MAURICE.

THE PARRICIDE.

WHAT dreadful weather! I periſh with cold and have no ſhelter againſt the bitter winds, no bed to warm my benumbed limbs. I am old and my ſtrength is exhauſted by labour. Unnatural ſon! The thought of you tears my heart. Unnatural ſon! I gave you life; I nouriſhed you and took care of your weak and ſickly in⯑fancy. When I ſaw you ſuffer through illneſs, my tears fell upon your cheeks. You loved me at that time and would ſay, while you careſſed me, "Papa, what makes you cry? I am not ſick now; do not be troubled; ſee I am quite well." You raiſed yourſelf up in your bed; your little hands would play in my hair, and you would ſay again, "Do not grieve any more; I am cured." And as you ſpoke the words, you would fall down again through weakneſs. You would ſtrive to ſpeak, but could not. At laſt, however, your body grew ſtrong; you be⯑came hale and robuſt, and you ſhould have been the prop of my old age. I laboured all my life for you, and now you ſhut me out of your houſe in the midſt of wind and ſnow. "We cannot live together any longer, father," ſaid you to me in your fury. And why not, my ſon? What have I done to you? I have exhorted you to virtue; that is all my crime. When I ſaw you ſpend in debauchery the earnings of ſixty years labour, the fortune of which I willingly ſtripped myſelf to enrich you, I pointed out your danger to you. God is my witneſs that I was more anxious on your account than on my own. Was I not ſilent long enough, for fear of troubling you? But my ſilence and my ſorrow, which I ſtrove to hide, made no impreſſion on you. I was then obliged to ſpeak. I thought it my duty then to reſume the prerogative of a father; yet my authority was tempered with mildneſs. My diſcourſe was as tender as it was earneſt. I ſpoke to you of your mother who died through grief on account of your diſorderly life! I ſpoke to you of myſelf, whom the ſame cauſe would probably ſend to my grave. I ſhewed you my aged cheeks almoſt worn with the tears that you have made me ſhed. I ſhewed you my grey hairs which ſtood on end through anguiſh and ſorrow. I opened [18]my arms to you, to invite you to my boſom. I ſhould have fallen on my knees to you, if your father, even in that humble poſture, could have ſoftened you. And you, my ſon—I can ſcarcely believe it yet—you advanced towards me with a threatening air: your arm was ſtretch⯑ed out, and your gate ſhut againſt me. You my ſon? You are no longer ſo. Why do my bowels ſtill feel the yearnings of a father towards you? I am tempted to wiſh that I could curſe you: but no I dare not breathe forth even my complaints aloud. I fear left heaven ſhould hear them, and left this houſe, which you have ſhut againſt me, ſhould fall upon your door. I will lay myſelf down on the ſtone before your door. To-morrow you cannot come out without ſeeing me, and I hardly think that your heart will not ſoften when you ſee what I ſhall have ſuf⯑fered during this dreadful night. But if the ſeverity of the ſeaſon, if my exhauſted old age, and ſtill more, the ſorrows that wound my heart, ſhould occaſion my death, then ſhudder at thy crime; weep for me, and for yourſelf ſtill more. Ah! I ſhould think my death a fortunate cir⯑cumſtance, if it could produce your reformation.

Such were the complaints of this old man. But the north wind all the live-long night carried away his ſighs unheard. The tempeſt filled the air with dreadful whiſt⯑lings; the ſhattered trees of the foreſt were bent down; and all nature ſeemed to ſhudder with horror at the crime of his ſon. The next morning the old man was found dead upon the ſtone. He had his-hands claſped together, and his face turned towards heaven. The name of his ſon was the laſt word that he had pronounced. He had prayed to the very laſt moment for the parricide.

JONATHAN.

JONATHAN, a gardener of Lincoln, was looked upon as the moſt ſkilful in the county. His fruits ſur⯑paſſed thoſe of his neighbours in bigneſs, and were always found to have an exquiſite flavour. All the firſt gentlemen round about were ambitious of having his peaches at their deſerts, ſo that he had no occaſion to ſend his melons to [19]the market; they were beſpoke on the beds, and very often could not be had for gold. The reputation that he obtained, and the profits that he drew from his labours, increaſed his aſſiduity in the cultivation of his garden. Rich and induſtrious as he was, he eaſily found a proper match, and eſpouſed Claribell, a young woman in the neighbourhood, as prudent as ſhe was handſome. The firſt year of their marriage was very happy. Claribell aſ⯑ſiſted her huſband in his labours, and the fruits of their garden were more proſperous than ever.

Unhappily for Jonathan, near his houſe there lived another gardener, called Guzzle, who at day break fixed himſelf in an alehouſe, which he ſeldom left before night. Jonathan was delighted with Guzzle's hearty humour, and was not long before he fell into the ſame taſte. At firſt, he went now and then to meet him at the alehouſe, and only talked to him of gardening; but very ſoon, in his own garden, he talked to him of nothing but ſtrong beer. Claribell grieved at the change in her huſband's behaviour. As ſhe had not as yet ſufficiedt experience herſelf to undertake the care of the wall-trees, ſhe was frequently obliged to bring him home to his work, and uſually found him amongſt his pots and glaſſes. Alas! it would often have been better for him to ſtay from the garden. His head was now generally muddled with beer when he went to work upon his trees, and his pruning⯑knife cut away at random amongſt the branches: thoſe that bore were cut, as well as thoſe that did not; and the fine peach trees, on which laſt year there had not been [...] ſingle bough unfruitful, did now only ſtretch their lazy arms, like ſo many yawning idlers. The more Jonathan found his garden decay, the more fond he grew of this ſottiſh way of life. His fruit and his vegetables had loſt their great name, and not being able by his earnings to ſatisfy his fondneſs for drink, he parted by degrees with his furniture, his linen, and his clothes. At length one day, when his wife was gone to market with ſome roots that ſhe had reared herſelf, he went and ſold all his garden utenſils, in order to drink the money with Guzzle. It would be difficult to deſcribe Claribell's grief at her re⯑turn. To be reduced from a moderate competency to the moſt deſtitute poverty was not the height of her misfor⯑tune. She felt ſtill more ſtrongly for the fate of her huſ⯑band, [20]and of a young infant, ſix months old, which ſhe had then at the breaſt. Who ſhould ſuppoſe that this child was to ſave the whole family from deſtruction?

The evening of the ſame day, Jonathan came home ſwearing, threw himſelf into a chair, and leaning on his elbow over the table, ſurlily aſked his wife for ſomething to eat. Claribell handed him a large caſe-knife, and a baſket that was covered with her apron. Jonathan ſnatched the apron off; but what was his ſurprize, to ſee his own child faſt aſleep in the baſket. "Eat there, ſaid Claribell to him; it is all that I have left to give you. You are the Father of this child, and if you do not devour him, famine and miſery ſhortly will." Jonathan, thunderſtruck at theſe words, remained ſpeechleſs, with his eyes ſtu⯑pidly fixed upon his ſon. At length his ſorrow broke out in tears and exclamations. He riſes, and embracing his wife, aſks her pardon and promiſes to reform; and he kept his word.

His father in law, who for ſome time had refuſed to ſee him, being informed of his good intentions, advanced him a ſum to enable him to put his garden in order again. Jonathan made good uſe of this ſupply, and very ſoon his garden flouriſhed as happily as ever. He became once more and continued even to his old age, active, in⯑duſtrious, a good huſband and a good father. He took pleaſure ſometimes (though he bluſhed at the ſame time) in telling this ſtory to his ſon, who, from his example, conceived ſuch an averſion to drinking and idleneſs, that he was all his life as ſober as he was laborious.

THE PLEASURES OF WORK.

WHAT is the matter, Viola? You ſeem grieved.

So I am, mama.

At what, my dear? I thought to ſee you come back quite in ſpirits after your walk.

My walk was pleaſant at firſt; but in coming home, as I paſſed before our carpenter's houſe, I ſaw his three children ſitting at the door, and crying moſt piteouſly. They were ſtarving with hunger.

How can that be? Their father has a good trade, and it is not a week ſince I paid him three guineas for work done about our houſe.

So my governeſs told a woman, one of the neigh⯑bours, that came up to comfort the children and gave them ſome bread.

And what did ſhe ſay?

This poor man, ſaid ſhe, is much to be pitied. He works night and day, and is never the richer; his wife manages ſo ill. She knows nothing of houſewifery. She can neither ſew, nor ſpin, nor knit; and cannot even get up the family's linen. If her huſband wants a clean ſhirt, he muſt have it waſhed and mended out of the houſe.

Sad management indeed! and I do not wonder that you were grieved at finding a woman who does not perform any ſingle duty of her ſex. I wiſh ſhe may be the only one of that ſort that you will ever meet.

Ah! mama, this is not all. As ſhe can do nothing for her family, nothing in the world, idleneſs has led her to drinking. When her huſband, after work⯑ing hard, thinks to have a good meal ready for him at his return home, he finds his wife ſtretched upon the bed, [34]intoxicated; and very often his children have not a bit of bread to eat the whole day. Don't you think thoſe poor children much to be pitied?

I pity them as well as you, my dear; but on this diſagreeable occaſion, you had an opportunity of making a remark that may be ſerviceable to you all your life.

What is that, mama?

That a woman who neglects the employ⯑ments of her ſex and condition, is the moſt contemptible and unhappy creature in the world. You may now per⯑ceive the reaſon why your papa and I conſtantly adviſe you to be doing ſomething.

Oh! yes, mama; I ſee now how much you love me when you inſtruct me in my work. But pray tell me, have young ladies of fortune and quality any occaſion to learn ſo many things? When they are mar⯑ried, have not they waiting women to do for them what⯑ever they want?

My dear Viola, work is as abſolutely neceſ⯑ſary for them as for the children of the poor. Not to mention the reverſes of fortune that may one day deprive a woman of every means of ſubſiſtence, except the labour of her own hands: and yet theſe reverſes are common enough. But in the higheſt rank of life, amidſt a crowd of ſervants ready at her call, ſhould not ſhe herſelf know ſomething of what work is, in order to employ each one properly in his ſeveral way, not to require of them more than they can perform, to be able to recompenſe their diligence by making their ſervice eaſy, and thus to gain their attachment and reſpect. Obliged by her rank and her wealth to employ a great number of tradeſmen, how will ſhe be able, without knowing what work is herſelf, to ſet the proper value upon that of others, by neither cutting ſhort the fair demand of a uſeful tradeſman, nor yielding to the impoſitions of the vender of luxuries and faſhionable toys; and thus on the one hand indulge a ge⯑neroſity ſuitable to her birth, and on the other guard againſt a uſeleſs expence [...] Beſides, what a pleaſure for a ſenſible woman to ſee herſelf and her children clothed in the work of her own hands, and to employ the ſavings of ſuch oeconomy in relieving the ſick and indigent, and [35]bringing up their children, ſo that they may in proper time maintain their parents?

Ah! pray don't let us loſe a moment. Teach me all that, mama.

I will, my dear; that I may, by ſo doing, both perform my own duty, and aſſiſt you to follow the dictates of nature and religion; but particularly that I may ſave you from that dangerous diſſipation which a habit of idleneſs may render agreeable and even neceſ⯑ſary. I will do it in order to make domeſtic retirement not unpleaſing to you; in order to make you yourſelf amiable in the eyes of your huſband, and reſpectable in thoſe of your children; in order to procure you hereafter a relief and amuſement that may divert your attention from the evils of life, which might otherwiſe affect you too forcibly; and in fine, to inſure to you the tranquil⯑lity of a good conſcience, and to render you happy every moment of your life. You have ſeen, by the example of the carpenter's wife, to what odious vices idleneſs may lead us. But what think you of that vapouriſh unhappy liſtleſſneſs, the moſt inſupportable torment to a woman? I can give you, perhaps, a ſlight idea of it, and propor⯑tioned to your underſtanding, in the ſtory of a little girl of your own age.

O dear, mama! make haſte; let us have the little girl's ſtory.

Then here it is. "Mrs. Friendly was always happy in being employed, and never paſſed a quarter of an hour otherwiſe the whole day. Angelica, her daughter, could hardly believe her when ſhe talked to her of the ſatisfaction ariſing from induſtry, and the diſagreeable effects of doing nothing. It is true, ſhe worked whenever her mother bid her, for ſhe was accuſtomed to obey; but one may eaſily imagine how unhappy ſhe was at her work, as ſhe never began it but with reluctance. My dear child, Mrs. Friendly would often ſay to her, when ſhe ſaw her at work with her head hanging down, and her hands in a careleſs poſture, I wiſh you may ſoon feel the tireſome languor that ariſes from having nothing to do, and the ſatisfaction that one enjoys in being mo⯑derately employed. This wiſh, inſpired by her affection, was not long unaccompliſhed. Angelica, then about eleven years old, was to go one day with her mother to a coun⯑try-houſe [36]many miles off. Mrs. Friendly, at her depar⯑ture, took her work-bag with her, and ſtrongly recom⯑mended it to Angelica not to forget hers. Angelica was willing to obey; but how eaſily does one loſe ſight of a duty that is performed with reluctance! The work⯑bag was forgot. Their journey at firſt was quite agree⯑able. The weather was fine, and all nature ſeemed to ſmile. But about noon, the clouds thickened round the horizon, and the thunder rolled from one end of the ſky to the other. Their fright obliged them to ſtop at a ſmall town, where there was only one inn, and imme⯑diately afterwards the rain came down in a flood. As the approaching ſtorm had forced a number of travellers to ſeek ſhelter in the inn, Mrs. Friendly and her daugh⯑ter could not find a ſingle room in it diſengaged. She therefore ordered the horſes to be unharneſſed, and alighted at the houſe of a good old woman cloſe by, who very civilly reſigned them her bed-chamber and her bed, the only one that ſhe had. How happy was Mrs. Friendly that ſhe had brought her work. The good old woman ſat beſide her, ſpinning at her wheel, and between work and converſation the long ſummer's afternoon paſſed away without ſeeming tedious to them. Poor Angelica was not very happy in the mean time. The cottage was ſmall, and after ſhe had viſited every corner of it, ſhe had then abſolutely nothing left to do. The rain, which ſtill fell in great abundance, did not allow her to ſet her foot out of doors; the terrible noiſe of the thunder left her no deſire for ſleep, and the converſation of the old woman, who could talk of nothing but her work, was not very likely to amuſe her. She begged her mama to let her have her work; but Mrs. Friendly told her very juſtly, that ſhe would not deprive herſelf of amuſement for her; that having taken care to bring with her ſome⯑thing to employ herſelf, it was but fair that ſhe ſhould enjoy the fruits of her attention, and that ſhe on the contrary ſhould ſuffer for her negligence and forgetful⯑neſs. Angelica could ſay nothing to reaſons ſo forcible. After many weariſome yawnings, ſighs of impatience, and fruitleſs murmurs againſt the weather, Angelica at length got to the end of the evening. She eat a ſmall ſupper without appetite, and went to bed much out of humour with her jaunt. How joyful did ſhe riſe at the [37]firſt ſummons of the ſun who roſe without a cloud! With what eagerneſs did ſhe haſten her mother's departure! At laſt the carriage was ready; and Mrs. Friendly, hav⯑ing generouſly rewarded the good old woman for her civility, ſet forward again as well ſatisfied with her man⯑ner of paſſing the day before, as Angelica was diſcon⯑tented with it. The roads had lately been much broken up, and the rain water which ſtill covered them, hin⯑dered the ruts from being obſerved. The chaiſe jolted out of one hole into another, the axle creaked, and the glaſſes rattled; at laſt a wheel broke down, and the car⯑riage was overthrown. Happily Mrs. Friendly and her daughter received no hurt. They recovered from their fright by degrees, and perceiving at a diſtance a little hamlet upon the ſide of a hill, Mrs. Friendly took her daughter by the hand, and attended by her ſervant, walked towards the hamlet, intending to ſend aſſiſtance to her coachman. There was in this place neither ſmith nor wheelwright; ſo that they were obliged to wait al⯑moſt two days for wheels from town, as Mrs. Friendly would travel in no other carriage but her own. Poor Angelica, how ſhe cried! how ſhe lamented the tediouſ⯑neſs of the time! The fright of her fall had made ſuch an impreſſion on her, as to deprive her of the uſe of her limbs; ſo that ſhe could not enjoy even the amuſement of walking. What could Mrs. Friendly do to make her time leſs heavy? The ſtrict juſtice that ſhe made a point of purſuing with her daughter, forbad her to reſign her own work to her; beſides, Angelica had ſo neglected her improvement in needle-work, that ſhe [...]ould have en⯑tirely ſpoiled it. She then began to feel the value of em⯑ploying one's ſelf, and bluſhing with ſhame, ſaid thus to her mother: Ah! mama, I have well deſerved what has happened to me, and now for the firſt time ſee the rea⯑ſon why you always adviſed me ſo ſtrongly to work. I have ſufficiently felt the weariſomeneſs of doing nothing. She then threw herſelf into her mother's arms, and hiding her face in her boſom, I beg pardon, mama, for griev⯑ing you by my indolence. I ſaw that you were troubled to ſee me fret. But, for your ſake and my own, I ſhall change my behaviour from this moment. Mrs. Friendly kiſſed her daughter, praiſed her reſolution, and to ſtrengthen the effect of Angelica's ſelf-taught leſſon, [38]ſhewed her how a taſte for work hinders our time from hanging heavy, and ſoftens the vexations of life, by di⯑verting our thoughts from them in an agreeable and ſa⯑latary manner. She bleſſed the accidents of a journey that had wrought ſo happy a change in her daughter.

