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T H E 
 
 CHILDREN'S FRIEND. 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE 
 
 FRENCH OF M. BERQ^UINi 
 
 COMPLETE 
 
 IN FOUR VOLUMES, 
 
 ORNAMENTED WITH FRONTIS PIECE S» . 
 
 A NEW CORRECTRD EDITION 5 
 WITH ADDITIONS. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 t'RlJ^TED FOR J. STOCKDALE, PICCADILLY 5 
 J.RIVINGTON AND SONS, ST . P AU l's C HU R C K - Y A R D J 
 B. LAW, AVE-MARIA-LANE ; J.JOHNSON, ST. PAUL'S 
 CHURCH-YARD; C. DILLY, POULTRY; J.MURRAY, 
 FLEET-STREET; J. SEWELL, CORNHILLJ A N I) \Y« 
 CREECHj EDINBURGH. 
 
 M.DCC.LXXXVIir. 
 

 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 THIS Work, upon its firfl: Appearance in 
 the Englifh Language, having met with 
 the moft favourable Reception, and been uni- 
 verfally approved as one of the properefl Books 
 that could be put into the Hands ^fChildreni 
 the Publilher has been induced to bring for- 
 ward a Second Edition of it, but in a State 
 confiderably improved ; for befides the Infec- 
 tion of many original Pieces not to be found 
 in the former Edition, the prefent has been 
 corre<5ted throughout with the moft fcriipulous 
 Regard toExprefTion and Uniformity, and may 
 therefore be looked upon as almoft entirely a 
 new Tranflation. 
 
 A 2 
 
PREFACE 
 
 O F T H E 
 
 TRANSLATOR, 
 
 TUIOUGH the TaffC of writing to improve the 
 iMinds of Children may be lefs produdive of 
 iiterary Fame than many other Studies, yet ia 
 its real Importance and Utility, it yields to none, even 
 of the fublimefl Speculations. To imprefs the Infant 
 Ivlind with a Love of Decency and Virtue, to fortify 
 it againft the Influence of Prejudice and Corruption, 
 and at once to gratify the Curiofity and improve the 
 Rcafon, is ah" Undertaking which would .-not difgrace 
 t-he mpfi; enlightened Underftanding. If the Eye of 
 the Philofopher can be gratified in merely tracing the 
 Progrefs of organized Bodies, from their earlieft Pe- 
 riods of Exifience, to perfc6l Maturity, hov/ much 
 greater mufl be the Pleafure of confidering the fuc- 
 ccilive Dt'velopinent of the nobleil Work of Provi- 
 dence, the human Mind ! A common Eye, indeed, 
 may view with Indifference the Sports and Agitations 
 of Children j their Joys, their Griefs, their Paflions 
 and their Hopes, may appear too trivial to engage its 
 Attention ; not fo the Man vvhofe Feeling renders 
 him alive to all the Intcrefls of the Species, whofe 
 I Penetratioa 
 
PREFACE OF THE TRANSLATOR. v 
 
 Penetration enables him to forefee the mighty Revolu- 
 tions which may be produced by the Virtues or Vices 
 of an Individual. It v/as thus the philofophic Eye 
 remarked in the youthful Alexander that vaft Ambition 
 which was to ravage the Globe, and change the Fate 
 of Nations ', it was thus that Popedius Silo difcovered- 
 in the Infant Cato that Pcubborn and inflexible Virtue,, 
 which fo long oppofed the Tide of Caefar's FortUTiej, 
 and fupported the dying Liberties of Rome. 
 
 But if the fimple Confideration of future Greatnefs 
 ordiftinguifhed Virtue be thus agreeable to a cultiva- 
 ted Mind, how much more interefting muft be the 
 Spectacle, vjhtn v/e conficler ourfelves as conftituting 
 no trifling Part of the future Drama. In this Light 
 may every Man juiUy confider himfelf, who devotes 
 liis Talents and his Ailiduity to the Service of the 
 rifmg generation. How truly noble are thofe Exer- 
 tions which are thus diredted to the Service of human 
 Nature, in the Difcharge of the moft important^ 
 though lafl attractive Duties ; and which negleiling 
 Fame, can offer up Ambition itfelf, a voluntary Sa- 
 crifice to the Intereli; of Pofterity, 
 
 'J he Author of the prefent Work may defervedly 
 rank among the foremoit of this deferving Clafs.. His 
 Merit as a Writer is fo well eftablifned upon the Con- 
 tinent, and even in our own Country, that it is alm.cft 
 fuperfiuous to fay any Thing upon the Subject:. His 
 cafy and elegant Pen feems to be particularly adapted 
 to defcribe Nature in its moil beautiful Forms. The 
 lively Paffions, the volatile Tafles, the glov/ing Co- 
 lours, and the fportive Graces of blooming Infancy^ 
 A 3 aic 
 
vi PREFACE OF THE TRANSLATOR. 
 
 are all at his Command. But here, for once, the Copy 
 may be allowed to exceed the Original. His elegant 
 Pencil feems to have given a Confiflency and Perma- 
 jiency which Nature had denied. Under fuch a Mafter 
 riothing is cold or inanimate j the very Caprices and 
 Levities of Infancy become interefling Scenes, which 
 gradually warm the Heart, and captivate the Attention. 
 The lighter and more fportive Parts of his Work, ex- 
 hibit all the opening Graces of the young Thalia ; 
 ■while Melpomene herfelf blufhes with Aflonilhment to 
 find the variable Paflions and {hort-lived Diftrefles of 
 an Infaiit Theatre fo nearly refemble her ov/n, 
 
 V/e flatter ourfelves, therefore, that we fhall ofter 
 ro unacceptable Prefent to the Public, in giving a com- 
 plete Tranflation of all the Works of the admired M. 
 Derquin. As to the Accuracy of the Tranflation, it 
 becomes us to be filent ; nor do we pretend to any higher 
 Merit than that of being faithful Imitators of a great 
 Original, It will be a fufficient Reward for all our 
 Labours, if they tend to naturalize foexccllciit a W"^ork 
 in our own Country ; and if we can flatter ourfelves 
 with having thus contributed to fonn the Hearts, and 
 improve the Undcrftandings, of the rifing Generation. 
 
 Dec. 22, 1786. 
 
 THE 
 
THE 
 
 author's preface. 
 
 TH E following Work has a double Obje6l In 
 view, to amufe Children, and at the fanie Time 
 to incline them naturally to Virtue, by always 
 prefenting it to them under the moft amiable Form, 
 Inftead of thofe extravagant Fictions, thofe romantic 
 and marvellous Tales, which have fo long contributed 
 to lead the Tmr.ginations of Children aftray, we here 
 -exhibit to them only fuch Adventures as they may be 
 WitnefTes to in -private Life every Day. The Senti- 
 ments with which the Author endeavours to infpire 
 them are not above their Capacities, and he reprefents 
 them accompanied only by their Equals, their r'arents, 
 their Play-feliows, the Servants who are always about 
 them, and the Animals familiar to their View. They 
 exprefs themfelves in their own native Simplicity of 
 Language, and in Proportion as they are afreiSted by 
 the Incidents defcribed, they indulge the free Move- 
 ment of their little Paflions, Their Punishments are 
 made the Confequences of their ov^^n proper Faults, and 
 their Rewards confifl In the Pleafure which they derive 
 from their good Adions. Ewery Thing here difpofes 
 
 them 
 
vIII The AUTHOR'S PREFACE. 
 
 them to love Virtue for the Sake of their own Happi- 
 nefs, and to deter them from Vice as from a Source of 
 Sorrows and Mortification, 
 
 It is, perhaps, needlefs to remark, that thl^'U^'ork 
 is equally calculated for Children of either Sex. The 
 Difference of their Taftes and Charaiflcrs is not yet at 
 their Age fufficiently flrong to require to be differently 
 delineated. Bcfides, Care has been taken to bring 
 Children of both Sexes together as often as poUible, in 
 Older to produce that Union and Intimacy which we 
 are (o pleafed to fee fubfiil between Brothers and Sif- 
 ters. 
 
