of this confusion, little Matilda disappeared. Her noble mother, who was passing from one chamber to another, saw her kneeling in a corner.

What are you about there, my dear child?

Oh, nothing, nothing.

Are you frightened at the storm?

Oh, no, mama. You have instructed me yourself, if you remember, not to fear the thunder; and you saw just now I was not in the least afraid.

And why then were you kneeling?

I observed Eliza tremble; I heard Kitty cry; and that made me unhappy. I was praying therefore for them, and for every one that is afraid of thunder.

THE WIG, THE SHOULDER OF MUTTON, THE LANTERNS, THE SACK OF CORN, AND THE STILTS.

MR. Friendly was one afternoon at home, and in the drawing room with his four children, Lambert, Charlotte, Dorothy and Felix, when three gentlemen whose names were Vernon, Fairfield, and Fitzwilliam, came to see him. They were Mr. Friendly's oldest friends; the children likewise loved them greatly, and were very much rejoiced to see them. They would always listen to their conversation with a greedy ear, as being not only instructive, but amusing; and on this particular occasion sat with such attention, that they let the night come on without once thinking that they wanted candles. Mr. Vernon was, by this time, relating a very curious circum­stance that happened to him in his travels, when a dread­ful noise was heard from the second pair of stairs. The children crowded together in a fright, behind their father's elbow chair, instead of going out and seeing what was the matter, as Mr. Friendly thought they would have done. He had bid Lambert, his eldest son, step out; but Lambert passed the order to his sister Charlotte; Charlotte to her younger sister Dorothy; and Dorothy, to Felix.

[Page 166]During these negociations, which indeed were all transacted in a minute's time, the noise continued, and came nearer; but not one among them left his station.

Mr. Friendly eyed them, with a look which seemed to ask if he, or his friends, should take the trouble to rise, and see what accident had happened?

Upon this the four began their march together, towards the door, but in the figure of a square battalion, each sup­ported by the other. They were now come near the door, when Lambert, with a fearful step, advanced his foot and opened it; but instantly fell back into his former place. The little ones, however, were not in the least delivered from their terror, when they saw an apparition clothed in white, and crawling on all fours. In short, our Sosias, at the sight, turned tail, and setting up a shriek, retreated towards their father, who rose from his seat, and going towards the landing-place, cried out, who is there?

I, sir, replied a voice, that seemed to issue from the flooring.

I, said Mr. Friendly? And pray who are you?

The barber's boy, sir, looking for your wig.

Think, little friends, what bursts of laughter now suc­ceeded their preceding silence. Mr. Friendly rang the bell for light, and when it came, perceived the wig­box broken to pieces, and the unfortunate wig entangled about the boy's right foot.

The tumult of this laughable adventure scarce was over, when the father ridiculed the folly of his children, asking what they had been thus afraid of? They could hardly tell themselves, as having been accustomed from the cra­dle not to be afraid at night; and as the several servants in the family were expressly forbidden to tell them any foolish stories about ghosts or goblins.

Their preceding conversation being thus deranged, it came at last to turn upon this subject, and they wished to know what could occasion those surprising fears, so com­mon to all children in darkness.

It is the natural effects of darkness, and that only, an­swered Mr. Vernon. As children cannot properly distin­guish objects round them in the dark, their imagi­nation, which is always smitten with the marvellous, [Page 167]shapes them out extraordinary figures, by enlarging or contracting what they look at, just as circumstances govern, Upon this, the notion of their weakness easily persuades them they are utterly unable to resist those monsters which they think armed to hurt them. Terror thus obtains pos­session of them, and too frequently impresses fears which have the worst of consequences.

They would be ashamed, said Mr. Friendly, if they saw, in open day, what often gives them so much fright by night.

It was for all the world, said Lambert, just as if I saw it: but I needed only touch it, and then I knew very well what it was.

Oh yes, said Charlotte, you have given us indeed an admirable token of your courage. Needed only to touch it! And therefore, I suppose, you would have let me touch the door, but that I pushed you forward.

It becomes you well, to talk about my fear, said Lam­bert; you that got behind poor Felix.

And poor little Dorothy behind me, added the sly Felix.

Come, said Mr. Friendly, I can see, you have nothing to reproach each other with. But Lambert's notion is not, upon that account, less rational; for as in all the monstrous shapes that we image out continually to our­selves, we have but natural accidents to fear; we may ward off all danger by the sense of feeling which distinguishes what frequently deceives the sight. It is the neglect of this precaution in our infancy, that makes so many of us fancy ghosts in every object round about us. I remember, on this head, a story, comical enough, which I will tell you.