Angelica, on the other hand, kept her promiſe and even went beyond it; ſo that Mrs. Friendly never had reaſon to find fault with her afterwards, unleſs for too great application.

THE YOUNG SPARROWS.

LITTLE Robert one day perceived a ſparrow's neſt under the eaves of the houſe, and running imme⯑diately for his ſiſters to inform them of his diſcovery, they all contrived together how to get the little covey into their poſſeſſion. It was agreed to wait until the young ones ſhould be fledged; that then Robert ſhould raiſe a ladder againſt the wall, and that his ſiſter ſhould hold it faſt below, while he climbed up for the neſt. When they thought the little birds ſufficiently feathered, they made ready to put their deſign in execution. It ſucceeded per⯑fectly, and they found three young ones in the neſt. The old birds ſent forth piteous cries on ſeeing their little ones, whom they had nouriſhed with ſo much care, taken from them; but Robert and his ſiſters were ſo overjoyed, that they did not pay the leaſt attention to their complaints.

They were at firſt ſomething puzzled what to do with their priſoners. Auguſta, the youngeſt, being of a mild and compaſſionate diſpoſition, was for having them put into a cage: ſhe promiſed to take the charge of them upon herſelf, and to feed them regularly every day: ſhe de⯑ſcribed in a lively manner to her brother and ſiſter, the pleaſure that they ſhould have in ſeeing and hearing thoſe young birds when grown big. This was oppoſed by Ro⯑bert: he maintained that it was better to pluck them juſt as they were, and that it would be much more funny to look at them jumping about in the room without feathers, than to ſee them diſmally ſhut up in a cage. Charlotte, the eldeſt, declared herſelf of the ſame opinion as Auguſta, but Robert perſiſted in his own.

[39]At laſt the two little girls, ſeeing that their brother would not give up the point, and that beſides he had the neſt in his poſſeſſion, agreed to whatever he deſired. But he had not waited for their conſent to begin his execution. The firſt was already plucked. There is one ſtript, ſays he, ſetting it on the ground. In a moment all the little family were deprived of their tender feathers. The poor things cried, peep! peep! and complained very piteouſly; they ſhuddered with the cold, and ſhook their bare little wings. But Robert, inſtead of pitying their ſufferings, did not end his perſecutions there: he puſhed them with his toe to make them go on, and whenever they tumbled over the burſt out a laughing; and at laſt his ſiſters joined in the laugh with him.

While they were indulging this cruel amuſement, they ſaw at a diſtance their tutor coming towards them. Mum! Each pocketed a bird, and was ſlinking off. "Well, cried their tutor to them, where are you going? Come hither!" This order obliged them to ſtop. They advanced ſlowly, with their eyes fixed on the ground.

Why do you run away at my coming?

We were only playing.

You know, I do not debar you of amuſe⯑ment, and indeed I am never ſo happy as when I ſee you all merry.

We were afraid that you were coming to ſcold us.

Do I ever ſcold you for taking an innocent diverſion? I ſee you have done ſomething amiſs. Why have you each your hand in your pocket? I muſt know the reaſon. Shew me each your hand, and what you have in it.

And who could give you the idea of treating theſe poor little creatures thus?

Why, it is ſo droll to ſee ſparrows jump without feathers.

You think it very droll to ſee innocent crea⯑tures ſuffer, and to hear their cries when in pain?

No, ſir; I did not think it put them to pain.

Did'nt you? Come hither: I will convince you it did.

Oh! Oh!

Does that hurt you?

Do you think it does not, to pluck one's hairs?

Pſhaw! there are only a dozen.

But that is too much.

What would it be then, were one to pluck out all your hair ſo? Have you a notion of the pain that you would feel? And yet you have put theſe birds to the very ſame torture, though they never did you any harm. And you, young ladies, you that ſhould be more tender-hearted, did you ſuffer this?

The two little miſſes were ſtanding by ſilent, but hear⯑ing theſe laſt words, and feeling the keenneſs of the rebuke, they ſat down with their eyes ſwimming in tears. The tutor remarking their ſorrow, was touched with it and ſaid no more to them.

Robert did not cry, and endeavoured to juſtify himſelf thus: I could not think that I did them any harm. They ſung all the while, and they clapped their wings as if they were pleaſed.

Do you call their cries ſinging? But why ſhould they ſing?

I ſuppoſe to call their father and mother.

No doubt. And when their cries ſhould have brought them, what did the young ones mean to tell them by clapping their wings?

I cannot ſay exactly; perhaps to aſk their help.

Juſt ſo. Therefore, if thoſe birds could have expreſſed themſelves in our ſpeech, you would have heard them cry, "Ah! father and mother, ſave us! We have unhappily fallen into the hands of cruel children who have plucked all our feathers. We are cold, and in pain. Come, warm us and cure us, or we ſhall die."

The little girls could hold out no longer; they ſobbed and hid their faces in their handkerchiefs. It was you, Robert, that led us to this cruelty. We hated the thought of it ourſelves. Robert was then himſelf ſenſible of his fault. He had already been puniſhed by his tutor plucking his hair; he was now much more ſo by the re⯑proaches of his own heart. The tutor thought there was no occaſion to add to this double puniſhment. It was not, indeed, from an inſtinct of cruelty, but purely from want of thought, that Robert had done this ill-natured action, and the pity which he ſelt from that moment for all crea⯑tures [41]weaker than himſelf, opened his heart to the ſenti⯑ments of kindneſs and humanity that have animated him all the reſt of his life.

THE TWO APPLE-TREES.

ARich huſbandman had two ſons, the one exactly a year older than the other. The very day the ſecond was born, he had ſet in the entrance of his orchard two young apple-trees equal in ſize, which he had ſince cul⯑tivated with the ſame care, and which had thriven ſo equally that nobody could give the preference to either of them before the other. When his children were ca⯑pable of handling garden tools, he took them, one fine ſpring day, to ſee thoſe two trees which he had planted for them, and called by their names; and after they had ſufficiently admired their fine growth, and the number of bloſſoms that covered them, he ſaid, "You ſee, chil⯑dren, I give you theſe trees in good condition. They will thrive as much by your care as they will loſe by your negligence, and their fruit will reward you in proportion to your labour."

The youngeſt, named Edmund, was indefatigable in his attention. He was all day buſy in clearing his tree of inſects that would have hurt it, and he propped up its ſtem, to hinder it from taking an ugly bent. He looſened the earth all round it, that the warmth of the ſun and the moiſture of the dews might cheriſh its roots. His mother had not tended him more carefully in his infancy than he did his young apple-tree.

His brother Moſes did none of all this. He ſpent his time on a mount that was hard by, throwing ſtones from it at paſſengers in the road. He went amongſt all the little country boys in the neighbourhood, to box with them, ſo that he was always ſeen with broken ſhins and black eyes, from the blows and kicks that he received in his quarrels. He neglected his tree ſo far, in ſhort, that he never once thought of it, till one day in autumn he by chance ſaw Edmund's tree ſo full of apples, ſtreaked with purple and gold, that were it not for the props which [42]ſupported its branches, the weight of its fruit muſt have bent it to the ground. Struck with the fight of ſo fine a growth, he ran to his own, hoping to find as large a crop on it; but what was his ſurprize, when he ſaw nothing but branches covered with moſs, and a few yellow leaves! Quite angry and jealous, he went to his father, and ſaid, "Father, what ſort of a tree is this that you have given me? It is as dry as a broomſtick, and I ſhall not have ten apples on it. But my brother!—Oh? you have uſed him better. Bid him at leaſt ſhare his apples with me."— "Share with you? ſaid his father: ſo the induſtrious would loſe his laber to feed the idle. Take what you get; it is the reward of your negligence, and do not think to accuſe me of injuſtice, when you ſee your bro⯑ther's rich crop. Your tree was as fruitful and in as good order as his. It bore as many bloſſoms, and grew in the ſame ſoil; only it had not the ſame uſage. Edmund has kept his tree clear of even the ſmalleſt infects; you have ſuffered them to eat up yours in its bloſſom. As I do not chuſe to let any thing which God has given me, and for which I hold myſelf accountable to him, go to ruin, I take this tree from you again, and call it no more by your name. It muſt paſs through his hands to recover itſelf, and is his property from this moment, as well as the fruit that he ſhall make it bear. You may go and look for another in my nurſery, and rear it, if you will, to make amends for your fault: but if you neglect it, that too ſhall belong to your brother, for aſſiſting me in my labour."

Moſes felt the juſtice of his father's ſentence, and the wiſdom of his deſign. He went that moment and choſe in the nurſery the moſt thriving young apple-tree that he could find. Edmund aſſiſten him with his advice in rear⯑ing it, and Moſes did not loſe a moment. He was never out of humour now with his comrades, and ſtill leſs with himſelf, for he applied chearfully to work, and in autumn he ſaw his tree fully anſwer his hopes. Thus he had the double advantage of enriching himſelf with a plentiful growth of fruit, and at the ſame time of getting rid of the vicious habits that he had contracted.

His father was ſo well pleaſed with this change, that the following year he ſhared the produce of a ſmall or⯑chard between him and his brother.

IF MEN DO NOT SEE YOU, GOD SEES YOU.

MR. Ferguſon was walking in the country one fine warm day in harveſt time, with his youngeſt ſon Frank. Papa, (ſaid Frank, looking wiſtfully towards a garden by the ſide of which they were walking,) I am very dry.—And I too, my dear, anſwered Mr. Ferguſon; but we muſt have patience until we go home.

There is a pear-tree loaded with very fine fruit: they are Windſor pears. Ah! with what pleaſure I could eat one!

I do not doubt it; but that tree is in a pri⯑vate garden.

The hedge is not very thick, and here is a hole where I can eaſily get through.

And what would the owner of the garden ſay, if he ſhould be there?

Oh! he is not there, I dare ſay, and nobody can ſee us.

You miſtake, child! There is one who ſees us, and who would puniſh us, and juſtly too, becauſe it would be wicked to do what you propoſe.

Who is that, papa?

He who is every where preſent, who never loſes ſight of us a moment, and who ſees to the very bot⯑tom of our thoughts; that is, God.

Ah! it is very true. I ſhall not think of it any more.

Juſt then a man ſtood up behind the hedge, whom they could not ſee before, becauſe he had been ſitting down on a graſſy ſlope. It was an old man, the owner of the garden, who ſpoke thus to Frank: "Return thanks to God, my child, that your father hindered you from ſteal⯑ing into my garden, and coming to take what does not belong to you. Know, that at the foot of each tree there is a trap laid to catch thieves, where you would certainly have been caught, and perhaps have lamed yourſelf for ever. But ſince, at the firſt word of the prudent leſſon given you by your father, you have ſhewed a fear of God, and did no longer inſiſt on the theft that you intended, I [44]will give you with pleaſure ſome of the fruit that you wiſhed to taſte." At theſe words he went up to the fineſt pear-tree, ſhook it, and brought back his hat full of pears to Frank.

Mr. Ferguſon would have taken money out of this purſe to pay this civil old man, but could not prevail on him to accept any. "I have had a ſatisfaction, ſir, in obliging your ſon, which I ſhould loſe were I to be paid for it. God alone repays ſuch actions."

Mr. Ferguſon ſhook hands with him over the hedge, and Frank thanked him too in a very manly manner; but he ſhewed a ſtill more lively gratitude in the hearty appetite that he appeared to have for the pears which did indeed quite run over with juice. That is a very good man, ſaid Frank to his papa, after he had finiſhed the laſt, and they had got a good diſtance from the old man.

Yes, my dear; and he is ſo, no doubt, be⯑cauſe his heart is convinced of this great truth, that God never fails to reward good actions, and chaſtiſe evil.

Would God have puniſhed me then, if I had taken the pears?

The good old man told you what would have happened to you. God, my dear child, orders every thing that paſſes upon earth, and directs events ſo as to reward good people for their virtuous actions, and to pu⯑niſh the wicked for their crimes. I will tell you an ad⯑venture which relates to this ſubject, and made ſo ſtrong an impreſſion on me, when a child, that I ſhall never for⯑get it as long as I live.

Ah! papa, how happy I am to-day; a pleaſant walk, fine pears, and a ſtory beſides!

When I was as little as you, and lived at my father's, we had two neighbours, the one on the right, the other on the left-hand of our houſe: their names were Dobſon and Vicars. Mr. Dobſon had a ſon called Simon, and Mr. Vicars one alſo of the name of Gamaliel. Behind our houſe and thoſe of our neighbours were ſmall gardens, ſeparated at that time only by quick⯑ſet hedges. Simon, when alone in his father's garden, amuſed himſelf with throwing ſtones into all the gardens round about, never once thinking that he might hurt ſomebody. Mr. Dobſon had obſerved this, and repri⯑manded him ſeverely for it, threatening to chaſtiſe him if [45]ever he did ſo again. But unhappily this child knew not, or elſe did not believe, that one ſhould not do amiſs, even when alone, becauſe God is always near us and ſees whatever we do. One day, when his father was gone out, thinking that nobody could ſee him and therefore that he ſhould not be puniſhed, he filled his pocket with ſtones and began pelting them all round him. Juſt at the ſame time Mr. Vicars was in his garden with his ſon Gamaliel. This boy had the misfortune to think, as well as Simon, that it was enough not to do amiſs before others, and that when alone one might do what one pleaſed. His father had a gun charged, to ſhoot the ſparrows that came picking his cherries; and he was ſit⯑ting in a ſummer-houſe to watch them. At this moment, a ſervant came to tell him that a ſtrange gentleman wanted him in the parlour: he therefore left the gun in the ſum⯑mer-houſe, and expreſſly forbid Gamaliel to touch it. But Gamaliel, when all alone, ſaid to himſelf, "I dont ſee what harm there would be in playing with this gun a little;" and ſaying thus, he took it up and began to ex⯑erciſe with it like a ſoldier. He handled his arms and reſted his firelock, and had a mind to try if he could make ready and preſent. The muzzle of his gun hap⯑pened to be pointed towards Mr. Dobſon's garden, and juſt as he was going to ſhut the left eye, in order to take aim, a pebble ſtone thrown by Simon ſtruck him in that very eye. The fright and the pain together, made Ga⯑maliel drop the gun, which went off; and, oh! what cries and ſhrieks were immediately heard in both gardens! Gamaliel had received a blow of a ſtone in the eye, and Simon received the whole charge of the gun in his leg. Thus the one loſt his eye, and the other remained a cripple all the reſt of his life.

Ah! poor Simon! poor Gamaliel! how I pity them!

They were, it is true, very much to be pi⯑tied; but their parents ſtill more ſo, for having children ſo diſobedient and vicious. After all it was a real hap⯑pineſs for theſe two bad boys to have met with this acci⯑dent.

How ſo, papa?

I will tell you. If God had not early pu⯑niſhed theſe children, they would always have continued [46]in miſchief, whenever they found themſelves alone; whereas they experienced by this warning, that whatever bad actions men do not ſee, God ſees and puniſhes. This was therefore a leſſon to them to amend themſelves, and they became thenceforth prudent and ſedate, and ſhunned doing miſchief when alone, as much as if all the world ſaw them. And this indeed was the deſign of Providence in thus puniſhing them; for our merciful Creator never chaſtiſes us but to make us become better.

Well, that eye and leg will make me take care. I will ſhen what is wrong and do what is right, even though I ſee nobody near me.

As he had finiſhed theſe words, they arrived at their own houſe-door.

PHYSIOGNOMY.

MR. Oakley having one day ſurprized his daughter Arabella very buſy before her glaſs, they had the following converſation on the ſubject.

Why Arabella, you are dreſt very fine. I ſuppoſe it is to receive or to pay viſits.

Yes, papa, I am to ſpend the evening with the Miſs Monktons.

I thought you were going to figure in a circle of ducheſſes. What needs all this dreſſing for friends that you ſee every day?

Why, papa, you know—when one goes out, one ſhould not be in a diſhabille as at home.

Then you are generally in diſhabille at home?

No, papa;—but you know there ought to be a difference.

I underſtand. You mean that you ſhould be a little more attentive to your dreſs. But I thought, as I came in, that you ſeemed buſy in examining your looks, and your figure. Does your glaſs tell you that your ſtudies have ſucceeded?

What is your intention?

Papa, one always likes to pleaſe, and—we would not appear ſo as to frighten people.

