ROBIN.

ROBIN was about ſix years of age. He was not wicked, but his mother let him always have his way; and then his father was afraid that the poor child might cry his eyes out, if he wanted any thing, and ſhould not get it. Being thus indulged, his whims grew every day more frequent, and they could not always be gratified; for his parents were extremely poor, and li⯑ved, as the expreſſion is, from hand to mouth. He grew at laſt quite obſtinate and quarrelſome, inſiſted upon hav⯑ing every thing that he ſaw, and when he could not get it, would grow ſulky, tear his cloaths to ſhow his ſpite, do nothing that he was bid to do, and often quite the contrary.

His parents were much grieved to ſee this behaviour in him, and judged it to proceed from a heart naturally perverſe. Alas! cried his mother, I once hoped that our little Robin would in time conſole us under all our griefs, be the joy of our old age, and work for our ſup⯑port, when we were paſt our ſtrength, reflecting that we had done ſo much to feed and bring him up: but, on the contrary, he is our greateſt unhappineſs. His prin⯑ciples are quite corrupt, ſaid the father; every one will hate him utterly, and not a ſoul aſſiſt him in his need. He will commit ſome wicked action, and be puniſhed for it by his country. He will live in ſhame and miſery. God grant I may be dead before this comes to paſs.

Theſe mortifying thoughts would conſtantly be upper⯑moſt within them. They were now no longer cheerful at their daily toil, and had no appetite for their meals. Their ſorrow had a viſible effect upon their health; their ſtrength ſoon failed them; and one morning, being more [2]depreſſed than uſual, they had not ſufficient ſpirits to get up. Not ſo the little Robin: he was up as uſual, and called for his breakfaſt. Robin, ſaid his mother, I am very ill, and cannot riſe to get it for you. On which he ſulked, ſhe wept, and Hutchinſon his father ſighed. The little urchin waited yet ſome time; but ſeeing neither of them ſtir, reſolved inſtantly what to do. He went to a neighbour's houſe for a light, as he deſigned to make a fire. A little girl came down to let him in; and ſeeing Robin, aſked him what he wanted, with a tone of voice that ſeemed to ſay he was not welcome; for ſhe did not like him in the leaſt. I want to light my candle, anſwer⯑ed Robin, Well, do ſo, returned the little girl, as I have let you in: but do not come here again. This way of talking Robin did not much like. He was very eaſily offended; ſo he went away and did not even light his candle.

After this he viſited another neighbour, who came down; but ſeeing Robin through the caſement, he would not ſo much as aſk him what he wanted, but went up again. Refuſed admittance every where, he came home, put down the candle, and bethought himſelf of going to a good old woman's, who formerly uſed to treat him with ſweet things. He went and aſked her for ſome break⯑faſt. Breakfaſt! anſwered Frances: why has not your mother let you have ſome? She is a-bed, ſaid Robin. Well, your father then? He likewiſe is a-bed. They ſay, they are ill. And would you leave them then, and come to me for victuals? Get you gone! I have nothing for you. Had I more than what I want myſelf, I would give it to poor children who are fonder of their parents than you are, and make them happy, whereas you every day torment yours.

Robin came away in tears, and walked home very ſlowly. In the way, he recollected that he himſelf had frequently ſhammed illneſs; and ſuppoſed it not im⯑poſſible that his parents might now be doing the ſame. For certainty, he got upon a little chair, held back the curtain, and beheld how pale they were. He ſaw that they had been crying too. This ſight affected him. He put the curtains to again, ſat down beſide the bed, and held his hands up to his face. Unhappy that I am! [3]ſaid he, ſuppoſe my parents were to die, what would become of me? I am refuſed admittance every where, and cannot obtain a bit of bread. I muſt then have been very wicked! my poor mother! how you have at all times loved me! and how have I grieved you! And my father, my dear father—Who can tell, alas! but they will die?

He ſat a little longer thinking; and returning after⯑wards to the houſe where he had been refuſed entrance at firſt, begged for heaven's ſake that they would let him have a little bread and milk, to make a breakfaſt for his parents. His affliction and the humble tone of voice with which he now addreſſed them, eaſily gained him a hearing. Look ye, ſaid the good man of the cottage, ſince you aſk me thus, I will not refuſe you. Take the half of this brown loaf, with ſome of this milk, and warm it for your parents. It is but juſt that you ſhould prepare their breakfaſt, while they are both work⯑ing ſo hard for you. He durſt not mention that they were ill, becauſe he feared the ſame reproaches which Frances had beſtowed upon him, though he merited them now much leſs: on which account his charitable bene⯑factor did not go himſelf to ſee them; as he would have done, had he but known their ſituation, for he eſteemed them greatly.

In the mean time, Robin brought away the bread and milk, came home, made up a fire, and putting on a pipkin, boiled the milk. It was no ſooner ready, than he drew a little table towards the bed. His mother heard him move about the chamber. What can Robin be doing? ſaid his mother. Nothing good, I fear, anſwer⯑ed Hutchinſon. She wiſhed to know, endeavoured to ſit up in bed; and looking through the curtains, which were very flimſy, ſaw the little table with two porringers, and Robin, who was cutting bread into them. Upon this, ſhe jogged her huſband. See, ſaid ſhe, I verily be⯑lieve he is doing this for us; elſe, why two porringers up⯑on the table? Would to God, ſaid Hutchinſon, he were! I am not hungry, but ſhould like to be convinced that he is better than we have thought him.

Robin, with his pipkin came at laſt; and filling both the porringers approached his parents. Hold, ſaid he, [4]dear father; hold dear mother.—Here's ſome breakfaſt for you both.—And is it you that prepared it? ſaid the father. Who could give you all this bread and milk? It was neighbour ſuch-a-one, anſwered he. The father and the mother bade him put down both the porringers again. Their eyes grew bright with joy. Dear child! come hither, cried they. You are not what we thought you to be; you bring both of us to life again. So ſaying, they held out their arms: he bent to their em⯑brace; he wept, as they did likewiſe; he deſired for⯑giveneſs for the grief which he had occaſioned them; and promiſed that they ſhould henceforth be rejoiced by his behaviour.

He was ſtill in their arms, when Frances entered with her breakfaſt in her hand; which ſhe brought, in order to ſhare it with her indiſpoſed good neigh⯑bours. She was moved at ſuch a piteous ſight, ſhed tears of joy, and bleſſed the little Robin, who, on-his ſide, tenderly embraced her alſo. They all breakfaſted together, and had never in their lives before enjoyed ſo ſweet a meal.

The happineſs of ſuch a day ſoon re-eſtabliſhed this good father, and this loving mother, in their former ſtate of health. The little boy alſo became very happy. He acquired the love of every one that knew him, was careſſed with juſtice by his parents and the charita⯑ble Frances, who rejoiced to do them all the good in her power.

AMELIA.

AMELIA when ſcarcely ſix years old, was very fond of her mamma, and wiſhed continually to be with her. On a certain day, Amelia's mother wiſhed to go to market, and the little girl entreated to accom⯑pany her thither. You will only be troubleſome to me, child, ſaid ſhe. No, no; I hope, I ſhall not be troubleſome to you, ſaid Amelia; and preſſed ſo much that her mama at laſt conſented to give her leave.

[5]They ſet out, therefore, both together. As it chanced, their houſe was in the country, and the paths proved very bad. Amelia frequently was forced to walk behind her mother, when the ruts would not permit them to have hold of one another. They were now come very near the town; and as it chanced, the road was crouded with a multitude of people paſſing every way. The little girl was often ſeparated from her mother; but this gave her no un⯑eaſineſs, as after two or three ſuch accidents, ſhe had rejoined her with eaſe, but the nearer they approached the market, the more ſhe perceived the crowd to augment. This ſhould neceſſarily have made her watchful of the way that her mother went; and yet, a ſort of puppet-ſhow which was exhibiting, had charms ſufficient to detain her. She ſtopped ſhort to gaze at Punchinello. In the midſt, how⯑ever, of her entertainment, ſhe turned round, but could not ſee her mother; ſhe ran on, called out, and ſcrambling up a bank, at once looked over all the people's heads: but it was in vain. She could not ſee her, could not hear her voice; and now the little maiden, being frightened, durſt not mix among ſo great a crowd, that joſtled one another. So ſhe got into a corner, called out mammy! mammy! and burſt into a flood of tears.

The people that went by, looked at her. There is a little girl, ſaid one among them, in a piteous taking! What is the matter with you? aſked another. I have loſt my mammy! Oh, never mind it; anſwered he. You will find her cut again, I warrant you. A third ſaid, Do not cry, my little girl. She will not come to you the ſooner for that. Thus ſaid many, and they all went on about their buſineſs.

By good luck, at laſt, however, an old woman who ſold eggs and butter, and was lame and therefore could not walk without a crutch, was going by, but ſeeing her in ſuch diſtreſs, ſtopped ſhort and pitied her. And which way was your mother going, little dear, ſaid the woman, when you loſt her? She was going to the market, ſaid Amelia. Well, be comforted, replied the firſt; and come along with me. I will take you to the market. You will find her there, no doubt. Amelia gave her hand, that moment, to the good old woman, and ſoon reached the market. As they en⯑tered, ſhe perceived her mother, gave a cry of joy, and up her mother came immediately. She took the little girl into her arms, and ſaid, You frightened me exceedingly, [6]my dear, by wandering from me: and the child, that mo⯑ment, fell a hugging her, and cried.

She told her of the puppet-ſhow, and that ſhe had ſtopped to look at it; how ſhe called out after her, and how the good old market-woman, and ſhe only, had taken pity of her and brought her through the crowd. Amelia's mother thanked her, bought what eggs and butter ſhe had left, and gave her more than ſhe aſked. Amelia kiſſed her ten times over; and while going home, would talk of nothing but the good old market-woman.

When the firſt fine weather came, Amelia begged her mother to go ſee Dame Dunch, which was the market-woman's name: and ſhe conſented, took a loaf of bread, and half a pound of tea, with ſugar in proportion. Dame Dunch's dwelling was a wooden one: it was not large, but very clean and comfortable. In the front, there was a little graſs-plat, ſhaded on every ſide by fruit trees; upon which, Amelia danced till evening with a niece of the Dame's who was as kind and good natured as her aunt.

Amelia's mother always bought Dame Dunch's eggs and butter, but complained that ſhe rated them at too low a price; while Dame Dunch would have it that ſhe was paid too much. Amelia and her mother gave the good old woman all the aſſiſtance in their power; and when in her turn the old woman could be ſerviceable to Amelia or her mother, ſhe would put on her cloth apron, take her crutch, and come quite out of breath, but very joyous.

Thus they did each other mutual ſervice: but the good old woman had the greateſt reaſon to rejoice, that ſhe had taken pity on a little girl in trouble. In the act of helping her, ſhe did not think that her good heart would gain her ſuch a world of happy hours.

THE RUFFLES AND GARTERS,

WHAT a charming day is Chriſtmas Mon⯑day, when one has ſuch handſome pre⯑ſents! How I long to ſee it!

O! do not ſpeak about it, ſiſter. The firſt five and twenty days of this dull gloomy month, appear much longer than the reſt all put together. What fine things we are to have! I dream about them every night, and wake a dozen times, when Chriſtmas Monday is the firſt thing that takes up my thoughts.

Do you recollect, laſt year, how all mama's acquaintance brought us play-things and ſweet-meats. We had really ſo much, we knew not where to put them.

They were ſpread upon a large ſquare table, and mama came out to call us with her charming voice. Come, come, ſaid ſhe, and take theſe preſents. She em⯑braced us, and ſhed tears. I never ſaw her half ſo happy as that day, when ſhe beheld us jump about the room for joy.

I think, indeed, ſhe ſeemed much happier than ourſelves.

One would have thought that ſhe had received the Chriſtmas-boxes.

There muſt conſequently be a pleaſure, I ſup⯑poſe, in giving: ſo I will tell you what we ought to do, Letitia. We are very little, and of courſe have little that we can give. But ſtill we have it in our power to get this pleaſure.

How, pray, Letitia?

Why, it wants a fortnight now, you know, of Chriſtmas Monday: and we both have money in our pockets.

Yes; I have upwards of a crown. What ſhall we do then?

You recollect, our fair comes on to-morrow. Well then, we muſt get up early, and work hard, and ſtudy diligently, and do every part of our buſineſs well, that in the afternoon we may have leave to go and ſee the [8]fair. Now I have more a good deal than nine ſhillings. We will each take half our money, and go buy the pret⯑tieſt things that we can ſee. We will bring them home all cleverly wrapped up, and early upon Chriſtmas Mon⯑day, give them to our gardener's children.

Yes; but then, Letitia, the poor woman's children, who comes here to work occaſionally, muſt have ſomething likewiſe.

Right; I did not think of them. O, how de⯑lighted they will be! I fancy the poor little children, in their joy, will ſay that they never had a Chriſtmas-box before.

In that caſe, we ſhall be the firſt to cauſe them ſuch a deal of pleaſure.—O, my dear, dear ſiſter! I muſt hug you for that thought!

Yes, but ſtay a little. I have another in my head. This money which we deſign to ſpend—

Is ours; and we may lay it out as we think proper.

Yes, that is true. But—

Well, but what?

We had it from mama, you know; it was her preſent to us, as in general all our money is. Now ſiſter, if we lay this money out in preſents for the chil⯑dren, it will then be mama that has made theſe preſents, and not we.

That is true indeed; and yet we have no other money.

We can, notwithſtanding, hit on ſome expe⯑dient for the purpoſe, I dare ſay. For in the firſt place, I can work indifferently at my needle, and you knit with tolerable eaſe.

Of what uſe will this be?

You will not be long before you have knit a pair of garters for papa; and I have been this fortnight at a pair of ruffles, which he does not know. What then hinders, pray, but we may finiſh theſe two articles a day or two on this ſide Chriſtmas Monday?

Well, and if we do, what then?

Why then we can preſent the garters and the rurfles to papa, who will be glad to buy them of us, and pay thrice as much as they are worth.—

Yes; I am ſure of that. But ſtill the fair will be to-morrow; and we cannot before then finiſh what you know is to procure the money that we would lay out at the fair.

Nor is it neceſſary; for the money that we ſhall want, to make our purchaſe at the fair, we may borrow of ourſelves; and afterwards repay it upwards of two days before we make our preſents. Thus then we ſhall really have it in our power to ſay, that we alone gave Chriſtmas-boxes to the poor children.

A good ſcheme indeed! Well, you are always the readieſt at theſe matters, I confeſs; but then that is becauſe you are the eldeſt.

Bleſs me! How we ſhall both rejoice, in being able to afford them ſo much pleaſure!

I could wiſh that to-morrow were the day.

Never fear, it will ſoon come now; and we ſhall be happy even in the expectation of its coming.

ABEL.

LITTLE Abel was ſcarce turned of eight years old, when he had the misfortune to loſe his mother. It afflicted him ſo much, that nothing could reſtore him to the gaiety ſo natural to young children. Mrs. Donaldſon, his aunt, was forced to take him to her houſe, for fear his ſadneſs ſhould ſtill aggravate her brother's inconſolable diſtreſs.

They went, however, frequently to ſee him; and at laſt, the time was come for going out of mourning. Abel therefore quitted his; and, though his heart was full of ſorrow, he endeavoured to aſſume a lively counte⯑nance. His father was affected at this ſenſibility: but alas! it only occaſioned him more ſorrow, by cauſing him to reflect that he had for ever loſt the mother of this amiable child; and this reflexion, every one remarked, was bringing him with ſorrow to the grave.

It was a fortnight now, ſince Abel had been to ſee him as uſual. His aunt always urged ſome pretext or other during that time, as often as he wiſhed to go. The truth [10]is, Mr. Donaldſon was dangerouſly ill. He durſt not aſk to ſee his child, from apprehenſion that the ſight of his condition might too much affect him. Theſe paternal ſtruggles, joined with the former depreſſion of his ſpirits, ſo exhauſted him, that very ſoon there was no hope re⯑maining of his cure. He died, in fact, upon the day before his birth-day.

On the morrow, Abel, having waked betimes, tor⯑mented Mrs. Donaldſon ſo much for leave to go and wiſh his father joy, that ſhe at laſt conſented; but he ſaw his mourning was now to go on again.

And why this ugly black, ſaid he, to-day, when we are going to papa?—Who is dead now, aunt?

His aunt was ſo afflicted, that ſhe could not ſpeak a word.

Well then, ſaid Abel, if you will not tell me, I will enquire of my papa.

At this ſhe could no longer refrain from weeping, but burſt out into a flood of tears, and ſaid, It is he, it is he himſelf that is dead.

What, my papa dead! anſwered he. O heaven! take pity on me. My mama firſt dead! and now papa! Un⯑happy as I am, and parentleſs! what will become of me? O my papa! mama!

Theſe words were ſcarcely uttered, when he fell into a ſwoon; nor could his aunt, without much difficulty, bring him to himſelf again.

Poor child, ſaid ſhe, do not be thus afflicted. Your parents are ſtill living.

Yes; but where?

In heaven, with God. They are both happy in that place; and will at all times have an eye upon their child. If you are prudent, diligent, and up⯑right, they will pray that God may bleſs you; and God certainly will bleſs you. This was the laſt prayer that your father uttered yeſterday, when dying.

Yeſterday! when I was thinking of the pleaſure that I ſhould have in ſeeing him this morning.—Yeſterday! Then he is not buried yet? O aunt, pray let me ſee him! He would not ſend for me, fearing to afflict me; and perhaps I, on the contrary, ſhould have afflicted him. But now, as I cannot poſſibly give him any pain, I would [11]once more behold him, for the laſt, laſt time! Pray let me go and ſee him, my dear aunt!

Well then, we will go together, if you promiſe to be calm. You ſee my tears, and how much I am grieved for having loſt my brother. He was always doing me ſome good or other: I was poor, and had no maintenance but what his bounty gave me. Notwith⯑ſtanding which, I yield myſelf, you ſee, to Providence that watches over us. Be calm, then, my dear child!

Yes, yes; I muſt indeed be calm. But pray, aunt, carry me to my papa, that I may ſee at leaſt his coffin.

Mrs. Donaldſon then took him by the hand and in⯑ſtantly went out: the day was very dark and even foggy. Abel wept as he went on.

When they were come before the houſe, the mutes were at the door, and Mr. Donaldſon's late friends and neigh⯑bours were ſtanding round his coffin. They wept bitterly, and praiſed the integrity of the deceaſed. Little Abel ruſhed into the houſe, and threw himſelf upon the coffin. For ſome time he could not ſpeak a word; but at laſt raiſed his head a little, crying out, See how your little Abel weeps for having loſt you! When mama died, you conſoled me, and yet wept yourſelf; but now, who will conſole me for your loſs! Oh! my papa! my good papa!

He could utter no more: his ſorrow almoſt ſtrangled him. His mouth was open, and his tongue ſeemed mo⯑tionleſs. His eyes at one time fixed; and at another, rolling in their ſockets, had no tears to ſhed. His aunt had need of all her ſtrength to pluck him from the coffin. She conducted him to a neighbour's houſe, begging her to keep him till his father's burial was over; for ſhe durſt not think of carrying him to ſee it.

Very ſoon the bell was ſet a tolling. Abel heard it; and the woman to whoſe care he had been truſted having quitted the apartment for a moment, he availed himſelf of the opportunity, got out, and ran that inſtant to the church-yard, whither the funeral was gone. The mi⯑niſter had finiſhed, and the grave was filling up;—when, all at once, a cry was heard of, Bury me with my papa! and Abel jumped into the grave.

[12]The mourners were affected at it: Abel was drawn out all pale and ſpeechleſs, and, in ſpite of his reſiſtance, carried home.

He was for upwards of three days continually fainting; and his aunt could not bring him to be compoſed, even at intervals, except by ſpeaking to him of his dear papa. At length his firſt exceſs of anguiſh was allayed: he wept no longer, but was very ſorrowful.

A worthy merchant heard of this deplorable affair. He had not been without ſome knowledge of the father; therefore he repaired to Mrs. Donaldſon, that he might ſee the little orphan. He was very much affected at his ſadneſs, took him home and was a father to him. Abel ſoon conſidered himſelf as really the merchant's ſon, and every day gained greater ground in his affection. At the age of twenty, he conducted all the buſineſs of his bene⯑factor with ſo much ſucceſs, that in reality the merchant thought it his duty to aſſign him half the profits of it for the future; to which recompenſe he added his beloved daughter.—Abel hitherto had maintained his aunt out of the little perquiſites belonging to him; and, by this event, he had the further happineſs of making her quite eaſy for the remnant of her days. But never did his father's birth-day come about, but he was ſeized in ſome ſort with a fever, on recalling to his memory what he once had ſuffered at that ſeaſon; and to thoſe ſenſations which then affected him did he impute the principles of honour and integrity that he ever afterwards cultivated during the whole of a long life.

THE COMPLIMENT OF THE NEW YEAR.

UPON a certain new-year's day, little Peregrine came into the parlour, juſt before breakfaſt was ready. He advanced, and with the greateſt gravity ſa⯑luting his papa, began as follows, in a ſolemn tone of voice:

"As formerly the Romans were accuſtomed every new-year's day to wiſh their friends all happineſs; ſo I, thrice honoured father, come—So I, thrice honoured father, come—come—come—"

The little orator at this ſtopped ſhort. It was in vain; he fretted, rubbed his forehead, and began to fumble in his pocket. The remainder of this excellent harangue was not forth coming. The poor little boy was vexed, and quite in agitation. Mr. Veſey ſaw and pitied his embarraſſment, embraced him tenderly, and ſaid as fol⯑lows: "Truly a moſt elegant oration! You yourſelf, no doubt, compoſed it?"

No. papa; you are very good to think ſo, but I am not half learned enough for ſuch a taſk. It was my brother that drew it up. You ſhould have heard the whole. He told me that it was in periods; and the periods, he ſaid, were rounded off into the bargain. Look ye, I will but run it over once, and you ſhall hear it then: or would you rather hear mama's? I have that perfectly, I am ſure. It is extracted from the Grecian Hiſtory.

No, no, Peregrine, it is not neceſſary; and your mother and myſelf, without it, are as much indebted both to your affection and your brother's.

Oh, he was a fortnight, I aſſure you, at the work; and I employed a deal of time in learning them. What an unlucky thing that I ſhould now forget, when I [14]moſt wanted to remember it! No longer ago than laſt night, believe me, I delivered the whole ſpeech without the leaſt heſitation, in the ſervant's room, and ſpeaking to your wig-block, if it could but tell you.

I was then at ſtudy in my cloſet, and to comfort you, muſt ſay, I heard it.

Did you?—I am glad of that! and do not you think, papa, that I ſpoke it very well?

Surpriſingly, I muſt acknowledge.

Oh, but it was very fine!

To ſay the truth, your brother has quite crammed it full of eloquence. And yet, I ſhould have liked a ſingle word or two much better from yourſelf.