 The Author has endeavoured to introduce a Variety 
 in the different Pieces which compofe each Volume. 
 There is not one of them, the Effect of which has not 
 previoufly been tried on Children more or lefs advanced 
 in Age and Underflanding, and every Thing has been 
 retrenched that did not f.:em fufficientK to interefl their 
 Feelings. Each Volume of this Work will contain 
 little Drama?, in which Children, are the principal- 
 Gharadters, in order that they may early learn to acquii-e 
 a- free unembarrafied Countenance, a Giacefulnefs of 
 Attitude and Deportment, and an eafy Manner of de- 
 livering themfelves before Company. Besides, the 
 Performance of thefe Dramas will be a domeiHc Recre- 
 ation and Amufement. The Parents having always 
 fome Part to perform in them, will tafte the pleafing 
 Delight of partaking in the Diverfions of their young 
 Family; and from the Gratitude of the latter, and the 
 Satisfadion of the Parent, both will, be mutually 
 
 attached 
 
 2 
 
The AUTHOR'S PREFACE. ix 
 
 attached to each other by a Bond of additional Tender- 
 nefs. 
 
 Independent of the moral Utility of this Work, with 
 Refpedt to Children, it is obvious that there cannot be 
 a more proper one to inftrucl them early in delivering 
 their native Language with Eafe and Propriety. 
 The greater Part of thofe Books which are firft put 
 into their Hands, are either above their Comprehenfionj 
 or totally remote from their Ideas and Sentiments. 
 All the Objeilb, on the contrary, here held up to their 
 View, beingof a Nature fufHciently interefling to excite 
 their Curiofity, they will of courfe take Pleafure in the 
 eafy Study of a Work, which may render them familiar 
 to the innocent Turn of Thought and ExpreiTion 
 adapted to their Age, and applied to defcribe their 
 Amufements, their Purfuits, and their NeceiTities. 
 
I w ] 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 OF THE 
 
 FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 Pagt 
 
 TH E Little Brother -«-» *- i 
 
 The Four Sealbns — ^ 5 
 
 The Snow -^' >•-. — j 
 
 Arthur '— — •— 12 
 
 Caroline — *** — ^ 1^ 
 
 The Little Fiddler — ^ — 15 
 
 The Canary-Bird — — *- 34 
 
 The Children who would be their own Matters 39 
 
 The Bufhes — — —.44 
 
 Jofeph •«.-• — ^6 
 
 The Little Gleaner — ^^^ -.4^ 
 
 Cecilia and Marian — * - "" —^ 67 
 
 Little Jack *— — » -» — , 76 
 
 The Mafons on the Ladder «« <i. g^ 
 
 The Sword — » — « gc^ 
 
 Prifcilla and Marcus •i- «« 100 
 
 The Lamb «» mm <.^ J03 
 
 The Vinc*Stump «• — «* 104 
 
 Caroline 
 
xii CONTENT S. 
 
 Page 
 
 Caroline -^ -.• — io6 
 
 The Farmer — — — 107 
 
 The Fathers reconciled by their Children ^- 114 
 
 Verfes on an Infant in the Cradle — 133 
 
 The Little Mifs deceived by her Maid — 135 
 
 The Old Man begging — — » 142 
 
 The Pleafures and Advantages of a fociable Charafler 145 
 
 A Good Heart compenfates for many Indifcretions 147 
 
 Old Colin -^ — ^ ^ 167 
 
 Alfred and Dorinda ^- — *- 173 
 
 The Froward Little Girl — — 174 
 
 The mfeful DIfappointment , .^ — 175 
 
 TheJPage — — — — 177 
 
 r H E 
 
THE 
 
 CHILDREN'S FRIENDS 
 
 THE LITTLE BROTHER^ 
 
 FANNY arofe one morning very early, intending to 
 go and gather fome flowers in the: garden, and to 
 make a nofegay of them to carry to her mama, who 
 was then in bed. As fhe was jufl preparing to go down 
 llairs, Mr. Glafsford her father entered her chamber 
 fmiling, and took her up in his arms, faying, " Good 
 morning, my dear Fanny ! come along with me diredlly ; 
 I am going to fiiew you fomething which you will cer- 
 tainly be very glad to fee.*' Fanny eagerly aiked, "What 
 is it, papa r " *' God has given you a little brother lad 
 night," anfwered he. ** A little brother ? Ah! where is 
 he? Let me fee him! Fray carry me to him direftly !'* 
 Her father opened the door of the chamber in which her 
 mother lay. There was befide the bed a ftrange woman 
 whom Fanny had never before feen in the houfe, and who 
 was wrapping up the new-born ■ infant in its fvvathes, 
 Fanoy afked a thoufand queilions, to whi-ch her father 
 anfwered as well as he was able; and thought he had 
 fatisfied her curiofity in every thing, when (he laid to him, 
 *' Papa, who is that old woman ? how {\\<i binds my little 
 brother up ! Are not you afraid that flie will hurt him r" 
 
 Air. G. Oh, no; never fear. It i^ an hoiicit woman 
 that I have fsnt for to take care of him. 
 
 Fanny, But he belongs to mama. Has fhe feen him y«t .? 
 
 * A book has appeared, under tliii title, wvhten hy Mr. Wf.isse, 
 one of th? mo;1 celebrated poets of Germany, Select parages from ir, 
 i.s well as from the works' of MefTrs. Campe afl'i Salzm.'.n^, will be 
 ifitioduced in the following perform ince. 
 
 •voi. I, B l\h-s^ €c 
 
z THE LITTLE BROTHE-R. 
 
 Mrs. G. {draiving hack the curtain of her hecL) Yes, 
 Fanny, I have feen him. Tell me, are not you glad to 
 fee him ? 
 
 Fanny, Oh, indeed I am, mama. You have given me 
 a very pretty young companion ! what a cunning little 
 face he has ! and all red, as if he had juft been running. 
 Papa, will you let him play with me? 
 
 Mr. G. That is not poilible, my dear, he cannot ftand 
 upon his little legs. You fee how weak they arc. 
 
 Fanny. Oh dear ! the little legs ! I fee it will be a long 
 time before we ftiall run about together. 
 
 Mr. G. All in good time. He mull firil learn to walk ; 
 and then you will foon be able to play and jump together 
 in the garden. 
 
 Fanny. Shall we ? O my poor little fellow ! I muft give 
 you fomething to make you fond of me. Hold ; I have 
 a little pitture in my pocket. There, take that. What 
 is the matter, papa? the little monkey will not have it. 
 SJe holds his little fills fliut. 
 
 Mr. G. He does not know how to ufe them yet. We 
 mull wait a few months. 
 
 Fanny. Is that the cafe? aha I my little man, I will 
 give you all my play-things. Well ! are you glad of that ? 
 anfwer me. He feems to fmile. Call me Fanny ! What, 
 wont you fpeak? 
 
 Mr. G. He will n^ot be able to fpeak thefe two years- 
 But Fanny, take care that you do not dillurb your mama 
 with too much talk. 
 
 Fantjy. AJi ! papa, look there, hi^ face is quite 
 changed; fee, lie cries; certainly it is becaufe he is 
 hungry. Be quiet then, my little man, and 1 will go get 
 you fomething nice. 
 
 Mr. G. Do not trouble yourfelf, my dear, about his 
 victuals. He has no teeth yet. How Ihould he be able 
 to eat ? , 
 
 Fanny. Cannot he eat? What will he live upon then? 
 Muft he die? 
 
 Mrs. G. No my child. God has given me milk in my 
 breaft for the nourilhment of thy little brother. He is 
 very weak as yet; but after fome time you ihall fee how 
 he will tumble about on the floor, like a little lamb. 
 