Ha, ha! then it depends on our choice to pleaſe people, or to frighten them?

Not entirely. But I meant—as others do when they ſay, one looks like a fright.

I ſhould like to know what that means. It may be of uſe to myſelf.

Why for inſtance; when one is pitted deeply with the ſmall-pox, or has a great long noſe and chin, or a wide mouth.

Thank heaven you have none of theſe; but rather, indeed, a ſenſible little countenance. What more do you want, in order to pleaſe univerſally, and not to be a fright?

Ah! I can't tell how it is, but I know ſome little miſſes that have very handſome faces, and yet they do not pleaſe me; and I know other that are not counted handſome, and yet I like their faces very much.

Can you truſt me with your thoughts? Tell me thoſe firſt that are handſome and yet have not the good luck to pleaſe your taſte.

That is eaſily done. In the firſt place, there is Miſs Bloomer. She has a clear ſmooth ſkin, as white as a lily, with fine blue eyes and roſy lips. But ſhe has an affected loll which makes her ſeem lower than ſhe is; and ſhe hangs her head on one ſhoulder, ſo that her face looks quite another thing. Then ſhe draws out her words ſlowly, as if ſhe weighed each ſyllable, and in ſpeaking ſhe looks at you, expecting you to admire every ſentence. In the next place, there is the eldeſt Miſs Archly; ſhe paſſes for a beauty, but her looks are ſo proud and ſneer⯑ing, that when we are a number of us together, we can⯑not help thinking ſhe deſpiſes or ridicules us. As for Miſs Drake, ſhe carries herſelf with ſo much confidence, and ſpeaks with ſuch an air of command, that a boy would bluſh—

Softly! At this rate we ſhall fall into ſcandal. I would rather hear you mention thoſe who, without being handſome, have found means to pleaſe you.

You know Miſs Emily Johnſon? She is much marked with the ſmall-pox, and even has a pearl on her left eye from it; but yet her countenance is ſo pleaſing, that one may read in it good-nature, mildneſs, and com⯑plaiſance. The youngeſt Miſs Archly has the ſmalleſt caſt in the world with her eyes, from having had ſome⯑thing hung before one eye that was ſore for almoſt a twelvemonth when ſhe was young. She looks to the right, to ſee what is on her left hand. Well, it is no⯑thing when one becomes uſed to it, and we all love her dearly; ſhe is ſo lively, and ſo gay.

You ſeen then, outward advantages, ſuch as a fair ſoft ſkin, white teeth, a handſome noſe, roſy lips, a fine eaſy ſhape, in ſhort, all the beauties of face or [66]perſon, are not ſufficient by themſelves to make one pleaſe: one muſt have beſides a happy countenance, and engaging manners.

Certainly, papa; for otherwiſe I cannot tell how ſome pleaſe me who are neither handſome nor well ſhaped, and how others are diſagreeable with all theſe ad⯑vantages.

But can you tell why the firſt have ſome⯑thing in their countenances more agreeable to us than the regular features of the ſecond?

Becauſe, I ſhould think, one ſees there ſome figns of their diſpoſition; and we are apt to think that thoſe who have an appearance of good-nature in the fea⯑tures of the face, muſt have a good heart.

When you were before your glaſs, you ſtrove, no doubt, to throw a little good-nature into your countenance, that people might imagine you to poſſeſs it in your diſpoſition too?

Oh! pray papa, do not make game of me.

I do not mean it. But you told me juſt now that you wiſhed to pleaſe, and you owned this to be the ſureſt method of doing ſo.

Yes, certainly.

But do you think that ſuch a countenance may not be deceitful, or that one can aſſume the power of pleaſing and lay it down at pleaſure?

Yes, papa, I think ſo, for I have heard you and others ſay a hundred times, "I would never have thought that little girl to have ſuch a deceitful counte⯑nance.—That man looked like honeſty itſelf, and yet he has deceived us.—Such a perſon knows how to compoſe his face ſo, that one would ſwear him to be poſſeſt of every virtue."

But did we ſpeak, then, of thoſe that we had ſeen often, or for a long time, or pretty near us?

Ah! I do not know that, papa.

Or might not this wrong judgment pro⯑ceed from a want of ſagacity? or from not ſufficiently remarking whether ſuch perſons have always the ſame countenance, or only take it up upon occaſion; or in ſhort, whether they ſpeak and act conſiſtently, and uni⯑formly?

What is the meaning of that, papa?

Whether every thing agrees, their coun⯑tenance, their eyes, the ſound of their voice, all the fea⯑tures of their face; whether any part contradicts, or gives the lie to the other.

Oh! there are a good many things to mind in that. And yet I ſhould imagine, if I ſaw any one a long time, and pretty often, and took particular notice of what you have mentioned, I could not be miſtaken.

Ah! child, do not be too ſure.

However, I think, I can ſee in my little friends what is affected, and what is natural.

So then you ſuppoſe that you are knowing enough in the art of diſguiſing the thoughts, and that you have judgment and penetration enough, to diſtinguiſh truth from hypocriſy upon a countenance? Really, I ſhould never have expected ſo much from ſo light a little head as yours.

Oh! I have taken notice in Miſs Bloomer, that her prim mouth, her ſtare, her motions with her head, and that drawling tone of hers, are not natural; and that the elder Miſs Archly's proud flouting look, and Miſs Drake's free undaunted manner is not at all affected, becauſe the one is really vain and ſelf-conceited, and the other impudent.

Perhaps they are not far enough advanced in the art of putting on counterfeit looks. However your opinion is, that our averſions and our likings, our faults and our virtues are painted on our faces, and that one can read in a perſon's features, as in a book, what he is in the bottom of his heart.

Why not? I never ſaw a paſſionate perſon with a mild aſpect, nor an envious perſon with a ſmiling countenance; nor one who was cruel and unfeeling, with looks of tenderneſs. Only ſee our neighbour, Mrs. Grim⯑ſton, how ſhe eyes people as if ſhe would eat them up, and with what a grumbling voice ſhe ſpeaks. Every time that Miſs Artichoke, the old maid, comes here, when mama has company, only obſerve how her eyes go round, to ſee if any lady preſent has any thing new or elegant about her dreſs; and with what looks of jealouſy ſhe mea⯑ſures her from head to foot, as if ſhe was hurt at another's happineſs.

Why, indeed, we may pretty ſafely pro⯑nounce that the one is envious, and the other paſſionate. But may it not ſometimes happen, that nature ſhould give the ſame perſon a happy countenance, and a perverſe diſpoſition; or, on the other hand, indifferent features along with a noble heart?

I do not know, but I can hardly believe it.

Why ſo?

Becauſe we may ſee by a perſon's figure whether he is weak or ſtrong, ſickly or in health; and it muſt be the ſame with the diſpoſition.

Well, now I ſhall give you two paſſages from hiſtory, that ſeem to contradict your notion. A certain able phyſiognomiſt, called Zopyrus, boaſted that from a view of a perſon's ſhape and countenance, he could diſtinguiſh his manners and ruling paſſions. After one day looking at Socrates, he judged him to be a man of a bad mind and vicious inclinations, ſome of which he mentioned. Alcibiades, the friend and ſcholar of So⯑crates, who was well acquainted with his maſter's merit, could not help laughing at the judgment of the phyſiog⯑nomiſt and taxing him with groſs ignorance. But Socrates confeſſed that he was really by nature inclined to thoſe vices of which he was accuſed, and that he preſerved himſelf free from them by the conſtant exertions of philo⯑ſophy. Aeſop, that ſlave who was endowed with ſo much wit, had a perſon ſo diſagreeable and deformed, that when he ſtood to be ſold he could prevail on nobody to purchaſe him, until his witty anſwers ſhewed them con⯑vincingly what he was.—Here are two examples that ſeem to prove the contrary of what you maintained.

Well now, that ſurprizes me as to Socrates: I have often heard you talk of him with admiration. And as to Aeſop too, I have read his fables with ſo much pleaſure. I ſhould have thought them both the fineſt looking perſons in the world. But however, it agrees again with what I ſaid, that one may be ordinary, and yet have I don't know what of wit, ſenſibility, or good⯑nature, in the countenance.

You are right; ſickneſs or grief may alter the features. But that was not the caſe with Socrates. He owned himſelf that he was at firſt viciouſly inclined, and the features of his face ſtrongly confirmed it.

I think his anſwer explains the difficulty. He was born with a bad diſpoſition, but as he had much good ſenſe at the ſame time, and ſaw that paſſion, pride and envy were terrible vices, he ſtruggled with them and came at length to get the better of them. His heart was purged of his faults, but his countenance kept the marks of them ſtill.

You ſeem to be pretty ready at a reply. Nay, there is ſome truth, too, in your reaſoning. How⯑ever, I have a ſmall queſtion to propoſe to you.—If Miſs Archly, that proud little miſs, who has a face, you ſay, expreſſing diſdain and ſelf-conceit, ſhould, from the ſen⯑ſible inſtructions of her parents, be convinced of her own folly; or if diſtreſſes and ſickneſs obliged her to endea⯑vour to render herſelf agreeable to others, by being mild, affable and mannerly, ſo that ſhe ſhould become quite the contrary to what ſhe is at preſent; and ſuppoſe it were the ſame with your other little friends, as to the faults that you find in them alſo; would thoſe marks of pride, affectation or impudence remain ſtill upon their faces? Or when, by continual and redoubled efforts they ſhould have changed their vices into the oppoſite virtues, would the ſame alteration take place in their countenances?

Yes, certainly, papa.

Well, the truth may lie between our dif⯑ferent ways of arguing. Socrates, when young, yielded to the folly of his paſſions, and even retained for a long time his choleric temper, ſince he entreated his friends to admoniſh him, whenever they ſaw him ready to give way to it. But in a more advanced age, when he had been inſtructed in the ſchool of wiſdom, he began undoubtedly to combat his vices, to reform himſelf daily, and to riſe by degrees to the higheſt pitch of perfect on in every mo⯑ral virtue. But then it was too late to new-model his features. The muſcles and fibres of his face becoming ſtiff, the beauty of his mind could make no impreſſion through his countenance. It was like the ſun in a cloudy ſky. Now in childhood, when the features are more ten⯑der and flexible, the different movements of the ſoul are in their turns forcibly impreſſed on them. So that if by a reform during that period the virtues take place of the vices in the mind, the outward expreſſion of theſe virtues on the countenance will alſo efface that of the vices. For [70]the countenance may be compared to a thin veil. If you throw it over the head of a fair Circaſſian, and afterwards over that of a Negro wench, you will eaſily ſee through it the florid bloom of the one, and the ſooty blackneſs of the other. I do not know whether you underſtand what I mean.

Oh! yes, perfectly from that compariſon; and to ſhew you that I do, I will give you one of my own. I have often with the greateſt eaſe cut the letters of my name, or the date of the year, upon a young tree, but I could not do ſo upon an old one: the bark would have been too hard, and too rugged.

Why you ſurprize me. But even though your compariſon ſhould not be quite exact, it is certainly true that if we do not take up a habit of virtue until an advanced age, we ſhall appear the leſs amiable in the eyes of others; becauſe our features, long accuſtomed to expreſs our former vicious inclinations, can with difficulty be modelled to repreſent our preſent virtuous ſentiments: and what are we to conclude from this?

That we ſhould—that we ſhould—

Conſider well before you expreſs yourſelf.

That we ſhould endeavour, while young, to have an amiable countenance.

But if we are not in our heart what our countenance denotes, would not the contraſt be remarked? You ſaid juſt now of Miſs Bloomer, that ſhe was not what ſhe wiſhed to be thought. So, you ſee—

Yes, I ſee that we ſhould ſtrive to be really what we wiſh to appear. So, for inſtance, if we would appear mild, modeſt, reſerved, or good-natured, we ſhould ſtruggle againſt all thoſe inclinations that would hinder us to be ſo in effect, otherwiſe our counterfeit looks will ſoon be diſcovered. For if one is really mild, modeſt, reſerved, or good-natured, the features of his face will ſhew it.

Very well, my dear Arabella. And is not that an excellent receipt for obtaining true beauty, and the genuine art of pleaſing? How unhappy would thoſe be to whom nature has refuſed her charms, if they were debarred the hopes of acquiring an amiable and en⯑gaging countenance by goodneſs of heart, and other qua⯑lities moſt pleaſing in the ſight of God and man. There⯑fore, [71]my dear, take my advice; do not go to ſeek in your glaſs for the art of appearing better than you really are. But whenever you find yourſelf ruffled by any paſ⯑ſion, run immediately and conſult it. You will ſee the uglineſs of envy, anger or vanity. Then aſk yourſelf, if ſuch a portrait can be agreeable in the eyes of either God or man.

Yes, papa; your advice is very good, and I will follow it. But I ſhall reap another advantage from your inſtructions.

What is that?

I will look very attentively at every body that I ſee in company, and ſtrive to diſcover by their faces what opinion I ſhould have of them.

No, child, take care how you do ſo. The firſt would be contrary to good manners, and unſuitable to the modeſty of your ſex; and the ſecond would be very dangerous, conſidering your candour and inexpe⯑rience. To diſcover in the features of any perſon his diſpoſition or way of thinking, requires long ſtudy, re⯑peated obſervations, and a very penetrating judgment. You would find yourſelf continually deceived in your likings or diſlikes. The knowledge of the world will inſtruct you by degrees. At preſent ſtudy only yourſelf, and uſe all the ſtrength of your mind to acquire every virtue, in order to become more amiable and more beau⯑tiful.

NARCISSUS AND HIPPOLYTUS.

NARCISSUS and Hippolytus were nearly of the ſame age, and loved each other from their earlieſt infancy. As their parents were cloſe neighbours, they had opportunities of being together every day. Mr. Chambers, the father of Narciſſus, had a place under government, the profits of which were immenſe; but the father of Hippolytus, Mr. Marvel, poſſeſſed a moderate fortune, on which, however, he lived content, and all his views aimed at making his ſon happy by the advan⯑tages of a well directed education, ſince he had it not in [72]his power to leave him great riches. To obtain this end, he made choice of means the moſt worthy of his pru⯑dence. Hippolytus, at nine years of age, was formed to all the exerciſes of the body, and his underſtanding en⯑riched with many uſeful acquirements. Being conſtantly in exerciſe and motion, he was healthy and robuſt. Al⯑ways contented, and happy in the affection of his parents, he enjoyed a mild chearfulneſs which communicated its influence to theſe who had the happineſs of being in his company. His little neighbour Narciſſus was one who felt this happineſs; for the moment that Hippolytus left him, he would be quite at a loſs for amuſement. That his time might not hang weariſome, he was continually eating without being hungry, drinking without being dry, and dozing without being ſleepy. So that ſcarce a day paſſed but he was troubled with qualms of the ſto⯑mach, or violent head-achs. Mr. Chambers, as well as Mr. Marvel, tenderly wiſhed his ſon's happineſs; but to procure it he had unfortunately taken the means which were quite oppoſite to his end. Narciſſus from the cradle had been bred up with the utmoſt delicacy. He had al⯑ways a ſervant behind him, to hand him a chair whenever he had a mind to change his ſeat. He was dreſt and un⯑dreſt as if he had not the uſe of his hands. It ſeemed as if all thoſe who were about him only breathed for him, and that he could not help himſelf even to live. While Hippolytus, in a thin linen jacket, helped his father to cultivate a little garden for his amuſement, Narciſſus, in a fine ſcarlet coat, was lolling in a chariot, paying morn⯑ing viſits with his mama. If ever he went to take the country air, and alighted out of the carriage but for a moment, they took particular care to put his great coat on, and a handkerchief round his head, for fear he ſhould catch cold. Accuſtomed as he was to be humoured in his ſlighteſt fancies, he wiſhed for every thing that he ſaw; but this wiſh laſted only for a moment; and the more troubleſome it was to procure him what he wiſhed, the ſooner he was tired of it. To ſpare him the ſmalleſt ſubject of ill humour, his mother had ordered all the ſer⯑vants to reſpect even his follies. This ill-judged indul⯑gence made him ſo whimſical and imperious that every body in the houſe hated and deſpiſed him. Beſides his parents, Hippolytus was the only perſon that loved him [73]and could patiently put up with his humours. He knew how to manage his temper, and could make him even good humoured like himſelf.

