THE Misfortunes of Anger.

SO Miss Juliet has been here, I see!—What put her into a [...]age with her tambour, I [...]—Oh! I see, this rose-bud d [...] [...] look well, so down it we [...], [...] warrant it, and here [...] span­gles and twist thrown [...]. For my pa [...]t, [...] [Page 4] frame was not all broke to smash, it would have been like her.—Ah! here comes Miss Paulina! There's a young lady, marry, I wish our's was like her, but no hope of that!

Mary have you seen my cousin?

No, Miss, not since breakfast.

I left her here at her tambour frame—She said she would work while I read to her.

Aye, Miss, but some­thing has gone wrong since that.—Here I found the frame, and there lay the si [...]ks—Truly, I'm glad I was not here, they'd have been thrown at my head.

Perhaps she is gone to her own room, I'll seek her; if she comes here in the mean time, Mary tell her I am up stairs.

[Page 5]

Yes, Miss, to be sure I will.—( Paulina goes out.)—Ah! by my truth, there's some pleasure in doing any thing for you, one does not get pinched and called names!—So here's the Governess, yawning as usual, but just up.

Well, Mary!—Where's Miss Juliet?

I don't know, Ma'am, not I, she is in one of her passions to-day; every thing goes wrong with her; she was ready to fight with the looking-glass, while I dressed her this morning, and I don't know how many pinches I got for not being quick enough to please her.

She's a strange [Page 6] girl, I can't help laughing at her sometimes.

'Tis no laugh­ing matter, ma'am, I can tell you that, and it only makes her worse.

She fatigues me so! I really cannot stay with her long at a time.

No, truly, you take care not to have too much trouble!

Well, Mary, go and tell her to come to me, I want her to read.

Lord, ma'am I'm quite afraid to go, she won't mind me.

And she'll fatigue me sadly too, well, never mind, she'll come bye-and-bye.

What's the matter with you, Fanny, what are you crying for?

Miss Juliet!—Miss Juliet!—Oh dear.

Child, don't make so much noise, what has Miss Juliet done to you?

Why, ma'am, an please you, she met me in the garden, a­bout half an hour agone, I was a coming up, ma'am, to beg a little milk for my little sister, for mo­ther is very bad, and so she said as how—

Don't talk so fast, let's hear what Miss Juliet did.

Yes, ma'am, and so ma'am, if you please, I met Miss Juliet; and so she asked me what I wanted, and so I told, and so she.

[Page 8]

Grant me pa­tience! How many more so's?

Don't make such a long story, Fanny, tell us, at once, what made you cry.

Yes, I'm a going, so miss asked me to play wi' she, for she said his honour was gone out and Madam Selwyn wa'nt up, and Master Charles was gone to school, and Miss Paulina was up stairs, and she did not know what to do wi' herself.

So, there's all the family disposed of.—Well, child, what then?

Then we vent up stairs ma'am, and miss shewed me her doll, and we played, but at last,—Oh dear, oh dear!

I never heard such a girl in my life.—What happened then?

[Page 9]

Why, miss beat me, yes, she did, ever so hard, and scratch'd me.

What all at once, without any cause?

Yes, ma'am, 'cause I let the doll fall.

What nonsense!—Go away, child, take your milk, and bid [...]he cook give you some broth.

Yes, ma'am, thank you ma'am. (Aside.)—But I wo'nt come here any more to be beat a­bout so. (Mary and Fanny go out.)

Where's Fanny Wood?

Gone home, miss, do you think any body will stay where you are, to be beat and scratched?

I don't care. What [Page 10] business had she to throw down my doll?

Do you think she did it on purpose?

I don't know.—Let her take more care then.

Has she spoil'd it?

No.

Well then, what was there to be in such a rage a­bout?—Come and read.

Not till I have dressed my doll.

Well,—make haste then— (A pause, Mrs. Selwyn works but slowly and idly, Juliet dresses her doll, at last, she stamps her fo [...]t, and says:—

You tiresome creature, won't you be dress'd?

My stars, Miss Juliet, how you make one start.—What is the matter now?

[Page 11]

Why, my nasty doll is such a torment.

Very pretty, to quarrel with a bit of painted wood!—Oh! you silly child!—Come, leave your doll, and let me hear you read.

I tell you I won't.

Oh! you are a sweet little girl, so mild and so ob­liging; how every body loves you.

Let me alone then!

Pretty creature!—What a sweet face!—Look how your doll stares at you!

I wish the doll was a thousand miles off, a little provoking crea­ture!— (Mrs. Selwyn laughs.)—I won't be laugh'd at that I won't.

How will you [Page 12] help it?—Leave off crying direct­ly, or I will shut you up for two hours.— (Another pause, Juliet still cries, but by degrees becomes quiet, af­ter some time she calls.)—Mary!—Mary

What now, miss?

I want Mary.— (calls)—Mary, I say!

Mercy, miss I came as soon as ever I heard you.

You are always so slow.—Take down my goldfinch, and fetch me some seed and water.

Yes miss. (She reaches the bird down, then goes out, and returns with some water and seed.)

Come my pretty, let your mistress feed you, I love you very much— (She feeds it.)

[Page 13]

Yes, you love it vastly just now, but sometimes you are ready to wring its neck, when it does not eat to please you.

One would think Mrs. Selwyn liked to see her in a passion, she delights so in teaz­ing her!

Oh, you little torment you won't eat out of my hand!

There, I told you so, now, miss, you had better beat the bird, or throw it across the room, as you did your doll.

So I will, if I please.

Do, I would ad­vise you!

Dear ma'am, how can you?

Come, eat then.—You won't!—You nasty, little obsti­nate, ungrateful creature,—I'll [Page 14] teach you to teaze me, I will.— (She snatches the bird out of the cage in a passion, gives it a squeeze, then looks at it, and bursts into tears.)—Oh! Heaven, I have killed my bird!—

Oh, dear, miss, I hope not.

Look at it, Mary, pray try if you can fetch it to life!—Oh my poor bird.—Is it dead, Mary?—

Yes, miss, you have killed it.

I!— I have killed it!—I that loved it so!—Oh! how un­happy I am!

Don't cry so, miss, you was not so much to blame now.

Dear Juliet, what's the matter?

[Page 15]

Oh! cousin, why did you leave me?—I am never so naug [...]y when you are with me.

My dear, I have been seeking you, at last I heard you was playing with Fanny Wood, so then I sat down to write to mama—But what has happened?—

Oh Miss Juliet has been in one of her usual furies.—I must dress.—I am tired out with her.—Mary will tell you, Miss Paulina.

And 'tis as much your fault as her's this time, I must say, teaze, teaze, for ever.

Mary, what is the matter?

Shall I tell, miss?

Oh! my cousin will hate me.

[Page 16]

I hate you, my dear, no [...] [...] shall pity you.

Why, miss, my young lady was feeding her bird, and [...]rt it somehow, and 'tis dead.

No, Paulina, that is not all; I was angry with my poor bird, I gave it a sudden squeeze, and killed it.

My dear cousin, you almost redeem your faults by this openness of heart.—How I pity you, how much you must feel on this occasion!

But you, who are so good, how much you must detest me!

To tell you the truth, Miss Paulina, my young lady was not so much to blame as she is sometimes. Mrs. Selwyn did teaze her sadly, that she did, to be sure.

But that was not my [Page 17] bird's fault!—Ah, my poor bird, he will never eat out of my hand again!—How could I be so cruel as to hurt a little creature who loved me so dearly.

Leave us, Mary.

Do not distress your­self so much, my dear Juliet.

Do I not deserve to be distressed?

You have certainly been wrong.

Ah! You do not know half how naughty I have been: I pinched Mary, I beat Fanny Wood!—What is it makes me so wicked, Paulina? I always know when I am so, and I am unhappy, then I fret, and do wrong again.

I can easily conceive [Page 18] all that, you are greatly to be piti­ed.

But you are the only person (except my father) who e­ver speaks to me as if I had com­mon sense!—Mary shrugs up her shoulders and leaves me as soon as she can.—Mrs. Selwyn laughs at me and treats me like a baby. It was but just now she bade me "look how my doll stared at me!" And that put me into such a pas­sion, that I threw my doll across the room.

Certainly Mrs. Sel­wyn does not treat you properly, but that does not justify you. You are now, my dear, more than twelve years old; at that age, though children, we are no longer babies, but you do not seek to improve yourself. You read, indeed, be­cause you love reading, but not [Page 19] with a steady view to your own improvement, and almost all the remainder of your time is spent in dressing your doll and playing with Fanny Wood, who is too ignorant to be a proper companion for you; thus you tempt others to treat you like a baby.—I do not offend you?

No, no,—I like to hear you because you speak to me gently, and I feel what you say. Pray, dear Paulina, tell me what I must do to be like you.

My dear Juliet, I wish you a better example;—if you were with us, mama would soon teach you to be all your friends could wish.—But Juliet, with the understanding nature has given you, you may do much for yourself. In the words of a very great author I will tell you that

Read more, and reflect.—When­ever you find yourself getting an­gry leave the cause of your dis­pleasure, take a book which amu­ses you, and read till you find your­self calm and easy. Struggle with your violent passions, and think to what dreadful consequences they will lead if you indulge them.

Consequences!

Yes, my dear cousin, I know not to what an excess they may transport you in time, if they are not now opposed.—My mother told me, the other day, she had just read the history of a man, who, when a boy, squeezed his squirrel to death [Page 21] as you did your bird, and when he grew up, after various crimes, be­ing angry with his wife, his child, who was in her arms, happened to cry while he was speaking and, in a fit of passion, he laid his hand on it, and strangled it in a moment!

Oh! Heaven, how shocking; do you think it possible, Paulina, do you think it possible I should ever do so?

It is impossible to say to what extravagance passion may lead!—But yesterday you would have detested the idea of injuring your bird—and are we not told i [...] the Bible, that when the Prophet foretold to Hazael ^* the miseries he would bring on his country, and the cruelties of which he would be [Page 22] guilty, he exclaimed, "Is thy ser­vant a dog that he should do this great thing?"—And yet when he gave way to his passions, he exactly verified the Prophet's words.

Oh, Paulina! you te­rify me extremely—I will indeed try to be good—I will not beat Fanny, nor pinch Charles any more.

I wish you may not—It is time for us to dress, your father will be at home presently, and I hear Charles is just come from school.

THE Misfortunes of Anger.
PART II.

I HAVE a sad head-ach, it always comes when I cry so much.—How true is what Paulina said just now, that I make myself wretched by indulging my passions!—Why did nobody ever tell me so before?— She takes a picture from her bosom and kisses it.—Oh, my dear mother!—You died too early to form by your example, the [Page 24] daughter you loved so tenderly!—Wretched girl!—Why do I ever, for a moment, forget the character which my father drew of my mother when he gave me this picture.—"Be like your mo­ther, my Juliet; she was mild and gentle to all, she was beloved by every one who knew her! her dy­ing wish was, that you might be virtuous!—My child, be worthy of your mother!—Yes, those were exactly his words. Ah! how little do I fulfil her wishes!—I, who ill-treat the servant to whose care she intrusted my infancy—Who a­buse a poor child whose situation should make me pity her!—I whom every body hates!—Torn by contrary feelings!—Capable of knowing when I do wrong, yet yielding to the next temptation.—In spite of my faults, am I not to be pitied?

Miss, my master bade me tell you he is going to Mr. Richley's, and shall be back in less than an hour.

Very well.

What is the matter miss, you are crying?

I have reason to cry.

I am sure, miss, I don't know any young lady who might be happier.—You have the best of fathers.

Ah! that is true.

And here you have a fine house, where you are, as one may say, mistress, and a carriage, and every earthly thing you can wish.—Only think of the poor children down in the village: the little Wood's whose mother is so sick, and who are half starved!

[Page 26]

Alas, yes!—And I have ill-treated poor Fanny!—My dear Mary, do go down to the village and give her this shilling; I will beg papa, presently, to send our a­pothecary to her mother.

Oh, miss, what a pity you are not always good, how eve­ry body would love you.

I hope they will in fu­ture.

Juliet, what are you going to do?

I am going to read to Mrs. Selwyn, in her own room, and afterwards Charles and I are going to play.

Very well, then I will finish my letter to mama.

Do so.—I shall not stay long with Mrs. Selwyn.—Let [Page 27] me know, Mary, when my father comes in.

Yes, miss.

Miss Juliet seems very unhappy to-day.

Yes, she has naturally a strong sense of what is right; she feels that she is wrong, and of course is unhappy.

I cannot help loving her, though she is sometimes so much out of the way. She was a sweet child before she grew so passionate, and she has a great deal of good about her still. How my poor lady would have grieved had she lived to see her [...]o head-strong.

Had it pleased Hea­ven to spare Mrs. Beecher, Juliet would probably have been a very [Page 28] different character; she has an ad­mirable understanding, but she is ill educated.

That's true, indeed, miss. I take the liberty of speak­ing to you because you know how I love all his family, and that I have lived in it long enough to know something about it.

Yes, Mary, you may speak to me without fear; I know your attachment to your late lady and all that belonged to her.

Ah, miss, I wish my young lady lived with you, you are so mild and so sensible, and my lady your mother is so fine a char­acter—

I have reason to glo­ry in my mother—May I be one day like her.

You will, miss, [...]ay, you are already; truly I hear of you [Page 29] from all parts.—But I know yo [...] don't wish to be praised.—What I was going to say, is this:—Nobo­dy hears us?—No.—Indeed, Miss Paulina, Mrs. Selwyn is not fit to have the care of my young lady.

It is true indeed.

She sets her no example but laziness, and she teazes her out of her wits;—if you had but heard her this morning—

I see it with pain. She has no command over my cou­sin, because she puts herself on a le­vel with her by mean teazing and raillery;—a passionate temper was never mended by irritation.—By the way, I don't much like this scheme of playing with Charles; Juliet and he always quarrel, and I am afraid he will overthrow all her good resolutions. I mean to speak to my uncle, to-night, about Mrs. [Page 30] Selwyn, not to blame or censure her, but merely to say I think she does not exactly follow the right method of managing my cousin's temper.

Truly I think not.

I intend to ask my un­cle to [...]et Juliet return with me, I know mama wishes it.

I wish [...]e may, miss, with all my heart.

Well, I will go and write my letter.

Oh Paulina!—Mary!—Help, help!

Oh dear, miss what, is the matter?

My brother!—help—help him!—go to him.

[Page 31]

Cousin!—My dear Juliet, what is the matter?—Oh, Heaven! she is fainting!—What shall I do, shall I run to Charles?—No, I cannot leave this dear girl.—Juliet, revive, smell to my salts.— (Juliet recovering, rises on her knees, and clings round Pauli­na.)

Oh, Paulina!—Send for some help.—Run to my father.—My father!—Good Heaven! he will hate me for ever.—I shall be banished his sight; plead for me Paulina!—Wretched girl!—What will become of me!

For pity's sake tell me what you have done?

What have I done?—I know not!—Perhaps I have ki [...] ­ed my brother!

Unhappy girl!

[Page 32]

Oh! well may you shud­der, well may you look at me with horror!—You who warned me; how dare I clasp my arms round you.—Those hands, which, (how can I live to tell it) perhaps have murdered my brother.

With what terror do I hear her, (She leans over her.) Wretched victim of ungovern'd passion!—Revive, fear not my re­proaches!—Ah, thou art already too miserable!

Ah, miss, what shall we do?—I have sent for a surgeon.

How is he hurt?

Alas! I know not how much, the knife has struck him near the eye.

The knife!

Yes, they were at play and quarrelled, Miss Juliet had a [Page 33] knife in her hand, which she threw at him.

How dreadful!—let us run to him!—Yet, Juliet! But why should I seek to revive her!—Unhappy creature, she wakes but to woe—Perhaps he may be blind­ed!—I stiffen with horror!—Ah I hear the surgeon; follow me, Mary!

Paulina, where am I!—You will not speak!—What have I done!—Ah I remember—too, too well I remember!— (She raises her­self)—They are gone!—They leave me!—to die alone!—Alas I deserve it!—Am I worthy that one creature should pity me!—Yet the torments I endure!—Can they atone for my crimes?—Ne­ver, never!—Dreadful idea!—must I suffer thro' life the anguish I [Page 34] feel at this moment?—Thro' life—what terrible fears crowd upon me!— (She kneels,) Oh God of mer­cy! hear me, pity me!—Ah He is a God of justice!—Can he for­give me who have murdered my Brother?—What a wretch am I!

Miss Juliet, are you better?