 Fanny. How I long to fee that 1 But only look what a 
 pretty tiny head! 1 dare not tou.ch it. 
 
 Mr.G. 
 
THE LITTLE BROTHER. ^ 
 
 , Mr. G. You may touch it ; but very gently. 
 
 Fanny. Oh ! quite gently. Oh dear I ho\v foft it is I 
 Uke a ball of cotton. 
 
 Mr, G, Every little child has fuch a head as your bro» 
 thcr. 
 
 Fanny . If he was to fall he would break it aH to pieces. 
 
 Mrs. G. Certainly. But we will take good care to hold 
 him, fo that he fliall not fall. 
 
 Mr. G. Do you know, Fanny, that five years ago yoi» 
 were as little as he ? 
 
 Fanny. As little as he ! Oh, papa, you are joking.. 
 
 Mr. G. No, my dear; nothirig is more true. 
 
 Fanny. Yet I do not remember it. 
 
 Mr. G. That I believe. Do you remember when I had 
 this carpet put on the floor? 
 . Fanny. Why it has always been as it is now. 
 
 Mr. G. Not at all. I had this carpet laid down at the 
 very time when you were as little as your brother. 
 
 Fanny. Indeed ! then I never took notice of it. 
 
 Mr. G. Little babies never take notice of what pafTes 
 where they are. When your brother Ihall be as old as you, 
 aik him if he remembers that you tried this day to make 
 him learn to pronounce your name. You will then fee if 
 he recolledts it. 
 
 Fanny. What, and did I fuck at mama's brealt too ? 
 
 Mr. G. Certainly, If you knew all the pains that Ihe 
 has taken for you ! In the firit place you were fo weak 
 tba.t you could fcarce take any nourifhmeiit. We were 
 afraid every moment that you would die before our faces. 
 Your mother ufed to fay, My poor infant ! if fhe fhould 
 fall into a fit ! and believe me (he took infinite pains to 
 get you to fuck a few drops of milk. 
 
 Fanny. Ah, dear mama! it was youthen that taught 
 me to feed myfelf ? 
 
 Mr. G. Yes, my child. Then after your mother had 
 fucceeded in making you take to the bread of yourfelf, 
 vou grew fat and good-humoured. Such were her cares 
 for near two years, every day and every hour of the day. 
 Sometimes, when your mother was fallen afleep merely 
 through fatigue, you would difturb her relt by your cries. 
 Then would Ihe be obliged to rife and run to your cradle. 
 My dear Fanny, would Ihe fay, while ihe. endeavoured to 
 B 2 ^uiet 
 
4 THE ILITT'LE BROTHER. 
 
 quiet y-oii, furely thou mufl: be thirlly, and then ilie 
 would take you to her brealc. ' 
 
 /'^/^7y;.. And was my hcdvl at that time as foft as my 
 Drdfher's ? 
 
 Mr. G, Jufl the fame, my dear^ 
 .^atntj. What nine! that is fo hard now? Oh dear, I 
 niuiT have' broken it a thoufand times. 
 
 Mr. G. Ah! child 4 we took fo much care of you.' 
 Yoijr mother for a time renounced every pleafure, and 
 kept from all company, on purpofc not to lofe you a mo- 
 ment"* from her fight. As of-en as bufincfs, that was abfo- 
 Jutcly indilpenfable, obligc-d her to go out, fhe was in con- 
 Vnual apprehcnjiqn for you. My dear Grace, ihe would 
 j^y to your nurfe, 1 give Fanny into your care, to look to 
 her as if it were your own child; and die was continually 
 inaking t!ie good woman prcl'ents, to induce her to take 
 HfCre particular care of you. 
 
 faf.ny. Ah ! my dear good mama ! — But was there ever^ 
 a time, papa, when I could not run ^ I that can run fo 
 <vell now. See; in three or four fteps I arft^acrofs the 
 i*oom. Who was it that taught me this? 
 .' Mr. G. Thy mother and J. We put a bandage of vel- 
 vet well llufted about your head, that if you happened to 
 fall you .might not hurt yourfelf. We then held you by 
 leading- firings to al2ift your firfl attempts in walking, and 
 every day we went into the garden upon the grafs-plat, 
 where placing ourklves oppolite to each other, at a little 
 c^irtancc, we fet you down betwixt us, itanding all alone, 
 and held out our arms to invite you to come fometimes to 
 one, fometimes to the other. Your flightefl flumble 
 would make our blood run cold. It was by often repeat- 
 ing thcfe trials that we taught you to walk. 
 
 Fav.ny. J could never have thought that I gave you fo 
 much trouble. Was it you too that taught me to ipeak ? 
 
 Mr. G. Yes; for that again you are indebted to us. I 
 ufed to take you upon my knees, and repeat to you the 
 wcrds papa and mama, until you were able to lifp them 
 to me again. Every word that you can fpeak this day we 
 taught you in the fame manner. I dare fay you can re- 
 cblled that it vvas we alio who fhewed you how to read. 
 
 Fanny. Oh! "1 remember that perfcdiy. You had me 
 placed every day at dinner between you ; and at the deilert, 
 S, plate gf raifms was fet upon the table, and fome fmall 
 
 f(^uares 
 
T H E F G U R- -SEA SON-S. ^^^ 
 
 fqDares marked with the lettefs. Whenever 1 was fo luck^v 
 as to name them perfectly, you always gave me ionic rai- 
 fins. Oh! it was a very pretty play. • -j 
 
 Mr, G. \i we had not taken all thefe pains with you, 
 if we had left you to yourfelf, what would have become 
 of you ? 
 
 Fanny. I'fhould have been dead a long time ago. Ah, 
 the dear good papa and mama! 
 
 Mr. G. And yet you fometimes vex your papa; you 
 are fometimes difobedicnt to mama ! 
 
 Fanny. I will never be fo any more as long as I. live. 
 I did not know how much you had done for. me. 
 
 Mr. G. Take notice of the attentior. that weihall p?y 
 to your little brother, and then fay to yourfcjf, ** 1 too 
 have given my parents the lame trouble." 
 
 This converfa'ion made a lively impreilion upon Fanny; 
 and when fhe faw all the tendeniefs which her moth<jf 
 teflified for her little brother; all the anxiety that iLe 
 felt for his health ; the patience which Ihe exerted in en- 
 deavouring to make him take to his nourilliment ; ho>v 
 much fhe was afflicled whenever fhe heard him cry ; with 
 what tender folicitude her father relieved her of fome part 
 of her fatigue, and how both one and the other took infi- 
 nite pains in teaching the infant to v^alk and fpeak ; flie 
 would fay in her own mind. My dear parents have taken- 
 the fame trouble with me, I'iiis refiexion infpired her 
 with fo much affection and gratitiide tcv/ards them, th*t 
 Ihe ever after faithfully obferved tJie promife which fhe 
 had made, never voluntarily to caufe them the fiighteil 
 uneafinefs. 
 
 THE FOUR SEASONS. 
 