But ſure, papa, to ſay that I wiſh the perſon to whom I am ſpeaking a happy new year, and nothing elſe, is far too common to give pleaſure.

Yes: but why then nothing elſe? as if, in⯑ſtead of offering ſuch a naked compliment, you could not previouſly have thought within yourſelf, what I wiſhed moſt of all to enjoy during the courſe of this new year.

Oh, that is not difficult. You wiſh, no doubt, to have your health, to ſee your family, your friends and fortune flouriſh, and to enjoy a deal of plea⯑ſure.

Well; do not you wiſh me all this?

Yes, with all my heart.

What hinders then, but you could have made me up yourſelf a charming compliment, without requiring the aſſiſtance of another?

Really, I did not think myſelf ſo learned; but it is always thus, when you inſtruct me; ſince I find out things which I did not think were in me. I can now make compliments to every one that I know. I need ſay nothing but what I have mentioned juſt this moment.

It may ſuit, I muſt acknowledge, many people; but ſhould certainly be different with reſpect to others.

Yes, I underſtand you pretty well, papa; but I do not know what the difference ſhould be; ſo ex⯑plain it to me, now we are alone.

With all my heart. There are a multitude of what are called good things, that one may wiſh any [15]perſon whatſoever to enjoy; ſuch as what you mentioned juſt now: there are others, that refer to different indivi⯑duals according to their ſituations, age and duties. For example; one may wiſh to a man who is happy already, the long continuation of his happineſs; to an unhappy man, the end of his affliction; to a man in office, that God's providence may bleſs his labours for the public welfare, give him neceſſary penetration, with the gift of perſeverance to continue in them, and eſtabliſh the enjoy⯑ment of felicity among his countrymen, by way of re⯑compence on his endeavours. To an old man one may wiſh a length of life exempt from every inconveniency; to children, on the other hand, the preſervation of their parents, progreſs in their ſtudies, with a love of arts; to parents, the completion of their hopes, in bringing up their children; every ſpecies of proſperity to ſuch as are our benefactors: and the long continuation of their kind⯑neſs. It is our duty even to bethink us of our enemies, and to pray that God may ſhow them the injuſtice of their conduct, and inſpire them with a wiſh of meriting our friendſhip.

O papa, how much I thank you! I have now a budget full of compliments for every one. I ſhall know what ſort of wiſhes they will expect, and have no occaſion for my brother's rounded periods, as he calls them: but why, as we ſhould always have theſe wiſhes in our heart, pray tell me why the firſt day of the year, in preference to any other, ſhould be pitched upon to publiſh them?

Becauſe our life is, as it were, a ladder, every ſtep of which is repreſented by a year. It is natural that our friends ſhould flock together, and make merry with us, when our foot has got in ſafety on the ſtep next to that which we lately trod, and to expreſs their wiſh that we ſhould climb the reſt with equal ſafety. Do you un⯑derſtand me?

O papa, quite clearly.

It is however in my power to make this clearer ſtill, by uſing what we call another figure.

Ah, let us have it, pray, papa.

Do you remember, then, our going to the top of that fine church in London, called St. Paul's?

Oh! what a charming proſpect from the golden gallery there! Why, you remember we could ſee all London and a great deal of the country from it!

Greenwich hoſpital particularly ſtruck your eye; and as you could not then have any notion of the diſtance, you propoſed that we ſhould the following week go there on foot to dinner.

Well, papa; and did I not, pray, walk the whole long journey like a man?

Yes, well enough. I had no reaſon to find fault with your performance; but remember, I took care, at every mile-ſtone on the road, to make you ſit and reſt a little.

So you did indeed; and it was in my opi⯑nion, no bad idea at the firſt, to put up thoſe figured ſtones beſide the road. One knows at any time what diſ⯑tance one has walked, how much is ſtill to come, and ſo regulates one's pace accordingly.

In this you have yourſelf explained the ad⯑vantages which ariſe from our dividing life into thoſe equal portions that we call years: for every year is ſome⯑thing like a mile-ſtone in the road of life.

I underſtand you. And the ſeaſons are, per⯑haps, ſo many quarter-miles, which tell us that we ſhall very ſoon arrive at the next ſtone.

Your obſervation is extremely juſt; and I am glad that this little journey is ſtill freſh in your re⯑membrance. If you take it in a proper point of view, it will exhibit a true picture of life. Remember, if you can, the different circumſtances that took place while you were poſting on to Greenwich; tell them in the order in which they fell out, as well as you are able, and I will make the application.

I ſhould ſcarce remember the whole buſineſs better, had it happened yeſterday. At firſt, as I was full of ſpirits and deſired to let you ſee it, I ſet out upon a trot and made a number of trips; I do not well know how many. You adviſed me to go ſlowly, as the journey would be rather long. I followed your advice and had no reaſon to repent. Upon the way, I aſked for informa⯑tion at the ſight of every thing of which I did not know the meaning, and you were pleaſed to tell me. When we happened to go by a bit of graſs, we ſat down on it, and [17]you read a ſtory-book that you had brought out in your pocket to divert me. Then we got upon our feet again; and as we went along, you told me many other things not only uſeful but diverting likewiſe. In this manner, though the weather was not altogether fine, though we had ſometimes rain, and once a hail-ſtorm to encounter, we arrived at Greenwich, I remember, very freſh and hearty, and made afterwards a charming dinner.

Very faithfully related, Peregrine! but for ſome few circumſtances, which, however, I am glad you have not introduced; as for example, your attention to a poor blind man whom you caught by the arm, if you re⯑member, to prevent him from falling upon a heap of ſtones that lay before him, and on which he might have broke his legs; the aſſiſtance that you afforded a poor waſher woman's boy, by picking up a handkerchief of linen which had fallen out of the cart; but particularly the alms that you gave to ſeveral people on the road.

Do you think, then, papa, that I forgot them? I know that we ſhould not boaſt of any good, that we may have had the opportunity of doing.

And on that account, I am greatly pleaſed in dwelling on it, as a recompence for ſo much modeſty. It is juſt that I ſhould repay you ſome ſmall portion of the joy which you cauſed me.

Oh! I ſaw tears rolling in your eye, not once alone, nor twice, but often. I was ſo delighted! if you knew how much that ſight made me forget my weari⯑neſs! I walked much the better for it. But let me have the application that you juſt mentioned.

It is as follows, Peregrine. Give me all the attention in your power.

Fear nothing. I will not loſe a ſyllable, ſir, of what you tell me, I aſſure you.

The look, then, which you caſt round you from the golden gallery, all over London, and a great deal, as you mentioned, of the country, is expreſſive of the firſt reflexions of a child upon the multitude about him. The long walk that you choſe to Greenwich, is the journey which we propoſe to ourſelves through life. The eagerneſs with which you wiſhed to hurry on at ſet⯑ting out, without conſulting your ability for running, and which coſt you ſuch repeated trips, is the natural [18]impetuoſity of youth which would excite us to the worſt exceſſes, if a faithful and experienced friend were not to moderate it. The inſtruction that you derived, as we were walking on, from reading and converſing with me, and the actions of good-will and charity that you per⯑formed, took off from the fatigue of ſuch a journey; and you finiſhed it thereby with ſatisfaction to yourſelf, though there had fallen a deal of rain, and even hail. Theſe circumſtances, too, convey inſtruction; for in life there are no other means than the performance of our duty, to keep off diſquietude and to cheriſh peace within us, notwithſtanding thoſe viciſſitudes of fortune which would otherwiſe, perhaps, go near to overwhelm us: and the comfortable meal that we made at the concluſion of our journey is no other than an emblem of the recom⯑pence which God gives us when we die, to crown thoſe virtuous actions that we have laboured to perform while in this world.

Yes, yes, papa; all this ſquares wonderfully well, and I ſhall have a deal of happineſs, I ſee before⯑hand, in the year that is now begun.

It reſts with yourſelf alone to make the year quite happy; but once more, let us return to our excur⯑ſion. Do you recollect when in going round, that we might ſee a little of the park, we came upon Blackheath? The heavens were then ſerene, and we could ſee behind us all the way that we had been walking.

Yes, indeed, papa! and I was proud of having walked ſo far!

By proud, you mean rejoiced. Are you then equally rejoiced at preſent, while your reaſon which now dawns within you, pauſes and caſt back a look upon the way that you have already made in life? You entered it quite weak and naked, without any means of making, in the leaſt degree, proviſion for your wants. It was your mother who gave you your firſt food, and it is I that have the forethought to ſubſiſt you. How do we deſire you to repay us? We want nothing more, than that you ſhould yourſelf endeavour to be happy, by becoming juſt and honeſt; by acquiring a due notion of your ſeveral duties; and by ſeriouſly intending to diſcharge them. Have you then fulfilled theſe few conditions, no leſs advantageous to yourſelf than eaſy? Have you firſt of all been grateful [19]to God's goodneſs, who has willed that you ſhould be born of parents poſſeſſing wherewithal to bring you up in eaſe and honour? Have you always ſhewn thoſe parents the obedience and reſpect that you owe them? Have you paid attention to the precepts of your teachers? Have you never given occaſion for your brothers or your ſiſters to com⯑plain of envy or injuſtice in you? Have you always treated thoſe who wait upon you, with a proper ſort of conde⯑ſcenſion, and at no time claimed from their inferior ſitua⯑tion, what it was their duty to refuſe you? In a word, do you poſſeſs that love of juſtice, that equality of con⯑duct, and that moderation which we, by our inſtruction and example, are at all times doing what we can to ſet before you?

Ah, papa, let us not look ſo much at what is paſt, but to the future. Every thing that I ſhould have done, I promiſe by God's bleſſing to do hereafter.

That is well ſaid: embrace me, therefore, Peregrine. I accept your promiſe, and confine to its per⯑formance all the wiſhes that I need make, on my ſide, for your happineſs, on this renewal of the year.

WAR AND PEACE.

Commodore Freeport, ſtill agitated with the pleaſing ſenſations that he experienced during the courſe of the day, could not cloſe his eyes till long after midnight, when at length a grateful ſlumber ſtole upon him, and ſoft dreams compoſed his agitated boſom. In the morn⯑ing, the firſt objects that he beheld about him were his children, who had placed themſelves around his bed in expectation of his waking. He received their ſweet ca⯑reſſes, claſped them tenderly himſelf, and putting on his clothes as quickly as he could, went down into the garden with them.

The ſerenity then reigning round about, the pleaſure of reviſiting thoſe places which his own hands had culti⯑vated in times paſt, and of being once again reſtored in ſafety to his family, when ſuch an interval of ſeparation had elapſed, and even the recollection of the dangers to which he had often been expoſed, every thing inſpired him with unſpeakable affection; and his children, ſenſible of this, employed the opportunity to aſk him queſtion after queſtion.

[65]He gave a relation of every thing worth knowing, that had happened to him in his many and perilous voyages, of the ſtorms that had attacked his ſhips, and the ha⯑zardous expeditions in which he was concerned. He de⯑ſcribed to them the ſolitary uninhabited regions viſited by his people, and, on the other hand, the populous nations that he had ſeen, together with their cuſtoms, characters, and manners.

During his recital, he was careful to remark what ſort of feelings it excited in their hearts, and what was the expreſſion of thoſe feelings on their countenances. At the ſlighteſt mention of the dangers that he had encountered, he felt the little girls, by inſtinct as it were, preſs tenderly to him: they ſighed, and now and then let fall a tear; while Conſtantine, his ſon, was animated, and ſeemed ready, or at leaſt his features ſpoke him ready, to en⯑counter the ſame degree of danger. In particular, at the recital of any warlike action, you might ſee his breaſt heave, and his eyes ſparkle like fire.

Papa, cried he at length, if I were but as big as you, how I ſhould like to go to war, that, in my turn, I might appear as brave a man as you.

But, Conſtantine, you know not what a cruel wiſh you indulge now.

Why, papa! do not you mean me for a ſol⯑dier?

Yes, I do, indeed.

And is not the profeſſion of a ſoldier neceſ⯑ſary?

Too much ſo, I muſt confeſs. It is with a kingdom juſt the ſame as with a human body. Both are ſubject to interior maladies, and outward accidents. The phyſician watches the body carefully, to prevent com⯑plaints within it, which might happen through the fer⯑mentation of ſharp humours, or to ſave it from thoſe ills that it might ſuſtain from hurtful objects. Juſt ſo, like⯑wiſe, does the ſoldier watch the ſtate, of which he is a member, to ſuppreſs ſeditions that might riſe within it, and repel the invaſion of ambitious nations dwelling round about it.

But, papa, if the profeſſion of a ſoldier be ſo neceſſary, ought not I to wiſh for opportunities of exer⯑ciſing it?

What would you think of that phyſician, who, impreſſed with a deſire of practiſing his art, ſhould wiſh a dangerous malady, a plague for inſtance, or ſomething like it, to befal his fellow-creatures?

O, papa, how wicked!

What then muſt I think of him, who, to gratify a principle of pride, or ambition, ſhould deſire to ſee the greateſt ſcourge that can attend on human nature lay waſte his country?

Ah! Conſtantine, think of that, and let us ſee what you will anſwer!

And yet war, papa, is quite delightful, and particularly if one were a king.

In what, then, do you think it ſo delightful?

In the firſt place, becauſe then a king may make himſelf more powerful.

Be it granted, kings may have recourſe to war with juſtice. But when they wiſh to have more power, do you imagine that in prudence they ſhould do ſo; that is, go to war? Suppoſe within yourſelves, dear children, that the lands about my eſtate here were as many little empires, and their owners, Mr. Marchmont and the reſt, as many kings within them.

Ay, like thoſe of France and England. Do you underſtand?

Don't be uneaſy, ſiſter, upon my account. I underſtand extremely well. Pray, dear papa, go on!

If I prevail upon my tenants to take arms, and if they can obtain poſſeſſion of a field belonging, as I ſaid juſt now, to Mr. Marchmont, is it not pretty likely that Mr. Marchmont will give his tenants arms, and beg them to defend that field, which they muſt know is his; and very poſſibly encourage them to ſeize on ſomething that belongs to me?

Yes, that is quite natural.

If ſo, then I am plunged into a ſea of trou⯑ble, and muſt always be upon the watch, that I may rob my neighbour, or prevent his robbing me. Of which the conſequence is this: if I proſper, I muſt reaſonably fear that my neighbours will conſpire together to im⯑pede my further violences; and divide my ſpoils, if I am beaten.

Ay, papa; but then, the glory that you would gain, by letting all the neighbours ſee how brave you are!

I underſtand you; and to gain this glory, which at beſt is but imaginary, I ſhall go and hazard the repoſe and life of thoſe whom I ought to regard as my children! But it is very poſſible that my neighbour may be braver by a deal than I; what then ſhall I have gained by this fantaſtic wiſh of glory?

As I take it, you ſhould previouſly provide yourſelf with ſuch a force, as to be ſure of conqueſt.

I might ſtill reply, by hinting that my neigh⯑bour certainly would take the ſame advantages, might poſſibly be more ſucceſsful, and ſo make my enterpriſing diſpoſition coſt me dear at laſt. But for the ſake of argu⯑ment, Conſtantine, I will ſuppoſe that fortune favours me, and my eſtate is much enlarged: alas! this very cir⯑cumſtance, in all probability, may become my ruin.

How, papa? Methinks you would become the richer for it. With a greater quantity of land, you would have much more money coming in.

Ah, Conſtantine! it is not on the ſize of an eſtate that its worth depends, but on the care which one takes to cultivate it.

Certainly; for only think of Wilſdon-heath, where Mr. Bramble lives. Why, no one in his ſenſes would give up the fourth part of ſuch an orchard as we have for all that heath.

I eaſily believe you. Wilſdon-heath produces only furze and thorns, while our orchard bears a deal of fruit.

But what would hinder you from cultivating all the land that you might have taken from your neigh⯑bour?

If I have before hand loſt in the diſpute a number of my tenants, and a portion of the reſt are ſtill employed in arms, who then will cultivate my fields? I ſhall notwithſtanding, in the interval, be obliged to feed thoſe men who have forſaken agriculture, and who, in⯑ſtead of following it, are occupied in laying waſte the ground on which they tread. Now, to feed them, I muſt put freſh burdens upon thoſe that ſtill remain employed in cultivating my eſtate, and make them pay me largerrents. [68]If I impoſe upon them, they will leave their farms, and chuſe more kind and peaceful landlords than myſelf. Of courſe, I ſhall have none about me but armed tenants. who, if ever they conceive themſelves ill treated, will be likely to conſpire againſt me.

I have read, indeed, ſuch things in hiſtory: my tutor very lately, I remember, pointed one out to me.

Let us now, on the other hand, ſuppoſe, Conſtantine, that inſtead of vexing any of the nations round me; for I drop the idea of a landlord and ſpeak as if I were the king of England and alluded to the king of France; ſuppoſe, I ſay, that inſtead of vexing any of the king of France's ſubjects, I ſhould do my utmoſt to attach them to me by a commerce advantageous both to them and my own people, and by being ſcrupulouſly careful to prevent whatever might oceaſion, for the time to come, diviſion and diſpute between us; and ſhould give encou⯑ragement, within my own dominions, to the arts of agri⯑culture, ſo that every one of my ſubjects might enjoy, if he thought fit, the ſweets of peace, and that ſerenity which always flows from juſtice; ſhould I not be happier, through the happineſs of every one about me, than from any boaſt of having conquered? And in that caſe, would not my dominion be eſtabliſhed on a much more ſolid baſe than if I had enlarged its limits, when the conſequence muſt be, that every part becomes much weaker?

But papa, do not you remember that you compared, juſt now, a kingdom to a human body? If a human body then, like mine, grows ſtronger every day as it grows bigger, ſure a kingdom muſt become more powerful in proportion as its ſize increaſes.

So it would do, I confeſs, if that increaſe were carried forward, as it is in nature, by a ſlow and gradual rate, and not in conſequence of ſudden revolutions.

Pray, explain this laſt particular.

I will make it clearly underſtood, by what I ſaw take place between a little boy and girl, on board the ſhip in which I came to England.

What you ſaw take place between a little boy and girl? I cannot conceive how any thing like that can be of uſe in ſettling this affair!

One evening, their mama gave each of them a piece of cake. The girl was leſs a great deal than her [69]brother, and had notwithſtanding very near as large a piece. The boy remarked that circumſtance, and ſnatched her ſhare away. Now, what do you imagine led him to this action of injuſtice?

I ſuppoſe he thought it wrong that his ſiſter, being leſs than he, ſhould have a piece almoſt as large.

Oh! what a mighty man!

Exactly ſuch is the pretext aſſigned in general by all conquerors. But what happened to the little boy? When he had finiſhed eating, he grew ſick. The aliments that we ſwallow, being meant to ſtrengthen us, it is very natural to fancy that the more we take the ſtronger we ſhall be: ſo alſo it is not unnatural for a child to fancy that a prince, whoſe territories are increaſed, ſhould find his power increaſed in proportion. But in reality, it is with a kingdom juſt as with our ſtomach. Being over⯑charged, it muſt be out of order. If the little boy had been contented with the piece that he had received, (for you muſt know he was an ailing child, and therefore had not ſo much as his ſiſter who was very hearty,) it would have digeſted properly and ſtrengthened him; whereas, by eating more than he could bear, it had the effect upon him which I have juſt now mentioned. If his ſiſter, fol⯑lowing the example that he had ſet her, had proceeded upon this to take away his bit of cake by force, as little as ſhe was, he would not have had ſufficient ſtrength to ſave it from her.

But, perhaps, he would have thought of the injuſtice that he had done, and yielded it without a ſtruggle?

That is a generoſity of which the common ſort of conquerors are not capable to one another. If they were but ſo in favour of their ſubjects only, how could they reflect upon the multitude of victims which they muſt ſacrifice upon the altar of their vengeance or ambition, the firſt time they combat with the people whom they have made their enemies, and not be ſtruck with horror at the thought? I ſhould imagine it would be well, if kings, upon the point of undertaking any war, ſhould have a picture hung before them, ſetting forth the horrors of that war, ſo that their fancies might be inceſſantly affected with the idea of it; and at midnight, when all nature otherwiſe is ſtill about them, might hear the groans of [70]wounded men reproaching them as the occaſion of thoſe pains which they ſuffer, the deſpairing cries of wives and mothers loading them with curſes, and the clamours of a people famiſhing for want of bread. Their ſouls are ſome⯑times wrought on, by unjuſt ſolicitations, to grant crimi⯑nals their life; and yet they ſign, without remorſe, what ſhall condemn to death even thouſands of their unoffend⯑ing ſubjects. A good king employs whole years in medi⯑tating on a project that may finally prove beneficial to ſome portion of his ſtate, to population, trade, or agriculture. Twenty years ſhall paſs away before the pro⯑ject is perfected; while a warlike, that is, cruel king ſhall, by the reſolution of a moment, half exterminate his people, put a ſtop to agriculture, tie up the induſtrious hands of artizans, deprive the poor of their ſubſiſtence by depriving them of daily work, reduce whole families to diſſolution, and at laſt entirely overthrow his realm!

And yet, papa, I have often heard that great fortunes are made by hundreds, in the time of war.

And this is an addition to the evils which it foments; for, not to ſpeak of thoſe antipathies which the inequality of wealth produces in the hearts of ſuch as are each other's neighbours, thoſe enormous fortunes cheriſh a degree of luxury that cannot but corrupt men's manners to the laſt exceſs. The pomp with which it is ſurrounded, the enjoyment which it procures, the ſhameful deference or reſpect which men dare not, if they would, refuſe it, ſtimulate the generality of thoſe who are upon an equal footing in regard to rank with the luxurious, but leſs wealthy, to affect it with the ſame indecency, that they may either ſatisfy their pride or keep up their reſpectabi⯑lity. They waſte their real wealth in keeping up their luxury, that they may gain poſſeſſion of that ſhadowy wealth which they fancy they ſhall get. Intimidated by the dread of their approaching ruin, if they do not haſten to prevent it by unlawful methods, they embark in dan⯑gerous enterpriſes, and expoſe not only their own pro⯑perty, but whatever may be entruſted in their hands by others whom the hope of a fallacious profit will inveigle to be partners in their ſchemes. Their ruin is at laſt an⯑nounced; but the example will not terrify cupidity which always hopes to proſper more than others, by employing ſubtler artifices: and as ſoon as probity is given up, then [71]mutual truſt is baniſhed, and a nation's commerce periſhes through the exceſs of that abundance which it created.

But if any land grows rich by peace, ſhould we not always have ſufficient cauſe to fear the ſame miſ⯑fortune?