The four children now came round their father, crying out, a story! oh a story! and their father thus began it.

In my father's house, there lived a maid-servant, who one night was sent for beer into the cellar. We were all seated at the table, but could not set eyes upon the servant or beer. My mother, who was rather of a hasty temper, rose from table, and went out to call her. As it chanced, the cellar-door was open, but she could not make the servant hear. My mother ordered me to bring a candle, and go down into the cellar with her. I went first to light the way: but as I looked straight forward, [Page 168]did not mind my steps, and all at once fell over something rather soft. My light went out, and getting up, I put my hand upon another hand, quite motionless and cold. Upon the cry that I uttered, down came the cook maid, with a candle. She drew near, and we discovered the poor girl stretched all along upon the ground, face downward, in a swoon. We raised her up, and let her have a smelling bottle. She recovered her spirits; but had hardly lifted up her eyes, when she cried out: There! there she is! there still! Who is there? replied my mother. That tall white woman, answered she, there hanging in the corner. See! see! see! We looked the way that she pointed; and in fact did see, as she described it, something white and of a tolerable length suspended in a corner. Is it only that? replied the cook-maid, bursting out a laughing. Why that is nothing but a leg of mutton which I bought last night. I hung it there, that it might be quite fresh, and cool; and put a napkin round it, to keep off the flies. She ran immediately, took off the napkin, and exhibited the leg of mutton to her fellow-servant, who stood trembling with fear. It was above a quarter of an hour before she was convinced of her ridiculous mistake. She would at first insist upon it, that the phantom stared her in the face with saucer eyes; that she had turned to run away but that the ghost had followed her, fastened on her petti­coat, and seized upon the candle in her hand. What hap­pened after this she could not tell.

It is very easy to explain all this, said Mr. Vernon; and assign the reason, why your servant fancied thus ex­travagantly. When the fright first seized her and she swooned, the circulation of the blood was stopped, and she could not run away; she thought she had been held. Her limbs were deprived of strength, so that she could not hold the candle, and therefore supposed that the spectre took it from her.

We are happy, added he, that the understanding and good tense of people has begun to dissipate these foolish notions concerning ghosts and goblins. There was once at me of so much g [...]rance, that these ideas mixed with suppositions notions, and deprived the boldest of their con­rage; [...]ut thank heaven, they are at length completely done away in towns; though they subsist, as strong as ever, [Page 169]in the country, which is still supposed to be inhabited by witches, and a train of evil spirits. What I am going now to tell you, is a laughable example of it.

Tom Stubbs, a labouring man, one evening was return­ing from a fair, with Edmund and Susan, his two children. It was towards the end of autumn, when the day shuts in betimes.

Tom going by an ale house, told the children that he would enter and refresh himself a little, ordering them, as they were well acquainted with the road before them, to go onward, and in half a dozen minutes he would overtake them. Edmund and Susan therefore went on slowly, talking of the drollery of a puppet-show that they had been seeing, and, as well as they were able, talking like the wooden figures in it. All at once, about the middle of a path which passing round the corner of a little wood, came, where they stood into the public road, their eye was caught by something very bright that seemed to dance upon the ground, or rise and fall by turns. The father having formerly been a soldier, had frequently told them that they must never be afraid of what by night and at a distance might assume a frightful figure, but go boldly up to it, when they would find it nothing. Edmund had forgot all this instruction. He could hard­ly speak, he shook all over, and perspired abundantly; whereas his sister laughed to see him frightened, saying that she would go and see the apparition nearer. Edmund all in vain, assured her that it was a ghost, who certain­ly would twist her neck off. She was not discouraged by these foolish notions, but went onward towards the light, without once stopping.

She was come within a dozen yards of it, when, behold ye, she discerned the very puppet-show-man who had en­tertained her at the fair, and who was seeking something with his lantern.

For in drawing out his handkerchief, his purse had fol­lowed; and for upwards of ten minutes, he had looked about to find it on the ground, about the spot. Susan, who had always her wits about her, went and searched the hedges, and found it hanging on a sprig. The [...]h [...]w­man gave her, as a recompence, the punchinello which had made her laugh so much; and as they went a­long, instructed her how to twitch the strings, and [Page 170]to make it play in that diverting manner that she had lately seen.

