The children's friend: Translated from the French of M. Berquin; complete in four volumes. Ornamented with frontispieces. [pt.4]

THE CHILDREN'S FRIEND.

GEORGE.

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

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

It was his first design to carry away the nest; however, upon second thoughts, he was contented with one egg; and having taken it, ran home. He met his sister by the way, and thus addressed her: "See this little egg. I found it in a nest: there were five others with it." "Let me have it in my hand;" said George's sister. She exa|mines it, returns it to her brother, and then asks a second time to have it. In the end, they roll it up and down a

table, just as if it were a ball. One shoves it one way, and the other pushes it another way, till, in the midst of their diversion, it falls down and breaks. They cry, and mutually accuse each other as the cause of such a great misfortune.

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

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

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

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

My little fellow, I can easily believe you, said the mo|ther. Should you do bad actions for the pleasure which some suppose there is in doing them, you would in that

case have a very wicked heart, and I should be quite sorry that I had such a son: but that I do not fear; for, on the contrary, I know you to be a very good boy.

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

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

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

near it, upon little islands, and at times upon the shore itself.

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

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

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

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

When the mother sits alone, the cock will bring her victuals, and sit by to please her with his music. When the little ones are once alive, they help them to get clear

of their confinement in the egg. Their diligence is now redoubled; they do every thing to nourish and defend them, and are constantly employed in this interesting office. They go very far indeed to get their food, and make an equal distribution of it, every one receiving in its turn what they have brought. As long as they are very young and helpless, they contrive to bring them vic|tuals suited to their delicacy; but when once they are grown strong and older, they provide them food more solid.

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

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

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

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

JAMES.

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

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

he pursued the hands of those who held them, and his own were in a sort of convulsion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

difference, some thought that he took the least, and he was much more satisfied that day than the preceding.

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

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

MAN IS BEST AS HE IS.

Mr. Linton, having in his hand a dead parrot stuffed, comes in, ascends a chair, and ties it to a cord already hanging from the cicling.

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

(He puts the chair into its place again, and then goes out.)

Frederic,

(entering a moment afterwards.)

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

(He looks round about the apartment; and, at last, spies the parrot hanging to the cicling.)

Ah! ha! there he is!

(He takes a run, and jumps with all his might, but wants about three feet, or more, to reach the parrot.)

If I were but as active as our greyhound.

(He pulls a chair into the middle of the room, and getting on it, is as yet too short; he stands on tip|tor, and then jumps, but all without effect. He instantly comes

down, and runs to fetch a folio volume, lettered Plutarch on the back; he puts this volume on the chair, mounts on it, and holds out his hands.)

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

(He bends his knees to spring, when Marcus entering perceives him, and hums the following words.)

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

(He pulls him by the coat till he comes down, then mounts in his stead, and lifting both his hands, is still a great way from the parrot.)

Frederic,

(bursting out into a laugh.)

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

Marcus.

But if I step upon the book?

(He stands upon it, is a little nearer, but not near enough to touch the parrot. Frederic jumps about the chair, and laughs incessantly.)

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

Frederic.

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

Marcus.

Not that I care about it.

Frederic.

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

Marcus.

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

Frederic,

(bo••ering Marcus.)

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

Marcus.

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

Frederic.

Yes, with all my heart.

(They come together, bock to back, and make the most of their respective heights:

but Frederic stands a tip-toe. Marcus is astonished to see him as tall as himself, till locking down he sees the reason.)

Marcus.

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

Frederic,

(then appearing greatly shorter than his brother.)

It is a plaguy thing to be so short!

Mr. Linton,

(coming in.)

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

Frederic.

You have been watching us then, papa?

Mr. Linton.

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

Marcus.

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

Mr. Linton.

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

Marcus.

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

Mr. Linton.

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

Marcus.

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

Frederic.

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

Mr. Linton.

And why pray?

Frederic.

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

Marcus.

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

Frederic.

I should not fear the carriages, when I had occasion to cross the street. It would be only shaddling,

—Lock ye,—thus:

(he strides,)

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

Marcus.

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

Frederic.

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

Marcus.

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

Mr. Linton.

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

Marcus.

How, papa, two blockheads?

Mr. Linton.

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

Marcus.

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

Frederic.

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

Mr. Linton.

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

Frederic.

Certainly, papa.

Marcus.

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

Mr. Linton.

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

Frederic.

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

Mr. Linton.

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

Frederic.

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

Marcus,

(to his father.)

You do not wish then to be bigger?

Mr. Linton.

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

Frederic.

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

Mr. Linton.

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

Frederic.

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

Marcus.

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

Mr. Linton.

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

Frederic.

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

Mr. Linton.

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

Frederic.

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

Marcus.

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

Mr. Linton.

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

Marcus.

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

Mr. Linton.

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

Marcus.

Truly, but a very few indeed.

Mr. Linton.

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

Marcus.

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

Mr. Linton.

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

Marcus.

And why not, dear papa?

Mr. Linton.

Can you inform me what proportion means?

Marcus.

Proportion? No.

Mr. Linton.

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

Marcus.

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

Mr. Linton.

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

Marcus.

I am; unfortunately.

Mr. Linton.

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

Marcus.

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

Mr. Linton.

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

Marcus.

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

Mr. Linton.

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

Marcus.

Ah! I understand you now.

Mr. Linton.

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

Marcus.

Yes, yes; I see he would.

Mr. Linton.

Frederic, have you heard us?

Frederic.

Yes, papa.

Mr. Linton.

And understood the meaning of propor|tion?

Frederic.

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

Mr. Linton.

But can you give me an example?

Frederic.

I believe, I can

(after having thought a little)

as thus: It would be in vain for me to tell my brother, with a boast, that when three years were past, I should be

three years older: he would still be oldest, as he also would be three years older than he is at present.

Mr. Linton.

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

Frederic.

Yes, that is plain.

Mr. Linton.

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

Frederic.

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

Mr. Linton.

And would the carriages then pass between your legs?

Frederic.

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

Mr. Linton.

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

Marcus.

I do not see any.

Mr. Linton.

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

Marcus.

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

Frederic.

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

Marcus.

Why not?

Mr. Linton.

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

Marcus.

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

Mr. Linton.

Why, truly, there might be some savings!

Marcus.

And besides, we should not then have cause to go to war with one another, as a place no bigger than our garden, would be large enough to build a mighty city. Men therefore, having much more room than they want,

would never go to war with one another (as I have heard you say that they do) to obtain an inch or two of land.

Mr. Linton.

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

Marcus.

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

Mr. Linton.

In general.

Marcus.

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

Mr. Linton.

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

Marcus.

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

Mr. Linton.

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

Marcus.

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

Mr. Linton.

Only to confound yourself; for granting this proportionality of littleness, and men immediately lose all the advantage that you would give them. Their deficient harvests would not keep them from the fear of

famine, and their wars, while they were no less frequent or ferocious than at present, would be more ridiculous. The inferior animals would still have finer organs, and more delicate sensations; and perhaps too, with his littleness, which could not but be laughed at, he would take upon him, as you do, to alter and reform the uni|verse.

Marcus.

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

Frederic.

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

Mr. Linton.

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

Frederic.

Yes, as well as Marcus.

Mr. Linton.

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

Frederic.

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

Mr. Linton.

And why so?

Frederic.

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

Mr. Linton.

My poor little man! I am sorry for it.

Frederic.

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

Mr. Linton.

I feel the sear indeed.

Frederic.

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

Mr. Linton.

That it would indeed!

Frederic.

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

Mr. Linton,

(taking out an orange.)

See here, my little fellow: smell this orange.

Frederic.

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

Mr. Linton.

No: it is not for you.

Marcus.

For me, then?

Mr. Linton.

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

Marcus.

And who is that, papa?

Mr. Linton.

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

Frederic.

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

Mr. Linton.

And yet he is made of iron.

Frederic.

Yes: and for that very reason he cannot.

Mr. Linton.

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

Frederic.

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

Mr. Linton.

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

Frederic.

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

Marcus.

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

Mr. Linton.

And why should I provide one? I am mar|vellously satisfied with that which God's providence has already established. Yes, dear children, I am sensible, we are completely furnished with whatever can promote our happiness; superior in our conformation to all other ani|mals, we tame, by virtue of our genius, the small number of those which in strength surpass us. If we have not the rapidity of stags and horses, we can make that composi|tion which will overtake the one while he is running from

us, and can mount the other to direct him whither we think proper. We have not the wings of a bird, yet we can give wings to those tall trees that grow in scrests, and can make them carry us to the remotest distances. Our sight, less piercing than an insect's, is not bounded to the narrow space in which we move about, but can take in an ample horizon, and contemplate the great mi|racles of nature. We are unable to gaze, like an eagle, at the sun; but we invent an instrument which seems to draw us nearer to that luminary, so that we may measure his immensity of distance, and observe the place which he possesses in the midst of an infinity of stars that are ob|scured by his superior brightness. Every other sense that we have, contributes likewise to procure us a succession of enjoyments, and effect our safety. Conscious of our genius, we are every day in search of new discoveries; we disarm the thunder, or else tell it where to fall; we make one element resist another; we oppose the beneficial warmth of fire to the inclemency of frost; and keep the land from being overflowed by inundations. Sometimes we descend into the darkest bowels of the earth, and bring out thence those precious metals which are purified, and then, by an ingenious mode of mixing them together, form new substances; and sometimes we mark out those rocks which hang just ready, as it were, to fall upon our heads, precipitate them from their height into the vallies, and soon after make them re-ascend in sumptuous edifices, or in stately pyramids that hide their summits in the clouds. The society that we form with our fellow crea|tures, for the satisfaction of our mutual wants, obtains us, in return for our own toil, the labour of ten thousand hands, all eager to procure us the conveniencies of life. Upon whatever side we turn, we have at our command the various productions of the universe, all brought toge|ther for our use. The sciences exalt our souls, and charm our faculties. The arts, by having introduced such num|berless machines, assist us in our labour, or refresh us when we seek repose. Both memory and reflection give us the advantages enjoyed by all those who have preceded us. Together with the pleasing idea of our own personal existence, we derive happiness from others also, by the virtues of compassion and beneficence, and by the con|nexions of kindred and of friendship. Nevertheless, our

happiness depends upon ourselves alone, amid the host of creatures that surround us, being sure of obtaining it, if we but moderately use our strength, and make a constant application of our reason to the business of determining our conduct; so that, if we ever interrupt our happiness by going further than we should do, we have nothing to blame, in that case, but our own folly. We then seem children as you are, who, instead of gratefully enjoying the conveniencies and comforts of our situation, and cou|rageously enduring its few evils, vex ourselves with wish|ing for ideal blessings, or disgrace our nature by a lack of manly courage.

FASHIONABLE EDUCATION.

A DRAMA, in ONE ACT.

CHARACTERS.

• ...MRS. BELLASTON.
• ...LEONORA, her Niece.
• ...DAVID, her Nephew.
• ...MR. VINCENT, a Clergyman, formerly Tutor to the Children's Father.
• ...DANDIPRAT, a Dancing-master.
• ...FANNY, a Waiting Maid.

The SCENE is in the house of Mrs. Bellaston.

SCENE I.

Mrs. Bellaston, Mr. Vincent.

Mrs. Bellaston.

NO, I cannot forgive you, Mr. Vincent, What! not come and see your well|beloved little friends, or me, these five years past!

Mr. Vincent.

Consider, my good lady, the inevitable duties of my parish, the bad state in which my health is, and the fear of accidents upon the road.

Mrs. Bellaston.

What, forty miles! a very long journey, truly!

Mr. Vincent.

Long to me, who cannot easily change place. My bodily infirmities no longer permit me to go a gadding, and especially so far from home.

Mrs. Bellaston.

And pray, to what powerful motive, Mr. Vincent, do we owe this instance of your resolution?

Mr. Vincent.

To the great desire that I had of seeing Leonora and her brother, once more, I may say, before I die.

Mrs. Bellaston.

Ah! there is a fine girl! Leonora! one might come to view her from the furthest corner of the world! Oh, such an understanding and vivacity!

Mr. Vincent.

Indeed you make me very anxious, Mrs. Bellaston, to behold her. Pray, where is she? I long to embrace her.

Mrs. Bellaston.

She has not left her toilet yet.

Mr. Vincent.

Not at this late hour! And David, why is not he yet come from school? I thought he would have long ago been here, and waiting to receive me.

Mrs. Bellaston.

You remember, it was a little late when your arrival was announced last night. The servants have been very bosy all this morning, and my niece's waiting|woman could not leave her.

Mr. Vincent.

Pray oblige me, by dispatching some one instantly for David; and in the interval, I will go up stairs and see his sister.

Mrs. Bellaston.

No, no, Mr. Vincent; the surprise of seeing you might overcome her spirits: I will prepare her for the interview.

(She goes out.)

SCENE II.

Mr. Vincent, (alone.)

As far as I can see into the matter, Mrs. Bellaston brings her niece up by the plan that regulated her own education, and permits her to employ a deal of time in setting off her person to the best advantage, like a doll intended for the window of a toy-shop. Happy, if these trifles have not caused her to neglect the cultivation of her understanding.

SCENE III.

Mr. Vincent, Mrs. Bellaston.

Mrs. Bellaston,

(returning.)

I have sent for David; and Leonora is coming down this instant. She has but one feather more to settle.

Mr. Vincent.

How! one feather! Can you suppose that I care about a feather more or less? Should not her anxi|ety to see me be as great as mine is?

Mrs. Bellaston.

Certainly it should, and is; but then her wish to give you pleasure—

Mr. Vincent.

Possibly it will not be her feathers that will do that; but, if I recollect, you told me that you had sent to fetch your nephew?

Mrs. Bellaston,

(somewhat piqued.)

Oh, my nephew! You will have time enough for David.

Mr. Vincent.

You speak as if I was not to expect great things from him.

Mrs. Bellaston.

He is far from being vicious; but he will not attend to my instructions on the subject of good breeding.

Mr. Vincent.

What, is he unpolished, wild, or rustic?

Mrs. Bellaston.

No, not that. They tell me that his head is well stored with useful knowledge, as they call it; but that je ne sçai quoi which well bred people possess, and that bon ton—

Mr. Vincent.

If that be all that he wants, he is not a great way from perfection;—but his heart?

Mrs. Bellaston.

I think it neither good nor bad: but Leonora! how accomplished she is! what enchanting manners! As for David, we do not see one another often.

Mr. Vincent.

And why not?

Mrs. Bellaston.

For fear of taking him from his beloved studies; and because, when he comes here, he pays no heed to what I tell him on the way of living in the fashion|able world. Besides, he cannot express himself with any sort of grace. I sometimes carry him into the company of women, and he never has a handsome word to say.

Mr. Vincent.

Because, as I suppose, the conversation turns upon matters to which he is quite a stranger.

Mrs. Bellaston.

But sure a wellbred youth should never be a stranger to such topics as are started in the company of women!

Mr. Vincent.

A respectful silence suits his present age; and it is his business to be silent, and so learn to speak in future, when his turn comes round.

Mrs. Bellaston.

And would you make the youth a doll, that is not to have motion till his wheels are on? But you shall hear my Leonora talk: she does it with such ease! such spirit! such vivacity! There is no such thing as fol|lowing her, when once she is set a going.

Mr. Vincent.

We shall see which of them will be most entitled to my love. You cannot but remember, how I promised at their father's death to look upon them as my own. I will perform this sacred duty. As I cannot tell how long I have to live, I am come to see these children, and to know their different characters; which I design to study, so that I may regulate accordingly the final dispo|sition of my fortune in their favour.

Mrs. Bellaston.

Such proceeding is entirely of a piece with every former token of your gratitude and generosity. My brother even in his grave feels your beneficence: and how can I express my obligations to you as I ought, for Leonora and her brother?

Mr. Vincent.

What you call beneficence, dear lady, in me, is no more than duty. Your esteemed and worthy father trusted to my care the education of his son, your brother; and this brother, anxious for his tutor's happi|ness, presented me the living that I possess. To him I am indebted, therefore, for my present happiness; and as I have myself no children, his belong to me, and have a right even while I am living, and much more after I am dead, to all the worldly fortune that I possess, and which I study to increase for their advantage, and no other pur|pose.

Mrs. Bellaston.

I can easily believe you, and in that case Leonora, as the loveliest—

Mr. Vincent.

If I make distinctions, it will not be upon account of frivolous, or outside beauty; but supe|rior virtue, or superior merit in them, will obtain the preference.

Mrs. Bellaston.

Ah! here Leonora comes.

SCENE IV.

Mr. Vincent, Mrs. Bellaston, and Leonora, (dressed in all the extravagance of fashion.)

Mr. Vincent,

(with astonishment.)

How! Is this then Leonora?

Mrs. Bellaston.

You are surprised, I see, to find her at first sight so captivating.

(To Leonora.)

You have made us wait a little, my sweet girl.

Leonora,

(making a ceremonious curtsey to Mr. Vincent.)

Because the servant could not place my feathers to my liking, notwithstanding she removed them half a dozen times. I sent her off at last quite out of humour, and did every thing myself.—I hope I see you well, sir.

Mr. Vincent,

(going towards her, and affectionately hold|ing out his hand.)

And I hope, my dear Leonora—

(Leonora turns away, and seems indifferent.)

Well!—are you unwilling to consider me as if I were your father?

Mrs. Bellaston.

Yes, my dear; your father and your benefactor. I request

(to Mr. Vincent)

you would excuse her: she has always been brought up in modesty, and I have constantly enjoined her a reserve.

Mr. Vincent.

She would not sure have violated either, by receiving me as children do a father. I must likewise tenderly reproach her for the circumstance of having staid so long up stairs, while I was all impatience to behold her.

Leonora.

Pardon me, dear sir; I was not fit to come before you with propriety.

Mr. Vincent.

But surely a young lady should be always fit to come before a plain man, as I am, with propriety! A modest and decent undress is all that she wants, for such a purpose, when at home.

Mrs. Bellaston.

You are right: but to receive a guest like Mr. Vincent! the respect which she owes you whis|pered the necessity of putting on—

Mr. Vincent.

One feather less; and might have whis|pered the propriety of being eager to come f••rth and meet a friend who travels forty miles to see her. Yes, I own, my heart would have been infinitely more delighted to behold my children—for the tenderness with which I

think at all times of them, and the gratitude which I owe their father, makes them such; and therefore I repeat it —to behold my children run with open arms to meet me!

Mrs. Bellaston.

But the awe that seized her at first sight of you—

Mr. Vincent.

Let us drop the subject. When you see me next, you will receive me more affectionately. Won't you, Leonora? You are not displeased that I speak thus freely to you? I was used to such a language in your childhood: and the five long years that I have passed without once seeing you, have made no alteration in my heart. I hope, even when you are married, that I shall have permission to continue such a sweet familiarity.

Leonora.

It will be doing me a deal of honour.

Mr. Vincent.

Oh! no more of these same ceremonious compliments! Say only that it will give you pleasure. But how much you are altered for the better since I saw you last! An elegant appearance, easy manners, and a carriage—

Mrs. Bellaston.

Oh! quite charming! quite adorable!

Mr. Vincent.

And yet all this is nothing, if one wants the grace of modesty, the charm of affability, the sweet expression, goodness marks the countenance withal, and that perpetual source of pleasure, a well cultivated under|standing.

Mrs. Bellaston.

Yes, that sort of cultivation which can only be pursued by intercourse with fashionable people.

Mr. Vincent.

Fashionable people, madam? And is Leonora to spend her life with such? I have nothing left to wish her, if she has but those endearing qualities that may obtain her honour amongst a well chosen circle of acquaintances, at times indeed abroad, but commonly at home; ensuring her the approbation of her friends, and of her own heart.

Mrs. Bellaston.

Yes, yes; that is always understood. I mean that she should learn what sort of conduct will pro|cure her honour and respect from such as know what life is, as we say. Come, Leonora, let us hear you play some pretty piece on your harpsichord.

Leonora.

No, dear aunt; it might not be acceptable to Mr. Vincent.

Mr. Vincent.

Not acceptable, my dearest child! I am quite delighted when I hear good music; and think no amusement more proper for you.

Mrs. Bellaston.

What more worthy of our admiration, than those charming sciences called drawing, music, dan|cing, and perhaps, too, some few others? Leonora, give us that sweet air of Signor Squalini's composition.

(Leonora goes to her harpsichord with a discontented air, fingers the keys, and begins a sonata.)

No, no; you must sing too, Leonora.—She has such a voice, Mr. Vincent!—so sweet! —You will hear it. If you knew how much applause she got for her performance at the concert, you would be per|fectly astonished. You must know, however, she is a little vain; and one must sometimes kneel, or not a note—

Mr. Vincent.

I hope I shall obtain a note, without pro|ceeding to that ceremony.—Shan't I, Leonora?

Leonora.

Sir, your commands are sufficient at any time.

Mr. Vincent.

No, my dear; I do not command, I only request.

Leonora,

(in a whisper to her aunt, while looking for the air.)

I am indebted for all this to you!

Mrs. Bellaston,

(whispering Leonora.)

For heaven's sake, Leonora, seem more cheerful; and do every thing that you are asked. Your fortune very possibly depends upon it.

Mr. Vincent.

If your voice, my love, is not so clear as you could wish, no matter: only sing your best, and you are sure to please me.

(Leonora plays, and sings the following words.)

Sweetly smelling flower, Thus waking with the morning hour, Go to my Laura's breast, and grace With added fragrance, that already fragrant place; So thou wilt bloom indeed:— But like a useless weed If on the stalk, here, thou remain, Thy beauty will decay; Thy fragrance pass away; And thy bright colours glow in vain.

Mrs. Bellaston,

(clapping her hands.)

Bravo! bravissimo!

Mr. Vincent.

In truth it is not so much amiss, consi|dering she is but a child. However, I supposed that I

should have heard a song containing something of the principles with which, no doubt, you study to inspire her.

Mrs. Bellaston.

How, dear sir! do not you perceive the moral of it?

(She sings.)

If on the stalk, here, thou remain, Thy beauty will decay; Thy fragrance pass away; And thy bright colours glow in vain.

Which is as much as saying, our young women should come forth and mingle with the world, if they would turn their knowledge to advantage, and not die shut up within their houses.

Mr. Vincent.

Trust me, my dear lady, it is much rather there than elsewhere that worthy husbands will be glad to find them. But what is this?

(casting his eyes upon a drawing.)

Mrs. Bellaston.

That is one of Leonora's doing. Do not you find it charming?

Mr. Vincent.

It is not bad indeed, if Leonora did it all without the assistance of her master.

Mrs. Bellaston.

Why, to say the truth, sir, he has touched it up a little.

Mr. Vincent.

My opinion here again is, that Leonora would have shown more judgment in selecting something of a different subject; as for instance, if instead of repre|senting thus a sleeping shepherdess surprised by a filthy faun, she had applied her pencil to set forth some virtuous action: that would have improved her hand as much, while it improved her heart still more.

SCENE V.

Mrs. Bellaston, Mr. Vincent, Leonora, Fanny.

Fanny.

Sir,

(to Mr. Vincent,)

your portmante••u is ar|rived—Where will you have it put!—In your apart|ment?

Mr. Vincent,

(to Mrs. Bellaston.)

Do you mean then, my good lady, that I shall have my lodging with you?

Mrs. Bellaston.

Certainly; and by accepting it, you will do me no less honour than I myself have pleasure in the offer.

Mr. Vincent.

You oblige me. Therefore, with permis|sion, I will go see if every thing is right, and return im|mediately.

SCENE VI.

Mrs. Bellaston, Leonora.

Leonora.

He is gone at last, then! is he?

Mrs. Bellaston.

Softy, softly, Leonora! he may chance to hear you.

Leonora.

Let him hear me, if he pleases. I am so vexed, I could destroy my drawings, tear my music book, and dash my instrument to pieces.

Mrs. Bellaston.

Be composed, my dear! you have occa|sion now for all your moderation.

Leonora.

It is enough, I think, that I shewed my mo|deration in his presence. You yourself both saw and heard him.

Mrs. Bellaston.

People of his age have always many oddities.

Leonora.

Why then expose me to them? You should not have said a word about my singing, aunt. I did not like to sing. This always comes of your desire to shew me to the best advantage, as you say; and though you see the mischief, you will repeat it when he comes again.

Mrs. Bellaston.

My dearest Leonora, be persuaded: You do not know, perhaps, that your fortune in the world depends on Mr. Vincent.

Leonora.

What! my fortune?

Mrs. Bellaston.

Yes, indeed. Must I inform you how much you are indebted to his bounty?

Leonora.

Oh! I know: as far as certain petty presents amount, which he sends me now and then. But surely I could do without his presents!

Mrs. Bellaston.

Ah, my dearest child! without him you would be exceedingly unhappy. What your father left you is a very trifle; and my income no great matter. With the assistance of these means alone, it was not pos|sible that I could have given you such an education as you have.

Leonora.

And is it possible that I am so indebted to him? Does he likewise shew himself a friend and benefactor to my mother?

Mrs. Bellaston.

Yes; it is he that pays his board and education.

Leonora.

I was never told of this.

Mrs. Bellaston.

Since you have never wanted any thing, what need was there to tell you of it? You observe by this, of what importance you should think it to keep watch upon your conduct, and behave to Mr. Vincent with respect.—But still, my dear, this is not all; for he is come expressly for the purpose of observing you and David before ••e makes his will, and gives you his estate accordingly—to each, as he supposes you to deserve it.

Leonora.

Oh! how sorry I am now that I seemed so vexed and fretted in his presence!

Mrs. Bellaston.

He is certainly a worthy man; but still was much to blame in ••earing with such coldness your sweet voice, and not appearing charmed with your harp|sichord. But, however that be, you must absolutely seek to please him, or your brother will obtain a preference in his will.

Leonora.

Alas! he merits it much more than I do.

Mrs. Bellaston.

More? You have too mean opinion of yourself, my sweetest, if you think so! And besides, if he should really obtain a preference, what would be your destiny? A man can always make his way through life, but what resources can a woman have?

Leonora.

What indeed! Your argument convinces me that I should have learnt things much more necessary than the use of a harpsichord, dancing, or even drawing.

Mrs. Bellaston.

Why, you simpleton! with such a for|tune as by Mr. Vincent's favour you have reason to hope, what can you desire in preference to the arts of shining in a fashionable circle? Mr. Vincent must be won: and with a little complaisance, if you but shew it, you may do whatever you think proper with him.

SCENE VII.

Mrs. Bellaston, Leonora, Fanny.

Fanny.

Mr. Dandiprat, the dancing-master, madam.

Mrs. Bellaston.

Well, desire him to walk up.

(The ser|vant retires.)

Leonora.

No, aunt; let him be sent away to-day, I beg, or I shall once again fret Mr. Vincent.

Mrs. Bellaston.

He must absolutely see you dance; you move with so much ease, you will charm him, I am cer|tain.

(Going to the door.)

Mr. Dandiprat, come in.

SCENE VIII.

Mrs. Bellaston, Leonora, Dandiprat.

Mrs. Bellaston.

I appeal to you, sir; does not Leonora dance like an angel?

Dandiprat,

(bowing.)

Absolutely, madam.

Mrs. Bellaston.

Very likely I shall have a friend come here to see her dance a little. You will oblige me there|fore if you make her shew her skill as much as possible, to please him.

Dandiprat.

Certainly, madam; and my own skill too, you may depend on it.

SCENE IX.

Mrs. Bellaston, Leonora, Dandiprat, Mr. Vincent.

Mrs. Bellaston.

A-propos; for here he comes.

(To Mr. Vincent entering.)

A chair for Mr. Vincent.—Here,— here, my dear sir.—You are come in time for Leonora's dancing lesson; you must see how she performs. You would take her for a zephyr!—Mr. Dandiprat, pray let your pupil dance the new allemand.

Leonora.

I cannot dance it by myself.

Mrs. Bellaston.

Fear nothing! Mr. Dandiprat will dance with you; and I will hum the tune. Come, never fear! I will keep good time.

Mr. Vincent.

But what hinders us from having a mi|nuet? I like that best, and beg to have it.

Dandiprat.

I shall not perform it with a grace, if I must play as well as dance.

Mr. Vincent.

Sir, it is not your performance that we consider, but your pupil's.

Dandiprat.

You would judge much better of her merit in a grand chaconne.

Mr. Vincent.

Chaconne! what is that?

Dandiprat.

It is in the higher stile of dancing.

Mr. Vincent.

But Leonora never means to figure at the Opera-house. I want a minuet.

Dandiprat.

As you please, sir. Come then, miss; a minuet.

(Leonora dances; Dandiprat moves with her, play|ing on his kit, and interrupts his music now and then with these instructions.)

Your head a little higher.—Shoulders back.—Let your arms play freely.—Sink.—One, two, and three.—Your partner.—Look at me.

Mr. Vincent,

(when the minuet is finished.)

Come, this is tolerable, Leonora.

(To Dandiprat.)

Sir, your lesson, if you please, is finished for to-day.

(Dandiprat makes a ceremonious bow to the company, and leaves the room.)

Leonora,

(whispering Mrs. Bellaston.)

Well, aunt, you see what compliments I have had?

Mrs. Bellaston.

And is it possible, my dear good sir, that you are not enchanted, ravished, nay transported? Surely your attention was diverted; or perhaps you are not recovered yet from the fatigue that your journey has occasioned you?

Mr. Vincent.

I beg your pardon, madam. I have al|ready signified to Leonora how I liked her dancing; but you would not surely see me in a transport at her merit in this way? No: I reserve my extasy for merit much more proper to excite it.

SCENE X.

Mrs. Bellaston, Leonora, Mr. Vincent, David.

David,

(running into the room towards Mr. Vincent, and ambracing him with ardour.)

O my dear, dear Mr. Vincent! my good friend and father! How rejoiced I am to see you!

Mrs. Bellaston.

How the boy rushes in! Do you mean to stifle Mr. Vincent?

Mr. Vincent.

Let him do it, my good madam; for the transports of his joy delight me more than cold and cere|monious salutations. Yes, my dearest David! come here, and let me press you to my heart. What pleasing recol|lection you awake within me! Yes, these open features are the living image of your dear departed father!

Mrs. Bellaston.

Why not put your best clothes on? Do people see friends in that trim?

David.

But aunt, it would have cost me half an hour at least to change my dress, and put my hair in order; and I never should have had the patience to delay so long the pleasure of seeing Mr. Vincent.

Mr. Vincent.

And I too, my dear boy, was quite im|patient, and thought every minute half an hour between the time of my arrival and this moment.

Mrs. Bellaston.

Well, sir; have you nothing then to say to me or Leonora? You have not so much as wished us a good morning.

David.

Pardon me, dear aunt! I was so glad, I did not know what I was doing. And do you forgive me too, dear sister,

(holding out his hand,)

if without intention I have displeased you. Have I, Leonora?

Leonora,

(half offended.)

No, sir.

Mr. Vincent.

Excuse him, madam, upon my account! I should be sorry to be the occasion of reproach to him.

Mrs. Bellaston,

(aside.)

I can hold no longer!—Be so kind, good sir, as to excuse me: I have several orders to give the servants.

Mr. Vincent.

Do not confine yourself on my account.

Mrs. Bellaston,

(whispering Leonora.)

You will hardly stay and hear their insupportable discourse?—

(Aloud.)

Come, Leonora, I have something to employ you in.

Leonora.

No, aunt, I will stay with Mr. Vincent, if he will please to let me.

Mr. Vincent.

Let you, my dear child! I shall be glad to have you with me.

(Mrs. Bellaston goes out with mani|fest vexation.)

SCENE XI.

Mr. Vincent, Leonora, David.

Mr. Vincent.

Well, David; is your master well pleased with out benaviour and improvement?

David.

He himself, sir, is the proper person to answer that. One thing however I can say, that I am pretty well established in his favour.

Mr. Vincent.

What are you studying at present?

David.

Latin, Greek, and geography; the history of England, and the mathematics.

Leonora,

(aside.)

Here are many things that I scarcely know by name!

Mr. Vincent.

And pray tell me, do you like them?

David.

Oh! the more I learn, the more I wish to go on learning; and am not the lowest in my class, neither.

Mr. Vincent.

Then too, your drawing, music, dan|cing—

David.

Those too I am learning; but apply myself much more, this sultry weather, to the music-master and my drawing, as the doctor says that I must not exercise myself too violently. In return, when Winter comes, I shall apply myself more closely to my dancing, when a deal of jumping will be comfortable.

Mr. Vincent.

Why your plan, I must acknowledge, seems well laid.

David.

Besides, sir, I shall never give a deal of time to dancing; hardly more than what the doctor lets me have for recreation. The essential thing, he tells me, is to form my heart, and cultivate my understanding, so that I may live with honour in the world, become a useful mem|ber of society, and make myself by that means happy.

Mr. Vincent,

(embracing him.)

You are in the right, dear boy!

Leonora,

(aside.)

If these are so essential, how has my aunt neglected me!

David.

And yet, dear sir, though you embrace and love me so, I am not, perhaps, so good as you imagine.

Mr. Vincent.

How?

David.

I am very giddy, and I waste my time. I can|not rid myself of several exceptionable habits; and for

want of thought, relapse into those very faults for which I have so frequently been sorry.

Mr. Vincent.

And will you still relapse into them?

David.

Not if I have my thoughts about me; but I find it very difficult to keep in memory, at all times, my good resolutions.

Mr. Vincent.

I am very glad to find that you can discern yourself these faults within you. To acknowledge that we do wrong, is something akin to doing well. What think you, Leonora?

Leonora.

I believe, I am neither giddy, nor yet waste|ful of my time; nor have I any of my brother's faults.

Mr. Vincent.

Then I suppose you have other faults?

Leonora.

I never heard my aunt say that I had any.

Mr. Vincent.

She should know indeed, and be the first to notice them; but affection too often blinds us, so that we can see no faults in those that we love.—I do not mean to vex you, saying this, believe me.

Leonora,

(aside.)

What a man! He flatters David, and answers me with nothing but vexatious speeches!

Mr. Vincent.

Wait here a little. I will go see if my servant has unpacked my trunks. I have something for you, and shall soon be back.

David.

Yes, yes; we will wait here for you. Do not stay long.

SCENE XII.

Leonora, David.

Leonora.

I fancy, he may keep his presents to himself! They must be charming things indeed that he has to give us!

David.

What? Dear, sister! does not every thing that you have in your apartment, and even upon your back, come from our dear benefactor? Should he have the veriest trifle in his trunk to give me, I should still be charmed in thinking on his bounty!

Leonora.

Possibly you might; but I am so angry with him, with myself, and with my aunt—that I could find it in my heart to quarrel with all the world.

David.

What, with me too, among the rest?—What ails you then, my poor dear sister?

(taking Leonora by the hand.)

Leonora.

Had you been so mortified!—

David.