Not at all. It is only ſuddenly made fortunes that intoxicate the minds of their poſſeſſors, and excite them to abuſe their wealth. Fortunes gradually gained, or in the ordinary courſe of commerce, are in conſequence of many years conſumed in toil. Men hardly ever diſſi⯑pate the treaſure which they have laboured hard to ac⯑quire, but lay it by, to ſerve them in the weariſome con⯑dition of old age: beſides, their fortunes are, in that caſe, much more equable, and every one is rich, while no one overflows with wealth. The country, having far leſs wants in that ſerenity with which commerce bleſſes it, is not under the neceſſity of grinding the laborious huſ⯑bandman; but, on the contrary, is able to encourage him in furniſhing the trading part of the community with thoſe ſupplies of corn and other fruits of the earth which it re⯑quires.—An empire ſtrengthened thus by trade and agri⯑culture, may give laws to other empires, even on account of its tranquillity. Its neighbours fear it, and inſtead of making inroads on a people who muſt be too powerful for them, ſeek alliance with that people. This alliance draws mankind together, roots out national antipathies, and kindles ſentiments of unity and concord in their ſtead. The prince has only to prevent abuſes in the ſtate. A perfect legiſlation cauſes juſtice and ſtrict order to prevail among his people, and they paſs from individuals to whole ſtates. Trade, arts, and ſciences, may be compared to bridges that extend from one to the other, and on which not only Peace, but Plenty, conſtantly walk to and fro, that they may keep inviolate the happineſs of thoſe whom they have united.

I conceive your meaning pretty clearly: yet, in caſe there be no war, then ſoldiers are unneceſſary, and my regiment muſt be broke before I join it?

Not ſo faſt, Conſtantine; for an undefended ſtate would be expoſed, by reaſon of its riches, to a mul⯑titude of enemies. It ſhould keep up a regulated force in peace, if it would have one in the time of war. But then, inſtead of looking on an unconcerned ſpectator, [72]while the military quench their ſpirit in debauchery and ſloth, it ſhould aſſign them labours to keep up their ſtrength, and make them uſeful to the ſtate. They ſhould be ſtationed on the public roads, and ſuch as are employed at preſent on them never quit the plow and ſickle: an additional connexion would, in that caſe, forcibly unite them to their country, in that natural propenſity which men feel to value what their induſtry in ſome ſort has created, and the pride with which they are at all times ready to defend it. The ſuperior officer, who ſhould di⯑rect their labours, would not, we muſt own, obſerve his name recorded in the papers of the day, and no where elſe, for trifling enterpriſes, ſuch as hiſtory deſcends not to perpetuate; but would himſelf engrave it on a pillar, raiſed upon the ſpot where once aſcended a high hill that he ſhould have levelled, on the ſide of a canal or poſt that he ſhould have dug, or at the opening of a bridge that he ſhould have built. The traveller then would come from the remoteſt part of Europe to conſider the magnificence and boldneſs of his toil, his countrymen would bleſs the benefits accruing from it, and a generation not then born, would in future time riſe up, and wonder at its durability. The colour of his coat no longer would excite one thought of bloodſhed, but of gratitude, ſo juſtly due to benefits, and of reſpect invariably paid to the ingenious. His lei⯑ſure moments would be ſpent in the extenſion of thoſe ſciences which he had formerly ſtudied, and in ſuggeſting plans of policy, reſulting from his obſervations made in different countries. Retiring in the end, to paſs away the reſidue of life on his eſtate with honour, in the recol⯑lection of thoſe benefits which he had communicated to his country, his activity would flouriſh ſtill in agriculture. I even dare propoſe myſelf as an example. I am inclined to think that I have been ſerviceable to my king in India; but ſhall much more boaſt of benefiting for the time to come my native land, by cultivating the inheritance which a father left me, and by giving you, my children, a be⯑coming education. I ſhall do my utmoſt to atone for any involuntary violence that I may have done humanity, by being henceforth a protector of the needy round about me; and I hope I ſhall not die without the conſcious ſatisfac⯑tion which a good citizen enjoys, in having carefully diſcharged his duty.

What you ſay, papa, appears to me quite reaſonable. Then why do not all men think as you do?

Why, Conſtantine, but becauſe they have un⯑fortunately been brought up in prejudices, and not had ſufficient reſolution to correct them? Hitherto, philoſo⯑phers have ſpoken to none but thoſe whoſe underſtandings could not ſee the truth and beauty of thoſe principles which I have happily been taught. Nor is there any hope that men, now come to years of reaſon and reflexion, ſhould be taught to ſee them! ſo that thoſe philoſophers muſt get new pupils. In infancy the future man muſt be prepared. By giving him betimes a tincture of inte⯑grity, beneficence and generoſity, he will obtain, in his maturity, the habit of diſplaying them in every action of his life; and place his glory in contributing, as far as he is able, to that general revolution ſo much to be wiſhed for in behalf of virtue. A young prince poſſeſſed of theſe exalted notions, and perſuaded that the riſing gene⯑ration have them too, might rationally hope to govern a new ſort of people, who would certainly afford a model to all other lands. Congratulate yourſelves, dear children, on the circumſtance of being born in thoſe auſpicious times, when children are, not only here, but univerſally throughout all Europe, the peculiar objects whoſe feli⯑city philoſophers are ſtudying to promote; and not they only, but even women—women, notwithſtanding narrow⯑mindedneſs delights at all times to diſparage, as it does, their underſtanding. Perhaps for you, and your contem⯑poraries, is reſerved the happineſs of ſeeing the laſt traces of injuſtice and barbarity effaced among mankind. Thrice happy I, myſelf, if giving now theſe firſt ideas of a ſyſtem of morality, ſo ſimple but ſublime, I take but one ſtep forward in the buſineſs of eſtabliſhing this ſyſtem in your hearts. You will do all that you can to ſecond my endeavours, by communicating my inſtruction to your future children.

EUPHRASIA.

WELL, Miſs Obſtinate! you won't then, I ſuppoſe, do what I bid you? you'll be always with your neck as ſtiff as if you were a ſentry in St. James's park. Hold up your head! and look at me! See how I put my neck.—There.—Don't you think that's charming! O, you're mighty dull this morn⯑ing. Tuke care, Miſs, however, and don't put me in a paſſion; or depend upon it I ſhall be as angry with you, as mama was yeſterday with me, for beating Pompey.

Why, you ſeem quite ſerious! Has your doll failed in her behaviour towards you?

I am ſhowing her what airs and graces would become her; and ſhe wont even hear me.

I confeſs, it cannot but diſpleaſe one, that ſuch ſalutary counſel ſhould be thrown away. However, you were ſpeaking, I believe, of being angry.

O, no, no, mama: I was only finding fault;—but very likely you heard every thing that I ſaid?

Suppoſe me not to have heard a ſyllable; now let me know what you were ſaying to her. Is it poſſible that you can object to my knowing your little ſecrets?

No, mama, I cannot. On the contrary, I am ſenſible that young ladies ſhould have no ſecrets be⯑tween them and their mama.

Well ſaid, my little heart! and therefore tell me word for word, as well as you are able, every thing that you ſaid to your doll.

Well then, mama, ſhe would not hold her head a little thus, upon one ſide, and I was telling her that if ſhe refuſed to follow my directions, I would be as angry with her, as you were with me laſt night for beating Pompey.

You ſuppoſe then that I was angry with you?

I imagined, when I ſaw you looking at me, it was not as you were uſed to do; and therefore I ſup⯑poſed ſo.

No: it was not anger, it was ſadneſs. In the firſt place, I was ſorry that you could have a heart to hurt your dog; and in the next place, I was ap⯑prehenſive leſt Pompey might avenge himſelf, if you went on to ſtrike him without mercy: if you recollect. I told you ſo; and as you ſeemed to be ſo much offend⯑ed at my admonitions, I was fearful that you would ſhow yourſelf quite diſobedient in the end: on which account I was ſo much afflicted, that I could not but ſhed tears. You ſaw me do ſo; and therefore you ſuppoſed me in a paſſion.—In a paſſion!—out upon the word! I ſhould have been then as faulty in reſpect to you, as you were in reſpect to Pompey.

But you are not angry, mama, at what I told my doll?

Well; not a word of being angry: but reſpecting certain airs of coquetry that you wiſhed to teach your doll, and of which you even gave a pat⯑tern yourſelf—I ſhould be glad to touch on that a little.

They ſet me off, as I thought, to ad⯑vantage; for Miſs Humphreville, not long ſince, told me ſo.

I think, I ought to know better than Miſs Humphreville; and I aſſure you, I am not at all of her opinion.

Yet I practiſed ſomething of that kind, mama, before my looking-glaſs laſt night, and thought it became me mightily.

You imagine then, that ſuch twiſts and monkey tricks are worth the native grace of childhood! it is plain, you do not know to what they tend.

To what, pray? Tell me.

Why to nothing leſs, Euphraſia, than to make you give into the habit of an odious affectation, and be as hypocritical in heart as in carriage.

Bleſs me! is that true, mama? I am very glad then, that I was drawn into this converſation on the ſubject; as without it, I ſhould certainly have run the riſque of falling into ſuch a vice, without intending it.

And I, Euphraſia, full of confidence in your ingenuous candor, ſhould probably not have per⯑ceived [76]it, till the malady had made ſo great a progreſs, as to render difficult the application of a proper remedy. You ſee, then, of what conſequence it is to pay no man⯑ner of attention to the inſtruction which children, hardly more experienced than yourſelf, may give; but rather to conſult me always, when you want advice.

Yes, yes, mama; I promiſe you, I will, ſince you will give me good inſtruction. How ſhould I feel hereafter, were you to charge me with this vice of affectation, as you know you have done with reſpect to other faults, in company? They have always been trifling faults; and yet, to be reproved in public for them ſhamed me: but for affectation—Oh, I verily believe, to be accuſed of that would kill me with confuſion.

I have ſometimes been obliged to take this method of public accuſation, that the leſſon I de⯑ſigned you, might impreſs itſelf more deeply; but-be⯑lieve me, we may ſtrike a plan out that will ſave you, for the time to come, all ſuch humiliation.

Ah, mama, how good you are! I ſhall be glad to have it.

Then the plan is, to obey me at the ſlighteſt nod that I give, when any thing is to be done, or left undone. You will do well to think within your⯑ſelf, and find out, if you can, the reaſon of my prohibi⯑tion or command; but if you cannot find it out, be obedient nevertheleſeſs, and the firſt time that we are alone, come then and aſk me. I ſhall very willingly ex⯑plain my reaſon.

Ah, mama, your plan is indeed a very cle⯑ver one; and I ſhall ſave myſelf a deal of care by following it.

Perſuaded of the wiſdom of this plan, Euphraſia never ventured for the future upon any the leaſt doubtful action without firſt conſulting her mama. She came at laſt to underſtand the ſlighteſt token from her, and could tell what was proper for her to do, in circumſtances of embar⯑raſſment. The tender admonition of the mother, and her own reflexions, gradu [...]l [...]y gave her an experience far above her age; and all who knew her were as much ſurprized as captivated with the prudence of her conduct and the ripeneſs of her underſtanding. At the age of [77]twelve ſhe was poſſeſſed of all the happineſs to be enjoyed on earth, the inward ſatisfaction of her own approving heart, the attachment of her friends, and the affection of her parents.

THE PRUDENT OFFICER.

COLONEL Ormſby, who by his merit had attained to that high rank, obſerved with great concern that the officers belonging to his regiment gave their time and faculties entirely up to play. Intent upon their reformation, he invited them one day to dine with him; and having brought the converſation round to ſuch a point that gaming might be naturally introduced, he gave them the ſubjoined ſhort narrative of his own life.

I was no ſooner come from college, than my parents bought me an Enſigney, then vacant in the regiment which I have now the honour to command. The love that I had contracted in my infancy for ſtudy, made them hope to ſee me equally deſirous of diſcharging the duties of my new condition, and of attaining the reputation at which in the confidence of their hope they deſtined me one day to arrive. For ſome few months, I acted ſo as not to diſappoint their expectations; but ſoon after, the pernicious model ſet before me by my brother officers, together with their perſuaſions, having drawn me in to make one with them at their meetings, the inſatiate demon Play obtained ſuch ſtrong poſſeſſion of my heart, that every duty which hindered me from gratifying this new paſſion, ſoon became int [...]lerable. I could hardly bring myſelf to quit the gaming table for an hour, however I might ſtand in need of reſt. In ſleep, I dreamed of heaps of good and ſilver. I was always ſhuffling cards, and a continual noiſe of dice was in my ear.

The natural neceſſity of eating was become my puniſh⯑ment: I ſwallowed up my meat in haſte, that I might be as little abſent from my gambling partners as I could.

[78]The beauteous mornings of the ſpring, the charming evenings of the ſummer, the voluptuous calmneſs of Au⯑tumnal weather, every thing in ſhort, moſt capable of pleaſing the imagination when it contemplates nature, was to me entirely loſt; even friendſhip had no further place within me. I was only in the company of gameſters. The idea of my parents was grown painful to me; and if ever I reflected upon God, it was in blaſphemies poured out againſt his ho [...]y name.

At firſt, I muſt acknowledge, fortune was particularly favourable to me; which had ſo bewildered and debaſed my underſtanding, as to make me often ſpread my winnings on the ground and lie upon them, that all thoſe who knew me might aſſert with truth, and in the litteral ſenſe of the expreſſion, that I was uſed to roll on gold.

For three whole years my life paſſed on in theſe un⯑worthy occupations. It is impoſſible for me, at preſent, to remember them without bluſhing at the ſtain which they have reflected on my honour: and if poſſible, I would efface them now, by giving up a half of the remaining days that I have to live. But how ſhall I preſume to mention an exceſs more frightful ſtill, of which no worthy conduct will remove the blot, even after twenty years all paſſed in probity and honour? Judge, my friends, how anxious I muſt be to render my deplorable example uſeful to you, by the pain which I am content to ſuffer, when I thus ſubmit to ſo humilia⯑ting a confeſſion.

I was once upon a time commanded to go out with a recruiting party; but, alas! reſigned the buſineſs of it to my ſerjeant, while I followed my unhappy paſſion. Two days afterwards he brought me twenty men to have their bounty money paid them. I had loſt the night before, not only every thing that I poſſeſſed in the world myſelf, but likewiſe the whole ſum delivered me for this re⯑cruiting ſervice. Think then, gentlemen, what muſt have been my ſorrow and deſpair in ſuch a ſituation! I diſpatched that moment an expreſs to where our regi⯑ment lay in quarters; and ingenuouſly confeſſing my miſconduct, begged a brother officer to lend me what I wanted.

How! replied that officer, give up ſo great a ſum of money to a profeſſed gambler? No; if I muſt either loſe [79]my property, or give up my connection with a man whoſe conduct makes his friendſhip infamous, I chuſe to keep my property.

Immediately on reading this inſulting anſwer, I was utterly beſide myſelf; and ſtill remember, as what hap⯑pened yeſterday, the dreadful images which all at once came crowding into my imagination: on the one hand, the diſtreſs and indignation of my father, the diſhonour that I was fixing on my family, as well as on every one that knew me, and the dread of being broke with in⯑famy; on the other hand, the briliant proſpect of that promotion which I might have obtained, by an honour⯑able conduct in my poſt: nor did I afterwards recover the poſſeſſion of my underſtanding, but to think of perpetra⯑ting a new crime, that I might be delivered from that ignominy which my firſt would bring upon me. I was ready to go through with ſuch a deſperate reſolution, when I ſaw the very officer come into my apartment, whoſe reply had hurried me, as I have ſaid juſt now, into this ſtate of madneſs.

In the firſt emotion of my rage, I fell upon him like a fiend; but he diſarmed me very quickly; and while I but little thought of what was to enſue, embraced me, and began as follows. "I replied a little harſhly to your letter, as I meant, by ſuch an anſwer, that you ſhould ſee the horror of that ſituation into which your raſhneſs has pecipitated you; and I perceive what effect it has up⯑on you. Now therefore that you repent, my property, my life, and every thing that I have, you may command, as you think proper."

"Here," continued he, and threw his purſe upon the table, "here is what will ſerve to pay your new recruits: and the remainder may ſupply you at the gaming-table, if you mean to return thither."

Return to the gaming-table! Never, never, anſwered I; and claſped him to my heart.

Since which, I have preciſely kept my word. From that day forward I determined to have done with all expen⯑ſive pleaſures, and apply my ſavings to the purpoſe of re⯑paying what my generous friend had lent me. I employed my leiſure time in ſtudy. My attention to the ſervice recommended me to my ſuperiors; and to ſuch a happy [80]lution in the courſe of my affairs I am indebted for the honour of my preſent ſtation in the army.

This recital made ſo powerful an impreſſion on his officers, that every game of hazard ceaſed among them, and a noble emulation to arrive at uſeful knowledge quenched that low ambition of winning money which was their ruling paſſion before. Such was the good conſe⯑quence reſulting from their prudent colonel's leſſon.

THE PRODIGAL DOUBLY PUNISHED.

A Worthy private gentleman, obſerving with concern his only ſon upon the point of taking to a ſpend⯑thrift way of living, let him do as he thought proper; and it was not long before the ſon had run himſelf behind hand to a great amount. I will pay whatever debt you may contract, ſaid the father to him, as my honour is much dearer to me than my money; but take notice of what follows: You love joyous living, and I love the poor. I have given away in charity a great deal leſs than I was uſed to do before I thought of your eſtabliſhment. I will think no longer of it; a libertine ſhould never marry; ſo indulge yourſelf as much as you think proper, but on this condition: I declare, that when, at any time, you ſpend beyond the money which I allow you to keep yourſelf as a gentleman, ſome hoſpital, or other charitable inſtitution, ſhall receive from me as much as you require to ſatisfy your debts; and I will begin this very day. Accordingly the money was that moment ordered to a certain charity; and thus the youth, on being doubly puniſhed for his pro⯑digality, was quickly cured of a diſeaſe which otherwiſe would have inſured his ruin.

THE MONKEY.

FRANCIS, and his play-mate Lorenzo, were at the window. As it chanced, they heard a pipe and ta⯑bor. Looking up the ſtreet, they ſaw a bear approaching ſternly, and a man conducting him by a chain to which the creature was faſtened at the other end. I ſhould be afraid, ſaid Lozenzo, to ſtand too near that animal; for do but liſten, Francis: Did you ever hear ſuch growling? I ſhould quake if I were by him. Oh, he could not hurt you, anſwered Francis; you may ſee, he has a muzzle to prevent his biting.

They were talking thus, when Bruin was come exactly oppoſite their window, in his progreſs down the ſtreet. Two monkies now took up the little gentlemen's atten⯑tion. One was light and nimble, but the other not ſo active. Both were jumping to and fro on Bruin's back, who ſuffered them to play their tricks as if he did not care about it. They had fruit in plenty thrown them by the mob, which they caught in their paws as ſoon as it was flung to them, and ſwallowed almoſt inſtantly. But what delighted them particularly, were the nuts which the peo⯑ple threw them. Seated on their breech, and holding them between their two fore-paws, they broke the ſhells, and picked the kernels out with ſomething of an air.

It chanced that a very large one came among the reſt. The heavy monkey raiſed himſelf upon his long hind-legs to get it; but the little one darting forward, ſeized it in the air before it could have time to reach him. Cheated of his prey in this manner by the little one, he gnaſhed his teeth with rage. His front grew wrinkled, and his eyes flaſhed fire: he thruſt his claws out, fell upon the little one, and ſeemed upon the point of tearing him to bits. The bear found it very difficult to ſave him.

Do you ſee, ſaid Francis to his little friend, how fright⯑ful that ſame monkey is become ſince firſt he fell into a rage, and how he ſhews his teeth? Oh no, I ſhould not like to be within his reach! How terrible! I ſhould be ſcared to death!

Indeed? ſaid Lorenzo. Well then, can you imagine it; but yeſterday, when you were in a paſſion, you were like [107]him. Look ye, you had all his wrinkles; you even grinned as he does now; your eyes ſhewed what a paſſion you were in, and like the monkey, you ſeemed ready to devour poor little Harry, who had notwithſtanding done you no great harm. I only wiſhed that I could have got a looking-glaſs. Your face was in reality ſo ugly, it would have frightened you.

Indeed! ſaid Francis. Is it poſſible that I reſembled ſuch an odious beaſt? I could not but have been extremely frightful if I did, and muſt endeavour for the future to be never in a paſſion. When I find myſelf growing angry, I will then bethink me of the monkey, recollect the ma⯑lice in his countenance, and that will make me ſhudder at the thought of being like him. Do you too, my good friend Lorenzo, if I forget this reſolution, like a friend remind me of it.

Lorenzo aſſured him that he would do ſo, and was faithful to his promiſe. Francis by degrees got rid en⯑tirely of his wrathful habit, or was very rarely in a paſ⯑ſion. He enjoyed the greater happineſs, and his indulgent parents were not leſs tranſported at his reformation.

THE ALPS.

THE ſun was riſing in the heavens. The dew drops which are ſeen on every leaf ſo early in the morning, glittered with the colours of the rainbow; and the ſhadows of the trees were ſhortening on the ground, when Damon, holding his ſon, a grown-up lad, by the hand, came out, and ſat down on his garden terrace, to enjoy the freſhneſs of the morning.

Deareſt father, ſaid the ſon, pray wake me always at this hour; for I am charmed with contemplating ſuch a ſcene as I now ſee all round me! How delightful the whole proſpect! But perhaps it would be more ſo, were it not confined by younder mountains, which lift up their ſnowy tops ſo high that any one would ſuppoſe them to prop the clouds above them.

I do not think as you do, ſaid the father. Thoſe ſame mountains leave us ſpace enough, and that made up of [108]fields and meadows, to contemplate; and by thus conſin⯑ing, as you ſay, the proſpect, help to vary it; and more particularly ſo at evening, when the ſun ſtill tips them with a thouſand ſtreaks of gold, even after the whole level plain is dark.

When we ſhall once have viſited thoſe mountains, and conſidered its inhabitants, you will be pleaſed with con⯑templating on them, I am certain, ſince they cannot but ſuggeſt agreeable ſenſations.

How can men, ſaid the youth, be fond of living on ſuch mountains, covered as they are with ſnow?

They do not live there, ſaid Damon; you will ſeek in vain to find inhabitants upon the heights: it is at the bot⯑tom of the mountains that they are ſituated. There are charming vallies ſtretched among them; but before the traveller can obtain them, he diſcerns no proſpect ſave that of barren rocks. This proſpect being paſſed, he comes to wide extended carpets of the greeneſt ſod; he breathes an air embalmed on all ſides by ten thouſand odoriferous flowers that grow there; and his ear is pleaſingly affected by the murmurs of as many ſtreams deſcending from the ſummit of the hills. The ſun, by ſhining on them with his noon day radiance, makes them put on the appearance of the b [...]ighteſt ſilver. And amongſt them, ſome, preci⯑pitated from a rock, re-echo when they reach the bottom, and there riſe in clouds, as one may ſay, of duſt, that yield a trembling kind of light. Their paſſage is diſtin⯑guiſhed by a multitude of charming flowers which bloſſom on the margin; and the flowers, whoſe ſtalks wave to and fro, obedient to the breeze that agitates them, and the waters that flow in among them, heighten the delightful proſpect.