They were hardly at home, when Tom came in. The puppet-man informed him of what had happened, and extolled Susan's courage. It was now extremely dark, however, and little Edmund was not to be seen. Tom began to fear some accident; and there­fore took a link, and with Susan, ran to see if he could find him.

They went very fast, and hallooed, as they ran, by turns. At last they heard, a great way off, the voice of some one in distress. They made up to it, and found Edmund in a ditch, unable to get out. He was quite co­vered with a cake of mud from head to foot, and had his face and hands torn sadly with the brambles.

How the deuce came you here? said his father, as he helped him out.

Ah father, I was running with my head turned towards a jack-a-lantern that ran after me, and, as I could not see my way before me, I tumbled in here. I wanted to get out, but could find only brambles to lay hold of. See how they have scratched my face and hands; and thereupon he began his cries and lamentations afresh.

Tom reproved him very roughly for his cowardice; but Edmund was a deal more vexed when told his sister's luck. He could not be consoled for having lost his share in the diverting punchinello which she knew, by this time, how to play off with great dexterity.

The lantern, in your tale, said Mr. Fairfield, makes me recollect a singular adventure with a lantern in it, that performed its part so well, as to affright, not merely such a little peasant as your Edmund, but a whole village.

I was coming home one night on horse-back, from a visit that I had just before been making to a number of the neighbouring villages, where I had quartered my recruits. There had fallen a great deal of rain that day, since noon, and during all the evening, which had broken up the road, and it was raining still with equal violence; but being forced to join my Company the next morning, I set out, provided with a lantern, ha­ving to pass a narrow defile between two mountains. [Page 171]I had cleared it, when a gust of wind took off my hat, and carried it so far that I despaired of recovering it again, and therefore gave the matter up. By great good fortune I had on me a large scarlet cloak. I covered up my head and shoulders with it, leaving nothing but a little hole to see my way and breathe through; and for fear the wind should take a fancy to my cloak, as well as hat, I passed my right arm round my body to secure it, so that riding on in this position, you may easily con­ceive that my lantern, which I held in my right hand, was under my left shoulder. At the entrance of a village, on a hill, I met three travellers, who no sooner saw me, than they ran away, as if they were possest. For my part, I went on upon the gallop, and when come into the town, alighted at an inn, where I designed to rest myself a little; but soon after who should enter but my three poltroons, as pale as death itself. They told the landlord and his people, trembling as they spoke, that on the road they had encountered a great figure of a man all over blood, whose head was like a flame of fire, and to increase the wonder, placed beneath his shoulder. He was mounted on a dreadful horse, said they, quite black before, and grey behind, which, notwithstanding it was lame, he spurred and whipped right up the mountain with extraordi­nary swiftness. Here they ended their relation. They had taken care to spread the alarm as they were flying from this wondrous apparition, and the people had come with them to the inn in such a drove, that upwards of a hundred were all squeezed together, opening their mouths and ears at this tremendous story. To make up in some sort for my dismal journey, I resolved to laugh a little and be merry at their cost, intending at the same time to cure them of such frights, by showing them their folly in the present in­stance. With this view I mounted my horse again behind the inn, went round about till I had rode the distance of half a mile; when turning I disposed of my accoutrements, that is to say, my clock and lantern, as before, and on I came upon a gallop towards the inn. You should have seen the frighted mob of peasants how they hid their faces at the sight and crowded into the passage. There was no one but the host that had courage to remain and keep his eye upon me. I was now before the door, on which I shifted the position of my lantern, let my cloak [Page 172]drop down upon my shoulders, and appeared the same figure as he had seen me by his kitchen fire. It was not without real difficulty that we could bring the simple people who had crowded in for safety from their terror: the three travellers in particular, as the first impression was still strong within them, could not credit what they saw. We finished by a hearty [...]ugh at their expence, and drinking to the man whose head was like a flame of fire and placed beneath his shoulder. This was what I meant to tell you, and perhaps if such conviction of their ground­less apprehensions had not been afforded them, the story of my strange appearance would have passed from one old woman to another, and for centuries occasioned mortal fears through all the country.

It depended only on me too, in the same manner, said Mr. Fitzwilliam, to afford the subject of a fine story to the gossips of my county, in an adventure that besel me one night, about the time of my leaving school.