So mortified! Have you been mortified then, sister? Who has mortified you? Not my aunt, for she will hardly let you breathe for fear of catching cold; and would, I fancy, suffer you to tread upon her, if to touch the ground could hurt you.

Leonora.

Yes; but Mr. Vincent! he is so captious!

David.

How you talk! I think him, on the contrary, indulgent and good-natured.

Leonora.

I have done nothing to his liking. When I sung and danced, I could not please him; and my draw|ing had no better fortune. He despises every thing that I know; and speaks of merit much more calculated to excite his approbation, than a skill in dancing.

David.

Between you and me, I think him in the right.

Leonora.

In the right! Then my aunt is in the wrong, according to your notion, is she? What does he mean by merit much more calculated to excite his approbation, than a skill in dancing?

David.

I can tell you, and yet not be very learned.

Leonora.

Oh yes! you indeed! Well then, what is it?

David.

Tell me, Leonora, do you ever read?

Leonora.

Yes, doubtless, when I have time.

David.

And what?

Leonora.

Why plays, before I go to see them; and a great variety of songs, that I may sing them to my master.

David.

That is fine reading, truly, for your age! And do not you think that you might have books much more instructive?

Leonora.

If I might, what time have I to read them? It is full one o'clock before I have breakfasted, and put my morning dress on. Then comes Mr. Quaver; and when he has left me, Mr. Dandiprat. I dine at four; and after dinner, dress for company, which we receive at home; or else go out a visiting, and then the day is over.

David.

And is every day spent thus?

Leonora.

No doubt.

David.

Well, sister, I can tell you that Doctor Sharp, my master, has three daughters of about your age; but they employ their time in quite another manner.

Leonora.

How?

David.

First then, at six in Summer, and at eight in Winter, they are dressed completely for the day.

Leonora.

Then they do not sleep enough, and must be very heavy long before night comes.

David.

On the contrary, they are brisker far than you, because they go to bed at ten every night.

Leonora.

To bed at ten!

David.

At ten; that they may get up early in the morning. When you are fast asleep in bed, they have received their lessons in geography and cyphering. When the clock strikes ten, they take their needle-work in hand till noon; and then assist their mother in the house.

Leonora.

Does their mother mean to make them house|maids?

David.

She may hope, by means of such an education, to procure them something better. But, however that be, should they not be taught to govern servants, regulate a table, and conduct their house?

Leonora.

And after dinner are they busy?

David.

Why not busy? They have then their harpsi|chord, or writing; and at night, assemble round a table, where they read by turns in the Spectator, or Miss Moore's last publication, Sacred Dramas; while the two that are not occupied upon their book; employ themselves in mending their own clothes, or examining the linen of the house, and mending it, if needful.

Leonora.

So then they never take any recreation?

David.

Oh! I beg your pardon! They amuse them|selves as if they were three queens; for all these tasks are intermixed with little sports, and pleasant conversation. They pay visits also, and receive them; but take care to have their work-bags, and I never saw them idle for a minute.

Leonora.

This is certainly what Mr. Vincent meant. And yet my aunt has often told me, that such an educa|tion as, according to your account, the Miss Sharps receive, is only fit for tradesmen's children.

David.

But supposing them to be tradesmen's children, would they find this education useless to them? They should certainly know houshold work, or how will they be able to direct a servant? If they know nothing of it, every one will join to cheat them; and the richer they

may be, the greater probability there is that even the ser|vants whom they employ, will join each other to effect their ruin.

Leonora.

I protest you fright me! I know nothing of the work about a house! scarce how to hold a needle! Yet I have just been told, that we have nothing in the world, except what Mr. Vincent's bounty gives us.

David.

Ah dear sister so much the worse for us! should he leave us, or should we unfortunately lose him—But possibly my aunt is rich?

Leonora.

Oh no; she told me to the contrary scarce half an hour ago. She has no more than is sufficient for her|self. In case then any accident should happen with re|spect to Mr. Vincent, what would be our sate?

David.

I should be at first put to difficulties; but my master tells me that I should trust in God, and hope that he never would forsake me. His opinion is, that there are always generous people in the world, whose friendship may be gained by an exertion of one's skill to serve them in the way of some profession, and who fre|quently create employment for the industrious. Thus then, in the course of some few years, when I am more advan|ced in learning, I might undertake to teach such children as know less than I do. I should even improve myself by such an occupation, and with good behaviour on my part, be sure of living with some sort of ease and comfort, and perhaps strike out a way to fortune.

Leonora.

But what benefit could I derive from all my skill in dancing, or in drawing, or in music? I should die perhaps of hunger, notwithstanding all these vain accom|plishments.

David.

And therefore Mr. Vincent cannot be well pleased when he discovers that you have been put to no|thing but those arts which serve for ornament or pleasure.

Leonora.

And vexation sometimes, David; for when I dance, or sing in company, if I am not praised as much as I suppose myself to merit, you cannot think how much I am fretted at the disappointment!—Shall I also tell you that I am often tired of those fine matters, which my aunt says serve us to pass time away with satisfaction.

David.

And how do you entertain yourself then?

Leonora.

With the opera, dress, fashions, walks, and scandal; we tell in one house what we have observed be|forehand in another. But these helps to conversation, and the art of killing time, soon fails us.

David.

I believe so: They are very poor subjects of entertainment, when one thinks of those that may be found in art and nature, which not only occupy our time agreeably, but teach us to reflect upon ourselves.

Leonora.

You have convinced me of it by yourself, who notwithstanding you are two years younger than I am, are so much more improved. How many useful things has my aunt neglected in my education!

SCENE XIII.

Leonora, David, Mrs. Bellaston.

Mrs. Bellaston,

(having overheard what Leonora said.)

And what useful things have I neglected in your educa|tion then, Miss Thankless?

(aside.)

But all this is due to David.

David.

Well, good bye, sister, and good bye, dear aunt. I wonder Mr. Vincent stays so long up stairs. I will run and seek him, if you please.

(goes out.)

SCENE XIV.

Mrs. Bellaston, Leonora.

Mrs. Bellaston.

The good-for-nothing blockhead! Let his friend be once set off, and we shall see if he presumes to come into my presence again. But what has he been saying, that you think your education thus neglected?

Leonora.

Indeed, dear aunt, it is true; for have you let me learn those useful matters which a young person ought to know?

Mrs. Bellaston.

Useful matters, my divine, dear Leo|nora. Is there any thing wanting in the least to your per|fections? Does not every one acknowledge that you are quite accomplished?

Leonora.

Some things I know, it is true; but they are only such as serve to flatter vanity. Those arts that

ornament the mind, as geography, Arithmetic, Histo|ry—

Mrs. Bellaston.

All downright pedantry! I should be vexed to death, if I had puzzled your poor brains with such old stuff, that is only fit for such a one as David. Why Leonora, did you ever hear, where I have carried you, that fashionable women mind such nonsense?

Leonora.

No indeed; but still, why not instruct me in those houshold arts at least, that a person of my sex should know? Can I even hold a needle?

Mrs. Bellaston.

No; and why? because I never meant you for a mantua maker.

Leonora.

But supposing Mr. Vincent to die, supposing that I was to fall into distress, what are my resources? how should I subsist?

Mrs. Bellaston.

If that be all, I have a single word that will settle every thing, as I can tell you now that you will never want for money, but even swim in plenty. I have teazed Mr. Vincent so effectually, that he means to leave you all his fortune. But here he comes himself. I leave you with him, as he means to tell you his inten|tions.

SCENE XV.

Leonora, Mr. Vincent, David.

David,

(running to his sister with a watch.)

Look ye! look ye, sister!

Leonora.

How! what is this? a watch?

David.

Yes, sister! and a gold one! O my dear, dear Mr. Vincent! how rejoiced I am! Pray let me go and shew it to the doctor. I will be there and back again im|mediately.

Mr. Vincent.

With all my heart. Inform him, that it was not my design to please your vanity by such a pre|sent, but that you might know the different hours allot|ted to your different studies, and be always ready for your masters.

David.

Oh, I shall be always ready for them now, that is certain.

Mr. Vincent.

Beg him likewise to allow you the remain|der of the day from school; and tell him that I mean to call upon him in the afternoon.

David.

Yes, yes, I will.

(He goes out.)

SCENE XVI.

Mr. Vincent, Leonora, (who appears pensive.)

Mr. Vincent.

Well, Leonora, why so gloomy? What is the matter with you?

Leonora.

Nothing, sir.

Mr. Vincent.

You are not vexed that I have made your brother such a present?

Leonora.

Doubtless he will be very careful of it, and knows how to handle it!

Mr. Vincent.

I have shown him how, and there is no difficulty in the matter. You are sensible that he wanted one.

Leonora.

Quite so: and I, for my part, could not find a use for such a bauble.

Mr. Vincent.

I was thinking so: you have a clock upon the staircase.

Leonora.

True; and yet there is hardly a young lady that I know, but has a watch.

Mr. Vincent.

That is lucky; you may ask them then the hour at any time.

Leonora.

I may; and when they ask the same of me, make answer that I cannot tell them.

Mr. Vincent.

Leonora, Leonora, you are an envious little puss, I see! but here is to prove that you have not been forgotten.

(giving her a case.)

Leonora,

(blushing)

O, my dear good Mr. Vincent!

Mr. Vincent.

Well, I see you do not know how to open it.

(he opens it himself, and shows a pair of diamond car|rings.)

Are you content with these?

Leonora.

Oh yes, if you are but content with me!

Mr. Vincent.

To say the truth, my dear, I am not quite so: we are now alone, and I must use a little freedom in conversing with you. Your dear aunt has spared no cost to let you have agreeable accomplishments; and you appearance is a proof of her affection and good taste. I

could only have wished that she had been minded to bestow a useful education on you.

Leonora.

David has been discoursing on this subject, and convinced me that I want every thing which would be useful to me at a future time of life; but how may I ac|quire a knowledge of these useful matters?

Mr. Vincent.

I am acquainted with a worthy gentle|woman, who instructs young ladies in such knowledge as is suited to their sex.

Leonora.

My aunt, however, mentioned that you would put me into such a state as would not need this knowledge.

Mr. Vincent.

I understand you; and to shew my real disposition, leave you quite at liberty to chuse that way of life in which she meant to see you figure, since it suits your inclination. Yes, my dearest child, rely on my af|fection. After my decease I will give you every shilling that I possess.

Leonora.

What, all your fortune?

Mr. Vincent.

Yes, ••eonora, all; but not without a fear that it will be still too little to prevent your being really unhappy.

Leonora.

Is it possible?

Mr. Vincent.

Are you qualified to do yourself the slightest service? or make up, upon occasion, I do not say a costly garment, but the plainest gown that you ever wore?

Leonora.

Alas! sir, I was never taught.

Mr. Vincent.

It is plain, then, you must always have a crowd about you to make up those articles which you have no hands to make yourself. You know, I suppose, how much fashionable women have occasion to lay out, that they may keep their title up with those who are as gay and foolish as themselves! Now tell me, are you to sup|pose that my property, when you are mistress of it, will suffice for this?

Leonora.

I hope, sir, it will be enough, with the oeconomy that I shall observe, to render me as happy as you wish me to be.

Mr. Vincent.

Trust me, notwithstanding your oeconomy, if you continue ignorant, it will not. And besides, when you are come of age, what prudent man will take a woman who possesses no one talent conducive to his happiness? It is plain, then, nothing but the fortune that

you possess will render you an eligible wife; and this cir|cumstance shews still stronger the necessity of securing a fortune to you after my death.

Leonora.

O, sir! but then my brother—

Mr. Vincent.

He must be content with what I do in his behalf while living, and the proofs of your affection when I am dead. I mean to have him taught whatever may be useful to him in the state of life that he may prefer; as in that, with industry, it is not improbable but he may make a fortune. I myself am an example of this probability: he need but do as I have done. I leave you to reflect on my intentions, and shall communicate them to him, as soon as he returns.

SCENE XVII.

Leonora, (alone.)

Oh, what pleasure! heiress to all his fortune! This is what my aunt desired so earnestly. I should be glad to know what David will say when Mr. Vincent tells him his intentions. He must be very jealous of me. However, I shall not forget him. No, indeed; if I have any thing to spare. I must and will have something for him: but I hear Mr. Vincent coming back with David.—A lucky thought! I will steal into this closet here, and listen to their conversation.

(She goes in, and shuts the door, un|noticed.)

SCENE XVIII.

Mr. Vincent, David.

Mr. Vincent.

So your master is pleased then that I have made you such a present?

David.

Yes, enchanted; but for my part, upon second thoughts, I am sorry for it.

Mr. Vincent.

Sorry, David, and why?

David.

Poor Leonora! she must doubtless be quite vex|ed at having nothing, when I am master of a watch. I would not seem indifferent to your favours; notwithstand|ing, if I durst, I would desire you—

Mr. Vincent.

Generous little fellow! do not be uneasy; Leonora has received a pair of diamond ear-rings, worth ten watches such as yours.

David.

O my dear Mr. Vincent; how I thank you!

Mr. Vincent.

And I shall not confine my friendship and affection to the gift of such a trifle.

David.

O my generous friend and father!

Mr. Vincent.

I observe, with grief, that her education cannot but be the cause of sorrow to her hereafter.

David.

So I likewise fear, sir; my dear aunt imagines that a little drawing, dancing, singing, and the like, are all that she wants to be happy in the world.

Mr. Vincent.

To these frivolous embellishments then she sacrifices the much more important cultivation of her understanding; and forbears inspiring her with those good qualities which have alone a claim on human approbation. As your sister's reason has been so neglected, she is pleased with those applauses that are offered on the altar of her vanity. But when, in some few years, she sees how many useful matters of instruction, and how much inestimable time she has for ever lost, she will inevitably blush at her own conduct, and even execrate her flatterers; who, on their side, will repay her hatred with their ridicule and scorn.

David.

O sir, you make me tremble for my poor dear sister!

Mr. Vincent.

And besides, what reasonable man will take up with a wife whose want of knowledge is so glar|ing; who instead of being able to establish order and oeconomy within a house, must dissipate the greatest for|tune by her love of luxury; and who will have an incapa|city, no less unworthy the esteem of him that is to be her husband, than the veneration of his children. She must of necessity be as a stranger in the world, to every one about her. What would such a woman do without my friendship?

David.

O dear sir, let me beseech you, do not take away your favour from her.

Mr. Vincent.

No; for on the contrary, I am now upon the point of doing something for her.

David.

Yes, dear sir; procure her a more useful edu|cation. Leonora does not want for understanding, or good principles.

Mr. Vincent.

I would with all my heart; but at her age, can one expect that she will submit to any rigid treatment, after the indulgence that she has received at home? No, no; I see it will be better to determine upon some|thing for her benefit, which shall take place when I am in my grave.

David.

For heaven's sake, sir, do not speak so, I be|seech you. No: I trust you are to live much longer for our common good; and Providence will not so soon de|prive us of our second father.

Mr. Vincent.

I am sensible of your affection; but the fear of death will not delay the fatal moment of its coming. Leonora's future lot gives me pain, whenever I reflect on what it may be; and in short, I am resolved to give her my whole fortune, that at least she may have wherewithal to keep herself from want.

David,

(taking Mr. Vincent's hand.)

Oh thank you ten times over! How rejoiced I am, sir! Shall I leave you for a moment, and go tell her this good news? But no; it will be better to conceal it from her, or at least till she has been induced to get some useful knowledge, from a notion that she must live, in future, by her industry. She will, by that means, know much better how to manage what you give her. O my dearest Leonora! after all, then, I may hope to see you happy.

Mr. Vincent.

Worthy little fellow! I am no less de|lighted with your generosity, than understanding. Come to my arms my dear child! Could I intend to give your sister every thing, and leave you nothing? That were to the last degree unjust: and therefore I revoke my first in|tention. It is you that should be my sole heir, and with propriety I ought to make my will accordingly.

David.

No, no, dear sir, preserve your first intention, and give Leonora all your fortune. I shall be much more diligent in my improvement, and more anxious to acquire useful knowledge which, I doubt not, with God's bles|sing, will suffice for my advancement.

Mr. Vincent.

Do not be uneasy with regard to Leonora. When I said that you should be my sole heir, it was not my idea that Leonora should be left without a trifling le|gacy, sufficient to obtain her necessary things.

David.

Well then, let us exchange; the trifling le|gacy for me, by way of token from you, and the rest for Leonora.

SCENE the last.

Mr. Vincent, David, Leonora, (coming out of the closet, and running to embrace her brother.)

Leonora.

O my dearest brother! have I merited so much affection from you?

David.

Yes, dear sister, if you will but do as I could wish, and be what our good benefactor so much longs to see you.

Leonora.

If! Should it be a question? I will be so. I discern how much the difference of our education has ex|alted your ideas above mine, though I am so much older. —My good friend and father, let my future fortune be whatever you think proper; I can never be unhappy, if I leave you to determine for me. I desire instruction, like|wise, and will take my brother for a model.

Mr. Vincent.

You will unavoidably be happy, if you keep this prudent resolution. But pray tell me, whence proceeds this change in your ideas?

Leonora.

I have just heard my brother's wishes for me; his disinterestedness and generous sacrifice. I have heard too how you love me. I will reverence you for the future, and give up the little jealousies that I entertained against my brother. He shall be my guide and friend.

David.

I will endeavour to be such, dear sister: it will be my boast and pleasure, if I prosper.

Mr. Vincent.

With what pleasing sentiments, dear children, do you inspire me! I am now no longer sorry that Providence has left me childless. I consider you no less affectionately than I should do had I given you life; and think that I see your father, who looks down from heaven, well pleased in having left me such dear pledges of his love.

(Leonora and her brother take him by the hand, and bathe it with their tears.)

Leonora.

Let us not lose a moment, sir. Where does that worthy gentlewoman live, whom you mentioned to me, as a person that would teach me useful things?

Mr. Vincent.

I will introduce you to her shortly. I shall st••y here ••ome few days, and will endeavour to bring over, if I can, your aunt, not all at once, but by degrees, to second my designs. You must be careful not to anger or displease her. She deserves your gratitude. She has but erred respecting what was likely to insure your happiness: her wish was not the less to make you happy.

Leonora.

I believe so; but renounce, from henceforth, all the nonsense that I have been put to study. No more dancing, no more drawing, no more musick, for the future.

Mr. Vincent.

No, dear Leonora, that would be wrong again. On the contrary, you ought to cultivate them; for, in truth, they are desirable accomplishments. Only remember that they do not constitute all the merit that is required in a woman. They may render her more wel|come in good company; be a relaxation to her after the cares attendant on a house and family, and make her still more fond of living in retirement: add another tie to the attachment of her husband, guide her in the choice of masters for her children, and enable her to further their improvement. They are only prejudicial when they feed her vanity, and make her give into a fatal dissipation, or contempt of duties in that state of life to which God's providence has called her. They are flowers, in short, that may possess some little portion of one's garden, if the rest be set apart for fruits and vegetables.

THE GOOD MOTHER.

A SONNET.

THE mother's tender heart, round whom Her children throng in youthful bloom, With love and transport overflows, Such as a mother only knows, What time her light descending hand Gently taps one with action bland; Another to her heart's close folds, Inmate already there, she holds. A third climbs joyous on her knee; While pleas'd the little thing to see, Her hand assists, and with a smile Kissing, she pays the arduous toil. Her foot, held out to serve as chair, Dandles a fourth when seated there; So too the rest, if more there be, Round her, close cling her progeny.

She reads all written in their eyes, Their looks, caresses, smiles and sighs, These speaking from the heart, declare The thousand little wishes there. Their prattle all at once is heard, And she replies without a word; For smiles alone are her reply: While joyous they stand prating by. Yet if it chance, a word amiss, A quarrel for the envied kiss, Or aught unfit to hear or view, Among the little ones ensue, A brow dissatisfied she takes, Yet soon the low'ring storm there breaks: And while ev'n gloom o'ercasts her mien, That she's a mother 'tis well seen.

In this, so obvious to man's sense, We see God's wond'rous providence, That from the stores of heavenly grace, Pours gifts on all the human race. The rich, in fortune's lap high fed, The poor beneath their lowly shed, All on her smile subsist and share The blessings of her guardian care. She knows their need, she hears their cry, And views them with a mother's eye: To none, among her children, blind, But scattering gifts on all mankind.

Let none then, with presumptuous sense, Dare tax the rule of Providence With rigorous or even partial views; If for a season she refuse Some blessing, to their heart thought dear, As if averse their praver to hear; For their soul's good, God's gracious will Seems to subject them thus to ill, That through affliction's rigid ways, They may attain fair Virtue's praise. Or rather, for such love we find In his compassionating mind, When he vouchsafes them, or denies, No less beneficent he is than wife.

THE PROPER USE OF TIME.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alas! if when his reason first of all addressed him, he had listened to the reproaches of his conscience, easy in

his situation he might now have been enjoying, in re|pute and honour, the ease of a respectable and opulent old age.

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

THE BLACKSMITH.

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

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

work enough! and while I have but strength, it is my duty to assist the unhappy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE GENEROUS ORPHAN.

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

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

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

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

No, said she, (when her unhappy mistress mentioned her design of seeking the asylum of a parish work-house.) I will never leave you. From your tenderness, I for|merly

received the treatment of a child; and, if in your prosperity I thought it so desirable to be related to you by adoption, I still think it more so, now, in your adver|sity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE DIRTY BOOTS.

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

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

Transported with the thought of his ride, he ran down to John, who was at breakfast in the kitchen, and with an imperious tone of voice, cried out, "John, John! I am going out on horseback! Run and clean my bo••ts! do you hear me?" John pretended that he did not, and continued at his breakfast, quite composed. In vain For|tunatus put himself into a passion, and called him a hun|dred names. John contented himself with answering him

very calmly, "I have told you, sir, already, if you re|collect, that I hoped never to become your shoe-black."

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

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

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

THE TATLER.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE PROVIDENT FATHER.

The Father.

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

(Charles kisses his father, who in turn embraces him.)

What have you been doing ever since our separation?

Charles.

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

The Father.

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

Charles.

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

The Father.

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

Charles.

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

The Father.

And then you enter into a world where nothing of that sort exists; where every step that you take is limited; where you have constantly to combat envy, fordid interest, caprice, brutal stupidity, and illi|beral prejudice. Believe me, the most active virtue, and an upright heart, can never hope to prove successful, if the has not therewithal an indefatigable constancy, and a ••stration almost divine, to scrutinize deceit and villainy. ••d if these qualities are so rare, even in the wisest men, how can we hope to find them in the restless unsettled minds of youth?—Do you know to what I compare this

inward consciousness of your strength? To a torch, that will indifferently carry you before children, women, and old men, but which the first breath of wind will infallibly put out. I would have the strength of manhood to con|centrate in the heart, as fire within the substance of a stone: eternally invisible, when once it is struck, the eye is sure of seeing sparks come forth. However, what I say is not to shew that I ought to let you pass your time away unoccupied. At present, I am even so happy as to have procured you an employ.

Charles.

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

The Father.

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

Charles.

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

The Father.

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

Charles.

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

The Father.

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

Charles.

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

The Father.

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

Charles.

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

The Father.

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

Charles.

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

The Father.

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

Charles.

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

The Father.

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

Charles.

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

The Father.

I should rather chuse that you would en|deavour to become an useful man. To be continually going forward, and to quit one place, where we may fre|quently be necessary, with the view of filling up another where we shall not prove of so much use, is to betray our country, and to cheapen and degrade our merit. To be great, is to be nothing more than what we should be. And yet, after all, do not imagine that, proceeding in this manner, you will never meet with obstacles. You

will, it is very likely, fail at last, oppressed beneath the burthen of those benefits that you have conferred, and be condemned to live unknown; and calumny will put upon your best intentions sinister interpretations. Be not, how|ever, upon this account discouraged, but pursue your plans with firmness; for a time will come when your assist|ance will be sought. And should even this your expecta|tion, in itself so just, be disappointed, in such case, the consciousness of your integrity will be your recompence and consolation.

JULIAN AND ROSINA.

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

The mother, melted into tears at this recital, and the little boy's behaviour thereupon, dropped her needle;

and the father, to conceal a tear, held up his book before him.

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

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

THE SEPARATION.

The Father and his Son in Law, (entering at opposite doors.)

The Son in Law.

HAVE you considered my propo|sals?

The Father in Law.

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

The Son in Law.

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

The Father in Law

(ringing.)

Well, be it so.

(A servant enters.)

Tell my daughter she is wanted,

(The servant is withdrawing, but the father calls him back and whispers something to him.)

The Son in Law.

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

The Father in Law.

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

The Son in Law.

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

The Father in Law.

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

The Son in Law,

(taking up a pen.)

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

(He sits down to write.)

(Sophia enters.)

The Father in Law.

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

Sophia.

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

The Father in Law.

You resolve, then, to occasion me this grief.

Sophia.

I cannot possibly consent to live any longer with him.

The Son in Law,

(getting up, and putting a paper into his father's hand.)

This is my agreement.

The Father in Law.

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

Sophia.

Upon mine it is.

The Son in Law.

No doubt.

The Father in Law.

It is useless for me to remonstrate any longer.

Sophia.

Indeed, sir, it is unnecessary.

The Son in Law.

My resolution is fixed.

The Father in Law.

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

(They sign.)

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

Sophia.

I am his mother.

The Son in Law,

(speaking at the same moment.)

I, his father.

The Father in Law.

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

Sophia.

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

The Son in Law.

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

The Father in Law.

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

(He takes the paper.)

Shall I tear it?

The Son in Law.

If you do—

Sophia.

By no means, father.

The Father in Law.

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

Sophia.

Yes, with all my heart.

The Son in Law.

And mine too.

(The father in law goes out.)

The Son in Law.

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

Sophia.

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

(The father in law returns with the child: the mother clasps him in her arms, and says)

Won't you stay with me, my dear?

The Child.

Oh! yes, mama.

The Son in Law.

(embracing him.)

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

The Child.

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

The Father in Law.

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

Sophia.

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

The Son in Law.

With me, my child?

The Child.

With both of you.

(They turn away: the father has his eyes fixed on them during some short pause.)

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

(He pulls them towards each other.)

You shall not

go! I will live with you both at once.

(The son in law and mother stooping both at once to embrace their child, meet one another, and looking at each other, affectionately embrace.)

The Father in Law.

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

The Son in Law.

Will you forget the past?

Sophia.

Yes, every thing.

(They embrace again with transport.)

The Father in Law,

(holding out the child, that they may both caress him.)

Are you determined now to part?

Sophia.

No, father; never.

The Son in Law.

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

The Father in Law,

(wiping his eyes.)

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

THE SCHOOL FOR STEP-MOTHERS.

A DRAMA, in One ACT.

CHARACTERS.

• ...Mr. and Mrs. FLOYD.
• ...FRANCIS, Mr. Floyd's Children.
• ...PRISCILLA, Mr. Floyd's Children.
• ...ANNE, Mr. Floyd's Children.
• ...CHARLES, Mrs. Floyd's Children.
• ...PERCIVAL, Mrs. Floyd's Children.
• ...DANIEL, a Servant.

The SCENE is in Mr. Floyd's garden.

SCENE I.

Francis,

(alone.)

ONCE more then I am in my garden, where I have not been these six months! What a pleasure every object gives me! Here is the little summer-house, where I was used so frequently to break|fast

with my dear mama. If she were living still, what happiness for both of us! She would receive me now with open arms; she would embrace me: and, on my side, I should have many little things to tell her. But, alas!

(beginning to cry,)

I have for ever lost her; and if we are still to love each other, we can only do so in another world. My dear mama! could you only hear me, it would be some comfort, since you cannot come back to see your Frank. Instead of you, I have indeed a mother; but a mother, as they call it, in law: and that, as I am told, is just as much as if one were to say, a cruel mother. What then am I now to do? I never shall dare look upon her. Oh! if I might at least have lived with grand|mama! But no; papa will have me here, though poor mama is dead. Alas! I never shall be able to live here: I know it. I will therefore only see my dear papa and sisters, and go back. Yes, yes; I will go back, and must.

SCENE II.

Francis, Daniel.

Daniel.

What, master Francis! is it you come back again? How goes it with you?

Francis.

In health, not much amiss, dear Daniel. And how, pray, are you?

Daniel.

Quite well; and not a penny for the apothecary out of me! My draughts are made up for me at the George. But what is the matter? I can see, you have been crying.

Francis,

(wiping his eyes.)

Crying?

Daniel.

Yes, yes, crying! Oh, you cannot conceal it! Have you met with any accident?

Francis

None, Daniel, since I left my grandmama's.

Daniel.

Oh, oh! I understand: you weep for your mama; but then you have another.

Francis.

A step-mother you mean? If I could only shun her! But how fare my poor dear sisters?

Daniel.

How? ah! bad enough. At six they must be up. I would not advise them to lie a minute after. They would pay dear for their drowsiness.

Francis.

But what have they to do up so early?

Daniel.

Oh! their new mother knows how to find them work! She rules us all like slaves! and I myself must get up with the rest! I rose at seven this morning; and, as early as it was, I saw both your sisters hard at work in the parlour.

Francis.

But I ask you, at what?

Daniel.

Why, working for their young brothers in law.

Francis.

Yes, I am told that second mothers never spare their husband's children, while they love their own: and I imagine, I must go to work too. But what is become of all my pinks and tulips?

Daniel.

Oh! they are all taken away.

Francis.

By whom?

Daniel.

By Charles and his brother.

Francis.

So then, I have lost my pretty flowers; and those two wicked little fellows have destroyed them. They have nothing now to do but take the garden from me like|wise. Look ye, here they come.

SCENE III.

Francis, Daniel, Charles, Percival.

Charles,

(whispering Percival.)

Percival, who is that young gentleman with Daniel? If it were but Master Francis?

Percival,

(whispering Daniel.)

Is it he?

Daniel,

(answering drily.)

Yes, gentlemen.

Charles.

O my dear, dear brother, welcome! We have wished to see you!

Francis,

(shrinking back.)

Have we been acquainted with each other long enough, that you should thus em|brace me?

Charles.

We are not acquainted with you, I acknow|ledge, but are all three brothers.

Francis.

Yes, half brothers, sir.

Charles.

Why half? If your papa loves our mama, and she loves him, why should not we love one another? They are man and wife, and we are therefore brothers.

Francis.

If we are brothers, have you a greater right than I have here?

Percival,

(aside.)

How quarrelsome he is!

Charles.

Why, your papa has let us work these three weeks in it.

Francis.

I was in it first! and surely you will not drive me out!

Percival.

Come, Charles; let us be gone, and leave him in his peevish humour.

Charles.

No, no, Percival: we must stay and be good friends with one another.

Percival.

Do you like the sulky fellow, then, so much?

Francis.

The sulky fellow! Do you call me sulky?

Percival.

Yes, and envious, and—

Francis.

You dare insult me then? and even in my garden here?

Percival.

You began: but I am your match; mind that!

Charles.

Hear me, Percival! Would you strike your brother? Come along, and for Heaven's sake let us not vex our new papa; and more particularly so, the very day that he is to see his son.

(He draws him away.)

Percival.

Well, I will go and tell mama.

(He and Charles both go out.)

SCENE IV.

Francis, Daniel.

Francis.

See now if my anxieties are not beginning. They will tell their mother that I have insulted them, and she will get me anger from papa. Unhappy as I am, do not you think, Daniel, that I am to be pitied?

Daniel.

Indeed you are so; however, take heart. I will be your friend; and we shall then, I think, be able to make head against them.

Francis.

Yes; but my papa?

Daniel.

Let me alone with him. I know a thousand tricks of these new comers, which I will tell him. They have spoilt your garden, killed your flowers, and called you names. I warrant you, they will be but badly off.

Francis.

So then, my good Daniel, you will stand up for me?

Daniel.

Ay, as sure as my name is Daniel.

Francis.

Thank you! thank you! I am not without a friend, I see then, though I have lost mama. But did

you notice their fine clothes? What handsome waistcoats they had on! Who worked them? can you tell?

Daniel.

Their mother.

Francis.

Yes, yes, I was thinking so. She will always be employed upon her favourites; but pray who will work me such a waistcoat?

Daniel.

Why indeed, if you should want one, you must work it yourself.

Francis.

And had not they new coats on likewise?

Daniel.

Yes: they had them, as a present from your papa, on the day of his marriage.

Francis.

Oh! he did not make me such a present. I was sent with these bad clothes into the country. It is too much! I cannot support the thought! My poor mama is dead, and my papa forgets me! I have only you now left to befriend me!

Daniel

Be of comfort! matters may turn out much better than you think: but in the first place, you must see your new mama. So follow me, and think of putting on a chearful face, as if you were rejoiced to see her.

Francis.

I can never do so.

Daniel.

But you must, however it may go against you. I do so, though I detest her. Would you think it? she begins to tell me that I must be less frequent in my visits at the ale-house; I that was accustomed to spend half the day there, in the life-time of my last dear mistress! She indeed was quite a lady. Things are marvellously altered now, and we must alter with them. Patience! when we are once alone, I will tell you what more is to be done. At present, therefore, follow me.

Francis.

But will she see by my eyes that I have been crying?

Daniel.

Why you are crying still.

Francis.

Then I will not go now: she would ask the reason of my tears. What answer should I give her?

Daniel.

You might say, that coming home, you had been thinking of your dear mama, and therefore fell a crying.

Francis.

But, provided she should speak about my quarrel with her children?

Daniel.

Tell her that they began it; and call me to witness what you say. But here she comes. Go and sa|lute her boldly.

SCENE IV.

Mrs. Floyd, Francis.

Mrs. Floyd.

Where, where is he?

(Perceiving him.)

Is it you, my dearest Francis? Then I have all my family together at last.

(She embraces him with tenderness.)

How sweet a countenance! and how happy am I, that I can call so amiable a child my son!

Francis.

I should be happy too, could I but rejoice; and yet—

(sighing)

Mrs. Floyd.

What is the matter then, my dearest? You seem quite sad, my charming little man!

(Francis cries afresh, and cannot speak a world.)

You turn away and cry. What causes you these tears? Won't you inform me what afflicts you?

Francis.

Nothing, nothing.

Mrs. Floyd.

It is enough, however, to distress me. Say, what gives you all this sorrow, and I will comfort you, if possible. If your papa or sisters were to see you, they might fancy that you had met with some misfortune coming home; and they are pleased in thinking that they are so soon to see you. Would it grieve you to embrace them?

Francis.

Believe me, I can have no greater pleasure! But shall I embrace mama? It is for her that I cry.

Mrs. Floyd.

She died six months ago, and do you still cry for her?

Francis.

Yes, yes; all my life! Oh, my mama! my dear mama!

Mrs. Floyd.

Be calm, my little dear! Endeavour to divert your thoughts, and let us speak of her no longer, since it gives you so much sorrow.

Francis.

No, no•• on the contrary, let me be always speaking of her, if you mean that I should feel any com|fort. Would you have your children willing to forget you after you were dead, so soon?

Mrs. Floyd.