Spring is very late, and harveſt very early, in this re⯑gion; whence it happens that the ground brings forth no other ſort of grain than what is ſowed ſome little while before the ſummer, and grows ripe betimes in autumn: hence, too, it comes that the fields are ſhaded by no other trees than thoſe producing cherries, plums, and other early fruit. Here and there the traveller meets with [...]am [...]ets; and the houſes being made of wood, are ſo much blackened by the ſun, as to afford a very ſtriking contraſt with the ſmiling verdure of the little orchards that ſurround them.

[109]In thoſe hamlets live many innocent and happy families, which for the ſpace of five or ſix long months are almoſt buried under ſnow. As long as that ſad ſeaſon laſts, they take the greateſt care imaginable of their little flocks; at times they viſit one another, ſpin the flax which they have gathered before hand, and make different articles of furniture in wood, which they either uſe themſelves, or are ſure to fell for money to their neighbours.

As ſoon towards ſummer as the ſun has melted that vaſt heap of ſnow which covered all their fields and habi⯑tations, and the river that flows through their vallies has completely carried off the water with which their lands were overflowed, all the men begin to cultivate their fields or meadows, and the women labour in their gardens. During ſummer, the induſtrious father of his family re⯑pairs to other diſtricts with the produce of his labours, and brings back, in barter for them, thoſe conveniencies of life which are not to be had for money even in his hamlet.

Many travel upon mules, and croſs their craggy hills along ſuch paths as have been cut through rocks, and thoſe, too, over frightful precipices. They tranſport to very diſtant parts the honey which they have ſtored in autumn, which is univerſally acknowledged to be excel⯑lent. They likewiſe traffic in the ſkins of goats, which they entrap while climbing up the rocks, or find among them dead. Another article of merchandize for which they are diſtinguiſhed, is the dormouſe. This animal, benumbed by the exceſſive cold, retains in holes and cavi⯑ties, which ſhe digs for herſelf to ſerve by way of habita⯑tion, and in which ſhe lies rolled up almoſt like a ball and on a bed of hay, that heat and life which, with returning ſpring, the ſun expands; and a fourth great object of their commerce is the cryſtal, which they contrive to quarry in the gaps or chaſms of their higheſt rocks. And many, on the other hand, are guides to foreigners who have the curioſity to travel over, and inſpect their frozen moun⯑tains.

I myſelf have been upon them, like many others, guided in my way by one of thoſe good men.—I call them good, in oppoſition to the multitudes that live in towns and civilized ſociety.—But yet they have loſt a great deal of their natural ſimplicity by frequent converſe with ſuch [110]foreigners as have employed them for guides. I admired the people, and their way of living; therefore, having ſatisfied my curioſity upon the mountains, I determined to remain among them ſome few days, that I might gain a better knowledge of their manners.

I muſt let you know what converſation I heard paſs be⯑tween the wife and child of my conductor while I lived among them. I was ſitting on the graſs, beneath a pine⯑tree: Julian, my conductor, had that day ſet out before the dawn, to guide two Engliſh gentlemen who came on the preceding evening to inſpect the mountains. It was ſtill broad day-light, but the ſun was rapidly deſcending towards the weſt. The mother aſcended upon a riſing ground; the ſon came after her. They fixed their eyes upon the icy maſſes which advanced their cloggy cliffs on the other ſide of the valley, and the wife began as fol⯑lows:

I am looking to no purpoſe. I diſcover nothing. I do not ſee him yet.

Let us go to yonder rock before us, ſhaded by thoſe trees, and we ſhall ſee much better thence. There we ſhall be able to diſcern more plainly all that quarter of the mountain where my father, I ſuppoſe, muſt be.

Well, we are now got to it; notwithſtand⯑ing which, I can diſtinguiſh nothing more than from the ſpot that we have left. It is all loſt labour: he does not appear. And yet the ſun is nearly ſetting, and the day will ſoon cloſe in.

O! mother, we ſhall yet have two full hours of day-light.

And perhaps he may be four or five leagues diſtant. Who can tell exactly where he is? I wiſh he would give over wandering thus among the mountains. Never does he ſet out on his journies, but I tremble leſt unfortunately he ſhould not return alive: or elſe come back with broken limbs by falling down upon the ice, or while he ſcales the rocks.

I need not tell you that he has promiſed to drive this trade no longer, when the profits which he has made ſhall be enough to buy the little field between our cottage and the Arva.—We ſhall then live comfortably, with our flock, our honey, fruits, and field of barley.

Ah! dear ſon, I ſhould much rather wiſh to live in leſs abundance, ſo that I might only have more peace of mind. The happy days which we are to have when he has obtained this field, will have been bought too dearly, at the price of that diſtreſs and trouble which theſe his journies coſt. But do not I ſee him? No, not yet. If he ſhould be obliged to ſtay all night upon the ice!— If it—but you have got, I ſee, that ſpying-glaſs which a traveller lately left behind him in our hut, and that brings objects fifty furlongs off as near as if they were but ten. Look therefore if there is nothing to be ſeen. You know the uſe of it extremely well; but I, for my part, not at all.

I will reſt the end of it on this old trunk. I think, I ſee—yes, mother—ſomething, and it moves.— It is he, I verily believe!—Yes, yes, it is he indeed!— He is walking on the broken flakes of ice that lie near yon big rock, and which laſt month, you know, were ſeparated from it.

Let me have the ſpying-glaſs. Quick! quick! perhaps, too, I may ſee him.—I muſt ſhut one eye, you ſay?—I have;—but I diſtinguiſh nothing. Every thing is black.—Stay, ſtay. O now I ſee the rock!—and likewiſe men! and Julian is among them! But I have loſt them now: they are out of ſight: I cannot recover them again. Hold you the glaſs; I ſhall perhaps diſcern them with my naked eye.—Yes, yes, I ſee them. They are coming on, and in the middle of the valley. Julian, I can ſee, comes firſt.

They ſtop: my father ſticks his pole into the ice before him, and prepares to take a ſpring. There, there! he is up, and down again. No doubt but there was one of thoſe large gaps before him in the ice, of which he has ſo often told us. What can cauſe them?

I do not know exactly; but have heard that when the ice below is melted, that above it, having no ſupport, gives way, and opens with a noiſe which one may hear a great way off. You have obſerved the great round table in our curate's kitchen? Well, the leg which ſupported it in the middle was much higher than the others, and one day the ſides had many heavy things laid on them. Unexpectedly it ſplit exactly in the middle, and the crack grew wider, till the ſides could reſt upon [112]the ſhorter legs. And now I ſuppoſe theſe gaps are ſo occa⯑ſioned likewiſe. But look once again, and ſee what they are doing. They ſeem ſtanding ſtill. The gap ſure does not prevent them from advancing?

I can ſee their countenances very plainly. They ſeem aſking one another what they ought to do. Ah! now my father takes a ſecond ſpring; and now he is got ſafe over one more gap.

Yes, yes; I ſee him too. What raſhneſs! He might ſlip in ſpringing, or when over; or he might not poſſibly ſpring far enough, and drop into the gap. He does not take a ſingle ſtep but what he knows, as well as I do, makes my heart ſink within me. He ſhould think that it is not impoſſible but I may ſee him; he ſhould argue within himſelf, and ſay, My wife does ſee me, and my danger frights her.

He is very far, perhaps, from gueſſing what we are about now.

He knows that, while he is abſent on this dangerous buſineſs, I ſend forth my eyes to ſeek him. Would to heaven I could but ſhut them.

Yes, let us do ſo, mother. Let us put our hands before them, and not look again till he has cleared the valley, and is ſafe.

I cannot. I had rather tremble every mo⯑ment for his ſafety, than loſe ſight of him, though for a moment only. But where is he? I can ſee him now no longer.

Nor I either.—They have diſappeared. Ah, mother!

My poor child! embrace me. We are now left to ourſelves, and I have nothing in the world to com⯑fort me but you. Yes, they have diſappeared indeed; and in a moment too! I did but turn away my eyes to fix them upon you, and in that inſtant they are vaniſhed! An abyſs perhaps has opened under them as they were going on: perhaps they may be toſſing in it, not yet dead, but making unavailing efforts to get out, and calling for aſſiſtance with a voice which no one, to their coſt, is nigh enough to hear. I will haſten to the ſpot: come, follow me, my child! My knees knock one againſt another, and will hardly bear my body up; but I ſhall ſoon find ſtrength ſufficient to go forward. Come; but ſtay a little! [113]—Do not you, dear child, ſee ſomething there in mo⯑tion? There, juſt where I point to; at the bottom of you rock?

Yes, yes; I think I do.—It is one of them. —It is one of them, indeed; and now I can diſcern the other. I can ſee his hat; but ſtill I look in vain to find out my poor father.

He will come, and I dare hope to ſee him very ſoon. The gentlemen muſt firſt have got out of the frozen valley, and they hide him from us. Doubtleſs it will not be long before we ſee him. Look again, my child.

I can ſee only the two gentlemen; my father is not with them.

And the gentlemen, do they ſeem waiting for him then? Have they their faces turned towards the place from which they come?

No; they walk ſtrait forward.

Then ſo much the better. If your father were not following them, or could not, they would hardly do ſo: they would try whatever they were able to aſſiſt him in his danger.

Yes, yes; we ſhould do as much; but they, on the other hand, ſeem rich; and I have often heard that ſuch deſpiſe the poor.

Not all; and then, too, they are men, and muſt be ſenſible of people's miſery like others. Would not you ſtretch forth a hand to help your little dog, were he in danger? Would you leave him unaſſiſited?

No indeed: but why? becauſe I love him: and do rich men love the poor? I have had money given me by one rich man to fight my play-mate.—Ah! I think I ſee my father now; yes, there he is! yes, yes, indeed; and, as you ſaid, behind the gentlemen.

Yes, yes; I ſee him too. Thank God! But ſtill my heart beats grievouſly. I am in a tremble: So let us both ſit down; we will have our eyes fixed on them till they are ſafe on this ſide of the valley; and by that time, as I hope, my agitation will be calmed. Me⯑thinks they come on very quick. No doubt they wiſh to end their journey before day ſhuts in. Look, ſon: I fancy they are drawing nigh a precipice before them; and my fears again came on me.

It is a maſs of ice that forms a hollow under⯑neath. It looks as if it were ſuſpended in the air, and they do not ſeem to know their danger; for they ſtop.

They ſtop! and may, perhaps, without expecting it, be ſwallowed up, or buried in the ruins, ſhould the ice fall down! It will fall down, and I ſhall ſee—oh heavens! fly for your life, my Julian! my dear Julian! fly! ſee what a maſs of ice may overwhelm you! Fly!—My voice, alas! at ſuch a diſtance, is not to be heard. My cries are uſeleſs. I am diſtracted!

Mother, I can ſee no longer through the ſpying-glaſs, becauſe I cry; and yet I cannot take away my eyes. But now I ſee again. Yes, there they are, and they have cleared the precipice, quite cleared it. They are out of danger now: I ſee them: they turn back to view the rock under which they have paſſed, perhaps, without knowing at the time what peril they encountered. They lift their arms up; they are talking to each other; they are looking at ſome object that aſtounds them.

They are out of danger; that is enough for me. I ſee them: they have nothing now but level ground remaining. Kiſs me, my dear child! and let us both paſs on to meet your father. But at no time in my life ſhall I forget what I have felt this afternoon. Let us make all poſſible haſte, and beg that he would no more thus venture into danger. We ſhall have the little field, in that caſe, ſomewhat later; or it may be not at all; and it is no matter. We have lived till now without it: our enjoyments have not been on that account the leſs; we have in ſhort been happy, and what more can we deſire? I ſhall not for the future know that he is returning to thoſe frozen regions, without fearing every danger that I know, and ſuch as I can but gueſs. He may, perhaps, be ſafe feated at his eaſe beneath a tree; but I ſhall fancy that I behold him ſtruggling in a gap, and ſtriving to get out. Whatever money he receives from thoſe whom he may conduct,—if he but loves us, he ſhould think that he buys it at a price too dear.

The mother and the ſon upon this went forward, and I followed them till they had gained the valley. They preſſed on to meet a huſband, and a father; and at laſt, when they obſerved him with the Engliſhmen draw near, they durſt not note him. They ſat down together, let [115]him paſs, and then got up and followed ſlowly after. It was not before they reached their cottage, that the wife and ſon ran both to Julian, and together ſunk into his arms. The ſon related every thing which they had both ſeen and feared. The mother did not ſpeak at firſt; but when ſhe ſaw her huſband touched by the affectionate behaviour of his ſon, ſhe once again embraced him and ſhed tears. He promiſed that he would never more af⯑fright her by returning to the ice, but cultivate his field in peace.

THE BREAKFAST.

COME, ſaid Mr. Glaſſington to Percival his ſon, one beauteous ſummer morning, here is a baſket with ſome cake and currants in it. Let us go and break⯑faſt by the river's ſide.

With all my heart, papa, ſaid Percival, and jumped about for joy. He took the baſket in one hand, and with the other in his father's, haſtened towards the river. Having reached it, they walked on a little way to chuſe a proper place; when Mr. Glaſſington arriving at a very pleaſant ſpot, cried out, Let us ſtop here, Percival; for this methinks will yield us a delightful proſpect, while we ſit and eat.

But how are we to eat without a table?

Fortunately, here is the trunk of an old tree, which would ſerve by way of table very well, if we had need of one; but you may eat your currants as they lie together in the baſket.

So I can: but how ſhall we ſupply the want of chairs?

And do you reckon this ſoft graſs then nothing? See how thick it is ſet with flowers. We will take our ſeat upon it: or perhaps you would rather chuſe the carpet?

Chuſe the carpet! Why you know, papa, the carpet is faſt nailed down upon the parlour floor.

It is true, there is a carpet there; but there is one here alſo.

I do not ſee it, if there is.

Why, what is the graſs then, but a carpet for the fields? And what a charming one too! It is of a freſher colour, and much downier than any one that we have. Then how ſpacious! it covers every hill, and all the level plain. The lambs repoſe upon it at their eaſe. Think, Percival, what they would have to ſuffer, on a bare or ſtony piece of ground! Their limbs are ſo extremely delicate, they could not but be very quickly injured. They have mothers, but thoſe mothers cannot make them up ſoft feather-beds. God therefore has pro⯑vided for them better than the poor ſheep can, and made them this ſoft couch, where they may roll about, or ſleep entirely at their eaſe.

And then, papa, there is one good thing be⯑fides, that they may eat it when they like.

Oho! I underſtand your meaning: ſo here take your cake and currants.

Oh! how good! There is nothing wanting but a ſtory while I am eating. Will you tell me one, papa; the prettieſt that you know?

With all my heart. Your cake reminds me of a ſtory that I can tell about three cakes.

One, two, three cakes! Oh, what a charm⯑ing ſtory that muſt be! So quick, papa, and tell it me.

Come then firſt, and ſit beſide me. Be wholly at your eaſe, and then you will hear the better.

I am quite ready; ſo begin, papa.

THE THREE CAKES.

THERE was a little boy named Henry, about your age. His pa⯑rents had but lately fixed him at a boarding-ſchool. He was a ſpecial boy, for ever at his book, and happened once to get the higheſt place at exerciſes. His mama was told it. She could no how keep from dreaming of the pleaſure; and when morning came, ſhe got up early, ſent to ſpeak with the cook, and ſaid as follows: Cook, you are to make a cake for Henry, who yeſterday was very [117]good at ſchool. With all my heart, replied the cook, and ſet immediately about it. It was as big as—let me ſee,—as big as—as a hat when flapped. The cook had ſtuffed it with nice almonds, large Piſtachio nuts, and candied lemon-peel, and iced it over with a coat of ſugar, ſo that it was very ſmooth, and of a perfect white. The cake no ſooner was come home from baking, than the cook put on her things, and carried it to ſchool. When Henry firſt ſaw it, he jumped up and down like any Merry An⯑drew. He was not ſo patient as to wait 'till they could let him have a knife, but fell upon it tooth and nail.— He ate and ate 'till ſchool began, and after ſchool was over he ate again: at night too it was the ſame thing 'till bed-time. Nay, a little fellow that Henry had for a play⯑mate, told me that he put the cake upon his bolſter when he went to bed, and waked and waked a dozen times, that he might take a bit. I cannot ſo eaſily believe this laſt particular; but then it is very true, at leaſt, that on the morrow, when the day was hardly broke, he ſet about his favourite buſineſs once again, continuing at it all the morn⯑ing, and by noon had ate it up. The dinner bell now rung, but Henry, as one may fancy, had no ſtomach, and was vexed to ſee how heartily the other children ate. It was, however, worſe than this at five o'clock, when ſchool was over. His companions aſked him if he would not play at cricket, taw, or kites. Alas! he could not; ſo they played without him. In the mean time Henry could hardly ſtand upon his legs; he went and ſat down in a corner very gloomy, while the children ſaid one to another, What is the matter with poor Henry, who uſed to ſkip about, and be ſo merry? See how pale and ſor⯑rowful he is! The maſter came himſelf, and ſeeing him, was quite alarmed. It was all loſt labour to interrogate him. Henry could not be brought to ſpeak a ſingle word. By great good luck, a boy at length came forward in the ſecret; and his information was, that Henry's mama had ſent him a great cake the day before, which he had ſwal⯑lowed in an inſtant as it were, and that his preſent ſick⯑neſs was occaſioned only by his gluttony. On this, the maſter ſent for an apothecary, who ſoon ordered him a quantity of phyſic, phial after phial. Henry, as one would fancy, found it very nauſeous, but was forced to take the whole for fear of dying; which, had he omitted [118]it, would certainly have been the caſe. When ſome few days of phyſic and ſtrict regimen had paſſed, his health was re-eſtabliſhed as before; but his mama proteſted that ſhe would never let him have another cake.

He did not merit ſo much as the ſmell of ſuch a thing. But this is but one cake, papa; and you in⯑formed me that there were three, if you remember, in your ſtory.

Patience! patience! here is another cake in what I am now going to tell.

Henry's maſter had another ſcholar whoſe name was Francis. He had written his mama a very pretty letter, and it had not ſo much as a blotted ſtroke; in recompence for which ſhe ſent him likewiſe a great cake, and Francis thus addreſſed himſelf: I will not, like that glutton Henry, eat up my cake at once, and ſo be fick as he was: no, I will make my pleaſure laſt a great deal longer. So he took the cake, which he could hardly lift by reaſon of its weight, and watched the opportunity of ſlipping up into his chamber with it, where his box was, and in which he put it under lock and key. At play-time every day he ſlipped away from his companions, went up ſtairs a tip-toe, cut a tolerable ſlice off, ſwallowed it, put by the reſt, and then came down and mixed again with his com⯑panions. He continued this clandeſtine buſineſs all the week; and even then the cake was hardly half conſumed. But what enſued? At laſt the cake grew dry, and quickly after mouldy; nay, the very maggots got into it, and by that means had their ſhare; on which account it was not then worth eating, and our young curmudgeon was com⯑pelled to fling the reſt away with great reluctance. How⯑ever, no one grieved for him.

No indeed; nor I, papa. What, keep a cake locked up ſeven days together, and not give one's friend a bit! That is monſtrous! But let us have the other now.

There was another little gentleman who went to ſchool with Henry and Francis likewiſe, and his name was Gratian. His mama ſent him a cake one day, becauſe ſhe loved him, and indeed he loved her alſo very much. It was no ſooner come, than Gratian thus addreſſed his young companions: Come and look at what mama has ſent me; you muſt every one eat with me. [119]They ſcarce needed ſuch a welcome piece of information twice, but all got round the cake, as you have doubtleſs ſeen the bees reſorting to a flower juſt blow. As Gra⯑tian was provided with a knife, he cut a great piece off, and then divided it into as many ſhares as he had brought boys together by ſuch a courteous invitation. Upon this he ranged them in a circle, and beginning with the boy who then ſtood next him, he went round, diſtributing to each his portion, 'till the ſhares were all diſpoſed of in this manner. Gratian then took up the reſt, and told them that he would eat his piece next day; on which he put it up, and went to play with his companions who were all ſolicitous to have him chuſe whatever game he thought might entertain him moſt.

A quarter of an hour had ſcarcely paſt as they were playing, when a poor old man, who had a fiddle, came into the yard. He had a very long white beard, and being blind, was guided by a little dog who went before him with a collar round his neck. To this a cord was faſtened, which the poor blind man held in his hand. It was noticed with how much dexterity the little dog con⯑ducted him, and how he ſhook a bell which, I forgot to ſay, hung underneath his collar, when he came near any one, as if he had deſigned to ſay by ſuch an action, Do not throw down or run againſt my maſter. Being come into the yard, he ſat him down upon a ſtone, and hearing ſeveral children talking round him, May dear little gen⯑tlemen, ſaid he, I will play you all the pretty tunes that I know, if you will give me leave. The children wiſhed for nothing half ſo much. He put his violin in tune, and then thrummed over ſeveral jigs, and other ſcraps of muſic, which it was eaſy to conjecture had been new in former times. Little Gratian ſaw that while he played his merrieſt airs, a tear would now and then roll down his cheeks, on which he ſtooped to aſk him why he wept? Becauſe, ſaid the muſician, I am very hungry. I have no one in the world that will give my dog or me a bit of any thing to eat. I wiſh I could but work, and get for both of us a morſel of ſomething, but I have loſt my ſtrength and ſight. Alas! I laboured hard till I was old, and now I want bread. The generous Gratian hearing this, wept too. He did not ſay a word; but ran to fetch the cake which he had deſigned to eat himſelf. He [120]brought it out with joy, and as he ran along, began. Here, good old man, here is ſome cake for you. Where? replied the poor muſician, feeling with his hands; where is it! for I am blind, and cannot ſee you. Gratian put the cake into his hand, when laying down his fiddle on the ground, he wiped his eyes, and then began to eat. At every piece he put into his mouth, he gave his faithful little dog a bit, who came and ate out of his hand; and Gratian, ſtanding by him, ſmiled with plea⯑ſure at the thought of having fed the poor old man when he was hungry.

Oh the good, good Gratian!—Let me have your knife, papa.

Here, Percival; but why my knife?

I will tell you. I have only nibbled here a little of my cake, ſo pleaſed I was in liſtening to you! So I will cut it ſmooth.—There—See how well I have ordered it!—Theſe ſcraps, together with the currants, will be more than I ſhall want for breakfaſt: and the firſt poor man that I meet going home, ſhall have the reſt, even though he ſhould not play upon the violin.

OH THE UGLY BEAUTY! OUT UPON HER!

LUCY, have you ſeen my ſiſter's new dog?

Not yet, dear couſin.

You have then a pleaſure ſtill to come: Why ſhe is the drolleſt little creature in the world!