How do you contrive to be always ſo merry? ſaid Mr. Chambers to him one day. I do not well know, ſir, an⯑ſwered he. It comes of itſelf. But my papa tells me, that one is never perfectly happy, without mixing a little work with one's play. And I have obſerved it, too, whenever any ſtrangers come to our houſe, and we quit our work to entertain them: I never find my time hang heavy but on ſuch days. It is this mixture of exerciſe and amuſement that makes me always be in good health. I fear neither the winds, nor the rain; neither the heat of the day, nor the cold of the evening; and I have almoſt dug up a whole plat in my garden, before poor Narciſſus quits his bed of a morning. Mr. Chambers heaved a ſigh; and that very day he went to conſult Mr. Marvel how he ſhould act, in order to make his ſon as healthy and as chearful as Hippo⯑lytus. Mr. Marvel took pleaſure in anſwering his queſ⯑tions, and laid before him the plan that he had followed. The powers of the body and of the mind, ſaid he, ſhould be equally kept in exerciſe, unleſs they are meant to be unſerviceable, as money buried in the ground would be even to its owner. Nothing can be imagined more pre⯑judicial to the health and happineſs of children, than to give them a puſillanimous turn, by uſing them to exceſ⯑ſive delicacy; and from a pernicious complaiſance, to give way to their whimſical and obſtinate humours. To what vexatious diſappointments will not a man be ex⯑poſed, who has been accuſtomed from his childhood to ſee even his follies flattered; ſince of all the warmeſt wiſhes of his heart, he may happen to ſee ſcarcely one accompliſhed, and thus be led baſely to murmur againſt his deſtiny, when he ſhould for the moſt part thank heaven for rejecting his infatuated vows? He added, with tokens of heart-felt ſatisfaction, that Hippolytus would certainly never be that unhappy perſon. Mr. Chambers was ſtruck with this diſcourſe, and reſolved to conduct his ſon to happineſs by the ſame way. Alas! it was too late. Narciſſus now was fourteen years old, and his mind, ſo long enervated, could not bear any exertion, though ever ſo little fatiguing. His mother, as weak as himſelf, entreated her huſband not to teaze their darling. [74]Her huſband, wearied out with theſe entreaties, dropped the ſenſible deſign that he had formed; and the darling ſunk more and more into habits of pernicious effemi⯑nacy. Thus the ſtrength of his body declined, in pro⯑portion as his mind was degraded by ignorance. At ſea [...]th, when he had gained the age of ſeventeen, his pa⯑rents ſent him to the univerſity, intending him after⯑wards for the ſtudy of the law. Hippolytus being deſ⯑tined for the ſame profeſſion, accompanied his young friend. I had forgot to mention that Hippolytus, in his different ſtudies and acquirements, had never had any other inſtructor than his father. Narciſſus had as many maſters as there are different accompliſhments to acquire; and he remembered a few of the terms uſed by each of them tolerably well. This was all the fruit of his ſtudies. The underſtanding of Hippolytus, on the contrary, was like a garden whoſe airy ſituation every where admits the kindly rays of the ſun, and in which every ſeed, by a judicious cultivation, comes rapidly to the growth. Al⯑ready well inſtructed, he earneſtly deſired freſh know⯑ledge. His diligence and good behaviour afforded a pat⯑tern for imitation to his companions. His mild temper, his lively apprehenſion and joyous humour, made his company ſtrongly attracting. Every body loved him, and every body wiſhed to be his friend. Narciſſus at firſt was happy to be in the ſame lodging with him. But very ſoon his pride, mortified by the eſteem that Hippo⯑lytus had acquired, would not ſuffer him to be longer a witneſs to it. He therefore ſeparated from him upon a frivoious pretence. Being now left to himſelf, and his own vitiated taſte, he ſighed for pleaſure, and thought⯑leſsly ſnatched at whatever ſeemed to offer her deceitful image to his view. I ſhall not attempt to deſcribe to you how often he bluſhed for himſelf, and how from one imprudence to another, he fell at laſt into the groſſeſt irregularities. It will ſuffice to inform you that he re⯑turned to his father's houſe with the ſeeds of a mortal diſtemper in his boſom; that he languiſhed ſix months on a bed of pain, and expired in the ſevereſt agonies. Hippolytus came home to his parents, regretted both by his teachers and his companions, and enriched with a treaſure of learning and prudence. With what tranſ⯑ports of joy was he received by his family! O children, [75]how ſweet a thing it is to make ourſelves beloved by all who know us, and at the ſame time to feel ourſelves wor⯑thy of this univerſal affection! His mother thought her⯑ſelf the happieſt of women; and tears of joy filled his father's eyes whenever he beheld him. A conſiderable employment in his profeſſion was conferred on him with the unanimous approbation of all who knew his charac⯑ter, and enabled him to gratify his ardent deſire of pro⯑moting the happineſs of his friends. And he enjoyed their happineſs as much as they did themſelves. His parents, too, ſhared the ſame generous ſentiments, and lived in affluence to a good old age. He took pleaſure in repaying them with intereſt the attentions which they had ſhewed for him. A wife endowed with beauty and virtue, and children reſembling himſelf, made his hap⯑pineſs complete. Whenever, therefore, any man was mentioned as being both happy and worthy to be ſo, the name of Hippolytus always occurred firſt to the thoughts of thoſe who knew him.

THE MAN WHO ROSE TO SUDDEN FORTUNE.

ONE fine evening, in the month of June, Mr. Ruſſel went out with his ſon Eugene, to take a walk in ſome of the moſt agreeable environs of the city. The weather was mild, the ſky clear, the purling ſtreams and waving trees lulled them to an agreeable thoughtfulneſs. What a lovely evening! ſaid Eugene, enchanted with the beauties of nature that ſurrounded him. He preſſed his father's hand, and ſaid to him, If you knew, papa, what thoughts riſe in my heart! He was ſilent for a mo⯑ment, then lifting up towards heaven his eyes which were moiſtened with tears. I thank my God, ſaid he, for the happy moments that he gives me to enjoy. Oh! that every body could taſte the beauties of the evening as I do! That all mankind overflowed with joy, as I do at this moment! I could wiſh to be king over a large coun⯑try that I might make all my ſubjects happy. Mr. Ruſ⯑ſel embraced his ſon. My dear Eugene, ſaid he, the [76]benevolent wiſh that you have juſt expreſſed, comes from a heart as generous as humane. But would not your thoughts change with your fortune? Would you preſerve in an exalted ſtation theſe ſentiments that animate you now in the middling condition to which heaven has ap⯑pointed you?

Why do you aſk that queſtion, papa? cannot one become rich without becoming cruel or wicked?

It does not always happen ſo, my dear. There are ſome fortunate perſons who remember their paſt diſtreſſes, and in whom this reflection produces ſen⯑timents of charity towards the unfortunate. But to the diſgrace of the human heart, a change of fortune fre⯑quently alters affections the moſt tender and ſympathetic. While we are unfortunate ourſelves, we think that hea⯑ven requires it of all men as a duty to relieve our ſuffer⯑ings. If the hand of God remove misfortune from us, we conclude all his intents in the preſervation of the uni⯑verſe to be fulfilled; and we no longer think of thoſe wretches that remain in the gulf from which we have been reſcued. We have an inſtance of this in the man who comes ſometimes to aſk relief of me. I give it to him with a reluctance that I cannot conquer, though I reproach myſelf for it.

Why true, papa; I obſerved that you put your alms coldly into his hand, without ever giving him thoſe words of comfort that you do to other poor people.

I will ſhew you, my dear, whether he de⯑ſerves them. Mr. Lowe was a linen-draper in the Mino⯑ries. Though the profits of his buſineſs were but mode⯑rate, a poor perſon never appeared at his door in vain. This was all the pleaſure that he indulged himſelf in pur⯑chaſing; and he thought himſelf happy to enjoy it, though he could not command even this to the full extent of his wiſhes. Buſineſs called him one day upon Change. He ſaw in one part of it a number of principal merchants together, who were talking of vaſt cargoes, and immenſe profits to be expected from them. Ah! ſaid he to himſelf, ſighing, how happy theſe people are! If I were as rich, heaven knows, I ſhould not be ſo for myſelf alone, and that the poor ſhould partake of my abundance. He goes home full of ambitious thoughts, but how can his narrow buſineſs enable him to fulfil his[77]vaſt projects? With tolerable oeconomy, it was no more than ſufficient to afford him a decent ſubſiſtence the year [...]ound. "I ſhall always be at a ſtand here!" cried he, "and never riſe above this middling condition in which I linger at preſent." A hand-bill, inviting adventurers to purchaſe in the lottery, was at this moment put into his hand. He ſeized the idea with eagerneſs, as if in⯑ſpired by fortune; and without minding the inconvenience to which his covetouſneſs might reduce him, he went to the lottery-office, and laid out four guineas, the only money that he could ſpare in the world. With what impatience he waited for the drawing! He one time re⯑pented having ſo fooliſhly hazarded a ſtake, the loſs of which would diſturb him. At another time he fancied that he ſaw riches falling down upon him in ſhowers. At laſt the drawing began.

Well, papa, did he get a prize?

Five thouſand pounds.

Aha! he would jump for joy.

He went immediately and received his mo⯑ney, and ſpent ſome days in thinking of nothing elſe. When he had had enough of that, I can put this ſum to a better uſe, ſaid he, than barely poring over it. He therefore enlarged his ſtock, extended his dealings, and by his ac⯑tivity and knowledge of trade he ſoon doubled his capital. In leſs than ten years he became one of the richeſt men in the city. It muſt be ſaid in his praiſe, that he had till then been faithful to his vow, in making the poor partake of his abundance. At the fight of an unfortunate perſon he remembered his own former condition without being aſhamed of it. And this recollection never failed of pro⯑fiting the perſon who occaſioned it. Led by degrees to frequent fine company, he contracted a taſte for luxury and diſſipation. He purchaſed a magnificent country⯑houſe and fine gardens, and his life became a round of pleaſures and amuſement. The moſt extravagant whims he gratified without ſcruple, but ſoon perceived that they had made a conſiderable breach in his fortune. Trade, which he had given up in order to be quite at leiſure to enjoy himſelf, no longer enabled him to repair it. Be⯑ſides, a habit of indulgence and a mean vanity would not ſuffer him to leſſen his expences. I ſhall always have enough for one, thought he; let others provide for them⯑ſelves. [78]His heart, hardened in this reſolution, was thenceforth ſhut to the unfortunate. He heard the cries of miſery around him, as one hears the tempeſt grumble, when ſheltered from its fury. Friends whom he had till then ſupported, came to ſolicit him for freſh relief. But he refuſed them harſhly. Have I made a fortune, ſaid he, only to ſquander it upon you? Do as I do, ſaid he, depend upon yourſelves. His mother, whom he had cut ſhort of half the penſion that he allowed her, came to beg for a retired ſhelter in a corner of his houſe, there to ſpend her few remaining days; but he had the barbarity to refuſe her, and with dry eyes beheld her die in miſery. This crime, however, did not long remain unpuniſhed. His debaucheries very ſoon exhauſted all his wealth, and deprived him of the ſtrength neceſſary to ſupport himſelf by work. In ſhort, he was reduced to the ſtate of miſery in which you ſee him, and now begs his bread from door to door, an object of contempt and indignation to all honeſt people.

Ah! papa, ſince fortune can make men ſo wicked, I wiſh to remain as I am.

My dear Eugene, I wiſh the ſame for the ſake of your happineſs; but if heaven deſtines you to a more exalted ſtation, may you never forſeit the nobleneſs and generoſity of your ſoul. Think often of the ſtory that I have juſt now told you. Learn from this example, that we can never taſte true happineſs, without feeling for the misfortunes of others; that it is the powerful man's duty to comfort the ſorrows of the weak; and that he reaps more true happineſs from the performance of this duty, than from all his pomp and luxury.

The ſun was now going to ſet, and his parting beams threw a lively glow upon the clouds which ſeemed to form a purple curtain round his bed. The air, freſhened at the approach of evening, breathed an agreeable calm. The birds, in repeating their farewel ſongs, rallied all their powers of melody. The leaves of the grove mingled a gentle murmur with their concert, and every thing ſeemed to inſpire ſentiments of joy and happineſs; but Eugene and his father, inſtead of the tranſports which they had felt at firſt, returned home loſt in melancholy reflexions.

THE HEN.

HOW happy was Cyprian in ſo worthy and affectionate a father as Mr. Tiſdall. Whenever he had ſhown himſelf for any length of time diſcreet and diligent, he was aſſured that his father would not fail to teſtify his ſatisfaction with ſome recompence or other. Cyprian had a taſte for gardening, and began, about the age of twelve, to cultivate choice flowers. His father ſaw it, and imme⯑diately began to ſtudy how he might afford his ſon more pleaſure.

They were both at dinner. Cyprian, ſaid his father, your preceptor has informed me, that you have begun this very day to read the Roman Hiſtory, and the Geography of Italy. If, in a week, you can but give me an exact account of every thing you may have learned on theſe two ſubjects, you cannot think what I intend ſhall recompence your application!

Cyprian, one may eaſily ſuppoſe, did not forget ſuch a promiſe. He employed himſelf in ſtudying all the week, to get this recompence; or rather, he received ſuch plea⯑ſure from his ſtudy, that indeed it was he who ſhould have beſtowed a recompence on his Papa if he had been able.

He ſaw the day of trial come, without anxiety; and underwent the examination like an hero. He had learned the hiſtory of all the kings of Rome, and marked out in his map the gradual progreſs of that growing empire.

In a tranſport of delight, his father took him by the hand, embraced and kiſſed him. Come, ſays he, ſince you have ſought to give me ſo much pleaſure, it is but juſt that I ſhould contribute in my turn to yours. Saying this, he led him into an adjoining garden, pointed out a vacant ſpot to him, and told him that it was to be his. You may part it in two, continued he; and plant what flowers you like in one, and any vegetables that you think proper in the other. After this, they went into an out-houſe, cloſe behind the gardener's hut, where Cyprian found a ſpade, a watering-pot, a rake, and other implements of garden⯑ing, all perfectly adapted to his ſize and ſtrength. On the walls were baſkets hung up, of every ſize, great and ſmall, [98]and on ſhelves about them, ſundry boxes full of roots, and bags of ſeeds; the whole together duly ticketed, with cards on every box and bag, marking the proper time for ſowing each article.

One ſhould be of Cyprian's age to know the exceſs of his joy upon this occaſion. In his mind, the little ſpot of earth which his father had aſſigned him, was as great as monarchs think their kingdoms; and whatever hours of relaxation his preceptor let him take, and which he ſpent before in folly, were now taken up in cultivating his domain.

One day, when he came in from doing ſomething about his garden he forgot to ſhut the gate. A hen was pecking near the ſpot, and took it in her head to go a hunting on his grounds. The flower-bed had been ſtrewed but lately with a layer of the richeſt mould, and was conſequently quite full of worms.

The hen, charmed with ſuch delicious fare, began to ſcratch the mould up, and employ her beak as well as talons to unearth the worms; and in particular, ſhe took a mighty inclination to a part, where Cyprian had, the day, before been planting ſome fine pinks.

How great therefore was the exceſs of his rage when coming back to his plantation, he beheld the door a jar, and this new-faſhioned gardener digging up his beds? Ah! ah! you impudent ſlut! ſaid he; your bones ſhall pay for this. And immediately he ſhut the door, for fear his victim ſhould eſcape, and picking up flint ſtones, ſand, clods of earth, and whatever he could lay hold of, he threw them at the bird, purſuing her all the while as cloſe as he could.

The frightened hen, at one time ran with all her ſpeed, and at another time ſtrove to fly upon the wall, but found that her wings would not befriend her in reaching ſuch a height. Unhappily, ſhe fell back more than once on Cyprian's flowers, and got her wings and feet entangled with the fineſt hyacinths.

Young Cyprian, beholding her thus embroiled, ſup⯑poſed that he had her faſt. Two rows of tulips ſeparated them. His anger was ſo vehement, that ſtepping over, as he meant to do, this interval of ſeparation between the hen and him, he trod them down himſelf. The hen, however, at her enemy's approach, redoubled her former [99]efforts, and attempted now a ſecond time to gain the wall. She roſe a great deal higher than before, yet ſtill came ſhort; but what was matter of regret for Cyprian, bore away with her from underneath as ſhe roſe, a beautiful roſe-bud-coloured ten-belled hyacinth. On this, he ſeized his rake, and flung it at the bird with all his ſtrength. The rake turned round, and while he fancied it upon the point of hitting the fugitive mark, it came down, and daſhed two panes of glaſs to pieces in a melon frame, as well as broke out two of its own teeth upon the ground.

The little Fury, made much more furious by theſe damages, had run for his ſpade, and now the combat would perhaps have had fatal conſequences for his feather⯑ed adverſary, who fatigued and giddy had crept in be⯑tween a roſe-buſh and the wall, if Mr. Tiſdall, at firſt attracted to his window by the noiſe, had not made haſte to her aſſiſtance.

The moment Cyprian ſaw his father, he ſtood ſtock ſtill in evident confuſion; however he made ſhift to find his tongue at laſt, and cried out, See, papa, what ravage this vile creature has committed in my garden.