 H ! if it Vv'euld always continue to be v.'inter ! faid 
 w». j^ young Florio, who was juil returned from Hiding, 
 and was amufmg himfelf in the garden vviih making inqn 
 of fnow. Mr. Gardener his father, hearing thefe words, 
 faid to him. My dear, thou wilt do me a p'eafure to 
 . write down that wifh on my tablets. Florio ccmplied, 
 and wrote while his hand trembled v/ith cold. The vyj^- 
 ter palTed away, and fpring fucceeded. Florio was walk- 
 B I ing 
 
6 THE FOUR SEASONS. 
 
 in)? afcng with his father befnk a border m the garden, 
 where the hyacinth, auricula and narcifius wer^ in pcrfe^ft 
 bloom. He felt the moll lively pleafuie in breathing their 
 perfume, and admiring their frefh and vivid colours. r' 
 Thele are the produftions of Spring, faid Mr. Gardener to 
 him. They are beautiful, but of very fhort duration. 
 Oh \ replied Florio, that it were always Spring ! Be fo 
 good as to write that wifh in my tablets. Florio obeyed 
 while his heart beat with joy. The Spring very foon 
 made room for Summer. Florio, one fine day, went oat 
 to take a walk with his parents and fome of his young 
 acquaintance to a neighbouring village. Their wal-k 
 afforded them a profped fometimes of green corn fields, 
 waving fmoothly like a calm fea lightly agitated by the 
 breeze ; and fometimes of meadows enamelled with a 
 thoufand flowers. On every fide they beheld young lambs 
 at play, and the high fpirited colts and fillies (portin-g 
 round their dams. They eat cherries, ftrawberries, and 
 other fruits of the feafon, and pafled the whole day in 
 amufing themfelves in the fields. Do not you think, 
 Florio, faid Mr. Gardener as they were returning to town, 
 that the Summer too hath its pleafures 1 Oh! replied he, 
 1 vvifli it would laft all the year ; and at the requell of his 
 father he wrote down this wifh too on his tablets. At 
 length the Autumn arrived. All the family went to fpend 
 a day in the country, at harveil time. The weather was 
 not quite fo hot as in Summer ; the air was mild, and the 
 .fey clear. The gardens and orchards were loaded with 
 iruits. The round plump melons from their rich beds 
 diffufed a delicious odour ; and the branches of the pear- 
 trees bent under the weight of the finell pears. This was a 
 day of fealting for Florio, who loved nothing fo much as 
 grapes, melons and peaches ; and he had the additional 
 pleafure of gathering them himfelf. I'his fine fealbn, 
 faid his father to him, will foon pafs away. Winter is 
 •advancing towards us very fali, to deprive us of the 
 i\utumn. Ah! anfwered Florio, I wifh it would flop 
 ■ftiort in its approach, and Autumn never leave us. 
 
 Mr. Gard. Should you be glad of that, Florio? 
 
 Florio. Oh ! very glad, papa, I promife you. 
 
 But, replied his father, taking out his tablets, cafl your 
 «ye a little on what is written here^ Read it out ! 
 
 Florio, 
 
T H E S N O W. 7 
 
 Florh. ' (rQzds,) Ah! if it "voould always continue to it 
 Winter ! 
 
 Mr. GarJ. Now let us look a few leaves farther. 
 
 Florio. (reads.) Oh, that it 'were ahv ays Spring ! 
 
 Mr. Gard. And on the next leaf what do we find ? 
 
 Florio, (reads.) / ivi^ that the Summer fvjould lajl alt 
 the year, 
 
 Mr. Gard, Do you recolleft whofe hand this is ? 
 
 Florio. It is mine. 
 
 Mr. Gard. And what was your wi(h but juft now? 
 
 Florio. That the Winter would (lop fhort in its approachy 
 and Autumn never leave us. 
 
 Mr. Gard. This is fomethlng particular. In the Win- 
 ter, you deiired that it might be always Winter; in the 
 Spring, that it might always be Spring ; in Summer, that 
 that feafon would always continue ; and now, in Autumn, 
 you wifh that it may always be Autumn. Do you refledl 
 what concluiion may be drawn from all this ? 
 
 Florio, That all the feafons of the year are good. 
 
 Mr, Gard, Yes, my fon, they are all bleft with plen- 
 teous increafe, and variety of pleafures : and God knows 
 much better how to govern the fyfleni of nature than we; 
 limited beings as we are. If it had depended only on 
 thee laft Winter, we Ihould never have had any more 
 Spring, nor Summer, nor Autumn. Thou wouldeft 
 have covered the earth with eternal fnows, and never felt 
 any other pleafure than that of Aiding, or making men 
 of fnow. Of how many other enjoyments wouldell thoa 
 not have been deprived by fuch a difpofition of things ! 
 we are happy that it is not in our power to regulate the 
 courfe of nature. Every thing would be loft which was 
 intended for our happinefs, if our own ra(h vows were 
 heard. 
 
 THE SNOW. 
 
 AFTER many deceitful promifes of its return. Spring; 
 at length arrived. A gentle breeze warmed the air. 
 The fnow was feen to melt, the fields to refume their ver- 
 dure, and the flowers t ,ud forth. The finging of birds 
 was heard on every fide. Little Louifa was already gone 
 B 4 out 
 
S T H E 3 N O W. 
 
 tJut to the country with her father. She had heard the 
 firft fongs of the blackbird and the linnet, and ihe ha3 
 g[:thered fome of the earlieil violets. But the weather 
 changed once more. There arofe fuddenly a violent north- 
 wind, ' that whillled through the groves, and covered the 
 loads with faovv. Little liOuifa went to bed that nighc 
 fhivering v/ith cold, and bleficd God for hiving given her 
 fo conifortable' a fhelter from the inclemency of the air. 
 Ah ! what a fight when Ihe arofe the next morning ! 
 Every thing was perfec>!y white. There had fallen du- 
 xing the night fo great a quantity of fnow, that it was 
 knee-deep in the roads, 'ihis made Louifa -quite dulh 
 The little- birds appeared ftill more fo. The ground being 
 ■eve-<ry where covered to a great depth, they were not able 
 to find the leaft grain or worm to appeafe their hunger* 
 All the feathered inhr.bitants of the grove took refuge in 
 the towns and village?, to fec-k the relief of man. Nu- 
 merous flights of fparrows, linnets, chaffinches and larks-,- 
 flighted in the iireets and court-yards of houfes, and 
 i'craped with their claws and bills into every heap of rub- 
 bifh, to find if poh'ible fome nouriflmicnt. 'i'hiire camfe 
 .near fifty of thcfe gucfls into tlie yard of the houfe where 
 Loaifa was. She fiw them, and returned quite afR-'Red 
 -into her father's chamber. What is the matter, my dear ? 
 faid he. Ah ! papa, anfweretJ fhe, there they are, aU 
 in the yard. The poor little birds that fung fo chearfuily 
 only tvvo days ago. They fcem to be quite llarved with 
 •cold, and to afk for fomething to eat. Will you let ms 
 ■give them a little corn ? Wiih the grcateit pleafure, faid 
 her father. The barn was on the other fide of the way : 
 fhitker fhe ran, accompanied by her governcfs, to gtft a 
 few handfuis of corn and hemp-feed, and came imme- 
 diately back to fcatter it in the yard. The little bird-s 
 approached, fluttering jibout her in great numbers, and 
 picking up €\ery gram. Louifa amufed herfelf in look- 
 ing at them, and was quite delighted with the light. She 
 went to afk her pipa and mama to come and view them 
 alfo, nnd to partake of her fatisfndion. But thefe hand- 
 fuis of grain were foon picked up. The birds then itew 
 up to the houfe-top, and fcemed to eye Louifa wiRfully, 
 as if they would have fail, *' Hall thou notliing more to 
 ^iveus?" Louifi underUood their Language. She Hies 
 Lkedightning to feek more grain, in croiiing the wi^y 
 