Yes, Mary.—Have you seen—

Your brother?—yes, Miss.

Ah, you weep!

Truly yes, I am fright­ened to death.

I am the unhappy cause.—I dread to hear—I dare not ask.

The surgeon is with him; I could not stay any longer to see him suffer so.

[Page 35]

Suffer!

Yes, the surgeon is o­bliged to hurt him, to find if the wound is—I cannot speak it.

Mortal you would say? How is it that I have courage to pronounce that horrible word?—Ah, I gather courage from the ex­cess of my despair.

Oh my poor master, what will he say!

Do not distract me!—Pity for a moment the pangs I suffer!—Leave me, Mary, leave me, I implore you!—Go, learn it there is any hope!

I have lost every­thing!—My father will drive me from him for ever—I shall quit every thing I love!—My friends, my relations will blush when my name is mentioned—Never mo [...] [Page 36] shall I revisit these scenes, so dear to my infancy!—Let me not re­call the years I have past—years of innocence and happiness!—Go where I will, I shall be pointed at and hated.—Even the picture of my mother, which used in all my distresses to console me, I can never see again.—I should fancy it re­proached me.—And all this mise­ry I have incurred by one moment of passion!—Oh God, if thou should'st this once deign to save me, never, never, will I be guilty again!

Juliet!—my dear cousin!—be comforted.

Ah! what then!—What!—may I, dare I hope!

Yes—the surgeon says he is in no danger.

Oh my best Paulina!

[Page 37]

I ran to you the instant I heard it.

I have not deserved your goodness.

Ah Juliet!—if the knife had gone ever so little on one side, Charles would have been kil­led, or on the other, and he would have been blinded for ever.

Oh merciful Almighty God!—from what misery has thy providence preserved me!—even now I cannot behold myself with­out horror.—Have I deserved the mercy I have met with?—No!—tho' innocent in intention, my action was guilty.—I could not wish to hurt my brother, yet took the means to do so!—Detested passion!—Oh Paulina, I am cured for ever!

I dare hope so!— [Page 38] The lessons of this day have been striking.—They shew how one step in evil leads to another.—Aweful and horrid might have been the e­vent, but as it has proved, we will hope this instruction has been di­rected by Providence, to warn you of your danger!

It has done it com­pletely.—But Paulina, where is my father?

I hear him now in the hall.

Oh Paulina, I dare not see him.

I will go to him, and I hope, return with your pardon.

My best friend—let actions speak my gratitude, deign but to counsel and direct me, henceforth I will be guided by you alone.

Well, Miss Juliet, make yourself easy, all goes well.

Thank God!

You have had good fortune, Miss, I can tell you.

Good fortune, Ma'am! I dare to consider it as the act of Divine Providence, if not to save me, yet to preserve my father from misery.

You improve, Miss, your language is really fine.

Misfortunes correct the heart, and strong feelings excite strong expression.—I hope I shall improve.

You astonish me—you who but this morning were dressing your doll, to be making wis [...] remarks, is indeed surprising.

I am not a fool, tho' I have acted like one.

No, no, they an't very [Page 40] wise that take you for a fool. I have often heard you talk to my master as sensible as any-body is the world.

Miss Juliet ne­ver indulged me with any of her sensible conversation.

Truly no, because y [...] treated her like a baby.

You take great liberties.

I beg your pardon, Ma'am, but I have often told you you did not know my young lady so well as I did.

The more sense she has, the more shame for her to behave as she has done.

Too true indeed!—my conscience tells me I have not the excuse of fo [...]ly.—But I have suf­fered passion to over-run and darken all my good qualities. This one [Page 41] hour has driven it from my heart. I am no longer a foolish child.

Come, my dearest Juliet—Charles is with your fa­ther, he knows all, he forgives you, he calls for you.

I owe every-thing to you!

I have more good news for you—one word.

Delightful!—

Your father dismisses Mrs. Selwyn.

Ah I am sorry! She is poor, and she has taught me ma­ny things.

My good cousin, how [Page 42] I love that gratitude!—your fa­ther will allow her a pension, we have settled all that since I left you.

Oh my best cousin!—how much do I owe you.

I am overpaid if you are happy.

To be so I must be good.—That will be the work of your hands!—How will you be loved by your friends, by your mother, by Heaven itself!—yes that will repay you.

Let us go, my uncle expects us.

SENSIBILITY.

PRAY, ma'am, walk in, I will let my mistress know you are here, she is walking in the garden with Miss Melville.—Won't you please to sit?

Thank you Mar­tha, don't hurry your mistress.

[Page 4]

This is a pretty room, mama.

Very much so, I see it again with great pleasure.

It is some time, I think, since you were here.

Yes, near two years. Mrs. Melville has been gone so long on business of her late husband's to an estate he had in Jamaica.

How glad you will be to see her again! What a delight­ful day we shall spend?

It will indeed give me great pleasure.

But her daughter!—Oh, mama, what joy to her to see her mother again after an absence of two years!—I should envy her, if I had not passed those two years with the best of mothers.

She has indeed [Page 5] probably lost much by so long an absence from her who is so well a­ble to instruct her.

Undoubtedly!—Ah, whose instructions can teach the heart so soon as those of a mother, whose reproofs proceed from affec­tion, whose praises are the greatest glory of a child!

It is true,—a child must be obstinate indeed, who refuses to listen to the instructions of a fond mother.—Mrs. Melville is entitled to her daughter's best affections, not only by the good­ness of her heart and understanding, but by the sacrifices she has made for her sake.—When Mr. Melville died, he left his large estate in Jamaica to his little girl: on in­quiry, her mother found that the estate had been, and still was, ill managed by the steward; in short, [Page 6] that nothing but the presence of some person interested in its im­provement could render it half so valuable as it had been supposed.—She determined, therefore, to over­come her dread of the sea, which all her life had been extreme; to leave her friends, her sister, even her child, in England, and under­take the voyage herself.—This she has done; has restored the estate to the most flourishing condition, and is now returned to enjoy the re­ward of her labours.

What a charming cha­racter!— (A short pause.) I like this room very much, 'tis so pleasant and quiet—( She rises and walks a­bout)—Mama, may I look at this book?

If you please, a [...] it is lying open to every-one's in­spection, it cannot be improper, but [Page 7] it is impertinent and ill-bred to look even into printed books, which are placed out of immediate view.

"The Beauties of Sterne!"—It has Miss Melville's name in it.—I do not know this book, Mama.

No, my dear, tho' it has great merit in point of writing and sentiment, it is not ex­actly the book I should chuse for you at present. In my opinion it recommends too much the enervat­ing mind of Sensibility, to which I so greatly object.—But here come Mrs. Melville and Isabella.

My dear friend, how much I rejoice to see you.

The pleasure is mutual, believe me!—It is so long since we met, I began to fear we should meet no more!—This is, I [Page 8] believe, Miss Melville, but so grown I should hardly have known her!

Not more than Miss Rivers.—I must have the [...] young people acquainted.

I hope they will be so, nothing can give me more pleasure.

But I forget to beg your pardon for keeping you waiting, I had strolled beyond the garden into the field, and Mar­tha could not find me.—She has shown you into a litter'd room.

No apology is necessary, I have long known and loved this room.

[Page 9]

It is my daugh­ter's now, I gave it up to her the day after my return, and she has already brought hither her books and work—so that she has the confusion to answer for—

It is a becoming confusion, I like to see books and work about in a young person's a­partment.

Mine would have been in better order, mama, if you had not called me away suddenly.—Besides I hardly know where I am, or what I do at present.

I dare say, my dear, you have hardly yet recover­ed, if I may [...]o express myself, the happiness of seeing your mother!

No indeed, Ma'am!—The extreme joy almost over­come me. It may well be called recovery, for such delight is really [Page 10] suffering!

Mine was, and still is, exquisite!—To return once more to my friends, to my sister, to my daughter, is happiness so great as wholly to repay me all I have suffered in my absence from them!

No doubt, every sacrifice we make of pleasure to duty will, sooner or later, be re­paid; even the conviction of hav­ing done so carries with it a com­fort to the heart superior to all the advantages to be derived from a deviation from virtue.

You say true. It was with extreme regret that I prepared to quit England, and to leave my daughter; but the assurance that my departure was necessary to her future welfare, the [Page 11] dread of endangering her health, then extremely delicate, by take­ing her with me, and the convic­tion that I left her in proper care, conspired to determine me, and I am now repaid.

But, mama, I should have been so afraid of the sea and storms!

Go, you are a silly child, to form such a terrible idea of dangers, which [...] princi­pally imaginary.—But, my dear Mrs. Rivers, will you go with me to my greenhouse?—I have some curious West-India plants.

With all my heart.—Children, will you stay here, or go with us?

Oh, they shall remain here.—They will become better acquainted in our absence.

Let us sit down, my dear Miss Rivers. (They sit.)—What pleasure I hope to derive from your aquaintance!

My mother I am sure will be happy in my forming an intimacy with you, she has so high an opinion of Mrs. Melville!

It will give me infi­nite pleasure.—Suffer me to say I already feel I shall love you ex­tremely, I am already attached to you.—Dear Cecilia, may I believe the impression is mutual!

I have no doubt, on a farther acquaintance, my gratitude for your kindness will ripen into real regard.

You are very good!— (She assumes a melancholy air.)—Hitherto I have been very un­fortunate in my friendships!

[Page 13]

You are very young to complain of that.

Alas yes!—The misfortune of too great sensibility is mine.—You can have no idea what I have suffered—what I do at this moment suffer!

You alarm and dis­tress me.—What at your age can have happened to make you so un­easy?

Alas, my dear Cecilia, amidst all my joy for the return of my mother, I endure severe regret, bitter anguish I might call it.

Good Heaven! on what account.

A­miable girl!—I see you sympa­thize with me.

I do indeed, but sure­ly [Page 14] you would not have told me so much without intending to explain yourself.

No, my sweet friend. ^*—From your tenderness I expect the only consolation of which my situation is capable.—How will your kind and gentle nature pity me when you hear the loss I have sustained!

What can it be, when your mother is still with you?

At the seat of my aunt, where I have been during my mother's absence, I contracted a strong and ardent attachment to a young lady about your age.—I even think you resemble her,— [Page 15] you have the same softness of com­plexion, the same sweet smile!

Ah, my dear Isabella, I will spare you the relation.—I guess too easily what you have suffered!—It is true I have never formed any friendship out of my own family, but I can conceive what its feelings must be.—And have you really lost, for e­ver, a tie so tender?

Not, I hope, for ever.

How!—I have mis­understood you.—I believe you meant to have said she was dead.

Oh no!—I should hardly be able to survive so great a misfortune.—Is it not enough to be separated from her?

You fear you shall, perhaps, meet her no more!

No.—She is to spend the greatest part of the summer with me.

[Page 16]

I do not understand—what then do you lament?

What?—Surely her absence at present!

What the absence of a few months do you regret so deeply!—I profess you surprise me!

But I have been so accustomed to see her every day, she is so charm­ing—and my misfortune is too great sensibility!

Can sensibility become a misfortune and a torment?—I have been taught to consider it as the source of goodness and delight—True, indeed, we may be some­times severely pained by the im­possibility of relieving those whom we pity, by the illness of friends, and various other circumstances, but at the same time an active wish [Page 17] to do good warms and chea [...]s the heart, and when we st [...]e our an­guish and carefully attend the sick­bed of those we love, do we not feel such comfort as half repays us for the sorrow we endure in seeing them suffer!

But unfortunately I feel so much. I can do very little to relieve the pain of those I love; my presence of mind forsakes me, and I become unable to assist them.

But pardon me for say­ing that it is a sort of weakness a­gainst which we ought to struggle, our feeling becomes useless, worse than useless; it disables us if it does does not prompt us to action. We might as well not feel for the unhappy, as not seek to relieve them.

I sympathise with them, but my spirits are so weak I can do little more.

[Page 18]

I protest I do not un­derstand you.

Oh, dear Miss Mel­ville, a sad thing has happened!

Oh Heavens! what? You alarm me beyond expression!

Don't be too much frightened, miss, 'tis well it's no worse, but you will be vexed?—

I entreat you to tell me what has happened at once.

Why, miss, your pret­ty parrot has hurt himself sadly.

Ah! my poor parrot, what has he done?

Miss, he was stand­ing upon his perch, when a great dog followed the baker into the kitchen, Poll was frigtened, and flew to the window, dash'd him­self against a pane of glass, broke [Page 19] it and cut himself very much with the pieces.

Oh? what shall I do, what shall I do?

My dear Isabella, don't distress yourself so,—I dare say he will soon be well again,—let us go and see if we can do any thing for him.

Oh! I cannot bear to see him.

Dear miss, he will soon be well, but somebody should put something to the cut.

Martha, will you?

I would with all my heart, Miss, but I burned my hand so yesterday I cannot hold him, and our silly cook is afraid of his biting her.

Will Thomas?

Thomas is not at home, Miss.

[Page 20]

Dear Isabella, I will do it—'tis true I shall be sorry to see the poor creature in pain, but I cannot bear the idea of not assisting him.

You are extremely good!

Poor thing! he is suf­fering all this time. Come, my dear, let us go to him.

Oh, I cannot see him.

Not see him!

Dear Miss, the poor thing knows you, and he will be quiet if you are by.

Oh, but indeed it wil [...] make me ill.

Pooh, pooh, a run in the garden will soon make you well again!

What spirits you have!

To be sure—that is [Page 21] natural at my age—what have I to be melancholy about?

You are very happy!

You have as much cause to be happy as I have; but come along.

That's a charming young lady!—How she runs along and how chearful she looks!—What ails Miss Isabella, I wonder; she always looks sorrowful, and sighs, and walks so slowly, I see that already.—Truly, that is un­natural at her age.

Martha, where are the young ladies?

Marry, Ma'am, they are gone to see the poor Parrot; he has hurt himself, and they are gone to help him.

[Page 22]

Very well, they are well employed.

My dear friend, I am so charmed to see you, and so anxious to talk with you, that I fear I shall quite fatigue you with prate!

Not at all; as­sure yourself I am too much inte­rested in all which concerns you, and am indeed eager to have an unrestrained conversation with you.

I am equally eager; and as the first subject to a fond mother is her child, we will talk of ours. I am not quite sa­tisfied with Isabella.

How so?—She appears gentle and sensible!

Yes, she has many good qualities, but I see [Page 23] with pain, that one of the most amiable, she carries to an excess which makes me wish she possessed it not: it gives her so much pain, and will thro' life be so often a source of distress to her, that I could almost wish to suppress it entirely.

Pray tell me what it is—you really alarm me!

Sensibility.

I am amazed!

I once hardly could have believed I should wish a child of mine to want Sensibility; but I see in Isabella how much it tends to increase the unavoidable distresses of human life, even to create them where they are not; so that I really think had I ano­ther child to educate, I should la­bour as much as possible to suppress this pleasing, but unhappy quality.

[Page 24]

I must repeat, you amaze me!—What! Sensibility!—The first and best gift of Heaven—would you rob your child of that?—Not only is it the sweetest grace of youth, but the principal source of its virtues.—Can you conceive any great or good action which has ever been performed by a per­son wanting Sensibility? Did you ever hear of any really great charac­ter who wanted this endowment? Have I then a right to rob my child of that which alone can lead to exalted virtue, and to the train of delight by which it is accom­panied?—How sweetly, as well as truly, says a certain charming Au­thoress,

I agree with you fully, my dear friend, as to the graces and charms of Sensibility; but allow me to differ from you a moment. Was not Cato a great character, yet had he sensibility, who did not shed a tear over the bo­dy of his son, just slain in battle?

Undoubtedly yes.—First we ought to consider the education which was given to the Romans.—We ought to re­collect that their country was the chief object of their love, and that they were taught to despise all considerations which interfered [Page 26] with their duty to that.—Thus when Cato saw the dead body of his son, he did not weep, because true Sensibility exalted his mind to the height of patriotism, which made him willingly yield his son a victim to Rome.—He wished also to encourage the sinking Romans, by making their lives less valuable in their eyes, when he, to whom they looked for example, could so chearfully par with that life which was dearer to him than his own.—What but Sensibility could have awakened this high sense of duty, and heroic resolution?

But that is ex­actly what I complain of, Sensibili­ty, at least the sensibility I am used to see, enervates and weakens the mind; it destroys this heroic resolution, this preference of duty to indulgence.

[Page 27]

"The Sensibility you are used to see," these words explain to me your meaning.

You think then there are two kinds of Sensi­bility?