Had you ſhut the door replied his father with an affect⯑ed indifference, this ravage would not have been made. I ſaw your whole behaviour. Are you not aſhamed of ha⯑ving put forth all your ſtrength againſt a harmleſs hen? She has no reaſon to conduct herſelf, and though ſhe has rooted up your pinks, it was not with a wiſh to do you any damage, but to get her ordinary food. Now, Cyprian, ſhould you have put yourſelf thus into a paſſion, if ſhe had ſcratched up nothing but as many nettle roots? And how can ſhe diſtinguiſh between pinks and nettles? It is your⯑ſelf alone that are to blame for all this havock. With precaution you would certainly have driven her out ſo that ſhe might do no further miſchief; and in that caſe, neither your rake, nor my melon frame, would have gone to ruin, or your loſs have exceeded that of a few flowers. Therefore you alone are puniſhable, ſo that were I to cut a branch off from this hazle-tree, and with it make you ſuffer juſt what you deſigned the hen ſhould ſuffer—which of us would act with the greateſt juſtice? I ſhall not, how⯑ever, go to this extremity, purpoſely to ſhew you that we may all ſuppreſs our reſentment, if we think proper. Notwithſtanding, for the damage done to my melon frame, [100]I ſhall deduct as much as will repair it, from the arrears of your allowance in my hands; for I am not to ſuffer through your raſhneſs.

Cyprian, upon this, withdrew much abaſhed, and all day durſt ſcarcely lift his eyes up, while before his father.

On the morrow, Mr. Tiſdall propoſed a walk, and aſked if he deſired to join him. Cyprian followed, but oppreſſed with ſadneſs which he ſought in vain to hide. His father ſaw it, and affecting a degree of wonder, wiſhed to know why he appeared ſo grievouſly dejected.

Have I not the greateſt cauſe to be dejected? For this whole month paſt, I have denied myſelf ſo many pleaſures, merely to buy ſomething for my ſiſter. I had ſaved ten ſhillings, with which I thought to purchaſe her a pretty hat; but muſt give the half of it perhaps to have your melon frame repaired.

I dare ſay, you would have been delighted to oblige your ſiſter, but my melon frame, however, muſt be paid for firſt. This leſſon will teach you in future not to yield yourſelf up to the miſchiefs of reſentment which in general aggravates the firſt misfortune happening to us.

Ah! you may depend upon it, ſir, I will ne⯑ver leave the garden-door open again, or take revenge upon a hen for what would be my own omiſſion.

But, pray tell me, do you fancy that, in this vaſt univerſe, hens only have it in their power to do you damage?

O! no, no; for look ye, not above a week ago I left my map upon the table while I went a walking, and my little ſiſter coming into the room, with a pen and ink ſo blotted it all over, that no one could diſtinguiſh Europe from America.

Then it is prudent to ſecure yourſelf againſt the miſchiefs that you may ſuffer from your fellow-crea⯑tures.

It is ſo, papa.

Without deſiring in the leaſt to give you a diſtaſte of life, I can aſſure you that you will have to ſuffer many diſagreeable affairs, and thoſe a deal more prejudicial to you, than the miſchiefs cauſed by the hen. Mankind always ſeek their intereſt and their pleaſures, [101]juſt as hens ſeek worms; and they will do ſo at the hazard of your intereſts, as hens will at the hazard of your flowers.

I ſee it plainly, ſir, by Bella's behaviour; ſince the little pleaſure that ſhe received from ſcribbling on a bit of paper, has occaſioned me the loſs of an extremely uſeful map.

But could you not have avoided this loſs, by putting up your map before you left the apartment?

Certainly.

Then think for the future to conduct your⯑ſelf ſo, that no body may have power to do you any real miſchief; but if after all, in ſpite of your precaution, you ſhould be ſo unlucky as to receive an injury, conſider how you may endure it, ſo as not to render the firſt wrong ſtill more prejudicial.

Ay, papa; but how muſt I endure it?

With indifference, if it be a ſlight injury, but, on the other hand, if a great one, with courage. Now that we are by ourſelves, I dare propoſe you as an example the conduct that I purſue towards Mr. Hotham.

Pray don't ſpeak of him, papa. Theſe two years paſt, he takes no notice of you whenever you meet each other, and there cannot be a falſity that he will not ſay to prejudice you in the opinion of the world.

And do you know what urges him to ſuch behaviour?

That I never yet durſt aſk you.

Nothing but for the preference which I obtained reſpecting an employ that my father had ſo wor⯑thily filled up for five and thirty years, and to which he had affectionately formed me by the moſt diligent inſtruction. Mr. Hotham had no title to the poſt, except his ignorance and ſelf-ſufficiency. My right ſucceeded, notwithſtanding all his intereſt, and therefore am I honoured with his calum⯑ny and hatred.

Ah! papa, were I as big as you, I'd teach him better manners.

Quite the contrary, I let him go on rail⯑ing at me juſt as he thinks fit. The conduct which you ſhould have purſued, when you were injured by the hen, I faithfully purſue towards him. The pinks that ſhe ſcratched up by the roots, in ſeeking for worms, may [102]repreſent the reputable character that I bear, and which in order to gratify the worm of Envy that gnaws him, he labours to undo. Were I to ſeek the means of puniſhing him, I ſhould trample under foot that deference and reſpect which I owe to myſelf, as you trod under foot your tulips. The me [...]on frame and rake which you damaged, are that wealth and peace of mind that I ſhould deſtroy, by hurry⯑ing on to vengeance. Taught in future by the loſſes that you have ſuffered, you will ſhut the garden door, in order to keep the hen out. Taught too by the wicked diſpoſi⯑tion of my enemy, I lay, by means of proper conduct on my part, an inſuperable barrier between us. Thus in⯑acceſſible to his vindictive attempts, I enjoy the comforts of my moderation, while he ſpends himſelf in thoſe at⯑tempts, and will in time experience the compunction of his evil conſcience. Could his inſults vex me, I ſhould make myſelf the victim that he would ſacrifice, and be reproached for imbecility, by every worthy character of my acquaintance; while on the other hand the inſenſibili⯑ty that I manifeſt for his injurious treatment yields him to his own contempt, and, in the boſom of good men, keeps up the reputation that I have gained among them.

Ah! papa, what trouble may I not ſhun here⯑after, by remembering every thing that you have taught me!

Theſe laſt words were hardly uttered, when they found themſelves at home, without imagining that they had been ſo near it. Their diſcourſe, for the remainder of the day, was a continuation of the paſt; and bed-time being come, they ſeparated quite content with one another. Cyprian ſunk to ſlumber, with a boſom full of gratitude for the in⯑ſtruct on which he had juſt received, and Mr. Tiſdall with one poſſeſſing all the ſatisfaction that a good father cannot but experience, who is ſenſible that he has done ſomething to promote his offspring's happineſs.

GEORGE AND CECILIA.

LITTLE George, an orphan, had been brought up from his infancy by L [...]dy Euſtace, who, together with Lord Euſtace, were retired from London, and reſided in a ſmall country town. From the tenderneſs with which they treated him, a ſtranger in the family would have imagined him to be really their ſon. This worthy couple had but one child left them, and that a girl, named Ce⯑cilia, who was nearly of an age with George: and Lady Euſtace had the ſatisfaction to behold a more than com⯑mon mutual ſondneſs ſubſiſt between the children.

[130]One delightful morning, towards the end of Auguſt, George and Cecilia, with their little friend Lucinda, whoſe parents lived that ſummer in the neighbourhood, were out a ſauntering in the orchard. The two little girls, of which the youngeſt (namely Cecilia) was not yet quite eight years old, were arm in arm; and walking with that lovely negligence and thoſe unſtudied graces ſo peculiar to a ſtate of childhood, they hummed over a de⯑lightful roundelay, then faſhionable in the mouth of every ſongſter in the village, while little George preceded them at leiſure, piping on an Engliſh flute, to harmonize their diſcords.

What a ſeries of delightful gambols entertained them in the or [...]hard! But at laſt, our Cecilia and Lucinda both caſt a longing look upon the fruit-trees round about them. In particular, an apple-tree attracted their atten⯑tion. All the apples had been gathered ſeveral days be⯑fore; but ſtill, a few that had been overlooked, were here and there diſcovered hanging, and the deep vermillion that tinged them, and which the leaves could not entirely hide, invited, as it were, the hand to come and take them. George ſprung forward, climbed the tree which they were admiring, and threw down as many apples as his hand c [...]ld reach, while the children held their aprons open to receive them.

Chance ſo ordered it, that two or three of what were thought the fineſt fell into Lacinda's, who piqued her⯑ſelf upon this accidental diſtribution, as ſhe might have done with reaſon, had it been a pre-determined prefer⯑ence, ſince George was in reality the prettieſt and politeſt little fellow in the place.

Lucinda, with a joy and triumph in her eyes, that looked like inſult, thus addreſſed herſelf to Cecilia: "Do but ſee how fine and large my apples are, while yours are hardly [...]lf ſo h [...]ſome!" Cecilia, at theſe words, hung down her head, and putting on a ſerious countenance, kept ſilence during the remainder of their wa [...]k. It was in vain that George ſtudied, by a hundred aſſiduties, to bring the little maiden back to reaſon, to ſpread a ſmile again upon her cloaded countenance, and to make thoſe lips pronounce a ſyilable, whoſe prattle ha [...] till then been ſo agreeable.

[131]Not long after this, Lucinda took leave when they had got upon the terrace, and were near home. Before they entered, George addreſſed his ſiſter, as he always called her, aſking why ſhe ſeemed ſo angry with him? Certainly you cannot be offended, ſaid he, that Lucinda had her ſhare of the apples? You know very well, I have always loved you moſt, and would have ſhewn it in the tree, by throwing you the fineſt apples; but I know not how it chanced, my dear, they fell into Miſs Lucinda's apron. Could I take them from her? Aſk yourſelf that queſtion. And beſides, I thought you far more generous than to take offence at ſuch a trifle! You ſhall ſee, the very firſt occaſion that preſents itſelf of ſhowing you my real ſenti⯑ments, it was not my deſign to vex you.

Hey-dey, Mr. George! ſaid Cecilia, and who told you that I was vexed? Suppoſe Miſs Lucinda's apples had been even ten times finer than what I had, is that any thing to me? I am no glutton, and you know that very well, ſir; neither ſhould I in the leaſt have minded it, but for the ſaucy little creature's looks. I'll not endure them, that I won't; and as for you, fall down upon your knees this inſtant, or I will never, while I live, forgive you.

O! I cannot do that by any means, ſaid George, (bend⯑ing half his body backwards as he ſpoke) for by doing ſo, I ſhould confeſs a fault with which you have no right to charge me. I am no ſtory-teller, and muſt ſay, it is very wrong in you, Miſs Cecilia, if you will not believe that I did not mean to vex you.

Very wrong in me! replied the other. Very wrong in me! What do you mean, ſir? But I ſee why you affront me thus; it is becauſe Miſs Lucinda is your favourite. And ſo ſaying, and beſtowing a contemptuous curtſy on him, while ſhe looked another way, ſhe went into the houſe in a pet.

As dinner was now ready, they ſat down, but pouted at each other all the time it laſted. Cecilia did not drink even once, becauſe ſhe muſt have ſaid, Your good health, George. And George, on his part, was ſo piqued at her injuſtice, that he alſo thought proper to preſerve his dig⯑nity. And yet, the little lady would ſteal a glance ſtill, every now and then at George, and from a corner of her eye, conſider all his motions. As it happened, one of [132]theſe ſly glances met with one of George's, who was no leſs ſlily ſtudying Cecilia's motions. Being thus ſur⯑priſed, ſhe turned immediately towards another object; and as George took this to proceed from diſdain, though in reality it did not, he affected great indifference, and went on eating, juſt as if he did not care a farthing for her.

When the cloth was removed, and the wine and ſruit brought in, unluckily poor Cecilia, mortified as ſhe was at George's whole behaviour, replied a little diſreſpect⯑fully to her mama, (who had beſides been obliged to aſk her the queſtion twice over,) and ſhe was therefore ordered inſtantly from table. She obeyed, and burſting out into a flood of tears, withdrew, as if ſhe knew not whither ſhe was going. As the door was open that conducted to the garden, ſhe paſſed out that way, and, as it were by inſtinct, went to hide her ſorrow in an arbour at the bot⯑tom of it. There, while ſhe burſt out again into a flood of tears, and ſighed moſt lamentably, ſhe repented of the quarrel that ſhe had picked with George, who always uſed, upon ſuch ſad occaſions, to alleviate her diſtreſs by weeping with her.

George, remaining at the table, could not think of Ce⯑cilia in c [...]ſgra [...]e, and not feel greatly for her ſituation. They had har [...]ly let him take two peaches, before he ſet about contriving means to convey them into his pocket for po [...]r Cecilia, whom he deſigned afterwards to viſit in the garden, upon ſome pretence or other, which he did not doubt but he ſhould be able to invent, and yet he greatly appre [...]ended that his intention would be diſcovered. He puſhed back his chair, and aſterwards brought it forward, more than menty times, and was continually looking down for ſomething on the carpet. Then all of a ſudden; Look at pretty Laura! look at Rover! cried he, ſeeming to take notice of two dogs in the apartment; and at the ſame time he had got a peach ready to ſlip into his pocket, if he could but fix my lord's and lady's obſervation upon ſomething at a diſtance from him.

See, papa, mama, how prettily they are playing! Do but turn about; they will make you die with laughing.

Oh! re [...]d my lord, they will not eat one another, that I will anſwer for; and having juſt glanced at them, put himſelf ſo ſoon into his firſt poſition, that poor George, [133]who thought himſelf that moment ſure of pocketing the peach, was diſconcerted, and obliged to put it down again upon the table.

Lady Euſtace had obſerved him, and conjectured his intention; therefore, having for a while enjoyed the little boy's embarraſſment, ſhe made his lordſhip privy to the affair, as well as ſhe was able, and in dumb ſhow bade him turn his head on one ſide; which he did accordingly, but could not hide a ſmile, that notwithſtanding all his gravity eſcaped him.

However, George, who thought himſelf as yet quite un⯑diſcovered, but was fearful leſt this device again repeated might betray him, inſtantly reſorted to another ſtratagem. He took one peach, and placed it in the hollow of his hands put both together, after which he lifted it to his mouth, and made as if he had really been eating, by an imitation of the noiſe and motion which people make when they are chewing. Then, while with his left-hand he luckily found means to clap his peach into a cavity that he had hollowed beforehand in the napkin on his knees, he put his right-hand out to take the other, which he ſerved exactly in the ſame manner.

Some few minutes had now paſſed, and as it happened, my lord and lady had quite forgot little George, and were converſing with each other in their uſual manner; ſo that George, ſuppoſing this a proper opportunity to get away, roſe up from table, with both peaches in the napkin, and began to imi [...]te the mewing of a cat, which a young ſhepherd boy had lately taught him; and his view in this was to engage the attention both of Pompey and Rover, which he did, and put them into motion. Lady Euſtace, ſomewhat angry at theſe mewings, inter⯑rupted him. "What now!" ſaid ſhe; and added, "Well, but George, if our diſcourſe diſpleaſes you, I fancy, you may go and mew a little in the garden." George put on a feigned embarraſſment at this reproof, which was another thing that he wanted. He runs up therefore to Laura, ſaying, "See, mama ſhe wants to bite poor Rover!" and in turning, he dexterouſſy whipped the napkin all at once into his pocket, and pretended to run after Laura, with an intent to puniſh her. Laura ſcampered towards the door which Cecilia had left [134]open, when ſhe went into the garden, and away went Maſter George, purſuing him.

"George! George! ſaid Lady Euſtace; pray, where are you going?" George ſtopped ſhort. "My dear mama, ſaid he, I will take a turn, if you pleaſe, in the garden. Won't you let me? I am ſure you will give me leave." But afterwards, as her ladyſhip returned no an⯑ſwer, he lowered his voice, and in a ſuppliant manner added, "Pray, my dear mama, do let me! You ſhall ſee how well I will behave myſelf." "In that caſe, an⯑ſwered ſhe, I will give you leave. Go."

What words can expreſs the greatneſs of his joy! He was ſo joyful, that not minding how he ran, his foot ſlip⯑ped and he fell down. By great good luck, the peaches were not damaged in the fall. He got up again inſtantly, and ran to ſeek his ſiſter in every nook and corner of the garden.

George was got by this time to the arbour, where he ſaw poor Cecilia wonderfully changed, and in an attitude of ſorrow and repentance. She was now exceedingly un⯑happy. She had grieved the three beſt friends that ſhe had; her worthy parents, and her own dear George.

"My ſweeteſt Cecilia!" ſaid George, and fell down on his knees before her. "Let us be friends: I would freely aſk forgiveneſs for my fault, if I had really in⯑tended to diſpleaſe you. Yet, if you will aſk my pardon, I will aſk yours alſo. Will you? Come, forgive, Cecilia; let us be friends again. Here, here are two nice peaches: I could not think of taſting them, as you were not to have your ſhare."