THE SNOW. 9 
 
 fiae met a litiJe boy, who had not a heart quite fo comp.ii* 
 iionate as hers. He was carrying in his hand a cage full o^ 
 birds, and was fhaking it fo carelefsly that the poor little 
 creatures were thrown every moment with their heads 
 againft the wires. 'This fight gave Louifa pain. What are 
 you going to do with th©fe birds ? faid {lie to the little boy. 
 I do not know yet, anfwered he. J am trying to fell them> 
 and if nobody will buy them I fhall feaft my cat upon 
 them at home. Your cat 1 replied Louifa: Your cat? 
 Oh! what an ill-natured boy! As to that, they would 
 not be the firll that ihe has munched alive. So, dangling 
 his cage as before, he was fetting off at a great pace, 
 when Louifa called him back, and afked how much he 
 would have for his birds? Iwill fell them, faid he, three 
 for a penny, and there are eighteen of them. .Weil tjjen, 
 faid Louifa, they are mine. So bidding the little boy to 
 follow her, ihe rai 'o her papa, and alked his permiifion 
 to purchafe thofe birds. Her father granted it with plea- 
 fure, and even gave his daughter an empty room for the 
 reception of her little guefis. Jack (that was the nam-? 
 of the ill-natured boy) went away very well fatisiied with 
 his bargain, and told all his companions that hs knew a 
 iittle mifs who would buy birds. Li a few hours there 
 came fo many little country boys to Louifa's door that 
 one would have thought it the entrance to a market* 
 They all crouded round her, climbing upon each other, 
 and holding up their cages with both hands, each hoping 
 to obtain the preference for hir, birds. Louifa purchafed 
 all that were brought before her, and had them carried 
 into the chamber where the firll were. Night tame. It 
 war, a lotig time fince Louifa had gone to bed i'.i well 
 pleafed in her mind. Am not 1 very happy, fiid fhe ta 
 Lerfclf, in being able to fave the lives of fo rrtany inno- 
 cent creatures, andto give them food? W^hen summer 
 comes, i will go into the fields and groves, and all my 
 little gueHs v.'ill iing their- fwecteil fongs to thank me for 
 the care that I have taken of them. With this leriexicn 
 fi.e went to deep, and dreamed that Oie was. in a grove of 
 trees of the fincH verdure, whicii v\ere all covered with 
 birds chirping as they fluttered- .^rom bough lobotvy/., or 
 erigaged in feeding their young ones. The luippy i.ouifi 
 iiTiiied in her fleep. She rcfe very early to go .nd feci 
 J^fJiitle fiiends ia ths aviary and- in- th'»' y.-.ri :. bat uvi 
 
 B 5 wa^ 
 
JO T H E S N O W. 
 
 was not now fo happy as fhe had been the day before. She> 
 knew how much money fhe had put into her purfe, and 
 that there could not remain much of it by this time. If 
 this fnowy weather Ihould lall fome few days longer, faid 
 ihe, what will become of the other birds ? The wicked 
 little boys will give them alive, as they are, to their cats! 
 and for want of a fmall fuin of money 1 fhall not be able 
 to fave them. Full of thefe forrowful ideas ihe draws 
 her purfe out flowly in order to count her little trea- 
 fure once more ; but how great is her altonilliment to feel 
 her purfe heavy ! She opens it and finds it full of pieces 
 of coin, of every fort indifcriminately, up to the very 
 llrings. She runs immediately to her father, and relates 
 the incident to him with tranfports of pleafure and fur- 
 prife. Her father took her to his bofom, kiffed her, and 
 flied tears of joy upon the cheeks of Louifa. My dear 
 child, faid he, thou hait never made me fo happy as in 
 this moment. Continue to relieve the little creatures that 
 thou fhalt fee in diftrefs, and in proportion as thy purfe 
 is diminifhed, thou fhalt find it filled again. What joy- 
 ful news for Louifa ! She ran immediately to her aviary, 
 with her apron-full of hemp-feed and corn. All the birds 
 came fluttering round her, and looked with eager eyes for 
 their breakf:tft. After feeding them, fhe next went down 
 into the yard, and feeflowed a plentiful meal upon the 
 famiflied birds that were there. She faw herfelf now en- 
 gaged in the fupport of almoft an hundred dependents, 
 'ihis afibrded her fuch a pleafure ! Her dolls and play- 
 things never had given her half fo much, in the after- 
 noon, as flie put her hand into the bag of hemp-feed, ihe 
 found a note with thefe words : The inhabitants of the ait 
 Jiy toiuards thee^ O Lord ! and thou gi'v eft them their food; 
 thou openejf thy hand, and filleft all things li-ving n.vith plen^ 
 teoufnefs. Her father had followed her. She turned to 
 him, and faid, 1 am now therefore like God. The in- 
 habitants of the air fly towards me, and when I open my 
 hand, 1 fill them with plenteoulnefs. Yes, my dear, faid 
 her father, every time that thou doeft good to any crea- 
 ture, thou art like God. When grown up thou fhalt 
 alliil thy fellow-creatures as thou now dofl: the birds, and 
 thou flialt then refemble God much more. Ah, what 
 happinefs for a mortal to be able to ad like God! Du- 
 ring a week, Louifa continued to extend her bounty, and 
 
 feed 
 
T H E S N O W. It 
 
 feed every thing that was hungry about her. At length 
 the fnow melted, the fields refumed* their verdure, and 
 the birds, which before had not dared to quit the neigh- 
 bourhood of the houfes, now turned their flight toward 
 the grove. But thofe that had been put into the aviary 
 remained there confined : they faw the fun, flew up againll 
 the window, pecked at the glafs, but in vain; their pri- 
 fon was too Itrong for them. Louifa could not as yet 
 imagine what made them fo uneafy. One day, as (he 
 was taking them their food, her father entered a few 
 moments after her. She was very happy to fee that he- 
 was defirous of being witnefs to her pleafure. My dear 
 Louifa, faid he, why do thefe birds feem fo uneafy ? I 
 fliould imagine that they want fomething. May not 
 they, perhaps, have left in the fields companions whom- 
 they would now be glad to fee again ? You are right, 
 papa ; they feem to be dull ever fince the return of the fine 
 weather. I will go and open the window, and let them 
 fly away. J think thou wouldeft not do amifs, replied-^ 
 her father. Thou wilt difFufe joy through all the country. 
 Thefe little prifoners will go to find their friends once 
 more, and will fly to meet them, as thou doft to meet me 
 when I have been abfent fome time from home. Before 
 he had finiflied fpeaking, the windows were all thrown 
 up : the birds perceived it, and. in two minutes there did. 
 not remain a Angle one of them in the room. Some were 
 feen to fkim along the ground;, others to foar up into the 
 air; fome to perch upon the neighbouring trees, and 
 others to fly backwards and forwards before the windows 
 with chirpings of joy. Louifa went every day to walk irii 
 the fields. She faw and heard numbers of birds on every 
 iide. At one time a lark would rife up before h^^r feet, 
 and fing its fprightly ilrain while it mounted to the clouds. 
 At another time a linnet, perched upon the highell 
 branches of a tree, chirped forth its fong. And whenever 
 ihe obferved any one to diltinguifliitfelf by the fweetnefs 
 of its mufic, Louifa would fay, There is one of my littlet 
 guefts: one may know by its voice that it has been welL 
 fed lafl Winter. 
 
 B6 ARTHUR. 
 
[ 12 ] 
 
 ARTHUR. 
 
 A Poor l.ibourer, of the name of Bernard, had fix youn^^ 
 JTjL children, and found himiclf much at a lofs to main- 
 lain [hem. As an addiiion to his misfortune, the feafon 
 happened to be unfavorable, and confecjuently bread 
 much, dearer than the year before. Bernard worked day 
 and night, yet in fpite of his labours could not poflibly 
 farn money enough to provide food (even of t!ie moft 
 indifferent fort) for fix hungry children. He was reduced 
 to extremity. Calling therefore one day bis little family 
 together, with tears in his eyes he faid to tJiem, My 
 dear children, bread is rifen fo dear that with all my 
 labour I am. not able to earn fufHcient for your fabfiftence. 
 Yoa fee how 1 am circumlbnccJ. This piece of bread 
 in my hand mud be paid for with the wages cf my whole 
 day's labour, and therefore you mult be content to Ihare 
 with me the little that I have been able to earn. The're 
 certainly will not be fufficient to fiitisfy you all ; but at 
 ]eaft there will be enough to prevent your perilhing with 
 kunger. 1'he poor man could fay no more : he lifted up- 
 his eyes to heaven, and wept, fiis children wept alfo, 
 and each one faid vv^ithin himfelf, O Lord, come to cur 
 afliiL'ince, unfortunate infants that v.'e are ! Help our dear 
 father, and fuHcr us not to perifh. for want! Bernard 
 divided the bread into feven er^ual fhares : he kept one 
 for himfelf, and diilributed the relt amongft his children,. 
 But one of them, named Arthur, rcfufcd to take his por- 
 tion, and faid, I cannot eat any thing, Either; J find 
 /nyfejf fick. Do you take my part, or divide it amongft. 
 the reft. My poor child ! what is the matter vvi:h Uiee ? 
 faid Bernard, taking him up in his arms. 1 am fick, 
 anfwcred Arthur ; very fick. I would goto bed. Ber- 
 nard carried him to bed, and the next morning, over- 
 whelmed with forrow, he went to a phyhcian, and bc- 
 fcaght him for charity to come and fjc his fick child, and 
 to alfili him. The phyfician, v.ho was a man cf grear 
 humanity, went to Bernard's houfe, though he was very fure 
 of not being paid for his viGts. He approached Arthur's 
 bed, felt his pulfe^ but could not thereby difcover any 
 iymptom of illnefs. He found him> huv.'cver, very weak, 
 
 iind. 
 