I was come home at Midsummer, and had received an invitation from my uncle, to be with him for a month or thereabouts. While I was there, I had occasion to get up one night, or rather morning. I was obliged to pass along a gallery, and had nothing but the moon to guide my steps, and she was very much obscured by clouds. In going by a window which opened to the garden, I saw a monstrous figure, moving at a little distance from the gal­lery where I was. The moon, which cast a faint light on the monster, gave it an appearance rather frightful. It was like a great Colossus, with the upper part inclining forwards. As it went away I saw it by degrees diminish. All at once, however, it appeared to come in two. One half seemed motionless and dead, the other greatly agi­tated; but as neither of the two approached me, in the fear that seized me I had strength enough to bawl out help! help! help! I had but time to utter these three words, before the living half of the phantom ran up to the gallery where I was, and in a suppliant accent, said to me, ah master Charles, do not cry out for heaven's sake. I remembered, as I thought, the voice; and therefore taking courage went up boldly to it, crying out who are you? Some housebreaker doubtless.—No, no, master, I am Sam the coachman. Sam the coachman! answered I; and what are you about at such an hour as [Page 173]this? I followed him, for he was now gone from me, and perceived a sack of something placed against the wall. I now saw clearly what had given him so monstrous an ap­pearance; and why he seemed to come in two, when he had thrown the sack off his shoulders. I demanded what the sack had in it. I am going, answered he, betimes to town. Last night I quite forgot to bring my horses their supply of oats, and they must eat before they leave the stable. So I rose to get it; but pray do not speak a word about it in the house, I beg you: they might think me very careless, and perhaps a thief. It came into my head, upon the spot, that he might in fact be what he seemed afraid of being thought. I had myself the night before, I remembered, met him with a sack of oats upon his back. Besides, it was not towards the stable that he was going; he was very near a little door which opened at the bottom of the garden towards a lane; and besides, I thought two sacks of oats were more a great deal than three horses, for my uncle had but three, could want. At breakfast I in­formed my uncle of this business. After some examina­tion, it was found that the coachman had a false key in his possession, by means of which he had at different times purloined the corn intended for the horses.

Now, if when the phantom had approached, and called me by my name, I had not overcome my first fright, but run away to shun him, with what terrible ideas should I have been possessed all night? The idea of this monster might, perhaps, have accompanied me my whole life, and rendered me a coward, if it had not touched my brain, and robbed me of my understanding.

In effect, this apprehension of Mr. Fitzwilliam's was by no means groundless. I have myself been very lately told of an unhappy incident, which shows how terrible the effects of fear may be on children. I will tell it you at length, my little friends, and I hope, the story will not fail to cure you of a wish to frighten one another when it is dark, if ever you give way to such a practice.

Charles Pomeroy, a child of great vivacity and under­standing, had adopted such a turn towards music, that besides his daily lesson on the organ, which his master came to give him every morning, he would go at night upon a visit to his master, who resided in the neighbour­hood, and there repeat it.

[Page 174]Charles's brother Augustus was a good boy likewise, but had something of a turn towards drollery; and spent the time, when Charles was at his book, in scheming how he might play off some trick or other, no ways mind­ing who became the object of his waggery. He took no­tice that his brother frequently came home alone, and sometimes when it was dark, and turned his thoughts upon a contrivance to frighten him a little. He could walk in stilts. One evening, therefore, at the time that his bro­ther was expected home, he put himself into a pair of very high ones, wrapped a great white sheet about him, which trailed far behind upon the ground; and took a broad brimmed hat, which first of all he flapped, and having covered it with crape, of a sufficient length to hang a great way down on every side, but most of all before him, put it on his head. Thus frightfully equipped, he placed himself upright, and at a little distance from the house, close by the garden-gate, through which his bro­ther always entered coming home. This last was now re­turning in the innocent delight peculiar to a child, and humming to himself the tune that he had been playing. He was scarce come within a dozen paces of the gate, when he perceived the vast Colossus, which held out its arms, advancing to attack him. Agitated with a mortal fright, at such an apparition, he fell down upon the ground, deprived of understanding. Poor Augustus, who had not foreseen the consequences of his fatal frolic, threw away his mask immediately, and fell upon his brother's almost breathless body; and did everything in his power to reanimate him: but alas! the unhappy little fellow, as he found, was every thing but absolutely dead. His parents instantly came running to the spot, and with a great deal of difficulty brought him back to life. He opened his eyes, and viewed them with a vacant stupid look. They called him by every tender name; but he appeared as if he did not comprehend them. He endeavoured, but in vain, to speak: his tongue essayed to do so, but without articulation. He is now deaf, dumb and foolish, and will very probably remain so all his life-time. Six or seven months have passed, since this deplorable occurrence, and the doctors who attend him have, as yet, done nothing towards his cure. Imagine little friends, if you are able, the distress and sorrow of his parents. It would certainly [Page 175]have been better, both for them and him too, had he died upon the spot. They would not then have every day be­fore them such a piteous object of affliction and despair. But their distress is nothing in comparison to Augustus's. Since the unhappy accident, he has been like a skeleton, much more than a human creature. He can neither eat nor sleep. His tears exhaust him. Twenty times a day he walks about the room, and suddenly stops short: he wrings his hands, pulls up his hair, and curses even his birth. He calls and embraces his dear brother, who no longer knows him. I have seen them both, and cannot tell which of the two is most unhappy.