"Ah! my deareſt George! (ſaid Cecilia, ſqueezing his hand wh [...] ſhe ſpoke, and weeping on his ſhoulder,) what a good, ſweet-tempered little fellow I have always found you! C [...]inly, (continued ſhe, and ſobbed while ſhe ſpoke,) certainly a friend in one's misfortunes is a real friend indeed. But I will not take your peaches. It would have been pitiful behaviour in me, had I been vexed this morning for the loſs of half a dozen apples. You do not think that I was, George, do you! No, it wa [...] the inſulting look with which that pert Miſs Lucinda viewed me; but I will not think about her now. Will you for⯑give me? added ſhe; and with her handkerchief wiped off the tears that ſhe had let fall on George's hand. I [135]know, I ſometimes love to plague you; but keep your peaches now, I will not eat them."

"Well, then, ſiſter, anſwered George, whenever the fancy comes into your head, e'en plague me juſt as long as you think proper. Yet I will never let another do ſo. You underſtand me? But as to theſe two peaches, I can⯑not eat them. I have told you ſo already, and was never guilty of a ſtory"

"No, nor I, (ſaid Cecilia, and that moment flung them both away into the public road.) I cannot endure the thoughts of having made a quarrel up for intereſted reaſons.—But as we are now cloſe friends again, how happy would it make me, if I could but get mama's permiſſion to appear, and aſk her pardon!"

"Oh! I will fly and get it for you, anſwered George; and hardly had pronounced the words, when he was got a good way from the arbour. I will inform mama, conti⯑nued he, that it was I who made you anger her, by having vexed you in the morning."

In effect, he ſucceeded ſooner than he expected.—In⯑deed, what errors would not any reaſonable woman over⯑look, in favour of a friendſhip ſo affectionate and ge⯑nerous!

THE SPIRIT OF CONTRADICTION.

NO, mama: I had much rather finiſh this purſe.

But then, Helen, Caroline would certainly be a great deal better pleaſed with the work⯑bag. Do not you recollect, ſhe ſeemed delighted when you ſhowed her yours? and the bag that you have above ſtairs is made exactly like it.

Notwithſtanding that, mama, I know ſhe would like the purſe a great deal better.

Be it ſo; but will the purſe be finiſhed? There are ſtill at leaſt a dozen rows to do; whereas, the work-bag only wants a ribband to compleat it. Sure you [136]would not pay a viſit to your couſin, on her birth-day, and go there without ſome preſent for her?

O, mama, you know, I ſhould not like to do ſo; but believe me, you ſhall ſee the purſe very ſoon finiſhed

Think before you come to any reſolu⯑tion in the affair. Your father, I ſuppoſe you know, ſets out at four o'clock exactly, and if any one among you has not finiſhed what ſhe had to do, that one will not go with him.

He ſets out at five o'clock, mama, not four.

Helen, will you never be rid of this ſhocking trick? Will you always be determined to aſſert the abſolute reverſe of every thing that your hear?

But if I am ſure that papa ſets out at five, and not before?

Well, well, Helen; it will very ſoon be ſeen which is in the right. But I adviſe you, as a friend, to be prepared againſt the hour that I mention.

O, if that be al [...], mama, you may be ſure to find me ready, even at four: for look ye, it is, as one may ſay, quite finiſhed. I ſhould gain a quarter of a hour be⯑ſide, were I to run and work below there, in the garden.

Why ſo, pray?

Becauſe it is ſo much lighter there.

But ſure, you will loſe a deal of time in going thither and returning?

O! do not fear but I ſhall recover it again. My work [...]ll go on ten times the better for it.

As you pleaſe, Helen; but remember, I have forewarned you what may be the caſe.

I will take the conſequence upon myſelf, and run as faſt as poſſible.

In fact, ſhe did run thither very faſt; ſo faſt that ſhe arrived quite out of breath. She wanted more than half a dozen minutes to recover; and at laſt, when ſhe was ſet at work, her hands were in a tremble, owing to her flurry; ſo that ſhe frequently took up one ſtitch for ano⯑ther. In the end, when ſhe was quite recovered, one muſt own, ſhe puſhed her work on very faſt. And yet, in ſpite of all her diligence, it ſeemed to grow beneath her fingers. Mrs. Cranfield, who was really uneaſy, came to find her.

Well, Helen, how goes buſineſs for⯑ward? Have you finiſhed?

No, not yet, mama; nor is it five o'clock yet.

Right, Helen; but it is four: the clock has juſt ſtruck.

Not ſtruck, mama. I have been liſtening; ſo I am ſure of that.

I do not know how it came about then that I heard it; and your father muſt have heard it like⯑wiſe, for you will find that he is ſetting out.

O! now, I am ſure, you are joking: that can never be.

However, Dick has put the horſes to, and here are your brother and your ſiſters coming. They are ready.

O, dear me! You do not ſay ſo, mama!

Where are you, Helen? We are waiting now for none but you.

One moment, brother.

Four o'clock has ſtruck, and you re⯑member, papa at dinner told us that he ſhould go pre⯑ciſely to a minute; having an appointment here, at half paſt five.

Well now, Helen, you remember what I told you.

But, mama—

Helen! come, come, come!

Do not be in a hurry children.

How, Helen, have you not done your purſe yet? See here the little landſcape that I ſhall give my couſin.

And this bow-pot, which will be my preſent.

And this houſewiſe of my making for her.

And theſe garters that I have knit her.— But here comes papa.

Well, we are ſetting out. You know, Helen, I never make any one wait for me, therefore never do I ſtay for others. If you are ready, come along; but if not, remain behind.

My purſe is not done yet: I have but two ſhort rows to finiſh.

Well, good bye, Helen: I will give your love to Caro⯑line, and ſay that you wiſh her well and happy, on her birth-day.

They are ſetting out, and I muſt ſtay at home quite melancholy! I that waited with ſo much impatience for this day! Caroline will have a preſent from every one of them, and I, the eldeſt, am not of the party! What will ſhe think of me?

In reality, the caſe is pitiable, I muſt own; and more particularly ſo, as it depended on your⯑ſelf alone, to ſhun this mortifying ſituation. I forewarned you what would be the caſe, in proper time; and if, in⯑ſtead of being obſtin [...]ely bent to go on with your purſe, you had but put a ribband to your work-bag; if you had not loſt ſo many minutes as you did in running hither; if you had not taken it into your head, from the firſt, that your father was not to ſet out till five, you would have faved yourſelf all this vexation. The misfortune is now come, and you have only to ſupport it, as you ought, with patience.

But my aunt and uncle, what will they think of me? They will imagine that I am in diſgrace, or elſe that I do not love my couſin.

You muſt own, Helen, they will have ſome reaſon to ſuſpect as much.

Ah, dear mama! inſtead of leſſening, you in⯑creaſe my ſorrow!

No, Helen, I am no leſs ſorrowful than you; but then, if you think proper, I can end your ſorrow.

Ah now, you are quite good! Yes, yes; I will make an end as ſoon as poſſible, and then we two will take the purſe. My uncle, aunt, and couſin too, will be agreeably ſurprized, and ſee that my coming ſo late was not my fault. I ſuppoſe then, you will ſend out to fetch a couſin, and in the mean time I ſhall finiſh.

No, Helen, that would be to diſobey your father, and deprive you of the benefit accruing from a uſeful leſſon. You ſhall not, at leaſt to-day, go ſee your couſin; but may have it in your power to be as happy [139]as you would have been by going. I have a certain me⯑thod to propoſe to you for that purpoſe.

And what is it, pray, mama?

To form, from this time forward, a de⯑termined reſolution not to ſettle matters juſt as you your⯑ſelf think proper; to renounce particularly that intolerable trick that you have of contradicting everlaſtingly whatever you hear ſaid; and to rid yourſelf of the vile habit of op⯑poſing your own ridiculous ideas to the counſels of ſuch people as you know to be wiſer than yourſelf. I am per⯑ſuaded, you have ſufficient courage to take up any reſolu⯑tion, and to ſupport it.

Yes, indeed, mama, I will, I will ſo.

I expected nothing leſs from you, Helen; and if during the remainder of the week I ſee you perſe⯑vere in your laudable reſolution, we will go next Saturday and ſee your couſin. We ſhall then carry her the purſe and the work-bag alſo, which will make her think that you have delayed your preſent with a view of compliment⯑ing her with ſomething worthier of herſelf, and more ex⯑preſſive of your generoſity.

Oh! dear mama, once more you make me happy!

You, Helen, make me no leſs happy. Poſſibly this very moment you are laying the foundation of your whole future happineſs.

CAESAR AND POMPEY.

MR. Saunders had brought up two handſome dogs, one Caeſar and the other Pompey. He had named them ſo, not with the wiſh or expectation that they ſhould one day become rivals, like the two illuſtrious commanders whoſe names they bore, but though both were littered at a birth, had always fed together, and been treated with an abſolute equality, yet it was not long before they ma⯑nifeſted very different tempers.

Caeſar was extremely meek and docile; Pompey rough and quarrelſome.

The generous Caeſar jumped for joy, when any one ca⯑reſſed him, and never took it ill that his brother ſhould [140]be fondled in the ſame manner; but the ſurly Pompey, on the other hand, whenever Mr. Saunders had him in his lap, would growl if Caeſar met with the leaſt notice, the leaſt ſmile, or token of affection.

When the friends of Mr. Saunders, coming on a viſit, brought their dogs, our Caeſar would immediately get in among them, and endeavour to amuſe his company; and, as his nature was extremely pliant and inſinuating, and his manners very winning, they were always at their eaſe whenever it was his part to entertain them. They would play and friſk about the apartments, juſt as if they had been all at ſchool with one another. The good Caeſar did his utmoſt to ſet off their beauty and activity, that Mr. Saunders might be pleaſed with their appearance, and induced to do them ſome good turn or other.

What did Pompey do in the mean time? He would get into a corner, and be all day barking at the ſtrangers. If unhappily they drew too near him, he would then be ſure to grin and ſnarl, and often bite their tails or ears. And if his maſter noticed any one among them for his breed⯑ing and good parts, he would howl with all his might, as if the houſe was robbing.

Mr. Saunders had remarked this odious temper ſome time paſt in Pompey, and begun already to neglect him. Caeſar, on the other hand, gained ſomething every day on his affection.

On a certain day, as he was ſet at table, he reſolved to try their diſpoſitions more than he ever yet had done. They were both attending at the table, Pompey being neareſt; for the honeſt Caeſar, to avoid diſſenſion, always gave him up with pleaſure the foremoſt place: and Mr. Saunders held out Pompey a nice piece of juicy meat, which he immediately fell a chewing. Caeſar was not diſ⯑contented in the leaſt at this, but waited with the greateſt good humour till his turn ſhould come. His turn ſoon came; but Mr. Saunders threw him nothing but a hard dry bone. He took it without any ſign of diſcontent; but hardly had the churliſh Pompey obſerved Caeſar buſy with his ſhare, though much inferior to his own, than he rejected with diſdain the bit between his teeth, and fell on Caeſar to obtain his bone. The gentle Caeſar made no manner of reſiſtance, but, imagining that it might pleaſe the fickle taſte of Pompey, yielded it at once.

[141]Do not think, my friends, that this condeſcenſion on the part of Caeſar was the effect of cowardice, or even weak⯑neſs in him. He had given ample teſtimony of his ſtrength and reſolution very lately, in a conteſt where he had been engaged on account of Pompey, whoſe intolerable ſurli⯑neſs had drawn down upon him the reſentment of a dog that lived in the neighbourhood. He had not fought above five minutes, though it was he himſelf who had previouſly provoked the fight, before he ran away; while Caeſar, though without a friend to take his part, continued the engagement like a hero, and acquired at laſt ſuch glory, as to make his adverſary bite the duſt.

This anecdote his maſter knew; and as his character for courage was ſo thoroughly confirmed, he made him take the bit of juicy meat that he had before thrown to Pompey, but which Pompey had rejected. "Caeſar, my good fellow, ſaid his maſter, it is but juſt that you ſhould enjoy your brother's portion, ſince he firſt took yours; and therefore eat it."

Pompey ſcowled at Caeſar, ſeeing the affection that ac⯑companied theſe words in Mr. Saunders's countenance; and Mr. Saunders added, "Since you have ſhewn your⯑ſelf thus complaiſant and generous towards him who treats you with ſuch j [...]alouſy and envy, you ſhall be in future my own dog, and range about the houſe as you think proper; but your brother ſhall be tied up in the yard: ſo quick, a chain for Pompey! and let ſome one bid the car⯑penter this moment knock up a kennel for him." Ac⯑cordingly this laſt was inſtantly conducted to his ſtation, while the other had his liberty to walk about the apart⯑ments.

Pompey would very probably have enjoyed with inſo⯑leace ſo great a mark of favour, had he gained the advan⯑tage in his maſter's judgment; but the heart of Caeſar bled at the idea of his brother's ſentence, and he eſſayed all means to ſoften his condition. When the ſervants gave him any thing, he would be ſure to carry it to Pompey, wag his tail with pleaſure, and invite him to regale upon it; and at night he would not fail to viſit Pompey in his houſe, amuſing him in the midſt of his ſufferings by all poſſible means, and for hours together warming his be⯑numbed limbs.

[142]But Pompey, far from being ſoftened by ſuch kind actions, never welcomed Caeſar to his kennel, nor receiv⯑ed him otherwiſe than with continual howlings; ſo that very quickly after, rage inflamed his blood, his heart was ulcerated, and his entrails perfectly dried up.

You, children, who read this, if there be any one among you of a diſpoſition ſuch as Pompey had, conſider what a miſerable lot awaits you, and reflect upon his puniſhment. You will otherwiſe lead a life of ſorrow and humiliation, and expire in horror.

THE LITTLE GIRL WITH WHISKERS.

"WON'T you do what I bid you then, Mr. Obſta⯑nacy? Come, ſir, obey; or elſe you will be the worſe off for it, I can tell you." Thus Camilla, a pert little vixen of whom we are now going to give an ac⯑count, was perpetually rating and commanding her poor brother.

Might her word be taken for it, he did every thing amiſs: on the contrary, whatever ſhe thought of doing, was a maſter piece of reaſon and reflexion. The diverſions that he propoſed were always dull and heavy in her judg⯑ment; but forgetting this deciſion, when the next day came, ſhe would moſt probably chuſe them herſelf, as the livelieſt and moſt entertaining. Her unhappy brother was obliged, on pain of being ſoundly lectured, to obey her whims and fancies. If he durſt attempt to ſhew her the unreaſonableneſs of her procedure, ſhe would be that mo⯑ment in her airs; his play things then were ſure to go to ruin, and himſelf was forced to mope, without amuſement, in a corner of the room.

Camilla's parents had a hundred times endeavoared to break her of this fault. Her mother in particular, was always telling her that people never gained the love of others, if they were not complaiſant and gentle; that a little girl, who would on all occaſions ſet up her own will by way of law for others, would be found the moſt intole⯑rable creature in the univerſe. Theſe prudent leſſons, or inſtructions, made no manner of impreſſion on her heart. Her brother, ſick of ſo much tyranny, began already to [143]loſe ſomething of his love and kindneſs for her; and Camilla was ſo far from ſhaking off her domineering diſpo⯑ſition on that account, that ſhe became a hundred times more arbitrary and inſulting.

As it chanced, a gentleman of underſtanding, and who was always remarkably ſincere and open in his ſpeech and conduct, dined one day, upon an invitation, with Ca⯑milla's parents. He obſerved with what a haughty air ſhe treated her poor little brother, nay, and every body in the room. At firſt through mere politeneſs, he kept ſilence; but, tired out ere long with her impertinence, he began, addreſſing his diſcourſe to Mrs. Fleming, her mama, as follows: "Had I ſuch a little girl as yours, I know what I would do."

What, ſir? ſaid Mrs. Fleming.

You ſhall hear, replied the gentleman. I am lately come from France, and, as I liked to ſee the ſoldiers exerciſe, I amuſed myſelf, by viſiting the grand parade where the ſoldiers are drawn up, as frequently as I had leiſure. Among the ſoldiers, there were many that I ob⯑ſerved with whiſkers; and, one cannot but acknowledge, they looked very fierce, as ſoldiers ſhould. Now, had I a child like your Camilla, I would give her inſtantly a ſol⯑dier's uniform, and I would clap a pair of whiſkers on her, and make her a Swiſs Corporal, ſo that ſhe might com⯑pletely ſatisfy her paſſion for commanding.

Hearing this, Camilla ſtood confounded. She could not refrain from bluſhing, and even wept.

From that time forward, ſhe was ſenſible how much a tyranizing diſpoſition miſbecame her, and reſolved to ſhun the mortifying conſequences which it would ſoon or late bring down upon her. This reſolution, aſſiſted by the prudent counſels of her mother, quickly proved ſucceſs⯑ful.

Such a change was doubtleſs very prudent on her part. It were however to be wiſhed, for all young ladies la⯑bouring under ſuch a fault, that they would yield obe⯑dience to the kind inſtruction of their parents on this ſub⯑ject; and not wait till ſuch time as a man of underſtanding tells them, to their face, that they would look better in a ſurly ſoldier's uniform, with whiſkers, than ſet off with nice white cambrick frocks, like all good-natured little ladies.

THE SCAR.