Undoubtedly.—Or rather I should say that which is commonly dignified with that charming name, is unworthy of it; and if you will allow me to say so, by what I have seen of Miss Melville's, that is the Sensi­bility she possesses, though perhaps mixed and blended with the true mind. Let us refer again to the delightful Authoress I have al­ready quoted, whose every line contains meaning and reason.

I would have Sensibility a spring of [Page 28] Action. I would have it directed to a generous, firm line of Conduct. In short, it should be Principle re­fined and pointed. I would have young people taught to treat every creature with mercy and kindness, but I would not have them waste their tenderness and affection on a set of Animals. I would have them anxious to relieve every thing in distress, but I would not have them

Far would I be from wishing them to have the word Sensibility contin­ually in their mouths, tho' I would never for an instant have it quit their hearts. It ought to animate, not deject them; to strengthen, not enervate their minds.

You are per­fectly [Page 29] right, my dear friend but how shall we teach young people to draw the line?

By not suffering them to pass it, without reprehen­sion; by not praising them for feeling, by not allowing them to exaggerate their language, which leads to that hateful exaggeration of Sentiment I so much dislike.—Accustomed to express themselves strongly, to say they "love," they "detest"—they are in "anguish," in "extasy," they strive to make their feelings correspond with their words: if they succeed, their im­aginations become inflamed and de­lusive; if they do not, they are perpetually affected and unnatural.—Let them ask themselves, whe­ther they really feel what they ex­press, when they say they love or hate any-thing; let them first con­sider [Page 30] whether it is worth loving or hating, and then whether they really do love or hate it: they will then not be so easily deceived them­selves, which, I believe, generally is the case before they seek to de­ceive others.

I am sure you are right, and I shall earnestly press this knowledge of herself on Isa­bella.

I have always done so with Cecilia; and I wish young people would consider how much more amiable, simple unaf­fected manners are, than that pom­pous prentence of feeling and ten­derness of which some are so fond.

The dinner is ready, Ma'am.

Very well, we are coming.

SENSIBILITY.
PART II.

THIS room is cooler than the dining parlour.

It is remarkably plea­sant and quiet.

Come let us [...]it, I am wretchedly out of spirits.

I saw with great con­cern that you appeared out of spir­its at dinner, and that your mama looked uneasy at it.—What is the matter, are you not well?

Yes, well—that is tolerably well—but the sight of [Page 32] my poor Parrot this morning has made me quite unhappy.

But, my dear, you ought not to suffer it to do so!

Bless me! can I feel as I please?

In a great measure.

I am glad you think so.—Then you are never unhappy I suppose, for I believe nobody would chuse to be so!

Pardon me.—There are cases in which we must feel unhap­py, whether we struggle against it or not: but do you not think much of our unhappiness depends on our indulging melancholy, or striving against it?

Perhaps it may, but why will you not allow the present to be one of the cases you mention?

I cannot think it of consequence enough. It is true I pity the poor bird, and if I were [Page 33] attached to him, as I dare say you are, I should be extremely concern­ed, but still as my concern would do him no good, and as I had done all I could to relieve him, I should strive against it, and make myself easy.

But I cannot—it makes me unhappy.

That is what it ought not to do.

Do you make no al­lowance for the difference of dispo­sitions?

Yes,—but I also be­lieve we can greatly correct and after our own.

And you think I need this correction?

You are not angry with me!

No—but

Nay, that is unfair— [Page 34] we were speaking generally—you asked my sentiments, or I should not have given them; if I have offended you I sincerely beg your pardon.

No, no, you have not offended me—yet I will own much less than what you have said would have offended me in some people; but you speak so sensibly, and with so much goodness, I love to hear you tho' it is to blame me.

I did not mean to blame you: I could not think of taking that liberty.—Let us drop the subject.

No, no, we will [...] drop it.—I shall think you are an­gry, if you do not tell me all you think.

What would you have me tell you?

Whether I really, in [Page 35] your opinion, require the correction you talk of?

I have not a right, on so short an acquaintance, to de­cide.

You will not tell me—but I beg of you to be sincere!

Well then remember you have no right to be offended.—I do think you suffer your feel­ings to govern you too much.

Well I will not dis­pute the word suffer, since you say I might correct it, but tell me how?

Are you convinced the correction is necessary?

Perhaps not entirely.

Permit me to ask you a few questions.

With all my heart.

Suppose your mother, or any of your friends, were ill, what would you do?

[Page 36]

I should be very much grieved!

Of course—but should you attend to them yourself, or how should you act?

I should wish to at­tend them, but I fear I should be too unhappy!

If you were yourself ill, how should you expect your mother to act?

Oh I know very well she would attend me constantly!

Well, do you not be­lieve she would feel a great deal?

Oh yes, I am sure of it!

Should you not be very much distress'd, if, instead of at­tending you, she disturbed you by continual sighs and tears, and rendered herself so incapable of assisting [...] be obliged to leave you to the care of servants?

[Page 37]

Certainly!

The inference is so obvious, I will leave you to draw it for your self.—Only let me hint, if every-body felt as you say you do, and acted in consequence, what would become of those who are sick, or in danger?

You are certainly right—but how am I to conquer this excessive feeling?

Simply by not indulging it—Perhaps your mind will some­times turn itself from a suffering object; but do not heed it.— Force it to act.—Do not say "I cannot"—but try.— Think you can, and you will be able.

Do you think so?

I am even sure of it.—I will give you an instance; I am myself extremely afraid of Fire! and used to tell my mama I believed [Page 38] if my bed were on fire, I should be burnt for want of resolution to move. She took a great deal of pains to reason me out of this be­lief, which she foresaw might be so dangerous.—Last summer, when we were at my aunt's, I was one evening in my own room, which joins the nursery, where her little girl was sleeping, the nursery maid was just gone down stairs, I smelt fire, and running into the nursery, saw that the cat had jumped on a table where the maid had placed a candle, and had beat the candle into the cradle where the baby was—the quilt was in a blaze!

Oh mercy!—what did you do?

My first impulse was to run for help, but struck with the idea that the infant would be burnt [...] stifled before help could arrive, [Page 39] I said to myself "Oh mama, let me now remember your lessons!"—I flew to the cradle, snatched up a small carpet, and threw into the cradle; it extinguished the flame: I then seized the child, and ran with her down stairs.—You may suppose that my mother and aunt thought me distracted; but when I explained to them what had happened, I thought my aunt would never cease thanking and praising me.—She told me I had saved her from despair and distrac­tion; that her child should be taught to love me as a second mo­ther.—I short I cannot repeat to you half she said, or describe the painful delight I felt in her grati­tude and joy.

But did you not suf­fer from the fright?

A little.—I felt sick [Page 40] and faint; mama gave me some drops, and I cried a good deal; after which I was quite well, and never can think myself grateful enough to Heaven, for giving me courage to rescue the poor infant!

Well, I admire you!—but I fear I should never be able to imitate you!

Only give me your promise that you will try, and I am sure you will be able.

So my dear girls you have run away from us!—In­deed the dining parlour is so warm, that we [...]re glad to quit it also.

It is very warm in­deed, ma'am.

I am afraid you are not well, [...]

Not very well indeed.

[Page 41]

Oh, mama, what is the matter?

Are you saint?—Sit down.

Speak to me mama!—Oh, what shall I do!

My dear, you alarm your mama [...] she will be better presently; I will fetch some wa­ter.

My dear Isabella, don't be so frightened! Open the window, and bathe your mother's forehead with this Hungary water.

Oh I cannot, indeed I cannot, I am so frighten'd!

[Page 42]

Silly girl, how can you be such a coward!

Isabella, I am quite ashamed of you—how can you be so childish!

Oh, mama is dying, I am sure.

Dying!—what nonsense!—she is even now recov­ering.—My dear friend, are you better?

Yes, I am bet­ter, I thank you.—My eyes are still dim.—Who is this supporting me?—My dear Isabella!—Dear child, do not be alarmed, I am better!

[Page 43]

Dear ma'am, we are all frightened, Miss Isabella is as bad as you almost!

Don't be frighted, my love; I am better indeed,—I ought to be well, when you are so attentive to me—Ah! what happiness for a mother to be supported in the arms of her child.—I feel your tears on my face, speak to me Isabella.

Ah mama, I am here!

Who then is this?—Cecilia!—It is to you then that I am obliged for assistance! ( A short pause, during which Isabella appears much confused.)—Thank you, my dear.—I am subject to these attacks in warm weather, but I am now well.

[Page 44]

My dear Mrs. Melville, had you not better go to your own room?

I will present­ly; you and Cecilia will have the goodness to assist me?

Ah mama, why do you not say Isabella will assist me?

We naturally look for help towards those from whom we have received it.

Ah mama, it is true indeed I have not been so happy as to be of use to you, but can you believe I did not wish it?

We can only judge of the heart by the actions it produces.

Dear ma'am, if you could have seen Isabella's distress, her alarm—she is incapa­ble.—Oh can you believe your child could neglect you!

[Page 45]

Generous girl! how I love that amiable warmth.

Mother, my dearest mother forgive me!

If you are conscious of no offence, why ask forgiveness?

Can I think myself innocent, when you are displeased with me?

How amiable is that sentiment! It must procure your pardon.—My dear friend, be­lieve me, Isabella suffered exceed­ingly; her distress alone caused that appearance of neglect you condemn.

If too much feeling, or too little cause the same effect, ought they not to be equally condemned?

If not equally, both ought to be.—But this is not [Page 46] a time to argue.—You will in­crease your indisposition by talking, and at least Isabella cannot feel your displeasure too much.—For­give her, I beg of you!

Dearest madam, for­give Isabella.—Look at her; can you see her distress, and not pity her?—Her constitution is slight; the alarm was too much for her.—Her extreme affection for you was the cause of it.

Rise, my dear girl, I forgive the apparent slight.

Oh believe, believe it could not proceed from my heart!

Let us speak of it no more, but correct and suppress in future, I beg of you, that excess of feeling, which renders you incapable of doing your duty.—Come, my [Page 47] dear friend, you will have the the goodness to go with me into my own room.—I will lie down awhile.

Mama, will you not suffer me to assist you?

If I do not, my dear, it is not because I am still angry with you; but because I do not need your attendance: in less than an hour I dare say I shall be well enough to meet you at the tea-table.—This faintness has only been owing to the heat; I have felt it all day.

And yet you have not complained.

No, since com­plaining could not cool the air, and consequently could not relieve my faintness.—Stay here, my child, with Cecilia, and both of you re­cover yourselves before I return.

My dear, will you take a little hartshorn and water?

No, thank you.

Be easy, my dear girl since your mama is quite reconciled to you!

Ah Cecilia, if I had but recollected your kind and wife counsels, I should not have incur­ed her displeasure!

In future, you will, I doubt not, act otherwise.

I hope so!—Never let me again incur a pang so severe as that I felt when my mother spoke of the sweetness of being assisted by her child, when I had [Page 49] not been of the least service to her.—And again, when she said "You and Cecilia will assist me"—as if I were not there! as if, alas, but too justly, I were a useless, help­less being!

Let us drop these un­pleasant ideas, and hope that the consequence will be a fixed resolu­tion on your part to encourage for­titude and activity, and to repress enervating and excessive feeling.

It shall indeed; and still, dear Cecilia, counsel and ad­vise me. Be as sincere as I have hitherto found you; be my moni­tor, my adviser, and my advocate.—Dear girl, (embracing her) how [...] I ever enough thank you for th [...]se generous tears you shed, when pleading for me to my mother!—My heart, at least, has for once e­lected a real friend!

[Page 50]

I hope so, but the same facility with which I was exalted to that character, might expose you to much deceit and treachery.—You see I use the privilege you give me.

Do so always, and assist me if you can, to root up my idle prejudices altogether, and to renounce, for ever, the exaggerated expressions and unnatural sentiments of that which you have convinced me is false SENSIBILITY.

THE LITTLE TRIFLER.

I FEEL so chearful this fine morning, that I hope I shall get through my employments comfortably before we go for our ride.

Yes, and the sun is so enlivening, we shall enjoy our air­ing of all things.

To do that, you must all of you perform your tasks well.—As to Miss Mildmay, I need not remind her, she is always ready.

[Page 4]

You are always too good to me, my dear governess.

Not better than you deserve, Sophia, we are all ready to allow that.

Yes, yes, the praise of candour and affection be­longs to you equally.—But we lose time.—Where is Miss Laura?—Idling, I dare say. I never shall succeed in my endeavours to teach that child the value of those minutes she wastes so abominably!—Nothing but a concurrence of circumstances will make her aware of the necessity there is, if we would go through our duties properly, of being punctual. 'Tis past nine, she must know it, and yet she is not here.—Do, Miss Eudocia, ring the bell. (Eudocia rings the bell, they draw a small table, and sit down to work.)

Sally, pray tell Miss Laura 'tis past nine; I want her here.

Yes, ma'am.

Don't you think Sal­ly a very good girl ma'am?

Yes, I do indeed. Your mama has had her in her ser­vice six years, all that time she has behaved unexceptionably. She was very young when she came hither, and had before been tole­rably educated; therefore I do not object to your talking to her some­times, though I strictly forbid your doing so to the other servants.

We are perfectly con­vinced of the propriety of that. Indeed I cannot conceive how any one can wish it, their language is [Page 6] so unpleasant; and can one expect either pleasure or improvement from those who have had no edu­cation.

Those must have a very bad taste who do.

Dear ma'am, is it nine o'clock?

Yes, a full quarter after; what have you been doing?

Why ma'am, I asked after breakfast what it was o'clock, and they said it wanted a quarter of nine, so I thought I would set one of my drawers in order, but I did not begin directly, and I fancy that made me so late.

Yes, most likely—your drawers generally require more than a quarter of an hour to set them to rights, and even of that quarter it seems you trifled a­way [Page 7] part. If you would but con­sider whether it is possible to do what you undertake in the time you can spare to it, you would not be so often behind your time.—And how have you left your cloaths now?

Oh ma'am, when Sally called me, I push'd them all into the drawer as well as I could.

(laughing.) Push'd them—yes, your things are generally pretty well push'd, as you call it!

You have nothing to do with that.

Come, come, leave off talking, and get to work—but remember I will have your drawer set to rights before you go out.

Oh I shall have plen­ty of time to do that.

Aye!—that is exact­ly [Page 8] your way!—You always have plenty of time in idea, and none in reality; of course you are always unpunctual.

If I am, it is not a great fault.

Fye Laura!

Is it not a great fault?—There I differ from you.—It leads to very unpleasant conse­quences at least—often to very bad ones. In the first place, you trifle away a great deal of time: for in­stance, your sisters have been at work some minutes; of course their tasks will be done sooner, and they will have the more time for other employments.—It is a chance if you are ready to go out with your mama: you have all your work to do; to read French, and to put your drawers in order.

Well, all that is my l [...]ss▪

[Page 9]

Your accent and manner are a little impertinent, but I will pass that over, as I wish if possible, to convince you by reasoning.—Suppose then, when you are older, you should appoint a friend to meet you at any place, and because you forget, or over stay your time, she is disappointed and has her trouble for nothing—That will be her loss, I think!

Yes; but it would not be of much consequence.

You are very slow to be convinced!—Suppose her business is of consequence, and can­not be delayed!

Oh but I should know that, and should be sure to be there.

Very well! if you can all at once break thro' a set­tled habit, you have greater com­mand [Page 10] of yourself than I give you credit for.—You will see, and we shall learn, if you do not regret the many moments you have lost in idle trifling.—When do you mean to begin work?

Why do you take out so much at once? you cannot do it all!

Which should I do ma'am?

This is what you left on Saturday, on promise to do it to-day; and this is your task for this morning, which I will have done.

But there is so much!

Not so much as I have given your sisters!

But they are older!

Yes, and somewhat [Page 11] more industrious: there is not too much for you; so no more dispu­ting, but begin.

(in a low voice.) Now pray do, Sophia!—You cannot think how much I shall be obliged to you.

Have done, Laura!

Hush, don't speak so loud!

I do not chuse to whis­per!

Pray what are you doing, Miss Laura? Attend to your work, I beg of you; you are like all idle people, fond of distur­bing others.

Eudocia, look, look, I say, is not it droll?

How now, young ladies?

My stars, Laura, you are so ridiculous, you make me laugh!

(laughing.) I!—'Twas the thread papers!

Oh to be sure! Have done, I charge you.— (Another pause, then Laura whispers Sophia.)

Do pray be quiet, Lau­ra, you are very teazing.

[Page 13]

What is all this about?—Miss Mildmay, what is she saying?

Asking me, ma'am, to tell her something I have refused to let her know twenty times al­ready.