BACKGAMMON.

MR. Parker had been buying, for his children, An­thony and Sylvia, what they call a draft-board, and backgammon table at the back, with thirty men, two red Morocco boxes, and a pair of dice.

The children did not know, as yet, both games; they were a little skilled in drafts; but then backgammon was all Greek or Hebrew to them; so they begged their dear papa to give them some instruction in it. Mr. Parker, who was always ready to make one in their diversions, undertook the task with pleasure; and by turns, sat down with both, while he that was not in the game, looked on for improvement.

I shall not detain you with describing how they reckon­ed up the pips upon the dice when they had thrown them, by the assistance of their fingers; or the blunders that they were every minute making. I chuse rather to inform you, that in little better than a month, they understood back­gammon tolerably well; and could sit down and play with one another. Sylvia bent her study to secure the hit; but Anthony, much more ambitious, would be satisfied with nothing but the gammon.

Their papa, one day, stood by, while they were play­ing.—After some bad throws, Anthony lost all temper, and his moves of course were very injudicious; but his [Page 176]sister, who was calm and steady, carried every thing be­fore her.

Anthony, like other players, while he shook the dice­box, did not fall to name the points that he wanted, either to fill up his table, or defeat his adversary. Cinq and quatre, dried ne! Size and trey! but no: they would not come; and it was always deuce and ace, or double treys, or something to the full as bad, that turned up in their stead. He stamped upon the ground, or when he threw the dice, was so outrageous, as to fling the dice-box after, crying out, Was ever any thing so cross-grained and un­lucky? one would think the matter were contrived to spite me!

Sylvia, on the other hand, when she, in throwing, called for such a number as she wanted, and was disap­pointed, far from giving way to useless lamentation, thought within herself what move would be the most judi­cious, after her bad throw; and frequently her father was surprised to see how she would make amends for want of luck, and in an instant, as it were, recover, when he thought her on the point of being worsted.

And whenever victory declared for her with all the ho­nours of a triumph, she would constantly and modestly avoid the glory of her conquest; while poor Anthony, ashamed of being beaten, durst not lift his eyes up. Upon one of these occasions, when his father had been standing by, and noticed his bad playing, he addressed him to the following purport: Anthony, you have richly merited to lose this game.

And not this only, but the others, I acknow­ledge, for my fault in playing with a person that is con­stantly so lucky.

It would seem then, to hear you talk, that luck is every thing, at such a game as this?

No, papa; but when one has such throws as—

It was scarcely possible that your throws should benefit you, when you played your men so injudi­ciously, and Sylvia with so much attention: but you talk of having had such throws, and there your fault lies; for you paid attention to your sister's dice, instead of noticing her men, that you might learn to move as she did. What would be your notions of a gardener, who, without con­sulting the variety of seasons, should conduct himself by [Page 177]chance in his plantation, and complain that in the end, his fruit was not so good or plentiful as his neighbour's who had been attentive to all circumstances in the prose­cution of his labour.

O papa, that is very different.

And in what, pray? let me know.

I cannot well answer you in that. I think it so, however.

I am ashamed, on your account, to see you have recourse to such poor shifts as little minds employ, when they resolve before hand to support their cause; for tell me, have you really discerned in my comparison any thing that hinders it from having a relation to the subject of which we are speaking?

To say the truth then, no. I did not once think of it. I was only anxious to avoid the appearances of being worsted in the argument.