Indeed? and what is her name?

Would you believe it?—BEAUTY.

That is a pretty name indeed!

O couſin, ſhe is much prettier than her name.

And how is ſhe ſo very pretty?

Firſt, ſhe is hardly bigger—ſee

than this.

I love a little dog.

And then one does not know what to take her for—a greyhound or a ſpaniel.

That is quite funny, I proteſt!

If you could only ſee her tail; it is like a bow⯑pot; and her ears that ſweep the ground; and then her long, long hair, as ſoft as ſilk, curling about her eyes and muzzle; and the whee whee little tiny face that peeps out underneath it; O, ſhe is quite a picture!

Is ſhe black or white?

She is neither black nor white, but ſomething of a coffee colour.

Ah! that makes me think of what I like for breakfaſt. I do not get it frequently.—They hardly ever give me any thing but milk.

What milk, and nothing elſe?

And bread: that is all. But let us return to Beauty.

Why, ſhe knows more tricks than any Scara⯑mouch: They have taught her to hold out her paw; and ſhe diſtinguiſhes the right hand from the left. If any one throws down a glove, ſhe will run and bring it to the owner, without ever being wrong.

You don't ſay ſo?

And then ſhe makes believe that ſhe is dead: ſhe lies down on her ſide, and does not get up again with⯑out a ſignal from my ſiſter. If you put a garden ſtick between her paws, ſhe will be a ſentry, and mount guard: but what is ſtill beſt of all, ſhe will dance a minuet as well as Madame Simonet!

Well now, that is wonderful, and ſhe muſt ſure have had a charming education! but pray Claudia tell me, is ſhe gentle and good-natured?

Why, I cannot ſay much as to that; for when ſhe ſees a ſtranger in the houſe, ſhe will bark and ſnarl like mad: and one can hardly hinder her from running in between his legs to bite him.

That would be the very thing at night, if ſhe were to keep the houſe!

And ſometimes too, ſhe will take it in her head to go and teaze papa's great dog without occaſion: and ſhe never ſees him eating any thing, but inſtantly ſhe will run and ſnatch it from him if ſhe can: but Jowler, by good luck, is exceedingly good-natured!

How! and does ſhe do all this?

Yes, truly.

And you call her Beauty?

She is ſo funny and comical!

Go, Claudy—I ſhould never fancy her, however fanny and comical ſhe may be; for papa has often told me that a bad heart makes every body frightful—Oh the ugly BEAUTY! Out upon her!

BUTTERFLY! PRETTY BUTTERFLY!

BUTTERFLY! O pretty butterfly! come here, and reſt upon this flower that I hold out in my hand.

Where would you wiſh to go, you little gad-about? Do not you diſcern you hungry bird upon the watch to ſeize you? he has whetted his ſharp beak, and holds it open to devour you. Come hither then; he will be afraid of me, and not approach you.

Butterfly! O pretty butterfly! come here, and reſt upon this flower that I hold out in my hand.

I will not pull off your poor wings, or give you any pain. No, no; I know you are both weak and little as I am myſelf. All my wiſh is, to ſee you nearer. I ſhould like to view your little head, taper body, and long wings ſpotted with a thouſand colours.

Butterfly! O pretty butterfly! come here, and reſt upon this flower that I hold out in my hand.

I will not keep you long. I know, you have not many weeks to live. When ſummer is once over, you will die, while I ſhall be but ſix years old.

So butterfly! ſweet pretty butterfly! come here, and reſt upon this flower that I hold out in my hand.

You ſhould not loſe a moment of the day, but give your whole life up to pleaſure. It is your buſineſs to be ſipping conſtantly the fragrance of ſome flower or other, which you may do without danger on my hand.

THE SUN AND MOON.

WHAT a charming evening! Come, Alexis, ſaid Mr. Wilmot to his little boy; the ſun is juſt ready to go down. How glorious he appears! We may behold him now. He does not dazzle us ſo much at preſent as he did at noon, when he was up ſo very high. How beautiful, too, the clouds ſeem round about him! They are of a purple, gold and ſcarlet colour! But behold how ſwiftly he deſcends! Already only half his orb is viſible. And now he is wholly vaniſhed. Rarewell ſun; you have left us for the preſent till to-morrow morning.

Look, Alexis, towards that quarter of the heavens juſt oppoſite to where the ſun deſcended. What may that be ſhining ſo behind the trees? a fire? No, nothing like it, but the moon. How large and red it is! One would ſup⯑poſe it full of blood! This evening it is quite round, on as they ſay, full moon. It will not be quite ſo round to⯑morrow evening; leſs ſo the next evening; leſs the even⯑ing after; and ſo on, decreaſing ſomething every evening, till at laſt it will be in ſome ſort like a wire bent round into a ſemicircle, when a fortnight is gone.

It will then be new moon, and from day to day you will obſerve it afterward grow bigger, and ſeem rounder, till in fourteen days more it will be again full moon, and riſe as it does now behind the trees.

But pray, papa, inform me, how do both the ſun and moon preſerve their ſituations unſupported in the air? I always fear they cannot but fall down upon my head.

Fear nothing, dear Alexis: there is no danger. I will explain the reaſon why, when you can underſtand the matter; ſo at preſent only liſten while I mention how the ſun and moon addreſs you.

To begin then with the ſun: He ſays as follows: I am King of day. I riſe, or make my firſt appearance in the Eaſt; and what they call Aurora, or the dawn, precedes me, that mankind may know of my approach. I tap ſoon after at your window with a golden beam of light, to warn you of my preſence. Riſe, I ſay, riſe lazy-boots. [124]I never ſhine, that men may lie a bed and ſnore. I ſhine that they may wake, get up, aad go to work.

I am the mighty traveller; and I run rejoicing like a giant, quite acroſs the heavens, without ever ſtopping; for at no time am I weary.

I have a crown of glorious radiance on my head. I ſhed this radiance round about me to a vaſt extent, and even over half the univerſe. Wherever I am preſent, all things are beautiful and bright.

I give heat too, as well as light. It is I who ripen with my beams the fruit in gardens, and the corn that grows in fields. If I ſhould ceaſe a moment to aſſiſt the courſe of nature, nothing then could grow, and famiſhed men would die of deſpair, in all the horrors of that darkneſs which you yourſelf dread ſo much.

I am higher than the hills and clouds. I ſhould but need to come down a little towards the earth, and my de⯑vouring flame would burn it up as ſoon as you have ſeen the ſtraw conſumed which men toſs in bundles into a furnace.

What a length of time has paſſed ſince firſt I gladdened the whole univerſe! Alexis, you were hardly in the world ſix years ago, but I was. I was in it when your dear papa was born, and many thouſand years before; and I am not grown old yet.

At times I lay aſide my crown of radiance, and ſur⯑round my head with ſilver clouds. It is not ſo difficult to view me then; but when I diſſipate thoſe clouds about me, and burſt forth in all my noon-day ſplendor, you could never bear the blaze: ſhould you attempt to bear it, I ſhould blind you. There is but one living creature that can look at me, and that living creature is the eagle, whom the birds confeſs their monarch. He can contem⯑plate my glory with a ſteady eye wide open, while he views me.

This ſame eagle, darting from the ſummit of ſome ele⯑vated mountain, ſhapes his progreſs towards me with a towering wing, and ſoon is loſt amid my beams, through which he darts to pay me homage every minute of the day. The lark, ſuſpended in the air a great deal lower, ſings, while I am riſing, his beſt ſong, and wakes the other bird, that ſlumber in ten thouſand trees. The cork, [125]remaining on the ground, proclaims the time of my return to mortals with a piercing voice. But, on the other hand, the bat and owl avoid my preſence: they fly from me with a plaintive cry, and haſten to take refuge in the ruins of thoſe towers which I once ſaw proudly riſing, do⯑mineering afterward for many ages over ſpacious countries, and then finking with the burthen of old age.

My empire is not limited, like that of earthly monarchs, to a corner of the world. The univerſe at large is my dominion; and beſides, I am the moſt illuſtrious object that was ever gazed at.

But the moon ſays, in the next place, with a voice not half ſo much exalted as the ſun's, I am the queen of night. I ſend my ſilver beams to give you light, as often as the ſun withdraws at evening from the world.

You may keep looking at me without danger; for I am never ſo reſplendent as to dazzle the ſpectator, much leſs do I burn. I am ſo good natured that I let poor glow⯑worms blaze among the hedges, which the ſun, unpitying as he is, will not.

The ſtars ſhine round about me; but I myſelf am far more luminous than any ſtar: nay, all the ſtars together give not ſo much light as I do: and I ſeem among their multitude as if I were a fair round pearl, ſurrounded by ten thouſand little diamonds.

When you lie aſleep, I dart a beam of ſilver brightneſs through your curtains; and my words are, Sleep on, lit⯑tle friend, in ſafety. You are tired. I will not diſturb your ſlumber.

You have heard the nightingale. She ſings for me, who ſings much better than all other birds. She perches on a ſpray, and fills the foreſt with her muſic, no leſs ſweet and gentle than my brightneſs, while the dew de⯑ſcends on every flower, and all is calm and ſilent in my empire.

THE ROSE-BUSH.

WHO will give me ſome nice tree or other for my garden? ſaid little Frederic one day to his bro⯑thers Auguſtus and Jaſper, and his ſiſter Jemima.

(Their papa had given them each a little bit of ground to ſew or plant, as they thought proper.)

Oh not I, ſaid Auguſtus; not I, ſaid Jaſper.

Well then, I will, anſwered Jemima. Let me know what fort of trees you would like?

A roſe-buſh, cried Frederic. Do but look at mine: it is the only one now left me; and the leaves, as you may ſee, are turned quite yellow.

Come then, ſaid the lively Jemima, come and chuſe one for yourſelf. On which ſhe led him to a little ſpot of ground that ſhe cultivated; and the moment they had en⯑tered, pointing with her finger to a charming roſe-buſh, told him he had nothing elſe to do, than take it up im⯑mediately.

How, ſiſter! you have only two, and wiſh be⯑ſides to give me up the fineſt! No, no; here is the leaſt, and juſt ſuch as I want.

You do not know how much pleaſure I ſhall feel, if you will but take the other, Frederic. This may ſcarce produce you any flowers next ſummer; but the other will, I am certain: and you know, I ſhall be pleaſed as much with looking at it elſewhere, when full blown, as if it had continued in my garden.

Frederic overjoyed, approached the roſe-buſh, took it up; and Jemima, much more pleaſed, aſſiſted in the tranſplantation.

It appears that the gardener noticed this ſurpriſing piece of kindneſs in the little girl. Away he ran, ſelected from a number of young Windſor pear-trees, one which he thought the fineſt, and immediately conveyed it into Je⯑mima's garden, planting it exactly in the ſpot which the roſe-buſh had poſſeſſed before.

Thoſe who have a churliſh nature hardly ever are aſſi⯑duous: therefore when the ſummer months were come, Jaſper and his brother having never attended their roſe [127]plants, they promiſed no great quantity of flowers; and to increaſe their diſappointment, the chief part of thoſe which they thought were coming, periſhed in the bud; while on the contrary Frederic's roſe-buſh, in conſequence of great attention paid it by himſelf and Jemima, bore the fineſt centfoil roſes that the whole county could boaſt; and as long as it remained in flower, the happy Frederic always had a roſe to ſtick in Jemima's boſom, and another for himſelf to ſmell.

Likewiſe did the Windſor pear-tree thrive ſurpriſingly: it ſcattered a delicious perfume over all the garden, and ſoon grew ſo thick and lofty as to yield a tolerable um⯑brage. Jemima uſed to come and take her ſeat beneath it, when the ſun was hotteſt; as her father alſo did, when he would tell her charming ſtories, ſome of which would make her all at once burſt out a laughing till her ſides even ached again; and others produced ſuch agreeable melancholy in her, that ſoon after ſhe would ſmile with pleaſure at the recollection of her ſorrow.

Here is one that he told her for her generoſity towards Frederic; by which ſtory ſhe was thoroughly convinced that ſuch as we oblige can recompence our generoſity; which circumſtance, he ſaid, without adverting to the ſa⯑tisfaction of our hearts, muſt be a ſtrong incentive to kind actions.

THE NOSEGAYS.

LITTLE Gerald went out one morning with his neighbour Eugene, to divert themſelves by gather⯑ing flowers. Their eagerneſs would not allow them to diſpatch their breakfaſt in the houſe: they took it with them in their hands.

They met a beggar-woman in the way, who had a child apparently expiring, as it were, with hunger.

My dear little maſter, ſaid the woman, looking upon Gerald, who happened to be firſt, for heaven's ſake give my child a morſel of your bread. He has not had a bit of any thing to eat ſince yeſterday.

[128]It may be ſo, ſaid Gerald; but I am very hungry like⯑wiſe, and went forward, munching all the way.

Now what was Eugene's conduct? He was no leſs hun⯑gry, we muſt think, than his companion; but beholding how the poor child cried, he gave up his bread and but⯑ter; and received a hundred bleſſings which God heard in heaven.

But this is not the whole. The little boy, revived by what the charitable Eugene had beſtowed upon him, in⯑ſtantly began to run before his benefactor, brought him to a meadow, where he knew there was a multitude of flowers, and helped to make up ſo magnificent a bow-pot, that the pleaſant ſmell proceeding from it made him quite forget his trouble.

Eugene, after this, went home and ſhewed it with a deal of pleaſure; for not only was the ſweetneſs of it very grateful, but its ſize was ſuch that he might eaſily have hid his face behind it.

Next day likewiſe they went out, and then another little boy, whoſe name was Watty, met them.

After having taken half a dozen turns with Gerald and Eugene in the meadow, Watty, looking down, perceived his buckle loſt, and begged them both to aſſiſt him in ſearching for it. Oh, ſays Gerald, I cannot ſpare time enough for that at preſent, and went on; but Eugene ſtopped immediately, that he might be of ſervice to his little friend.

He walked a long while up and down, both ſtooping all the way, and patting with his hand, to try if he could feel it in the graſs: and had at laſt the happineſs to find it.

Watty too was happy; and they ſet about the buſineſs which had brought them thither.

Watty, out of gratitude, beſtowed the fineſt flowers of thoſe which he had gathered, upon Eugene; but paid no regard to Gerald, who had refuſed to help him; ſo that Eugene had that day alſo, a finer bow-pot than Gerald, and came back as ſatisfied as he was diſcontented.

Gerald ſuppoſed the third day he might prove more lucky: He preceded Eugene, and defied him to collect a finer bow-pot than he ſhould. But hardly were they come into the meadow, when behold the little boy who had [129]been fed by Eugene, came to meet him with a baſket full of flowers which, it ſeems, he had gathered that morning.

Gerald would have begun to gather for himſelf; but how was he to find the flowers? The little boy had got up earlier by a deal than he; and therefore he had ſtill leſs flowers that day than either of the two preceding.

They were going home, but met little Watty.

My dear friend, ſaid he to Eugene, I have not forgot the ſervice that you did me yeſterday, and have taken ſuch a liking to you, that I could wiſh to be at all times in your company. Papa too, though he never ſaw you, has the ſame ideas in your favour, and has bid me come and fetch you to his houſe this morning: He deſigns to tell us merry ſtories, and afterwards will play with us.

I will take you to a garden here hard by us, where we are allowed to walk, and there you will find four or five companions of my age to welcome you; when we are all together we will play at whatever game you like.

Eugene inſtantly laid hold of Watty's hand, and flew like lightning with him towards the garden. As for Ge⯑rald, poor fellow! he went home quite melancholy. Watty had not once invited him.

He learned by theſe three days adventures, but parti⯑cularly by the laſt, how much one gains by kindneſs and aſſiſtance granted to others. He reformed his churliſh temper; and would certainly, in time, have ſhown him⯑ſelf as courteous to the full as Eugene, if this laſt, by having exerciſed a friendly diſpoſition from his cradle, had not conferred his favours with a greater grace.

THE PRESENT.

MAMA, you know that my brother's birth⯑day will come very ſoon, and I do not know what preſent to make him. I hope you will give me ſomething to beſtow upon him as a preſent on the oc⯑caſion.

Doubtleſs I might eaſily do ſo, but I ſhould like much rather to preſent him with that ſome⯑thing on my own account. Do you imagine that I enjoy leſs pleaſure than yourſelf in making preſents? And be⯑ſides, reflect that if I give you any thing, in order that you may afterwards give it to your brother, it is my gift, not yours.

That is true indeed, mama: and yet I ſhould be very glad if I had any thing to give him.

Well then, let us reflect a little. How ſhall we proceed? You cannot ſurely but have ſomething by you! as for inſtance, your little orange-tree?

My little orange-tree, mama, that bears ſuch fine bloſſoms to ornament all my noſegays!

Well, what think you of your lamb?

O dear mama! my lamb, that loves and follows me ſo prettily!

Your doves, then?

I reſolved, you know, to bring them up before they well had broken the ſhell; ſo they are my children, and I cannot part with them.

I ſee then that you have nothing to give your brother!

Now I recollect, I have.

And what?

You know that purſe, which my aunt Tereſa gave me for a Chriſtmas-box laſt year: you muſt own it is very pretty!

True, my dear: but do you think that your brother will be pleaſed with ſuch a gift? for not to mention that he can never wear it long, I fancy you re⯑member, when you had it firſt, you did not like it much yourſelf, and put it careleſsly into a drawer, as what you had no wiſh to ſee again; and this your brother knew, and cannot but remember when you bring it out.

But notwithſtanding that, mama, it is ſtill a very pretty preſent.

No, my dear: that only can be called a pretty preſent, which we ſhould be glad to keep, and which they party ſo obliged would equally be glad to have.

And muſt I give my brother every thing that I ſhould be glad to keep?

No: juſt as much, or juſt as little, as you pleaſe; provided what you give appears to be a token of your friendſhip.

Well, well, I will make up a noſegay of my fineſt orange bloſſoms, and preſent it to Henry, with my lamb.

Well fancied! ſuch a gift will ſhew him your affection, ſince he knows that you would be very de⯑ſirous to keep the lamb yourſelf.

Nor yet, mama, is this the whole; for every day I will take a walk out with my brother, that the lamb may uſe itſelf to follow him, as well as me. The little creature in this manner will be quite familiar with my brother, when I give him away; and my brother will love him the better.

Come my deareſt, and embrace me. Be aſſured, this delicate attention will encreaſe the value of your preſent. Thus the mereſt trifle may become a valuable object, when beſtowed with ſuch a grace. You could not give your brother, or even me, ſuch joy with any other preſent.

Nor myſelf, mama, replied Viola, with vivacity.

You will be happier ſtill, continued Mrs. Maddiſon, when once the birth-day comes; becauſe, as I muſt con⯑tribute ſomething, I intend that you ſhall perform the honours, for me, of a little cold collation to be ſerved up in the garden, for your brother, and ſuch friends as he may wiſh to have invited.

Hearing this, the little lady kiſſed her mother's hand with ardour, and immediately ran off to make up half a dozen artificial roſes, with a crimſon ribbon which ſhe had by her. And with thoſe roſes ſhe intended to dreſs out the lamb on her brother's birth-day, when ſhe made him ſo affectionate a preſent.

THE CHIMNEY-SWEEPER.

A Silly ſervant maid had poſſeſſed the imagination of her maſter's children with a hundred fooliſh tales of ſpirits, and particularly of a black-faced goblin, as ſhe called it.

Antonia, one of theſe poor children, for the firſt time in her life, beheld a chimney-ſweeper knocking at her father's door. She made a lamentable outcry, and betook herſelf for refuge to the firſt apartment that ſhe found open, which apartment was the kitchen.

Hardly had ſhe hid herſelf behind a table, when the black-faced man came in, as if, in her imagination, he had meant to follow her.

This frightened her a ſecond time; and up ſhe ran into a pantry, higher than the kitchen floor by half a dozen ſteps, and not a great way from the fire place: where ſhe thought ſhe ſhould be ſafe from danger, in a corner.

She had hardly come, however, to herſelf, when ſud⯑denly ſhe heard the frightful fellow ſinging in the chim⯑ney; and, with bruſh and ſcraper, making all the while a rattling noiſe againſt the bricks about him.

Being ſeized with terror, ſhe jumped up, and leaping through a window, which was rather low, into the garden, ran quite breathleſs towards an arbour at the bottom of it, where ſhe fell half dead, and almoſt void of motion, cloſe beſide a tree.

Though ſhe had changed her ſituation by ſo great a diſtance, yet hardly did ſhe venture to look about her; when by chance ſhe ſaw the black-faced man appear again, and wave his bruſh about him, at the chimney-top.

On this, Antonia almoſt ſplit her throat with crying out, Help! help!

Her father heard the cry, and running towards the arbour, aſked what ailed her, that ſhe cried out ſo! An⯑tonia had not ſtrength ſufficient to articulate a ſingle word, and therefore, keeping ſilence, pointed to the place where Grim was then ſitting aſtride, and flouriſhing his bruſh.

Her father ſmiled; and to convince her what ſmall cauſe ſhe had for terror, waited till the chimney-ſweeper [133]was come down. He then bade him be called, and cleaned a little in Antonia's preſence; after which, with⯑out explaining matters any further, he ſent up into the houſe to fetch his barber, who, it happened, was then waiting for him, and who conſequently had his face all over white with powder.

She was heartily aſhamed of having feared ſo much, without occaſion; and her father took this opportunity of giving her to underſtand, that there were whole nations, in a certain quarter of the globe, all over black by nature, but not therefore to be dreaded by white children; ſince theſe laſt were, in another country, generally nurſed by women purchaſed of thoſe nations, without loſing any of their whiteneſs.

Ever afterwards, Antonia was the firſt to laugh at ſilly ſtories, told by ſilly people, of hobgoblins and the like, to fright her.

THE CHERRIES.

JOHANNA and Felix one day got permiſſion, from their dear mama, to take a turn or two about the garden, by themſelves: they had deſerved this confidence placed in them, by their paſt diſcretion.

They amuſed themſelves, by playing for a time toge⯑ther, with that decent gaiety by which it is eaſy to diſ⯑tinguiſh young children who have been well brought up.

Againſt the garden wall grew many fruit-trees, and among them a young cherry-tree, which had no earlier than the year before been grafted, and was now in fruit. Its fruit indeed was very little; but on that account, per⯑haps much the finer.

Mrs. Dutton, their mother, did not want to gather them, though ripe. She kept them for her huſband's eat⯑ing, who that very day was to return from York where buſineſs had a long time kept him.

As the children were accuſtomed to obedience, and for⯑bidden once for all to gather any kind of fruit, or pick up even ſuch as they might find upon the ground, to eat [134]it, without aſking leave, ſhe thought it uſeleſs to ſay any thing about this cherry-tree.

When Johanna and Felix were fatigued with running up and down the terrace, Come, ſaid Felix, let us do ſomething elſe now; upon which they joined their hands, and walked ſedately towards the bottom of the garden, caſting every now and then a look of appetite upon the fruit with which the eſpaliers were loaded.