She is very imper­tinent.—I shall remove you, Miss Laura, if you torment your sister so.

Because it is so cross, ma'am, it cannot be a secret, only she chuses to make it one on purpose to teaze me.

That is very like­ly—But no more of this.

Dear ma'am, it's some­thing so very odd.

Hold your peace.

What does she want to know, Sophia?

I want to know what—▪

[Page 14]

I insist on your not speaking.—You have all the faults of a Trifler, curious, imper­tinent, chattering.—I wish you could see how disagreeable you make yourself.

Here comes mama.

Sit still Mrs. Cecil.—My dear girls, how are you?

Quite well, mama, thank ye—are you well?

Yes; tho' a little late this morning.

You sat late last night, ma'am.

Yes, the plea­sure of seeing my son detained me later than usual.—How do your pupils behave, Mrs. Cecil?

[Page 15]

Vastly well, ma'am except a little—

Laura, I sup­pose—you are conscious, I see!—I too have a complaint to make.

Dear mama!

Yes, I have indeed, but sit down to your works.

Should I sit, mama while you are speaking to me?

No, my dear, I shall excuse as much of your work as you would have done in the time.

As much as she might have done, my dear Mrs. Cecil; what she would have done is, I fancy, rather doubtful.

Yes, indeed, ma'am.

(sits down; Laura stands before her.)

You look a little alarm'd, Lau­ra, but I am not very angry with [Page 16] you, since I believe your fault pro­ceeded as usual from want of thought.—Yesterday, at church my dear, you behaved very ill.—In the first place, while we stood up, I saw your eyes wandering all over the church: in the next place, while we were sitting, you whis­per'd to Eudocia, jogged her el­bow, and tried to make her laugh.—Now, my dear, I beg you to consider how very improper all this is.—Do you know for what pur­pose we go to church?

Yes, mama, surely, to pray to God.

Well then, can you think such behaviour proper?

But it was not during the prayers.

True, but part was during the psalms, which are intended as immediate addresses to [Page 17] our Creator, of both praise and prayer; therefore we stand to show our reverence and attention.—When we were sitting it was to hear the lessons read; that is, selected parts of the holy scripture, the immediate word of God, and the the rule by which we are to direct our life.—Even if the service had not been begun, or had been ended, to talk and laugh would have been highly improper.—It unfits the mind for serious duties, and implies a lightness and thoughtlessness, which ought not to be indulged or allowed in a place sacred to our maker.—Our Saviour showed his disapprobation of any thing which might disturb the tranquillity and decency of the holy place, by driv­ing from the Temple (the place of worship) at Jerusalem those whom human laws allowed to transact [Page 18] business there, saying, "It is writ­ten, my house shall be called the house of prayer, but ye have made it a den of thieves."—I am sure if you were in the President's presence, you would not be so ill-bred as to laugh and whisper, when he was speaking to you, or allowing a­nother to do so; how much less then, when God speaks to you by his scriptures, ought you to behave irreverently?

I am fully convinced, mama, I am much obliged to you for taking the trouble of instruct­ing me▪ and, I assure you, I will never behave so aga [...].

I thank you also, mama, for I never saw this matter so clearly before.—I knew it was wrong to talk at church, but some­times I have forgotten it; now I think nothing will ever tempt me to do so again.

[Page 19]

I am always happy, my children, to be of service to you, and while I see you will­ing to be convinced and to amend, I am over paid for any trouble I can be at in instructing yo [...].—Laura, return to your work.—At one o'clock, you will all be ready to go out; I shall not wait a min­ute for any-body, unless Mrs. Ce­cil can give me a good reason for the delay. Sophia, your brother will take you in his phae [...]on; our cold provisions are all packed up.—I hope to hear a good account of you all: remember, that if you would enjoy the ride, and the [...]ight of the gardens we are to visit, you must behave well.—Good-bye.—Mrs. Cecil, a good morning to you.—I hope you will like our ride.

Yes, ma'am, I [Page 20] have no doubt of it; a good morn­ing to you.

Now, Mrs. Cecil, how much will you allow me, to leave of my work?

That is Laura's first concern?

So it would be yours, if you had as much to do as I have.

I had as much at first.

But mama has not been talking to you.

No, because I behav­ed better yesterday than you did.

Eudocia, when my mother is satisfied with the atone­ment for a fault, it does not be­come us to mention it reproachful­ly.

Thank ye, Sophia, you seldom take my part, and Eudocia [Page 21] deserves a good lecture this time—however!

Then you think I do not often deserve one?

However that may be, you certainly de now.—Have done disputing, Eudocia, that is your principal fault; you have been wrong all the way now you had, as your sister observed, no right, nor was it kind, to resume a subject your mama had done with; and to answer so sharply and so of­ten, shews an inclination to quar­rel, very unpleasant and improper.

(after a short pause.) It is very true, I have been wrong. Laura, I beg your pardon.

Oh my dear, how good you are!—I am not angry!

How sweetly was that said!—How amiable is candour!

[Page 22]

Yes, indeed, I am pleased with Eudocia!

Well, nothing affects me like hearing any one say in that honest way, "I was wrong, I beg your pardon."—I never can help crying, and I feel so sorry and so humble, and so pleased with them—But in spite of all that, I never can prevail on myself to ask par­don; I feel so ashamed, and so afraid of being laughed at!

That is false shame.—No shame is just, but the shame of a bad or improper action; and as to being laughed at, the person who can laugh at another for doing as she ought, must be un­able to taste the sweetness of vir­tue, and the exaltation of humility.—But go on with your work, Laura: I shall allow you to leave off, when you have done so much, [Page 23] (measuring her work.)—You have been sadly idle. Eudocia, you may now read: bring that little book of manuscripts your mama gave you on Saturday.

Yes, ma'am.— (She sits down by Mrs. Cecil; takes a small book, and reads.) "Come ye who love to see what is beautiful—come who wish to enjoy what is sublime—come and I will di­rect your eyes to the bright Moon, which rides triumphantly on the bosom of heaven. Is she not beautiful, when breaking thro' the black clouds which surround her, she diffuses splendour around!—Is she not sublime when sinking be­neath the [...]able veil, she just tinges with lucid silver its unequal edges!—Again she swells above the hea­vy vapour, and shines in perfect beauty. So rises from the false [Page 24] imputations of malicious slander, the undiminished lustre of true vir­tue. The machinations of evil men, the unavoidable concurrence of accident, may a while overspread the beauty of a good name with heavy clouds, but its splendour shall return, and its enemies shall fly be­fore it like the broken and disjoint­ed track, which flies from the face of the Moon.—Comfort your­selves, then, ye sons of men: des­pair not, because darkness, or e­ven the shadow of death, surrounds you.—Time shall make manifest the beauty of goodness, and its soft lustre shall diffuse a sweet and calm satisfaction into the bosoms of all who believed it."

That is very pretty.

The imitation of Mrs. Barbauld's hymn, "Come, [Page 25] and I will shew you what is beauti­ful"—at the begining of this little piece, is obvious; but though in­ferior to that charming production, it is not without merit.—Read one more, Miss Eudocia.

How swiftly does imagination wing her flight!—Ere an instant has rolled over our head she conveys us to the most distant quarter of the globe; she represents to our mind the most remote events!—Time and dist­ance fade before her, and her way is as unmarked as it is swift. We set out with one idea, and without being sensible of the pro­gressive change, we find ourselves meditating another.—Imagination then is like a voyager who, em­barking on an immense river, is lul­led by the found of the rippling water into a soft repose: he awake [...] [Page 26] and finds himself in another coun­try▪ the trees, the flowers, the whole face of nature is chang­ed: perhaps he has in his slumber passed from the most gloomy scenes to the most enlivened, but he shud­ders in reflecting that he has prob­ably also passed a tremendous fall or a lurking quicksand! In like man­ner the mind, wrapt in contempla­tion, may perhaps touch on the confines of some forbidden idea, some false principle, or scheme of gu [...].—Happy those who pass them without harm; who do not indulge in such imaginations, but, if they perceive them, start aside, and direct their course to a more desirable climate."

Very well—that is sufficient.— ^* Maintenant, Ma­demoiselle [Page 27] Laura, apportez moi­ [...]o [...]re Telemaque.

^* Oui, Madame.— (She rises, loo [...] in the book-case, then says) Oh dear, it is not here, 'tis upstairs!

How came it up stairs?

Mama desired to hear me read while she dress'd yesterday and afterwards I took the book into my own room, and forgot to bring it down.

Well, make haste and fetch it; there is so much time lost!

Oh I shall be back in a minute.

What a careless child!

[Page 28] "Narbal me regardoit avec étonnement, et il crut appercevoi [...] en moi je ne scai quoi de hureux qui vient des dons du Ciel, et qui n'est point dans le commun des hommes: il etoit naturellement sincère et genereux; il fut touché de mon malheur, et me p [...]rla avec [...]ne confiance, que les Dieux lui in­spirèrent pour me sauver d'un grand peril, &c. &c.

That is well read; now Miss Mildmay you will trans­late it.

"Narbal regarded me with astonishment, and believed he per­ceived in me a certain expression of goodness, which is the gift of Heaven, and is not common among men. He was naturally sincere and generous; he was touched [Page 29] with my misfortunes, and he spoke to me with a confidence which the Gods inspired, to save me from imminent danger.—Telemachus, said he to me, I neither do nor can doubt that which you tell me. The softness and virtue painted on your countenance will not suffer me to supect you; I even feel that the Gods whom I have always served love you, and decree that I shall regard you as my son. I will give you salutary con [...]els, and in return I only demand that you shall be secret.—Fear not, said I to him, that I shall find any difficul­ty in concealing those things which you confide to me. Though young, I am old in the habit of never re­vealing my own secrets, and still less the secrets of others. How have you been able, said he, in such extreme youth, to accustom your­self [Page 30] to secrecy: I shall be delight­ed to know by what means you have acquired that quality, which is the foundation of the wisest con­duct, and without which all tal­ents are useless? When Ulysses, I replied, departed for the siege of Troy, he took me on his knees, holding me in his arms, (as I have been told) and after he had kissed me tenderly, he used these words, tho' I could not understand them. Oh! my son, may the Gods never suffer me to see thee again; rather let the fatal scissars cut the thread of thy days ere it be half formed, as the reaper cuts down with his sickle a tender flower as it be­gins to open; may my enemies dash thee in pieces before the eyes of thy mother and myself, if thou [...] doomed one day to be corrupt­ed and to abandon virtue!—Oh' [Page 31] my friends, continued he, I leave to you a son so dear: take care of his infancy. If you love me, banish from him pernicious flatter­ry; teach him how to conquer his passions, that he may be like a tender plant which men often bend in order to make it grow upright: above all, forget nothing which may render him just; benevolent, sincere, and faithful in keeping a secret: whoever is capable of ly­ing, does not deserve to live; and whoever knows not how to be si­lent, is unworthy to govern. I re­peat these words exactly; because care was taken to recount them to me frequently, and that they sunk into the bottom of my heart."

Very well rendered indeed.

This is a charming passage!—One sees in the first [Page 32] part of it, how agreable to all men is a candid open countenance, which can only be preserved by retaining Truth in the heart.

Yes, and the latter part is an excellent lesson.—When you are disposed to teaze your sis­ters out of a secret, Laura, recol­lect this passage, and learn the ne­cessity of a prudent reserve.

But Ulysses said, ‘who­ever could not be silent was unworthy to govern,’ my sisters are not going to govern.

I never saw a young lady more ingenious at finding objections. These words were addressed to a young prince, therefore the word govern is used, but secrecy is a quality equally necessary in all situations, besides, you may probably some time or other govern a family, though not a [Page 33] kingdom, and believe me, you would find yourself very ill qualified to do that if you told your servants, your neighbours, and whoever would hear you, all the concerns of your houshold, and every thing which came to your knowledge.—Have you done work, young la­dies?—'Tis past twelve.

I have.

And I.

I have a little bit.

You must have been very idle, for I gave you very little.—You must dress, and set your drawer in order, so make haste.

Laura, what's the reason your poor squirrel has [Page 34] not been cleaned and fed?—I heard him very restless, looked at him, and found he had nothing to eat or drink.

Oh dear, mama, on Saturday I had not time, yesterday I could not do it, and this morning, before breakfast, I had so much to do.

I told you then not to trifle so much time away, in putti [...]g on your cloaths. In the midst of dres [...]ing, you took a fancy of reading two old letters, which you found in one of your drawers, then in spite of my re­monstrances you entirely new dressed your doll, and had only time to take half a turn in the garden, though your sisters and I walked a considerable time.

That is always the way. You will take improper [Page 35] times to do things. You have no regularity, no idea how much time it will take to accomplish such and such things.—When you had the squirrel, it was on promise to take care of it yourself; you shall not go out till he is fed.

But, mama, I have not quite done work, I must put my drawer in order, and dress myself, I shall not be ready.—Mayn't Sally clean my squirrel's cage?

No, she shall not.—'Tis your own fault if you are not ready, and I will not in­dulge you in such idle ways.—Let me hear what you have done since breakfast?

Mama, I began put­ting my drawer to rights, which I had not time to finish: I have [Page 36] read French, and hemmed all this muslin.

And you, Eu­docia.

Mama, I made part of a paper-box, and wrote my jour­nal in my pocket-book, before school hour; and since I have read and worked this pattern of my frock.

There, Laura, and all that in exactly the same time you have had?

Indeed, mama, I will manage better another time!

Very well; at present however, you must do all you have to do.

Mrs. Cecil, shall we dress?

Yes, if you please.

I am dressed, therefore, Mrs. Cecil, I will take [Page 37] care that Laura finishes her em­ployments while you dress.

Thanks to you, ma [...]

Dear Mrs. Cecil, ex­cuse me this bit of work!

No, Mrs. Ce­cil, I beg you will not!

Indeed, ma'am, I am not at all disposed to do so, un­less you should desire it.

Mama, I have done work.

Very well; go then, and do all you have under­taken, and if you are ready, you shall go with me.

Mama, tell me what's o'clock?

[Page 38]

Half past twelve.

And you go at one.—Well I think, I shall be ready.

I think you will not.

THE LITTLE TRIFLER.
PART II.

WELL, Mrs. Cecil, are you ready? Where's Laura?

Not ready, ma'am.

Then I shall not wait; she deserves to be left behind, and 'tis now ten minutes past one.

Mama, she will be rea­dy in five minutes.

No matter, it [...] already past the time I had fix­ed; [Page 40] we are to be at home by five, and we shall have barely time to see the gardens.—It is her own fault: let us go.

Oh I am very sorry indeed Laura will not go!

Ma'am, Miss Laura begs you will be good enough to wait ten minutes; she will be dress­ed in that time.

No, I will not▪ I have said I will not, and she knows I always keep my word. Come, Mrs. Cecil, come children. Sadly, tell Laura to confine her­self to this room and the garden while we are gone; I will not have her running about among the servants.—Lay the cloth for her here.

I am very sorry for poor [Page 41] Miss Laura, she will be so vexed!—But she is always past her time.—To-day, truly, she has been chattering to me instead of dressing, though she knew her mama would not wait. "Oh I have plenty of time, it is not near one!"—that is her way.—Oh here she comes.

Sally, do you know where my gloves are?—I am rea­dy now!

Ah miss!

What?—Bless me!—Sure mama is not gone!

Indeed, miss, I am sorry to say she is.

You jest, I am sure!

No, truly miss, I should not take that liberty. Your mama would not wait a minute longer; both Miss Mildmay and Miss Eudocia tried to prevail on [Page 42] her, but she said you knew she never broke her word;

(with tears in her eyes.) You may go Sally.

Miss, your mama order­ed me to tell you, she desired you to to stay in this room.

Very well.

It is too bad, I declare!—To go without me; and to order me to stay in this room.—What is the reason of that, I wonder.—And George is gone with them. He goes away to-morrow.—This last day, which I thought to have spent so pleasantly, to be so disap­pointed.—'Tis very cross in mama, I am sure.— (She wipes her eyes.) I am always to blame: "Laura did this, Laura did that, Laura [Page 43] is always wrong.— (She pauses.) After all, I certainly might have been ready.—How did I dare say, mama was cross.—What! mama, who is always so kind, so indul­gent, so equal in her sweetness of temper!—It was very wrong in me.—Dear mama, though you can­not hear me, I wish to ask your pardon.—Well, what shall I do while they are gone?—How te­dious the time is.— (A pause.) Lord bless me, I wish I might walk in the garden.—Perhaps mama said I might: I will inquire— (She goes to the door, and calls) Sally!—Sally!