Dear little fellow!

(embracing him.)

You loved her then very much?

Francis.

I find so; much more now than when she lived. She was so good!

Mrs. Floyd.

I wish I were but able to restore her to you; which I cannot do, and therefore I will take her place, poor little fellow, in your bosom. I will love you as she did; and will be a mother to you.

Francis.

But it never can be you that bore me, fed me with your milk, and brought me up. She was my real mother, and you only my step-mother.

Mrs. Floyd.

But why give me such a name? I have not called you my step-son.

Francis.

Pray pardon me! I did not say so to displease you. I begin to think you very kind; at least you seem so. But then you have children of your own, and must, of course, love them much more than me.

Mrs. Floyd.

You shall not find it so. Some few days hence we shall be more acquainted with each other than we can be now, and you shall see if my affection will not make you think yourself my son.

Francis.

If that indeed could be, without forgetting my mama?

Mrs. Floyd.

I would not wish you to forget her: on the contrary, we will speak often of her, and your tenderness shall be a pattern for my children. Come, I long to in|troduce you to them.

Francis.

Oh! I have seen them already. Have they not complained of my behaviour?

Mrs. Floyd.

No, my little man. Have you had any quarrel then? I should be very sorry for that, as all my wish is to behold you tenderly united to each other, like real brothers.

Francis.

I wish nothing more than that. But where is my papa and sisters? Let me see them.

Mrs. Floyd.

Your papa will very soon be home. He went this morning to dispatch some business out of doors, that he might have the afternoon entirely to himself; but, in the mean time, I can take you to your sisters, who will tell you what you are to think of me.

Francis.

I wish them to speak of you, but not first. I have a deal to say of my mama.

(As they go out, Charles and Percival enter at the opposite side.)

SCENE VI.

Charles, Percival.

Percival.

Why did you keep me from complaining to mama? I keep company with that little snarler! No, never. When his father once comes home, I will tell him what a waspish son he has, that he may teach him to be|have a little better.

Charles.

Do you think, then, that our papa will not be vexed, when told of this same difference between you both? and would it please you to afflict him?

Percival.

Certainly I should be sorry for it. And yet, what can I do? since, if this little gentleman is not cor|rected for his rudeness the first day of coming home, there will be nothing but disputes hereafter. He will be always affronting us. I am not very deliberate in such cases: I shall certainly be warm, and tell him what he ought to know; and if hereafter he should think of taking airs on him, as just now—

Charles.

I hope then, Percival, you do not mean to beat him!

Percival.

But you do not suppose that I will let myself be beat by him?

Charles.

No, certainly.

Percival.

Then what ought I to do?

Charles.

To-morrow, very likely, we shall see; but now it would be improper to disturb his father's satisfac|tion in seeing him.

Percival.

Be it now, to-morrow, or the following day, it is all the same to Percival; but the sooner, in my thoughts, the better.

Charles.

Brother, I beseech you, wait a little longer. Francis cannot be so sulky as you think.

Percival.

And yet, sure, I know him as well as you!

Charles.

His father and his sisters say, he is very con|descending and good-natured.

Percival.

Yes, indeed, he shewed his condescension and good-nature, when he turned his back upon me in reply to my civility.

Charles.

That was not well; but then he does not know us yet.

Percival.

He might have tried to know us.

Charles.

How you talk! perhaps something grieved him.

Percival.

And are we to suffer for it?

Charles.

No; but brothers must pass over many things which others have a right to take amiss.

Percival.

It appears to me that he scorns to look upon us as brothers.

Charles.

No: I cannot persuade myself of that.

Percival.

Well, let him look a little to himself: I shall not put up with any insult from him. But he's coming with his sisters: I will withdraw. I cannot endure the thoughts of such a snappish gentleman.

Charles.

For heaven's sake, brother, let us stay and share in their amusement.

Percival.

No, no: I might possibly disturb them, and will go.

Charles.

If you are resolved, I will follow you.—

(Aside, going out.)

I must do every thing in my power to soften him.

SCENE VII.

Francis, Priscilla, Anne.

Priscilla,

(holding Francis by the hand.)

But why afflict yourself, dear brother, any longer? Our afflictions cannot bring mama to life again.

Francis.

But will you promise me, at least, that we shall think a little of her every time we meet?

Priscilla.

Yes, brother, I shall always think I see her with us, just as when she was alive.

Francis,

(affectionately looking at them.)

My dearest sisters! this idea doubles the delight that I have in seeing you.

Priscilla.

I and Anne, have been wishing, this long while, to see you likewise.

Anne.

And so have I brother; for now we can play all together as we used to do. Charles and his brother can play with us too. Oh! how fine that will be!

(jumping for joy)

Francis.

Pshaw! no more about your Charles and his brother, if you love me.

Priscilla.

How?

Francis.

They would but interrupt our pastime: they are good for nothing but to go complaining of us to their mother, and convey away our things.

Priscilla.

They, brother? Can you think so badly of them?

Anne.

Look ye, Frank;

(shewing at etwee.)

Francis.

And who gave you that?

Anne.

Why Percival: he went out and bought it for me, with a crown that his mother gave him.

Priscilla.

See, too, this Morocco pocket-book. It was a present made to Charles; and he gave it me.

Francis.

Ay, ay! I see you understand each other's meaning, and will all four be against me.

Priscilla and Anne.

Be against you!

Francis.

Certainly. I know, they hate me, having taken all my flowers away, and spoiled my garden.

Priscilla.

Who has taken all your flowers away, and spoiled your garden?

Francis.

Those two little fellows that you seem to ad|mire so much.

Priscilla.

We do not understand you. Have you seen your garden?

Francis.

Have I seen it? What a question! Only look yourself. Where are my pinks and tulips?

Priscilla.

Where? you have not then been at the ter|race, under my mama's bow window?

Francis.

Is there any garden there?

Anne.

Ay, surely; and a very pretty one.

Priscilla.

Your garden here was far too little; so mama had one marked out for all of us, behind the terrace, six times larger.

Francis.

And who owns it? Doubtless your two fa|vourites!

Priscilla.

No, no; it belongs to all of us, we have each a portion.

Anne.

I, as well as the rest.

Francis.

And is there one for me?

Priscilla.

Undoubtedly: and you are luckier by a deal than we. You have not taken any labour in the cultiva|tion of your part, which, notwithstanding, you will find quite full of flowers.

Anne.

Red, yellow, blue and white in plenty, as you ••ill see.

Francis.

Who set them for me?

Anne.

Why, your brothers. They have been a month|employing all their play hours upon the work. They have selected all the prettiest flowers that their beds sup|plied, and put them into yours, that at the time of your return, you might be more surprised.

Francis.

And have they done all this for me? Daniel told me that they had taken all my flowers away, but did not tell me why.

Priscilla.

If you give ear to Daniel, you will be worse off for it, I can tell you. Why he wished to make us quarrel with our brothers likewise. How ungrateful! Their mama consents to have him for no other reason than because ours begged papa, upon her death-bed, not to turn him off; and all his study is to make her children as unhappy as he can.

Anne.

And all because mama will have him work, instead of spending half the day with idle fellows at the alehouse.

Francis.

Is it so? Then I begin to see that he wanted to deceive me, when he promised to be my friend.

Priscilla.

However, we must not tell any thing about it to papa; he would dismiss him: we must therefore carefully keep silence, and not ruin Daniel.

Francis.

Oh! no, no, indeed; since poor mama had such a value for him.

Priscilla.

You will soon see whether he told you truth.

Anne.

But come now, and pay a visit to your garden, brother.

Francis.

Yes, with all my heart: I long to see it,

(Anne and Priscilla take him by the hand, and go out on one side, without perceiving Charles, who comes in with Per|cival on another side.)

SCENE VIII.

Charles, Percival.

(They enter with two plates of cake and fruit, which they put dawn upon a table in the summer-house.)

Charles.

But where is he?

Percival,

(looking every way.)

Look ye, there he is.— There, brother, with his sisters, going to our garden.

Charles.

I am glad of that; for only think what plea|sure he will have, when he discerns how busy we have been to ornament his portion of it!

Percival.

Do you think so? I, for my part, would lay any wager that he will find fault with every thing about him, he is so queer! The flowers, he will say, are badly chosen, or the box not planted as it should be, or the ground too moist, or too dry, and twenty other circum|stances.

Charles.

Yes; but do you know that I am beginning to consider you as touchy as you fancy him? I never saw you so before.

Percival.

It is he that caused it. Have his sisters ever had occasion to complain of my behaviour? and I only wish to live upon good terms with him. You know with what impatience I expected his arrival here, and how I ran with open arms to meet him.

Charles.

True indeed; but, as I said before, it is very likely something grieves him. He is afraid, perhaps, that his father will no longer love him, or our mother shew him less affection than he fancies she does us. If so, then surely it is our duty to make much of him in his un|easiness, and win him to be friends with us, by every gentle method in our power.

Percival.

You are in the right; I did not duly think of that.

Charles.

If he is as good as every body says, think, brother, how a little kindness on our part will, in the end, affect him; how his father will be fonder of us for it; and what pleasure we shall give mama!

Percival.

I was in the wrong, I own. Let him but come, and I will be so attentive to him, he must unavoid|ably forget the past.

Charles.

What hinders us from running to him where he is? The flowers that we planted for him, will make peace between us.

Percival.

That is well said; we will go immediately.— But here he comes himself.

Charles.

And see how pleased he seems!

SCENE IX.

Charles, Percival, Francis, Priscilla, Anne.

Francis.

(running to embrace his brothers.)

My dear good friends, my brothers, you must certainly be very much displeased with my behaviour.

Charles.

We! why so?

Percival.

It is over, my dear Frank, and I love you.

Francis.

What a pretty garden you have made me! You have given me all your finest flowers, without my having done any thing to give you pleasure.

Charles.

It is enough for us, if you are pleased with our endeavours.

Francis.

If I am! Forgive me, pray, dear brothers. I insulted you: I turned away, when you came running to embrace me. I will never do so for the future. We will always be good friends; and every thing that I have shall be yours as well as mine.

Charles.

Yes, yes, and every thing shall be in common to us; not our pleasures only, but our sorrows also.

Percival.

Let us then embrace each other, and begin this friendship.

(They embrace.)

Charles.

This is as it should be; and now, Frank, we must go and have a little banquet that has been prepared for us by mama: we have brought it, and put it in the summer-house, as you may see. Let us enter. Enter you too, sisters, with us, and sit down.

Percival.

It is your privilege, dear brother, now to do the honours of the feast. Mama will have it so; as you, she says, by your arrival, are the founder of it.

Francis.

Oh! I am sure, I never shall have eaten any where with so much appetite as at this feast of friendship.

(He presents them with the cake and frait, and they begin to eat.)

Percival.

Well; and is not this much better than to quarrel with each other?

Anne.

I believe so, truly! for what quarrel can be worth these pears?

Charles.

How glad mama will be to find us such friends with one another!

Priscilla.

She deserves that we should afford her all the joy possible. When once you come to know her—But I remember you have seen her.

Francis.

Yes, yes, Priscilla; she received me with the greatest kindness, and has so agreeable a countenance that she cannot be ill tempered. I perceived even by her tone of voice that I should be easily induced to love her.

Priscilla.

And how good she is to us!

Anne.

We need but please ourselves, to give her plea|sure.

Priscilla.

We were greatly to be pitied at the death of our mama. Papa, who is employed all day in business; could not look to us. There was for ever something wrong in our cloaths, and our education was much more neglected.

Anne.

We should very probably have fallen into a habit of indolence.

Priscilla.

But since our new mama is come, we are both set to rights. She gives us every entertainment suited to our age, and is a party with us in our little pleasures. One would think her much more interested in the preser|vation of our health, than of her own. I have not yet had time sufficient to remark that I stand in need of any thing; she makes beforehand such provision for our wants!

Anne.

But lately I was ill; oh, very ill indeed! and it was herself that waited on me. She was always by my bed, and doing every thing in her power to comfort me. She made up all manner of nice things; and I believe, I should have died, but for her great attention to me.

Francis.

O my dear, dear sisters! is it possible?

Priscilla.

You know too, brother, that before you left us, we had not been any ways accustomed to employ our needle. Well; mama was kind enough to teach us. So that now we know—not only plain, but every sort of fine work.

Charles,

(to Francis.)

See here the neck and wristhands of this shirt. Mama extols the work very much. Well, Priscilla did it all herself, and it was a present from her to me.

Priscilia.

Which you merited beforehand; for who made me such a garden, or presented me with such fine nose|gays?

Brother Francis, you must know, mama will not have us oblige our brother, unless they likewise oblige us, and they do more to please us, than we could have thought to ask.

Anne.

Yes, indeed; and as a proof, I will shew you the cork boat of Percival's making with his penknife. You shall see its nice sirk rigging, satin fails, and rib|band streamers. It swims charmingly, in the fish-pond.

Percival.

Since you made me such a handsome pair of garters—

Anne.

Garters! I can make much better things than garters now. Ah, Frank, were you but to see a certain green and lilac striped silk purse! The green at least is all of my own fancying; ask Priscilla else. Oh, I am sure you will be delighted when you have it.

Francis.

How! and have you made me, then, a purse?

(Priscilla makes a sign that Anne should hold her peace.)

Anne,

(embarrassed.)

No, Frank; not for you:—

(in a whisper,)

yes it is; but you must know, mama enjoined me not to tell you. And besides, she means to surprize you herself with nothing less than such a nice worked waistcoat as my brothers now have on—Oh you will soon see!

Priscilla.

This little giddy creature can keep no secret.

Anne.

No, because there was such pleasure in revealing it. We have been always thinking of you, brother.

Francis.

Oh, I thank you: but pray tell me, are you happy?

Priscilla.

Are we happy? What is wanting in our situ|ation? Our mama is really so good! I do not know how it is, but she has found the secret of converting every thing into a sort of pleasure. I have no amusement half so great as chattering with her: Even while she is joking, she instructs us.

Anne.

You should see us, Francis, when we are read|ing certain little tales, which a friend of ours composes for us. He knows what every little boy and girl does in the world; and it would be comical if he were to put us in his book.

Priscilla.

I wish he would put us in it, on account of our mama; that all the world might know the goodness of her heart, and how we love her.

Charles.

Yes, and I, too, for the sake of our papa, who treats us just as if we were even his real children.

SCENE X.

Mr. Floyd, Francis, Priscilla, Anne, Charles, Percival.

Mr. Floyd,

(who had stood by the side of the summer-house during the whole preceding scene, shews himself suddenly amongst them, crying,)

Yes, and so you are within my heart. I make it all my happiness to think that I am your father. But where is Frank?

Francis,

(embracing Mr. Floyd.)

Here, papa. Oh how rejoiced I am to see you, dear papa.

Mr. Floyd.

Kiss me once more my dear child.—And now let me inquire if you are pleased with your new brothers?

Francis.

Oh! I never could have chosen better. I will love them, and do every thing in my power that they may love me likewise.

Charles.

There will be no difficulty in that matter, since we are determined to do just the same.

Percival.

We shall but need to recollect the pleasure that we have had this day.

Priscilla.

That you may keep your promise, I will be sure to put you frequently in mind thereof.

Anne.

Oh, sister! as to that, I am sure, I shall re|member it without a monitor.

Mr. Floyd.

I verily believe, you will do so, from what I have heard you say; for you must know, dear children, I was planted here hard by in secret, during all your con|versation; and I am sure, I never shall forget it: nor I only, but another; for another has heard every thing as well as I. Come then, dear spouse, approach, and enjoy a pleasure so adapted to your goodness.

SCENE XI.

Mr. and Mrs. Floyd, Francis, Priscilla, Anne, Charles, Percival.

Mr. Floyd.

Here she is, my little ones; the partner that I have chosen to promote your happiness; and not yours only, but my own. The fortune which it might have

been in my power to leave to you, would be nothing, in comparison of that more valuable gift, a good and proper education. We have therefore made these second nuptials to procure you every possible advantage. Three among you very much wanted a mother, who might take upon her the care of your childhood: and the other two, a fa|ther to advance you in the world. Your interests were the same, in these second nuptials; and it is for the benefit of all of us that they have been framed. Do you then promise me, dear spouse, as I on my side do, that you will never think of treating either of these children with the least degree of partiality, except indeed what his supe|rior good behaviour may appear to merit?

Mrs. Floyd.

My reply to you, dear husband, is these tears; I cannot possibly repress them; and to you, my children, these embraces

(she holds out her arms, and all the children strive with one another to come closest to her.)

Mr. Floyd.

And do you, dear little ones, on your part, promise to keep up a constant union with each other, to avoid all jealousy and quarrels, and like children of one parent, love each other?

(They take each other by the hand, and kneeling, answer,)

Yes, papa; we do, we do.

Mr. Floyd,

(raising them)

Continue then to live in such a state of friendship. You will find its charms constantly encrease, and the tie between you grow closer every day. You will be as happy from the services that you do each other, as from those little sacrifices that may frequently be needful for the sake of peace among you. Every one enjoying his own happiness, will not the less enjoy his brother's; which, in fact, he may attribute to himself. There will not be an individual round about you, but will interest himself in your prosperity, if his solicitude be worth the acquisition; and your future children will re|ward you by their tenderness, for having so well merited the affection of your parents.

THE MOUNTAIN LUTE.

FROM the highest summit of those hills which over|look the vale of Lucca in Savoy, I was contemplating the extended landscape round about me: I was quite alone, my faithful servant being left in a neighbouring city, with orders not to expect me till at the end of three days; which interval I meant to spend in rambling over that romantic country. More than half way down the hill, I saw a hamlet, which assured me of a lodging for the night. Thus free from all inquietude, and swallowed up in thought, I let my mind roam at large in contem|p••ation, and my eye to wander from one object to another of the spacious view. But soon the sylvan choristers last song admonished me to think of retiring under cover for the night. The sun, already hid behind the opposite mountain, did but colour with his gold and purple rays the clouds which floated, as it were, just close above the trees that crown its summit. I descended slowly, morti|fied to see the spacious horizon, whose limits I could hardly trace, contract itself as I proceeded. The twilight now began to veil it with a shade, which by degrees grew browner, till the empress of the night dispelled this gloomy darkness with her silver beams. I sat down for a moment, to enjoy the picture. Nothing intercepted my view, throughout the vast expanse. I contemplated the infinite extent at leisure. From the trembling moon and stars which twinkled while I gazed upon them, I passed over to the calm and spotless azure of the firmament. The air was fresh, nor did the slightest breeze disturb it. Nature was absorbed in universal silence, saving the low murmur of a stream which meandered through the country at a distance. Stretched upon the grass, I might perhaps have contemplated till the rising of the sun next morning: but the music of a lute, made more harmonious by a voice, soon after struck upon my ear. I thought at first that my ravished senses were deluded by the power of my imagination, and experienced the delight of fancying my|self suddenly transported in a dream to what are called the regions of enchantment. In the midst of this illusion, while both m••sies still continued, A lute! said I rising,

a lute upon the mountain! I turned round to that side whence the melody proceeded, and discovered through the dark some verdure of the trees, no great way distant, the white walls and garden paling of a cottage. I approach|ed it with a beating heart; but what was my surprize, when I beheld a youthful peasant with a lute, on which he was playing with exquisite address. A woman, seated on his 〈◊〉〈◊〉 hand, was looking at him with an eye of the tenderest affection. At their feet, upon the turf, were many children, boys and girls, and ancient people, all in attitudes of pleasure and attention. When I first made my appearance, several of the children came to meet me, looked at one another, and then said among themselves, What gentleman is this? The young musician turned his head, but did not leave off playing. I could not possibly withstand the first emotions of my heart. I held him out my hand; he gave me his, which I laid hold of with a sort of transport. Every body upon this rose and made a circle round us. I informed them, as concisely as I could do, of my business in that quarter of the country, and at such a time of night. We have not an inn, for many miles round, remarked the youthful peasant, as our ham|let is not near the road; but if you are content to lie in a poor cabin, we will do our best to entertain you.

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

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

The youth began immediately to play upon his lute; and in the intervals of playing, sung a favourite ballad, which he did with so much sweetness, that a tear, as I could see, stood trembling in the eye of every one about

him, by the time that he had repeated the first couplet. I could not refrain from envying the surprizing genius of this rustic bard, whoever he might be, that could impress so powerfully an unlettered, and almost an uncivilized soci|ety of people. I was charmed in seeing how surprisingly those beauties that are drawn from nature, please the souls of all men. Of the poet's touches, none were 〈◊〉〈◊〉; and at the last, which was the most 〈◊〉〈◊〉, I heard round about me, nothing but sighs, and half stifled sobs.

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

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

the attention that I had paid her husband. Yes, quite willingly, replied Valentine, who saw how much his wife desired it.

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

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

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

As I have mentioned, I was born, sir, in this cottage, towards the end of the year one thousand seven hundred and sixty-four; being at present, three-and-twenty years of age. I had the misfortune to lose my mother, when an infant, being hardly weaned. My father was in easy, though not in affluent circumstances, but a law-suit into which he was forced, by one who is at present no more, but was then a very wealthy farmer, ruined him entirely; and he died of grief, when he was torn from his paternal cottage, and beheld it sold for the advantage of the lawyers. The old man whom you saw just now, and who is become my father, bought and came to settle in it. He was struck with pity, seeing me an orphan at my early time of life, and, though I was so little, told me that I should be his shepherd. I was treated very kindly by him; and his children looked upon me as their brother. Notwithstanding which, the loss of my poor father, the unkindness of my other kindred

who forsook me, with the thought of being nothing but a stranger in the cottage where I first had my existence, and the lonely life that I led upon the mountain, all united to afflict me, and my accustomed gaiety was changed to melancholy. I consumed whole days in weeping, while my flocks were grazing round me on the plain.

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

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

The tone of my voice, as he informed me after|wards, affected this good man, and my reply, he said, could not but touch him. He put several questions to me, and my answers pleased him. Night by this time being come, I brought him to our cottage; and my master entertained him hospitably. On the mor|row, they had some discourse together with regard to me, and when I was prepared to reassume my daily charge, they told me that George would take it in future, as the stranger meant to have me with him. I would be useless were I to tell you what was my affliction at the thought of quitting this dear cottage, though not mine, and parting from my Louisa, whom I loved even then, though she was quite a child. My situation was not any way a happy one; and yet I could not quit it without shedding tears. I could not possibly foresee that my future destination was to be decided by the present moment. Yes, to thee benefi|cent

protector of my youth, I am a debtor for my present happiness! Thou knowest, generous man, how ardently I prayed to God for thy prosperity while thou wert living, and with what exhaustless gratitude I bless even still thy ashes! He was called Lafont, and had the place of organist in no great parish. You would judge imperfectly of his abilities, if you adverted to the nature and obscurity of his employment. Many tra|vellers turned out of their road to hear his music; but their praises only made him the more modest. I much doubt, if in the course of your acquaintance, you have ever met with such a genius. He received from the affection of his father, who, when living, was a very great physician, such an education as would certainly have made him eminent as a physician likewise; but he rather chose to yield himself entirely to the ardent passion that he had long before conceived for music. He had married the daughter of the organist, whom he succeed|ed, but was childless. His dear wife, whom he had lost for several years, still lived within his heart. Her image, and his books, were now his only society in that deep melancholy which had seized upon his mind; but still while he avoided men, he did not hate them. On the contrary, he did much good in secret. He was forty years of age when I came to him. He in|structed me at first to read and write, and afterwards took pleasure in the cultivation of my voice, and teach|ing me to play the lute, which was his favourite in|strument. He did not stop at musical instruction, he provided me selections from the works of our greatest poets. He formed at once my heart, my understand|ing, and my taste. Thus he acted, for five years, the part of an assiduous master, without any expectation of reward for all his pains and labour, but from him, who best knows how to recompence the services that we do to our fellow-creatures.

In the midst of all these occupations, I had never ba|nished from my mind the recollection of my cottage, or the countenance of Louisa, the partner of my childish pastimes. I was often speaking of them to my patron, and accordingly one day—I never shall forget it, the first of June, four years ago—he rose betimes, and going, as his custom was, to take a morning's walk, bade me fol|low

him. We talked of many matters while we went along, as chance presented subjects for our conversation; till at last he brought me to the very mountain where I saw him at first. Dear Valentine, said he, I have ful|filled the duty which Providence, I thought, imposed upon me, when first I saw you. I am sensible how much you sigh when you reflect upon the habitation whence I took you; and have had no other view in undertaking to protect and educate you, than at last to put you in a way of getting possession of it once again. I now shew it you; look at it: but take notice, I forbid, on pain of my dis|pleasure, your returning thither, till such time as you have wherewithal to purchase it. I give you my own lute: I have instructed you to play upon it. Travel: you are not without a charming voice. Wherever you are heard, having no other pretensions than to the name of an itinerant musician, you will be the first of artists in your way. The novelty of the thing will never fail to bring you auditors and money: only be discreet and fru|gal; and when rich enough, return into your own coun|try, and buy out your father's cottage.

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

Upon the morrow, at the break of day, I was to leave my benefactor: he bestowed on me, at parting, the in|struction which he imagined I most needed, together with two louis d'ors. In four years time I travelled on foot through Italy, all France, and Germany, equipped like what I was, a peasant of the mountains, with my hair as you may see at present, floating in large curls upon my shoulders. I took notice that the singularity of such a dress increased the effect proceeding from my music, and particularly in the capitals. Few noblemen. I suppose, ever travelled more agreeably than I did. Every where I found a good reception, and not only from the middling sort of people, but the most polite. The quality in cities made up concerts, for no other purpose than to hear me; and in villages, I verily believe, they married for the mirth of dancing to the music of my instrument. In many

places I had advantageous offers made me to take up my residence among them. They seduced me sometimes, I acknowledge, for an instant; but as soon as I reflected again on my cottage, every thought of fortune vanished; nor of all my projects left one trace remaining. I re|member still what sweet sensations seized me every time when I went over a mountain in the ••rse of my travels, or even came in sight thereof. I sought this hamlet on it, and imagined for a moment that I could see my cottage. With my mind continually full of such an idea, I endea|voured to express my notions, and these couplets were my composition.

Sweet little cottage of my sire, Where when a child I play'd; To thee my longing sighs aspire, From distant realms convey'd.

Each object lives within my mind, Which there the eye runs o'er; The hamlet and the hill behind, The linden tree before.

Vast palaces, and domes renown'd, I with indiff'rence see; My utmost wishes would be crown'd, Sweet rural cot, in thee.

When thy dear name I've heard or read, Whence sprung my joy,—unless That Heav'n beneath thy peaceful shed Hath fixt my happiness?

My wand'rings o'er, I'd smile at care In thee, sweet rural cot! Louisa too, I trust, would share My calm and humble lot.

Then come my Lute, thy happiest strain With willing strings pursue; My bliss, if ev'ry wish I gain, To thee, sweet Lute, is due.

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

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

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

and often take it up for my own recreation, or to please my family and neighbours.

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

Valentine related to me many entertaining matters that occurred to him in travelling, and explained how he acquired that easiness of manners and politeness of expres|sion that had charmed me at first, and which afterwards, as I discovered, notwithstanding his great youth, conci|liated the respect and love of every aged individual through the hamlet. The acuteness of his understanding, the unstudied openness of Louisa, the old man's blunt good sense, the restless curiosity of George, made their con|versation interesting, and diffused an undescribable variety through every part thereof, which both charmed me, and connected them much closer to each other. I think, I

could have passed my life away quite happy with them. But why, said I to myself, why brood on such a contem|plation? I was to leave them that very night. I confess, I felt a pang of sadness to reflect upon our separation, and imagined, by their looks, that it would occasion them some sorrow likewise. If my fortune should in future permit me to dispose of the remainder of my life with more liberty, I then intended, and do still, to make a yearly visit to this mountain, for the purpose of seeing my friends again, and filling my whole heart with those sensations of contentedness and peace which their society and habitation cannot but inspire.

INTERESTED KINDNESS.

Matthias, Simon.

Matthias.

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

Simon.

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

Matthias.

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

Simon.

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

Matthias.

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

Simon.

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

Matthias.

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

Simon.

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

Matthias.

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

Simon.

Oats, neighbour! Oats are very dear!

Matthias.

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

Simon.

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

Matthias.

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

Simon.

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

Matthias.

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

Simon.

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

Matthias.

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

Simon.

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

Matthias.

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

Simon.

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

Matthias.

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

Simon.

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

Matthias.

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

Simon.

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

Matthias.

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

Simon,

(seeing Francis, his man, calls out)

Frank! Frank!

Francis,

(approaching.)

What want you, master?

Simon.

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

(He tips Frank the wink.)

So go and see if she is well.

(Frank lets his master see that be understands him, and goes out.)

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

(Francis now reenters.)

Well, how fares it with poor Ball?

Francis.

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

Simon.

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

Matthias.

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

Simon.

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

Matthias.

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

Simon.

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

Matthias.

But what are you to do for meal?

Simon.

My wife can go without it for a fortnight.

Matthias.

And then your saddle, that is all in pieces?

Simon.

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

Matthias.

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

Simon.

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

Matthias.

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

Simon.

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

Matthias.

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

Simon.

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

Matthias.

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

Simon.

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

THE SLOVEN.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another day, as he was playing in a meadow, with a little friend of his, he chanced to lose a buckle; but instead of seeking diligently for it, he begged his comrade for a little while to lend him his, because, in walking to

and fro, the straps, which he trod on now and then, had already more than once been like to trip him up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His companion's father was an eminent attorney, and employed above a dozen clerks to copy papers for him. Mr. Weston therefore offered him Urban's services in this

way, 'till such time as he had earned enough to pay him for the buckle; and requested that the attorney would consent to such a way of settling matters, as it was very probable Urban might be greatly benefited by it.

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

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

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

THE FLOWER THAT NEVER FADES.

Araminta, Emily.

Araminta.

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

Emily.

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

Araminta.

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

Emily.

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

Araminta.

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

Emily.

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

Araminta.

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

Emily.

Do•• and more than that, I will help you.

Araminta.

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

Emily.

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

Araminta.

Right.

Emily.

And are you in a hurry to complete it?

Araminta.

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

Emily.

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

Araminta.

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

Emily.

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

Araminta.

Well, what think you of my governess?

Emily.

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

Araminta.

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

Emily.

To confess the truth, I have; and think you hardly the same person that you were formerly. What can have caused so great an alteration? Till you quitted England, ay, and unce you came from France, I must acknowledge you were proud and huffish. You offended every body without scruple, and the least familiarity from others was considered as an insult by you; but at present your behaviour is engaging. You have that complacency and affability which cannot but win people's hearts. I freely tell you, I myself even love you ten times more at present than I did. You took such airs upon you before

as disgusted me. I was a hundred times disposed to break off all connection with you; whereas now, I find a real pleasure in your company and conversation. And what pleases me still more than all is, that you seem yourself much happier than before.

Araminta.

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

Emily.

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

Araminta.

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

(she squeezes Emily by the hand)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The cloquence of this mute prayer compleatly over|whelmed me. We were come, without perceiving it, to the foot of this large tree. We stopped close by this green bank, and I fell down upon it half swooning as it

were. She instantly afforded me the tenderest succour, and restored me to new life by her affectionate caresses.

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

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

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

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

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

Emily.

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

Araminta.

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

THE MILITARY ACADEMY.

A DRAMA, in ONE ACT.

CHARACTERS.

• ...The MASTER.
• ...An ASSISTANT.
• ...EUGENIUS, the master's son.
• ...EDWARD, Scholars.
• ...RODERICK, Scholars.
• ...THEODORE, Scholars.

The SCENE is in the Master's Study.

SCENE I.

The Master, the Assistant.

(The Master sits writing before his desk.)

The Assistant,

(knocking at the door, and half opening it.)

WILL you permit me, sir, to interrupt you for a moment?

The Master.

Come in, sir, without asking leave: you know, whatever time I have belongs of justice to the du|ties of my place.

The Assistant.

I wish to tell you of a circumstance not very common, that has happened in the school within these few days past.

The Master.

What is it? you alarm me!

The Assistant.

Oh! there is no occasion, sir, for that: what I have to say is rather affecting than alarming. What are your ideas then of our last pupil, Edward Barton?

The Master.

For these ten days past, that he has been among us, you are sensible, I have not had an opportunity of even speaking to him. This, however, I can say in his behalf, that when his parents brought him, I remark|ed something in his countenance that pleased me mightily. Do any of the Assistants take offence at his behaviour?

The Assistant.

The reverse. They give him all possible praise for his diligence; and the greatness of his under|standing also charms them. He is come among us with more knowledge than our own scholars of three years standing generally have; in short, his school-mates only and myself have reason to be discontented with him.

The Master.

How, Sir! have you reason to be discon|tented with him? I am sorry for it.

The Assistant.

I am so indeed; but much less on my own account than on his. I do not know what it means, but there must be some deep anxiety upon his mind. I have had recourse to many methods for discovering it, but have been always bafiled.

The Master.

What is his behaviour?

The Assistant.

In the first place, sir, he is very studious when in school, and nothing can divert him from the business of it: but in play-time he is silent and reserved among the scholars. I have given him two, who are al|lowed to be the sprightliest, as companions, and enjoined them to do every thing in their power to please him. He is sensible indeed to their endeavours, and acknowledges their kindness; but when all is done, their fire is utterly incapable of warming him, and he appears between them just like so much ice. Yes, gentlemen; no, gentlemen; and such like monosyllables, are all his answers to their questions.

The Master.

He is sad, no doubt, at being separated from his parents?

The Assistant.

Yes, it is very natural to think so; yet his sadness has continued now ten days; and can we think a child of only twelve years of age really susceptible of an impression for that length of time?

The Master.

Not often: but a child of so much eleva|tion as I thought his countenance indicated!

The Assistant.

Pardon, sir, my contradicting you; for if that age is very lively, it is variable also, and since I have been a tutor here, I have noticed that all those who have been most afflicted at the thought of being separated from their parents, have, and very shortly, been induced by their companions to forget that separation. Now whatever Edward's notions may be on this head, what will you think when I have told you every thing?

The Master.

You raise my curiosity. Proceed. I look to be informed of nothing on the subject of this Edward but what is great and singular!

The Assistant.

Would you believe it then, sir, he re|fuses every thing at meal time, but a little bread and water. It is not possible that any criminal should be condemned to coarser fare than what he voluntarily chuses!

The Master.

You do not tell me so? He should have lived at Sparta.

The Assistant.

True, sir; but with us, where singula|rity must not be suffered, and the little soldier is to be submissive to general subordination, there is room to fear some danger to the rest in his example. Twenty times would I have made him eat the victuals set before him; but to all my instances, he has no otherwise made answer, than by turning towards me, and in tears,—I weep myself to think of his affecting way.

The Master.

I too am not unmoved. This disobedience is, however, blameable, and must not be unpunished. If he should persist therein, whatever causes it, he cannot possibly stay here. The intention of a military school is nothing less than that the scholars should be absolutely subject to the will of their instructors.