You may see, then, what you get by such evasions. You were only to be blamed for wanting judg­ment; and you added instantly thereto what is much more to be condemned, a want of justice. By using such a pitiful subterfuge against an adversary of common sense, do you think that he will become its dupe, and yield you up the conquest? Never. He will see the folly of it first, and afterwards the meanness. You will find, you might have been entitled to his pity, but will meet with his con­tempt; and not his only, but your own.

I hope, papa, I have not made you angry, that you speak so to me?

You are sensible that I never spare reproof, when I see any thing that leads, however round-about, to meanness or injustice. Such a lesson you will get from no one but your father; and I give it you from motives of affection, that another may not have occasion to bestow it on you from moroseness. The confession which you first made me, of not having once considered what you spoke, and which only could proceed from an ingenuous turn of mind, persuades me that you will never want another lesson of the kind.—Embrace me, my dear fellow.

Oh with all my heart! I know papa, you save me many mortifying minutes.

I can hit upon no other way of doing so, than this of giving you instruction; but at present, let us [Page 178]come to the comparison that I instanced; and I hope we shall be no less able to derive improvement from it, than illustrate what we were speaking of before.

Let us see then, papa: I promise I will not seek to contradict you: but, provided I observe it vary in the least from what you meant it to explain, you give me leave in that case—

I desire no gentler treatment. I shall be rejoiced to have you give me juster notions; for believe me, when I tell you, that a rational self-love finds satisfaction, even in confessing its mistakes. Self-love, if rational, has always an unfeigned respect for truth, a veneration for re­ciprocal or mutual justice; and that reason, which can spring thus nobly from its fall, is in the way of never stumbling.

Ah papa! I see, I must this long while keep a tight rein on mine.

You must; but loosen that at least of your imagination, so that you may follow while I show the way. I told you, that a player at backgammon should pursue the conduct of a skilful gardener in his garden. If the one endeavours to procure his tree a handsome looking trunk, and make such disposition of the branches, as may get him the most frait, the other is employed in bringing up his men in such a manner, that whatever points he throws, he may be able to fill up his tables, more or less. Those points depend no more upon the one, than the variety of seasons on the other; but what equally depends on both, is this: that they should be upon their guard, in con­sequence of these uncertainties, and not expose the object for which they are labouring, without precaution on their part. The order of a game has many favourable and un­favourable turns, as has the order of the seasons many beneficial and malignant influences. Now the lucky chances, I may say, have a resemblance to those kindly heats which introduce fertility; and the unlucky to those nipping winds in summer, that are obstacles to vegetation. The great point is to foresee these changes. He that plays, is with discretion to run some few risques, when nothing need be feared from his adversary, but to stand upon his guard whenever he is in force; and he that plants is to expose his tree, that it may have the beneficial influence of the sun, when all the elements are mixed in [Page 179]kindly union; but to defend it when the weather happens to grow stormy.

Very well, papa; things hitherto square mar­vellously well: but at backgammon, a good player, you are sensible, not only profits by his own dexterity, but is the better for his adversary's want of judgment, and the faults that he makes; whereas the gardener, if he plays a game, must play it by himself in your comparison.

True, Anthony; but you must not expect that a comparison will take in every object and relation: mine is limited to those I have mentioned.

Do you think so? Well then, I will proceed a little further with it, if you please, papa. I look on all the gardeners of the village, as if playing with each other, to determine which shall bring the best and greatest quan­tity of fruit to market. He that plays most skilfully, will do so; and of course dispose of it at higher prices, if the rest, through ignorance and inattention, shall have less or worse to sell; and consequently he will win the game.