They were ſoon come up to this late grafted tree. A little blaſt of wind had ſhook the fineſt cherries from it, and they lay upon the ground cloſe by. Young Felix was the firſt to ſee them. He advanced his foot, ſtooped down, and picked them up, ate ſome, and gave Johanna ſome, who are them likewiſe.

They had not yet flung the ſtones away, when as it chanced, Johanna recollected her mama's command to eat no fruit but what ſhe might think fit to give her.

Ah! ſaid ſhe to Felix, we have diſobeyed mama by eat⯑ing any of theſe cherries, and ſhall make her angry with us, when ſhe comes to know it. What had we beſt do?

Why need mama know any thing about it? We may hold our tongues.

No, no; ſhe needs muſt know it, brother. She frequently forgives us the greateſt faults that we can commit, when we confeſs them of ourſelves.

Yes, yes; but in this inſtance we have diſobeyed her, and ſhe never yet forgave us diſobedience.

When ſhe puniſhes our faults, I need not tell you, brother, it is becauſe ſhe loves us; and in conſe⯑quence of being puniſhed, we are not ſo very likely to forget, as otherwiſe we ſhould, what we may do, and what we may not.

True, but ſhe is always ſorry when ſhe puniſhes our faults, and being ſorry, ſhe is unhappy: ſo I ſhould not like to ſee mama unhappy, which would be the caſe did ſhe but know what we have done.

Neither ſhould I wiſh to ſee my mama unhap⯑py; but would ſhe not be much more ſo, upon diſcovering that we had wiſhed to bide our faults? Should we be bold enough to look her in the ſate while we were ſecretly re⯑proached by our own hearts? or rather, ſhould we not be quite aſhamed to hear her call us her dear children, know⯑ing as we muſt, how little we deſerve it?

Ah, my deareſt ſiſter! you have quite convinced me; and indeed we ſhould, in that caſe, be two little monſters: therefore let us go to her, and acknowledge what we have done.

They kiſſed each other, and went hand in hand to their mama's apartment.

Dear mama, began Johanna, we have diſobeyed you, and not remembered what you forbade us. Puniſh me and Felix as we merit, but pray do not be angry with us; we ſhould both be quite uneaſy were our fault to make you ſorry or unhappy.

She related, in the next place, what her brother and her⯑ſelf had done, without endeavouring to excuſe the action.

Mrs. Dutton was ſo affected with the openneſs of Felix and Johanna, that a tear of tenderneſs and love eſcaped her. She could not reſolve on puniſhing their fault, but generouſly overlooked it. She well knew that children of a happy diſpoſition are more powerfully wrought on by the recollection of a mother's kindneſs, than by that of her ſeverity.

THE LITTLE PRATER.

LEONORA was endued with ſpirit and vivacity. When ſcarcely ſix years old, ſhe was exceedingly well practiſed in the art of managing her needle, and could very cleverly employ her ſciſſars. All the garters that her papa and brothers wore were of her making. She could read with eaſe in any book that ſhe happened to take up; her writing was alſo extremely neat and fair. She did not huddle great and little letters in one word to⯑gether, neither did they lean ſome this and others that way; and her lines went ſtrait along, not dancing up and down from one ſide of her paper to the other, as I have too often ſeen in many children's writing-books, even older by a year or two than Leonora.

Her papa too, and mama, were no leſs ſatisfied with her obedience, than her maſters with her diligence and ſtudy. She kept up a perfect union with her ſiſters, treated every ſervant with the greateſt affability, and her companions with regard and condeſcenſion. All her parents' friends, [136]and every ſtranger that came there a viſiting, were equally enchanted with her company and converſation.

Who would think, that with ſo many recommendatory qualities, and ſo much underſtanding, any little girl could poſſibly be ſo unfortunate that none, when they grew ac⯑quainted at the houſe, could bear her? Such was Leonora, notwithſtanding; for a ſingle fault which ſhe had unhap⯑pily contracted, was ſo great as to deſtroy the effect of all her juvenile accompliſhments. The intemperance of her tongue made every one forget the graces of her under⯑ſtanding, and the goodneſs of her heart. In ſhort, our Leonora was the greateſt prater living.

When, for inſtance, ſhe was ſitting down to work, one might have heard her ſay, Oho! I fancy, it is high time that I ſhould be doing ſomething! What would my mama ſay, ſhould ſhe find me ſitting with my arms acroſs, a lol⯑ling on my elbows?—O my ſtars! how much I have got to hem here? all this apron! But at worſt, I never let the graſs grow under me when I ſet out, and I ſhall ſoon have done. Ah! there the clock ſtrikes: One, two, three, four, five, ſix, ſeven, eight, nine—Yes, poſitively nine o'clock! Well then, I have but two poor hours before I go to muſic; yet a deal of buſineſs may be done in ſuch a length of time. Mamma, when ſhe obſerves how diligent I have been, will be ſure to give me ſweetmeats.—Oh! what pleaſure I ſhall have in looking at them! Nothing do I love like nice criſped almonds. Not that I do not like egg plumbs preſerved: they are very good too, for papa popped one into my mouth laſt Thurſday, and then gave me a whole bagfull; but I think criſped almonds better.—I ſhould like to ſee Miſs Dolly this morning: I would ſhew her the fine petticoat that mama has bought me. Dolly is a funny little girl enough! I like her vaſtly. Oh! but ſhe loves talking, and I do not know how it happens, but one cannot thruſt a word in when her clap⯑per is ſet a going. Where has my thimble hid itſelf? Siſter, have you ſeen my thimble? Patty muſt have ſurely loſt it for me, when ſhe came to ſweep the parlour.—It is ſo like her! ſhe is always ſuch a hairbrained creature! Who can work without a thimble? at leaſt I never take a ſtitch, if I miſlay it; for the needle pricks one's finger, and one's finger bleeds of courſe; and then, beſides the pain it gives one, how one's work looks when it is ſpotted [137]with red marks! Why, Patty! Patty! where can you be! Have you ſeen my thimble? Oh, no! here it is; and, juſt as if the matter were contrived on purpoſe, at the bot⯑tom of my work-bag.

Thus the little creature would be always dinning peo⯑ple's ears who happened to be near her. When her pa⯑rents were engaged in any intereſting converſation with each other, ſhe would come and mix in their diſcourſe, by prating upon twenty different ſubjects. And at din⯑ner, ſhe had hardly ever ended with her meat, before the pie or pudding was on the table. She would really forget to eat and drink, while everlaſtingly employed in prating.

Her papa would frequently reprove her twenty times a day for this defect; but all reproof was loſt upon her, neither would the greateſt puniſhment produce a reforma⯑tion in her conduct. As it was not poſſible for any one to hear himſelf when ſhe was by, Miſs Chatterbox was often ſent to paſs the morning all alone in her apartment. Du⯑ring dinner, they would put her at a little table by her⯑ſelf, as diſtant from the company as they could place her. Leonora ſeemed afflicted at this ſeparation, but was not a whit the more ſilent on that account. She had always ſome ſubject of diſcourſe, were it even addreſſed only to her⯑ſelf, and, nevertheleſs, ſhe talked ſo loud every word that ſhe ſaid was heard; for, it was the ſame to her if any bo⯑dy was or was not by her: and I verily believe, that, ra⯑ther than be mute, ſhe would have entered into converſa⯑tion with her knife and fork.

From ſuch a fooliſh habit, what advantage did ſhe ob⯑tain? The ſtory tells us, only puniſhment and hatred. If you ſhould not be convinced of this by what I have al⯑ready mentioned, you will certainly be ſo when you read what follows:

Once upon a time, her parents were invited to go down into the country for a week or fortnight, by a friend. It was in autumn, the weather was extremely fine, and it is not eaſy to conceive what great abundance there was then of every kind of fruit, pears, apples, nectarines and peaches.

Leonora thought it was deſigned to make her of the party, but ſtood very much ſurpriſed when her papa, di⯑recting both her ſiſters to get ready for the journey, told [138]her that ſhe muſt ſtay at home. She fell a crying, ran to her mama, and ſaid, My dear mama, what fault have I committed, that papa ſhould be ſo angry with me?— Your papa, ſhe anſwered, is not angry with you; but believe me it is impoſſible for any one to bear your conſtant chatter. You would certainly interrupt our pleaſure, and the pleaſure of the family that we are now going to viſit; and therefore for the future, when⯑ever we go abroad, we muſt always leave you behind us.

Muſt I never ſpeak, then? anſwered Leonora.

That, ſaid her mama, would be no leſs a fault than what we wiſh to ſee you cured of. You are not to be entirely mute; but then you ought to wait 'till you perceive that your turn for ſpeaking is come round, and not inceſſantly prevent your parents, and as many as have more experience than yourſelf, from talking. You ſhould alſo take care how you ſay whatever comes into your head. When you deſire to be informed of any thing which it is not improper you ſhould know, you ought to aſk in as few words as poſſible, and having any thing to tell, you ſhould, in that caſe, firſt of all reflect within yourſelf, if thoſe about you would or would not like to hear it.

Leonora, thought ſhe could not reaſonably call in queſ⯑tion this advice, would not have wanted words to juſtify her prating, if ſhe had not heard that moment her papa call out that every thing was ready; and, in fact, the coach was off that very inſtant.

Leonora fell a ſighing, and with tears purſued the car⯑riage 'till her eye no longer could diſcern it. When it was wholly out of ſight, ſhe went into a corner, and be⯑gan to weep moſt bitterly. Ah, babbling goſſip! ſaid ſhe,

it is all owing to my long tongue that I have been thus puniſhed. I will take care, that for the future it ſhall never ſpeak a word more than it ought.

Some few days afterwards they returned. Leonora's ſiſters brought home with them baſkets full of pears and apples. They were both exceedingly well tempered; therefore Leonora would on no account have gone without her ſhare, but then the tears that ſhe had been ſhedding [139]ſo completely took away her appetite, that it is not to be wondered if ſhe did not wiſh for any. She that moment ran to her papa, imploring his pardon for her fault in having forced him, (as ſhe knew,) much againſt his will, to puniſh her. We have been both unhappy, added ſhe; but for the future I ſhall take care, and never ſpeak too much.

Her father tenderly embraced and kiſſed her.

On the morrow, Leonora was permitted to ſit down and take her dinner with the reſt. She ſpoke very little, but whatever ſhe did ſay was full of grace and modeſty. It is true, it coſt her very much to check her tongue, which, through impatience and the itch of talking, rolled, if I may ſay ſo, this and that way in her mouth; but on the following day, this work of checking her propenſity towards talking was leſs painful, and the next day ſtill leſs ſo. At length the difficulty, by a gradual diminution, was completely done away. At preſent ſhe has totally got rid of her bad habit, and ſhe figures in ſociety with credit to herſelf, and pleaſure to her friends, who are no longer vexed with what they were accuſtomed to entitle, in deriſion, her inceſſant clack.

HOT COCKLES.

BROTHER, all our friends have left us, and yet ſtill I am in a playing hu⯑mour. What game ſhall we chuſe?

There are only two of us, and I am afraid, we ſhould not be much diverted.

Let us play at ſomething, however.

But at what?

At blindman's buff, for inſtance.

That is a game that would never end. It would not be as if there were a dozen, of which number ſome are generally off their guard; but where there are [140]only two, I ſhould not find it difficult to ſhun you, or you me: and then when we had caught each other, we ſhould know for certain who it was.

That is true, indeed. Well then, what think you of Hot Cockles?

That would be the ſame, you know. We could not poſſibly gueſs wrong.

Perhaps we might. However, let us try.

With all my heart, if it will pleaſe you. Look ye, if you like it, I will be the hot cockles firſt.

Do, brother. Put your right hand on the bottom of this chair: now ſtoop down and lay your face quite cloſe upon it that you may not ſee. That is well: and now, your left hand on your back. Well, maſter! but I hope your eyes are ſhut?

Yes, yes: do not be afraid.

Well, maſter, what have you to ſell?

Hot cockles! hot!

Who ſtruck?

Why who, you little gooſe! but you?

Yes, yes; but with which hand?

The eldeſt did not dream of ſuch a queſtion: he was taken by ſurprize, and ſaid the right, at hazard.—It was with the left however that he had been ſtruck; and thus the youngeſt outwitted him.

GOD's BIRD.

MY deareſt Edward, what have you done with all your money?

Given it away.

Away, my little fellow! to whom?

A very wicked boy.

No doubt, to make him better?

Yes, mama. Pray don't the birds that fly about, belong to God?

They do; as well as we ourſelves, and every other creature.

Well, mama; this wicked boy had ſtolen a bird from God and carried it about to ſell. The little bird cried out with all its ſtrength; and he was pinching the beak cloſe, to hinder it from crying. He was cer⯑tainly afraid, mama, that God would hear it cry, and puniſh him for ſo much naughtineſs.

And you, my little man—

And I—I gave the wicked boy my money, purſe and all, that he might give God back again his bird—I fancy, God was very glad,

He was, no doubt, to find my little fel⯑low have ſo good a heart.

The boy perhaps was wicked, dear mama, becauſe he wanted money?

Yery likely.

Therefore I am glad that I gave him mine; becauſe, mama, you know, that I don't want money.

We have had a ſort of difference with each other upon this affair. My brother gave his money without counting what it was, though certainly it would have bought ten birds. I told him that he ſhould firſt have aſked the boy how much would ſatisfy him.

Which of us was in the right, mama?

Not you, my heart.

But have not you, if you remember, often ſaid, dear Edward, do whatever good you can, and aſk no queſtions.

I have often told you ſo, indeed; but then you ſhould conſider how to do it the beſt way you can. To day, for inſtance, ſince you had more money than was neceſſary to deliver the poor little bird, you ſhould have kept the reſt for ſuch another purpoſe; for if other wicked boys had come into your way, as well as he did, with God's birds, and you had no more money, tell me what you would have done?

Why then, mama, I would have come to you for what I wanted.

But if I had happened to have none?

Ah!—then ſo much the worſe!

You ſee, then, Paul gave you good [142]advice. You are to ſave your money, and not only for yourſelf, but for others, ſo that you may do all the good in your power with it. Do you ſuppoſe, my dear, that there was no other bird than this in all the world, to which you might have given aſſiſtance?

I was thinking of no other then—I wiſh, mama, you had but ſeen how much he ſeemed at firſt to ſuffer, and how glad he was afterwards when I let him fly away. He was quite giddy with his joy, he knew not where to go that he might clap his wings. However, dear mama, the boy aſſured me, for I made him promiſe, that he would never try to catch it a ſecond time.

My little fellow, you have notwith⯑ſtanding done quite well; and to reward you, here is more money.

More!—oh thank you.

And a kiſs into the bargain. How rejoiced I am in being your mama! With ſuch an incli⯑nation as you have for doing good, you need but ſtudy how to do it in a proper manner, and you will prove the happieſt creature in the world.

THE SELF-CORRECTED LIAR.

LITTLE Griffith was now ſix years old, and had never yet told a falſity. He never had committed any fault, and therefore had no need to hide the truth. When any accident befel him, as to break a pane of glaſs, or ſpot his cloaths, he went immediately and told his father, who would be always ſo good as to forgive him, with a caution that in future he ſhould be more careful.

Griffith had a couſin, but a very naughty boy, whoſe name was Robert. Robert came one day to ſee him; and Griffith, by way of ſhewing his attention to his viſitor, made pro⯑poſals for a game at drafts. His couſin eagerly accepted the propoſal, on condition that they ſhould play for ſome⯑thing. Griffith for a little time refuſed, but in the end was wrought upon by Robert, and in hardly more than thirty minutes, all the money which he had been laying up [143]many weeks from his allowance was compleatly gone. Affected with his loſs, poor Griffith got into a corner, and began to cry, while Robert fell a laughing, and went home in triumph with his ſpoil.

It was not long before poor Griffith's father, who had been from home, returned. He loved the child, and therefore ſent to ſee him in the parlour. But what ails you? ſaid he. And what has happened? Sure you have been crying?

Yes, papa, becauſe my couſin has been here, and made me play with him at drafts.

And what of that? I ſee no harm done yet; for drafts are a diverſion that I have given you leave to take. But poſſibly you played for money?

O! no, no, papa.

Then why do you cry?

Becauſe I wiſhed to ſhow my couſin how much money I had ſaved to buy myſelf a book. Now I had hid it all behind the great ſtone poſt without, and when I put my hand into the hole, it was gone. Some perſon, paſſing by the gate, has ſtolen it.

Griffith's father, ſome how or another, fancied this re⯑cital to be falſe: but did not mention his ſuſpicions then. He went that moment to his brother's, and as ſoon as he ſaw little Robert, he forced a ſmile, and began in this manner:

Well, my child, you have been lucky, have not you, to-day?

Oh! yes, ſaid Robert, very lucky, ſir!

And what did you win?

A ſhilling, ſaid the nephew.

What, ſo much? And did he pay you, Robert?

Doubtleſs, uncle. I have it in my pocket.

Notwithſtanding Griffith had deſerved a grievous pu⯑niſhment, his father thought it not amiſs to pardon this, as being his firſt falſehood; and therefore only told him, with a ſcornful tone of voice, that ſince he knew that he had a liar in his houſe, he would tell all the ſervants never to believe him, whatſoever he ſhould ſay.

Some few days after, Griffith went in turn to viſit Robert, and pulled out a handſome pencil-caſe which his ſiſter had beſtowed him at Chriſtmas. Robert wiſhed to have it, and in exchange would have been glad to [144]give him every one of his playthings, his ball, his top, and rackets; but as Griffith, he obſerved, would not part with it, he began to play the bully, put his arms akimbo, and advanced towards him, ſaid, "The pencil caſe is mine: I loſt it at your houſe, or elſe you ſtole it." Griffith, to no purpoſe, earneſtly proteſt⯑ed that it was his ſiſter's preſent. Robert quickly let him ſee that he meant to force it from him; and as Griffith graſped it with both hands, he cloſed upon him, threw him down, got over him, and with his double fiſt ſo pomelled Griffith in the face that he was forced to yield the caſe.

Poor Griffith, being treated in this manner, poſted home, his noſe all over blood, and half his hair pulled off — "Papa, papa, (ſaid he, as ſoon as he was come within his father's hearing,) look how I have been uſed! The naughty Robert has this moment robbed me of my pencil-caſe, and handled me as you ſee."

But far from pitying him, his father anſwered, "Go, you liar; you have loſt your pencil-caſe at drafts, and to deceive me, ſmeared your noſe with mulberry juice, and put your hair into diſorder." Griffith ſolemnly proteſt⯑ed, to no purpoſe, that he ſpoke only the truth." I can⯑not credit (ſaid the father) one who has already proved himſelf a liar."

Griffith, quite confounded, went away into his cham⯑ber, and bewailed moſt bitterly the conſequences of his firſt untruth. Next day he begged permiſſion to appear before his father, and implored forgiveneſs. "I acknow⯑ledge (ſaid he) how wicked I have been in ſeeking to deceive you with a falſhood once; but, dear papa, let me entreat you to give up your reſolutions of believing me no longer when I even ſpeak the truth!

His father told me the other day that from that moment Griffith had not let the leaſt untruth eſcape him, and that therefore he had recompenced his ſon's veracity by truſting him implicitly. He never looked for proteſtations from him: it was ſufficient Griffith barely told him any thing, that he ſhould take it for as great a certainty as if himſelf had ſeen it.

What a ſatisfaction this to be experienced by a tender father, and a ſon ſo worthy of him!

RECEIPT TO BE ALWAYS PLEASED.

I Should be very glad to play, mama, all day, ſaid Laura.

What, all day?

Oh! yes, mama.

I ſhall be very glad to give you any plea⯑ſure in my power, my little Laura; but I fear, you will very ſoon be tired.

Of playing! Never. You ſhall ſee that, mama.

And ſaying ſo, the little Laura ran to fetch her play⯑things. She had got them all together, but was quite alone; for both her ſiſters were that day to be employed with different maſters, till the afternoon.

At firſt, ſhe played as ſhe thought proper, and was very happy for an hour or thereabout; but, by degrees, the pleaſure which ſhe enjoyed began to loſe a little of its power to pleaſe her.

She had now handled her play-things twenty times, or oftener, and could tell no longer what to do. Her fa⯑vourite doll was grown quite troubleſome and tedious to her.

She deſired her dear mama to ſhew her ſome new me⯑thod of diverſion, and to play with her; but unfortunately her mama had very preſſing buſineſs, and could not attend to her, however ſhe might wiſh to do ſo.

Laura, after this, ſat moping in a corner, till her ſiſters, had quite finiſhed with their maſters, and were now about to take a little recreation. She ran to them in a melan⯑choly mood, which was as much as mentioning how long their time of ſtudy had ſeemed to her, and with what im⯑patience ſhe had wiſhed to ſee them.

They propoſed immediately ſuch games as they ſup⯑poſed moſt entertaining, for they loved her greatly: but, alas! all their ſolicitude was uſeleſs. Laura could not but complain that every game which they mentioned had already tired her; nay, in her impatience, ſhe even ven⯑tured to accuſe them of conſpiring with each other to afford her ſuch diverſion only as they knew would not amuſe her. Upon which Miſs Amelia, her eldeſt ſiſter, [146]an extremely ſenſible young lady ten years old, took Laura by the hand, and with a ſmile began as follows:

Look at us, dear Laura, and I will tell you which per⯑ſon in the room occaſions your diſſatisfaction.

And who is it, ſiſter? For my part, I don't know.

The reaſon is, you do not look at yourſelf. Yes, Laura, you yourſelf occaſion your diſſatisfaction; for you ſee theſe games amuſe us ſtill, though we have played them over, you may eaſily imagine, before you were born: but then we have been both at work, and therefore are they in a manner new to us. If you, by previous ſtudy and attention, had obtained an appetite for pleaſure, you would certainly have been pleaſed as caſily as we are.

Little Laura, who, however young ſhe was, by no means wanted underſtanding, was ſo ſtruck with theſe remarks, as to diſcern that every one who would be happy ſhould take care to mix improving exerciſe with pleaſing recreation. And indeed, I know not whether, after ſuch experience gained, the menace of a whole day's pleaſure would not have more terrified her than that of a whole day's labour.

THE TULIPS.

LUCETTA had ſeen for two ſummers ſucceſſively a bed of tulips in her father's garden, which were ſtreaked with the moſt beautiful colours.

Like the fluttering butterfly, ſhe often roved from flower to flower, being ſtruck merely with their beauty, but never reflecting to what they owed their origin.

Laſt Autumn, ſhe ſaw her father amuſe himſelf with digging up the bed and planting tulip roots. Ah! papa, cried ſhe in a whimpering tone, what are you doing? Will you ſpoil all our fine tulip bed ſo, and inſtead of thoſe fine flowers that grew there, put naſty onions in it for the kitchen?