The Assistant.

His dismission was indeed the circum|stance that I feared; and therefore did I put off speaking of his disobedience to you. I was every day in hope that his resolution would be conquered; but it still con|tinues.

The Master.

Is it possible, that at his tender age he should be so far master of himself, as to conceal his thoughts from one so exercised as you are in examining the dispositions of young people?

The Assistant.

He is what you called him just now, a true Spartan. His behaviour, though not tinctured with a grain of pride, is perfectly seducing. Such is, I may say, his manner of concealing what afflicts him, that one cannot but be really astonished at his silence, and yet not harsh enough to think him obstinate.

The Master.

I will sound him then myself. The light in which you place his portrait, adds considerably to the fair opinion that I formed on my first seeing him. If I can possibly prevail upon him to reveal the cause of his

affliction, I persuade myself, I shall be fully compensated for my trouble in obtaining it.

The Assistant.

On my part, threats, entreaties, and persuasion, have been all employed without effect. Of course then, I must fear, your efforts will be no less un|successful, though I wish the contrary, and should be even happy if it proved so.

The Master.

In the first place, I mean to question those whom you said you had enjoined to keep him company.— Who are they?

The Assistant.

Theodore and Roderick: but your son Eugenius, sir, will give you better information.

The Master.

How! has Edward interested him then?

The Assistant.

He thinks more, I verity believe, of Edward, than himself. I have observed him studying his actions silently.—Then he has never uttered a syllable to you about him?

The Master.

No: but I am as well pleased with his reserve as his attention. It proclaims a secret sympathy between him and the youth who has attracted him. You will oblige me by conducting them all three together here this instant.

The Assistant.

I would rather send them; as who knows, sir, but they will think my presence a restraint. They will be free, if I am absent.

The Master.

Right: so let them come alone; and send me Edward likewise, when you find that they have lest me; or, on second thoughts, let him sit down and wait my coming in the parlour. I will be with him shortly.

SCENE II.

The Master, (alone.)

This affair is all a mystery to me! It is very natural that Edward should grieve at being separated from his parents. It is not possible but that a boy of such great hopes should be extremely dear to every one who knows him, and have had continual marks of their indulgence; but that nothing should have mitigated his affliction in the period of ten days, surrounded by so many of his age, and all no doubt desirous to amuse him; and still more, that he should wish for nothing in the world but bread

and water, is inexplicable! What the children have to eat is very good, and therefore could not from its quality disgust him. Besides, he was never used at home to better fare. His father, at his bringing him to school, in|formed me he was far from rich, and had a numerous family to maintain. The more I think of his behaviour, still the more I think it wonderful!

(He walks about a little while in thought.)

SCENE III.

The Master, Eugenius, Roderick, Theodore.

Eugenius.

We come, papa, according to your order. The assistant told us that we were wanted; Theodore and Roderick, and myself.

The Master.

Yes, Eugenius. I desire to have a little conversation with these two young gentlemen and you.

Roderick and Theodore.

It is doing us a deal of honour.

Eugenius.

Yes, and pleasure too; at least I think so.

The Master,

(to Theodore and Roderick.)

I am told, you are not quite contented with your new companion's con|duct?

Roderick.

To confess the truth, sir, he is indeed a little of the dullest; this same master—What is his name?

Theodore.

He has spoke so little to us, we do not recol|lect what name he goes by.

Eugenius.

Edward Barton. For his name, I do not think much of that, in preference to any other; but his person, that is another thing, and I am happy to be ac|quainted with him.

Roderick.

Edward?—a good name enough, if Dummy were but added. Master Edward Dummy!

Eugenius.

O, papa! pray do not let Roderick ridicule poor Edward in this manner!

The Master.

Master Roderick, who has authorized you to distribute epithets among your school-mates thus?

Roderick.

Because he does not speak three words in half an hour. Had he come to us from the moon, I should not wonder at it. He is so pale and mopish, he would not belie his country.

The Master.

Should his paleness then, or mopishness, as you are pleased to call it, make you hate him?

Roderick.

I am not his enemy; far from it, sir; but cannot be his friend, since he does nothing to divert us, after we have taken so much pains to make him speak.

Theodore.

The night, sir, is surely long enough for silence. The day was made for amusement, laughing and talking.

Roderick.

Must I be dull, because be takes so much delight in dulness?

Eugenius.

Poor young man! You should not call it dul|ness; it is uneasiness.

Roderick.

And did we not do every thing in our power to make him chearful? But the more we play our monkey tricks to make him fall a grinning, still the more his sober sadness gains upon him. We have done with him at last at our diversions; but still find him when we come to ••inner, where he makes such faces as are enough to make us hungry again.

The Master.

Has he any sickening method, as some children have, of eating?

Roderick.

He must needs be very aukward, were his manners sickening; since he eats bread only, and drinks nothing but clear water.

Theodore.

He affects a puny stomach, merely to shew us what good things he had at home.

Eugenius.

You very much mistake him, if you fancy that it is from pride. I watched him yesterday, when he had good roast beef put down before him, and could see, though he concealed his face, that his eyes were full of tears.

The Master.

You don't say so, Eugenius?

Roderick.

Yes, indeed, he very often whimpers; and if once Don Quixote should return again to life, they would fight to know which of them should be called Knight of the Weeful Visage.

The Master.

Are you so unfeeling as to make a joke of his affliction?

Roderick.

He is enough to make us also of Don Quixote's order. It is quite dismal to see such a countenance at dinner: it deprives us of our stomachs. Look ye, com|mend me to Theodore: he would give you a good appetite to see him eat.

The Master.

You would be glad then, I suppose, to rid yourselves of Edward at your table?

Roderick.

Yes, sir, and with all our hearts, unless he would become a little merry.

Eugenius.

Well then, let him sit, papa, at mine. I should be glad to have him by me, and will take care of him.

The Master.

You are not afraid then of his sadness, like these gentlemen?

Eugenius.

I am doubtless sorrowful to see him sad; but merely upon that account would shew him all the friend|ship in my power. He would not, perhaps, be so un|happy, did he know that we pity him.

The Master.

Can neither of you guess the reason of his melancholy?

Theodore.

To confess the truth, I never thought of asking him.

Roderick.

Why wish to know things that are sure to make one sad?

The Master.

And you, Eugenius, can you let me have no better information?

Eugenius.

No, indeed, papa. I should have been re|joiced to know the secret, and to console him were it in my power. These three times have I begged him to reveal it; but durst go no further, when I saw he was resolved to keep it. Doubtless he does not think me yet sufficiently his friend to trust me with it. I must therefore merit his reliance on me by my services.

The Master.

But why, Eugenius, tell me nothing of all this before?

Eugenius.

Because I thought that you would have forced him to conduct himself upon a footing with the rest, and have reprimanded him in case of his refusal. You have given me your permission to be always in the school; and I shall never be so mean as to betray my dear companions by telling tales. But if ever they do any thing that merits commendation, never fear but I will come and make you acquainted with it.

The Master,

(embracing Eugenius.)

I expected nothing less, my dear Eugenius, from your sensibility; and am quite charmed to find myself not disappointed.

(To Theodore and Roderick.)

I am sorry, gentlemen, that I can|not bestow the same eulogium on your conduct. I could certainly have wished that you had evinced a little affec|tion, or at least some slight consideration, for poor Edward

in his sorrow. Go, return to your amusements: it were a pity to disturb you in them. If your turn of mind pre|serves you from some sort of sorrows, I am grievously afraid that it hinders you from relishing those exquisite delights which a generous heart experiences.

(Theodore and Roacrick leave the room in manifest confusion.)

SCENE IV.

The Master, Eugenius.

The Master.

It is you only that are worthy to enjoy those exquisite delights. How I rejoice to find you so compassionate towards others in their sorrow!

Eugenius.

Who, papa, could possibly refrain from pity|ing the unhappy Edward? His dejection, and his pale|ness, every thing announces some uncommon cause of sorrow in his heart. So young! and yet so miserable! I avoided him at first, just like the rest, and thought him morose and savage. But when I afterwards noticed his consistency and perseverance, his condescension and po|liteness, I was gradually attracted by him, so as in the end to give him all my friendship; and, I think, I should conceive a great deal better of myself, could I but merit his.

The Master.

You know, however, that he has behaved so as to incur the crime of disobedience?

Eugenius.

Yes, at table.—I cannot possibly conceive the meaning of it; but, perhaps, he fancies that every soldier should live course••. After all, his singular abstemious|ness is better than the gluttony of others; and the example that he ••olds out can injure no one. Pray then let him still continue what is so much to his liking being, as he is, so punctual to h•• duty, and so diligent in school. He is the first or all his class in mathematics, geography, and drawing.

The Master.

But a conduct which so openly infringes upon rule and order, cannot be excused in any circum|stance, nor from any motive. I perceive, I shall be forced to send him home.

Eugenius.

You do not mean so, papa? What! for so slight a fault, and one that perhaps merits praise rather

than censure, will you send him off as if his principles were vicious? Let me go then with him likewise.

The Master.

How, Eugenius? are you so attached to him then? For what reason?

Eugenius.

I cannot tell you; yet, if you will but have a little conversation with him, you will perhaps discern the reason. How rejoiced I should be, were he but my brother! I should only have this to fear, that you would love him more than you do me at present.

The Master.

I have sent for him, and mean to have some conversation with him here. I shall then discern if he is worthy of inspiring such a strong attachment, and sincerely hope that you have not misjudged in the affair. If so, I promise—but of that another time. I hear some|body knock. Step into the adjoining room, that if I call, you may come to us.

Eugenius.

Yes, papa.

(Eugenius goes out. The Master rises to open the door.)

SCENE V.

Edward entering, bows respectfully to the Master, who sits down. Edward stands before him.

The Master.

Well, master Barton, can you any way conjecture why I sent to fetch you?

Edward.

Yes, sir, I am afraid I guess the reason.

The Master.

Is it true, then, that you disdain the com|pany and conversation of your school-mates, and disturb their pastimes by such whims and affectations as were never heard of in a person of your age?

Edward.

I dare answer, sir, with all the deference and respect that I owe you, it was never my intention to do either.

The Master.

You have been told, for instance, what rules the scholars are to observe, when at meals, and yet you choose to live on bread and water.

Edward.

True, sir; I want nothing more.

The Master.

The Assistant has endeavoured to convince you how improper such a singularity must be considered, and yet finds you fixed to persevere therein.

Edward.

Yes, sir.

The Master.

And think you such a perseverance com|mendable?

Edward.

Not, sir, in your thoughts, I own.

The Master.

It is then a matter of indifference to you, whether you do right or wrong in my opinion?

Edward.

No, sir; for in that case, I should heed as little your repreaches as your praise. I know what obli|gation I am under to obey you, and have often blamed myself for not complying with your pleasure, in the regu|lations of this place; but still, have found it utterly im|possible to do so. Heaven is, notwithstanding, witness for me, that I am not quite so guilty, as appearances proclaim me.

The Master.

I will readily allow, you are yourself per|suaded of your innocence, and therefore think, that you have such reasons as will jestify your disobedience.—Have you any thing to say then?

Edward.

Nothing, sir.

The Master.

But surely you must know, that disobe|dience is a bad example, even though you think that your motives will excuse you.

Edward.

I have had the honour to acknowledge that myself.

The Master.

That hitherto it has been tolerated from the hope of your amendment.

Edward.

Never.

The Master.

And in short, that by your obstinacy you have merited already the severest punishment.

Edward.

I am ready to endure it.

The Master.

But not ready to amend your conduct?

Edward.

It is impossible.

The Master.

I see then, and am sorry for it, that it will be impossible for me to keep you here a moment longer; as it would be contrary to all good, to suffer such an instance of rebellion in an Institution of this sort.

Edward.

What will become of me at that rate? wretch|ed as I am! O sir! must I then be at last a burthen to my parents, and an object of contempt for others? Have I merited this sentence?

The Master.

Have you merited this sentence? When you will not place the least degree of confidence in me, do you ask that question? Would you hide a secret from

your father? I am here to be a father to you, and you will not shew yourself a son to me!

Edward.

If such, sir, be your condescension, I will give you the possession of my heart. I could stand pa|tiently and hear your threats, but cannot be unaffected by your friendship: yes, sir, I will lay out my whole heart before you, and make known the affliction that oppresses me.

The Master.

You are willing then to think yourself my son!

Edward,

(throwing himself into the Master's arms.)

Are you then willing to become my second father?

The Master,

(embracing him.)

O my dearest Edward! call me for the future only by that name.

Edward.

Well then, my second father, I have one at home so poor, that he subsists on scarcely better food than bread and water. My poor mother likewise is as much reduced as he is; I have two sisters, and as many brothers, who enjoy no better fare. And can I then indulge my appetite, and live on your good things, while they have, as it were, no more than bread to moisten with their tears? No, no; much rather would I die of hunger. I am Edward Barton, and there never was a father of that name who had a son unworthy of him.

The Master.

What! has no one then solicited the go|vernment in favour of so old a soldier?

Edward.

No one, sir: but he is destitute of all things, after having served his country two and twenty years with honour, and consumed the little that he had left him in soliciting a pension. On the eve of my departure for this place, I heard him read the story of Count Ugo|lino, who was shut up in a castle, with his family, to die of hunger. Since that moment, this sad story has been always in my mind. I think that I hear incessantly the parish bells a tolling, for the burial of my father, mother, brothers, and poor sisters. Can I then make merry, when my heart is overflowed with tears? and eat such food as my afflicted parents cannot purchase? If I could, I should no longer be Edward Barton. While my father is unhappy, in whatever corner of the earth I may be, nothing shall prevent me from enduring his affliction. If the king—

The Master.

The king for certain knows not of your father's situation: if he did, he would have softened it. I will use my interest to convey the knowledge of it to him; and do you rely upon his justice. My dear Edward, why not tell me this before? You might perhaps have spared your family ten days distress at least.

Edward.

You think then, sir, that I shall become so happy as to save him at my years?

The Master.

I hope so; and at least, am certain that your behaviour has relieved him. Generous child! Why are you not indeed my son?

Edward.

My love and gratitude consider you my fa|ther. It is a debt that I owe to your generosity, for wish|ing thus I were your son.

The Master,

(looking at him with affection.)

My dear son Edward!

Edward.

Yes; I am, and will be so. You are the father too of all my family, if through your friendship they may be assisted; but alas, sir! we have been so long unhappy, it is not to be hoped—

The Master.

Hoped! Edward? Should you doubt of what I tell you, it would be an insult to me. I have told you that I was certain your behaviour had relieved your parents, since relief depends upon myself alone: and therefore,

(going to his bureau end giving him a paper,)

'till I have tried the effect of my interest, which is not inconsiderable, take this: it is a twenty pound bank note, and what your father gives you, as the first fruit of his love.

Edward,

(interrupting him.)

Give me; what need can I have for it? Send, oh, send your generous present to my father! there it will be useful.

The Master.

He shall know that he is indebted for it to your filial piety, and now therefore, my dear Edward, you will no longer live on bread and water!

Edward.

Not till my poor father is reduced again to do so.

The Master.

And in future, you will be joyous with your comrades?

Edward.

While my father is joyous with his wife and children.

The Master.

Well then, run, and write your father an account of this transaction: I will go dress myself, and

instantly set off for London. I shall see a nobleman of considerable interest this very morning.

Edward.

How shall I collect my spirits, to return you thanks in such a manner as I ought, sir?

The Master,

(smiling.)

Sir!—It seems then you forget already that you are my son?

Edward,

(falling at his master's feet)

O father! O! my dear, dear father! pardon me, if being, as I am, beside myself—

The Master,

(raising Edward, and conducting him affec|tionately towards the door.)

Go, go, my child, and leave me here a little. I have no less occasion to compose my|self than you.

Edward.

I will come back very shortly, with my letter. You must see it, so do not go, dear father, till I have once again embraced you!

The Master.

No, my dearest son; I will not deny myself that pleasure. Run and write your letter: I will wait for you.

SCENE VI.

The Master,

(alone.)

Fortunate occurrence! Oh happy day! What a number of affecting objects all at once pre|sent themselves before me! A brave soldier, for whose services I am about to procure a recompence! and his son, whom I may form into a man, and so contribute to the glory of my country! My Eugenius, who appears so sensible of the impression made by virtue on his heart, and so worthy of the friend whom he has selected thus! My sovereign, to whose notice I shall introduce a little hero, such as his munificence may cherish! and a suffering wife and children, such as his compassion may deliver from affliction.

SCENE VII.

The Master, the Assistant.

The Master.

You are come, sir, quite a propos to share my transports.

The Assistant.

What has caused them, my good sir? You are no less agitated than young Edward, who ran by me wild, as one might think, with pleasure; for he did not see me, did not seem as if he trod upon the ground. His eyes, as I looked at him, beamed with rapture, though the tears that he had been shedding were not quite dried up. I called out to him, but he could not hear me.

The Master.

It would have charmed you, had you witnessed what has passed between us. It was a mo|ment, such as does not twice occur in any one man's life.

The Assistant.

Your hope then is not disappointed. You have wrought upon him to reveal the cause of his af|fliction.

The Master.

But what difficulty had I to obtain my wish! what pain ••t gave me to upbraid him! and how nobly he withstood me! How much honour does even his disobedience reflect upon him!

The Assistant.

I foresaw as much in general, though I could not clear up the particulars, to reason on them.

The Master.

Who could possibly have guessed at the ex|cess of his affection! he was prompted to deny his appe|tite at table, that he might not fare in the least degree better than his parents. At so great a distance from them, he supported such privations, though he knew that by doing so, he could not succour them. What think you of so rare a youth? What think you of a father, who, surrounded by misfortunes, has been able thus to form his son to virtue? What exalted pleasure for a monarch to reward such virtue! I am proud, my friend, that I have it in my power to convey to his royal ear, intelligence of this poor youth, and his afflicted father's sufferings and deserts. There is but one thing else that would yield me greater satisfaction. I should like to be in such a situation, as to give him an account of all his meritorious subjects. I would so exalt his throne, that he should then be able to look down on every virtuous man in his dominions, while these last, by looking up, should see him in the action of applauding and encoura|ging their virtue. Thus, without the wretched breath of adulation, might a king be really among his subjects called their god.

The Assistant.

Our king is worthy your solicitude, to interest him in behalf of Edward and his parents.

The Master.

That is what I told him I would do; and how great was his gratitude? We called each other son and father, and, I verily believe, experienced the affection in our hearts, of such affinity. But do not I hear somebody coming? — I believe it is he. Step there|fore into this apartment: you will find Eugenius there; I shall soon require your presence here again, if it be Edward.

(The Assistant withdraws, when Edward comes in sight.)

The Master,

(alone.)

Yes, it is he; and how affecting|ly expressive, even at this distance, is his whole counte|nance!

SCENE VIII.

The Master, Edward.

Edward,

(rushing to embrace his master.)

Father, dear, dear father! here is my letter.

The Master.

It is not sealed, as I observe, and there|fore you would have me read it?

Edward.

Would? It is every line about you.

The Master,

(reading.)

"Papa! mama! brothers and sisters! Come all of you together, while this letter is reading. Oh that I were present, and could read it you myself! but I am present, and observe you. Weep no longer, as I trust, you are no longer to subsist on bread and tears. There are on earth here, generous bosoms, as in heaven: of whom, the master of our Aca|demy, as I have found, is one. He is my father, let me call him so; or rather, the protecting angel of our fa|mily. Would you believe it! he has sent you this, as from himself, and will solicit you a pension, which he says he doubts not of obtaining for you! Fall upon your knees and bless him, as I do.—

(The master stops, and seeing Edward on his knees, with hands and eyes to|ward heaven, affectionately raises him and says,)

What means this my son?

Edward.

I am offering you my life: It is at your disposal.

The Master.

No, my dearest Edward; keep it for the accomplishment of worthy and illustrious actions. Mine is posting fast to its decay; but by your conduct, you may lengthen it.

Edward,

(eagerly.)

I, father! Shall I ever be so happy? —Speak! Oh speak, sir; and inform me by what means I may experience so much heart-felt satisfaction.

The Master.

By your friendship for my son.

(He opens the adjoining chamber door.)

Eugenius enter, and embrace your brother.

SCENE IX.

The Master, Edward, the Assistant, Eugenius. (Edward and Eugenius rush into each other's arms.)

The Master.

Edward, he is worthy of your friendship: his affection for you went before his father's.

Edward.

I could clearly see indeed that my sufferings moved him.

Eugenius.

You shall never suffer for the future, but my|self will be a sharer with you. Shall I not, dear Edward?

Edward,

(taking Eugenius by the hand, and presenting it with his own to the Master.)

Well then, my Eugenius, let us thus connect ourselves as friends for ever, in the hands of our respectable and common father.

The Master.

Yes, dear children: I approve your wishes, and bestow my blessing on them. Let those happy days return, as far as your example can have influence, when the field of combat was a theatre for friendship. When warriors united the most amiable private qualities to the most undaunted courage. Let Sidney and Wolfe be your model; serve your Sovereign with sidelity like theirs. Live, as they did, admired by all mankind, and if necessary, die as they did, regretted, in the service of your country.

PHILIP.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I think, said Philip, you are in the right: so come along with me. I will tell my father every thing, and he will not be angry with me, I hope; for look you, I can easily take comfort for my broken cane, but not should he imagine that I neglected to take care of what he

gave me. After this, they went together. Philip told his father what had happened. The good gentleman consoled his son, and thanked little Emilius for the advice that he had given him.

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

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

CHARLOTTE.

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

seems very much in pain, and perhaps is poor besides. If so then, he is doubly miserable.

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

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

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

Some few moments after, one of them fell down him|self, and all the rest burst out a laughing as they had done before; for his part, he was very angry, and when up again, ran after his companions, pelting them with stones. He was convinced then how unjust it is to laugh at any one's distress: he formed a resolution never, for the time to come, to laugh at any old man's pain, and fol|lowed

at a distance him whom he had before made the object of laughter, hoping to have the opportunity of making some atonement for his fault.

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

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

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

On the way, they saw the little boy who had been fol|lowing them; for he had run a great way on before, and now was sitting on the grass. He cast ••is eyes down when they looked upon him; rose up after they had passed, and followed them again. The ••itt••e girl observed him, but would not speak of him. She asked the old man, if he lived alone. No, little lady, answered he, I have a cot|tage:

see, there it is, beside you tree across the meadow. You observe, it is no great distance off: it is in the middle of a little garden. I have an orchard, and a field like|wise; and I told a poor old neighbour, who some years since left his cottage, which fell down through age, that if he would but come and live with me, he should in fu|ture cultivate my ground. I told him, that I would live with him, that he should enjoy whatever I might have, and I would only ask him to provide me necessaries. He agreed. He never had a child: he is extremely good and honest; and, for my part, I am quite at ease in his so|ciety. And yet, in spite of all his diligence, at times I think myself deserted. I no longer see my son, and I was constantly accustomed to receive from him the tenderest tokens of affection. In the very place where I have seen him run to meet me, I am now assisted only by the hand of strangers. I no longer see his children, who have utterly forgot me: I shall live far distant from them: I shall die, and very likely never see them more.—Alas! if their poor father were but still living!—He could not utter one word more.

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

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

Thank you, thank you heartily, my little friend, an|swered the old man. God's providence be praised for all things! Here is an honest little gentleman, who does not ricicule old age, and laugh at the afflictions that attend it. Oh! no, no; you do not look with scorn upon a poor old man. I see it in your eyes. You are not of the num|ber

of those wicked little fellows whom you must certainly have passed, although you were not with them. Char|lotte recollected having seen the little boy among them, and remarked his laughing just as they did, but she would not say a word about it; for although she did not at all approve the boy's behaviour, yet her good nature would not suffer her to give him pain, by telling what she knew.

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

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

Both the boy and girl, as they sat beside him, testified their joy and gratitude; but yet their looks were more expressive than their words. However, they began to

think of going. Charlotte feared lest her parents might come home, and be uneasy at her absence; and the little man expressed how he was grieved so soon to quit him: but his mother, he feared, would scold him, should he think of staying longer.

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

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

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

Turning then to Charlotte: "And for you, dear little maid," said he, "I am convinced, you ought to leave me, as your parents would be certainly uneasy, should you stay too long. I owe you all my joy, and shall for ever

bless you. Come at times, and see me. Do not, I be|seech you, my dear children, utterly forget me! May you both be happy!"

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

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

THE WATCH.

YOUNG Clara, at her return from a visit which she had just before been paying to an intimate ac|quaintance, appeared quite pensive and sad. She found her sisters entertaining one another with that innocent and lively joy which heaven seems delighted to infuse into the sports of infancy. Instead of making one among them with her usual playfulness, she moved to a corner of the ••oom, sat there as if it vexed her to behold their gaiety, and when the little ones began to prattle, in hopes that she would join in their diversion, replied peevishly to what they asked her. When the father, who loved Clara ex|ceedingly,

beheld her thus dejected, which was but very seldom the case, he began to be uneasy, put her on his knee, and taking her affectionately by the hand, enquired what ailed his little child, that she appeared so melan|choly? "Nothing, nothing," answered Clara at first, to all his questions; but at length, on being pressed more earnestly to tell him every thing, she replied, that all the little ladies whom she had seen that evening at her friend's, where she had been a visiting, had each received a very pretty present from their parents, or else friends, by way of fairing; though not one among them was so far ad|vanced in learning as herself. She mentioned more par|ticularly one Miss Richmond, whose uncle had, that very morning, purchased her a very fine gold watch. "Oh! what pleasure," added she, "Miss Richmond must feel, in having such a handsome watch beside her!"

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

Clara.

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

Mr. Ford.

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

Clara.

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

Mr. Ford.

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

Clara.

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

Mr. Ford.

It is true, a watch must be exceedingly con|venient, though it were but to inform one's writing-master

that he has staid his time out, if through friendship or politeness he should wish to sit a little longer with one.

Clara.

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

Mr. Ford.

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

Clara.

I have, papa, already.

Mr. Ford.

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

Clara.

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

Mr. Ford.

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

Clara.

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

Mr. Ford.

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

Clara.

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

Mr. Ford.

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

Clara.

Ah! now you joke, papa!

Mr. Ford.

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

Clara.

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

Mr. Ford.

You may go there again to-morrow morning.

Clara.

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

Mr. Ford.

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

Clara.

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

Mr. Ford.

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

Clara.

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

Mr. Ford.

Just the thing I expected! You perceive, the motive of utility which you insisted on just now with such importance, was merely a pretext to hide your va|nity; for this same watch would do you all the service that you could possibly derive from one enriched with dia|monds. Why take up your thoughts with what the world may say concerning you? However, in this case they will

applaud your judgment, which could chuse a watch for real service, not for empty appearance.

Clara.

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

Mr. Ford.

You suppose, then, that would make you happy?

Clara.

Yes; quite happy.

Mr. Ford.

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

Clara.

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

Mr. Ford.

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

Clara.

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

Mr. Ford.

Think so, Clara? I am sure it would have that effect; for all our happiness on earth consists in being satisfied with such a situation as the will of Providence has meant us. There is no condition in the world so humble, or so elevated, but a vain ambition in it may induce us to imagine ourselves in want of every thing that our neigh|bour possesses. It is ambition that torments the husband|man, however easy in his circumstances, and inclines him to behold his neighbour's field with envy, while it stimu|lates the master of a mighty empire, and persuades him that some province bordering on his realm is wanting to complete the figure of its boundary. Thence spring those cruel wars which princes carry on to desolate their people; and those law-suits in which individuals are engaged, or those quarrels that disgrace man's nature. What were your ideas with regard to that Miss Richmond that you men|tioned just now, when you were looking at the handsome watch that she displayed at her side? Did you feel within your bosom that alacrity of friendship, still subsisting in her favour, which you once cherished? Think, would

you have done her, at that moment, any service, or at least with equal joy as yesterday? That secret enmity with which her watch inspired you against her, would not such a watch inspire your friend, or very possibly your sisters, with the same against you also? Think then, for how despicable an enjoyment you would break the dearest ties of friendship and alliance, and the affection which nature plants within us! Who would think herself happy upon such conditions?

Clara.

O papa, you make me shudder!

Mr. Ford.

Then, my sweet Clara, entertain no more of these unreasonable wishes; they cannot but destroy your happiness. What is there wanting, that you can find really useful, in the situation which ••rovidence allots you? Have you not good food in plenty? and convenient raiment for the various seasons of the year? Does not my love provide you masters to improve your understanding, while I form your heart, and do my utmost to endue you with those several accomplishments that will in future make you welcome to all decent company? You want, it seems, at present, a gold watch enriched with diamonds! Should I get you such a watch, how would you look to|morrow upon your false pearl ear-rings? Would you leave off teazing me, till I had bought you real pearls? Nor would this be all; for you would then want foreign lace, fine silks, and waiting-women to attend you. People cannot go on foot, like others, through the streets, when they are pompously set out from head to foot; but must have footmen, fashionable carriages, and high-bred horses. You would want all these, and having once obtained them, would be fit indeed to go to operas and assemblies, or pay visits at the houses of our first-rate quality; but to receive them in your turn, you must possess a splendid habitation, and give sumptuous entertainments. Consider then, if I should satisfy your first caprice, how many wants would follow! They would every day go on in|creasing, till in consequence of having wished to rise above your station in one article of luxury, you would, perhaps, come to want the necessary things of life. Look round about you, and observe how many suffer real indigence at present, who so lately, as I may say, as yesterday, were wasting an estate sufficient for their happiness. Re|flect what very probably would be your case, and that too

of your sisters, if my great affection for you did not, as it does at present, turn these sad examples into matters of instruction! I have frequently been tired while I was walking through the streets upon my business. A good carriage would have eased my fatigue, as much as it would have flattered my vanity. By allotting to the purchase of a coach the money that I lay out on your education, maintenance and amusements, I might possibly be rolling in it for a time; but in the end, what would my fortune be, and yours? I should behold you every day sink deeper than the day before into stupidity, and have no reason to expect from you, in my old age, those cares which I had refused your childhood. For a few short years, consumed in all the insolence of luxury, I should be doomed to languish out the remnant of my life in that well merited contempt which a guilty poverty draws after it. With what assurance could I think to answer at the judgment|seat of God, for the omission of those duties towards you, which the will of Providence imposes upon every father; when I should have nothing to leave you for your inhe|ritance but the sad example of my guilty conduct? I should then finish my life in the convulsions of remorse, despair, and terror; and your curses might even execrate my ashes.

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

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

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

CAROLINE.

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

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

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

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

THE WILD GEESE.

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

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

Mr. Delaval.

Nobody, my dear.

Richard.

Then how do they live?

Mr. Delaval.

By seeking food themselves; you see they have wings.

Richard.

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

Mr. Delaval.

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

Richard.

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

Mr. Delaval.

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

Richard.

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

A TRIFLING PLEASURE EXCHANGED FOR ONE MUCH GREATER.

Mrs. Darley, and her daughters Celia, Harriet, and Louisa.

Louisa.

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

Mrs. Darley.

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

Harriet.

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

(They force their mother towards the walk.)

Celia.

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

Mrs. Darley.

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

Harriet.

Pray mama, how far does Maria live from this?

Mrs. Darley.

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

Harriet.

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

Mrs. Darley.

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

Celia.

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

Mrs. Darley.

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

Harriet.

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

Mrs. Darley.

You shall see.

Celia.

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

Harriet,

(who has run a little forward during this last speech.)

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

(running towards her)

the boat! the boat!

Louisa,

(coming up.)

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

Mrs. Darley.

Where did you meet with these poor peo|ple?

Louisa.

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

Mrs. Darley.

Come; we will go and see them.

Louisa.

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

(They all go together towards the garden door, and enter into conversation with them. The old man is seated on a stone; the woman leans against the pallisadoes, with a sucking infant in her arms. A girl about ten years old has one a little older than the infant; and a boy is picking up the pebbles for amusement.)

Mrs. Darley,

(aside.)

What a piteous sight!

(Aloud)

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

The Poor Woman.

From Portsmouth, my good lady. I was married to a fisherman. One night they pressed him, and he served two years on board a man of war. He came home almost dying with the scurvy. He had lost his strength, and could not work. I was obliged to sell his

nets, that I might buy him physic; but his illness lasted very long. Our creditors laid hold of every thing that we had; and as we could not pay our debts, our landlord turned us out of doors. A neighbour, very nearly as dis|tressed as we were, took us in, and robbed his children of a part of what they had to eat, that we might not be left to perish. Being brought to such a distressed situation, I fell ill with grief; and shortly after, my poor husband died. As soon as I was a little better, I resolved to be no further burthensome to my good benefactor, but set out to seek assistance from a worthy lady with whom I once lived as servant, at Epsom. We are still a great way from it; and I do not know how we shall be able to reach it. I am not able to go any farther.

Mrs. Darley.

And who may that poor man be?

The Poor Woman.

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

Mrs. Darley.

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

(She takes her daughters, who had all the while been listening to the woman's conversa|tion, and goes up the garden with them. Celia had expressed her pity at the tale, by shedding tears: Louisa, by dividing into equal parts among the little ones, a bit of cake that she had provided for her journey, as refreshment by the way: and Harriet, by relieving her that had the infant, of her burthen, as she seemed quite exhausted.)

Mrs. Darley,

(in conversation with her daughters, while they are walking towards the house.)

Well, children, what think you of these six poor people? Run you, Celia, with your sister, to the cook, and help her to prepare them

something for their breakfast. I will pay a visit to your father's wardrobe, and get linen, shoes, and stockings for the poor old man. I am sorry that I can be of no great service to them.

Celia.

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

Mrs. Darley.

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

Celia.

If what we have were sufficient?

Harriet.

We would give it to them with all our hearts.

Mrs. Darley.

And how much have you?

Celia.

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

Harriet.

I have half-a-crown.

Mrs. Darley.

And you, Louisa?

Louisa.

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

Mrs. Darley.

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

Celia.

And what is that, mama?

Mrs. Darley.

I do not know how to mention it.

Harriet.

Why not?

Louisa.

Fear nothing; let us know it.

Mrs. Darley.

The excursion that we intend to make to|day, I have promised you a long time: it is to recompense your good behaviour; and believe me, I have denied my|self this month past, many things, that I might save as much as it will cost us; for you know we must not only pay for the boat, but when we reach a town, we must lay out a little to give Maria, as a present, for the expence

that we put her to in treating us. This money is in my purse; but I consider it belongs to you, and leave you to employ it at your pleasure. Should we add it to your pocket-money, there would be then a sufficiency to have a cart for these poor people, and to procure them victuals until they reach Epsom: but the sacrifice, I must acknowledge, is too great. I dare not recommend it. Our long wished for day's excursion would be lost this year.

Louisa.

Dear me!

Mrs. Darley.

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

Louisa.

Presently, mama.

(She stops, and views her sisters with concern.)

Harriet.

What shall we do?

Celia.