Did you call, miss?

Yes.—Did mama say I might walk in the garden?

Yes, miss; I thought I had told you, this room and the garden.—My mistress said, you [Page 44] should not run about among the servants.

Oh that was the rea­son!—I am glad I know that.—Apropos, I wish I could find out this mighty secret of Sophia's.—Sally do you know it?

What, miss?

Why, I'll tell you. About a month ago, mama gave Sophia two guineas, and told her to buy whatever she liked best with it. She gave one to Eudocia and one to me. Eudocia bought a small writing desk; and I bought a squirrel's cage, and some flower seeds for my garden: but Sophia said she would wait awhile and consider before she bought. Well, yesterday it came into my head that she had not bought any thing; and I asked her what she should purchase with her two guineas.— [Page 45] She coloured a little, and said, "Oh something I shall like."—Mrs. Cecil smiled, and I have never been able to get a more direct an­swer from Sophia.—Now, Sally, do you know what she means to buy?

Dear Miss, is it likely I should know?

No, but you might nevertheless.

And if I did, what ad­vantage would it be to you to be told?

Oh then you do know!—Ah ha!—Come, my dear Sally, tell me, I pray you!

I did not say I knew▪ miss.

Oh, but I am sure of it.—Pray tell me.

[...]ye miss!—Consider, if I did know, your sister must [Page 46] have told me in confidence; and do you think I would betray her?—Oh no, my good mistress has taught me better!

Well, you know, how­ever; so she has determined on something, that is one step gained—I shall soon guess what!

But, Miss Laura, who told you I knew?

Who?—yourself?

I!—that I could not!—I said if, but it was only sup­posing!

What then you don't know!

(laughing) That you should really fancy Miss Mildmay had told me!—Surely she would have told you first!

No, no, she would not.

Why, miss?

Because she thinks I should tell.

[Page 47]

Then you believe she thinks I would not?

I suppose so!

You [...] me a great compliment, miss; which I will try to deserve.

Well, I cannot tell whether you know or not, but I have not [...] you all.—Mrs. Ce­cil and Sophia have risen half an hour earlier than common this last fortnight, and I wish I knew what for; I never could find out how they had employed them­selves.

Well, miss, if I might venture to speak, I should say it was not worth taking so much trouble to know.

If I think it is, that's enough.—I do not ask your ad­vice.

I beg your pardon, miss.

[Page 48]

You may go.

Let me consider [...]—What can Sophia warn to pur­chase—books [...] has plenty, and mama is always buying fo [...].—A box of colours.—She [...] one.—New musick—perhaps—but why make a secret of it!—Ah!—a locket of mama's hair! That must be it!—I dare say it is very pretty, and she means to surprise us with it, I suppose!—But then what have Mrs. Cecil and Sophia been doing in the morning?—Oh, perhaps, they are painting a device for it.—Yes, yes, that is it!

Miss, there is a woman below stairs, in great distress; she is very poor, and she begs to see you.

[Page 49]

Well shew her up; I will speak to her here.

Yes, miss.

What shall I be able to do for her, I have but half a crown, but I can speak to mama.

That is Miss Laura.

Come in good woman.

What can I do for you?

Miss I came to beg some relief from my lady, but your ser­vants tell me she is not at home, so I made bold to ask leave to speak to you, miss.

Very well; what can I do to serve you?

Alas aday, my young [Page 50] lady, I am grievous poor; I am a widow, with three children, the eldest of 'em is out at service, but the two little ones are too young to go out: my old mother lives with us; she is helpless, and you may think, miss, I find it hard to keep so many with the work of my own hands.—In the summer, I work in the fields: in the win­ter, I spin; and my children help me as well as they can. For two years, that my husband has been dead, we have done pretty well, 'till this last winter.

What happened then?

Alas, miss! in the au­tumn, I was so unhappy as to get an ague, which hindered my working a great deal; my children could do but little; they began to get dirty and ragged; it [...]ut me to the heart to see them so, [Page 51] and not be able to help them!—To complete my misfortune, a dog got into my little garden, and killed my two hens, whose eggs used to furnish us with a sure penny. Things went from bad to worse; I was fain to run in debt to my landlord, and tho' now the summer is coming on, and I am better, I hope I should be able to pay him; the cruel man de­clares he will seize for rent to-mor­row morning.

What is seizing for [...]ent.

Ah, miss! he will take all our little cloaths and furniture, and the very beds we lye on, my poor old mother's and all, to sell them, and pay himself.

Can he be so cruel!—Is he poor?

No, miss, he has four [Page 52] hundred pounds a year, and only himself and his wife to keep.—What will become of my poor children, and my mother!—At seventy years old; must she be turned out to starve?

(eagerly.) No, [...]o, she shall not—be easy—I promise you she shall not.—Poor, good woman, how I pity you—but what do you owe this unfeeling wretch?

Oh, good young lady, a great deal!

But how much?

Thirty shillings, for half a year's rent.

Oh, how unfortunate I am!—If I had not spent my guinea, I should have had almost enough; and perhaps he would have waited awhile.

Ah, miss, you are [Page 53] very good!—but don't think I came here to beg my lady to pay for me; no, indeed, miss I only thought if she would speak to my landlord, he would may-be wait a little; and indeed I hope I shall pay him every farthing.

I am sure mama will do that and perhaps more. I will speak to her for you good woman; make yourself easy, I will do all I can for you.

Thank you a thousand times, good young lady; we shall all pray for, and bless you. I have often seen your two sisters walking with Madam Cecil, and I have thought when Miss Mild­may looked so kindly on my poor little girls, while they opened the gate for her, and said with her sweet voice, "Poor children, there's a penny for you."—I have [Page 54] thought if she did but know how wretched we were, she would speak to my lady for us; but I had not the heart to tell her, 'till now; things getting so bad, I thought I would try at least.

You did very right.—Call again at six o'clock; I will see you, and before that I will speak to mama, you may depend on it.—In the mean time, I will give you this half crown; I have no more.

No, miss, I thank you, I will not rob you; you will do all for me in speaking to your ma­ma.—She is so good, she deserves to have good children, and she is rewarded!

But I insist on your ta­king this money; I wish it was more.

It does not become me to refuse your favors.

[Page 55]

Take it, buy something with it for your mother.—Good woman, I love you for being so kind to her! (She calls) Sally!

Take this good woman with you, and give her something to eat: mama will not object to that.

No, miss, I am sure.

And when she comes again, let me know.—A good day to you.—Oh, tell me your name?

Ruth Saunders, miss.

Very well, I shall re­member.

Your servant, miss, a thousand thanks.

Well, I shall not re­gret being left at home, since it has been the cause of my seeing this poor woman.

Do you know that woman, Sally?

Yes, miss, I have seen her often; she is very poor.

So I hear—but why I wonder did she never come hither before?

Ah, miss! 'tis very hard to beg; people who have been u­sed to keep themselves by their own industry, are ashamed and afraid to ask relief.

Ashamed, perhaps; but why afraid?

Because, miss, so many gentlefolks are cross and hard­hearted; and one says—"Where did you learn all that history," and another says, "Ah, a sad sto­ry, if it is true!"

But that is abominable if we don't chuse to give, we need not insult the poor creature who begs from us.

[Page 57]

Very true, miss, but too many don't think of that; they forget that a beggar has any feel­ing. I once saw a poor man col­our like scarlet, and his eyes spar­kle with anger, at a gentleman, who said he was an impostor; but, poor wretch, he recollected him­self, put his hand on his bosom, sighed and passed on.—I gave him a trifle; he bowed, and I saw the tears in his eyes; he did not speak.—Poor creature, truly he was cut to the heart.

You are a good girl, Sally—but tell me what you know of this poor woman?

Why, miss, she lives in a little cottage just at the end of the village, and keeps it very neat when she is well; she has two pretty children, and her mother (a good old woman) lives with her▪ [Page 58] the old woman is lame, but has all her senses, and when dame Saun­ders was so ill, the poor old woman used to cry, and the little girls, thinking to comfort her, said, "Don't cry grandmother, I will feed you, and put on your clean cap for you."

Poor little dears!—how did you know this, Sally?

Oh I heard [...]hem one day, miss; when I was walking by the house, I saw the poor wo­man standing at the door; she look'd sickly, so I asked her a few questions, and found the ague was off that day, and she had crept to the door for a little air.

And when was this?

About a month ago, miss.

And why did you not t [...]ll mama?

I did, miss, and my [Page 59] mistress ordered the cook to send her some broth twice or three times, and Miss Sophia sent her a shilling.

I never heard of that.

No, miss, because Miss Sophia never tells the good she does.

That is right, but I wonder I don't hear of it.—Indeed I never see any poor people; they don't come here, I fancy?

No, miss, your gover­ness and sisters find them out when they walk of a morning before breakfast.

That may be, for I don't know how, I seldom have time to walk of a morning. Well, I will walk in the garden, and then learn my grammar-task; then, for once, I shall be beforehand.—Af­terwards I will dine.—You will lay the cloth, Sally.

[Page 60]

Yes, miss.

(putting the room in order.)

Miss Laura is very good; she has an excellent heart, but she is so light-headed and careless; 'tis a great pity, and I hope she will break herself of it in time; no doubt she will, for she has very good sense. Well, this room will do now.

THE LITTLE TRIFLER.
PART III.

Mrs. Mildmay, Mrs. Cecil, Sophia, Eudocia, taking off their Cloaks and Hats, which they give to Sally.

WHERE is Laura, Sally?

Ma'am, she is walking in the garden.

Has she dined

Yes, ma'am.

Well, call her hither directly.

[Page 62]

We have had a delightful day indeed.

Very charming; and our little hasty dinner I enjoyed wonderfully.

I never ate with better appetite in my life, than in the snug little cottage George found out for us.

I only wished for Laura.

That indeed was only wanting to make our party com­plete.

Oh, mama, are you returned; I did not expect you quite so soon.

'Tis past [...]; but, Laura, your brother has not ordered his phaeton from the door, having prevailed on me to suffer you to take a little ride with him.

[Page 63]

And ma [...] [...] ▪ mama?

[...] if you have behaved well [...] we have been go [...]e.

Yes indeed, mama, I have only been in this room and the garden, and I have learned my grammar-task.

Well, go then.

Yes, mama, thank you! thank you!—

Pshaw, nonsense!

Aye, but I have indeed.

Come, come, Laura, get your hat, and be gone; your brother waits.

Yes, mama—Good bye—Good bye, Mrs. Cecil, Sophia, Eudocia, your most obedient.

What did she say to you, Sophia?

[Page 64]

[...] she had discov­ered my [...] [...]ma.

What does she mean?

You know, mama, how I have disposed of the two guineas you were so good as to give me▪ and Laura has been teazing me since yesterday to know what I mean to buy: I refused to tell her, and she fancies she has guess'd it.

Silly child, how light her head is!

But perhaps she really knows.—She may have learned from Sally, who bought my mate­rials, and even assisted in the work.

No, I believe Sal­ly is perfectly faithful.

I believe so too.—We will ask her presently, if Laura has been questioning her.—But why did you so much object to Laura's knowing it, my dear.

[Page 65]

Because mama, Laura can no more keep a [...], than she can let any one else keep it in peace, and I know she would have told every-body she had met with; which, for many reasons, I wish'd to avoid.

It is very true, that those who are extremely cu­rious, are generally unable to keep a secret, because it gratifies their self-importance, to shew that they know more than others, and be­cause they hope to obtain new se­crets, in return for those they tell: not considering, that a wise person will never place confidence in one who has abused the same trust from another.

There is nothing, I think, on which young people ought to be more scrupulous than on the subject of Confidence.—Let [Page 66] them not be over-fond of seeking a trust, which generally brings with it anxiety and care; but if by any accident, or any necessity, they find themselves in possession of a secret, they ought, with ex­treme delicacy and caution, to preserve a trust so sacred.

Most surely.—And the limits of Confidence are very strict.—It is not only what our friends say, prefaced by "I beg you will not tell this," which we ought to consider as confided to us. Every thing which we can suppose they would not wish re­vealed, we ought to consider as told in confidence. Having once confi­ded in a person, we do not say eve­ry minute, "don't mention that."—We suppose their own prudence will teach them what ought to be kept secret; and every thing is told [Page 67] in confidence which passes between friends, either relating to their situations, sentiments, or opinions; often, indeed, when referring to these circumstances in others.

Mama, I have heard people say, that we ought not to tell to one friend what another has told us.

Certainly not. The person who confides in you may not have an equally good opinion of your friend, or circumstances may render it very improper to entrust her. You may not be able to judge of these circumstances; therefore you ought to be as reser­ved to her as to the rest of the world: besides, she also might have a friend, to whom she might not scruple to tell the secret; that friend another, and so on without any bound.

[Page 68]

I see that very clear­ly.—But suppose I should, know the person who entrusts me is also very intimate with my friend, and loves her, might I not then talk about the affair with her?

No, not with­out leave from the person who en­trusts you; if she chuses to tell this third person, she can; if not, you may be sure she has some reason against it. I lately read a story exactly in point.—When Gen. Monk projected the Restoration of Charles the IId. he maintained the strictest reserve on the subject, e­ven to his friends.—He sent, how­ever, for his brother, Dr. Monk, intending to confide his plan to him, and even giving him some hints respecting it.—When Dr. Monk arrived, while waiting for admis­sion to the General, he entered in­to [Page 69] conversation with the General's Chaplain, in whom he knew he confided and talked with him on the plan.—When he was admitted to his brother, the General asked him if he had mentioned the subject to any one?—"To nobody," said the Doctor, "but to your Chap­lain, whom I know you trust."—The General immediately changed countenance, dropped the discourse and soon after sent his brother a­way; not chusing to trust a man who had talked on a subject of so much consequence to another, even tho' he would himself have trusted him ^*. A proof of his wisdom; for surely Dr. Monk had evident­ly shewed a want of delicacy in his se [...]ments, which rendered [Page 70] him u [...]it to have the care of a plan so important!

I admire the General's conduct extremely.

He was undoubt­edly right. The faculty of keep­ing a secret is highly necessary, yet rarely possessed. I made Laura remark that admirable pas­sage in Telemachus to-day, because I remember the effect it had on myself. ^† Always fond of read­ing, Telemachus fell early into my hands: I was not above eight years old when that passage struck me; I reflected on it, and it has in­fluenced my conduct ever since. Such indeed has been the constant advantage I have derived from books.—My mother died [...]ung: [Page 71] and my father, encumbered with the care of a family, left us in great measure to educate ourselves. I was naturally very passionate, very idle, fond of beginning every thing, and ending nothing; but with a constant fondness for [...]d­ing, which in the end supplied to me the place of an instructor.—The same author, I have always loved so much, says in another place ^* "Heureux ceux qui se di­vertissent [Page 72] en s'intruisant, et qui se plaisent à cultiver leur ésprit par les sciences! En quelque endroit que la fortune ennemie les jette, ils portent [...]o [...]jours avec eux dequoi s'entretenir Et l'ennui, qui devore les [...] au milieu même des delices, [...]st inconnu à ceux qui savents' occuper par quelque lecture. Heureux ceux qui aiment à lire."—When I saw any very amiable character represented in my books, I considered whether I had, or wanted the qualities I admired so much. This was often a most unpleasant task, but I obliged my­self to persevere in the inquiry; and having decided, tried to act accordingly.—When I read of any disagreeable character, and my heart told me I had its faults, I did not drive the conviction from me, but tried to correct myself.

[Page 73]

An admira­ble example, and well worthy of being followed by those young people whose parents are either dead, or so engaged in business, as not to be able to attend to them: such young people would do well to observe the convictions of their own heart, and reason, and follow them, not refuse to listen to them.

I have often heard people say, it is of no use to read without reflection; but I never quite understood what was meant [...] reflection, before. However, we are very happy in having a mother and governess so well able to instruct us.

Very true, you have great advantages; but, that does not render reflection less necessary to you: without it, our [Page 74] precepts will be soon forgotten; and when you come to act for yourself, you will look round for those rules by which indeed you have been guided, but which you have neglected to implant in your heart; and missing them, you will no more know how to act in the world, than a man to find his way thro' a wood, which he had often seen at a distance, but whose particular situation he had neglect­ed to mark.

Pray, ma'am, is Miss Laura here?

No, Sally, she is gone out with her brother.—Why; do you want her?

Ma'am, there is a poor woman below, who came while you were out: she saw Miss Lau­ra, [Page 75] who desired her to call again at six o'clock.—It is six o'clock now.