Her father anſwered her, that he knew what he was about, and he was going to tell her that from thoſe onions would come forth new tulips the following year; but [147]Lucetta interrupted him by her complaints, and would liſten to nothing.

When her father ſaw that he could not make her under⯑ſtand reaſon, he left her to pacify herſelf, and continued his work while ſhe retired ſobbing.

During the Winter, as often as the converſation turned upon flowers, Lucetta ſighed, and thought within herſelf how great a pity it was that her father had deſtroyed the fineſt ornament of the garden. Winter finiſhed its courſe, and Spring came next to ſweep the ſnow and ice off the ground.

Lucetta had not entered the garden yet. Indeed it would have been difficult to prevail on her to go in, as it was deprived of her favourite flower. One day, how⯑ever, ſhe entered without thinking. But what were her tranſports of ſurprize and joy, when ſhe ſaw the tulip bed ſtill more beautiful than the preceding year! She ſtood ſtill at firſt, motionleſs and ſilent with admiration: at length ſhe threw herſelf into her father's arms, crying, Ah! dear papa, I thank you for plucking up thoſe naſty onions, and for putting in their place thoſe ſweet flowers that I am ſo fond of.

Yo owe me no thanks, anſwered her father; for theſe ſweet flowers that you are ſo fond of ſprung from nothing elſe but my naſty onions.

The obſtinate Lucetta would not believe a word of it; upon which her father pulled up carefully one of the fineſt tulips, together with the bulbous root (reſembling an onion) from which the ſtalk grew, and preſented it to her.

Lucetta, quite confounded, aſked pardon for having been ſo unreaſonable. I pardon you, my dear child, with all my heart, replied her father, provided you ac⯑knowledge how eaſy it is for children to deceive them⯑ſelves, when they attempt to judge, after their ignorance, of the actions of people who have had experience.

Oh! yes, papa, anſwered Lucetta, I am convinced of that, and therefore for the future ſhall diſtruſt my own eyes; and whenever I ſhall be tempted to ſuppoſe that I know more of the matter than other people, I will think of the Tulips and the Onions.

I am very glad, my dear little friends, that I had it in my power to tell you this ſtory; for you will preſently ſee what happened to another child who had never heard it.

THE STRAWBERRIES AND CURRANTS.

ALLAN had frequently heard his father ſay, that children were without the leaſt degree of knowledge touching what was proper for them; and that all the wiſ⯑dom which they could poſſibly prove themſelves to poſſeſs, lay in following the advice of people older than themſelves. And yet he never had ſincerely wiſhed to underſtand this doctrine, or perhaps, to ſpeak as favourably as the matter will allow, had forgot it.

His indulgent father had allotted him and Proſpero, his brother, a convenient piece of ground, that each might have a little garden, and diſplay his induſtry and know⯑ledge in the cultivation of it. And not only this, but they had leave to ſow whatever ſeed they thought proper, or to take any tree-root already growing in their father's garden, and tranſplant it.

Proſpero remembered the inſtruction of his father, went to have a little converſation on this ſubject with Ralph the gardener, and began thus: Pray tell me what I ought to ſow at preſent in my garden, and how ſet about my work?

The gardener gave him ſeveral roots and ſeeds adapted to the ſeaſon. Proſpero that moment ran and put them in the ground, and Ralph was ſo kind as to aſſiſt him in the work, and to give him ſome inſtruction.

But Allan, ſeeing Proſpero's docility, ſhrugged up his ſhoulders. Ralph, not obſerving this contemptuous action, aſked if he ſhould give him ſome aſſiſtance and inſtruction likewiſe?

Yes, replied Allan, I have great occaſion, to be ſure, of your aſſiſtance and inſtruction, particularly the laſt!

On this, he went into his father's garden; and ſelect⯑ing for his own, a quantity of flowers, tranſplanted them immediately. The gardener let him do as he thought fit.

Next morning, when Allan viſited his garden, all the flowers which he had ſo lately planted hung their heads like mourners at a funeral, and, as he ſaw, were dying. He tranſplanted others from his father's garden, which the morning after he obſerved, with much vexation, were exactly in the ſame condition.

[149]He was very ſoon diſguſted with this ſort of work. It was paying very dear, we muſt acknowledge, for the pleaſure of poſſeſſing a few flowers. Of courſe he gave it up, and it was not long before his piece of ground was overrun with weeds and thiſtles.

Towards the middle of the Spring, as he was looking at his brother's garden, he ſaw ſomething red ſuſpended very near the ground, which, on examination, he diſcerned to be ſtrawberries, and found to have an exquiſite degree of flavour.

Ah, ſaid he, if I had planted ſtrawberries in my garden!

Some time after, likewiſe, he ſaw certain little berries of a milk white colour, that hung down in cluſters from the branches of a buſh; upon examination, they were currants, which to look at only was a banquet.

Ah, ſaid he again, if I had planted currants in my garden!

Eat as many as you like, ſaid Proſpero, as if they were your own.

It reſted with yourſelf and no one elſe, remarked the gardener, to have had as good; ſo never for the future treat with ſcorn the aſſiſtance and inſtruction which any one may offer you, who is poſſeſſed of greater knowledge and experience than yourſelf.

OBLIGINGNESS AND COMPLAISANCE.

EMILIA, Victoria, Juliet, and Sophia, had a go⯑verneſs who loved them with the fondneſs of a mother. This governeſs was called Mademoiſelle Beaufoy.

Her greateſt wiſh was, that her pupils ſhould be virtuous in order to be happy; that a friendſhip for each other ſhould increaſe the pleaſures of their childhood; and that they ſhould taſte thoſe pleaſures without diminution or anxiety.

A kind indulgence, and exact degree of juſtice towards them, were the conſtant motives of her conduct, whether ſhe had any thing to pardon, to reward, or puniſh in them.

[150]She enjoyed, with infinite delight, the pleaſing fruits of her inſtruction and example.

The four little girls began to be the happieſt children upon earth. They told each other of their faults, forgave each other, ſhared together of each other's joys, and could not live without each other.

Alas! by what fatality do children poiſon the ſource of their own enjoyments, at the very moment when they begin to taſte its charms; and how great is their hap⯑pineſs when they are placed under the eye of a perſon endowed with equal prudence and tenderneſs.

It happened, Mademoiſelle Beaufoy was forced to leave her pupils for a time, as certain family concerns obliged her to viſit France. She left them with reluctance, made a ſacrifice of ſome advantages to the deſire of quickly ſettling her affairs, and hardly had a month expired when ſhe returned in ſafety to her little flock.

They all received her with the greateſt ſigns of joy: but, alas! what an unhappy alteration did ſhe very ſoon perceive in theſe poor little children!

If, as frequently it happened, any one among them aſked the ſlighteſt favour of another, the latter ill-naturedly refuſed it, and hence followed diſcontent and quarrels:— the uncommon gaiety that hitherto had been remarkable in all their little ſports, and made their work itſelf delight⯑ful, was now changed to peeviſhneſs and melancholy; and inſtead of thoſe expreſſions dictated by peace and friendſhip, which were before heard in all their converſa⯑tions, nothing now prevailed among them but inceſſant bickerings. Did either wiſh to take an hour's diverſion in the garden? her ſiſters were ſure to aſſign ſome reaſon for remaining in their chamber. And, in ſhort, it was enough that any thing ſhould meet the wiſh of one among them to diſpleaſe the others.

It particularly chanced one day, that not contented to deny each other every ſort of friendſhip and obligingneſs, they mutually diſtreſſed each other with reproaches. Mademoiſelle Beaufoy, who ſat as a witneſs of this ſcene▪ was ſo affected by it as even to ſhed tears.

She could not ſpeak a word; and penſively withdrew into her chamber, that ſhe might the better think upon the means of rendering back to theſe unhappy little ones [151]the pleaſures which they had loſt of their former friendſhip and reciprocal attachment.

She was ſtill employed in this afflicting taſk when all the four young ladies entered her apartment, with a peeviſh and uneaſy look, complaining that they could be no longer happy in each other's company. There was not one of them but charged the reſt with cauſing it; and all toge⯑ther earneſtly deſired their governeſs to reſtore them, if poſſible, to their loſt happineſs.

The governeſs received them in a very ſerious manner▪ ſaying, I obſerve, my children, you obſtruct each other in your pleaſures; therefore, that this circumſtance may never come to paſs again, let each take up her corner in this very room, if ſhe thinks proper, and divert herſelf in any way that ſhe likes, but ſo as not to interfere with either of her ſiſters. You may have recourſe to this new mode of recreation inſtantly, as you have leave to play till night; but each (remember) in her corner, as I ſaid juſt now.

The little girls were charmed with this propoſal, took their places, and began to play.

Sophia entered into converſation with her doll, or rather told her many little ſtories; but her doll could not reply, and had no ſtories in her turn to tell. It was in vain to look for any entertainment from her ſiſters; they were playing, each aſunder, in their corners.

Juliet took her battledore and ſhuttlecock, yet none applauded her dexterity; beſides, ſhe would gladly have ſtruck it acroſs the room, but in that caſe there was no⯑body to ſend it back. It was in vain to hope ſuch ſervice from her ſiſters; they were playing, each aſunder, in their corners.

Emilia could have wiſhed to paſs the time that now hung heavy on her at a game of which ſhe was very fond, hunt the ſlipper: but, alas! who was there to paſs the ſlipper from hand to hand? It was in vain to aſk her ſiſters; they were playing, each aſunder, in their corners.

And Victoria, who was very ſkilful as a little houſe⯑wife, thought how ſhe might give her friends an enter⯑tainment, and of courſe ſend out for many things to market. But who was to receive her orders? It was in vain to pitch upon her ſiſters; they were playing, each aſunder, in their corners.

[152]It was juſt the ſame with every other play. All of them ſuppoſed that it would be compromiſing matters to ap⯑proach each other, and therefore they diſdainfully conti⯑nued in their ſolitude. At length the day concluded. They returned again to Mademoiſelle Beaufoy, and begged her to ſhew them a better ſort of amuſement than that which ſhe had already recommended.

I can only think of one, my children, anſwered ſhe, which you yourſelves knew very well formerly, but which it ſeems you have now forgotten. Yet, if you wiſh to put it once more into practice, I can eaſily remind you of it.

Oh! we wiſh to recollect it with all our hearts, replied they; and ſtood all attention to ſeize with ardour the firſt word that their governeſs ſhould utter.

It is, anſwered ſhe, that reciprocal obligingneſs, that mutual friendſhip, which ſiſters owe to each other. O, my deareſt little friends! how miſerable have you con⯑trived to make yourſelves and me too, ſince you loſt it!

She ſtopped ſhort when ſhe had uttered theſe few words, which yet were interrupted frequently by ſighs, while tears of tenderneſs ran down her cheeks.

The little girls appeared aſtoniſhed and ſtruck dumb with ſorrow and confuſion in her preſence. She held out her arms; they ruſhed at once affectionately towards her, and ſincerely promiſed that they would love each other for the future, and agree as they had done before ſhe left them.

From that moment they betrayed no ſigns of peeviſh⯑neſs to trouble their harmonious intercourſe. Inſtead of bickerings and diſcontent amongſt them, nothing now was known but mutual condeſcenſions which delighted all who had the opportunity of being with them.

They preſerve this amiable character at preſent in the world among their friends, of whom they are acknowledged to be the delight and ornament.

THE LINNET'S NEST.

MAMA, mama, cried out little Sam, one evening, running out of breath into the parlour; ſee, ſee, what I have here in my hat.

Ha, ha! a linnet! Where did you get it?

I happened to find a neſt in the morning, as I paſſed along the white thorn hedge, below the fiſh-pond. And waiting till the evening, I crept along the hedge as ſoftly as I could, and ſlap! before the bird could be aware of me, caught him by the wings.

Was he by himſelf, then, in the neſt?

No, no; the little ones were in it too. But they are ſo little yet that they have not got their feathers. Oh! they can't eſcape me!

And what do you intend to do with this linnet?

Put it in a cage, mama.

And with the young ones?

Oh! I'll take the young ones too, and rear them. I will run now and fetch them.

I am ſorry, Sam; but you will not have time to get them.

Oh! it is not far off. Don't you know the Windſor pear-tree? Well, it is cloſe by that. I have taken care to mark the place.

But that is not the matter. What I mean is, that our neighbour, Juſtice Sharp, has ſent to take you up. The conſtables are very likely come, and at the door.

The conſtables! to take me up?

Yes, yes; to take you up! The juſtice has your father in cuſtody already; and the conſtables who took him, told us that they would ſoon come back for you, with Kitty, Bell and Sally, and then carry you all four to priſon.

Oh! dear me! And what does he deſign to do with us?

You will be ſhut up in a little room, and not have permiſſion to come out a moment.

Oh! the wicked juſtice!

However, he will not do you any harm. They will give you, every day, good things to eat and drink. You will have nothing to complain of but your loſs of freedom, and the pleaſure of ſeeing me.

Well, what is the matter with you? Is con⯑finement ſuch a great misfortune, if they give you every thing that you want?

The juſtice treats your father, ſiſters, and yourſelf, as you would treat the linnet and its young. You cannot call him wicked, therefore, as you do, without confeſſing that you are ſo yourſelf.

Oho! I will let the linnet fly, mama, this inſtant.

Be of comfort, my dear Sam! for I only meant to give you ſome inſtruc⯑tion by this little ſtory of the juſtice: neither will your father, or your ſiſters, or yourſelf, be ſent to priſon. All I wiſhed was to convince you how wicked it would be to ſhut up the poor little bird. As much as you appeared afflicted, when I told you that they would take you up, ſo much the little bird was certainly when you deprived him of his liberty. Conceive how much the cock would have lamented to be parted from the hen, the young ones from their mother, and the mother from her young ones. This I am ſure you did not think of, otherwiſe you never would have taken him. Tell me, would you?

Never, dear mama. I did not once think of all this.

Well, think of it for the future, and for⯑get not that birds, as well as every other creature, were created to enjoy their liberty, and that it would be cruel to fill up with ſorrow that ſhort period of exiſtence which God has granted them; and, to remember this the better, you ſhould get by heart a little piece of poetry that your friend has written.

What! the Children's Friend? Oh! pray repeat it to me.

THE LINNETS.

THE BED OF DEATH.

DUNCAN, a bricklayer's labourer, living in a diſtant country town, had loſt his wife about a quarter of a year before the event we are to write of. The e [...]pences of a tedious illneſs, and the interruption of [181]his labour by a very rainy ſeaſon, had reduced him to the laſt diſtreſs. His children were half naked, and had really no bread to eat. This circumſtance was of itſelf ſufficiently tormenting; but to aggravate the ſcene, Su⯑ſanna, his poor mother, laid upon a little ſtraw in the corner of the cottage, was almoſt in the agonies of death.

Duncan, at ſuch a proſpect round about him, over⯑whelmed with ſorrow, took a broken matted chair, and at a little diſtance from Suſanna's bed ſat down upon it, having both his hands held up, that he might hide his tears.

His mother turning towards him, with a feeble voice enquired if there was no where in the houſe a rag to put upon her. I cannot make myſelf warm, ſaid ſhe, do what I will.

Stay, mother; I will pull off my coat, and lay it on you.

No, no; I will not have it, my dear ſon. A little ſtraw, if you have nothing elſe, will do as well. But have you not a ſingle bit of wood ſtill left to make a ſire for theſe poor children? You will tell me, you cannot go into the fields, becauſe of the attention that I require. My life is very long, ſince I am grown burthenſome to you!

Pray do not ſay ſo, dear mother. Would to God I could procure you what you want, at the expence of my own life! I would freely give it up: but this is my grief, that you ſuffer cold and hunger, while I am utterly unable to relieve you.

Do not let that, however, afflict you much, my poor ſon. Thank God, my agonies are not ſo great as your affection fears they may be: they will very quickly finiſh, and my bleſſing will be the recompence of what you are doing now, and have been always doing for me.

O my poor dear mother! In my infancy you put yourſelf to many difficulties for my maintenance; and I, in your old age, muſt thus ſit by and ſee you want for common neceſſaries! That, dear mother, rends my heart.

I know, it is not through any fault of yours; and then, Duncan, upon a death-bed one has few—(be⯑lieve me when I tell you ſo)—few earthly wants. Our heavenly father has us then particularly in his care. I [182]thank you heartily, my dear. Your love conſoles me in this hour of my departure.

What, dear mother, have you then no hopes of recovering?

No; I feel within me that I muſt die of this complaint.

You do not ſay ſo?

Do not afflict yourſelf! I ſhall ſoon be in a better world.

Oh heaven! oh heaven!

I ſay, my ſon, this need not grieve you. You were all my happineſs when I was young, and now you prove the joy of my laſt moments. Soon, yes, very ſoon, thank heaven, you will have nothing left you but to cloſe my eye-lids. I ſhall then aſcend to my creator, tell what you have done for me, and earneſtly beſeech him to re⯑ward you for it everlaſtingly. Think frequently of me, and I will think of you above.

Yes, always, always.

There is only one thing in the world that gives me pain when I think of it.

And what is that mother?

I am muſtering up my ſtrength to tell you. And believe me, I muſt tell you; for it is like a ſtone oppreſſing me at heart.

Comfort yourſelf, dear mother, then, and ſpeak.

I ſaw your little Arthur come yeſterday here cloſe behind my bed, and pull out ſeveral apples, which he ate. Duncan, theſe apples were not ours; for then he would have thrown them on the table, and aſked me to take ſome. I remember ſtill how lovingly he uſed to come and fling himſelf into my arms, when he had any thing to give me; ſaying with ſo much good-nature, Eat ſome, do, my dear grandmother. O my dear, dear ſon! if he ſhould be a thief hereafter! The thought has afflicted me ever ſince yeſterday. Where is he? Pray go fetch him. I would talk a little to him.

Wretch that I am!

Grandmother, do you want me! You don't call me here, I hope, to ſee you die!

No, no; fear nothing, my poor Arthur, I do not deſire to frighten you; and yet, my deareſt, I ſhall die, and very ſoon too.

But not yet. Do not die till I am bigger.

I am much better now that I have changed my poſture.

So then you won't die?

Be comforted, my little fellow. Dying is not painful to me, as I am going to a tender father, who at preſent waits in heaven to ſee me. When I am once with him, I ſhall be better off than here. Soon, ſoon my little fellow, I ſhall ſee him.

Well then, take me with you: I will go too.

No, my dear, you ſhall not go with me; but, if it pleaſes God, remain a good while here behind me. You ſhall live to be a virtuous and good man, and when your father is as ill as I am, you ſhall be his conſolation, and afford him the aſſiſtance that he needs. Won't you, Arthur? Won't you obey him conſtantly, and do what⯑ever you think will give him pleaſure? See, he does whatever he is able for my ſake. And won't you promiſe me that you will do ſo too?

Yes, certainly I will, grandmother.

Take care then how you perform your pro⯑miſe. God who made both earth and heaven, cannot but ſee every thing that you do. I ſuppoſe, you believe this.

Yes, I do believe it: you have taught me ſo yourſelf.

How then, my deareſt Arthur, could you ſuppoſe that he would not ſee you come here yeſterday behind my bed, and eat the apples that you had ſtolen?

I will do ſo no more—no, never grandmother, believe me, while I live. Forgive me what I have done, and pray that God Almighty would forgive me too.

It is true then, is it, that you ſtole thoſe apples?

Ye-e-es.

And pray of whom?

Of ne-e-eighbour Le-e-conard.

You muſt go to neighbour Leonard then, and aſk his pardon.

Oh, do not ſend me there, pray grandmother. I dare not go.

You muſt, my little friend, that you may ne⯑ver do the like again. For heaven's ſake, my dear child, in future never take what does not belong to you; not even a bit of bread, though you were ſtarving. God will never let you want, ſince it was he who created you. Truſt then to his aſſiſtance, tell him when you ſuffer, and be ſure that he will conſole you.

Certainly, grandmother, certainly, I will never ſteal again: I promiſe you I will not: and for the future I would much rather die of hunger than ſteal any thing.

God hear and bleſs your reſolution from his holy habitation. I have hopes that of his goodneſs he will keep you from ſo great a ſin.

You muſt, my little boy, this inſtant go to neighbour Leonard, and deſire him to forgive you. Tell him that I, too, beg him to forgive you. Go, my good Duncan, with Arthur; inform him how it grieves me that I am not able to make him reſtitution for the theft: but that I will pray to God for his proſperity, and beg a bleſſing on his family. Alas! he is no leſs poor than we; and were it not that his good woman works ſo hard, he could never bring up ſuch a family of children as he has. My dear good ſon, for my ſake, when I am dead and buried, give him a day's work to make him up his loſs: it matters not how little he has ſuffered. We ſhould think it criminal to take away a pin. You will remember this, Duncan?

Yes, mother; ſo do not let the matter make you any more uneaſy.

He had hardly ſaid theſe words, when, as it chanced, 'Squire Wearthy's ſteward tapped without againſt the window.

Poor Suſanna knew him by his uſual way of tapping, and the cough he [...]antly had on him. Bleſs me, it is the ſteward! ſaid ſhe. Surely ſome great miſchief threatens us. He is like a raven, croaking at the window ſome bad tidings.

Do not be frightened thus, my good mother: I am not a ſingle farthing in his debt; and for the rent that we owe the 'ſquire at Midſummer, I will give him all the labour that he requires in harveſt.

Yes, provided he will but wait ſo long.

Duncan went out to know the ſteward's buſineſs. After he was gone, Suſanna fetched a grievous ſigh, and ſaid, diſcourſing with herſelf, Since he was ſo hard-hearted as to ſeize upon our goods for rent, I cannot ſee or hear him, but my heart revolts at the idea; and at preſent, in my dying moments, he muſt come and cough at our window. But perhaps the hand of God brings him hither as an admonition for me to diſcharge my heart of every thing that looks like malice or ill-will againſt him, and even pray for mercy on his ſoul. Well then, my God, I am content to do ſo. I no longer wiſh him any harm. Forgive his ſin, as I forgive it.

But I hear his voice! he is in a paſſion!—Heaven take pity on us!—O my poor Duncan, it is out of love for me that you have fallen again into his hands.

O father, father! Quick, come here! My grandmother is dying.

O my God!—Permit me, Mr. Steward. I muſt go to her aſſiſtance.

Yes indeed! that is very ne⯑ceſſary. The old Jezebel may die elſe!—I ſhould think it a good riddance of bad rubbiſh.

Luckily Duncan was got too far to hear theſe cruel words. He was already by Suſanna's bed, who ſpeedily recovered from her ſwoon, and thus addreſſed her ſon:

The ſteward came to ſcold you; I could hear him. Doubtleſs he will not grant you time, when once the quarter is turned.

No, mother, he did not come about that: he brought me, on the contrary, good news.

But is this true, my ſon? or do you only wiſh to comfort me a little? What good news can he have for us?