For my part, I know what I would do.

Harriet.

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

Louisa.

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

Celia,

(joyfully.)

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

Mrs. Darley.

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

Celia.

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

Harriet.

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

Mrs. Darley.

Do you say nothing, Louisa?

Louisa.

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

Mrs. Darley,

(embracing them.)

O my lovely children! How rejoiced I am to find that you have such feeling and compassion! You will never want enjoyments in the world,

since you can turn your disappointments into pleasures. Come then, we will not lose a moment's time in having this enjoyment.

(Mrs. Darley now goes in, and sends a servant out to pay the watermen. The three young children go and come between the house and garden, with assistance for the man, the wo|man, and her children; Celia helps the woman, while she tends the old man's wound, and Harriet and Louisa give the children victuals; after which they all return to their mama.)

Harriet.

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

Louisa.

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

Celia.

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

Mrs. Darley.

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

Louisa.

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

Harriet.

No bad thought, mama, I take it.

Celia.

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

Mrs. Darley.

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

Celia.

Why, mama?

Mrs. Darley.

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

Celia.

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

Harriet.

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

Mrs. Dariey.

Certainly it will not.

Harriet,

(having thought a little.)

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

Celia.

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

Mrs. Darley.

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

Louisa.

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

Mrs. Darley.

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

Harriet.

Thank you, dear mama.

Mrs. Darley.

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

Harriet.

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

Mrs. Darley.

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

Harriet.

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

Celia.

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

Harriet.

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

Mrs. Darley.

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

Celia.

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

Mrs. Darley.

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

MATILDA.

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

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

The Mother.

What are you about there, my dear child?

Matilda.

Oh, nothing, nothing.

The Mother.

Are you frightened at the storm?

Matilda.

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

The Mother.

And why then were you kneeling?

Matilda.

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

SEQUEL TO THE MILITARY ACADEMY.

A DRAMA, in One ACT.

CHARACTERS.

• ...CAPTAIN BARTON.
• ...Mrs. BARTON.
• ...EDWARD, their Children.
• ...PAUL, their Children.
• ...THEODORE, their Children.
• ...CLAUDIA, their Children.
• ...ISABEL, their Children.
• ...The MASTER of the Military Academy.
• ...EUGENIUS, his Son.
• ...PIPES, an old Serjeant.

SCENE, An apartment in Mr. Barton's House.

SCENE I.

Paul, Theodore, Claudia, Isabel, Pipes. (Claudia and Isabel are both employed; the one in reading, and the other at her tambour frame. Theodore has a pencil, and is drawing. Paul shoulders Pipes's crutch.

Pipes,

(to Paul,)

MAKE ready!—Present!—Fire! —Come: very well!—Another lesson will compleat you.—Give me back my crutch.

(To Claudia and Isabel.)

You will never let me teach you then?

Claudia.

Teach us?

Isabel.

Young ladies?

Pipes.

And why not? A soldier's children should all learn their exercise. One never looks so well as with a firelock.

Claudia.

Particularly when a crutch must represent it.

Pipes.

True! but I mistake it frequently myself, Miss Claudia; and incline to put it rather on than underneath my shoulder. It is, in truth, a sort of instinct in me, my first motion. Ah, poor Pipes! to have a crutch, instead

of musquet in my hand. These ten years I have carried it about, and am not yet accustomed to its use.

Paul.

But recollect, Pipes; at your age you would cer|tainly have been otherwise dismist.

Pipes.

Dismist? what mean you, master Paul? Had it not been for my wooden leg, I should have died a soldier. Cursed leg! Ten hundred times a day I find myself dis|posed to make a bonfire of it! Instead of a fine white spatterdash, when I see nothing but a wooden stump! I hardly know myself, and fall into a passion.

Theodore.

Would you wish to have it otherwise? Why, man, it is nothing but the fortune of war.

Isabel.

And is it thus that Theodore comforts you! Do not be afflicted, Pipes.

Pipes.

You are in the right, my dear Miss Isabel; for after all, it bears me witness that I have seen hot service. If my leg had not been in the fire, it would hardly be so dry now. In fact, I know some legs, that are, at pre|sent, in their place, because they carried the wearers of them out of danger; and I would not change my wooden leg for twenty such. Young gentlemen, it is happy for you both that you are to serve: but take my counsel, and lose arms as well as legs, much rather than receive the least degree of spot in your honour, for want of courage.

Theodore.

Yes, I promise you, I will.

Paul.

And so will I: when I am fighting, I will have you always in my thoughts.

Pipes.

Do, master Paul. Your brave father and my|self. Barton and Pipes shall be your charging words. With there two names between your lips, you will always be first to do your duty.

SCENE II.

Theodore, Paul, Claudia Isabel, Pipes, Captain Barton (who has entered towards the close of the preceding scene.)

The Children,

(seeing Capt. Barton, run together towards him, and cry all at once,)

Here is papa!

Capt. Barton,

(embracing them)

Good morrow to you all, my dears! Good morrow to you. Pipes,

(holding out his hand,)

and thank you heartily for your instructions to my children.

Pipes.

Ah! sir, my instructions I bestow upon them with a great deal of pleasure, when you are not by; but seeing you, I am almost sorry.

Capt. Barton.

And why so, my friend?

Pipes.

Because I see, by your example, what the fruits of it are. If I am wise then, shall I study to make sol|diers of your children, that they may be dismissed, after they have worn themselves out in the service!

Capt. Barton.

But why call my fortune back thus to remembrance, since I myself have laboured to forget it, and complain no longer of what you suppose hard usage.

Pipes.

Please your honour, then I will complain for both. Bombs and cannons! is it not a shame! What, turn me off for having one leg less? A soldier is always fit for duty, if his heart and his head are left him. If they think that we cripples make no shew at a review, why, let them keep us for a battle: we will be put into a corps apart; we won't even condescend to mix with others. No affront to your Grenadiers or your High|landers, we will be first of all, I warrant you, dear master.

Capt. Barton,

(smiling.)

Good old friend! how much I am pleased to see this fire of youth and courage burning still within you!

Pipes.

I am quite vexed to see you smile, when you should storm much more than I do. I am a vulgar deg; I am nobody; and they may think that they ought to overlook me, having lost a limb: but you, a Captain, who have had so many wounds in twenty battles, and have such a family of children, to put such a one as you on what they call half-pay, and send him off without a pen|sion! who can think of such a treatment, and be pass at!

Capt. Barton.

I find fault with no one. There are others more unhappy.

(He turns to Paul and the rest, who seem uneasy.)

My good little ones, you have done enough this morning to require some recreation. Go, then; but first visit your mama: she is in her chamber.

The Children.

Yes, papa; and afterwards we will come back to study.

SCENE III.

Captain Barton, Pipes.

Capt. Barton.

My old friend, I am pleased with your affection; but still I do not like that you should speak be|fore my children as you do. I would not have them think themselves authorized to hate their fellow-creatures: such a notion would discourage them in their pursuit of for|tune; and besides, they are destined to acquire themselves a reputation by their actions. Is it likely that they should take pains for such a purpose, if they are told beforehand that men merit only their contempt?

Pipes,

(ironically.)

Yes, yes; your honour has great reason to defend mankind, they have respected you so much!

Capt. Barton.

There are more good than wicked men about us; and if there were only you, that thought would reconcile me to humanity.

Pipes,

(bowing.)

Oh, Captain!

Capt. Barton.

You have been so willing to attach your|self to my ill fortune! and besides, you know, I am in|debted to your friendship for the preservation of my life.

Pipes.

And if I saved it, I was under obligation to do nothing less, my worthy Captain, for your having sent me to the drill so often. Had it not been for your ho|nour, Pipes would have turned out a vagabond and drunkard, like many others. It was your attention that mace a man of me; I should have been my whole life long a common soldier, had you let me grovel on. From rank to rank I have been promoted, and at last made serjeant; and that is something, every one will grant me! and no inconsiderable lift towards colonel. But a plague upon the musquet-ball, say I, that to my heart of oak has added this deal leg!

Capt. Barton.

Come, Pipes, you have now repose, and that is as good as honour always.

Pipes.

I shall never have repose as long as I observe your honour ill at ease. The produce of your farm, this year, has failed, and I am now become a burthen to you.

Capt. Barton.

Can a child become a burthen to his father? And pray, are you not as one among my chil|dren?

Thanks to heaven! I shall be always sure of a sub|sistence. If our ration is a little less, there shall be still an equal share for you, Pipes.

Pipes.

And I take it; but have hopes that I shall be able to acknowledge all your favours handsomely, as I have met with an employment.

Capt. Barton.

So much the better, Pipes! I am charmed to hear that you have so, for your sake. What is it?

Pipes.

Could you have supposed what I am now going to tell you? But it is true, sir, that a hosier offered me, the other day, employment in his shop, if I would knit him stockings.

Capt. Barton.

Very good: at least, you will not be idle, by accepting it.

Pipes.

How, sir, very good? I could have knocked the fellow down, but that my crutch had tumbled on the ground.

Capt. Barton.

I hope this knocking people down is not the employment that you mean?

Pipes.

It would be better far than what the hosier meant to give me. A fine sight, indeed! Pipes knitting like a woman! I would see his stock of knitting-needle•• at Je|richo first; and yet, this circumstance made me think a little. I can work, it is true, said I to myself; so I went to Mr. Wilkinson's, and told him that I would furbish up his old sword blades, if he would but employ an ancient soldier. He consented: so that I shall have the handling still of warlike weapons, and, beside, receive a shilling a day. Let me beg, captain, that you will accept it for my maintenance.

Capt. Barton.

No, no, my friend: keep what you earn yourself. A drop of liquor, now and then, is necessary to a person of your age.

Pipes.

A drop of liquor! Oh! I will take care how I play at such a game as that again. I know myself too well. I should drink a single drop to-day; a pint would hardly be enough to-morrow, and so on.

Capt. Barton.

But you have other calls for money; and for my part, I want nothing.

Pipes.

Nothing! when you almost live on bread and water? Nay, now captain, you are far too proud, believe me; and refuse my shilling, for no other reason than be|cause I am not your equal!—A vengeance on this wooden

leg of mine, that has prevented me from being now a colonel, for what any one can tell!

Capt. Barton.

You do not know me yet, I can see, my friend; for were I to accept a gift from any one, it should be only from the king and you.

Pipes.

What, both of us together thus! and in a breath?

Capt. Barton.

My king is but my master. In my friend, I see a sort of God: and you, Pipes, are the only friend that is left me.

Pipes,

(throwing himself into the captain's arms.)

Well then, my friend—Captain, take my shilling!

Capt. Barton.

I have already told you, I could put it to no use, and did not misinform you; but, on second thoughts, a time may come, when I shall need a great deal more. Lay by as much as you can save out of this daily shilling, that whenever I may want your savings, you may then assist me.

Pipes.

Oh! I understand you. It is for my sake, rather than your own, that you counsel me to act thus savingly. No matter: I will pursue your counsel literally; and my money shall be sacred. It shall go in nothing but tobacco; and I will take care how I fall into a passion, that I may not break my pipe.

Capt. Barton.

I praise your resolution; but at present go and smoke one to the honour of our friendship. Mrs. Barton, I observe, is coming; and I wish to have a little conversation with her, by myself.

Pipes.

Yes, yes, I will leave you; and besides, a little air will be of service to me. Your discourse has had I do not know what effect upon my spirits. I shall quickly be composed again.

SCENE IV.

Captain Barton, Mrs. Barton.

Mrs. Barton.

What circumstance has happened, my dear life? You sent the children to me; and I thought I saw upon their countenances something not quite natural to them. I conceived it not so proper to ask them the reason, but would come and know the whole from you. Hide nothing from me, I beseech you! Has any new misfor|tune

happened, that it is in my power to lighten by giving you comfort?

Capt. Barton.

No, my dear! With your assistance, I can bear all sorrows; and if unforeseen affliction were to come upon me, would not hesitate to tell you of it, after the experience that I have had of your philosophy and fortitude. But be of comfort! Thank Heaven, nothing fatal or unfortunate has happened!

Mrs. Barton.

What then could occasion the uneasiness that I noticed in their countenances?

Capt. Barton.

Our old soldier caused it, whose excess of zeal and friendship for me carried him so far, while they were present, as to vent complains concerning the injustice of my lot. I observed that they were affected by the strength of his expressions; and because I apprehended such invectives might inspire discouragement, I directed them to go into your chamber; so that Pipes's murmurs might not make a bad impression on them, being followed instantly by your caresses.

Mrs. Barton.

Poor unhappy little things! Alas, they know not what a sad condition they are to experience upon earth!

Capt. Barton.

I hope their fortune will not be so la|mentable, as your motherly affection seems to fear; for hitherto, at least, they have no great occasion to complain of their condition.

Mrs. Barton.

What! my dear, when they are utterly deprived of all the advantages that they might reasonably have expected in life?

Capt. Barton.

They never knew them; therefore, never can the want of those advantages afflict them. Possibly they might have only served to soften and unnerve their strength, as well as understanding. The hard life to which they have been used, has given them a robust and sound constitution, and an energy of mind. Instead of pursuing frivolous or puerile amusements, they already know how to convert their labour into pleasure. If God's providence should grant them any of the gifts of fortune, they will therefore yield the more enjoyment: but, sup|posing they are all decreed to pass away their days in the privation of this life's conveniences, they will have learnt to undergo their fortune without murmurs or complainings. Shall I tell you what I think, my dear? I do not look on

the condition to which we are destined, as so very lament|able; for, surrounded by the pleasures of the world, should we have known those tender sentiments for each other, which we certainly have learnt, in what men call the school of adversity? Hurried on by pleasure, we should each have gone in quest of friends who would have left us in adversity, and perhaps aggravated our afflictions by their treachery; while now, afflicted as we are, we are convinced that we have it in our power to make each other happy, by our mutual love and friendship. There are many miserable individuals in the world, who are even destitute of bread to eat: we have never experienced such a want, though we have not stooped to procure our bread by dishonour. If, as is the case, we are necessitated to put up with what may certainly be called a very common diet, that our children may not want for education,—we enjoy, on the other hand, their gratitude, and their im|provement in knowledge. We are conscious to ourselves that we have neglected no one tittle of our duty to them. Every generous notion that they possess is our work: it is our lessons and example that have enabled them to possess it. They will do no laudable or virtuous action in their future lives but what an honest pride will permit us to attribute to ourselves; and granting that any one among them should be raised into distinction by his merit, I am confident, he will not leave us in old age, when we may more particularly want his succour.

Mrs. Barton.

O my dear, my worthy husband! how does your fortitude sustain me!

Capt. Barton.

On the contrary, dear partner, it is your constancy that upholds my fortitude. Without support, I should have long since sank beneath the burthen of my sorrows; but seeing you renounce the delicacies, and subdue the weaknesses inseparable from your sex, that you might properly discharge your duty, how could I have seemed less firm than you were, and not have blushed at being called a man?

Mrs. Barton.

Ascribe not so much honour to me, for the sacrifices that I have made. They must be nothing to a mother's sensibility: and I would make still greater, if, on such conditions, I might have the prospect of a happier fortune to befal my children. But, my dear, have you renounced all thoughts of soliciting your friends? Are

you without a hope, that such solicitations would be at|tended with success?

Capt. Barton.

You know the issue of my former appli|cations. If then I experienced nothing but denials, when more recent services spoke for me shalt I hope a better fortune now? and if the hollow-hearted friend, who then deceived me, would not second my just expectations with his influence, who will now espouse the application of a man so many years forgot? My very silence since that pe|riod would be urged as a pretext for new refusals, and fresh disappointments but re-open wounds as yet not quite healed up. I have thrown away almost my whole de|pendence to procure me nothing but vexation; I shall therefore hardly be so rash, as to consume what is left me in such steps as, if they failed, would end in desperation.

Mrs. Barton.

Desperation?

Capt. Barton.

Yes; though they should cost me nothing but the time that I must purloin from the instruction of my children. If I durst have any hopes, and should again be disappointed, I am convinced, I could not possibly survive; or should, at least, drag on the wretched remnant of my life in sorrow. No, dear spouse; let us not imi|tate those parents, who imagine that they have done enough, in yielding some small portion of their superflui|ties, and that too with reluctance, that their children may obtain an education. Let us prove our love, by dedi|cating even our necessaries to their wants. Let us consent to live on bread, if such a sacrifice be needful, that in future they may shew themselves to have been educated in a manner worthy of us.

Mrs. Barton.

And I trust in the Almighty, that they will do so; for sure, we have not given life to monsters.

Capt. Barton.

I have already such a hope concerning Edward. Child although he is, yet I have frequently remarked his depth of understanding, openness of temper, and ingenuous way of thinking; qualities that I would desire to find in my friend. He will have two motives for seeking advancement, and those such as operate very forcibly on noble minds: he will have obstacles to over|come, and thereby so much the more glory to acquire. With what ardour have I observed him, and particularly these two years last past, to resign himself entirely up to study, and digest the greatest difficulties! With what en|thusiasm

has he been seized at the recital of some glorious action! I have often noted him retiring, as it were in thought, that he might narrowly examine the transactions both of Rome and Sparta, and observe the infancy of their most celebrated heroes. In a search like this, no wonder that the atchievements of a Cyrus should inflame his nature to resemble him in temperance, fortitude, and reputation. On the whole, I verily believe that nothing but some happy circumstance is wanting, to proclaim him such already, as he may one day shew himself to be.

Mrs. Barton.

But, my dear, in such a ••tuation as he is doomed to at present, when, alas! can we have hope that this happy circumstance will happen?

Capt. Barton.

To the weak man it can hardly ever hap|pen: a great heart will frequently create it. Yes, my Edward, there is hardly any thing that I have not room to hope from you.

SCENE V.

Captain Barton, Mrs. Barton, Paul, Theodore, Claudia, Isabel.

Paul.

You were speaking, I believe, papa, about my brother?

Capt. Barton.

True; I was so, Paul. You are sensible, there is scarce a moment of the day, in which I do not think of one or other of you.

Isabel.

Have you had any letter from him?

Capt. Barton.

Not to-day; but then I know him, my dear child, so well, that I can tell, at any time, what he is about, without his writing to me. For example; I am sure that, at this very moment, he is thinking to afford me a proof of his affection, by a diligent attention to his studies. Paul, I am sure his good behaviour will be serviceable to your introduction, when the time comes round that you must go to school, and have the same instructor.

Paul.

And for my part, as, you know, papa, I am to go before Theodore, I will do every thing in my power to introduce him likewise, with the same degree of credit.

Capt. Barton.

I was sure within myself that you would have made me such a promise. In your present situation,

my dear little fellows, destitute, as you are sensible you are, of wealth and patrons, your advancement in the world must be at first entirely owing to yourselves, since it depend upon the efforts you will make, at all times, to excel each other. And what is more, the elevation of all three may be the happy consequence of good behaviour in one only; as the bad behaviour of one only may involve the other two, and be a bar to their good fortune. So that you may see, on one hand, what disgrace, and, on the other hand, what honour, may be expected from the turn of your conduct.

Paul.

But papa, you know, we heard Pipes say just now, that you had not been recompensed for your service?

Theodore.

I am sure, however, you were never found deficient in your duty.

Isabel.

So pray tell us why the king has for so many years forgot you?

Capt. Barton.

Possibly, because there have been many to reward, much worthier than myself; or else, because the expences of his government prevent his generosity: be|sides, I have neglected, for a long, long time indeed, all applications to his justice, that the time which they would have taken up might be better employed upon your edu|cation. But when once you enter into public life, you will be able, by a proper conduct on your part, to turn his royal eye upon your father; and if so, I shall enjoy his benefits twice over.

Paul.

Oh! if it depends upon my conduct—

Theodore.

What! and shall we then be able to repay you every thing that you have done on our account?

Capt. Barton.

Yes; and to the full. I will not raise the value of those sacrifices which your good mother and myself have made to your instruction. We have con|stantly submitted to them unrepiningly, and even with the greatest pleasure. Providence already recompenses us, by planting in your hearts the promise of those virtues that will gratify our hopes. But if you were in future to deceive us, and conduct yourselves in such a manner that the fruit of all our sacrifices would be lost, what then would be the dismal consequences?—your poor sisters brought to poverty! your mother in despair! and my grey hairs de|scending to the grave with sorrow!

Paul.

No; it never shall be so.

Theodore.

And therefore, if you love us, be assured, we shall do every thing in our power to make you happy.

Capt. Barton.

My existence totally depends upon you; and through you I am to live or die.

Paul.

In that case, you will live while we have one single drop of blood within us.

Theodore.

We will rather die a thousand times, than willingly dishonour you.

Capt. Barton.

Well, I receive, my children, this as|surance in the light of Heaven, and can have nothing else to wish. I will be indebted to you for the greatest happi|ness that is to be enjoyed in this world.

Claudia.

O papa, how badly off are we, who cannot by our conduct make you happy!

Capt. Barton.

You may make my happiness still greater, by so acting as, in this retirement, to occasion me the permanent and tranquil joys peculiar to a father. What will there be wan••ing to my happiness, it, while your bro|thers honour my old age by then laudable actions, you, together with your sister, comf•• it with your attention, and adorn it with your virtue•• what additional felicity can I entreat of Heaven, if I but live to see you merit the di••nction gained you by the s••me and glory ••f your brothers?

(He 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Mrs. Barton by the hand, whom an ex|cess of 〈◊〉〈◊〉 had rendered speech••ess, during all the scene)

Dearest wife! 〈◊〉〈◊〉 you imagine what would be our trans|ports at so fair a prospect, when both joy and honour, caused by each of nose to whom we gave birth, should fill up our dwelling!

Paul.

You say nothing, dear mama!

Claudia.

You weep!

Mrs. Barton.

It is for joy, my children. I was in|dulging myself before-hand, in the happiness which your father has just described.

Paul.

Oh! we promise that we will do our utmost not to disappoint you. Yes, upon our knees we promise you. And as for Edward, I will answer for him just as he him|self would, were he present.

(They fall upon their knees before her: she affectionately raises, and embraces them; as does likewise their father.)

SCENE VI.

Captain Barton, Mrs. Barton, Paul, Theodore, Claudia, Isabel, Pipes.

Pipes,

(rushing all at once into the room.)

O my worthy captain!

Capt. Barton.

What is the matter?

Pipes.

I have seen him! He is returned!

Capt. Barton.

Returned?—who, Pipes?

Pipes.

He, sir; my best friend! the only friend I have! except, indeed, your honour!

Capt. Barton.

Edward, do you mean?

Mrs. Barton.

My son?

Paul.

My brother?

Claudia and Isabel.

Where—where is he?

Theodore.

O my dearest Pipes, is Edward coming?

Pipes.

Do you ask me, when I have told you? Why, he almost beat me backward, throwing, as he did, his arms about my neck. The excellent young man! still, still the same! He is coming after me. I hear him on the stairs.

Mrs. Barton.

But why does he return? Oh, heaven! he has been only ten days absent! Is it possible, that—

Capt. Barton,

(interrupting her.)

What! suspect my Edward? This is the first reason for displeasure that you have ever caused me!

Mrs. Barton.

Pardon my uneasiness! And yet, what are we to suppose on this occasion?

Capt. Barton.

Any thing, or every thing, much rather than imagine that he has done amiss.

SCENE VII.

Captain Barton, Mrs. Barton, Edward, Paul, Theodore, Claudia, Isabel, Pipes.

Edward,

(entering to his father, who springs forward and embraces him.)

My dear, dear father! how rejoiced I am to see you!

Capt. Barton.

My dear Edward! is it you?—Kiss me, my dear child! and again!—What can be the reason of your coming back so unexpectedly?

Edward.

It is mentioned in this paper. Read, read, read!

(He gives a paper; and then running up to his mother, falls into her arms)

My dear mama! you will be very happy!

(He returns to his brothers and sisters, and salutes them.)

And how are you, dearest Isabel and Claudia?— and you, Paul and Theodore? You were far from ex|pecting to see me so soon, were you not? However, you will be glad of my return, when you know the reason of it.

Isabel.

Oh! we are glad already, without knowing it.

Edward.

I had drawn up a letter yesterday for my papa, with good news in it, and the promise of much better: but my master being then upon the point of setting out for London, on the subject of that better news, thought proper to detain the letter; and succeeding in the object of his journey, it was instantly determined that I should come myself this morning; which was full as well, I fancy: was it not?

Claudia.

Oh! certainly.

Capt. Barton.

What is this! A pension of three hundred pounds a year, the king allows me!

Mrs. Barton.

Is it possible?

Pipes.

Bombs and cannons! if it were but true!

All the Children.

How, how, papa?

Capt. Barton.

There, read the whole yourself, dear spoured—And who is the generous man that has thus condescended to enumerate my services in presence of the king, when every one besides him had abandoned me? The king then knows that I have not served him without some degree of honour! O my prince! I could certainly have been happy, though deprived of your munificence, but not of your esteem. Dear Edward! who has been my benefactor?

SCENE the last.

Captain Barton, Mrs. Barton, Paul, Theodore, Claudia, Isabel, Pipes, Edward, the Master of the Military School, Eugenius.

(Edward runs out hastily, and very soon returns, bringing in his master by the hand.)

Edward.

Here is our friend, and second father. See here too, my brother Eugenius. A new son, for you and my mama.

The Master.

Pardon me, sir, that I have been so free as to intrude upon you without leave: I was not willing, I confess, to lose the affecting scene, to which I am witness at present.

Capt. Barton.

You may well expect the liberty of being witness to it, since it is all of your creation.

Mrs. Barton.

And has wherewithal, no doubt, to gra|tify your benevolent heart.

The Master.

I am indeed most happy, madam, to per|form a character therein, though not the hero. It is to Edward, to your son, that the honour of that character appertains.

Mrs. Barton.

To Edward!

Capt. Barton.

To my son?

The Master.

You had deprived yourself of every com|fort in this life, that you might form his heart and under|standing; and on his part, he deprived himself of his enjoyments, to evince the gratitude that he owed you. Pardon me, good sir, if I appear acquainted with the secrets of your family. Your ••n has not betrayed them. It was I who read them in his bosom. Ever since his first commencement with us, he would take to sustenance but bread and water. All our menaces were not sufficient to procure an explanation of his motives to such abstinence; and by insinuation only did I come to know it. He re|solved to be no happier than his father, who denied him|self so many things on his account. We spoke about you, and I learned your situation. I have had no other merit than the trifling one of causing intimation of it to be made to our good sovereign; but your name, it seems, was in

his recollection; and he said, as I was told, that he thought himself quite happy, in the means of recom|pensing, as he did, your ancient services, as well as the care that you took in bestowing such an education on your children, as must render them the most valuable of his subjects. The worthy nobleman who mentioned your affair to his majesty, even told me, that in saying these words, he shed tears.

Capt Barton.

O sir! forgive the weaknesses of nature. I had strength sufficient to endure misfortunes; but not half enough to bear such joy! My son! my dearest Ed|ward! are you capable of such generous affection to your father?

Edward.

Pardon me: I have but for a moment done in your behalf, what you have been doing for so many years, on my account.

(He turns towards his mother, who is just upon the point of fainting.)

My dear mama! do not die, I beseech you, now that you are rich.

(Mrs. Barton is revived in consequence of his solicitude, and almost overwhelms him with embraces.)

The Master.

What an affecting picture! Edward, you remember th••t I also mean to be your father?

Edward.

Oh yes; always, always! So, papa, embrace Eugenius my new brother: we have sworn for ever to love one another.

Eugenius.

Yes; and I, on my side, never shall forget my promise.

(They embrace each other ardently; as do Cap|tain Barton and the Master.)

The Master.

I have been so free, sir, as to bring him with me to your house, that he might contemplate the virtues that flourish in it. He had read the heart of Ed|ward many days before myself; and he it was who first of all desired his friendship.

Captain Barton.

If you give him thus a friend, in the person of my son, I ought to find another for him in the person of his father.

The Master.

I can wish for nothing with such ardour, as I do such a title; and, on my part, offer you my pledge of friendship.

(Holding out his hand.)

Pipes.

I can be no longer an indifferent looker on!

(he lets fall his crutch, and rushes in between them.)

Excuse me, sir; but where my Captain gives his heart, mine also

must go with it. You are a generous man! were you not, Pipes would never flatter you, by calling you so.

Capt. Barton.

You will pardon, sir, the bluntness of a soldier: he is full of honour, and this mark of his af|fection for me, cannot be a matter of indifference to you. It has been my consolation under many sorrows.

The Master.

Say you so? then I take his affection in good part. Your hand comrade; for soldiers are all bro|thers.

Pipes.

O my other good supporter, where are you now? But I will dance without you at the thought of such a happy day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is the natural effects of darkness, and that only, an|swered Mr. Vernon. As children cannot properly distin|guish objects round them in the dark, their imagi|nation, which is always smitten with the marvellous,

shapes them out extraordinary figures, by enlarging or contracting what they look at, just as circumstances govern, Upon this, the notion of their weakness easily persuades them they are utterly unable to resist those monsters which they think armed to hurt them. Terror thus obtains pos|session of them, and too frequently impresses fears which have the worst of consequences.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In my father's house, there lived a maid-servant, who one night was sent for beer into the cellar. We were all seated at the table, but could not set eyes upon the servant or beer. My mother, who was rather of a hasty temper, rose from table, and went out to call her. As it chanced, the cellar-door was open, but she could not make the servant hear. My mother ordered me to bring a candle, and go down into the cellar with her. I went first to light the way: but as I looked straight forward,

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

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

We are happy, added he, that the understanding and good tense of people has begun to dissipate these foolish notions concerning ghosts and goblins. There was once at me of so much g••rance, that these ideas mixed with suppositions notions, and deprived the boldest of their con|rage; ••ut thank heaven, they are at length completely done away in towns; though they subsist, as strong as ever,

in the country, which is still supposed to be inhabited by witches, and a train of evil spirits. What I am going now to tell you, is a laughable example of it.

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

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

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

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

to make it play in that diverting manner that she had lately seen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was coming home one night on horse-back, from a visit that I had just before been making to a number of the neighbouring villages, where I had quartered my recruits. There had fallen a great deal of rain that day, since noon, and during all the evening, which had broken up the road, and it was raining still with equal violence; but being forced to join my Company the next morning, I set out, provided with a lantern, ha|ving to pass a narrow defile between two mountains.

I had cleared it, when a gust of wind took off my hat, and carried it so far that I despaired of recovering it again, and therefore gave the matter up. By great good fortune I had on me a large scarlet cloak. I covered up my head and shoulders with it, leaving nothing but a little hole to see my way and breathe through; and for fear the wind should take a fancy to my cloak, as well as hat, I passed my right arm round my body to secure it, so that riding on in this position, you may easily con|ceive that my lantern, which I held in my right hand, was under my left shoulder. At the entrance of a village, on a hill, I met three travellers, who no sooner saw me, than they ran away, as if they were possest. For my part, I went on upon the gallop, and when come into the town, alighted at an inn, where I designed to rest myself a little; but soon after who should enter but my three poltroons, as pale as death itself. They told the landlord and his people, trembling as they spoke, that on the road they had encountered a great figure of a man all over blood, whose head was like a flame of fire, and to increase the wonder, placed beneath his shoulder. He was mounted on a dreadful horse, said they, quite black before, and grey behind, which, notwithstanding it was lame, he spurred and whipped right up the mountain with extraordi|nary swiftness. Here they ended their relation. They had taken care to spread the alarm as they were flying from this wondrous apparition, and the people had come with them to the inn in such a drove, that upwards of a hundred were all squeezed together, opening their mouths and ears at this tremendous story. To make up in some sort for my dismal journey, I resolved to laugh a little and be merry at their cost, intending at the same time to cure them of such frights, by showing them their folly in the present in|stance. With this view I mounted my horse again behind the inn, went round about till I had rode the distance of half a mile; when turning I disposed of my accoutrements, that is to say, my clock and lantern, as before, and on I came upon a gallop towards the inn. You should have seen the frighted mob of peasants how they hid their faces at the sight and crowded into the passage. There was no one but the host that had courage to remain and keep his eye upon me. I was now before the door, on which I shifted the position of my lantern, let my cloak

drop down upon my shoulders, and appeared the same figure as he had seen me by his kitchen fire. It was not without real difficulty that we could bring the simple people who had crowded in for safety from their terror: the three travellers in particular, as the first impression was still strong within them, could not credit what they saw. We finished by a hearty ••ugh at their expence, and drinking to the man whose head was like a flame of fire and placed beneath his shoulder. This was what I meant to tell you, and perhaps if such conviction of their ground|less apprehensions had not been afforded them, the story of my strange appearance would have passed from one old woman to another, and for centuries occasioned mortal fears through all the country.

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

I was come home at Midsummer, and had received an invitation from my uncle, to be with him for a month or thereabouts. While I was there, I had occasion to get up one night, or rather morning. I was obliged to pass along a gallery, and had nothing but the moon to guide my steps, and she was very much obscured by clouds. In going by a window which opened to the garden, I saw a monstrous figure, moving at a little distance from the gal|lery where I was. The moon, which cast a faint light on the monster, gave it an appearance rather frightful. It was like a great Colossus, with the upper part inclining forwards. As it went away I saw it by degrees diminish. All at once, however, it appeared to come in two. One half seemed motionless and dead, the other greatly agi|tated; but as neither of the two approached me, in the fear that seized me I had strength enough to bawl out help! help! help! I had but time to utter these three words, before the living half of the phantom ran up to the gallery where I was, and in a suppliant accent, said to me, ah master Charles, do not cry out for heaven's sake. I remembered, as I thought, the voice; and therefore taking courage went up boldly to it, crying out who are you? Some housebreaker doubtless.—No, no, master, I am Sam the coachman. Sam the coachman! answered I; and what are you about at such an hour as

this? I followed him, for he was now gone from me, and perceived a sack of something placed against the wall. I now saw clearly what had given him so monstrous an ap|pearance; and why he seemed to come in two, when he had thrown the sack off his shoulders. I demanded what the sack had in it. I am going, answered he, betimes to town. Last night I quite forgot to bring my horses their supply of oats, and they must eat before they leave the stable. So I rose to get it; but pray do not speak a word about it in the house, I beg you: they might think me very careless, and perhaps a thief. It came into my head, upon the spot, that he might in fact be what he seemed afraid of being thought. I had myself the night before, I remembered, met him with a sack of oats upon his back. Besides, it was not towards the stable that he was going; he was very near a little door which opened at the bottom of the garden towards a lane; and besides, I thought two sacks of oats were more a great deal than three horses, for my uncle had but three, could want. At breakfast I in|formed my uncle of this business. After some examina|tion, it was found that the coachman had a false key in his possession, by means of which he had at different times purloined the corn intended for the horses.

