The unkind word, and other stories. By the author of "John Halifax, gentleman", etc., etc.

A CHILD'S LIFE.
SIXTY YEARS AGO.
T ATELY, taking a leisurely stroll through one of the
quaint old streets of Bristol city, Temple Street I believe it was, I came upon an ancient book-shop. Can any
body resist the fascination of an old book-shop? I own I
can not. Many a valuable minute have I wasted in peering into those forlorn relies of gone-by literature, which
lean imploringly against the window-panes, title-page and
frontispiece outspread to invite public gaze-that remorseless public which has long since forgotten both. I stopped now. I happened to be writing a book myself, which,
perhaps, made me more tender-hearted. I paused to consider whether it too-my magnunm opus- might not one
day swell these pathetic ranks. Ah, my brethren! defunct
authors! in a few years more, the same epitaph will be
written over us and you-your books and ours-cabierunt
ad majores.
Being in this frame of mind, it was not surprising that
one of the books in the window should especially catch
my eye. Its title ran thus: "A Father's Memoirs of his
Child. By Benj. IHeath Malkin, Esquire, M.A., F.A.S."
And below was a motto from Sir Philip Sidney's "Astrophel:"
"Great loss to all that ever did him see:
Great loss to all-but greatest loss to me."
Its publishers were the immemorial "Longman, Hurst,
Rees, and Orme," and the date was 1806. The frontispiece was a miniature of a sweet childish face, and round
it a fanciful design of the said child bidding adieu to a
kneeling mother, and sailing away upward clasping an
angel's hand. The drawing and engraving were good
enough to attract me even before I noticed at the foot,