FERDINAND, from nature, had received a ſoul endued with elevated thoughts and generous notions. He poſſeſſed a lively turn of mind, a ſtrong and quick imagination, with a chearful temper. His whole perſon in a word, and his polite behaviour, won him every heart.

However, with ſo many amiable qualities, he had a certain great defect, extremely inconvenient to his friends, of giving way to every ſlight impreſſion, and yielding up his ſoul to the emotions which any accidental circumſtance might raiſe within him.

When he ſought amuſement in the circle of his play⯑mates, trifling contradictions ruffled his impatient diſpoſi⯑tion, and they ſaw the fire of rage in a moment inflame his whole countenance; he ſtamped upon the ground, cried out, and was beſide himſelf with paſſion.

Once upon a time, as he was walking in his chamber to and fro, and meditating on the neceſſary preparations for a treat which his father had permitted him to give his ſiſter, Marcian, his dear friend and favourite, intended to communicate his notions on the ſubject. Buried as he was in thought, he ſaw not Marcian. Marcian, therefore, having called out to him, but in vain, drew nearer, and began to pull him by the ſleeve; but Ferdinand, diſturbed and out of patience with theſe interruptions, unexpectedly turned round, with ſo much rudeneſs, that he ſent poor Marcian quite acroſs the apartment to fall down beſide the wainſcot.

Marcian, after he dropped, lay ſtill without the leaſt appearance of life. To which I am to add, that, in fall⯑ing, he had ſiruck his head againſt the moulding of a book-caſe, and received a wound, as Ferdinand then fancied, in the temple, whence there came a deal of blood.

Heavens! reader, what a ſhocking proſpect was this for Ferdinand! who never had intended any harm to Marcian; and for whom he would have even loſt his life, if there had been occaſion.

Ferdinand fell down beſide him, lamentably crying out, He is dead, he is dead! I have killed my friend! Inſtead [145]of trying any means for his recovery, he remained ſtretch⯑ed all along, uttering diſmal groans. Happily, his father heard him; he came running up, took Marcian in his arms, and having laid him on a bed, called out for ſalts, and threw cold water in his face, which recovered him a little.

The return of Marcian to new life, tranſported Ferdi⯑nand with joy; but, as he might relapſe, it was not great enough to take away entirely his anxiety.

A ſurgeon, being ſent for, probed the wound. He found it to be not in the temple, but ſo very near it, that the difference of a hair's breadth in its poſition would have made it dangerous indeed, if not quite mortal. Being carried home, he ſoon became delirious.

Ferdinand could by no means be perſuaded to leave Marcian. He took up his ſtation by his dear friend's pillow, and maintained the profoundeſt ſilence; Marcian frequent⯑ly pronounced the name of Ferdinand, while his delirium laſted. My dear Ferdinand, he would ſay, in what had I offended you, that I ſhould be treated thus? Yet, it is quite impoſſible that you ſhould be leſs afflicted than my⯑ſelf, for having wounded me, without the leaſt degree of provocation. Let it not, however, grieve your generous nature. I forgive you, and do you forgive me likewiſe, Ferdinand, for having put you, as I muſt have done, into a paſſion. It was not my wiſh to vex you.

This diſcourſe which Marcian thus addreſſed to Ferdi⯑nand, without obſerving him, though preſent, and even holding him continually by the hand, redoubled his afflic⯑tion. Every word proceeding from the lips of Marcian, as it ſerved but to proclaim the greatneſs of his friendſhip, was a poignard to the heart of Ferdinand.

At laſt, however, it pleaſed God, for Ferdinand's great conſolation, to aſſuage the violence of the fever. In ten days time the patient was enabled to get up.

What tongue can repreſent the joy of Ferdinand! It is not to be comprehended certainly by any one, unleſs he himſelf has felt beforehand, the ſorrow which Ferdinand experienced all the while that he was a witneſs of his friend's diſtreſsful ſituation.

Marcian being at laſt thoroughly recovered, Ferdinand reſumed his former chearful humour, and not needing any other leſſon than the ſorrowful event that had ſo late y [146]happened, he laboured hard to overcome the vehemence of temper to which he had been a ſlave.

Marcian in a very little time had no mark of the acci⯑dent remaining, but a trifling ſcar, as juſt now mention⯑ed, near the temple. Ferdinand could never ſee this ſcar without emotion, even when they were both come to years of manhood. It became, in ſhort, the ſeal of that much cloſer friendſhip in which they were ever afterwards mutu⯑ally united.

THE SILK SLIP.

LITTLE Matilda had worn nothing but a plain white frock, till ſhe was eight years old. Neat red Morocco ſhoes, with ſilver buckles, ſet off her ſmall feet; her ebon hair, which had never yet felt the torturing iron, floated in large curls upon her ſhoulders.

She had been one day in the company of certain little girls, who, though not older than herſelf, were dreſſed already like great ladies; and the richneſs of their cloaths awakened in her heart the firſt vain notions that ſhe had ever had within it.

Dear mama, ſaid ſhe, returning from the houſe where ſhe had met with theſe fine ladies, I have ſeen this after⯑noon the three Miſs Flowerdales. I ſuppoſe, you know them. The eldeſt of them muſt be younger than myſelf. O dear mama, how ſweetly they were dreſſed! Their pa⯑rents, ſure, muſt have a deal of pleaſure, ſeeing them ſo fine! I dare ſay, they are not ſo rich as you; ſo give me, if you pleaſe, a fine ſilk ſlip, with ſuch embroidered ſhoes as they had on; and let my hair be dreſſed by Mr. Frizzle, who, they tell me, is extremely clever.

I deſire no better, if to do ſo will contri⯑bute to your ſatisfaction; but I fear, with all this elegance, you will find yourſelf not quite ſo happy as you have been hitherto, in the ſimplicity of ſuch plain things as you ge⯑nerally wore.

And why ſo mama?

Becauſe you will be eternally afraid of ſpot⯑ting, and even of rumpling what you wear. A dreſs ſo [147]elegant as that of the Miſs Flowerdale's will require the greateſt care and attention in the wear, that it may do you honour. If it gets one ſpot, the beauty will be loſt for ever, as one cannot put it in the waſh-tub to recover its firſt luſtre; and however rich you may ſuppoſe me, I ſhall not be rich enough to let you have a new ſilk ſlip whenever you may want one.

Oh! if that be all mama, do not make your⯑ſelf uneaſy. I will be very careful of it.

Will you? Well then, I muſt give you ſuch a dreſs; but ſtill, remember that I have hinted what uneaſineſs your vanity may cauſe you.

Unperſuaded by the wiſdom of this counſel, Matilda did not loſe a moment in deſtroying all the pleaſure and enjoyment of her infancy. Her hair, which had till then hung down at liberty, was now to be confined in paper, and ſqueezed cloſe between a burning hot pair of tongs; and that fine jet, which had till now ſo happily ſet off the whiteneſs of her forehead, was to diſappear beneath a clot of powder and pomatum.

Two days after, Matilda had a handſome ſlip brought home, of pea-green taffety with fine pink trimmings, and a pair of ſtraw-worked ſhoes to match them. The taſte that appeared in her cloaths, their vivid colour and elegance of make—charmed the eye; but when ſhe had them on, it was evident that her limbs were under great conſtraint; her motions had no longer their accuſtomed eaſe and free⯑dom; and her infant countenance, amidſt ſo vaſt a quanti⯑ty of flowers, ſilk, gauze, and ribbands, loſt entirely every trace of ingenuous ſimplicity.

She was, notwithſtanding, quite enchanted at her me⯑tamorphoſis. Her eyes, with mighty ſatisfaction, wan⯑dered over her whole little perſon, and were never taken off, except when ſhe looked round about her, to find out ſome glaſs in the apartment that might repreſent before her, at full length, the idol which ſhe then worſhipped.

She had wrought on her mama to ſend out cards of invitation to her little friends, that when they came to viſit her ſhe might enjoy a feaſt, in viewing their ſurpriſe and admiration. When they had all met together, ſhe walked to and fro before them, like a peacock; and from her behaviour, any one would have imagined that ſhe [148]ſuppoſed herſelf an empreſs, and conſidered thoſe about her as ſubjected to her empire. But, alas! this triumph was but of a very ſhort duration, and a multitude of mor⯑tifying circumſtances followed it.

The children were permitted to go out a walking in the fields, near that part of the town where ſhe lived. Ma⯑tilda therefore led the way, and they reached, in ten or fifteen minutes, a delightful country.

A luxuriant meadow firſt of all attracted their attention. It was every where enamelled with a vaſt variety of charm⯑ing flowers, and butterflies whoſe wings were of a thou⯑ſand mingled colours, hovered in each quarter of it. The gay little ladies hunted theſe fine butterflies; they dex⯑trouſly caught, but did not hurt them; and when once they had examined all their beauty, let them go, and with their eyes purſued the little creatures as they flut⯑tered to and fro. They employed themſelves in making noſegays likewiſe of the flowers that ſprung up in the meadow, which they gathered for that purpoſe.

Matilda, who from pride had firſt of all diſdained theſe mean amuſements, wanted very ſoon to ſhare the enter⯑tainment that they afforded; but the ground, they told her, might be damp, in which caſe ſhe would ſtain her ſhoes, and damage her fine ſlip; for they had now diſco⯑vered that her intention, in thus bringing them together, was to vex them only with a ſight of her fine clothes, and they reſolved to mortify her in their turn.

She was of courſe obliged to be ſolitary, and ſit ſtill; while ſhe obſerved the ſprightly chearfulneſs of her com⯑panions who ſported round about her. The delight of contemplating on her pea-green ſlip was, compared there⯑to, a very ſorry kind of entertainment.

At the corner of the meadow there was a ſort of little grove, in which was to be heard the muſic of a thouſand birds, that ſeemed as if inviting every perſon who went through the meadow, to go thither, and enjoy the cool⯑neſs of the ſhade. This grove our children entered, jump⯑ing as they went along with joy. Poor Matilda would have followed them, but ſhe was told that the buſhes would tear all her finery to pieces. She obſerved her friends to divert themſelves at puſſey in the corner, and purſue each other through the trees. The more ſhe heard [149]them ſhout with joy, the more, as any one might have expected, ſhe was peeviſh and ill-humoured.

But the youngeſt of her viſitors had ſome ſort of com⯑paſſion on her. She had juſt found out a corner where there grew a quantity of fine wild ſtrawberries, and there⯑fore beckoned to her to come and eat part of them. She would willingly have done ſo, but had ſcarcely got into the grove, when unexpectedly a loud cry was heard. The children gathered to the ſpot, and found poor Matilda faſtened by the gauze upon her hat and ribbands, to a branch of white thorn from which ſhe could not by any means diſengage herſelf. They made haſte to looſe the pins that held her hat on; but to add to her affliction, as her hair, which had been frizzed with ſo much labour, was likewiſe entangled with the branch of white thorn, it coſt her almoſt a whole lock before ſhe could be ſet at liberty; and thus all at once the charming ſuperſtructure of her head-dreſs was abſolutely pulled to pieces.

'Tis not difficult to gueſs how little this misfortune thus befalling Matilda touched her play-mates, when they found, as we have ſaid already, why ſhe had invited them. Inſtead of conſolation, which ſhe needed, and perhaps expected, they could hardly keep from laughing at her comical appearance, and did actually jeer her with a hundred wicked witticiſms. After having ſmoothed her down a little, they ran off in ſearch of freſh amuſement, towards a hill that they ſaw at ſome ſmall diſtance from them.

Matilda however could not, without very great diffi⯑culty, reach this hill. Her ſtrait ſhoes, which had been made ſo to ſet off her little feet the better, were a great obſtruction to her ſpeed; nor was this all the miſchief, for her ſtays were drawn ſo cloſe that ſhe could not eaſily fetch breath. She would have now been happy to go home and change her dreſs, in order to be at eaſe; but then ſhe knew that her little friends would never have conſented, upon her account, to be deprived of their amuſement.

They had got by this time to the ſummit of the hill, and were enjoying the fine view which a ſpacious horizon preſented them on every ſide. They ſaw on one hand verdant meadows; on the other, yellow harveſts; before [150]them rivulets meandering through the country; and by way of termination to the landſcape, a large river, on whoſe banks were many pleaſant country houſes. So magnificent a proſpect charmed them. They even danced about with joy, while Matilda at the bottom of the hill, (for ſhe was abſolutely out of breath, and could not poſ⯑ſibly get further,) was devoured with ſorrow.

She had time and opportunity enough, in ſuch a ſitua⯑tion, to make many ſad reflexions. To what purpoſe, ſaid ſhe to herſelf, are theſe fine clothes! how much plea⯑ſure do they not prevent me from enjoying! and what pain do I not ſuffer, merely from having put them on!

She was giving up her mind to theſe afflicting thoughts, when ſuddenly ſhe heard her friends come running down the hill, and all cry out together, as they paſſed her, Run, run, Matilda, there is a dreadful ſtorm behind the hill; it is coming towards us! if you do not make haſte, your ſlip will ſoon be wet quite through!

Matilda felt her ſtrength returning, at the fear of ſuch a great misfortune as her play-mates threatened. She for⯑got her wearineſs, her pinched feet, and her tight lacing, and made tolerable haſte to reach ſome place of ſhelter. But in ſpite of all her efforts to ſhun ſo grievous a misfor⯑tune as the ſpoiling of her clothes, ſhe could not run ſo faſt as her companions, who were lightly dreſſed. Then, too, every moment ſhe was ſtopped, at one time, by her hoop and flounces in the narrow paths by which ſhe was obliged to go; at another, by her train which was fre⯑quently caught faſt by the furze; and at others by the fine ſeaffold work about her head, on which the wind bent down the branches of thoſe trees, under which ſhe was forced to paſs in her way homeward.

At that moment too the ſtorm burſt forth in all its fury; and there fell a ſhower of hail and rain mixed together, after all but Matilda had regained their ſeveral habitations.

In the end, however, Matilda got home likewiſe, but wet through and through. She had beſides left one of her fine ſhoes behind her in a heap of dung, which as ſhe hurried homeward, ſhe had ſcrambled over without ſeeing it; and to increaſe the liſt of her diſaſters, ſhe had not [151]quite cleared the meadow, when a guſt of wind blew off her hat into the middle of a dirty pool of water.

They had all the trouble that one can poſſibly imagine to undreſs her; ſo much had the ſweat and rain even glued her ſhift and other garments to her body; ſo that her whole dreſs was ſpoiled, and abſolutely good for nothing.

Shall I have another ſlip, my dear, made up for you againſt to-morrow? ſaid her mother drily, ſeeing her in tears.

O no, mama, ſaid Matilda, kiſſng her: I am con⯑vinced, fine clothes can never make the wearer of them happy. Let me take up with my nice white frock again; and have no more pomatum in my hair, till I am eight or ten years older than at preſent; and forgive my folly.

Matilda, with the dreſs of childhood, came again into the full poſſeſſion of her liberty, and ſeemed as modeſt and as charming as ſhe had ever been. Neither did her dear mama regret the loſs that ſhe had experienced in the pur⯑chaſe of this fine ſilk ſlip, &c. ſince it proved the means of reinſtating her beloved daughter in the happineſs which her vanity and folly would have taken from her, had it not been for this uſeful leſſon.

THE GREAT GARDEN.

MR. Sage had received no very great inheritance from fortune and his parents, but was not without the happy ſecret of limiting his deſires to what he poſſeſſed; and notwithſtanding he was frequently obliged to go without a number of conveniencies and comforts which others could command by means of their abundance, never did one envious thought diſturb his equability of temper. He had never ſuffered more than one affliction of conſi⯑derable magnitude, ariſing from his want of this life's comforts; and that was the loſs of an affectionate and virtuous woman, torn from his embraces by the hand of death. A charming little fellow, Polydore Sage, was the only child remaining to conſole him; and the educa⯑tion of this charming little fellow, was the ſingle object of his ſtudy and attention.

Polydore was endued by nature with very ſtrong imagi⯑nation; and by this, his father had found out the happy ſecret of improving his reaſon, at a very early time of life; namely, by exhibiting before him every object in its real point of view, of which he had beforehand only given him an idea. By a ſeries of ſtrong images, arranged in order, and ſelected in a proper moment to produce their full effect, he had enabled him already to make many ac⯑curate and deep reflexions.

Satisfied with his condition, this good father wiſhed particularly to inculcate in his ſon thoſe principles to which he owed himſelf the calm of his condition, and the peace within his mind. Yes, often would he whiſper to himſelf, if I can but accuſtom him to live contented with his humble fortune, and point out to him the folly of putting any value upon what he muſt not hope to obtain, I ſhall contribute more to make his manhood happy, than by leaving him a heap of gold and ſilver.