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

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

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

Charles's brother Augustus was a good boy likewise, but had something of a turn towards drollery; and spent the time, when Charles was at his book, in scheming how he might play off some trick or other, no ways mind|ing who became the object of his waggery. He took no|tice that his brother frequently came home alone, and sometimes when it was dark, and turned his thoughts upon a contrivance to frighten him a little. He could walk in stilts. One evening, therefore, at the time that his bro|ther was expected home, he put himself into a pair of very high ones, wrapped a great white sheet about him, which trailed far behind upon the ground; and took a broad brimmed hat, which first of all he flapped, and having covered it with crape, of a sufficient length to hang a great way down on every side, but most of all before him, put it on his head. Thus frightfully equipped, he placed himself upright, and at a little distance from the house, close by the garden-gate, through which his bro|ther always entered coming home. This last was now re|turning in the innocent delight peculiar to a child, and humming to himself the tune that he had been playing. He was scarce come within a dozen paces of the gate, when he perceived the vast Colossus, which held out its arms, advancing to attack him. Agitated with a mortal fright, at such an apparition, he fell down upon the ground, deprived of understanding. Poor Augustus, who had not foreseen the consequences of his fatal frolic, threw away his mask immediately, and fell upon his brother's almost breathless body; and did everything in his power to reanimate him: but alas! the unhappy little fellow, as he found, was every thing but absolutely dead. His parents instantly came running to the spot, and with a great deal of difficulty brought him back to life. He opened his eyes, and viewed them with a vacant stupid look. They called him by every tender name; but he appeared as if he did not comprehend them. He endeavoured, but in vain, to speak: his tongue essayed to do so, but without articulation. He is now deaf, dumb and foolish, and will very probably remain so all his life-time. Six or seven months have passed, since this deplorable occurrence, and the doctors who attend him have, as yet, done nothing towards his cure. Imagine little friends, if you are able, the distress and sorrow of his parents. It would certainly

have been better, both for them and him too, had he died upon the spot. They would not then have every day be|fore them such a piteous object of affliction and despair. But their distress is nothing in comparison to Augustus's. Since the unhappy accident, he has been like a skeleton, much more than a human creature. He can neither eat nor sleep. His tears exhaust him. Twenty times a day he walks about the room, and suddenly stops short: he wrings his hands, pulls up his hair, and curses even his birth. He calls and embraces his dear brother, who no longer knows him. I have seen them both, and cannot tell which of the two is most unhappy.

BACKGAMMON.

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

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

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

Their papa, one day, stood by, while they were play|ing.—After some bad throws, Anthony lost all temper, and his moves of course were very injudicious; but his

sister, who was calm and steady, carried every thing be|fore her.

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

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

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

Anthony.

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

Mr. Parker.

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

Anthony.

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

Mr. Parker.

It was scarcely possible that your throws should benefit you, when you played your men so injudi|ciously, and Sylvia with so much attention: but you talk of having had such throws, and there your fault lies; for you paid attention to your sister's dice, instead of noticing her men, that you might learn to move as she did. What would be your notions of a gardener, who, without con|sulting the variety of seasons, should conduct himself by

chance in his plantation, and complain that in the end, his fruit was not so good or plentiful as his neighbour's who had been attentive to all circumstances in the prose|cution of his labour.

Anthony.

O papa, that is very different.

Mr. Parker.

And in what, pray? let me know.

Anthony.

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

Mr. Parker.

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

Anthony.

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

Mr. Parker.

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

Anthony.

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

Mr. Parker.

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

Anthony.

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

Mr. Parker.

I can hit upon no other way of doing so, than this of giving you instruction; but at present, let us

come to the comparison that I instanced; and I hope we shall be no less able to derive improvement from it, than illustrate what we were speaking of before.

Anthony.

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

Mr. Parker.

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

Anthony.

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

Mr. Parker.

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

kindly union; but to defend it when the weather happens to grow stormy.

Anthony.

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

Mr. Parker.

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

Anthony.

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

Mr. Parker.

Well argued, Anthony! You now see, I hope, what advantages one may derive from entering into rational debate, where neither party seeks to lay a snare to catch the other, and to satisfy his miserable vanity, but where both wish to give reciprocal instruction, by an inter|change of what they know respectively. I only saw one face belonging to the object which I exhibited to your con|sideration; but exciting your attention towards it, I have furnished you with the occasion of discovering one that had escaped me, and which very likely may enable me, in my turn, to discern some other that it may still possess. Men have obtained no sort of knowledge otherwise than by as|sembling and comparing those ideas with which meditation has supplied them, in cultivating any branch of science. I compare them to as many lamps, that should be placed to burn before reflectors of a thousand different surfaces, but every one reverberating to a common center. It is the bundle of these rays, some far more brilliant than the rest indeed, but strengthened all by one another, that makes up that glare of light collected in the focus of their union. I shall really be glad, if you inure yourself betimes, Anthony, to consider all the objects of which you would judge, by comparing them with others that already are familiar to your understanding; by contrasing them with

one another, and remarking, in this contrast, every cir|cumstance by which they may resemble, or be foreign to each other. This same method is most natural and sure. It is a method which they have followed, who, by exer|cising their imagination, have attained to the sublimity and pathos of a Homer, a Voltaire, a Milton; who, by studying the affections of the human heart, have made themselves a Sophocles, a Moliere, or a Shakespeare; who, by rising to the origin of our ideas, have become a Condillac, or Locke; who, by investigating nature, have acquired the praises of an Aristotle, a Buffon, an Edwards; who, by mecitating on the title to give law, and form 〈◊〉〈◊〉, have been a Montesquieu, a Mably, a Rousseau, a Blackstone; and in short, who by pervading the myste|rious 〈◊〉〈◊〉 of the planetary system, have transmitted to us, together with the benefit of their researches, the illustrious names of a Copernicus, a Kepler, a Bernouilli, and a 〈◊〉〈◊〉; but perticularly, of a Newton: men all famous in the ••fferent sciences to which their genius led them, and whose names I ••utimate thus early to you, that in time you may be ••imated with a wish of studying the immor|tal 〈◊〉〈◊〉 which they have left behind them.

INNOCENCE MADE MANIFEST.

PART I.

LEAVE we the degenerate crew Who at female virtue rail: 〈◊〉〈◊〉, to your wives be true, And your peace can never fail. For faise rumours, should your wrath Arm itself against their life? Those who urge their breach of troth With their virtue are at strife.

Ancient story proves this truth, Now the subject of my song: 〈◊〉〈◊〉, it is, by speaking sooth, To acquit the 〈◊〉〈◊〉 of wrong.

Yet what pleasure can this give, If my heart no other feel? Wives, if you but happy live, I'm rewarded for my zeal.

Beauteous in her prime of days, Brabant's daughter, meek and mild, Blanch attracted gen'ral praise, Gentle as a new-born child. Twenty barons for her strove; Siffroi only gain'd the prize: Hymen quickly crown'd his love With indissoluble ties.

But tho' wedded, still they seem'd Nymph and lover as before; In their countenances beam'd Smiles of love, a countless store! Tender cares! the speaking eye!— Ev'n the faithful turtle dove, Had she flown their dwelling nigh, Might have learnt from them to love.

But sad tidings soon he hears; Farewel all his love's delight! Saladin in arms appears; Siffroi must go join the fight. Many a wound within his heart Love and Fame contending make: Fame is sweet—but then to part!— Robb'd of Blanch, his heart must break,

Up at early dawn he hies; Grief his manly cheek o'erflows, While he views her, as she lies Wrapt in undisturb'd repose. But the more his wish inclin'd With her charms to feast his view, Ev'n the more he dreads to find Danger in the soft adieu.

Going, he returns; but (Fame Loudly chiding from afar) Mounts his steed, and urg'd by shame, Rushes to the field of war.

Blanch awakes; what pain to prove! Widow'd when so newly wed! Oh! what anguish wounds her love, When she finds her Siffroi fled!

Siffroi's seneschal, who burn'd Long a captive to her charms, Hasting ere his lord return'd, Basely tempts her to his arms. Blanch his daring hope reprov'd Less severely than she ought; Wherefore he, by fury mov'd, Thus his impious vengeance wrought:

Less at length, a prey to care, Blanch this news to Siffroi sent: In my swelling womb I bear What will both our loves content. No, writes he, my injur'd lord, Blanch deludes your ardent vows: Read these letters, they afford Proofs how she can treat her spouse.

No one pang bad Siffroi known, 'Reft of all his rich demain; Blanch's cheerless state alone Would have cost his bosom pain. But that thus the perjur'd fair Should his love and name disgrace, 'Tis too much, he cries, to bear! Vengeance must of love take place!

In his mind's first wr••thful plight No calm 〈◊〉〈◊〉 he'll allow: Death should, 〈…〉〈…〉 thinks, requite Those who break the marriage vow. He resolves: but a••! his heart Shock'd at Blanch's dreadful fate, Countermands the murdering part: Wretched Siffroi, 'tis too late!

PART II.

Soon as the first mandate came, On dire thoughts of blood intent, Moves th' assassin to his aim, Fearing Siffroi may relent: Blanch had with a son, it seems, After nine long months been blest; Weak defence against the schemes Cherish'd in a villain's breast!

To two thieves, a hellish pair, This vile murder is assign'd: To the forest Blanch they bear, Wife nor child must pity find. Would you, friends, she said and knel••t, Prove more cruel than needs must? If compassion e'er you felt, Spare my child, or kill me first!

Innocence, how strong thy charm! Of this murderous pair, so fierce, One, though lifted is his arm, Wants a heart the wife to pierce. Piteous breast and flowing eyes, Wherefore do ye thus relent? I can't strike! the vi••lain cries; Here then let your life be spent.

Blanch, with fear and fright half dead, Hastens to take up her child; And, all trem••ng as she sled, Traverses the pathless wild. In the transports of her joy, How she clasps him to her heart! Tracting in th' unhappy boy. Siffroi, still her soul's best part.

Soon comes sharp inquietude, These vain transports to ensue! In a place so wild and rude, Hapless pair! what will you do?

Day descends: Blanch wanders long, Nothing knowing where to go; While, oh grief! her pangs so strong, Stop her milk's late plenteous flow.

How shall I describe her fears, Her unutterable smart? While the feeds the babe with tears, Warm'd by pressure to her heart. If he 〈◊〉〈◊〉, she feels his pain Pierce her tencer bosom through: If he ceases to complain, Thinks him dead, and mourns anew.

Night comes on;—to grief resign'd, She awaits returning day; Then she wanders forth to find Fruit her hunger to alla••: Hasting I ask, she seen with joy, Wond'rous sight! a gentle ••ee, Kindly, to the famish'd boy Nourishment and milk bestow.

God, who all we need canst give, Mothers are thy work alone.— Hoping now the child may live, Grief she feels not of her own. To a cave not far from thence, Now the doe her guest precedes, Points her future relidence, And with care the infant feeds.

Thus thought Blanch 'twould be her fate, Life's whole course to pass away, In a solitary state, Known by none but beasts of prey. U••ripe fruits her only food: Nothing but dry leaves her bed: Winds that sweep the solitude Pierce her wild and dreary shed.

Dreams of soft ring hope, at least Grant the succour you can give! Famine, God can turn to feast; Therefore, Blanch, in patience live!

If he smites us, he's our sire, And his children he holds dear: Comfort then! his darting fire Wickedness alone needs fear.

PART III.

Than the seneschal not less, Thinking Blanch among the dead, Siffroi feels the keen distress By a troubled conscience bred: If he drives her from his mind, Thither she returns again; Often too his heart's inclin'd To suppose her free from stain.

Torn with anguish, tir'd of breath, He would gladly die in sight; But stern Fate will not by death Terminate his wretched plight. Spent with weariness, one day By the foe was Siffroi ta'en; Sev'n long years in bonds he lay, And, when free, repass'd the main.

He arrives, o'erwhelm'd with grief; Ev'n his native plains, so gay, Can afford him no relief, Nor his bitter pangs allay. Tasteless seems the festive bowl, Dull the pomp of courtly show:— Siffroi, for thy tortur'd soul Fate reserves another blow.

Verging now to life's last goal, Does the seneschal repent, And behind him leaves a scroll Proving Blanch was innocent. Oh! what horror Sissroi then Felt, when he beheld and read— Blanch through me, he cries, of men Guiltiest, has unjustly bled.

Thenceforth does a haggard fiend Stalk where'er he turns his sight; On his path by day attend, And disturb his sleep by night. Blanch he sees in fan'ral shroud With her babe go glaring by: Fierce they frown, and yelling loud, Cruel spouse and father cry.

Wine and pleasure both in vain Minister their soothing balm: Respite he finds none from pain, Thoss'd by tempest without calm, Most however he's inclin'd To pursue the stag's swift pace; Least distracted, when his mind Meets the turmoil of the chace.

One day, as it chanc'd, his dart Pierc'd a deer,—the creature fled: He pursues her steps, in part Guided by the blood she shed. But while traversing the wild, What strange objects soon appear! Lo a female and a child, Comforting the wounded deer!

On this female form, half bare, Scarcely had he turn'd his view, Than she redden'd, and her hair Instantly before her threw. From the world, cry'd Siffroi, torn With this child what do you here? Sev'n long years, said Blanch, I mourn One though cruel, still most dear.

Cruel, Siffroi cried, and why? By a villain's arts, said she, Was his ear deceiv'd, and I An adult'ress thought to be.

What then are you?—but proceed. Blanch I was, when fortune smil'd. Siffroi springing off his steed Cries aloud, My wife and child!

Yes, 'tis you, with joy intense! He repeats, and many a kiss, Oh I know your innocence But believ'd you dead ere this. Cruel as I was, dear wife, To reduce you to this state! No, said Blanch, you give me life, If you own my truth, though late.

But, by this time, round about, Crowding his companions throng; See your mistress? he cries out, She for whom we griev'd so long: See my son too; of his face Ev'ry feature calls him so. Come, and from this dreary place, To my palace let us go.

On the train proceeds, and near Follow the now happy pair Close to them the gentle deer, Proud the playful child to bear. Family, thrice fortunate! All your sufferings now are o'er, Now at length you prove a fate Happier than you knew before.

THE AFFECTIONATE MOTHER.

LETTER I.

To Mrs. Torrington.

MADAM,

THIS address, perhaps, will cause you some surprize; or possibly you may have looked for such a greet|ing.—I, for my part, find it necessary; and of course, without another line of preface, I pass over to the subject which extorts this letter from me.

You may well remember, there was once a time when Ifi••ncerely loved you, and when you yourself appeared to merit my affection. Now that time is past. You have found out an object worthier of your love than I am. Since you act from the idea of promoting your felicity by such a preference, I do not wish to thwart you.—We are free.—Do you retire where you think fit, while I live where I please; and that is here. I grant you a week's time to make your choice. I go away to-morrow morn|ing, and shall stay from home till Monday next, that you may not be incommoded with my presence, or endure that trouble, of which it does not suit me in the least to be a witness. Respecting our three children, you may be at peace on their account. Their mother, after her beha|viour, must no longer have the least communication with them; and whenever I think fit to make enquiry, I shall find some governess who will not be wholly unqualified to bring them up according to their birth. Receive for ever my adieu. Enjoy in peace your new condition, and endeavour, as much as you can, to blot out the re|membrance of that man, who formerly was proud to subscribe himself your loving husband, but is now no more than, &c.

ARTHUR TORRINGTON,

LETTER II.

To Mr. Torrington.

SIR,

I Should in vain endeavour to describe the different emo|tions raised within my soul, by the perusal of your let|ter. You resolve that a separation shall take place be|tween us. Since you judge an open rupture needful, I submit to your good pleasure. If when we were first united, any one had told me that all our mutual vows would come to this, I should certainly not have been per|suaded that such an event was possible. Nevertheless it has taken place. In my misfortunes however I have still one consolation left me; namely that in heaven there is a God, who has the means of manifesting innocence. My conscience clears me of reproach. My heart has no idea of an object worthier of me, as you say, than you are. It has always been devoted to you only. I pro|test all this, not making use of oaths, but by a simple affirmation which my heart pronounces with assurance. I will make no effort to convince you of my innocence, and your injustice. I shall patiently pursue the path which God's providence points out for me. God's providence, I say, which hitherto has heaped its blessings on me; and, I hope, will still continue so to do. It is a cruel step, sir, to take all my children from me. I may think, the mother who first gave them life in anguish, has a greater title to them than a father; and the laws would grant me the society of one, at least: but do not imagine that I have such a doubt of your paternal tenderness and wish to make them happy, as to have recourse to legal aid against you. I will figure to myself with resignation, that God's will by death, has torn them from me, or that I myself am dead, and shall be very quickly followed by them. Farewel, and be at all times happy, most unjust, yet dearest husband. Every night and morning I will pray to God that, for your own repose, he may remove the mist of error from before

your eyes, convincing you how faithful and affectionate a spouse you are at present wronging, in the person of your desolate

AMELIA TORRINGTON,

SCENE I.

Mrs. Torrington, Harriet, Sophia, Caroline.

Harriet.

Here we are, mama.

Mrs. Torrington.

Come hither, my dear children. Sir down by me: I have something to tell you.

Caroline.

Take me on your knee, do, pray, mama.

(Mrs. Torrington takes up Caroline, kisses her, and weeps.)

Harriet.

What is the matter, dear mama? why do you cry?

Sophia.

I have done nothing, at least, that I know of, to displease you.

Caroline.

Nor I either, dear mama.

The Children,

(while their mother cannot speak for tears.)

Mama! dear, dear mama!

Mrs Torrington,

(restraining her tears.)

Do not be un|easy, my sweet children I beseech you. Do not cry thus, or you will certainly distract me.

Harriet.

Then why did you cry yourself, first of all? Why did you weep so yesterday? the day before? and every day since you received my papa's last letter?

Mrs. Torrington.

Do not ask me, my poor girl! You will know all time enough. All that I can tell you at present, my dear children, is, that I am forced to leave you tomorrow morning early.

Sophia.

And do not you intend then to take me this time, as I was promised? Harriet you remember, went with you last year.

Mrs. Torrington.

I wish I could, my life; and not you only, but your sisters likewise; but it is not in my power.

Harriet.

At least, mama, I hope you mean to return very soon.

Sophia.

And won't you bring me something pretty?

Caroline.

And me too?

Harriet.

What, sisters! can you see how sad mama is, and yet think of asking her for play-things?—If I durst—

Mrs. Torrington.

Well? what, my dearest Harriet?

Harriet,

(bursling into tears.)

You will never come back to us. I know it. You are always sorrowful when you quit us; but yet you never wept so much as now, when you were going on a little journey.

Mrs. Torrington.

Do not alarm yourself, Harriet. In about six weeks I shall come back and see you.

Sophia.

In about six weeks! and what are we to do, so long, without you?

Caroline.

I can never play so well, you know, mama, as when you are with me?

Mrs. Torrington.

Your papa will come back next Mon|day.

Harriet.

And not find you here then, to receive him!

Sophia.

He will be very sorry, when he comes, to find you absent.

Caroline.

So pray stay at least till he comes back.

Mrs. Torrington.

It will but give him greater pleasure, at the time of my return, to see me; and six weeks will soon be past.

Harriet.

You won't inform us; but I know very well that papa—

Mrs. Torrington.

Dear child, you wound my heart; and I have grieved enough already, at the thought of parting with you. Pray be comforted. We shall see one another again very soon. Receive this kiss as an assurance.

Harrict,

(clinging round her neck.)

Oh, if it were true!

Mrs. Torrington.

When six weeks are once past, you will see. I promise you, and you know, I never yet deceived you. Take care of your health, dear babes, and study to amuse yourselves till I return.

(She em|braces them one after the other.)

Harriet and Sophia, you that are the eldest, take what care you can that nothing happens to poor little Caroline. Think fre|quently of me, and I, on my part, will do so of you. —Farewel, farewel;

(She forces herself from them, and goes out; while they stand motionless with grief, and cry bitterly.)

LETTER III.

To Mrs. Villars.

Dear and Worthy FRIEND,

I Send you my three girls, and earnestly conjure you to bestow your tenderest care upon them, so that they may find a second mother in you. After the deplorable event that has deprived them of the mother who first gave them life, I look upon it as a special blessing that your ladyship so generously condescends to superintend their education. I am sensible how great a burthen I wish you to undertake, and how utterly unabled shall ever be to shew my gratitude for such a favour. But then what will not a father dare to do for his children? Condescend, therefore my dearest Madam, upon that account, to par|don my paternal indiscretion, and dispose for ever both of me and every thing belonging to me. There is one particular that I cannot sufficiently recommend to your attention; namely, the selection of a proper governess. Endeavour to secure them one according to your principles and mine. There are so few, Madam, fit for any thing but dressing and undressing dolls! and rather than deliver up my children to such creatures, I would leave them in a wilderness, to vegetate, without receiving any educati|on. But as souls that afterwards prove worthy of each other, have a sort of reciprocal attraction, by a secret sympathy subsisting in them, I am not without the hope that in so elegant a place as Bath, you will at least be able to procure some woman of a suitable behaviour, with sense sufficient, and knowledge to bring up my children as I wish. I beg that you would suppose yourself at liber|ty to enter into any terms with such a one as you yourself think proper, since I mean to spare no cost upon a point of such importance. I am quite impatient for a letter from you. It would highly please me, if your ladyship would charge my eldest daughter Harriet with some part of the correspondence that will be between us; as by such means, she will come herself to write correctly betimes, and to express herself with some degree of ease. It is in

your power to render more supportable the great misfortune that I have undergone, and to give me in my children all the joy of which their mother has deprived me. In reality, I cherish such a hope within me, to drive out the uneasiness that otherwise would overwhelm me; and sub|scribe myself, with every sentiment of gratitude, esteem and friendship,

Yours, &c. ARTHUR TORRINGTON.

SCENE II.

Mrs. Torrington, Jenny, (the maid) and Crape, (her footman.)

Crape,

(entering.)

Here is my lady Harbord's answer, madam, to your letter, with her compliments.

Mrs. Torrington.

That is well! Is Benjamin in the house? Bid him come up: and come you with him likewise.

Mrs. Torrington,

(having read the letter.)

Thank Hea|ven!—I have succeeded.—

(To her maid,)

Hold, Jenny: it is meant for you.

Jenny,

(reading.)

"I am quite happy, madam, to re|ceive the chambermaid that you recommend me. One, of whom you speak so very handsomely, must be a valuable servant; and I thank you for the preference that you have afforded me on this occasion. She may come whenever she thinks fit."

(giving back the letter with a trembling hand.)

Alas, my dearest mistress! what have I done then, that you are sending me away? In what have I deserved dismission?

Mrs. Torrington.

You have not deserved it, my poor Jenny. You have, at all times, been a dutiful girl, and if, hereafter, Providence should otherwise dispose my lot, I will have none but you to wait upon me. But at pre|sent, it is impossible that you should continue with me any longer. We must absolutely part. Be comforted it will not, I persuade myself, be long before I have you back. I would, till then, have given you wherewithal to live, but that I fear the danger that might threaten your

youth and inexperience. You will be, with Lady Harbord, no less happy than you were with me, as I have recom|mended you to her protection in a very earnest manner. Take this little present as a token of remembrance; there is likewise in the bottom drawer of my bureau, a quantity of clothes and linen which I give you. Go, my poor dear Jeany, and do not cry before me thus. My eyes are full enough of tears already. Go; and, when you have put all your things together, I will see you once more.

Jenny,

(wringing her hands.)

And must I quit you then, my dearest lady? No; I cannot live without you; I will follow you wherever you are going.

Mrs. Torrington,

(with firmneys.)

Let me beg, dear Jenny, if you love me, not to here my mind at pre|sent with your lamentations: leave me to myself. I want to be alone. Go, go, my poor dear friend. I have already mentioned that I would see you once again before we part.

Jenny,

(going out.)

My worthiest mistress!

Mrs. Torrington, Benjamin, (her coachman,) Crape; (the foorman.)

Benjamin.

Do you want me, madam? Are you going out this morning?

Mrs. Torrington.

Wait a little, Benjamin.

(to Crape.)

Crape, how much may be coming to you?

Crape.

Only for a quarter, madam.

Mrs. Torrington.

There it is, besides a half year more; that you may have a trifle for your subsistance till you find another p••ace, as my 〈◊〉〈◊〉 ••lige me to leave home. I have been ••ased with your behaviour in my service, and drawn up this 〈◊〉〈◊〉, which you may shew, wherever you apply for ••ment. You are young, and know your business. 〈◊〉〈◊〉 will easily procure a place. Parewel, and God he with you.

(The footman quits the room with sorrow in his conten••nce.)

Benjamin.

Ah! my good dear lady! I would fain be|lieve that my turn is not coming.

Mrs. Torrington.

It is with great reluctance I inform you that we must part.

Benjamin.

What, I leave you, madam! I, that saw you almost as soon as you were born, and followed you, when you were married, from your father's! I, whom you considered as a part of your dowry, and declared that you did so; will you send me off, when I have been so many years your servant? Do you think me less attach|ed to you at present on account of my age, than I was formerly! Alas! I have no wife or child. I have no friend but you, my dearest mistress! what will become of me then, if I must now be parted from you?

Mrs. Torrington.

Benjamin, you may easily believe me, when I tell you that this parting cannot but afflict me. But you see, I have dismissed my maid and foot|man, and you may judge, I cannot have occasion for a coachman.

Benjamin.

Cannot have occasion! Are my master's affairs in confusion then? I have wherewithal to feed your horses many years to come, your bounty gave it me. Pray, then, let me die in my seat, and still continue with you.

Mrs. Torrington.

Such a proof of your attachment can|not but affect me, and I feel it at my heart; but be you comforted. Your master manages his fortune as a man of prudence should do; and his wife is not in want of any thing: in proof of which, I give you my three horses, and a trifle every year for your support.

Benjamin.

What, me, so much, my dear mistress? What use can I make of your bounty? I should but die the sooner, after I had it, out of grief for having lost the worthy giver of it. Never, therefore, never—

Mrs. Torrington.

I insist on your acceptance of it, for my own, though not your satisfaction. I would willingly be happy in the thought of having given you peace and comfort for the rest of your old age. Go then, my friend: you will distress me, should you stay a minute longer.

Benjamin.

Let me wish you then, at least, a th••usand blessings. I am old; yet were I younger, should not have sufficient time to weep for having lost you.

Mrs. Villars, Mrs. Torrington, (under the feigned name of Lambert, and in aisguise.)

Mrs. Torrington

Pardon me, madam, the liberty of this in|trusion. I have been informed that you want a governess for three young ladies. Though I am far from thinking that I have all the necessary qualifications for such an ar|duous undertaking, yet my situation induces me to beg that you would have so much goodness as to make a trial of me.

Mrs. Villars.

May I ask you, madam, who you are, and what your name is?

Mrs. Torrington.

Lambert, madam; I am the unhap|py widow of a man whom I loved, and still love better than myself. In the affliction that besets me, I should look upon it as a consolation, could I fill my time up with the education of your little ladies; I conjure you, madam, to bestow this favour on me, if you have not yet engaged with any one. I dare persuade myself, you will be satisfied with my solicitude to please you. I desire no salary, I am above the possibility of want. It is only an employment that I request, to drive away the thought of my misfortunes.

Mrs. Villars.

So affecting is your motive, that it in|terests me in your favour. You have then no children, madam?

Mrs. Torrington,

(with emotion.)

I had three, that con|stituted all my hope and satisfaction; but, alas! my cruel fortune has deprived me of them.

Mrs. Villars.

I sincerely pity you with all my heart! You seem a very tender mother; and deserve that they should have lived to recompense your feeling and affection.

Mrs. Torrington,

(with a sigh.)

Ah, madam! they are still, still living. But, on that account (however strange my story) not less lost to me.

(She weeps.)

Mrs. Villars.

I cannot comprehend you, madam; either your affliction has impaired your understanding, or you stifle in your heart some very great misfortune. Would you fear to trust me with it? Possibly, I might be able to afford you some degree of consolation.

Mrs. Torrington.

Yes, madam; you only can afford me consolation.

Mrs. Villars.

What! I only? Let me know then what I can do for you? There is nothing that I would not with chearfulness perform to comfort you.

Mrs. Torrington.

Then make me governess of your young ladies.

Mrs. Villars.

Is that all?

Mrs. Torrington.

I can have nothing else to ask; but what I ask will make me happy, if you grant it.

Mrs. Villars.

I cannot express my astonishment at what you say. All this conversation is in some sort like a vision. Though you do not think me worthy of your considence, I feel within me a desire to give you mine. I will bring you in the three young ladies. Will you undergo a slight examination of your abilities to discharge the employment that you solicit? If, as I have not a doubt, you justify the idea that I have formed concerning them, I promise to intrust you with their education.

Mrs. Torrington,

(in transport.)

O my noble benefac|tress! I cannot contain my joy! then I have your pro|mise?

Mrs. Villars.

Yes, madam; but on such conditions as I mentioned.

Mrs. Torrington.

Madam, I desire no better; and thank Heaven and you I have again recovered my three children?

Mrs. Villars.

Your three children, madam! What three children?

Mrs. Torrington.

Those that you have undertaken to protect, the three Miss Torringtons. You see before you their unhappy, but yet guiltless mother, whom her spouse has parted from them. I have left my property behind me, and disguised my name and circumstances, to procure an introduction to my children. I was fearful of discovering who I was, till I had obtained your promise. I am sensible, my spouse has written to you about some|thing which he imagines I have done amiss; but yet, I dare persuade myself, my present conduct has already proved how innocent I must be of his accusation. A good mother cannot surely be a wicked wife!

Mrs. Villars,

(embracing her.)

O most affectionate, but yet courageous woman! I want words to shew my joy and

admiration. Could it possibly have come into my head, that Mrs. Torrington was hid beneath this sorrowful dis|guise.

Mrs. Torrington.

The metamorphosis has not been painful to me; and, in future, I am seriously determined to support it. No one in the world, madam, except you, shall ever be acquainted who I am. Conside upon my promise. By whatever you yourself conceive most sacred, will I swear, that not a word shall ever escape me, to re|veal the secret.

Mrs. Villers.

And on my part too, I promise you the same discretion. But your daughters?

Mrs. Torrington.

I shall find it a hard task, indeed, to keep myself a stranger, as it were, to them, and so sup|press the workings of my motherly affection: But no other way is left me. Only aid me while I personate my part. As soon as the deception is established once, it will support itself. I should be quite without anxiety on that ••ead, if it were not for my eldest daughter, Harriet. She, I am afraid, will know me. I must persevere, however, in the plou, imposition.

Mrs. Villars.

I can bear no longer this affecting scene, but will be gone, and bring you in the children.

(She goes out, and almost instantly return, with Harriet and her ••s; who all make a 〈◊〉〈◊〉 to Mrs. Torrington, consider|ing her from head to feet, with great attention and embar|r••ment.)

Mrs. Villars.

My dear little ladies, it is to let you see this gent••ewoman whom I have chosen to be with you, as your governess. I dare engage you will be happy under her. I think, I may assure you of her care and friendship; and expect that you, on your part, will obey and love her, just as if you thought her your mama.

Harriet,

(falling into her arms)

It is our mama! it is she herself!

Sophia and Carcline.

Mama! mama! You are returned then?

(They all ••ing to her, with repeated kisses; but she keept up ••r served and serious countenance.)

Mrs. Villars.

Truly, I was thinking that you wou'd all be 〈◊〉〈◊〉 deceived. I had myself the same idea of the lady; I sancied, I know not for what reason, that she was your maina.

Harriet.

And so she is; my heart informs me so, as truly as my eyes.

Sophia.

And have you brought me any thing?

Caroline.

Ay, where is the doll that you promised me, mama? Pray let me have it.

Mrs. Torrington.

My dear little ladies, I am sorry to see you all in such an error. I am not your mother. You know, she is a great way off.

Harriet.

No, not you are our dear mama. We cannot be deceived. You have not such a charming dress on as she wears, but then you have her face, and her shape, and her sweet voice.

Mrs. Torrington.

Is it possible that I should resemble your mama so much? If so, I am very glad, on your account, as well as my own: it will make us so much better friends to one another: will it not, young ladies? I dare say you begin to love me a little already, don't you?

Sophia.

O! much, much, mama.

Caroline.

And I too? If you did but know—

Harriet,

(weeping.)

What have we done, mama, that you should grieve us thus? that you should tell us you are not our mother? but, however, we are all of us your children.

Mrs. Villars.

Come, good madam, you must be what they would have you; and since they resolve to call you mother, take that name upon you: it will give them plea|sure. And, young ladies, if you like it, you may call me mother likewise.

Harriet.

We do not wish to affront you, but though you love us, you will never be our mother.

Mrs. Torrington.

Well, my dear young ladies, if you with to make me your mama, I wish it likewise; and will have as much affection for you, as if really I were so. My dear Harriet, and my dear Sophia, and my dear, sweet, little Caroline.

(She embraces them with transport.)

Harriet.

How happy we all are, in having our mama again! We thought continually of you, in your absence; and did hardly any thing but cry since you first left us.

Mrs. Torrington,

(whispering Mrs. Villars.)

I foresaw that Harriet would discover me; and therefore I must make her of my party, by discovering my intention to

her. Then take away her sisters for a moment, if you can.

Mrs. Villars,

(whispering Mrs. Torrington.)

Yes, I understand you.—

(To Sophia and Caroline.)

Come my little angels, I will let you have the play-things that your mama, as you would have her called, has brought you.

(She goes out with Sophia and Caroline.)

Mrs. Torrington, Harriet.

Mrs. Torrington.

We are now alone my dear Harriet; I may indulge the happiness that I feel in pressing you to my heart.

Harriet,

(falling into her arms.)

Ah, now you are my good mama, indeed. But pray, never for the future, tell us that you are not.

Mrs. Torrington.

Be it so, my dearest Harriet; but there is one thing that I insist on, in my turn.

Harriet.

Oh! any thing in the world, mama.

Mrs. Torrington.

Then if you love me, Harriet, do not tell any one that I am your mother. Call me only Mrs. Lambert; you understand. It is of the greatest conse|quence to my affairs; and for a reason, which I have not time to tell you now, it is necessary that I should be un|known.

Harriet.

How would you have me cease to call you my mama? you that I love so much?

Mrs. Torrington.

And do you think that my love consi|ders it less painful, to deny myself the only name, which can at all times make me happy?

Harriet.

Well then, I obey; but every time that it comes not from my lips, when I am speaking to you, suppose me to pronounce it in my heart.

LETTER IV.

To Mr. Torrington.

