GEORGE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

JAMES.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MAN IS BEST AS HE IS.

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

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

Ah! ha! there he is!

If I were but as active as our greyhound.

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

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

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

But if I ſtep upon the book?

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

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

Not that I care about it.

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

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

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

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

Yes, with all my heart.

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

It is a plaguy thing to be ſo ſhort!

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

You have been watching us then, papa?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And why pray?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How, papa, two blockheads?

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

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

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

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

Certainly, papa.

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

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

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

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

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

You do not wiſh then to be bigger?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh! but I would have the oxen bigger like⯑wiſe.

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

Truly, but a very few indeed.

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

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

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

And why not, dear papa?

Can you inform me what proportion means?

Proportion? No.

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

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

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

I am; unfortunately.

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

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

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

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

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

Ah! I underſtand you now.

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

Yes, yes; I ſee he would.

Frederic, have you heard us?

Yes, papa.

And underſtood the meaning of propor⯑tion?

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

But can you give me an example?

I believe, I can

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

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

Yes, that is plain.

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

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

And would the carriages then paſs between your legs?

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

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

I do not ſee any.

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

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

What, as little, brother, as Gulliver's Lilli⯑putians?

Why not?

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

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

Why, truly, there might be ſome ſavings!

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

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

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

In general.

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

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

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

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

But then, if every thing becomes proportion⯑ably little? There, I think, I have you.

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

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

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

Bravo!—ſo you take the man of conſe⯑quence upon you.

Yes, as well as Marcus.

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

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

And why ſo?

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

My poor little man! I am ſorry for it.

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

I feel the ſear indeed.

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

That it would indeed!

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

See here, my little fellow: ſmell this orange.

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

No: it is not for you.

For me, then?

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

And who is that, papa?

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

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

And yet he is made of iron.

Yes: and for that very reaſon he cannot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE PROPER USE OF TIME.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE BLACKSMITH.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE GENEROUS ORPHAN.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE DIRTY BOOTS.

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

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

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

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

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

Such a ſentence turned his promiſed pleaſure into ſor⯑row. He was very eager for a ride on horſeback, it was ſuch fine weather; but—to clean his boots himſelf! he could not ſtoop to ſuch an office. On the other hand, his pride would not permit him to go out with dirty boots, in which caſe every one that he met would ridicule him. He applied ſucceſſively to every ſervant in the houſe, with offers of money to corrupt them; but not one could be perſuaded to diſobey his maſter's order. Thus, then, For⯑tunatus was obliged to ſtay at home, till in the end his pride permitted him to ſtoop ſo low as the conditions laid upon him. On the next day John reſumed his office with⯑out bidding; and the humbled Fortunatus, having ex⯑erciſed it once, would never afterwards gratify his pride, by vilifying what was in itſelf ſo uſeful.

THE TATLER.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE PROVIDENT FATHER.

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

What have you been doing ever ſince our ſeparation?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

JULIAN AND ROSINA.

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

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

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

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

THE SEPARATION.

HAVE you conſidered my propo⯑ſals?

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

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

Well, be it ſo.

Tell my daughter ſhe is wanted,

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

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

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

Very well: do you adjuſt that mat⯑ter as you pleaſe.

It will be done al⯑moſt as ſoon as ſaid.

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

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

You reſolve, then, to occaſion me this grief.

I cannot poſſibly conſent to live any longer with him.

This is my agreement.

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

Upon mine it is.

No doubt.

It is uſeleſs for me to remonſtrate any longer.

Indeed, ſir, it is unneceſſary.

My reſolution is fixed.

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

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

I am his mother.

I, his father.

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

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

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

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

Shall I tear it?

If you do—

By no means, father.

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

Yes, with all my heart.

And mine too.

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

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

Won't you ſtay with me, my dear?

Oh! yes, mama.

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

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

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

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

With me, my child?

With both of you.

But why do you both turn away? Why look ſo melan⯑choly? You were uſed [...]o be ſo merry in each other's com⯑pany.

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

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

Will you forget the paſt?

Yes, every thing.

Are you determined now to part?

No, father; never.

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

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

THE MOUNTAIN LUTE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

INTERESTED KINDNESS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oats, neighbour! Oats are very dear!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why, then, I will borrow Goodman Clod⯑pole's.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Frank! Frank!

What want you, maſter?

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

So go and ſee if ſhe is well.

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

Well, how fares it with poor Ball?

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

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

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

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

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

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

But what are you to do for meal?

My wife can go without it for a fortnight.

And then your ſaddle, that is all in pieces?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE SLOVEN.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE FLOWER THAT NEVER FADES.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Right.

And are you in a hurry to complete it?

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

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

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

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

Well, what think you of my governeſs?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In the afternoon, when with an air of triumph in your eyes you came to ſhew your writing, and it paſſed with⯑out receiving any of thoſe praiſes that you expected— with what viſible vexation did you receive it back when every one had ſeen it!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PHILIP.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHARLOTTE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE WATCH.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I have, papa, already.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ah! now you joke, papa!

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

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

You may go there again to-morrow morning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You ſuppoſe, then, that would make you happy?

Yes; quite happy.

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

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

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

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

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

O papa, you make me ſhudder!

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

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

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

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

CAROLINE.

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

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

But why did you hide yourſelf child? Becauſe the ſhoe⯑maker was here.

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

THE WILD GEESE.

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

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

Nobody, my dear.

Then how do they live?

By ſeeking food themſelves; you ſee they have wings.

So have our geeſe that walk about the poultry⯑yard. Why do not they fly?

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

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

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

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

A TRIFLING PLEASURE EXCHANGED FOR ONE MUCH GREATER.

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

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

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

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

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

Pray mama, how far does Maria live from this?

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

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

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

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

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

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

You ſhall ſee.

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

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

the boat! the boat!

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

Where did you meet with theſe poor peo⯑ple?

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

Come; we will go and ſee them.

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

What a piteous ſight!

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

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

And who may that poor man be?

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

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

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

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

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

If what we have were ſufficient?

We would give it to them with all our hearts.

And how much have you?

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

I have half-a-crown.

And you, Louiſa?

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

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

And what is that, mama?

I do not know how to mention it.

Why not?

Fear nothing; let us know it.

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

Dear me!

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

Preſently, mama.

What ſhall we do?

For my part, I know what I would do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Do you ſay nothing, Louiſa?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No bad thought, mama, I take it.

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

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

Why, mama?

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

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

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

Certainly it will not.

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you, dear mama.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MATILDA.

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

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

What are you about there, my dear child?

Oh, nothing, nothing.

Are you frightened at the ſtorm?

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

And why then were you kneeling?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BACKGAMMON.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And not this only, but the others, I acknow⯑ledge, for my fault in playing with a perſon that is con⯑ſtantly ſo lucky.

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

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

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

O papa, that is very different.

And in what, pray? let me know.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE AFFECTIONATE MOTHER.

THE LITTLE PRISONER.

OLD LAWRENCE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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