Well argued, Anthony! You now see, I hope, what advantages one may derive from entering into rational debate, where neither party seeks to lay a snare to catch the other, and to satisfy his miserable vanity, but where both wish to give reciprocal instruction, by an inter­change of what they know respectively. I only saw one face belonging to the object which I exhibited to your con­sideration; but exciting your attention towards it, I have furnished you with the occasion of discovering one that had escaped me, and which very likely may enable me, in my turn, to discern some other that it may still possess. Men have obtained no sort of knowledge otherwise than by as­sembling and comparing those ideas with which meditation has supplied them, in cultivating any branch of science. I compare them to as many lamps, that should be placed to burn before reflectors of a thousand different surfaces, but every one reverberating to a common center. It is the bundle of these rays, some far more brilliant than the rest indeed, but strengthened all by one another, that makes up that glare of light collected in the focus of their union. I shall really be glad, if you inure yourself betimes, Anthony, to consider all the objects of which you would judge, by comparing them with others that already are familiar to your understanding; by contrasing them with [Page 180]one another, and remarking, in this contrast, every cir­cumstance by which they may resemble, or be foreign to each other. This same method is most natural and sure. It is a method which they have followed, who, by exer­cising their imagination, have attained to the sublimity and pathos of a Homer, a Voltaire, a Milton; who, by studying the affections of the human heart, have made themselves a Sophocles, a Moliere, or a Shakespeare; who, by rising to the origin of our ideas, have become a Condillac, or Locke; who, by investigating nature, have acquired the praises of an Aristotle, a Buffon, an Edwards; who, by mecitating on the title to give law, and form [...], have been a Montesquieu, a Mably, a Rousseau, a Blackstone; and in short, who by pervading the myste­rious [...] of the planetary system, have transmitted to us, together with the benefit of their researches, the illustrious names of a Copernicus, a Kepler, a Bernouilli, and a [...]; but perticularly, of a Newton: men all famous in the [...]fferent sciences to which their genius led them, and whose names I [...]utimate thus early to you, that in time you may be [...]imated with a wish of studying the immor­tal [...] which they have left behind them.

THE AFFECTIONATE MOTHER.

THE LITTLE PRISONER.

OLD LAWRENCE.

ELSPY CAMPBELL.
(This piece was inclosed in the preceding letter.)

MRS. Macdowell, a widow lady, of an ancient and respectable family in Scotland, after having enjoyed the advantages of fortune till the age of fifty years, saw herself all at once suddenly deprived of them, and reduced to the most helpless indigence. She never had been blessed with any children, who might now support her by the labour of their industry; and every other individual of the family was equally involved in her misfortunes. Wan­dering in the Highlands, she was all day long soliciting a shelter for the night, and a morsel of bread for her sub­sistence.

Elspy Campbell, who had been her faithful servant many years, and was always treated very kindly by her ancient mistress, learns these dismal tidings in her humble cottage, whither she was now retired to pass the remnant [Page 218]of her days, far distant from her former service. She immediately sets out in search of her respectable mistress. There was a line marked our by her misfortunes, and the grateful Elspy had but to walk in it. After much labo­rious travel, she at last found the mournful object of her journey, and falling down on the ground before her, began thus: "Oh, my dear good mistress! though I am hardly younger than yourself, I am, notwithstanding that, much stronger and more capable of working. You, on the contrary, are far too feeble to go through with any thing like labour, on account of your former way of life, your troubles, and the several infirmities that are come all at once upon you. Come and take up your abode with me. I have a little cottage: it is well situated, and keeps out the weather. In addition to my cottage, I have a garden also, which produces me more potatoes than both of us can consume. When I have tried all methods to support you if I can, or rather when God's providence has once whatever he thinks proper to support us both, you shall be free to quit me, if you find an inn with better entertainment: or stay with me, if you should not find one. Be of courage, my dear mistress! I was always [...]out and hearty in your service, and thank God I am still the same. I will find you food, if any will but show it­self, when I have sown my little bit of ground; and if it will not show itself, in that case I will dig down till I rind it [...]"

"O my generous Elspy!" said the afflicted widow, "I resign myself entirely to your friendship. I will live and die with one of so much gratitude; for I am sure, God's blessing will be always with you."—They set out immediated, for Elspy's dwelling. The cottage was in­deed extremely little, but possessed a healthful situation: cleanliness and order were the only decorations that it could boast. There was a hole on one side in the wall, through which a little light proceeded, when the wind was not that way: but when it would have incommoded her, the hole was stopped completely by a sod with rose leaves [...]eat into it, and poor blspy was obliged to be con­tented with the little light that reached her down the chimney. Elpy's bed, which was invisible when people entered, was defended from the cold that would have reached it through the door-way, by a bank of earth. It [Page 219]had a mattress stuft with straw, good sheets, a pair of blankets, and coarse woollen rug. It had not curtains; but when Elspy found that she was in future to be ho­noured with the friendship and society of so respectable a guest, she bethought herself to hang the walls about it with a bulrush lining, which was warmer than the silkiest damask. In this bed slept Mrs. Macdowell, with her feet both placed against poor Elspy's bosom, who was used to bend herself almost double, round the widow's legs, that she might keep them warm. She never would consent to lie beside her mistress; but the more she saw her fallen from her former splendour, still the more obe­dience and respect she showed her, to wipe out by that means all idea of the change she had experienced in her fortune. An old Bible, Robinson Crusoe, and a few odd volumes of devotion and morality, which once had co­vers, furnished ample matter for their evening's conversa­tions. With respect to their repasts, they frequently had eggs, at all times milk, and were never without potatoes. The best baked potatoes, fieshest eggs, and largest bowl of milk, were constantly placed before Mrs. Macdowell.