Dear papa,

I HAVE so many things to write to you, that I cannot tell with which I should begin my letter. We are now no longer at Mrs. Villars's, but have removed to Mrs. Lam|bert,

our governess's house; it is in the Circus, and a very pleasant situation. You cannot possibly conceive how happy we are all of us in being with her. She is such a charming woman! quite as kind as our mama! She loves us just as if we were her children, and we love her also just as if she were our mother! There is no need of laying out your money to have masters come and teach us; she herself knows every thing that we ought to learn. You would imagine that she considered it her happiness to teach us; and she does it in so kind a way, that we are all delighted with instruction at her hands. Sophia and little Caroline already read quite charmingly, so much attention Mrs. Lambert has paid them! As for me, I have begun a course of geography and history with her: this, together with a little cyphering, and a few choice pieces both in verse and prose, which I take care to learn by heart, employs our morning. In the afternoon, for recreation sake, I go to drawing, dancing, and the harp|sicord; and when the evening comes, sit down and take my needle, at the use of which you cannot imagine how clever Mrs. Lambert is: and lastly, to complete myself in cyphering, and acquire a little knowledge of the expences of a house, she gives me all the bills to overlook, and makes me set down every little sum of money that she lays out. By these means I begin to know the price of many things, and, as she tells me, may become your little stewardess when I return. With so much on my hands to do all day, you will perhaps, imagine that I am tired at night; not at all, papa. I am happy, on the contrary, to think that I have so well filled up my time, and should have reason to complain, if any one deprived me of such charming occupations.

I have put a little trick on Mrs. Lambert, and mean to tell you what it is. She went the other day with Caro|line to visit Mrs. Villars, and left me at home to keep Sophia company. I thought it would divert her if I read a little; so I took a book that we have, called the Theatre of Education, from the French, and read the Poor Blind Woman. I could not refrain from crying very much; but, to my great surprise, Sophia did not. This quite vexed me, as you may easily imagine; upon which I pinched her, that she might cry and keep me company. She cried indeed, and more a great deal than I wanted

her to do. At last however I appeased her, after many kisses and caresses, but was angry with myself for having hurt her. I suppose, some object took off her attention while I read, and naturally thought that she would be really affected, could she read the piece herself: with this idea in my head, I formed a plan of putting her to con this charming piece in private, till she could read it per|fectly; and Mrs. Lambert could not refrain last night from wondering at the progress that she had made. We did not let her know our secret, but propose to catch her so again with Caroline. I am quite rejoiced that we can have these opportunities of pleasing her, for all the trouble that she is every moment taking upon our account.

These, dear papa, are our amusements and our studies here; to which if you add our walks about the place, our visits to a few poor people near us, whom we now and then assist with old clothes and money, and our labours in a little garden, where we tend our flowers, you will have the history of our times at large. We never were so well in health as now, and never in our lives so happy; we want nothing but the pleasure of your company. If you would only take a little journey down to Bath, I would give every thing in the world that you might see this Mrs. Lambert. I am sure, no woman breathing would prove worthier of your friendship. Oh! come, come papa!

But you must know, I have Caroline at present at my elbow, and she asks me if I am writing to you. She is so proud of having scrawled these few days past what she calls letters, in a copy-book that Mrs. Lambert has made her, that she says she too will scribble you a line or two. It will be a charming hodge-podge, I foresee, of great and little letters, and fine spelling, if she sets about it; but no matter, I must please her. She has got a pen, in hand already, and is groping in the standish for ink. She is tugging me this very moment by the apron to leave off, and give her up my seat. Adieu then, dear papa. My governess desires me to present you her respects. Sophia's duty to you, and mine also. I am, &c.

Harriet Torrington.

LETTER V.

To Mr. Torrington.

Sir,

YOU certainly remember what you have often said you would submit to, if a woman could be found completely fit to undertake the education of a child, except it were her mother. I have met with one, whose qualities are even greater than your wishes, for the education of your children; and with justice I might claim the full per|formance of your promise, and expect that you should set out for Rome upon your head. However, lay aside your fears; I will not abuse my power, but shew you no less mercy than the confidence that you have reposed in me. I claim one sole condition of you, or request rather, as a friend, and that is, to come down as loon as possibly you can. Do not ask what reason I can have for this abrupt request, as you shall know it when you are here. You have only to set out, and that immediately, unless you wish me to repent that I have taken such concern in your affairs. Yours ••aitnfully,

Hertensia Villers.

P. S. Harriet begs me to enclose my note within her letter, so that you may read hers first.

LETTER VI.

To Mrs. Villars.

My dear and valuable friend,

I PAY obedience to your letter, and leave town imme|diately, as you enjoin me; so that this reply will not have reached you halt a dozen hours before you see me. In reality, I wish to have it go before-hand, and in some sort spare my tongue the shame and trouble of revealing what it is to tell you. Shall I even have sufficient courage thus to let you know my situation? but the case is urgent; and besides, I merit my humiliation. Well then, know,

madam, I have shewn myself the most unjust and cruel of all husbands! I have dared to disparage the unspotted virtue of my Amelia with my scandalous suspicions; of my Amelia, I repeat, whose very looks I am unworthy now to meet. It was when I most insulted her that she was most studious to preserve my name from ignominy. One of my relations, a young man whom I patronized, was on the point of being utterly disgraced among his brother officers, for certain youthful levities which he durst not communi|cate to me, acquainted as he was with my impatient tem|per. It was she who, with the fruits of her oeconomy, delivered him from the dishonour that he was going to bring both upon himself and me. She had sufficient strength of mind to bear with my unworthy treatment and aspersions, rather than expose him to my indignation by revealing his delinquency. I have discovered very re|cently this motive for those secret interviews that so dis|turbed my mind, and cannot keep from cursing my detested jealousy. But how shall I endure her presence? At her feet, and without daring to look up, I will implore her pardon. I am posting to that quarter where she has fixed her retirement: fortunately I must pass through Bath to reach it. I shall see you by the way, and kiss my almost orphan little ones. Farewel! I dare not sign a name which my jealousy has made so criminal.

Mrs. Villars, Mr. Torrington, Harriet, Sophia, Caroline.

Harriet.

Well, papa, so you are pleased with what we have told you?

Sophia.

And think us very much improved?

Mr. Torrington.

Yes, my children, I am charmed with every thing I have seen!

Caroline.

As well as with the little letter of my writing? Was not it quite pretty?

Mr. Torrington.

Admirable, like yourself, my little Caroline! But where is your worthy governess? I wish to see and thank her.

Mrs. Villars.

I see her coming this way. We will leave you with her. Come, my little dears, come along with me.

(She goes out with Harriet, Sophia and Caroline.)

Mr. Torrington, Mrs. Torrington. (Mrs. Torrington comes in, but with a trembling step; and Mr. Torrington advances towards her)

Madam, let me ask your pardon!—But—whose features do I see?—Who is this?

Mrs. Torrington.

Well, sir, what causes this confusion! Are you sorry that I have the care and education of your children?

Mr. Torrington.

Sorry! Nothing in you ever should have made me wonder, had I but deserved the happiness of knowing you.—My Amelia!

Mrs. Torrington.

Why bestow that name upon me?—I have put it off.

Mr. Torrington.

You have, indeed; and therefore, kneeling at your feet, I shall implore you to resume it.

(He falls upon his knees before her.)

Mrs. Torrington.

What, would you do, sir?

Mr. Torrington.

If you would not behold me die,—one word!—one single word! one of those sweetly sounding accents that were wont to make me happy!

Mrs. Torrington.

Well, then, dearest husband, rise, and come to the embrace of your Amelia, who still loves you.

Mr. Torrington.

It is too much!—Too much!—I ask not such a blessing!—Tell me only that you have ceased to hate me.

Mrs. Torrington.

It should be my punishment to ask your pardon, could such hatred ever come into my heart. Speak only of my happiness: I think of nothing in the world but yours. Come, then, and let us both be happy in the conversation of our children.

LETTER VII.

To Mrs. Villars.

Dear Madam,

I LEAVE Bath with every sense of gratitude that the services which I have experienced from your friendship cannot but inspire, and fly towards London where I mean to furnish a new house for my Amelia. She designs to

follow me some few days hence, and to bring the children with her. I hope your ladyship will also come and take your portion in the happiness that you have restored to, &c.

Arthur Torrington.

LETTER VIII.

Dear Spouse,

INSTEAD of seeing me, or any of the children, you will have a letter full of tears and lamentation. On the day after your departure, Harriet and Sophia all at once complained of being feverish, and were attacked with such a head-ache that they could not possibly keep up. We put them, therefore, instantly to bed. Towards evening, Caroline made just the same complaint. All three are now covered quite over with a very thick small-pox of such a sort as I am told is very virulent. I must forget that I never had this dreadful malady myself. All night, as well as day, I keep my situation by their bed, and every moment fear they will be suffocated. I have felt already, in myself, a lassitude and heat in every limb; but my affection makes me stranger than I should be otherwise. Their love and tenderness sustain my courage. I perceive that, in the height of all their sufferings, they refrain, as much as they are able, from complaint, for fear of giving me uneasiness. In the delirium of their fever, they do nothing but pronounce your name and mine, with tones of voice so moving, that one cannot possibly express them; and no earlier than this very morning, Caroline desired to see you. I replied that I could not send to London for you, lest you should catch her illness. "Oh, no, no, mama, said she, do not be afraid; I'll keep it all myself!" —"My child, replied I upon this, you might communi|cate the infection to him, without losing it yourself."— "So much the worse," said Caroline, and swooned away with weakness; but soon after, coming to herself, she called me, saying, "Dear mama, you have the picture of papa about your neck; pray let me kiss 〈◊〉〈◊〉! There is no fear, I suppose, that it will catch the small-pox from me."—Dearest children! should I lose you! Should my|self, perhaps—I see about me the pr••ges of a dreadful

separation!—Arm yourself therefore with resolution, my dear spouse! our life in this world is but as it were a mo|ment. Harriet is afraid lest my letter should afflict you, and requests, with tears, that I would permit her writing something to console you. I am fearful such an effort may exhaust her, but more fearful to afflict her by my refusal; I am, therefore, giving her my letter, and her trembling hand writes this:

My dear Papa, We are extremely ill all three; but yet that is nothing, so do not grieve yourself. I hope—

She cannot write another word. I find my strength sor|sake me too. I am seized all over with a mortal pain. I hear Sophia groan, and must go to her succour. Farewel, dearest spouse! Take hope; or arm yourself with fortitude of mind in this distress, as possibly it may be needful. But particularly, whether life or death ensue, love al|ways, yours,

Amelia Torrington.

LETTER IX.

To Mr. Torrington.

Dear Friend,

HOW shall I express the melancholy news of which you must be, notwithstanding its un••el••omeness, ac|quainted! Try, if you are able, to divine the matter; for my trembling hand demurs to write it. Caroline still lives; but, as for Harriet and Sophia—••ey, alas! are in the land of spirits. Your unhappy wi••e, as you may easily suppose, was overwhelmed 〈◊〉〈◊〉 this two-fold loss; for grief and watching so depr••d her, that the infection which she received soon brought her to the last extremity. Believe me, my dear friend, when I pretest that I would have bought her life, could I have done so, with the half of mine! But what avail these empty wishes? I can keep the fatal secret hid no longer. At this moment they are ringing for her funeral. She was not able to survive her children many hours. Though you had flown to see her

once again, you would certainly not have known her, so much had the violence of the disorder changed her features! I was with her constantly. I did not leave her bed a mo|ment. I received her parting sighs, and closed her eye|lids. It was altogether such a scene as will for ever live in my ideas. I shall find it difficult to represent her fortitude and resignation to God's will. It was not for herself that she sorrowed: her last words were a fervent supplication in behalf of Caroline and you. What consolation could I give you for her loss of which my heart has not as great a need as yours has? Herself alone can soften your afflic|tion. Read the inclosed of which she wrote herself the first eight lines, and with a faltering accent dictated the rest. I join my voice to hers; and in the a••dour of my friendship, turn your recollection on the child that is still left you; and to whom you owe now, more than ever, all the love and tenderness that a father can shew. I will send her to you, when she is perfectly recovered. Her endearing manner will console your bosom, and her edu|cation occupy your mind, which otherwise might yield to painful recollections. God be with you! I regret that I have nothing to offer you but the melancholy language of condolence. Yours,

Hortensia Villars.

LETTER X.

To Mr. Torrington.

Dearest Spouse,

I FIND myself expiring. I am going to my children, who, I imagine to myself, are holding out their arms that I should follow them; and we shall rest together in one tomb. Your life is mine. I give it to my surviving in|fant. Caroline is left to represent me. Shew her all your tenderness. Be her support; and may she prove your consolation! Life is short, and you will both ere long rejoin us, when we shall not fear a further separation. Think not of my loss so much, as of the happy place where I shall wait your coming. What I was in this life, I will still continue in another, namely, your

Amelia.

THE LITTLE PRISONER.

LETTER I.

From Dorothea Justamond to Honoria Clancy.

My dear Honoria,

YOU would never guess what has lately happened to my brother, to that upright and respected Daniel, whose good heart and prudent conduct made all his friends that were so happy as to be of his acquaintance! You remember, I suppose, the purse that mama presented him when you were by, with three new guineas in it. Well, those three new guineas with the purse are gone, and to increase your wonder, the poor boy will not or cannot tell which way. As it is supposed that he makes a secret of it from a principle of obstinacy, he was shut up in a little room this morning, where he is not to be visrted by any one, and whence he must not hope to be delivered but by making known the whole affair. How sincerely I lament him, suffering this severity of punishment! He has never been hitherto considered of an obstinate or headstrong dis|position. On the contrary, he has been always com|mended for his docility and frankness. I would willingly have pleaded in his favour, but could not obtain a hear|ing. Nevertheless, I am very sure, he has not to reproach himself with any crime or meanness. Come this afternoon and see me, if you have your liberty. You may, in that case, comfort me in my dejected situation. The misfor|tune of my brother hurts me no less than it would do, had it happened to myself. Adieu! I am, in expectation of your visit or reply,

Dear Honoria,

Your faithful and sincere Dorothea.

LETTER II.

From Honoria Clancy to Dorothea Justamond.

My dear Dorothea,

I CANNOT but confess that I entertain some pity for your upright and respected Daniel; but so little, that he need not greatly tax his grateful nature to repay me. I could never pardon him for always finding something or another to advance against me. Not that he has ever gone so far as publicly to tell his notions of me. If he had, I should have known very well how to answer him: but it is an easy matter, by his looks, to be convinced he thinks me trifling, vain, capricious, and I know not what beside. Whenever I have been censuring other people's impersec|tions in their absence, for the instruction of my friends, to hear his manner of defending them, one would imagine I were only venting slander. Well, at present then, my little judge himself is under condemnation; and indeed he must be highly guilty, since his very parents have for|gotten all the silly fondness that they had for him. I am charmed that they have come to know him at last; and would lay a wager that he deserves much greater punish|ment than he receives. Obstinacy is a very frightful vice alone; but in addition, he is an awkward spendthrift. All the money that he can fish out of his father, he dis|perses foolishly among a tribe of ragamussins, and has never had the spirit to employ it in a manner honourable to himself. If he had spent those guineas in silk stock|ings, fashionable buckles, or the like, one might excuse him. Did I say excuse him? one might certainly applaud his judgment in that case. However, as I said before, I pity him a little, being, as he is, your brother; but Do|rothea, you I pity most sincerely, being, as you are, his sister. I cannot possibly wait upon you this evening, it is such charming weather for a walk: and then I have the prettiest dress that ever you saw just come home, which I must certainly put on. Adieu, and think me always,

Your sincerest, Honoria.

LETTER III.

From Dorothea Justamond to Honoria Clancy.

Miss,

I AM as pe••etrated as I ought to be with the avowal made me in year last, of that slacere friendship which it professes. I 〈…〉〈…〉 have been glad, if it had wrought upon you to 〈◊〉〈◊〉 yourself a little more respectfully con|cerning the afternoon of my parents in behalf of Daniel, and to speak w•• more consideration of this last, particu|larly now that 〈◊〉〈◊〉 is so unhappy. I admit not your con|dolence for my Misfortune, as you intimate, in being sister to the p••r: I consider it my pride and glory, and persuade myself, you will acknowledge that I have reason so to d•• when you have perused a letter that I received from 〈◊〉〈◊〉 his evening, and which I now send you. Thought do ••t throw a light on the affair, I cannot look 〈…〉〈…〉 language of a criminal. I heartily congr•• 〈…〉〈…〉 your pretty dress, and wish you a delightful 〈◊〉〈◊〉.

Dorothea.

LETTER IV.

From Daniel Justamond to Dorothea his Sister, (〈◊〉〈◊〉 in the preceding.)

My dear Sister,

I CAN easily persuade myself how much you are af|flicted at my 〈◊〉〈◊〉, and sit down to write this letter, that your grief on my account may be in some sort miti|gated. Think not that I am a criminal, or at least that I do not believe myself such. The three guineas are at present in good hands, in much better hands than mine. But you will reply, why therefore should I make a secret of the matter to 〈…〉〈…〉 parents, who must think me ••ither very obstinate or very hypocritical, in thus refusing them the considence which they have a right to expect. This, indeed, is what embarrasses my resolution, and I

do not know how to answer. I must think maturely of it. I have, here in my solitude, all the time that I can wish for that purpose. If I perceive that I am in the wrong, I will tell them so, and frankly own the whole affair. I am sure, they will excuse me, having frequently before excused me, on confession of my faults. I suffer more to think on their uneasiness, than my imprisonment. Adieu, dear sister! Let a poor recluse preserve his place in your affection; and believe me, with the like affection.

Yours, &c. Daniel.

LETTER V.

From Dorothea Justamend to Honoria Clancy.

My dearest Honoria,

I MIGHT express myself a little harshly, when I sent you half an hour ago the letter that I had just before re|ceived from Daniel. I request you to overlook my fault, ascribing my ill humour to the grief that I felt in finding you so ready to suspect my ••or brother; and at present, as he cannot but be re-established in your good opinion, I hope that you will for his sake overlook it the more readily. However, I must tell you, his affairs take now a very gloomy turn, at least to all appearances. One of our servants has made a discovery of the purse at a confec|tioner's hard by. It seems he went into the shop for change, and what should the confectioner take out among his gold and silver, but the very purse, which the servant instantly recollected? Yet he did not speak a word about it there, but came directly home and told my father who is dressing now, that he may go to the confectioner's, and make enquiry how he got the purse. It is no way pro|bable that my brother should have laid out three guineas on sweetmeats, when he deprives himself of every thing by indulging his extreme generosity. Papa himself is of the same opinion: but by what means could the purse be where it is? He has not lost it, since he knows (as he informed us) where it was; which certainly he meant to say by this expression, it is at present in good hands. Why, therefore, should he make a secret of it? Truly, I cannot tell what to think upon the subject: be it notwithstanding

what it will, I am entirely at my ease on his account, and have a sort of considence that the affair will only terminate to his advantage. I conclude, and once more beg you to overlook the harshness of my last, believing me,

Your faithful friend, Dorothea.

LETTER VI.

From Honoria Clancy to Dorothea Justamond.

Dear Dorothea,

I AM no less at my ease than you, upon account of Daniel, and as much persuaded that this affair will turn out to his advantage. He has learnt, I make no doubt, already in his solitude, that he himself is far from being quite exempt from such defects as he has frequently ascribed to me; and the severe correction which he will certainly receive, will be revenge enough for me. On these considerations, I am entirely at my ease on his ac|count, because by this means the affair will end to his advantage. It is indeed quite necessary to his growing perfection, that on this occasion he should undergo the severest punishment. How, my sanctimonious Mr. Da|niel! you would persuade your parents that you give every thing away in charity, and fish thus cunningly for money, which you afterwards lay out, three guineas at a time, in sweetmeats! Truly, I do not wonder that he should be so backward in revealing the affair. It would be very ho|nourable to him. Obstinate! a cheat! and a glutton! three good qualities indeed, and all at once discoverable in him! Mighty sine! He calls the hands of a confectioner, good hands, because, as I suppose, they make good things. There is charming logic for you! But adieu, my dear Dorothea! I sincerely mourn your blindness to this good|for-nothing brother's faults, and burn with absolute im|patience, till you have told me how your hero will get clear of this adventure. After all my criticizing com|ments, I am so deeply interested in his welfare, as to beg that you would send me the first news possible concerning him. I hope, you will not refuse this mark of friendship to your faithful

Honoria.

LETTER VII.

From Dorethea Justamond to Honoria Clancy.

Miss,

I TAKE the earliest opportunity in my power to satissy your generous curiosity. My hero's grand adventure now is terminated in a way that gives satisfaction to every body —every body indeed, except the wicked. And this last circumstance magnifies the pleasure that I enjoy from this communication.

Here now follow the particulars of the affair at length. —My brother late last night was franding at the door, and saw a poor old man go by him, followed by three children that were crying bitterly. He supped them, and enquired the readen of their s••ess. The old man was s•• ashamed, he could not answer; but the eldest of the children told him, notwithstanding frequent interruptions caus••d by ••bing, that they had not had a bit of any thing that day. "Alas! my little master," added he, "we are greatly to be pitied. We had formerly, as you have, a ••e house: but now are left without a shed to cover us. Our parents are both dead of broken hearts, and we have no friend to help us but our grandfather, and he is far too old and weak to work for our support." The poor old man, while this was saying, hid his face and sighed most lamentably. Daniel, who it seems was very much affected at the scene before him, had not time to take advice, but ran up stairs immediately to fetch his purse, and gave it to the poor old man. He wept afresh with joy and admiration at my little brother's generosity, but would not take the money. Daniel fell into a passion seeing this, and nothing but the old man's acquiescence in the gift could calm him. He did accept the purse; but, as he judged the charity that he had received to be too considerable for a child like my brother to bestow, he resolved to bring it back next day. He went with such a view to leave it at the shop of the confectioner, and asked to have a shilling only to provide his little family a supper. I cannot tell you how he made the money up again, but not a quarter of an hour ago, and just before my father

could set out to speak with the confectioner, he brought the purse with all the money in it to our house. I could have wished, miss, that you had been present at this scene; you would then have been taught to entertain a different notion of my brother's generous heart. His noble sacrifice, together with the old man's honest scru|ples, made us all shed tears. The children and himself have had as much as twice the value of the purse, and Daniel too has been paid for what he did, with sisty prayers and blessings. The concealment of this bounteous action, which my brother thought was nothing but his duty, puts a greater value on it in the eyes of my papa, and merits at my hand a measure of additional affection.

As this letter is the last that I ever mean to send you, I have now the honour to subscribe myself, as ceremo|niously as pen can do it,

Miss,

your most obedient, And most humble servant, Dorothea Justemond.

OLD LAWRENCE.

LETTER I.

From George Wallace to Catharine.

Dear Catharine,

I Have dismal news to tell you! Our good old friend Lawrence is no more. You recollect, he had been out of order ever since last autumn. For a fortnight past he had not left his room. Last Monday evening, when I came from school, they told me that he had died that afternoon. I could not, I assure you, refrain from crying bitterly. His long indisposition had before-hand rendered him much dearer to me. I employed the time that I had to spare from school, in doing him whatever service I was able. After all, alas! I owed him more than I had time and means to pay. He was our friend, and, I may add too, benefactor from the cradle. In our earliest childhood,

we lived more a great deal in his arms, than on our feet. He was never out of temper, but always kind and chear|ful. How delighted was he, when he had it in his power to afford us any new pleasure, or to disguise an old one so that we might think it new! I verily believe, that all his pain in dying was, that death prevented him from being any longer useful to us. He had been of older standing in the family than our papa; and though he was no better than a common servant, every body looked upon him with a sort of veneration. During his last illness, no one paid a visit here without enquiring; "and how fares the good old Lawrence?" I could see that the question was agreeable to my papa, who always looked on Lawrence as a very faithful friend. If so, no wonder then that he supported him in his old age, and gave him every sort of comfort that he could require. A gentleman could not have been more comfortably situated, or more attentively treated. Last night, when he was buried, I desired papa's permission to be present at the ceremony. He could not, without some difficulty, grant me such a favoar, lest it might have a bad effect upon me: but he saw that I should have suffered more from being absent. I accompanied the body therefore, holding up a corner of the pall. I thought that by this office we were still attached to one another, and that really in some sort I possessed him still. When I was forced to quit my hold, my hand was just as if it had been numbed, and did not open without difficulty; but if this was mournful, it was much more melancholy when they let him down into the grave, and especially when they filled it up. I could not take my eyes off from the spot. Till then I could not be persuaded that Death had wholly separated us. As long as I could see his coffin, there remained still something of him; but when this re|mainder disappeared, then I felt that I had for ever lost him. All night long I saw him in my dreams: his ghost by no means frightened me: it seemed to smile upon me, and I rushed into its arms. I passed this morning in my chamber all alone, and was employed in writing you this letter. I designed to send you but a line or two, whereas my subject has extended while I spoke of Lawrence.—Our good friend is come to see me; Mr. Hutton, that vene|rable worthy man, who takes so much delight in giving people pleasure when he cannot do them good; and he

has left me an exceedingly pathetic story of a servant wo|man who worked hard to support her mistress after she was fallen into poverty. Indeed I found it so exceedingly pathetic, that I set immediately about transcribing it, and send you a fair copy, since the reading of it may be a solace to you, as it was to me. At every act of friendship that Elspy performed, I cried out, This Lawrence would have done for us, had we been in the situation of the lady. Ah, poor Lawrence! Ah, my good friend Lawrence!— Fare you well, dear sister! I must here conclude my letter being sent for down by my papa to entertain him, gloomy as I am myself. Assure my aunt and uncle of my best respects, and let each have two sweet kisses, which they will place to my account. We have had a loss in Law|rence, which we cannot possibly make up but by loving one another more sincerely. Farewell then, once more! from him who, with a renewed heart of friend and bro|ther, signs himself yours,

George Wallace.

ELSPY CAMPBELL.

(This piece was inclosed in the preceding letter.)

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

Elspy Campbell, who had been her faithful servant many years, and was always treated very kindly by her ancient mistress, learns these dismal tidings in her humble cottage, whither she was now retired to pass the remnant

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

"O my generous Elspy!" said the afflicted widow, "I resign myself entirely to your friendship. I will live and die with one of so much gratitude; for I am sure, God's blessing will be always with you."—They set out immediated, for Elspy's dwelling. The cottage was in|deed extremely little, but possessed a healthful situation: cleanliness and order were the only decorations that it could boast. There was a hole on one side in the wall, through which a little light proceeded, when the wind was not that way: but when it would have incommoded her, the hole was stopped completely by a sod with rose leaves ••eat into it, and poor blspy was obliged to be con|tented with the little light that reached her down the chimney. Elpy's bed, which was invisible when people entered, was defended from the cold that would have reached it through the door-way, by a bank of earth. It

had a mattress stuft with straw, good sheets, a pair of blankets, and coarse woollen rug. It had not curtains; but when Elspy found that she was in future to be ho|noured with the friendship and society of so respectable a guest, she bethought herself to hang the walls about it with a bulrush lining, which was warmer than the silkiest damask. In this bed slept Mrs. Macdowell, with her feet both placed against poor Elspy's bosom, who was used to bend herself almost double, round the widow's legs, that she might keep them warm. She never would consent to lie beside her mistress; but the more she saw her fallen from her former splendour, still the more obe|dience and respect she showed her, to wipe out by that means all idea of the change she had experienced in her fortune. An old Bible, Robinson Crusoe, and a few odd volumes of devotion and morality, which once had co|vers, furnished ample matter for their evening's conversa|tions. With respect to their repasts, they frequently had eggs, at all times milk, and were never without potatoes. The best baked potatoes, fieshest eggs, and largest bowl of milk, were constantly placed before Mrs. Macdowell.

It will doubtless be a matter of some curiosity to know how Elspy could keep up the honours of her cot in such a state of oeconomical abundance. To do this, she had her spinning-wheel in winter, and her labours of the field ••n harvest. It must notwithstanding be acknowledged that she possessed a manifest advantage over every younger woman, not so much for any natural activity, as for an obtuse angle in her line of bodily direction, so that both her hands and eyes were nearer by a great deal to the ground than otherwise they would have been, and readier for her spinning-wheel. Besides, when things were raised in price above her means to purchase them, she had but to go out and beg assistance in the neighbouring towns and villages. For this she had contrived a tolerable efficacious method. She would go among the richest farmers only, and when got before their door, stand still, and lifting up her hands to heaven, cry out, "I come to ask your cha|rity, by no means for myself, for I can live on any thing, but for my mistress, a lady of noble blood, daughter of Lord James, and grandchild of Lord Archibald."—If the farmers gave her any thing, or what sufficed her reasonable expectations, she would add, "May the Almighty's bles|sing,

with my mistress's, and Elspy Campbell's, come upon this house and its inhabitants!"—It is easy to ima|gine what success this blessing, and the expectation of a different salutation from the lips of Elspy, had she been refused, produced from people naturally hospitable, and exceedingly attached to their nobility. She obtained by this method, victuals, cloaths, and very often money which she carefully put up to buy her mistress shoes and stock|ings; and these, when half worn out, served afterwards for herself.

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

The report of so much generosity in one so indigent, at last reached me who am the writer of this story, and I sent her, every quarter, such assistance as my fortune would allow. As long as Elspy lived, which was upwards of six years from the time of my first learning these particulars, whenever I sat down to dine or sup in company, and was required to give my toast, it was always Elspy Campbell. My attachment to this name generally made the company eager to know something of the lady who engrossed so great a share of my affection. They would consequently ask me, begging pardon for their freedom; when I told them, Elspy Campbe•• was an ancient beggar woman.— "What!" they would cry out, "a beggar!"—"Yes, but hear the rest;" and then would follow the whole story, such in substance as I have already told it. Hardly ever could I finish, but half-crowns and half-guineas rained

into my hat for Elspy. These small sums, which I was sure to send her pretty often, once occasioned her to ask my servant, "Who is it that sends you? Doubtless, he is a friend of God. He does me good as God does, though I never see him."

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

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

LETTER II.

From Catharine Wallace to George her brother.

Dearest Brother,

WHAT sorrowful tidings your letter brings me! Am I never more to see my dear friend Lawrence? Poor good man! he seemed to apprehend as much him|self, the day that I left you to come here. "It is very likely, dear Miss Kitty," said he, "you will never see me more, and therefore think of me at least." Alas! I have been thinking of him, and concluded how it would please him when he found that I had, on my return. I thought to knit him a stout pair of stockings for next winter's wear, and was at work upon them at the very moment that I received your letter, with intelligence that he was dead. The work fell from me. After I had picked it up, I shed a stood of tears. "They are not then for him," I cried. "Oh! yes, they shall be; for I will finish both, and put them in my drawers, that they may daily be a token of remembrance for him."—You do not tell

me in your letter if he often spoke about me. I am sure he did, but that you feared to aggravate my grief by say|ing so. I am greatly grieved that I was not present to attend upon him in his sickness, as I verily believe that the pleasure of our services would have prolonged his days. I think, you acted very properly in going to his burial. I acknowledge, had I been at home, I should not have possessed a heart to do so; but am therefore more affected at your strength of mind and friendship.

In the sorrow caused me by your letter, it was impossible for me to read the history of Elspy Campbell without shedding tears. I thank you for it, and am thoroughly convinced, as you are, that our friend Lawrence would have done the same for us, had we been in the place of Mrs. Macdowell. I imagine it is the fault of masters, if the major part of servants are not Lawrences and Elspies. They address them frequently so roughly, how can they suppose their servants should do any thing but fear them? Since by accidental circumstances they are placed in an inferior rank, is it humanity to tread them under foot? or rather, is it not our duty to afford such tokens of affec|tion as may raise them in their own esteem, and gain us their attachment? People seek to make themselves re|spected by their countrymen and neighbours: why not then do more, and seek to be respected in their families, by those who are present with them every moment of the day? Why not look upon them as a second class of chil|dren? Are there even many masters who would do, to benefit the dearest friend they are possessed of, what the generous Elspy did in favour of her mistress?—When my uncle had perused your letter, he informed me that a so|ciety of gentlemen in France had very lately recompensed a conduct just like Elspy's. I am glad to hear that it meets with imitation. It must certainly shew masters the necessity of being kind and courteous to their servants, since it 〈◊〉〈◊〉 them that, in spite of present fortune, they may come to want their succour one day or another; nor can servants hear of such a conduct, and not feel a species of encouragement to serve their masters with fidelity and diligence. I think, if ever we keep house, we shall be able, like papa, to fill it with such people as will serve us with their hearts no less than with their hands.

This week has been a very sad one for your poor sister. Yesterday my uncle took me out a walking with him in the country, to divert my sorrow. Suddenly we heard a drum strike up: we hastened to the spot. It was for se|veral new recruits that had been levied and were going then to join their regiments. There were mixed among the soldiers many country-women who no doubt had chil|dren, if not husbands too, amongst the party; for they did nothing but embrace and kiss each other, and shed tears. When we had looked a little at this multitude, a woman dressed in mourning, of a very decent and respect|able appearance, drew our observation. She was taking leave of a young man who bit his lips to keep from crying. She gave him a bottle, which my uncle said was brandy, and a little piece of canvas that had something wrapped up in it. He accepted one, but would not take the other, though she pressed him very earnestly. My uncle upon this drew near, and said, Is that your son there, my good woman? Yes, says she, my only son, sir, and the would has not a better. My poor husband died ten months ag••, and left me with three little girls besides, the eldest not quite five years old. Our last bad harvest made him 〈◊〉〈◊〉 five pounds in debt. When he was dead, the creditors came on me, and I thought would take away my little field which is all that we have for our support. This re|cruiting party then were with us, and a wealthy farmer's son had some how or another been drawn in to enlist. He made it known about the country, that if any one would take his place, he should receive four pounds. My son applied, and said, that for five guineas he would be his man, which was at last agreed to. Of this I did not know a word until every thing was settled; otherwise I should have begged my son to leave his sisters and myself to want a little for the present, rather than deprive me of his help, he being every thing imaginable to us, and the only friend that we have. I thought I should have swooned when he presented me the guineas which he had just received for enlisting. I applied to the recruiting ser|jeant to break off the bargain, but he would not lend an ear to any thing that I said. My son endeavoured to console me every way in his power, by saying that my little field was now set free, and therefore would pre|serve the children and myself from real want. Be comfort|ed,

said he; I shall be quartered in the neighbourhood a little longer, so that every evening, when our exercise is over, I can come and work a little for you; and at worst my time of service is not longer than three years, and I shall then have my discharge.—Alas! cried she, when every thing was going on so well, I did not doubt of being able soon to pay my debts; and he must leave me now! Perhaps the war will come again, and I shall never see him more.

My uncle asked her what it was that she would have given him in the piece of canvas. She replied, it was a guinea which had been paid her, not a week before, by a ••ady for the weaning of her child. It was all the money, added she, that I have on earth, and I designed to keep it for some great emergency. I only wish that he would have taken it, but should have known him better. He would never rob me, as he said, no, not accept of any thing, when he had all day long been labouring for me; on the contrary, he used to give me what he earned among the 〈◊〉〈◊〉 for his work. My uncle took down her direction, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 to do whatever he was able for her. She ap|peared extremely sensible of such a kindness, and her 〈◊〉〈◊〉 lity affected me as much, for twenty times I was in tears while she stood uttering her complaint; and yet I think, that I pitied the poor young man still much more. It was very easy to discern the violence that he did him|self, to hide his sorrow from his mother and companions, notwithstanding there was nothing in that sorrow that he had any need to blush at. His poor mother wished to go a little further with him; but, as soon as ever the drum struck up, she fell into a swoon. We brought her home, and tried all methods to console her: I, by gentle language, and my uncle by promises of kind|ness.