ARTHUR. n 
 
 and, m order to raife his fpirits, was going to prerciibe 
 a cordial draught ; but Arthur faid. Do not order any 
 thing for me, fir ! I could take nothing that you iliould 
 prefcribe for me. 
 
 Phyjician. Could not take it ! why not, pray? 
 
 Arthur, Do not afk me, fir : it is not in my power to 
 tell you. 
 
 ^ Phyf. What hi.iders thee, child? Thou feemefi tome 
 to be an obftinate little boy. 
 
 Jrih. I afiure you, dodor, it is not from obllinacy. 
 
 Phyf. It may be fo : ho\ve\'er, 1 fnall not prefs you ; 
 but 1 will go and aflc the reafon from your father, who 
 will perhaps not be fo myfterious. 
 
 Jrth. Ah ! I befeech you, do not let my father know 
 any thing of it. 
 
 Phyf. Thou art a very unaccountable child ! but I muH 
 certainly acquaint your father with this, fince you will 
 not confefs the truth. 
 
 Arth. O dear I by no means, fir: I will rather explain 
 ^very thing to you myfelf. But nril I beg that my bro- 
 thers and fillers m.ay quit the room. 
 
 The phyfician ordered the children to withdraw, and 
 then Arthur continued : Alas ! fir, in this hard feafon, 
 my father can fcarcely earn us every day a loaf of coarle 
 bread. He divides it amongll us. Each of us can have 
 but a fnriall part, and he will hardly take any fur himfelf. 
 It makes me unhappy to fee my little brothers and fillers 
 fuffer hunger. 1 am the eldcll, and have mere flrength. 
 than they : I like better, therefore, not to eat any,, that 
 they may divide niy fnare amongll them. This is the 
 reafon why I pretended that 1 was fick, and could not 
 eat ; but i entreat you not to let my father know this ! 
 
 The phyfician wiped his eyes, and faid. But, my dear 
 little friend, art thou not hungry ? 
 
 Jnh, Yes, fir, I am hungry, iwve enough ; but that 
 does not give me fo much pain as to fee my family fufier. . 
 . Phyf. But you \Ki\\ foon die if you take no_nouriOi-' 
 ment. 
 
 Arih. I am fenfible of that ; but I fhall die contented. 
 My father will have one mouth lefs to feed ; and when I 
 /hajl be with God, I will pray him to give bread- to my 
 )kcle brothers and fillers. 
 
 The 
 
14 ARTHUR. 
 
 The humane phyfician was melted with pity and admi- 
 ration on hearing the generous child fpeak thus. Taking 
 him up in his arms, he clafped him to his heart, and 
 faid. No, my dear little friend, thou (halt not die! 
 God, who is the father of us all, will take care of thee 
 and of thy family. Return him thanks that he hath led 
 me hither. I (hall come bick very f)on. He haftened 
 therefore to his own houfe, and ordering one^of his fer- 
 vants to take a quantity of provifions of all forts, re- 
 turned with him immediately to Arthur and his famiflied 
 little brothers. He made them all fit down at table, 
 and eat heartily, until they were fatisfied. ft was a de- 
 lightful fight for the good phyfician, to behold the joy 
 of thofe innocent creatures. On his departure, he bid 
 Arthur riot to be under any concern, for that he would 
 provide for their neceflities ; which promife he faithfully 
 obferved, and furnilhed them every day with a plentiful 
 fubfillence. Other charitable perfons alfo, to whom he 
 related the circumllance, imitated his generofity. Some 
 fent them provifions, fome money, and others clothes 
 and linen, infomuch that very few days pafled before this 
 little family had more of every thing than was fufficient 
 for their wants. 
 
 As foon as Bernard's landlord was informed of what 
 the generous little Arthur had fuffered for his father and 
 his brothers, filled with admiration at fuch noblenefs of 
 foul, he fent for Bernard, and addrefled him thus: You 
 have an admirable fon ; permit me to be his father alfo. 
 I will allow you an annuity out of my own pocket, and 
 Arthur, with all your other children, fhall be maintained 
 at my expence, in whatever profeffions they (hall chufe. 
 If they make ufe of this eilablilhment to their own^ 
 advantage, 1 will charge myfelf with, the care of their 
 fortunes. 
 
 Bernard returned to his houfe tranfported with joy, and. 
 throwing himfclf on his knees, blelTed God for having 
 given him fo worthy a child. 
 
 CAROLINE, 
 
{ IS 1 
 CAROLINE. 
 
 MR S. P— , a young married lady, as much diH. 
 tinguiihed for the elegant charms of her wit, as 
 for the delicacy of her fentiments, and the refpedability 
 of her charai^er, was one day reproving Pamela, ijer eldell 
 daughter, for a flight fault very pardonable at her age. 
 Pamela, touched with the tender manner in which her 
 mother delivered the reproof, fhed tears of forrow and 
 afFeftion. Caroline, who was then but three years old, 
 feeing her fiiier weep, climbs up the fteps of her chair, in 
 order to reach her; with one hand flie takes her handker- 
 chief, and wipes her filler's eyes, and with the. other flips 
 into her mouth a piece of fweetmeat from her own. 1 
 think, an able painter might make a charming pidure oa 
 this fubjed. 
 
 THE LITTLE FIDDLER, 
 
 A Drama, in one Act. 
 Gharagters. 
 
 Mr. Meleort, ' 
 
 Charles, - - his Son. 
 
 So p H I A , - - his D aught ery 
 
 Godfrey, - - his Nephe^w, 
 
 Amelia Richmond, 7 r • v ^ o x/- 
 
 and Charlotte, j J r 
 
 Jonas, - - the Little Fiddlen . 
 
 Scene, Mr, Melfort's Houfe^ 
 
 S C E N E L 
 
 Charles and Godfrey* 
 
 Charles* "LTARK ye, coufm. You mull do me a 
 
 favour. 
 Godfrey, Come, let us fee what it is? Thou haft always 
 fomething or another to afk.me. 
 
 Charles. It is becaufe you are the cleverer of the two. 
 You know the tranflatioa of that fable of Fhiedrus, that 
 our tutor has given me for a talk. 
 
 8 Godfrey. 
 
j6 THE LITTLE FIDDLER. 
 
 Godfrey. What, have you not finifhed it yet ?• 
 
 Charles, How do you think that 1 Ihould have finlflied 
 it, when I have not begun it ? 
 
 . Godfrey. You have not had time then to do it from 
 twelve o'clock till four? 
 
 Charles. Ycu fhall fee now whether that was poflible. 
 At eleven o'clock I could not help taking a turn or two 
 in the garden, in order to get an appetite for my dinner. 
 We were at table an hour. Then to fit down and Iludy 
 immediately after one's meals, you know how dangerous 
 papa's dot^lor fiys that is. So, as I had made a hearty 
 dinner, 1 had occafion for a good dealof exercife to digell 
 it, you know. 
 