Yes, but Laura has surely forgotten the appoint­ment!—Idle child!—she will never learn to be punctual.—Where is the woman? I will see her.

She is down stairs, ma'am. It is Dame Saunders.

Indeed!—then perhaps—but she kn [...]w nothing of it: so Laura could not learn from her.

What, is it the woman for whom your gift was in­tended!

Yes, mama.

Sally, did Laura question you about the pur­chase Miss Mildmay meant to make with her two guineas?

Yes, ma'am, but I told her nothing; indeed she does not [Page 76] know that I know any thing about it.

That is right,—Come with me, Sophia; we will talk to the poor woman.

How shameful for Laura to have neglected an appoint­ment; on which, probably, the peace and happiness of this poor woman depended!—And to have been surpassed by her servant in faithfulness and secresy!—All her faults proceed from carless­ness, inattention, and want of punctuality.—Great vices, as well as great virtues, are rare; but it is those errors, which seem at first trifling, but which grow upon us by degrees, of which we ought principally to beware.

[Page 77]

But, Mrs. Cecil Laura is so young.

Yes, she is young; but, with the advantages she has, she ought to know better: however, she has a good heart and understand­ing▪ and, I hope, she will correct herself.

Oh yes, I hope so!

Oh, Mrs. Cecil, mama has rendered this poor woman so happy [...]—She has been in the greatest distress about her rent: mama has given her money to pay it, and money to buy food and cloaths. I have desired her to wait, while Sally fetches down the box I design for her▪—Will you go with me, and give it to her?

[Page 78]

With all my heart.

Pray, sister, let me go also.

My dear, I should be happy to do so; but I wish very much you would be kind enough to stay in this room. Laura will be at home in a few minutes; if she finds no one here, she will follow us; and mama is determined to punish her, for neglecting this poor woman, by leaving her in doubt whether she has been here or not.

Very well—I will call with you, then, to-morrow.

If you please; you o­blige me extremely by this compli­ance.—Only think, Laura had promised Ruth Saunders to repre­sent her situation to mama, and to give her the answer at six o'clock. [Page 79] She forgot all that!—but she gave her all the money she had; and Ruth said, behaved so kindly to her, as to make her quite happy.

How capable she is of behaving well, if she does but think!

It is very true, in­deed, that a habit of carelessness injures one extremely.—Laura this morning could not believe she should ever neglect an appointment of consequence.—Oh here she comes!

So, Eudocia!—Where are mama and Mrs. Cecil; and Sophia, I don't see her either!—We have had a charming ride! My brother was very good to take me out, and he has been telling [Page 80] me such delightful things about the [...]ights in Philadelphia; he promises to ask mama to let me go next au­tumn, and see them.—Shall you not wish me to go, Eudocia?

To be sure; why do you think I would not?

Oh, because you looked so grave.

Did I look grave?

Yes, I think so.—Have you drank tea?

No: of course we should wait for my brother.

And for me, I hope you think I am of consequence enough to be waited for!

(smiling.) What do you think?

Ah you [...]y girl!—I know what you [...]: 'tis true, mama did not think so this morn­ing.

[Page 81]

I assure you, we all wished for you.

Oh I don't doubt it at all. I shall be more punctual a­nother time; for tho' I liked my ride, it did not make amends for losing so much pleasure.—And George must go to-morrow: he says it will be a month before he comes again.—How good he is; how I love him!

How we all love him—He is so attentive to us all!—Oh here comes Sophia.

Sophia, what are you come [...]?

Yes, I have been ex­tremely [...]lighted!

Was [...]he pleased?

Oh [...] one so happy▪

[Page 82]

So! so!—More secrets—Ah ha Sophia!—I have found out the last however!—Another time, I hope, you will trust me!

Not the sooner because I find you curious, and prying in­to what I wish to hide from you.

Well, but my little Sophia, my dear sweet Sophia, don't be angry; you know I could not help guessing!

You guess'd, did you?

Yes, I guess'd: well, Sophia, is it very beautiful?

Oh, very beautiful, if one did but know what you meant.

You don't then, I sup­pose?—Is the device handsome?

The device!—What nonsense!

What, then, I suppose you will not own you have pur­chased a locket, with mama's hair?

[Page 83]

You have a fine guess, indeed!

A true one, I fancy?

For once, you are en­tirely mistaken.

What can it be then!—Now, Sophia, do tell me.

Perhaps—

Oh do, pray do; in­deed I will not tell.

I wish I had more rea­son [...] trust your [...] however, 'tis no longer [...], so, if you wish it, I will tell you.

Oh yes, yes, make haste, Sophia, make haste!

You must know then, that, during the winter, I observed two pretty little girls, in the vil­lage, almost without cloaths: I pitied them very much, and wished I could relieve them. I began by saving all I could out of my allow­ance, [Page 84] and had already some shil­lings in advance, when mama gave me the two guineas: with her leave, I laid it out entirely in cloaths for the two little girls, and their mother, of whose distress I heard sad accounts.—Mrs. Cecil, Sally and I, have been hard at work in making these cloaths, whenever we could find time, and all is now finished.

So, then, Sally knew!

Yes.

She would not tell!

What, you tried to make her?

I asked her—a little.

Fye, fye, Laura!—You must have supposed she knew in confidence, if she knew at all! On­ly think what a shame, that your servant should know better how to act with respect to secresy than you.

[Page 85]

Well, that is true; but, Sophia, who are these little girls?

Their mother's name is Ruth Saunders.

Ruth Saunders!—Oh goodness!—Is it six o'clock?

Six!—'tis almost se­ven!

Oh, where is mama!—Let me see her directly!—Where is Sally?

What is the matter?

Dear Laura.

( aside to her.) Hush—What's the matter, Laura?

Oh, don't ask me!—I am ashamed of myself; tell me where is mama.

Mama is busy; you cannot see her.

[Page 86]

Oh, I must, I must!—Sally! Sally.

Oh, Eudocia, how I feel for her!

I can hardly bear to see her so unhappy.

Mama has commanded silence!

Sally! Sally!—why don't you come.

Miss!—Bless me, what's the matter?

Sally, has Ruth Saun­ders been here?

Yes, miss.

Without seeing me!—What must she think of me!—It is almost dark too!—I shall not be able to see her to-night, and to-morrow!—Oh, poor creature, how unhappy she is.—But if I can [Page 87] see mama, it may not be yet too late!—Dear Sophia, if you have any love for me, ask mama to let me see her!—I have something of great consequence to say.

Indeed, my dear girl, it grieves me to refuse you, but mama has forbidden me to interrupt her.

How can you be so unkind!—Indeed it is very cruel, and you seem not to feel for me.

Believe me, my dear, I feel for you very much.

Why then will you not intercede for me?

I have told you alrea­dy, that mama—

Oh mama would hear me, if she knew—but how we lose time!—It will be too dark, and I shall be too late.—Eudocia will you ask mama to let me see her?

[Page 88]

I hear her coming.

Oh then I may still succeed!

(running to Mrs. Mildmay.) Mama, dear mama, will you have the goodness to hear me!

What would you say?—Why this extreme a­gitation?

Oh mama, while you were gone, a poor woman came hither: she wanted relief from you; I saw her, I promised to in­tercede for her, and give her the answer at six o'clock.—Her land­lord has threaten'd to take all her goods for rent to-morrow morn­ing. She hopes I shall prevail on you to plead for her to him. Dear­est mama, will you grant me this [Page 89] favour? Indeed she deserves your goodness!

How do you know that?

Because, mama, she told me all her story: she has been sick; she has two children, and an old mother.

But, Laura, it is easy to say all that; nay, it may be true, and yet she may be idle and undeserving. You know I never exert myself but in favour of worthy objects. I have now no time to inquire, 'tis past seven, and very near dark; can I learn the truth of this story to-night?

But, mama, to-morrow will be too late.

Why then did you not tell me the story sooner?

I intended to do so, as soon as you came home, mama, but—

[Page 90]

But you forgot it!—Is it not so?—You chose the pleasure of a ride, rather than the gratifying these poor people:—Thus you have lost, from your carelessness and unpunctuality, an opportunity of doing a good action, of making a whole family happy, and of increasing my love for you!

Oh, mama, I have been sadly to blame indeed, but I assure you this shall be the last time. Only hear me this once!—try what you can do for this poor woman; Sally knows her, nay Sophia kn [...]ws her: inquire of them!—Punish me as you please, but do not punish her for my fault!

Only imagine this poor creature's disappoinment when told you were not at home. Think of her distress: she had then lost her only hope!—See her re­turning [Page 91] to her cottage, where she had left her mother and children anxious for the success of her peti­tion; hear her with tears say, "Ah my children, we must be ru­ined; the person who promised us assistance has forgotten us!—She i [...] gone out; she has not mentioned us to her mother, and to-morrow we shall be turned out to starve!"

(throwing herself at her mother's feet.)

(raising her.)

Promises of amendment do not prove any thing, yet I must hope this lesson will reach your heart!—If I were as i [...]considerate as you [Page 92] all the sad consequences I have de­scribed to you would be realized, and even all I can do will hardly efface from the mind of this poor woman the anguish she suffered when told you were gone out, and had not mentioned her to me.

Then, mama, you will be good enough to assist her?

Certainly I will; your breach of promise can be no reason why I should fail in my duty: but if. I had waited till I heard the story from you, it would really have been too late for me to do any thing in it, as I could not have learned all I wanted to know at this time.

Had you then heard it before?

Yes; Sally, not finding you, came to me. I saw the poor woman; heard her [Page 93] story, and having had [...]eason before to believe it, I relieved her. So­phia has given her a box of cloaths, and she is gone home perfectly hap­py.

Oh, mama, how good you are to every body!—Indeed, you may believe, I will profit by this lesson. I can never again run such a risk of making any one mis­erable.

You must then break yourself of the habit of trif­ling; for you see now, as I told you this morning, it cannot be dismissed at once, whenever it is of consequence it should be!

Oh, it is true, indeed!—even, at least, when I came home if I had not trifled away the time, by asking Sophia impertinent ques­tions, I should have found it less impossible to serve this poor wo­man! [Page 94] —dear Sophia, I will never teaze you again.

Believe me, it hurt me extremely, to keep the truth from you, when I saw you so distressed; but mama had commanded me not to tell you.

As to me, I was on the point of telling.

Mama, do you forgive me?

I forgive you, hoping you will correct yourself, and that you now see the fault, you thought so trifling, is really of se­rious consequence: but altho' I am no longer displeased, I shall inflict a punishment in addition to that which you have already suffered. I shall not permit you to have any share in the farther assistance we mean to give this poor woman; nor to call on her with your sisters [Page 95] for a full fortnight; if, in that time, I see any instance of unpunc­tuality in your conduct, I shall ex­tend the time as long as I think proper.—So you will lose the plea­sure of seeing her happiness, and the joy of her old mother and chil­dren, for the gift Sophia has made them!

Oh, mama, this is in­deed a punishment—but I deserve it!—However, I hope—I am sure I shall see her at the end of the fortnight!

I hope you will.—But 'tis late.—Let us go down stairs to tea.—And let this occurrence teach us all never to forget our promise,, or let any gra­tification tempt us to neglect our positive engagements.

THE Little Country Visitor.

HARRIOT, don't you think my doll looks very pretty in this bon­net?

Yes; I wish you would make me such a one.

Oh, to be sure!—No indeed!—Why don't you make yourself one?

[Page 4]

But I don't know how.—Well, if you won't, Maria will; won't you Maria?

What, my dear?

Make my doll a bon­net, like Matilda's?

—Perhaps—

Oh, only perhaps—

You know, Miss Har­riot, it must depend on whether you behave properly, and whether your mama chuses it to be done.

Oh, but I will behave properly, and then mama will chuse it to be done.

We shall see that.

I shall make my doll so many things this summer; we shall have so much time in the country.

Not so much time truly!

[Page 5]

But we shall!—The days will be very long, and we shall get up early.

Yes, but then we shall run in the garden, and plant flowers, and that will take up our time.

How shall we plant flowers?—We don't know how, nor when to water them.

Oh, James will tell us.

Well, I wish Miss Rosetta would come. I suppose she is pretty stupid!

Oh, and so awkward!—I dare say she hangs down her head, and won't speak, like those little girls we saw when we were in Worcester.

Oh dear!—How droll they used to be. They used to curtsey, just so, (mimicking) [Page 6] and say, yes, miss; if you please, miss!—and they were so ignorant too!

Dear, yes!—They did not know how to dance, nor to draw, nor to do fine work.—What stupid children!

Now you have made me think of them, I shall laugh if Miss Rosetta should be like them.—Harriot, don't make me laugh when she comes.

Don't you make me laugh.

But—Miss Harriot.

Hush—let them alone—this will be a lesson for them—they think I don't hear.

Mama, did you speak?

Yes to Maria.

When will this girl [Page 7] come?—I dare say she is afraid—she thinks she shall look awkward.

I fancy she is not much mistaken!

Pray come in.—Matilda open the door.

Oh dear mama, (laughs.)—Harriot, have done laughing.

Come in, my dear. I am very glad to see you, How do your father and mother?

Very well, thank you, ma'am; they desired their respects to you.

I am very [Page 8] much obliged to them.—Matilda, come and speak to Miss Rosetta, and take her bonnet.

To wait upon her indeed.

How do you do, ma'am? I am glad to see you.—Give me leave to take your cloak.

Thank you, ma'am; pray don't trouble yourself.

It is a fine day, Miss Rosetta.—The country be­gins to look very pleasant.

Yes, ma'am.

What says your father to the present appear­ance of the corn?

[Page 9]

He thinks it promises very fair, ma'am.

Why don't you go and talk to Miss Rosetta.—I am ashamed of you.

Dear mama, what should I say to her?

Fye, you silly child!—Maria come with me, I am going to dress; and by the time I return, I hope young people you will be better acquainted. Matilda, do all you can to amuse Miss Rosetta. Harriot, be sure you behave properly.

Why don't you speak?

Be quiet, Har­riot, you are the most provoking child!

[Page 10]

Child!—to be sure!

What, you think yourself a woman, I suppose, at nine years old!

Why not, as well as you at ten?

Such nonsense!—Miss Rosetta, will you like to look at my books?

If you please, ma'am.

Is not this a very pretty thing?

Yes, ma'am.

Will you play with it?

I don't know how.

There you must let it fall, and then jerk the string a little—you see it winds up; there, you must keep it up.

Is that right▪

[Page 11]

Yes, very right; you will soon do it. O, but you must not jerk it so much.

What do you call it, pray?

A bandalore; some call them, Prince of Wales's toys.

Why?

Oh, don't you know?—They are all the fashion. The Prince of Wales brought them in.

They are pretty, but there is no great ingenuity in play­ing with them, I think.

Oh no, it is all a knack.

I like better a play, thing which requires more skill, or else is an exercise.

So do I.

But you said, ma'am, you would shew me your books.

So I will— (To Har­riot.)—She speaks prettily.

[Page 12]

Yes, she does not seem stupid.

Oh, here is the Friend of Youth, and the Tales of the Castle.

Yes, can you read them in French.

No, ma'am.

Oh, they are charm­ing in French.

I dare say they are.

Should you not like to learn French?

Yes, but my father says it is not proper for me.

Do you learn to dance?

No, ma'am.

Dear, not to dance!—oh, that is best of all; I love dancing. Harriot, let us dance Mr. Duport's Cadrille. Shall you like to see us?

[Page 13]

If you please.

Now the Scotch steps Harriot.

Oh! I am out of breath—I love the Scotch reels, and they are very fashionable now.

It is very pretty in­deed, and you dance vastly well.

Oh no, you flatter me!

No indeed—I hope you have not so bad an opinion of me.—Perhaps, indeed, I am no judge.

Oh yes, I dare say you are.

Yes, because she ad­mires your dancing!

Harriot, you are very impertinent.

[Page 14]

Oh, Miss Harriot on­ly jests.

Not I, Indeed!

Very well, miss, I shall tell mama.

As you like it.

But, Miss Matilda, here is another book, which seems very pretty. Is it pretty?

Which do you mean?

Mrs. Barbauld's Hymns.

Oh, that is a child's book, and so grave!

A child's book!—why mama is very fond of it, and says it is beautiful.

I should like to read it.

Oh, I'll lend it to you.

I shall be extremely obliged to you.

Oh, you'll be very [Page 15] welcome.—Pray do you learn to sing?

No indeed.

Your education seems to be very confined.

You know I am only a farmer's daughter.

There is something in that to be sure. I suppose, if you learn how to make butter, and sell eggs, your father is satisfied?