It is the 'ſquare's deſign, he ſays, to pull down and rebuild his houſe; at leaſt the front and ſtables; and to employ me at it, with my neighbours. I ſhall have at leaſt, he ſays, ten ſhillings every week.

You don't ſay ſo?

Yes, certainly; and there will be a matter of two years continual work. Next Monday I begin.

God's providence be praiſed for all things! I ſhall now die happy, ſeeing you enabled to get bread to feed your little ones. Death now has nothing painful in it. Heaven is merciful! may you, Duncan, at all times find it ſo: but tell me, are you not by this convinced of what I have ſo often told you, that the more misfortunes on one ſide attack us, ſo much more God's grace awaits us on the other?

Yes, I am, and ſhall be always. But methinks you ſeem much better. Let me quit you for about a mi⯑nute. I will go fetch a little ſtraw to cover you.

No, no; I feel myſelf much warmer. Rather go with Arthur to neighbour Leonard's. That is what diſturbs me moſt of all. Go, my ſon, I aſk it as a favour.

Hearing this, he did not ſtay a moment in the room, but took his ſon, and going out, gave Margaret a ſign to come and let him ſpeak with her.

Take care of your poor grandmother, ſaid he; and if a fainting fit ſhould ſeize her, come and fetch me from the carpenter's; I ſhall be there.

Leonard was at work, and Gertrude his wife was left all alone at home. She ſaw at once that the father and the child had both been crying.

What is the matter with you, my good friend, ſaid Gertrude, that you have been crying? What is the matter with you, my poor Arthur?

Ah, neighbour Gertrude! I am quite unhappy. This poor child of mine who wanted victuals yeſterday, came here and took ſome apples that were yours: he has confeſſed it. My poor mother ſaw him eat them.—Ger⯑trude, ſhe is on her death bed, and deſires you to forgive him. I cannot pay you now the worth of what he took away; but when I go to work, which will be very ſhortly, I will be ſure to ſatisfy you.

O don't ſpeak about it, neighbour: it is a trifle not worth mentioning. And you, my little fellow, promiſe that you will never for the future take what is not your own.

You are born of ſuch good people!

Oh! I promiſe you I will not: forgive me, Gertrude. I will never ſteal again.

No, never for the future, my good child, You do not know yet how great a ſin it is! When you are hungry, come to me, and if I have a bit of bread myſelf, I will ſhare it with you.

Thank ye, neighbour; but I hope, he will never want bread again. I have got a deal of work to do at 'Squire Wealthy's.

Yes, I heard ſo of the ſervants, and was very glad.

I was not near ſo happy when I got it on my own account, as for my mother's ſake. She has at leaſt this comfort on her death-bed. Tell my good friend Leonard that I ſhall work with all my heart to make him compenſation for his loſs.

Do not ſpeak about it, I requeſt you once again. My huſband, I am certain, will not think of any compenſation. He was out of work himſelf, and is to have the wood work of the job for which you are engaged. But as poor Suſanna is ſo ill, I will go and give her my aſſiſtance.

Gertrude got on her cloak, and then put up ſome pears and apples in a bag, and filled the little fellow's pockets likewiſe; took him by the hand, and bidding poor Dun⯑can go firſt, came after.

They had quickly reached Suſanna's chamber. Ger⯑trude held out her hand, but turned away her face, that ſhe might hide her tears. Suſanna, notwithſtanding, ſaw her, and began as follows:

You are crying then, my dear friend Gertrude?

Indeed I cry to ſee you ſuffer thus.

It is, or ought to be, alas! our part to cry. Forgive us, I beſeech you. It is the firſt time that ſuch a circumſtance has happened in our houſe.

Why what a ſerious buſineſs you are making of a trifle! It was excuſable in ſuch a child!

But if when older, he ſhould take to be a thief!

No. no: I will anſwer for him, he will be good. My dear Suſanna, you deſerve this recompenſe of heaven for your own honeſty, and all the care that you have taken to bring up your family in virtue. Do you want for any thing? Do not fear to tell me if you do: for every thing that we have is at your ſervice.

Yes, indeed; for only ſee what Gertrude has given me! [...], dear grandmother, do, eat ſome.

No, my child, I cannot: I ſhall never eat again; I feel my ſtrength go from me, and I have almoſt loſt my ſight. My ſon, draw near me: now is come the moment to take leave, and give you my farewell.

Duncan no ſooner heard theſe words, than he was ſeized all over with a ſudden trembling: he took off his hat, fell down upon his knees beſide Suſanna's bed, laid hold with ardour of her hand, then lifted up his eyes to heaven, and would fain have ſpoke, but could not: tears and ſighs prevented him.

Take comfort, ſaid Suſanna; I am going to a happier life than this, and there will wait your coming. When we once meet there, we ſhall not part again.

Duncan in ſome degree recovering, bowed his head, and craved his mother's bleſſing. Bleſs me, ſaid he, my dear mother. I deſire to follow you, when once my chil⯑dren have no further need of my aſſiſtance.

Suſanna opened once again her dying eyes; and with uncommon fervour looking up, pronounced theſe words:

Hear me, O heavenly father, and vouchſafe the bleſ⯑ſings of thy grace and favour to my ſon, the only one that I ever had, and whoſe affection was the comfort of my life. Duncan, may God be always with you, and confirm in heaven this bleſſing which I pronounce on you for having fulfilled your duty ſo much like a ſon.

Hear me now, my dear Duncan, and carefully obſerve what I ſhall tell you. Bring your children up in virtue, and accuſtom them betimes to a laborious life, that if they ſhould be poor, they may not, when grown up, loſe courage, and be tempted to do wrong. Inſtruct them to place all their truſt in God, and to live good friends with one another; ſo that they may find ſure conſolation in the [189]evils of this life. Forgive the ſteward his injuſtice. When I am buried, pray inform him that I departed without any malice or ill-will againſt him, and beſought of God that he would grant him of his grace to ſee the ſin that he had committed, and repent before he came upon a death-bed.

Reach me, my good friend,

that book be⯑hind you; and my dear Duncan, there is a little leather bag in our great cheſt; I wiſh to have it. Good!

Theſe are the only treaſures that I have left on earth. And now I ſhould be glad to ſee your children.

They were weeping at a table, whence their father brought them to Suſanna, putting them upon their knees beſide her, while ſhe raiſed herſelf a little, ſo that ſhe might ſee them, and began:

My deareſt children, I am very ſorry that I muſt leave you motherleſs and poor. Think often of me, my ſweet babes. I have nothing that I can give you but this book: it has been frequently my conſolation, and as often will be yours. When you have learned ſufficiently, read in it every evening to your father. It will teach you to be good; and if you are but good, you cannot fail of being happy.

This, Duncan,

is a certificate which I brought your father of my good behaviour at our marriage. Let it paſs by turns to each of your three daughters, till they marry. It is my laſt requeſt. And as for you, my ſon, I have nothing in the world to give you in remembrance of me; but the comfort is, you want none. You will not forget me, I am certain.

Gertrude, ſhall I requeſt one other favour of you, after having pardoned Arthur? When I am dead, ſee now and then to theſe poor children.—They have no one friend.— I recommend you in particular my poor dear Lucy.—She is the youngeſt of the three.—Where is ſhe?—I can hardly ſee.—

Conduct my hand, and let me touch her.—O my chil⯑dren!

After a moment's ſilence, Duncan ſuppoſing her to be fallen aſleep, ſaid ſoftly to his children, Riſe, and do not diſturb her ſlumber. Might ſhe but recover, after having [190]had this unexpected reſt! But Gertrude ſaw plainly that ſhe was dead, and gave Duncan to underſtand as much. What was his diſtraction then, and that of his helpleſs family? How they wept and wrung their hands! How they beat upon their breaſts, and tore their hair up by the roots for anguiſh.

Gertrude, as well as ſhe was able, comforted their ſor⯑row, and repeated to Duncan Suſanna's parting words, which, in his grief, he had not heard diſtinctly.

She began that very day to ſhew how much ſhe valued the deceaſed, by complying with her laſt wiſh. The little orphans being brought up with her own dear children, had the ſame inſtruction; and improving by it, grew in time to be a pattern for the village; and particularly Ar⯑thur, continually having in remembrance his firſt fault, became remarkable in time for his fidelity and honeſt dealing.

PASCAL.

MR. Dawkins was accuſtomed every Saturday to pay his only ſon, a little boy whoſe name was Paſcal, an allowance, ſuch as was ſufficient to procure him, the week through, thoſe little pleaſures and enjoyments which children of his age ſo naturally purſue. No leſs confident than generous, he never looked for an account from Paſcal of the way in which he laid out what he gave him. He ſuppoſed his principles to be ſuch, that he would not abuſe his bounty, but remember the inſtruction which he had ſo frequently given him upon the ſubject. But what lamentable conſequences did this too blind credulity pro⯑duce?

For hardly ever had he touched his weekly payment, but he ran that moment to a ſhop hard by, and ſtuffed himſelf with paſtry and nice things. His purſe, in this firſt onſet, underwent ſo great a diminution, that a very little the next day was ſufficient to exhauſt it totally: and during the laſt part of every week, he never had a far⯑thing to regale himſelf withal; yet he did not, upon that account, the leſs hanker after the ſame delicacies. Where⯑fore [191]being reſolved to gratify his palate, he prevailed upon the paſtry-cook, at firſt, to give him credit; but when afterwards he found that the boy's allowance was never applied to pay off theſe arrears, while on the other hand the debt increaſed, he ſaw that it was prudent to give in his bill to Mr. Dawkins. Mr. Dawkins was extremely angry with the tradeſman, reprimanded his improper con⯑duct, and forbade not only him, but every tradeſman round about, to let his ſon have any thing for which he could not pay on the ſpot. This might have been ſup⯑poſed a good precaution; and accordingly he thought it could not but become a check on Paſcal's gluttony; whereas it only irritated matters, and the boy, as we ſhall ſee, at any riſque reſolved to gratify his palate.

Paſcal's chamber was contiguous to his father's. After having noticed when his father generally ſlept the ſoundeſt, he once got up ſoftly, came into his room, and feeling for his breeches, took out half a crown. Emboldened by this fatal ſucceſs, he frequently repeated his offence, and for a time without detection: but there cannot be a crime, however ſecretly committed, which does not come to light at laſt.

It chanced that Mr. Dawkins, ſome time after Paſcal's firſt offence, in this way, had a law-ſuit on the following day to be decided. Having thought upon it waking, it is not to be wondered at that it ſhould take up his attention after he was gone to reſt. In fact, he lay quite ſilent, ru⯑minating on the affair, when Paſcal, thinking him aſleep, got up as he was wont to do. Unhappily for him, the moon threw light enough into the chamber, that a perſon coming in might eaſily be ſeen. Accordingly let any one imagine if he can, what Mr. Dawkins muſt have felt, be⯑holding his own ſon thus come and rob him! He for that time ſtifled his reſentment; but before the thief could quit his chamber in the morning, he got up, went to him, and found means to turn the converſation into ſuch a channel, as to aſk him how much he intended to lay out that day of his allowance. Nothing, anſwered Paſcal. I have given all my laſt week's money to a poor man in the neighbourhood, and muſt deny myſelf a little till next Saturday.

His father could not poſſibly reſtrain his indignation any longer, hearing ſo deteſtable a lie come from him. [192]He ſprung forward, ſeized him by the collar, for by this time he was dreſſed, and found five ſhillings in his pocket, which was what he had ſtolen from his father. In pro⯑portion as he had till now been tender and indulgent to his ſon, ſo much the greater was his ſeverity and rigour on this occaſion: for his reprimands were only the pre⯑amble to a harſher treatment, and the wretched Paſcal was obliged to keep his bed for many days, in conſequence of the correction that he received.

How difficult it is to extirpate a vice which has once taken root within us! Paſcal was not cured by this cor⯑rection. Mr. Dawkins left the key of his bureau one evening in the lock, and Paſcal took a model of the wards, and got another made at the ſmith's. This gave him a convenient opportunity to rob his father whenever he pleaſed: who, as he uſually kept a great deal of caſh by him, and as Paſcal was more cunning than to take too much at once, ſuſpected nothing of the affair. He was now fifteen years of age, and could diſſemble ſo well, that his parents thought him quite reformed, till his hypocriſy was accidentally diſcovered.

His father had received a piece of foreign coin, among other monies, which he ſoon remarked, and put it up in the bureau. This piece fell into Paſcal's hands that very night, and Mr. Dawkins miſſing it the next morning, could not but bethink himſelf of Paſcal's former inclina⯑tions, and ſuſpect him. He reſolved to ſatisfy himſelf that moment, and examining his pockets, found the piece of money that he had loſt, together with the key, by means of which he had obtained it.

But Paſcal by this time was too big for ſuch correction as he had received before, and therefore Mr. Dawkins contented himſelf with ſeverely upbraiding him for the preſent, and threatening to withdraw the benefits of his affection from him. He conſulted a few faithful friends that he had, upon the treatment proper to be ſhewn him: their opinion was in general, that the harſheſt method of proceeding would moſt tend to his amendment, and ad⯑viſed his being ſent to ſchool in Yorkſhire, where for years he might not ſee his family, but be ſubjected to the rigor⯑ous diſcipline and homely fare peculiar to ſuch inſtitu⯑tions, and of courſe have leiſure to repent of his enormity, and be accuſtomed to a frugal way of life. This was [193]their counſel; but the combats of paternal love in Mr. Dawkins's boſom, which was very far, as yet, from being quite extinct, would not permit him to purſue their ſalu⯑tary admonition; he inclined to ſomething of a gentler nature, and in grief of heart, and as the only moderate method which he could deviſe to preſerve him from de⯑ſtruction, ſent that very day to Briſtol for a friend of his, who kept a boarding ſchool, to whoſe attention he con⯑ſigned, upon the day of his arrival, this unworthy ſon, with directions to let him have no other money than was abſolutely neceſſary for his wants. His friend ſet off on his return immediately, and Paſcal with him.

This was a precaution; but it came, alas! too late: the youth's principles were utterly corrupted. His tutor's table was plain, though very plentiful; for which reaſon Paſcal would go out, and at a tavern gratify his palate with the choiceſt wines and viands, for which he eaſily got credit, as his hoſt took care to make enquiry, firſt of all, into his father's circumſtances, who, he found, was very rich: nor did he ſtop at this; for to ſupply that want of money which his tutor would not, he began to play, and practiſed every ſpecies of deception at a gaming⯑houſe hard by.

God's providence, as if it interfered particularly to reform him, puniſhed all his vices on the ſpot. Three gamblers, his companions, who detected him endeavour⯑ing to deceive them with a pack of cards that he had be⯑forehand ſorted for the purpoſe, fell upon him unawares, and ſo rough were the effects of their vengeance, that Paſcal was almoſt drubbed to death upon the ſpot.

He was carried home with ſcarce the leaſt remains of life, and put to bed. His tutor ran to ſee him, and af⯑forded all the ſuccour and aſſiſtance in his power. He waited till he ſaw him almoſt reeſtabliſhed, to impart ſuch counſel as might poſſibly affect him; which he did with all the ſoftneſs poſſible, and pointed out the horrors into which he was plunging himſelf. Miſerable youth! ſaid the tutor, what can have induced you to exceſſes ſo diſ⯑graceful! You diſhonour, by your crimes, a name which the probity of thoſe before you had exalted, and made really reſpectable. You rob your tender parents of thoſe hopes which they indulged when firſt they laid the ground⯑work of your education. When the youth of your ac⯑quaintance, [194]who now conſecrate that time to ſtudy which you conſume in ſcandalous exceſſes, ſhall be ſought out by their country and employed in elevated ſtations, you will be conſidered as an abject dangerous character. You will be baniſhed from all company that have the leaſt re⯑gard or value for their honour, and the meaneſt claſs of men will ſcorn you.

Paſcal was at firſt affected with this leſſon. He broke off all commerce with his partners; he was ſatisfied with his preceptor's table-fare; and ſeemed as if beginning to imagine that ſtudy had ſome charms to pleaſe him. But this diſpoſition was ſoon done away, and by degrees he relapſed into his former way of life. He ſold his books; his watch and clothes went afterwards; and he contrived to ſtrip himſelf of his apparel ſo completely, that he could not ſtir abroad.

On which his creditors came all at once upon him, and receiving a refuſal from the tutor to diſcharge the young man's debts and ſatiate their avidity, they wrote letters to the father, threatening to arreſt him if they were not paid. Let Paſcal's ſituation now be imagined. Overwhelmed with the repreaches of his creditors, the indignation of his tutor, the contempt of thoſe who waited on him, and his own remorſe, he had moreover to dread the maledic⯑tion of his parents. He was ſenſible that he had ſo much neglected to improve his underſtanding, that he could not find the leaſt reſources againſt want in any calling or pro⯑feſſion. He began to think his ſituation deſperate. A whole day he paſſed in his apartment violently agitated; every now and then he wrung his hands, tore his hair, and curſed his vices: but at night, ſtill borne away by his depravity, he went from home to ſpend the little money that he had left in a tavern.

Accident that evening threw two men into his com⯑pany who were employed to raiſe recruits for India. They remarked upon his countenance the embarraſſment with which his ſoul was agitated, winked to one another, and began to talk of India. They deſcribed the beauty of the country, and what pay was given to the ſoldiery. They ſpoke of the advantages that a youth of family might meet with there, and what a probability there was, that ſuch a one might make his fortune: nay, they went ſo far as to aſſert that many, to their knowledge, had from [195]private ſoldiers been made officers, and married wealthy widows.

Paſcal heard this converſation with avidity, joined in the diſcourſe, and enquired if it was difficult to be en⯑liſted with theſe ſoldiers. If you wiſh to enliſt, ſaid they, we can oblige you, though we have more recruits by many than we want; but you, by your appearance, ſeem to claim the preference; and thereupon they offered him five guineas if he would enter.

After ſome ſlight ſtruggles, Paſcal took the guineas, and enliſted. The remainder of the night he ſpent in drinking; and when morning came, was ſent to learn his exerciſe. He found himſelf ſurrounded by a ſet of auk⯑ward ruſtics, runaway apprentices, notorious beggars, and convicted thieves, who had enliſted to eſcape the gal⯑lows. He was under the tuition of a ſurly corporal, who loaded him from time to time with curſes, and ſeverely caned him, when he could not comprehend his meaning.

Paſcal's miſery went on from day to day encreaſing. All the money that he had lately touched at parting with his freedom, was already gone in riot. He had nothing to ſubſiſt on but the coarſe proviſion granted by the com⯑pany to keep their new recruits together. Lubberkin, who had been a ſwine-herd, and was then his comrade, was much better off. He had been always uſed to [...]ive on o [...]ten bread, and therefore thought himſelf a prince, when he could get a bit of half-baked meat. But what were Paſcal's feelings, when, partaking of ſuch coarſe pro⯑viſions, he reflected on the delicacies of his former repaſts!

Some days after came an order for the ſoldiers to em⯑bark. Paſcal heard this news with much more ſatisfac⯑tion than the people round about him thought he would have teſtified. If once you get to India, ſaid he to him⯑ſelf, as you are young, and of a likely figure, you will make your fortune, as a multitude of Engliſhmen have done before you.

In the midſt of all theſe brilliant proſpects, Paſcal went on board the veſſel deſtined to tranſport him and his com⯑rades. He drank down a glaſs or two of brandy at the moment of embarking, and the [...] ſerved to warm hi [...] head, and to make him utterly forget his parents. He went off with mad huzzas. But then the joy with which he ut⯑tered theſe huzzas continued hardly longer than the [196]drunkenneſs that cauſed them. Thoſe on board who were now for the firſt time in their life at ſea, began to feel a death-like ſickneſs. Paſcal, whoſe intemperance had hurt his inſide much, endured a great deal more than any other. He was ſeveral days inſenſible, and nothing ſtaid upon his ſtomach. Even the ſight of food diſguſted him; and when at laſt he grew a little better, and was hungry, mouldy peaſe, ſalt beef, and biſcuits full of mag⯑gots, were the only victuals that he could procure. When he firſt ſet ſail, the ſoldiers had a pint of beer each allowed them; but by degrees they were deprived of this indul⯑gence, and compelled to put up with a bare ſufficiency of water, and even this they were obliged to ſtrain before they could drink it.

After ſix long months inceſſant ſuffering, during all which time they were in fear of continual ſhipwreck, they arrived in India, wearied out with watchings for the moſt part, and a dreadful ſcurvy. Paſcal was marched up the country, with his comrades, to the army: but his heart, embittered by the horror of his ſituation, was inſenſible of any thing like goodneſs. His abandoned courſe of life, the crimes that he was inceſſantly committing, and his numberleſs deſertions, frequently ſubjected him to pu⯑niſhment. He was determined, if he could, to quit theſe regions, watched his opportunity, and ſtealing on board a veſſel bound to England, hid himſelf below till it had ſailed; nor did he quit his hiding place, till the ſhip was a great way out to ſea: he then came ſorth, and being brought before the captain, promiſed to work his paſſage to England; which the captain in the end accepted, as the veſſel was in want of men.

What, in the interim, was become of his unhappy pa⯑rents? They alas! ſtill lived, if people may be ſaid to live whoſe ſad days are ſpent in anguiſh and deſpair. The crimes which their ſon had committed, and with which the neighbourhood all around them rung, had forced them to renounce their place of habitation, and go down and live in Suſſex, in a ſolitary quarter near the ſea.

A ſhort time after they were ſettled here, the ſhip, in which Paſcal was, arrived on that very part of the coaſt where they had fixed their retirement. For while they were a little way out to ſea, Paſcal, a thorough graduate in vice, had conſpired with ten or twelve deſperate fellows [197]of the crew, to murder every one on board who would not join in their conſpiracy, and ſo obtain poſſeſſion of the ſhip. They executed their infernal purpoſe; and ſoon after running the veſſel aſhore, they hoiſted out their boat at night, that they might come on ſhore, and pillage the inhabitants.

That very night the unhappy Mr. Dawkins in his houſe was up, and watching by his wife's ſick bed. Her grief for Paſcal's wretched fortune had long preyed upon her conſtitution; and by this time, after having ſuffered grievouſly, ſhe felt the agonies of death upon her. In the intervals of her delirium, ſhe called out for Paſcal: Where, where are you, ſaid the dying mother? Come, that I may preſs you to my heart, and pardon you before I die. At this the door is ſuddenly burſt open, and ten villains ruſh into the dwelling. Paſcal, with a hatchet in his hand, was firſt, and led them on. The father comes to meet them with a candle; but before his ſon could recollect him—The remainder is too horrid to relate: ſuffice it, that Paſcal and his gang were apprehended on the ſpot, and ſuffered at the gallows.

Children, if when you have read this ſtory, you dare think of giving way to any vice whatſoever, tremble at the poſſibility of your becoming criminal by degrees, and ending like Paſcal with the crime of parricide!