It will doubtless be a matter of some curiosity to know how Elspy could keep up the honours of her cot in such a state of oeconomical abundance. To do this, she had her spinning-wheel in winter, and her labours of the field [...]n harvest. It must notwithstanding be acknowledged that she possessed a manifest advantage over every younger woman, not so much for any natural activity, as for an obtuse angle in her line of bodily direction, so that both her hands and eyes were nearer by a great deal to the ground than otherwise they would have been, and readier for her spinning-wheel. Besides, when things were raised in price above her means to purchase them, she had but to go out and beg assistance in the neighbouring towns and villages. For this she had contrived a tolerable efficacious method. She would go among the richest farmers only, and when got before their door, stand still, and lifting up her hands to heaven, cry out, "I come to ask your cha­rity, by no means for myself, for I can live on any thing, but for my mistress, a lady of noble blood, daughter of Lord James, and grandchild of Lord Archibald."—If the farmers gave her any thing, or what sufficed her reasonable expectations, she would add, "May the Almighty's bles­sing, [Page 220]with my mistress's, and Elspy Campbell's, come upon this house and its inhabitants!"—It is easy to ima­gine what success this blessing, and the expectation of a different salutation from the lips of Elspy, had she been refused, produced from people naturally hospitable, and exceedingly attached to their nobility. She obtained by this method, victuals, cloaths, and very often money which she carefully put up to buy her mistress shoes and stock­ings; and these, when half worn out, served afterwards for herself.

Thus they lived, both happy; one in her exertions, and the other in her gratitude. The generous Elspy was extremely rigorous on the subject of her duty. Mrs. Mac­dowell was a gentlewoman, and though supported by Elspy, was not to forego the privileges of nobility; that is to say, she was not to do any thing like work, no not so much as wash her feet herself. One day, as Elspy was employed in carrying out a basket full of dung to lay on her potatoe beds, her mistress had come out to get a pitcher full of water, and was now returning with it to the cot­tage. Elspy saw her, put the basket down, and running to her, took away the pitcher, emptied it, and fetched her other water. When she brought it in, she said with much respect, "Pardon me, madam! but you that are daughter of Lord James, and grandchild to Lord Archi­bald, never shall demean yourself by carrying water while I live, and have my limbs to do it for you."

The report of so much generosity in one so indigent, at last reached me who am the writer of this story, and I sent her, every quarter, such assistance as my fortune would allow. As long as Elspy lived, which was upwards of six years from the time of my first learning these particulars, whenever I sat down to dine or sup in company, and was required to give my toast, it was always Elspy Campbell. My attachment to this name generally made the company eager to know something of the lady who engrossed so great a share of my affection. They would consequently ask me, begging pardon for their freedom; when I told them, Elspy Campbe [...] was an ancient beggar woman.— "What!" they would cry out, "a beggar!"—"Yes, but hear the rest;" and then would follow the whole story, such in substance as I have already told it. Hardly ever could I finish, but half-crowns and half-guineas rained [Page 221]into my hat for Elspy. These small sums, which I was sure to send her pretty often, once occasioned her to ask my servant, "Who is it that sends you? Doubtless, he is a friend of God. He does me good as God does, though I never see him."

Mrs. Macdowell died, and Elspy very quickly after, through affliction for the loss of her good mistress. She remembered nothing but the bounty of her former bene­factress; what her gratitude had done in consequence of that remembrance she forgot.

The generous, the heroic servility of Elspy was not, as it might have been, a spark of gratitude that crackled for a moment and went out: it was an ardent flame that blazed for twenty years, till death suppressed it for a season in the grave where she was laid to rest; for it is not utterly put out, since from her ashes it will certainly burst forth again, with renovated brightness, on the morning of that day that never is to finish.