Not entirely with that.

I learn to sing.—Do you love singing?

Yes, indeed very much.

Matilda wants to be asked to sing.

Harriot, you are ex­cessively impertinent.

I am sure I shall be happy to hear you.

Oh, indeed, I am very hoarse.

[Page 16]

Pray then don't trou­ble yourself.

Nay, to oblige you, I'll try.

Very pretty, indeed.—That is a charming song.

I declare, Miss Ro­setta, you have a great deal of taste.

Have I?

How simple she is!

I like her very well.

But if you neither dance nor sing, how do you contrive to fill up your time?

Oh, I have a great deal to do.

I suppose she milks the cows!

No, Miss Matilda, I don't.

What!

[Page 17]

You thought I did not hear you!

I beg your pardon.

Oh, I am not angry; if you are amused, that is enough.

You are extremely good—I did not mean—

You did not mean to offend me. I know that one ought not to be angry at a jest.

You are very oblig­ing.

Now, Matilda, you are fairly caught; it serves you right.

Harriot, I did not ask you to interfere.

So, young peo­ple!—Heyday, Matilda, what's the matter?—You look confused.—What have you been doing?

[Page 18]

Nothing, mama.

Oh, don't tell me that, I know better.—What was it?

Mama, she spoke im­pertinently of Miss Rosetta.

Harriot, that is a great fault, but it is a greater to be so eager to accuse your sister. My children, learn, that if you fail to conceal and excuse the errors of each other, the world will still more eagerly publish, and still more bitterly condemn them.—Where, alas! shall those who are faulty, look for pity and forgiveness, if not to those kindred bosoms who, knowing their failings, know also their virtues.—If we ourselves point the arrows of satire and re­proach, at our sisters and our friends, who will hold before them the [Page 19] shield of allowance and pardon!—This is not, however, intended to excuse you, Matilda. I am sorry, indeed, to hear you have behaved ill.

Dear ma'am, indeed it was a mere jest, a trifle, I assure you.

Very well, my dear, if you are satisfied.

Yes, indeed, ma'am.

It is more than I deserve.—Mama, I was very much to blame.—I ask your pardon Rosetta.

Indeed, Miss Matilda, I am not offended. I am sorry to have caused you any uneasiness.

You are a very good girl. I hope both your com­panions will profit by your exam­ple.—Let us go to dinner.

The Little Country Visitor.
PART II.

YOU will like our garden, I think, Miss Rosetta; it is very pleasant, and you cannot imagine how we enjoy it, after be­ing so long in Philadelphia.

I imagine you were very much confined there.

Yes, indeed.—You know we lived in Chesnut-Street; every morning, before breakfast; we walked with our governess, [Page 21] and Maria, up and down the square for an hour.

The square—but is it like a garden?

Oh, no, there are houses on every side, and where we walk is only a pavement; so it is merely for exercise, and tiresome enough I can tell you.

Oh, but you know sometimes we went to the State-House.

Oh, the State-House—yes, that is very fine to be sure.—There we have a long gravel walk, with trees on each side, and full of people.

What! no grass walks?—nor flowers?

Flowers!—Oh no, you might look for seven years without finding one.—And on the grass we must not walk.

[Page 22]

Oh dear how sad!—I should hate that.

Oh yes, it is fright­ful indeed.—Sometimes we went to Harrow gate-gardens, which are charming, but not often.—Well, now we are in the country, we shall walk a great deal.

We have charming walks.—If Mrs. Montfort will give me leave, I will shew them to you.

Oh, thank you, we shall like that vastly.

Perhaps too you know how to plant flowers, and manage them.

I have a large piece of garden, which I keep in order.

What, all yourself?

No, the man digs it, and puts it in order; I sow the feeds, water them, tie up the flow­ers [Page 23] when they are blown, and do all that is not very fatiguing.

How very agreeable!—What flowers have you?

Honeysuckles, roses, carnations, stocks, and a great va­riety of others, and also a large bed of thyme for my bees.

Your bees!—Have you bees also?

Oh, yes, three hives.

Oh, charming!—You are not afraid of them?

Dear no!—I never dis­turb them, and they do not hurt me.

Are they troublesome to keep?

Not at all. I have only to give them a little honey in the winter, to observe when they are going to swarm, and to provide a hive.

[Page 24]

To swarm—what is that?

When the hive becomes too full, a great number of young bees go out of it, to find another place, where they make their comb and put the honey.

Where do they get the honey?

From the flowers. They suck it out with a sort of trunk; in passing through their bags it becomes honey. They also roll themselves in t [...] yellow dust of flowers, which makes the wax.

That is very curious!—You know all that!—We do not know any thing of the matter.

Oh, it is soon learned.

I should like to keep bees.

Perhaps, mama, will let us.

[Page 25]

But we do not know how to manage them.

I will shew you, with all my heart, if you please.

Oh, thank you, thank you; how good you are!

And to plant flowers also?

Yes, surely.

Oh, delightful!—Ro­setta, what flower is this?

A larkspur—Here is another, of a different colour.—They are various in colour, and some are double.—They are annu­als.

What do you mean by annuals?

They last but one year.—the seed must be saved, and sow­ed again. Most of our common flowers are annuals.

Oh, but you forget [Page 26] roses, honeysuckles, lilacs, and jas­mine?

Those are called flow­ering shrubs.

How much you know!—We know nothing of all this!

Oh, there is nothing more easy, when one lives in the country.

But you have been taught all this?

Not at all; I need on­ly observe.—I do not need telling.

And we know nothing but what we are taught.—And yet we fancy ourselves very wise!—No wonder your time is employed!—What else do you do?

I work a great deal.—I read whenever I can: I make cakes, and pastry: I help to gather the fruit in season, and to cull flowers and herbs for distilling: I [Page 27] manage the poultry-yard, and over­look the dairy.

Oh, how clever you are!—I wish I could do so.

There is nothing clev­er in that; I only do my duty.—You are differently situated, you have no need of these things.

For all that, they are more useful.—But if we did what mama wishes us, that would be enough.

To be sure it is.—You do, I dare say.

No, truly.

No.—Mama wishes us to read more; not to be conceited; to spend less time idly; to talk less ourselves, and attend more to other people.—Not to be imperti­nent; and above all not to quarrel.

No doubt, you obey such reasonable, and kind com­mands.

[Page 28]

Yes—when we re­member!—But to-day—I see now how foolishly I have behaved!—How ignorant, I fancied you were, because you could not dance and sing!—How I chattered to you without attending to what you said!—Then I was very impertinent to you, and quarrelled with Harriot.

But, dear Miss Matil­da, how I love you for owning your faults!—You will soon mend them.

Ah!—I fear not!

Yes, since you know them so well!

You allow, then, I have faults; I love you for that: every body else, except Mama, my Governess, and Maria flatter me.

To flatter!—Oh, how vile!

Do they not flatter you?—

No, surely; I should [Page 29] [...]espise any one who did.—What! [...]ake us more faulty, by pretend­ing to think us perfect?—Is it not [...]?—Such people must either wish us to be blameable out of ill-nature, that they may ridicule us, or mean to make some advantage of our faults.

I believe you are right; I shall be more cautious in future.—Rosetta promise to tell me when I am wrong.

Ah! have you not a mother, much more capable than I am of telling you?

Yes; but I behave better when mama sees me.

And why?

Because I know she will love me better

What then does she wish you to seem good, or really to be so?

[Page 30]

Oh, really to be so without doubt.

Then you do not an­swer her wishes, if you are le [...] good when she does not see you, than when she does.

Very true indeed!—Oh, you shall see I will be very good henceforward.—We shall have you with us often, I hope.

Certainly; I shall be happy, if Mrs. Montfort pleases.

Oh, I am sure she will like it.—Here comes mama.—I shall ask her.—Harriot, you will like it too; shall you not?

Oh yes, indeed.

Mama mama!

Well!—What say you?

Mama, will you not [Page 31] [...]e Miss Rosetta to come and see [...]?

Yes, certainly, [...] often as she can make it conve­nient to come to you.—At all yours, my dear Rosetta; if the chil­dren are taking their lessons, they [...]all not disturb themselves; you [...]ill not perhaps be sorry to be of [...]e party.

Thank you, ma'am, [...]ou are very kind indeed.

I see, Matilda, [...] this request, that at last you un­derstand the merit of your compan­ion.

Oh, yes, indeed, mama!—She knows so much; she understands flowers, and how to keep bees, and to make cakes, and many other things.

Yes—and that [...] not all.—She helps her mother [Page 32] to instruct her sisters, in working reading, and writing.—Besides the assistance she gives in houshold af­fairs, she works excellently we at her needle.—She is fond of read­ing, and has greatly improved by it.—I beg your pardon, Rosetta for commending you to your face but I wish to give my children lesson, who fancied this morning, because you had not the same ad­vantages with themselves; you must be ignorant and awk ward. They now see you are neither; and the [...] begin to know how much mo [...] valuable and useful are your em­ployments than theirs.

Indeed, ma'am, the young ladies were not mistaken; am very ignorant.

You are very modest; which will, I hope, be another lesson to them.—Beside [Page 33] Matilda, Miss Rosetta is not de­ficient in those lighter accomplish­ments which you admire so much.—She has taught herself to design landscapes, and to paint flowers, charmingly well, and she also sings very agreeably.

What! Rosetta, can you sing?

But—very little indeed.

You did not say so this morning.

You only asked me, if I had learn'd; and, I said, I had not; which is true.

Mama, I am quite convinced of what you have so of­ten told me, that by chatting so much, attending so much to my­self, and so little to other people, I lose a great deal of pleasure and instruction.

Yes.—If you [Page 34] had not chosen to display what you fancied your superiority, in danc­ing and singing, to Miss Rosetta, you would earlier have learnt her merit, and the power she has of teaching you many useful and a­greeable things.—You would have saved yourself the pain of being impertinent to her, and me the mortification of seeing you rude, saucy, and conceited.

Mama—

Indeed, you were all these!—But, hence for­ward, Matilda, I hope you will reflect, that the light frivolous ac­complishments you have boasted of so much, are in reality of no essen­tial import, since they neither make us more wise, more humble, or more pleasing in our behaviour.

But mama, do you not [Page 35] then wish us to learn singing and dancing?

Certainly.—It is a duty incumbent on you to learn them, because I wish it, and be­cause they are ornamental parts of education, suited to the place you are to [...]ill in life.—But I would not have you fancy they make you at all superior to those whose situ­ation excludes them from such in­formation.—You will do very wrong not to learn them, but you have no merit in possessing them, as every other person would do the same, if they had the same oppor­tunity.—And I would have you always consider, that one precept which teaches you to improve your behaviour, or regulate your temper, is of more value than the finest singing, or most graceful dancing.

[Page 36]

I am sure you are right, mama.

Even superior acquirements ought not to render you proud or conceited.—If you read more, or write better, than o­ther children of your age; if you know better how to behave, or have better qualities, you ought to reflect that all have not equal advantages with yourself.—Every child has not a father, who can or will be at the expence of having her well in­structed.

Ah, mama, nor has every child a mother who takes such pains in teaching her!

That is true,—Learn then to make allowances for differences of natural capacity, which we have no merit in posses­sing, as we did not give it to our­selves; and for difference of edu­cation, [Page 37] which depends on those a­bout us,—When these allowances are made, we shall seldom, if ever, find any thing to ridicule or des­pise; pity, and a wish to amend, will be our only sentiments.—And when we consider how many oppor­tunities we have ourselves lost, how much more we might have learned, than we have learned, we may easily allow for those who have even lost more time than ourselves.

Ah, mama, I feel how much you are in the right; and I promise you henceforth to be more attentive, and less presuming.

And I also, indeed, mama.

Ah, ma'ma, let me too thank you for these valuable in­structions; which, I hope, will be also profitable to me.

You are a very [Page 38] good girl, my dear Rosetta.—I hope you will come hither often, and that the connection will be mu­tually useful.—Let us go in; it is tea-time.

THE DISTREST FAMILY.

THE Sun is arisen; the mists are partly dispelled.—How pure is the air!—For a moment let me try to forget my cares, and enjoy these refresh­ing odours.— (He pauses.)—Oh, how vain the attempt!—These scenes, the moment of day-break, once so delicious to my heart, to [Page 4] which it used to expand with so much rapture, have lost their power!—Oh, my God, it was here I used to offer to thee my morning sacri­fice of praise and prayer. It was here, softened into universal bene­volence, I used to pray for all men.—I no longer feel those delightful emotions.—A weight of grief hangs upon my heart. The ardour of my devotion is departed. My wishes are contracted to a point.—I have lost my hopes on earth; and, I fear, I am also losing my trust in God.—Oh, my heavenly father, deign to hear me!—Suffer me not to despair of thy mercies, or to murmur at thy will!—Teach me to support my anguish, if not with the fortitude of a man, with the resignation of a christian! (He leans against a tree, with his face on his arms, in thought.)

[Page 5] Rachel enters from the cottage; as she shuts the door, she looks back▪ and says.—Be quiet, George—don't make a noise, I shall be back in a minute.

Father, my dear father, why are you so sad?

My child!

Indeed, father, my mo­ther is better.—She sleeps.

She will soon sleep in death!—Must I see her die!—Without friends, without the means of procuring her proper as­sistence, I see her languishing un­der a disease which might be cured, could I but obtain proper nourish­ment for her.—Why do I hesitate!—Driven from men, as if I did not belong to their species, the bands between me and society are broken; [Page 6] wherefore then should I not fall, like a beast of prey, on those bar­barous wretches who leave us to perish.

Father you did not bid me pray to-day, but I have prayed.—Why do you not teach me to be good, as you used to do?

Oh, my child!—My God! thou hast made this innocent my preser­ver.—Are the bands between me and society broken!—Oh no! my children are ties which I dare not break.—Thou hast trusted them to me!—Dare I corrupt thy work, and lead those to wickedness and misery whom thou hast created to be good and happy?

What do you mean, father?—Why do you cry—why do you speak so hastily—are you angry with me?

[Page 7]

No, my child, no I—Happy innocent!—thou know­est not the force of the passions!—thou readest not the anguish of a heart, fluctuating between good and evil.—Go my child to thy mo­ther; she may want thee.

I will, father.— (As she goes out, she meets Mr. John­son.—She curtsies, but he takes no notice.)

How cross he looks!—I hope he won't scold my father!—What can make people so cross, I wonder!

Good-day to you, Sir.

Ser­vant, George.—What art doing here; why dost not get to work man?

Sir, I am going to work; but my wife has been ill all night.—I fear for her life.—I [Page 8] know not how to leave her, lest I should see her no more.

Well, well, man, if thee dost not work, thy wife can­not eat, nor thy children neither: that's all I know.

Alas, Sir, I would I were able to work incessantly, for their sakes; would that I could live without rest, that I might earn more for their support.

Well, then, why dost stand idle?

Ah, Sir, it is not idle­ness, my strength, and my spirits fail me, but never my wish to la­bour.

How thou talk'st of thy strength, and thy strength; hast not as much strength as ano­ther?

At least, Sir, what have I employ willingly.

Don't know that.— [Page 9] Thou dost not as much work in a day and a half, as some of my men do in a day.—George, George, I am afraid thee art lazy and then thy wife, she is sick.—She says so however; she can't do this, and she can't do that; her betters can do it.—God knows how you contrive to live!

Yes, Sir!— God does know!—He sees our hearts; he knows whether or not I wish to work; whether or not my poor Agnes is really sick.—Ah, Heaven, I can bear any thing for myself, but I have not yet learnt to bear reproach on her!

Well, well, George, thou seem'st not to be cut out for a working man, thou look'st and talk'st like a gentleman, so may be thou know'st how to live like one, I'am sure I've no objection.

[Page 10]

What cruel in­sults!—Down proud and rebellious spirit.—I will be humble! (To Johnson.)—Ah, Sir, gentlemen do not live as I live; gentlemen do not see those they love dying be­fore their eyes, without the pow­er of giving them assistance.

I'll tell thee what, George; if thou can'st afford to stand chattering here all day, I cannot.—So fare thee well; since thou hast not a mind to work, I must find somebody who has.

Good heavens, Sir!—I am going to work instantly; do not, I conjure you, do not think of employing another.

Well, well, I shall see about it.

But, Sir, hear me, I pray you: promise me that you will not employ another.—Consi­der my poor wife and children.

[Page 11]

'Tis for thee to consi­der them, and work the harder.

Oh, Sir, you need not fear me; you shall have no reason to complain.

We shall see that.—Go to work.—The men have been in the fields this half hour. Make haste, and we shall see.