Occupied inceſſantly on this important leſſon, he thought fit one evening to accompany his ſon to Vauxhall Gardens, for the firſt time in his life. Immediately on entering, Polydore was ſtruck with admiration and de⯑light. The perfume of the flowers, the beauty of the paintings, the well-ordered diſpoſition of the walks, the [168]crowd of men and women who were in them, elegantly dreſſed, the inceſſant motion of the multitude, the hum of their diſcourſe, the noiſe of the caſcade, all joined to attract his contemplation; and his eye conſidered at one view ten thouſand objects. His good father ſeeing him, if we may ſay ſo, ſwallowed up in thought, conducted him to that part of the gardens which was more retired from public obſervation; that his ſenſes, which were too much occupied by ſuch a crowd of images, might be in ſome degree at reſt. Soon after, he propoſed indulging him with ſome refreſhment, if he liked it.—Polydore gladly took his father's offer; and ſoon after, having ſatis⯑fied his appetite and palate, ſpoke as follows:

How extremely happy every one here preſent ſeems to be! I ſhould like, papa, if we had ſuch a charming gar⯑den. Did you notice what a number of fine carriages were at the door? And all thoſe gentlefolks that paſs us, how well dreſſed they are! I ſhould be glad to know why we muſt live ſo ſavingly, when others in the world indulge themſelves with every thing that they fancy. I begin, papa, believe me, now to ſee how poor you are. But why, then, are ſo many around us rich? They are not better people ſure than you, papa.

You ſpeak exactly like a child, replied the father. You begin to ſee how poor I am? Now I can tell you, I am quite rich.

And where, then, are your riches?

I have a garden bigger by far than this.

A garden? You, papa! I ſhould be glad to ſee it.

When we go into the country, you ſhall ſee it.

They went very ſoon, it being now the ſeaſon for taking the pleaſures of the country, and on the very day of their arrival at the country-houſe, not far from London, Mr. Sage took his ſon and led him up a hill, from whence the eye commanded an extenſive proſpect. On the right, was ſeen a ſpacious foreſt, whoſe extremities ſeemed loſt at the horizon. On the left, appeared a beauteous mixture of fine gardens, verdant meadows, and vaſt fields quite covered with the promiſe of a plenteous harveſt. Cloſe below the hill was ſtretched a valley, watered in its whole extent with a thouſand little rills; [169]and all this landſcape was in motion. There were fiſher⯑men in one part, buſy with their nets; and huſbandmen, who in another were employed in gathering fruits and herbs, and ſportſmen with their greyhounds urging the ſwift ſtag, and ſhepherds watching by their flocks, or playing near them in the ſhade; and reapers carting their laſt ſheaves, and dancing all the way before them as they proceeded homeward. This delightful picture captivated Mr. Sage and his ſon, who for a time kept ſilence, till the child began the following converſation:

Papa, when ſhall we reach your garden?

We are at it now, my child.

But this is not a garden: it is a hill.

Look round as far as you can ſee; for this, I tell you, is my garden. Yonder foreſt, and theſe fields are all my property.

Your property, papa? You are joking!

No, indeed, I am not. I will convince you in an inſtant that I diſpoſe of every thing all around us as the owner of it only can do.

It will delight me to be ſure of that.

If you had all this country, what would you do with it?

What the owners of eſtates generally do.

What may that be?

In the firſt place, then, I would cut down a deal of timber, and make fire-wood of it, to be uſed this winter. In the next place, I would go a hunting to catch veniſon; and ſometimes I would fiſh. I would breed ſheep, and oxen; and in harveſt, gather in the corn that covers this fine country.

Why, you comprehend the matter admi⯑rably, Polydore: and I am glad to find our notions are ſo like each other's. Well, whatever you would do, then, I already do; and I will convince you of it.

How, papa?

I ſay, then, in the firſt place, I have men who cut down for me in this foreſt all the wood that I want.

And yet, I never heard you order them to cut down any for you!

And why not? becauſe they have the fore⯑thought to prevent me. We have always a good fire [170]below, and ſometimes, too, up ſtairs. Well then, I have the wood brought to me from the foreſt to keep up thoſe fires: for here, you know, we cannot get coals to burn as if we were in London.

You have, indeed, the wood brought to you from this foreſt; but muſt pay for what you have.

If I were what you call the real owner of this foreſt, ſhould I not be forced, as I am at preſent, to pay for what I might have brought me from it?

No indeed, papa. It would be cut down for you, and ſent in without a penny coſt on your part.

You believe ſo, do you? On the contrary, I think the coſt might be a great deal more in that caſe than at preſent; for you will grant, if I poſſeſſed the foreſt, I muſt keep at leaſt a woodman to cut down the trees for fire-wood.

Well; paſs over this: but can you go a hunt⯑ing?

And why ſhould I hunt, Polydore?

For inſtance, to have veniſon.

Could we two, then, eat a buck or doe our⯑ſelves entirely?

We ſhould have a charming appetite to do ſo.

Well then, as I cannot go a hunting, I ſend huntſmen in my place; and very probably, the veniſon that you have ſeen hang up at Charing-croſs, where, as you remember, you went with me lately to buy ſome, was hunted in this foreſt. I can therefore, without hunting veniſon, have as much as I think proper.

For your money!

Well; and is it not a charming thing for me that I can come at veniſon on theſe terms? for I have no wages to pay to thoſe who hunt it for me; or provided they ſhould ſhoot it, I have neither to ſupply them with gun, nor ball nor powder. Thoſe various kinds of dogs that our ſquire maintains, thank Heaven! they eat up nothing that belongs to me.

Are thoſe cows too, and ſheep that graze in yonder meadow, yours?

Yes, truly. Have not you freſh butter every day? I get it from thoſe cows.

But papa, if all theſe flocks, and all thoſe little rivers too, are yours, why have not we at dinner [171]every day all ſorts of meat and fiſh, as other rich folks I am told have?

Do they eat up every thing that their ſervants ſet before them?

No: but they may chuſe at table whatever they like.

And as for me, I make my choice before my victuals come to table. Every thing that I want, I have. Superfluous things, it is true, I do not poſſeſs; but what benefit would they procure me if I had them? I ſhould want, in that caſe, a ſuperfluous ſtomach alſo.

Wealthy people make good cheer; but you, papa, I fancy, do not.

Indeed I do, and better than the wealthy, Polydore. I have a ſauce that almoſt always fails them; namely, a good appetite.

And have you then a deal of money, as they have, to ſatisfy a thouſand wiſhes?

Much more money; or at leaſt, what is better, I have no wiſhes.

I believe, however, there is a deal of pleaſure in contenting them.

A hundred times more pleaſure, child, in being content of one's ſelf, as I am.

But does not God, pray, love the rich a great deal more than you, ſince he beſtows upon them ſo much gold and ſilver?

Polydore, do not you recollect the wine that we had laſt Wedneſday on the table, when your uncle came to dine and ſup with us, and which you ſaid was ſo delicious?

Yes, papa; I remember you were ſo good as to give me half a glaſs full of it.

But you wanted more. I might have let you have it, ſince, you know, the bottle had a deal left in it, even after ſupper: why, then, did I not oblige you, pray?

Becauſe you were afraid that it would make me ill.

I recollect I told you ſo: and do not you think that I did right?

Oh! as for that, you did indeed; I know you love me, and are always ſtudying how to make me happy. [172]So you would not have refuſed me ſuch a trifle as a glaſs of wine, if you had thought that it would have pleaſed me, and not hurt my health.

And can you think that God loves you leſs than I do?

No, papa, I cannot, after what I have heard you ſay ſo often of his goodneſs.

On the other hand, do you believe that he would have found it difficult to give you gold and ſilver in abundance?

No more difficult than I ſhould find it to give any one a handful of the duſt that we tread.

On the other hand, do you believe that he would have found it difficult to give you gold and ſilver in abundance?

No more difficult than I ſhould find it to give any one a handful of the duſt that we tread.

Well then, if, as you acknowledge, he is able to beſtow theſe on you, and does not beſtow them, even though he loves you, what are you to think of his refuſal?

That the riches which I deſire from him would be hurtful.

Are you perfectly convinced of this?

Yes, perfectly, and have not a word to ſay againſt. Yet, papa—

Well; why thus ſhake your head? You have ſtill ſome burthen on your heart: what is it?

Notwitſtanding all your reaſonings, I can never bring myſelf to fancy all this country yours.

And why?

Becauſe you cannot enjoy it as you pleaſe.

You know the famous Mr. Norton?

Do I know him? Why that is he who has ſuch charming gardens.

And can he enjoy thoſe gardens as he pleaſes?

No, indeed; poor man! he dares not even eat a bunch of grapes!

And yet you have ſeen ſome very fine ones in his garden?

I have; but they would do him harm.

You ſee then, one may eaſily poſſeſs a num⯑ber of good things, and yet not dare to uſe them as one likes. I dare not uſe my gardens as I certainly ſhould like, becauſe my fortune will not let me: and this Mr. Norton dares not uſe his garden as he likes, becauſe his [173]health will not allow him. So that I am much the happieſt.

But, papa, you love to ride a horſe-back— do not you?

Yes; for it is an exerciſe that does me good, when I have time to take it.

Well then, if theſe meadows are all yours, why do not you take the hay that grows upon them, and in future keep a horſe?

Why that is the very thing which I do. And thoſe ſame hay-cocks that you ſee there, are po [...]bly in⯑tended for the horſe that I ride.

And yet I never ſaw one in your ſtable?

Heaven be praiſed, I am not at ſuch a great expence.

Nor do you ride as frequently as you would like?

You are wrong: for I am ſo prudent, that I never wiſh to ride but when a ride would do me good, and then I get it for about three ſhillings. God be praiſed! I am rich enough to pay that ſum.

Do not you imagine that to have two fine pie⯑bald horſes, and to be drawn about the country in a faſhionable coach, would be very pleaſant?

Agreeable enough: but when I think of all the inconvenience that attends a coach; how often one would want the harneſs-maker, ſmith and wheelwright; how much one depends upon the health of horſes, and the conduct of a coachman; and what riſque one runs of being overſet, together with the fatal conſequences which luxury too frequently occaſions,—truly, Polydore, I do not grieve that I am obliged to uſed my legs, which cer⯑tainly will laſt me long enough. But ſee, the ſun is now ſet, and we muſt think of getting home before the evening cloſes on us. Let me have your hand —Now, are you not quite pleaſed in having ſeen my great eſtate?

Ah! dear papa, I ſhould be much more ſo, could I but be perſuaded that it were yours.

The father ſmiled at this reply; and down the hill they walked together. As it happened, they went by a mea⯑dow, which at firſt they thought had been a pond, becauſe it was quite covered with water. Bleſs me! cried out Mr. Sage, do you ſee this meadow, how it is overflowed? [174]The neighbouring river muſt have burſt its bounds, and all the hay this year is ſpoiled.

I fancy he to whom the hay belonged will not be very happy, when they tell him of his loſs.

No, no; nor yet is this the worſt: he will be forced to mend the banks, and very likely make ano⯑ther dam Why, he will be very happy, if he does not ſpend in theſe repairs the produce of ten harveſts that he could make in ſuch a meadow.

Oh! What a misfortune!

But I thought there had been a windmill hereabouts.

And there is, papa. Look there before you.

Right, I ſee it now: the reaſon is, I did not hear it going. I would lay any wager that the torrent coming down has forced away the wheelwork. Let us go ſee.—Juſt ſo.—It is broke to pieces.—What will the poor owner do? He muſt be very rich indeed, to ſtand againſt ſo many l [...]ſſes!

On! I pity him with all my heart! But ſince the c [...]y is over, pray why are the bricklayers ſtill at work?

I cannot tell why. We need but aſk the reaſon. Pray friend, be ſo kind as to inform us why you work ſo late?

We ſhall be here all night; for yeſterday, when it was dark, a gang of thieves pulled down the wall, that they might get into the park, and ſteal away the fur⯑niture that had been put into a new built ſummer-houſe. The theft was not diſcovered till this morning; and in⯑deed it is very lucky that no one caught them in the fact.

How ſo?

Becauſe the thieves had previouſly diſ⯑poſed combuſtibles to ſet the ſummer-houſe on fire, if they had been diſturbed in plundering; ſo that they might get away aſſiſted by the buſtle and confuſion which ſuch deſtruction would have cauſed. The owner of this ground, as you may judge, is therefore very happy in his loſs: he might have ſeen his ſummer-houſe burnt down; whereas, the affair will coſt him now no more than ſome ſlight re⯑pairs to his wall, the expence of keeping up a watch all night, and buying other furniture inſtead of the former, which indeed had coſt him a good deal.

[175]Well, Polydore, now ſaid Mr. Sage to his ſon, when they had walked a little way in ſilence, what do you ob⯑ſerve on theſe misfortunes? Do not they grieve you?

Why ſhould I be ſorry? I have ſuffered no⯑thing by them.

But if this eſtate had been your property, as Mr. Norton's grounds are his; and if, when going out this morning, you had ſeen your meadow overflowed, your wind-mill broken to pieces, your park wall demoliſhed, and your ſummer-houſe robbed, would you have gone home as ſatisfied as you appear to be at preſent?

Oh by no means. I ſhould, on the contrary, be miſerable, had I undergone ſo many heavy loſſes in a day.

But what if you had every day ſuch loſſes to endure, or to dread? would you be as happy as at preſent?

I ſhould be a thouſand times more miſerable.

Well then, Polydore, ſuch is in reality the ſtate of all who poſſeſs great abundance. Without reckon⯑ing up the cares that agitate them, and the innumerable wants which they fancy,—in the elevation of their for⯑tune lies too frequently the cauſe of its decay. A bar⯑ren ſeaſon, or a falſe ſtep in the purſuit of their rapacious projects, frequently ſuffices to produce their ruin. As they fear the loſs of their imaginary conſequence, ſhould they reſolve upon ſome ſacrifices to their luxury and pride; the more they undergo diſtreſſing loſſes, the more they ſuppoſe that they ought to make a ſumptuous ſhow to keep up the appearance of their riches, and ſupport a credit which already totters to its fall. What then is the effect of ſuch a wretched ſort of vanity? Their ſervants, per⯑haps, kept out of their wages an unſeaſonable time, proceed to introduce a ſort of robbery through all the houſe. The improvement of their fortune, and the edu⯑cation of their children being overlooked, their lands in ſome ſort as it were lie fallow, or produce a blighted har⯑veſt only; and their children, left to riot in the ways of wickedneſs, commit diſgraceful actions which are ſtified by the neceſſary aid of money. All their property, when ſeized by inexorable creditors, is in the end completely diſſipated, or elſe the law lays hold of what would other⯑wiſe be left them. And theſe favourites of fortune, once [176]ſo proud of their abundance, elevated ſtation, and enjoy⯑ments, fall at once to the loweſt pitch of indigence, ſhame an [...]pair.

Oh what a frightful picture is this, papa?

It is one, however, daily to be ſeen in ſociety; and be [...]ſſured, there is not one exaggerated feature in the wh [...]le portrait. I can at all times ſhew you, in the public papers, the dec [...]y of ſome great family or other: and theſe ſtriking inſtances God's providence expoſes to the obſervation of the rich, that they may ſee what fortune is moſt likely to await their pride and folly. In the mor⯑ning we will go and gaze on thoſe fine buildings which ex⯑cite your envy now, where you may read the ruin of too many families inſcribed on every pillar round about, till they are ſwallowed up themſelves in their own ruin. Why, alas, can I not ſpare your ſenſibility the cries of many de⯑ſolated families, which are but too evincing tokens of ſuch miſerable revolutions!

What then, ſhould I look upon the mediocrity of our condition as a bleſſing meant us from above?

Yes, yes; if you are only frugal and in⯑duſtrious, and poſſeſs ſufficient reſolution to renounce am⯑bition and the immoderate wiſh of getting money, of confining your deſires, and keeping them within the limits of that ſtate you fill. Do I want any thing to make me happy? and in reaſon, would you wiſh hereafter to be happier than your father is? Conſider the whole uni⯑verſe as your eſtate; ſince if you are but properly induſ⯑trious, it will furniſh you a comfortable maintenance. God's providence has placed your earthly habitation half way up a hill, whoſe ſummit is extremely craggy, and its baſe choaked up with ſwamps. Lift up your eye at intervals upon the rich and great, not with a view to envy them their ſituations, but to think upon the ſtorms that bellow round them. Sometimes too, look down upon the poor beneath you, not by way of inſult on their friendleſs ſituation, but to hold them out your hand. If God ſhould bleſs you with a family of children, let them often hear the leſſon which I have juſt now taught you; but particularly, give them in your life and man⯑ners that example which God's bleſſing has enabled me to afford you.

[177]By this time they were both at home. The virtuous Mr. Sage went up ſtairs into his chamber, and there falling on his knees, gave thanks to God for all the bleſſings which he had conſtantly received, and offered him the ſacrifice of his exiſtence, as the beſt return that he could make. What need had he of being any longer upon earth? His days had been replete with probity and honour, and by giving ſuch a leſſon on contentment to his ſon, he endeavoured, as far as in him lay, to endow him with a valuable patrimony, ſuch as no one could take from him.