Hear me, my good brother, while I tell you an idea that has just now struck me. From the loss of Lawrence, we can tell how wretched they must be who are divided from the object of their love. The mother suffers surely more than we, as having lost much more than we who do but mourn a friend. We cannot bring poor Lawrence back to life, but may restore at least a son to his afflicted mother. I have done some needle-work to please my uncle, which he means to recompense by giving me an

elegant new gown. I will have the gown in ready money. And do you, on your side, use the greatest expedition to complete the drawing that my papa has ordered. I am sure, he will pay you very generously for it. We will then unite our little stock, and purchase the young soldier his discharge, thus shewing our regard to the memory of old Lawrence: so that, if mankind are to be recompensed in future for the good that they do in this life, this kind action will be put to his account, who was the cause there|of, and he will know that we love him still as much as ever. I shall set out this day se'nnight to come home, when we will settle the affair together, and desire papa to execute it. He will certainly be glad to serve us, and this hope is much the sweetest that I can taste, till I have once again the joy of seeng you. Farewel! I am rejoiced that I can on my part contribute the renewed friendship of which you speak, and which will last as long as I have breath.

Yours, CATHARINE WALLACE.

FIDELE, LETTER I.

From Dormer Lennox to Jessica his sister.

Dear Sister,

I Think, I see you put on an air of importance on re|ceiving a letter from me already, when I have hard|ly got a mile beyond the threshold of the door. However, be not very proud of such an honour, since I write it, in the first place, by command; as my papa imagines that if I start a correspondence and you second it, we shall ac|quire some ease in letter-writing, which he says can only be attained by practice, just like other arts; and in the next place, since I write not so much for your sake, as that of my canary-bird. When I set out, I quite forgot to re|commend him to your friendship; and I know of some

young ladies, who would have an object constantly before their eyes, and yet forget it i•• their memory should not be conti••ually interested by a compliment bestowed, at sea|son••le intervals, upon their vanity. Know then, that in the fulness of my power, I make you governess of Fi|dele, and grant you the entire controul of his houshold in future. Take the greatest care not to forget the duties of your office, if you would not have me take it from you. It is extremely proper that I should make in this place one or two sagacious observations; namely, that the bird can no more live on nothing than yourself; that if he does not eat and drink, he cannot live; that he will be inca|pable of singing, if he dies; and last of all, that if he ceases singing, neither you nor I can hear him, which would be a pity. I conceive it needful also to remind you of his service the other day, when you were making such sad work ••s you remember of your minuet, by moving to his music while your disregarded Mr. Dupré's kit. The little creature set up such a pipe, that Mr. Dupré turned his anger all on him, forgetting what your giddy heels deserved. These reasons are, I think, sufficient to engage your friendship in behalf of Fidele: but still, if grati|tude and music have no manner of effect upon your marble heart, I have nothing out the thunder of my eloquence to move you.—Tremble therefore! Think him dead already. Yes, Jessica, dead! and then determine how you will be able to support so shocking an idea. Fancy that you be|hold him lying with his feet uppermost, his wings grown stiff, his eyes and little beak shut fast for ever. See him laid upon his back within the little box that you intend for his coffin, and surrounded on every side with night|shade, vervain, cypress-branches and the weeping-willow. Every body mourns him. They enquire, what cruel hand has plunged him thu•• to eternal darkness. A lamenting voice makes answer, It was I, unfeeling as I am! and instantly you throw yourself beside him. But I think you weep. If so, let me cry, Victory! for I have nothing now to sear upon account of Fidele, or for the quiet of your shade. Besides his ordinary victuals, do not forget to let him have every day, a bit of biscuit or a lump of sugar. You will also do extrem 〈◊〉〈◊〉 well to shade his house with something green, as it would soften his affliction in my ab|sence. As I dare persuade myself that you will for my

sake worthily perform the duties of your charge, I pur|pose sending you, as some encouragement for all your zeal and industry, a faithful narrative of my extended travels. You will see adventures and atchievments in it, such as should be handed down to late posterity. Farewel, my dearest sister. I give up the playful stile, at least to tell you, as persuasively as I am able, how I love you, and with what affection I shall always be,

Your gentle brother, Dormer Lennox.

LETTER II.

From Jessica to Dormer.

Dear Brother,

TRULY one must have queer notions to suppose that a sister should be proud of hearing from her brother! I imagine, all the boasting should be rather upon your side in reflecting, that for once at least you have performed your duty, and not had your ears well pulled before-hand; though you lose all merit in the matter, by insinuating that you have written to me by papa's command, and for the sake of little Noisy. But indeed, you needed not have recommended Fidele so strongly to my care, or la|vished such a deal of rhetoric in his behalf. He is wor|thy of all my attention on his own account; so pray do not be uneasy lest I should not use him kindly. It is true, I shall not fill his trough till it runs over, after the example of some little boys that I know, who would not care a farthing should he burst, as certainly he would, were he as fond as they are of his belly. Very likely too they would make one think that they overload him thus with victuals purely through kindness, when they only do it, that they may not have so troublesome a task again upon their hands for ten or fifteen days to come. No, no; I will show myself much more regular in my attention to him, as he certainly shall have fresh victuals every mor|ning. Yesterday when I approached his cage to clean it, the first thing that I saw was seed sufficient to subtist him for a month, without including what was scattered on the bottom. To be sure, I must confess he is such a spend ••hrift,

that he scatters more about him in an hour, than would suffice him for a day. But how shall I describe the floor of his apart|ment? Thanks to your attention or your slothful waste, it was exactly like a pond, occasioned by continual overflow|ings from the fountain, and poor Fidele could not descend for fear of being drowned. How rejoiced he was to see the dry land! At first, he could not think of coming down, without precaution, as he tried it with one foot, while with the other he clung closely to the wire-work. Thus with|out the least expence have I enlarged his habitation; for he always kept upon the perches, fearing to dirt his feet and tail at least, if not, as I have said just now, to be drown|ed. I have strewed a layer of fine sand upon the bottom of his mansion, and adorned the sides and top with groundsel, so that now he may suppose himself within a shady grove. In future, brother, you may do as you think pro|per, but it is I that take upon me to provide for Fidele. I will have his palace serve you as a model of propri|ety and taste in your apartment. I have written now enough I think to quiet the uneasiness that you intimated in your letter; and must tell you that I have also my in|quietudes, which I proceed to mention. You are certain|ly a little giddy-headed, and we have here a sly black cat that comes a prowling daily. Take you care when you re|turn. I have observed that he has conceived a love for Fi|dele, sufficient to alarm one. Yesterday betimes, when I came in to give him food, I forgot to shut the door, and puss had crept in ••ly after me. When I had waited on the bird, and given him what he wanted, I begun to thumb your books, when suddenly I heard a tender mewing behind me: I turned instantly about, and saw Grimalkin wriggling his whole bo|dy every way upon a sofa, opposite the cage. He was ad|miring Fidele, he played his tail about, and seemed to say, "My dear, sweet pretty bird, come now and perch close by me; or else stay, I will jump upon your cage, for only see what nice soft paws I have to hug you! (but remark, he carefully concealed his claws.) I will fondle you all day, and press you to my tender heart. Do not let my whiskers frighten you: they are long enough, I must acknowledge, but wont hurt you. I have a little mouth beneath them, Fidele, with which I will kiss your pretty beak." Now what I do you imagine Fidele replied to these fine words?— Why nothing; but with ease one might discern that he

was not likely to become Grimalkin's dupe; and I suppose in pussey's place he would have been as great a rogue. Have you been his instructor, brother, after all?—He stooped and raised his head, he shook his feathers, and cast many a look of diffidence upon the orator, and of confidence on me, as if he would have said, "I know you very well. Your sugared words, your nice soft paws, and little mouth concealed beneath your whiskers, are no less perfidious than your tender heart. You may deceive perhaps a poor mouse: but me—Oh! no: I laugh at all your cunning, and defy your malice. I have here a friend to save me." Upon which he set a crying queek, queek, queek, with all his might. I under|stood him perfectly well; and without pretending that I heard any thing, I ran instantly to that part of the chamber, where there stood a cistern full of water, and besprinkled our young gentleman so finely, as to put out all at once the fervour of his friendship. For he needed but one jump to be upon the floor, and as he ran away, he shook his coat as if he had the ague. Recollect this observation, should he come incognito upon a visit, after you have returned.

This mealy-mouthed, good-natured animal, whom many in the world resemble, made me recollect an Ode our friend wrote, and which was lying in the paper-case. I send it you, that if you know of any good composer in your neighbourhood, you may prevail upon him for my sake to set it, as they say, to music.

ODE.

OF those folks with the sly hypocritical air, With manners so nice, And looks so precise, The sight I was never yet able to bear.

When I see them, I think of a cat on the watch: Near some high-season'd dish, Whether flem, fowl or fish, Where the scent is so sweet, He would venture his feet, And longs to be making a snatch.

With an innocent look, quite gentle and free, He'll jump on your knee, There waving his tail, he'll mew, and all that; And so fondly he'll pat, And appear so demure, That you'll think, to be sure No mischief can lurk in the heart of our cat.

At the favoury bit which already in fancy He has eaten up quite, You'll hardly perceive him to cast a sly glance; Yet look but askance, And at once to your tit-bit good night: For taking a spring at the morsel so nice, He makes sure of his prey, and then off in a trice, Heigh-presto! you'd swear it was all necromancy.

I wait with great impatience to receive the narrative that you promise of your travels, which must needs be very curious. I shall go and dine to-morrow in the country with mama. If any thing should happen of an interesting nature on the road, I pledge myself to give you a relation of it. Since you mean a visit to posterity, I shall be charmed to share with you in the praise of our descen|dants. In the interval, I wish to have it known that you never will possess a truer friend in any one than in your sister,

Jessica Lennox.

LETTER III.

From Dormer to Jessica.

Dear Sister,

I return you my sincerest thanks for the delightful letter that you have sent me to dispel my fears. The scene be|tween my Fidele and your black cat, with their imaginary conversation, could not but amuse me greatly. I allow Grimalkin's elequent harangue to be very clever; but the other's queek, queek, queek, much more so, since it ended in the ad••er••'s ab••late defeat, through your incompa|rable courage; and for which you ought to have a cistern

full of water in your escutcheon, when the herald makes you out your arms.

I have been hard at work these three days on the jour|nal of my travels, which I promised to send you, as a recompence for your care of Fidele. Papa approves the thought of our communicating our adventures thus to one another. His opinion, as I have already told you, is that by this sort of correspondence we shall acquire a habit of inditing with facility, and properly reflecting on such objects as may strike our sight. As much as I have written, he informs me, seems to have been done with accuracy, and desires to read the account that you have promised of your dinner in the country with mama. Fre|deric and Louisa certainly were of the party: Oh, how much impertinence must of necessity have passed between you! but indeed, though you should tell me only of your own, I know, you have a stock in hand sufficient to supply a chapter, and that chapter not the shortest that was ever written. To encourage you in sending me this chapter with the greatest expedition, I shall be myself as quick as possible in the collation of the several parcels of my narra|tive, inscribed on more than twenty scraps of paper. You will have it in a week or thereabouts. Adieu: I clasp you in the mean time to my heart, and am as long as I have life,

Your brother, and your friend, Dormer Lennox.

LETTER IV.

From Jessica to Dormer.

Dear Brother,

WHAT can you be thinking of, to let me wait so long before I see the journal of your expedition? Are you gone, like Gulliver, to some unknown strange island, for the sake of having such atchievements to record, as no one will be authorized to contradict? I cannot but admire the great exactitude and order on which you pride yourself so much, in the mention of your twenty scraps of paper,

scattered up and down, no doubt in every corner of your chamber. It will be fortunate however, if the little cat belonging to your habitation does not please herself by playing with the best part of your narrative. I should not be astonished, were I to discover many chasms in it, or perceive that you had begun with the conclusion, and affixed the fag-end, as we say, where the commencement should be, which would prove at least as entertaining as the chapter stuffed with my impertinences. I cannot tell at present, if the cistern-full of water would look well in my escutcheon: but suppose that your sybill's leaves would make a special coat of arms for you. Since my papa desires to see my narrative, I shall make h••ste to send it in a day or two; but hope that the intervening time will bring me yours; for I should really be sorry to postpone my great adventures till the Grecian Calends, which, as I have somewhere read, means just the same as if I should omit relating them for ever. Pray embrace papa on my account, as tenderly as you are able, and desire him to return you as affectionately as he is able, all the kisses that you have given him for

Your sister and your friend, Jessica Lennox.

P. S. Inclosed you have my Journal.

Journal of my Travels.

ONE has no occasion to go over so much ground as you have travelled, to be able to supply the reader with adventures. We had hardly passed the second turnpike on the Clapham road, before we fell in with a drover, who was bringing up about a hundred sheep to London. As our coachman thought his honour concerned in not permitting such a scrabby drove of cattle to usurp the road and make him quit his track, he drove the carriage through them. The poor sheep, who are accounted to have honest hearts, but we••k intellects, not knowing whither they should run, in their confusion got between the horses legs; and some were even entangled in the spokes. The drover bid the coachman stop, as loud as he

could roar; but the coachman, deaf to his vociferations, would not in the least relax his speed, and still continued on the trot. The wind was rather fresh, and therefore we had all the glasses up. My brother Frederic wished to know by what means the poor sheep would free themselves from their embarrassment. Unfortunately, he forgot that if he wished to look about him, it was necessary first of all to let the glass down, and of course he thrust his head quite through and through the brittle crystal, which that moment broke into a thousand pieces. You may judge with what alacrity he drew his head in once again; but in so doing, he was slightly wounded in his forehead by a piece of the broken glass. He put his hand directly on the part, and so contrived, as with the little blood pro|ceeding from the scratch, to smear his face all over com|pletely, and looked exactly like the Jolly Bacchus, at the alehouse opposite our door. Louisa, at this sight, was sure that her brother must have had his nose cut off, and did not doubt but it had dropped among the sheep; on which the tender-hearted little thing began to cry, Fre|deric! ah my poor dear brother! till mama had, with a little scented water which she poured upon her handker|chief, wiped his face clean, and given it once more that sly look which you know it possesses. Well, dear brother, what are your ideas? I, for my part, fancy that you do not engross all the giddiness belonging to our family, and already little Frederic gives full proof that he is not a jot less giddy than his elder brother.

Nothing worth mention happened after this event, till we arrived at Margaret's, our dear nurse, with whom we were to dine and stay till evening. After having all of us received her kind embraces, we went through the house, and into the fields, where we proposed to take a walk. By accident, I was a little distant from the rest; and as I passed along a hedge, observed three little birds that had been taken by the leg in a perfidious springe. The pretty creatures flapped their wings most lamentably, and implored me, or at least I thought so, to set them free. You may suppose, I did not show myself insensible to their petition. Instantly I broke their bonds, and had the pleasure to behold how grateful they appeared; for I could fancy gratitude in all their motions, as they flew away. This pity that I had shown them did not please a

little country boy who lived hard by, and had established very greedy hopes upon the sale of these three prisoners; so that their deliverance, as I mean to let you see, and shortly, but for accidental circumstances, might have cost us dear.

The sun towards noon had dissipated all the mists. The day was so delightful, that mama desired we might enjoy the pleasure of a rural meal, and therefore requested Mar|garet to let us have our dinner in the garden. After din|ner, we had strawberries and cream; and at the very moment when poor Frederic with the freedom which country manners allow, happened to be lifting up the platter to his mouth, that he might save himself the trou|ble of dispatching matters with the spoon, a stone (behold ye) struck it right upon the rim, and overset its whose contents upon the table, not without first plentifully be|sprinkling several of us round about. You should have seen us in the height of our confusion, palpitating as we sat with fright, as if we had imagined that Jupiter was flinging down his thunderbolts among us. Margaret's husband, who is not a man to swoon away at every noise, that moment posted towards the garden door, to catch this thundering deity, who was certainly the little peasant that had set the springes. But the deity, like those men|tioned in Homer, who amused themselves at the expence of mortals, had already made himself invisible. It was all lost labour that our host stood sentry at the door. He only saved us from the danger of another thunderbolt, which might have otherwise been pointed at us.

Dinner was now over, and I thought of paying one more visit to the neighbouring hedges, and delivering, if I could, some other prisoners, when mama informed us that we must think of setting out on our return. We en|tered the coach once more with some reluctance, after having made dear Margaret our little presents each. There never sure had been a finer evening. From a hill, upon the top of which our coachman stopped to give his horses breath, we had the pleasure to behold a spacious horizon aderned with clouds of every colour, and set off with gold. The sun, that as I thought rejoiced in having access to us given him by Frederic, coloured, out of gratitude, Lou|isa's face and his with all the purple of his rays. Our cousin, who you know has been abroad, at such a sight

turned round, and told mama that they looked exactly like the cherubims that Roman Catholics are used to place for ornament about the altars in their churches.

The poor sheep that we met in the morning, certainly must have alarmed their comrades, and gone off, as we encountered none on our return. We met no sort of company but half a dozen asses who had certainly a very reverend figure, and a mule or two. Our horses, who, I fancy, thought they could discern a family resemblance in these last, were giving up the right-hand side of the road, and complimenting them with fifty gambols and curvets; but our proud coachman would preserve the honour of his seat, and feelingly convinced them with his whip, that they were creatures of much more importance; and that ranking as they did above them in all books of natural history, it was but just they should preserve it on the road. They were obliged to yield assent to arguments so striking, and got home in perfect order, and without another mis|adventure.

LETTER V.

IT is not in the least degree astonishing, my dear sister, that you should come off so easily in the recital of a journay, which has brought you into company with none but short horned, or long eared animals; a giddy boy that breaks window glasses; or a little raggamussin that pelts you with stones. If such affairs you call adventures, I can hardly guess what name you can find out magnisicent enough for mine. And after having told you what has happened to me in the compass of a single parish, you may easily ima|gine what surprising matters I should have to tell you in a longer journey. I begin to think that at the period of Knight Errantry, I should have made a pretty figure, and particularly if I myself sung the great atchievements that I should perform; which trust me I would do, lest any one, who might be tempted to record them, should not do it to my l••king.

Inclosed therefore, I send you a small specimen of my abilities as a journalist. I submit it to your censure, or to mend the expression, recommend you to peruse it with your greatest possible attention; otherwise 'tis not unlikely but you will miss of some among its singular and striking beauties.

Yours Dormer.

Journal of my Travels.

WE rolled along in silence for the space of twenty minutes in our carriage, with no less velocity than the clouds above our heads. I blessed the memory of him who first of all invented this delightful way of travelling without pain or trouble; and shall always think it charm|ing, till some other person brings the project to perfection of transporting us still more delightfully, by means of a ballcon, with eagles to direct it.

I was meditating on this subject, when of a sudden I perceived the coachman violently exercised at something or another. His great coat had slipped from off his seat on one of the front wheels, which carried it about the center. After many revolutions, he had made shift to fasten on a sleeve, which he was pulling to him, and eja|culating as he tugged, My coat! my coat! I thrust my head out hastily to see what ailed him, when my hat blew off; so I joined in concert with the coachman, and cried out as lust••ly, My hat! my hat! Poor Jeffry, from his station in the rear, stood witness to my lamentations, and leaned over towards me, when, behold ye! the furred cap that he wears, fell off. He did not imitate us, crying out, My cap! my cap! but aiming to recover it when falling, somehow or another lost his footing, and came down the nearest way head-foremost. Happily for Jeffry we were going through a very soft quagmire, otherwise I cannot pretend to tell you what misfortune would have befel his limbs; at least, I am sure, his nose and chin would have been both demolished, as he fell into the quagmire belly downwards. All this happened in a mi|nute. My papa, in this confusion, was the only person who retained his senses. He let down the glass in front, and seizing on the coachman's reins, which now were fallen from him, stopped the horses. Upon this, the coachman getting down, made shift to free his coat. But what long faces did he make, when he saw in the middle of the back a monstrous rent, through which a judge might easily have thrust his head, and not disordered his huge wig. On his side, Jeffry, as I saw, had got his mouth so filled with mud, that he could not for a time bring out a single syllable. O sister! had you seen him

thus beplaistered as he was, affect a grin, in order to show papa that his fall had broke no bones, I am sure, you would have laughed for a month to come, at recollecting his appearance. He did nothing in the world but sneeze, and sputter, shake himself, and rub his knees and elbows with both hands: his coat, which had been green, no longer now preserved that colour any where, except be|hind. In short, he looked as if he was drest for a masquerade.

He went a little back to seek his fox-skin cap. By great good luck, the maker had not taken off the crea|ture's tail, but left it on to serve by way of plume. By that, it was discovered in the quagmire, and by that fished up. When he had got it out, he was obliged to wring it twenty times, before it was in a state for travelling, even under Jeffry's arm. He also picked up my hat, but not before the wind had made it cut a hundred capers this and that way in the air. It lost however nothing by so many somersets; on the contrary, it got a comfortable coat, which, though all the brushes of the house have frequently been exercised upon it, nevertheless it still retains, and seems determined to retain, in spite of their beards.

After we were once again prepared for motion forward, and affairs about us in their former order, we proceeded to philosophize upon these accidents: but after having tried to do so in a very serious strain, we fancied the best method was to take the affair more gaily. My papa drew consolation from his purse to give the coachman; and on my side, as I observed Jeffry in pain about his fur-cap only, since the livery was his master's property, I tipped him such a wink as restored him to a better temper. After which, we all went forward, just as if no accident had happened.

We were now come near a village, when papa discerned an ancient soldier seated on a stone beside the road. One leg was under him, bent backward, and the other, a wooden one, stuck out stiff before him. A long crutch lay quietly upon his left, and on his right-hand sat a great black dog. Papa, who loves a soldier, and parti|cularly when that soldier is a cripple, courteously saluted him, and bade me fling a shilling to him, which he gave me. I fulfilled so honourable a commission in a very dexterous manner, I may say without the least degree of

ostentation, as I did not miss the hat. The soldier's gra|titude was uttered in so high a pitch, that it sufficed to wake a sorry beggar-woman, who lay sleeping not far off upon a little straw. She trotted after us, and reached the carriage just as we were ready to alight and put up at an inn. "Ah, sir!" said she to my papa, "how you bestow your charity! and if you give it to an old drunkeu fellow, what assistance will you afford an honest woman, as I am, who have not swallowed these ten years a glass of any liquor stronger than small beer?"—Papa, whose mind was occupied on many subjects at that instant, was not thinking of the invalid, and viewed her with a visible astonishment. "Yes, yes, sir," continued she, "it is of that drunken soldier I am speaking. Oh! I heard how much he thanked you for the shilling which, it seems, you threw him by this little gentleman. I would lay a wager, that, before night comes, he will have spent it all in gin. And then, sir, did not you remark the great black dog beside him as he sat? A beggar keep a dog! What is that but robbing other people who deserve assistance?"—"Hold your tongue!" said my papa, and seemed quite angry. "Why abuse a man at this rate, who has no less need than you of my compassion? If he drinks a little gin, I can forgive an ancient soldier such a fault. While we are seated at our ease before a good fire, and even you are not without so great a comfort, soldiers must endure the wind, snow, rain, and every rigour of cold winter. Where can be the wonder then, if they should have re|course to what is sure to warm them, and in time become accustomed to it? And respecting his great dog, perhaps that animal may be the only friend that he has, his tried associate, and the single creature who partakes of his bad days."—When he had said these words, he held out two|pence, without looking at her. She received them with a kind of soorn, and went off grumbling all the way, as long as we could hear her speak. The ill-natured wretch had made me angry. "I am very sorry, sir," said I, "that you gave her any thing. She must be sure a very horrid creature to abuse a poor old soldier, and be envious of the alms that you gave him."—"You are in the right," replied my father. "He who wishes to excite my pity, to another's detriment, deserves my indignation only. Yet I saw that she was in want, and only upon that ac|count

forgot her evil disposition. It is punishment enough that she is reduced to beg. Had she but kept her tongue in bounds, I would have given her what the soldier had."

While we were thus discoursing with each other, our host had shown us up into a room, of which one window opened towards the road that we had been travelling, and another towards a yard behind the house. While they were getting dinner ready, I stood looking out, to mark the carriages that were continually going by; and what can you imagine, sister, I beheld, when I had hardly been a minute there?—the beggar-woman, who was now come back, and had by ••ime set herself upon a block beside the gate-way. She p••d out a little flasket full of brandy from her pocket, and began to give a hearty pull. I called out to papa, ••nd bade him come and see. He told me not to speak, lest we should be overheard. We both looked at her, and soon saw the soldier likewise coming down the road, supported by his crutch, and fol|lowed by the great black dog. As soon as the old woman saw him hasting towards her, she put up her flasket with the greatest haste into her pocket. We were both of us the greatest haste into her pocket. We were both of us curious to overhear their conversation. "Mother," said the soldier, who was now come pretty near her, "do you mean to take a lodging here, and have no dinner? You are not hungry, I suppose."—"Heaven help me!" said the hypocrite, and made as if she wept. "I assure you, my good friend, I do not want for an appetite: if I could but come at something good to eat, I should not much mind what it was."—"If that be all," replied the gene|rous soldier, "I have sufficient for us both." On this he sat down by her, slipped a knapsack from his shoulder, and took out a lump of coarse brown bread, together with a slice of cheese wrapt up in paper, which he held out to the woman, saying, "There, good woman, help your|self." She did, and pretty plentifully. He put up with what was left, though but a trifle; and of this, for every bit that he ate himself, the large black dog had likewise his share, who had assumed his place behind, and all the while was resting in a very friendly way his head upon his master's shoulder.

During their repast, the hypocritical old woman turned her conversation on the unfeelingness of travellers; adding that the gentleman, who had but just before alighted from

his carriage and put up for dinner at the inn before them, gave her only a poor halfpenny. "That cannot be true," replied the honest-hearted soldier. "He must be a noble gentleman; or certainly he had no money in his purse but gold, which could not easily be changed. See, what he threw me by the little gentleman his son—a shilling! It is not always that pieces of this weight of metal tumble into my hat. But do not you fret yourself, for you shall be the better for my luck. I cannot be happy by myself. A good repast requires good liquor, and I have not had a drop within my lips to-day, although it is very late. The truth is, my poor money bag was so consumptive, that I could easily have passed it through a needle's eye this morning; but thank heaven, at present it is quite plump and jolly, so that I can well afford to lay out six|pence for us both. Come, good mother, let me have your hand."

Saying thus, he rose much in spirits, and quite jovial. The old woman took upon her the attendant's part, and officiously held him out his crutch, caressing now and then the dog. I could have found it in my heart to beat the wretch for this dissembled friendship. They walked up together to the house, and entered at the gate-way; while on our part, we above stairs shifted ground, and hastened towards the other window which looked out into the yard. We heard the soldier call for a gill of brandy with two little glasses, one of which he filled and gave the woman, who made haste and swallowed it immediately. Papa could not restrain his indignation any longer. "Out on such a hateful creature!" cried he.—They both lifted up their heads. The woman recollecting us, that moment gave a shriek; but, on the contrary, the soldier was not discon|certed. "See," said he, "good sir, how we are making merry through your bounty. Let me drink your health," continued he, and took his hat off, "with the gentleman your son's. I never forget any one, however little, that is but generously disposed."—"Much good may the liquor do you, my worthy fellow," answered my papa. "I like your spirit. However poor you are, you can oblige; so here is a trifle more to strengthen your remembrance of us," throwing him a half-crown piece. "But as for all those wretches that can first abuse an honest fellow, and then drink his liquor just as if it were their own"—

The wretch would hear no more, hung down her head, and in confusion sneaked away.

While we were both at dinner, the landlord informed us that the honest soldier, whose name was Trim, had been a long while in the service; that he had not quitted it before he lost his leg, and had the friendship and esteem of all his officers. "It is he," continued the host, "who keeps up peace and order in the village, since his soldier|like appearance awes the vagabonds about us. Every body would be glad to give him victuals, if he would but take their bounty; but he never will accept of any thing that he has not earned by some good service or another, as by going upon errands, which he does with no less expedition than fidelity. I should have put him in a pas|sion, had I even refused to take his money for the gill of brandy. He asserts that I ought to live by what I get in trade, whoever are my customers; and says that, if I gave him any thing, I should be then obliged to charge it elsewhere, which would be unjust. As regularly as the morning comes, he goes out loaded with a basket full of flints upon his shoulder, and fills up the holes that have been made the day before along the road. You must have noticed in what admirable order it appeared. He never asks for any thing; but there is scarce a traveller accus|tomed to the road who does not throw him something as he passes by. He takes it without any hesitation, as he thinks that he has deserved it. This is his employ all summer; and in winter, when the weather is at the coldest, he fills up his time in making children's wooden clog••, for which he takes up his seat in my kitchen chimney. He generously gives these clogs to those whose parents are so poor that they cannot pay his price, lest they should happen to catch cold. The only recompense that he asks of them for this trouble, is to see them dance before him."

Well, sister, what are your thoughts of this good|hearted Trim? This last particular in his story gave me so much pleasure, that I ordered a pair immediately for you, which I shall take when I return. As you are far too generous, and besides too di••nt to discharge the value of the clogs in capers, I have engaged myself, as you would do, to pay him for them in hard money. I design to give him half-a-crown, and then the clogs will

be much worthier of you. They will not be useless, if you mean to run about at any time next winter in the garden.

If I did not apprehend that my journal had already tired your patience, I should have a great deal more to mention. I would tell you how, as we were going on, I terminated an important matter in a way which Don Quixote, celebrated as he was for bravery, would never have thought of. You will suppose, perhaps, that after such a preface, there was an inchanter, or at least a giant in the case, or some illustrious princess to deliver, or some great kingdom to be recovered by conquest. It was no|thing of all this. It was no other than a little girl who was tending a cow, and a boy engaged in the same office with an ass, who were struggling with each other for an apple which the former had found. After having very gravely taken all the necessary information of their quar|rel, I took up, as you may guess, the weaker party, and defended her, but not in more than words, since fortu|nately for the stronger, I had neither lance nor shield; or rather, to confess a truth, because, even though I had, he was of a size to thrash my knighthood soundly. I per|ceived immediately that the moderation of a Solomon or a Titus suited much better with my inferiority of size, and therefore I adjusted the affair in contest to the satisfac|tion of both combatants, by sharing equally between them the remainder of that tart which you know the cook had made me, that I might not faint with hunger by the way.

I might go on, and tell you of the pitiable fortune of a hare that we saw running across the country, followed by a pack of hounds and huntsmen. The poor creature, after having often thrown them out, as is the phrase with sportsmen, by her doublings on the open plain, had crimbed a pointed rock. A furious dog perceived her in this last retreat, and had the audacity to force her. I beheld them both roll down the precipice together, mi|serably mangled.—But this picture is much too cruel: is it not Jessica?—Let me therefore touch on themes more p••ing, and inform you of the joy that our unexpected coming here gave every one belonging to the house. If your dry jokes had not for ever undeceived me on the subject of my own exclusive merit, I should think myself a cleverer fellow, from the hearty welcome that we re|ceived. It is much more modest in me to suppose myself

indebted for that welcome to the recollection of your visit here, which they have cherished ever since last year. I do suppose it, and place all my boast in thanking you for having laid the ground-work of the entertainment that I am now experiencing.

And thus, dear sister, I have sent you a recital of my wonderful adventures, which perhaps you will think too tedious. The most perilous of every circumstance attend|ing them was, when, to give you some amusement, I en|gaged to put them down in black and white. I thought that I never should have come to the conclusion of my task. I will not boast of any merit in the execution of my great undertaking, and yet I please myself with thinking that you will owe my kindness something, when you come to be acquainted that at present they have been ringing for me these ten minutes to come down and eat some fritters which are growing cold, while I myself am hard at work in winding up my letter. I can hardly fancy that the heroism of fraternal love ever yet went much farther than I have pushed it in this single instance for your sake.

Adieu, dear sister! I will divert myself as much as pos|sible for your sake rather than my own, that at the time of my return I may present myself before you so much the more merry-hearted. I cannot tell what you may think of this; but I, for my part, think that you should look upon it as a proof of the tenderness of that attachment with which I am, dear sister, yours,

Dormer Lennox.

LETTER VI.

From Jessica to Dormer.

Dear brother,

I HAVE often heard that nothing forms the understand|ing so effectually as travelling, and your narrative supplies me with a proof of the assertion which I did not in the least expect; for who would ever think that such a little animal as you should think of being a philosopher for having travelled eighteen miles? You told me, in your first epistle, that you designed the Journal of your Travels for posterity. Whenever, therefore, you think fit to send it as directed, I will take upon me to comp••ete such sketches as are fit to bear it company, which I will get corrected by my drawing-master. For example, our solemn coach|man, who, without once changing place, gets hold of his

great coat, and lugs it by the sleeve; poor Jeffry rising solemnly and slowly from his quagmire; and my giddy|headed brother quite uncovered at the chariot-door, and with his eyes pursuing the poor hat in all its evolutions. Here are three droll figures; while papa, still faithful to his character for prudence, shall be represented as in con|trast, seizing on the coachman's reins to stop his horses. You do not think that I shall forget the ancient soldier and old woman dining on the block. Oh! how I shall strive to set off to the best advantage honest Trim, together with his great black dog that ate so amicably, leaning on his shoulder. Finally, I will terminate my gallery with the scene betwixt your girl with the cow and your boy tending the ass, not forgetting to d••scribe you as you represent yourself, considering gravely of their quarrel, and accom|modating matters with the fragments of an apple-tart. It is true, I shall not write at the top the name of either Solomon or Titus, which your usual modesty, without the least demur, lays claim to. I have thought of one more proper, namely, Sancho Panca, as I hardly ever knew, in all my life, a person of more understanding.

I suppose, you will not wish to be behind-hand with me; therefore I give up the account of my adventures to you, in perusing which you will with ease suggest sufficient subjects to your own imagination for a set of pictures no less inte|resting, I believe, than those which, from perusing your atchievements, I have suggested, as you see, to mine.

I had nearly forgot to return you my thanks for ordering me the pair of clogs. My purse will not allow me to repay you the immense expence of so magnificent a present; therefore you will let me satisfy you for it as the little children pay Trim. I am learning a new caper for that purpose.—I am infinitely touched at your superior genero|sity, in letting pass no opportunities of recreation, for my sake; and beg you to believe that my sensibility will na|turally bid me do the like.

Adieu, my dear Dorme•• As I take it, we are a match for one another in joking. I only wish to go beyond you in the boast of tender friendship, as becomes

Your sister and your friend, Jessica Lennox.

FINIS.