I shall, Sir. (John­son goes out.)

Oh God!—Oh God!—hear my groans! Pity me, and teach this cruel man to pity me!—Make me forget I ever was, what I am not now!—Oh that I could acquire at once the strength and hu­mility of the hardy peasant!—My blood rises, my heart swells; hardly could I restrain myself from answering this tyrant as he deser­ved.—Let me see my Agnes once [Page 12] more, and then hasten to obey this imperious master.

Good-bye, father good-bye.—Come, George, let us go and get some sticks, to boil the po­tatoes.

But mother will want you.

No, she says she is bet­ter.—She will not eat any break­fast, however.—She does not like bread.

I like it—but I like it best with an apple.

Oh, but apples are scarce.—Our tree had but a few, and those must be saved for mother: she can eat a bit now and then.

I am sure, then, I don't [Page 13] want them.—I had rather she had them.

I am sure I wish I could live without eating, that mama might have better things.

Mama! You must not say that.

Oh, I had forgot; I must never say, mama, since Nan­cy Johnson laughed at me, and her mother scolded me for saying so.

I hate Nancy Johnson; she's so proud and ill-temper'd.

Oh, but you must not [...]ate any body.

Well, I will hate Mrs. Johnson, however, because she's so cross to mother.

You will hate her.—I cannot help laughing at that.

[Page 14]

Dear papa, what pret­ty children.—What's your name my dear?

Rachel Wil­mot, ma'am.

A very pretty name, and I dare say you are a very good girl.—Is that your brother?

Yes, ma'am.

And what were you laughing at so heartily, my dear!

At—a [...] George, ma'am.

What did he say [...] then?

Ma'am, he says he w [...] hate Mrs. Johnson.

A very kind determination.

Oh dear, ma'am, bu [...] pray don't tell her.—Perhaps you know her.—Pray don't be angry, [...]e is but a child.

[Page 15]

Be easy, I don't know her; and if I did, I should not tell her.

Oh, I'm glad of that.—Perhaps it might ruin my father.

How so, child?

Sir my father works for Mr. Johnson; and, perhaps, they might be affronted.

Very likely.—We will not tell them. Be good children—mind your book.—Let me see you at church, and here is six-pence for you.

(joyfully.) Oh dear Sir, will you be so kind then as to let me work for you.

Work, my child!—What work can'st thou do?—Why, do'st think I will give the [...] work?

Will you not, Sir?

[Page 16]

I have none for you, child.

Then, Sir, what am I to do with this money?

Keep it, my child.

Sir, my father says, I must not take money till I can work for it.—He forbids me to beg.

Charming little creature!

How amiable!—But, my dear, you did not beg; my papa gave it to you.

But I don't think my father would like me to have it.

Her integrity i [...] charming!—Look then, my child, I want those flowers which grow yonder.—I will give you six-pence to gather them for me.

Oh, yes, Sir, yes.

Keep them, my Eleonora, and if ever you should be tempted to forget my precepts, let them remind you how well this little cottager kept those of her fa­ther.

I can never forget it.—Adieu, Rachel. I shall see you again some time or other.

Good-bye, ma'am.—Thank you, Sir.

O, George, see!—I have got six-pence!—I shall go di­rectly to the village, and buy mo­ther some biscuits, such as she likes, and some coffee: I can have both for six-pence.—Go in—don't tell her where I am gone.—If she wants [Page 18] any thing, Dame Green will come if you call her.—Don't make a racket.

No, no.—Good-bye.

The Distrest Family.
PART II.

BUT, mother, you don't eat the buiscuits.

Yes, my dear, I have eaten one; take one yourself.

No, thank ye, mother.

Why not?

I am not hungry.

My child, there are more than I can eat; you may take one safely.

[Page 20]

But, mother, they will not be spoiled by to-morrow, and they are better for you than bread.—I like bread very much.

My dear Rachel! (em­braces her with tears.)—My God, I thank the for the blessing of such affectionate children: they comfort me in all my distresses! Rachel see if your father is coming.

No, mother, it is twelve o'clock too; how very hot it is!

Alas, how my poor Wil­mot will be fatigued.—He exhausts his strength in working for us.—I dare not wish to die, for I know how much my death would afflict him!—And my poor children, they yet need a mother's care!

Mother, my dear mo­ther, why do you cry; my father will soon be here.

[Page 21]

Don't cry, mother, my father is coming.

Do not tell him I have been crying.—I am better now; how near is he?

Mother, he is just get­ting over the stile; he looks up to the sky; he wipes his face.—Ah, how hot he is; I will run out to him.

Ah, how he must be fatigued!—In this burning Sun—he that was so delicately bred!

Here he is, mother—here he is!

My dear Wilmot!—How tired you are.

Sit down here father; let me take your hat.

The Sun is so hot!—My dear Agnes, how are you?

[Page 22]

Better, thank you!—Rachel has procured me some cof­fee; it has done me good.—Take a cup of it, it will refresh you.

No.

What is the matter?—You look pale. Oh, Wilmot, speak to me, for God's sake.—You are ill?—Ah, he is dying. He has killed himself for me!

Help, help!—Oh, my father is dying. Mother, mother, don't you die too.

Oh, mother mo­ther!

Wilmot, Wilmot speak to me, speak to me.

What is the mat­ter, good people—What occasion­ed the screams I heard?

Oh, Sir, my father is dead, and my mother is dying.—George, George, let us die too!

My dear, don't be frighten'd—he is not dead, he will soon recover. (To Agnes.) Pray don't be so terrified.

My good wo­man, recover yourself; he is only faint.

Oh no, he is dead.— [Page 24] I have killed him. Wilmot, I shall not out-live you.

My wife!

I am here—I am at your side.—I will not leave you even in death.

My dearest Agnes, I am better; do not terrify your­self.

Indeed there is no need—he will be well presently.

Ah, Madam, I beg your pardon.—I fear I have been troublesome to you?

By no means; your wife and children have been sadly alarmed.—Pray prevail on your wife to take some care of herself.

Agnes, I entreat you to sit down.

[Page 25]

Take a little water, will you?—Rachel, shew me where it is, I will fetch some.

Thank you ma'am; you are extremely good.

Have you been ill long, my friend?

No, Sir, I was very well this morning.

Ah, my dear Wilmot you have over-worked yourself.—This burning Sun—Your cares, your anxiety, have overcome you!—Why would you do so?

My dear Agnes, if you knew the terrors I have suffer­ed!

[Page 26]

The terrors!

Yes, Sir, of being de­prived of my work. My master threatened me this morning with dismission; he accuses me of lazi­ness.

Oh, what you!—You who have worked so eagerly, so constantly?

Alas, yes!—Unable before to procure for you, my dear Agnes, the support your disease re­quired, could I bear the idea of losing the common necessaries for you, and for my children?—Nor was this all, the cruel man added the most bitter and unprovoked re­flections on me, and those I love best.—I left you, Agnes, this morn­ing half heart broken, and scarcely able to resolve on longer enduring a miserable existence, except for those dear sakes, whose remember­ance [Page 27] urged me on beyond my strength!

Ah, Wilmot, to us then you owe your illness, even perhaps your death; to us who would have died to save you!

Father, let me help you to work to-morrow; perhaps Mr [...] Johnson won't scold then.

Alas, my child!

Pray tell me, who is this oppressive man, this Johnson, of whom you speak?

Sir, he is the farmer who employs me.

Where does he live?

In a farm called Oat­ley, Sir.

I thought so!—It is my farm, and he is now urging me for a new lease, on terms very favourable to himself.—I am glad [Page 28] to learn how I ought to deal with him.

I should be sorry, Sir, to prejudice you against him; he is honest, and a good farmer.

You do your­self honour, by thus repaying his unkindness; but he must not expect me to favour a man capable of such conduct.

I beg your pardon, ma'am, for not asking you to sit down.—We are exceedingly in­debted to you for the trouble you have taken.

Not in the least.—I would not be impertinent; but—can we be of service to you?

Vain prejudice, which has so long taught me to conceal my distresses, begone!—Unable longer to labour, I must apply to the compassion of others, Sir.

[Page 29]

Speak freely, my good friend.—Can I assist you?

Ah, Sir, the dear wo­man you see has been ill a long time; she is better, but her weak state requires nourishment, which I cannot procure for her.

My dear Wilmot, think more of yourself, and less of me.—It is he, Sir, who requires your assistance.—I have already taken refreshment, which your kindness this morning enabled my child to procure.

What! my little flower-gatherer!—Amiable child!

My good friend, your husband seems much recovered; you are yourself indisposed, be prevailed on to lie down; in the mean time my father will learn how he can be of use to you.

[Page 30]

Do, my dear Agnes; I am quite well.

Since you request it, I will obey you.

Let me help you?

Oh no!—dear young lady, I cannot bear you should wait on me.

Why not?—It is a pleasure to me.

But it is giving you so much trouble.

Not at all.—I dare say, if I were sick, and you were well, you would wait on me?

Most surely.—It would be fit I should be your servant.

To be sure, it is al­ways fit those who are in health should wait on those who are sick.

What sweetness!

[Page 31]

Sir, these poor people have great need of refreshment, let me fetch it from home, I will return present­ly.

Do so, but do not run, it is too hot.

I will not.

My child will soon return; she is gone for refresh­ment.

Ah, Sir, how can I thank you for your goodness!

My good friend, why would you not apply to me before?

Sir, while I was able by the work of my hands, to pro­cure for my wife and children the means of life, I had no right to [Page 32] encroach upon the goodness of others, or on that relief which poorer wtetches had a better right to.—But when my strength failed me; when I saw myself on the point of being deprived of work, and my children of bread, it became time to ask, and God has been pleas­ed that I should not ask in vain.

I admire your sentiments, and—

Father, my mother is inclined to sleep, but every time her eyes close she starts and fancies she [...]ees you fainting again.—If you go to her, perhaps, she will be easy.

Sir—

Go, my friend, no apologies; I will chat awhile [Page 33] with Rachel; I shall tell you a charming story of her.

Will my mother get well soon, Sir, do you think?

I hope so my dear: has she been ill long?

Oh yes, Sir, a great while: all the winter she had a cough, but it is gone; but she is so weak, and then she cannot eat bread and potatoes, as we do.—I bought her some coffee to-day, with the money I had from you, Sir.—She took some.—I was so pleased!—But my father frighted us sadly!

Did you ever see him so before?

No, Sir; he is often tired very much indeed, but not so bad.—To be sure, he has not been used to such hard work.

[Page 34]

What work then has he been used to, my child?

Why, Sir, it is a great while ago, before George can re­member, we lived in a nice house, and had servants, and I had white frocks, and fine people used to come and see us!—But now the fine people don't come, Sir; why don't they?

Happy innocent▪—Thou knowest not how eagerly the great fly from the unfortunate!

My dear!—What, have you carried that bas­ket thro' the heat?

No, Sir, I thought you would not be pleased, so I made John bring it to the gate, but I would not let him come in [Page 35] for these people seem to have so much feeling, I could not bear to bring an unnecessa [...] witness of their distress.

(embracing her.) My dear girl!

Rachel, see if your mother is asleep.

My poor Agnes can get no r [...]st.

I will go to her.—I have brought some drops, which will compose her spirits.

Papa, will you eat something?—Perhaps Mr. Wilmot will take a glass of wine.

(aside.) Charming deli­cacy! [Page 36] —How I feel that kindness!

(looking after Eleonora.)

Angelic charity!—Not content­ed with furnishing the means of health, she administers them her­self, waiting with humility and sweetness on the poor and wretch­ed

There is nothing extraordinary in that; [...] one know what it is to be ill, and leave those who are so to the unfeeling attendance of servants, or merce­nary nurses?

No; you cannot.—Warm and feeling, your hearts make the distresses of others your own.

[Page 37]

That is no mat­ter of wonder.

Oh! not to you.—Goodness is to you too common to be wonderful.—But to me, to me who have been rejected by the world, cast off by my relations, such kindness is scarcely credible!

Your lot seems to have been an hard one, but let it not make you think ill of all mankind.—There seems to be something uncommon in your story and if the recital be not painful—

The recital, Sir, I thank God, will not be painful, for I have no guilt of my own to relate.

I dare engage it.

Perhaps, of some im­prudence, you will not so easily ac­quit me.—I was born to a good estate; just after I came of age, [Page 38] my father died; soon after, I married that dear woman you have seen.—She was of good family, but had no fortune; mine was sufficient for us both, but fond as I was of my Agnes, desiring to pro­cure for her every indulgence, I lived to the extent of my income, and far beyond her wishes: for five years we lived happily, when a distant relation of the person from whom my father had bought the estate, pretending a fault in the title, laid claim to it; the cause was tried, and by an artifice my chief witness kept out of court. I lost my cause, and was left desti­tute; my relations excusing them­selves on account of my marrying, as they called it, imprudently, and my living expensively, refused me any assistance, and with the rest of my friends, turned their back [...] upon me.

[Page 39]

What cruel con­duct!

One friend alone was left, who received us into his house, and would have procured a re-hear­ing of our cause, but he died, and we were sent forth to wander through the world. I hired this cottage, where, by the labour of my hands, I have supported my wife, that dear consoling angel, who has never once reproached me for the misery I have brought upon her, and our children; till her sickness drove me almost to dis­traction and despair, from which Heaven sent you this day to relieve me.

Make yourself easy, I hope all will be well; our first care must be to restore your wife.—Is the person yet alive who was to have witnessed in your cause?

[Page 40]

He is.

Very well, My dear Wilmot hear me, I am tol­erably rich, I have only one child, I will support you in this cause if, on enquiry, I find you are like­ly to succeed, and I will only a [...] in return your promise to repay me when you regain your estate.

Sir—such amazing kindness to a stranger!

No, Wilmot, not to a stranger. I knew your father well; he was my senior at college. I have often heard of this cause as a most iniquitous transac­tion, and I have no doubt of your success, so that all the favour I do you is to advance you a little mo­ney; no mighty obligation!

Oh yes!—My obli­gations to you are mighty, are not to be repaid!—Best of men!

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Psha! there are thousands better.

Such amazing generosi­ty!

There is really no generosity in the matter.—I am sure of my security.

What, Sir!—The word of a person you do not know▪

No, Wilmot, not of a person I do not know.—I have seen enough of you to convince me you are honest and grateful; what better security should I desire?

I am overpowered!—My children, bless your benefac­tor!

Oh, Sir, will you make my father and mother well and happy?

And will you give my mother something better to eat than potatoes?

[Page 42]

Oh yes, my children, he will save us all.—Thank him then; learn to love and serve him; keep about you—never forget the form of this cottage; and if, as I hope, we live to inhabit a better place, remember always who res­cued us from poverty!

No more, no more; if you will think yourself obliged to me, in return do me the favour not to thank me.

Mr. Wilmot, your wife is asleep; she will be well, I da [...]e say—and you, how are you?

Oh, well, quite well!—The blessing of Heaven accompa­nies you; all must be well where you are.

Wilmot think of what I have said to yo [...]. In the evening I will send my car­riage [Page 43] to bring you all to my house, where you shall remain, either till your cause is gained, or, if that cannot be, till I can place you in some way of life better suited to your birth. (To Eleonora.) My dear, Mr. Wilmot is entitled to a very large fortune, which I hope to procure for him.

I am very glad of i [...], but fortune cannot add to my res­pect for people so worthy.

Angelic creature!—How can I ever want—

You forget my injunctions!—I shall send for you—be ready.—In the mean time; take care of yourselves.

What, father, shall we ride in a coach?

Yes, my dear, often, every day, if you continue good: and, what is better, you shall have [Page 44] a great many charming little books.

Oh, how glad I shall be.

Wilmot, Fare­wel!

Farewel, Mr. Wil­mot.—Good-bye, Rachel; we shall except you.

Every blessing attend you!

Thank you, thank you.

Oh my God!—How can I ever thank thee, for such a­mazing goodness!—Heart broken, wearied, on the point of renouncing my dependance on thee; of [...]eting thy laws at defiance; that mo­ment hast thou chosen to relieve and bless me!—Aweful and strik­ing [Page 45] lesson!—Shall I ever again despair, when I know that the next hour to that of our greatest misery may bring with it comfort and happiness!—I hear my Agnes coming; let me meet and explain to her these happy events!

The limits of the Drama not allowing of the events being finished, it may per­haps be satisfactory to the reader to hear, that Mrs. Wilmot recovered; and that Wilmot, gaining his cause, by Mr. Bar­clay's means, was restored to affluence, and the two families formed a friend­ship, which lasted during their lives.