 Godfrey. Well, now at leaft you have had exercife 
 enough ; and before dark there is more time than you 
 want to finifh your talk. 
 
 ■ ■ Charles. You do not ccnfider that jufl: now I muft go 
 to my writing. 
 
 Godfrey. But fmce your writing-mallcr is not come — 
 
 Charles. 1 fliall wait for him. It would be fpoiling 
 every'thing to confound my hours of bufrnef. 
 
 Godfrey. Well then, after your writing, you have Hill 
 ibme of the afternoon and the whole evening. 
 
 Charles. I flutll not have a minute. My filler expcdls 
 the two Mifi Richmonds to come to fee her.. 
 
 Godfrey. It is not' on your account that they come. 
 
 Cburhs: V^Q, But the-n I ?nHft help my filter to enter- 
 tain them. 
 
 Godfrey. What vviil: hinder you when the young ladies 
 go away : — 
 
 Charles. O ye?, indeed ! to work by candle-ligiit, and 
 fpoil my eyes. Yet my tranilation muil.be ready by to- 
 morrow morning. 
 
 Godfrey. Weill whether it is or no, what is that to > 
 jne .? 
 
 Charles. And would you fee me, then, reprimanded by 
 'Xny^ tutor and my.p.fpa ?. 
 
 Godfrey. You always know how to get the better of mc. 
 Come, let- me fee, wliere is this talk ? 
 
 Charles. Above llaira in my room, on the table, I will 
 go f.r it, or- rather come yru along with me. 
 
 Gcdfrey. Do you go fijil; 1 iiiall. follow, you imme- 
 
 ■ciiatel;.'*. 
 
THE LITTLE FIDDLER.- 17 
 
 diately. I fee your fifter coming this way. She wanted 
 to rpeak with me. 
 
 Charles, But do not you go and tell her any thing o£ 
 this j ^ou underltand me. 
 
 S C E N E IT. 
 
 Sophia and Godfrey* 
 
 Sophia. Well, coufm, what have you and my brother 
 been converfing about ? He has certainly been playing 
 you one of his old tricks. » 
 
 Godfrey, No, but h^ has been making me one of his 
 old requells. He wants me as uiual to perform his talk 
 for him againft to-morrow. 
 
 Sophia, And is m.y papa never to be informed of his 
 idlenefs ? 
 
 Godfrey. I fliall not undertake that office. You know 
 that ever fince your mama's death, my uncle's health 
 ,has been fo precarious, that the leaft emotion makes him 
 ill for fome days. Befides, his generofity fuppnrts mcs ; 
 and he might think that I wiihed to hurt your brother in 
 his eueem. 
 
 Sophia. Well then, I fliall talk to my brotiier the fiift 
 opportunity — But do you know what I had ro lay to you ? 
 The Mifs Richmonds are coming to fee me to-day, and 
 you mufl afiill U6 in our amufements. I 
 
 Godfrey. Oh ! I Oiall certainly do my bell,, coufin. 
 
 Sophia. Ah ! here they are. 
 
 SCENE IIL 
 
 Godfrey f Sophia, Amelia and Charlotte Richmond, ^ 
 
 Sophia. Ah! how do you do, my dear Friends! {They 
 faJjite each other, and curt Jy to Godfrey ixiho hoivs to them.) 
 
 Charlotte. It feems an age fince I faw you laft. 
 
 Amelia. Indeed it is a long time. 
 
 Sophia. I believe, it is more than three weeks. {Godfrey 
 dra'TJOS out the table, and gi^ues them chairs.) 
 
 Charlotte. Do not give yourfelf fo much trouble, Maf- 
 ter Godfrey. 
 
 Godfrey, Mifs, I only do my duty. 
 
 Sophia^ 
 
j8 the little fiddler. 
 
 Sophia. Oh, I am very fure Godfrey does it with plea 
 fure, {gi'ves him her hand.) I wilh my brother had a little 
 oi his comploiiance. 
 
 scene IV. 
 
 Godfrey, Sophia, Amelia, Charlotte, Charles, 
 
 Charles, [ivithouf taking notice of the Mifs Richmonds') 
 This is very pretty of you, Godfrey, to let me wait io 
 long while you are playing the fine gentleman here. 
 
 Godfrey, I thought I Ihould be the laft perf )n in the 
 company to whom you would diredt your compliments. 
 
 Charles. Oh! do not be angry, ladies; 1 fhall beat 
 your fervice prefently. 
 
 Amelia, Oh, pray do not harry yourfelf, Mr. Charles. 
 {Charles takes Godfrey ajide, and tvhile the youttg ladies con- 
 <verfe together, draws a paper from his pocket, luhich hi 
 gi'ves hitn.) 
 
 Charles, There it is ; you underfland me. 
 
 Godfrey. Six lines ! a great tafk indeed ! are not you 
 afhamed? 
 
 Charles. Hill ! hold your tongue. 
 
 Godfrey. Ladies, if you give me leave, I will juft flap 
 out for a few minutes. 
 
 Charlotte. We Ihall expe£l your return with impatience. 
 
 Sophia. Since you are going out, coulin, pray bid Jenny 
 bring us in tea. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 Charles, Sophia, Amelia, Charlotte, 
 
 Charles, {thronving himfelf into an arm-chair') Soh ! I 
 fhall take poffeffion of this. 
 
 Sophia, f think it would have been civil to afk leave* 
 
 Charles. Your leave, perhaps ? 
 
 Sophia. I am not the only perfon here. 
 
 Charlotte. I fee your brother counts us as nothing. 
 
 Amelia. He thinks certainly that he does us a great deal 
 of honour in keeping us company. 
 
 Charles. Oh ! I know that you could do without my 
 company; but I could not fo eafily deprive myfelf of 
 yours, 
 
 Sophia^ 
 
THE LITTLE FIDDLER. 19 
 
 Sophia, There at leaft 16 the ^ppeariince of a compli- 
 ment. Though, I believe, to fay the truth, the tea fliould 
 i:oTne in for the greateft part of it. 
 
 CJmrUs. You are very right, my dear fitter, in nat 
 thinking that I flay at leaft on your account. 
 
 Sophia. Oh ! as to that, I have too humble an opinion 
 of my own merit. All that I JhouUx.^'k.e pride in, is, that 
 I am fifter to fo polite a young gentleman. {Jenny brings 
 the tea, and Jets it before Sophia,) 
 
 Charles. Let me pour it out, pray do. 
 
 Sophia. No, no, that is my bulinefs ; you are a little 
 too awkward. If you want to do fomething, hand theie 
 ladies their cups. 
 
 Amelia, Not fo much fugar for me. 
 
 Sophia. Help yourfelf, my dear, to your liking, {hands 
 her a cup and the fugar bafon. Charles takes a cup for 
 himfelfy and gets hold of the fugar.) Charles, you have got 
 three great lumps already. 
 
 Charles. Why, that is not too much. I like it pretty 
 fweet. [takes fe'veral bits one after another, till his fifter gets 
 the fugar bafon out of his hands.) 
 
 Sophia. Are not you aftiamed, brother? Yoa fee there 
 will be none left for us. 
 
 Charles, Well, do not you know the way to the fugar 
 canifter ? 
 
 Sophia. My brother would think he had done wrong if 
 he faved his fifter any trouble. 
 
 Charles. No j but if you went for it, I Ihould have the 
 pleafure of being alone with thefe ladies. 
 
 Amelia. Do you hear that, Sophia ? Now will you fay 
 that your brother is not perfedly polite ? 
 
 Sophia, {hanging colleded all the cups before her, and filled 
 them again.) Charles, hand Amelia this cup. {Charles 
 takes the cup^ and in handing it to Amelia, f pills the tea upon 
 her flip. — They all rife haftily.) 
 
 Sophia. There is aninftanceof his politenefs. [afide to 
 Charles.) I dare fwear, thou ill-natured creature, that 
 was done on purpofe. 
 
 Amelia. O dear 1 what will my mama fay ? and what 
 Ihall we do ? 
 
 Charlotte, This is only the fecond time that Ihe has had. 
 on this flip. Makehafte j aglafs of clean water. 
 
 Sophia 
 
v2o THE LITTLE FIDDLER, 
 
 Sophia, No ; I have heard that it is better to rub it with 
 a dry Jinen cloth. Here is a handkerchief quite cleaa. 
 {They go to ttjpjl Amelia. Charlotte holds her Jlip, and 
 Sophia rubs it. Mea;:time Charles remaifis at tah/e, quite 
 unconcerned y drinking his tea.") 
 
 Charlotte, There, it begins to difappear : you mufl !et 
 it d.\-y. 
 
 Amelia, By good luck, it is in a fold where one will not 
 think of looking. 
 
 Charles, {cfuie) That is not my fault. 
 Sophia. There, look now Charlotte ; I do not think it 
 will be obferved. 
 
 Charlotte. If 1 had not fjen the fpot before 
 Amt'ia. Very tjue. flowever, Mr. Charles, another 
 time I Ihall beg you to fpare yourfelf tlie trouble of wait- 
 ing on me. 
 
 Sophia. Come, ladies, let us take our places agnin. 
 {Going to pour out the tea, p:e finds the tea-pot empty ; loo^s 
 angrily at Charles.) Well 1 this is a piece of ill manners 
 that I could not have imagined. Would ye believe it, 
 ladies ? while we were fo much concerned, he has taken 
 iallthetea. However, Hop a moment, 1 will go and order 
 more. 
 
 Charlotte. No, there has been quite enough ; I could 
 not drink another drop. 
 
 Amelia. The misfortune of my flip, has taken away 
 my thiill:. 
 
 Charles. But I beg you will make no ceremony. They 
 can foon bring us more. 
 
 Amelia. Really I think you fliould have known before- 
 hand that your brother was to be one of the company. . 
 
 Sophia. Thofe who are not invited ihould at leail wait 
 until it were their turn. 
 
 Charlotte. Let us not fay any more about it. It does 
 rot give me the leaft concern. 
 
 Sophia. Well, what fliall we do now? Ah, here is our 
 friend Godfrey. He will help us to fix on fome amufe- 
 ment. 
 
 Charles, {mimicks her) Our friend Godfrey ! — But La- 
 dies I mull fpeak to him before you. {Goes to 77ieet God^ 
 frey^ 'v^bils the young ladies are con-verjing together.) 
 
 S C E N R 
 
^HE LITTLE FIDDLER. 21 
 
 SCENE VL 
 
 \Amelta, Charlotte, Sophia, Godfrey, Charles, 
 
 Charles, {to Godfrey.") Well, have you done It ? 
 
 Godfrey. There ; take it, and blufli for your idlenefs.— • 
 'Well, Ladies, have you fixed upon any amufement? 
 
 Amelia, No, v/e waited for you to deicrmine us. 
 
 Godfrey. I have a little mufician below flairs at your 
 fervice. If you give me leave, I will call him up to fing 
 you a fong, or to play if you chufe to dance. 
 
 Sophia. A little mufician ! where is he ? where is he ? 
 
 Charlotte. We mud own. Mailer Godfrey knows how 
 to amufe his company. 
 
 Godfrey. At the fame time that we amufe ourfelves, we 
 fliall do an aft of charity ; for the poor little feHow has no 
 livelihood but his violin. 
 
 Charles. And who will pay him, Mafier Godfrey ? He 
 talks and afts as if the King were his coufin, and he has 
 not a farthing a4l the while. 
 
 Sophia. Are not you alliamed, brother ? 
 
 Godfrey. Let him go on, coufin, he does not offend me. 
 It is no crime to be poor. I am the liker my little mufi- , 
 cian, who is for all that a XQYy good boy. I will give 
 him fix-pence that 1 have remaining in my purfe ; and he, 
 has promifed to play for that all the evening. 
 
 Charlotte. We will make a colledion to pay him. 
 
 Amelia. Yes, yes; weihallclub. 
 
 Godfrey. Shall I go for him ? he waits below at the door. 
 
 Sophia. By all means, my dear coufin, and mike halte. 
 [Godfrey goes out j meantime Jenny brings in a cake upon a 
 flale.) 
 
 SCENE VIL 
 
 Amelia, Charlotte, Sophia^ Charles. 
 Charles. I was only going to cut it up. [Charles goes fa 
 take the plate from fenny, Sophia pre-vents him ) 
 
 Sophia. I (hall fave you the trouble; you would cut it 
 up fo well, 1 fuppofe, that we Ihould have no more of the 
 cake than we htid of the tea. [She divides it and hands 
 it round ) 
 
 3 C'harUi. 
 
2t tHE LITTLE FIDDLER.^ 
 
 Charles, {after taking his Jkare.) Who is to havc the 
 piece that is left? 
 
 Sophia. What ! is my coufin to have none ? 
 
 Amelia, 1 would rather give him my pare. 
 
 Charlotte. And I mine. 
 
 Charles, {jivith a fneer.) He is exceedingly happy. 
 
 Sophia. Can you fee nothing but his cake to envy him ? 
 
 SCENE VllL 
 
 Amelia, Char lotted Sophia, Charles, Godfrey, {leading m 
 Jonas. by the hand, nvho has his violin under his arm.), 
 
 Godfrey. Give me leave to prefent you my young per- 
 former. 
 
 Charlotte and Amelia. He is a fmart little fellow. 
 
 Sophia. Where do you come from, my man ? 
 
 Jonas. I come from the wolds of Yorkihire, ma'am, 
 
 Afnelia. La! what has made you come thus far? 
 
 Jonas. Becaufe my poor father is blind, and cannot 
 work. So we travel the country, and I fupport him with 
 my fiddle. 
 
 Sophia, Well, will you give us a fpecimen cf your per- 
 formance ? 
 
 Jonas. That I will with all my heart: but my fcill i» 
 nor very great. 
 
 Godfrey. Play your bed; at any rate it will be well 
 enough for me, and thefe ladies will be fo good as to pai-- 
 don you if you (hould play a little out of tune. {Jonas 
 tunes his 'violin. Amelia in the mean time taking tl^ plate 
 prefent s the remainder of the cake to Godfrey. He hoivs, 
 takes the plate, and holds it in his hand 'withoht touching th^ 
 cake, nvhile he lijiens to Jonas. The latter begins by playing- 
 the air of the follonxingfong', thenfings.) 
 
 I. 
 
 p I T Y the early hardships of a boy 
 
 Whofe lender hands maintain an helplefs iirej 
 Alas ! no other means can he employ. 
 
 But that compafljon which their wants infpire. 
 IL 
 Pity tlieir lot, who would not importune, 
 Chill penury implores the fcanty boon ; 
 
 Long 
 
THE L I T T I* E FIDDLER. 2$ 
 
 Long years of toil have dimm'd the father*s eyes. 
 The other's vveaknefs that refource denies, 
 
 IIL 
 
 Oh ! let their hardfhips touch the bounteous breaS:,^ 
 
 Relieve the aged fire and helplefs boy ; 
 A little bread were wealth to the diftrcfl, 
 
 Alas ! 'tis all their prelling wants enjoy. 
 
 Godfrey, {g'l'ving him his hand.) Poor child'! then yviW 
 are both in great diftrefs r 
 
 Jonas. Alas ! we are (o ; but with my fiddle I hope that 
 Ave (hall never be deftitute. Jf we fhould be Tick, God 
 Almighty will take care-of us; and if we die, wefhailwant 
 nothing but a little fpot of earth which may be had any 
 where. 
 
 Godfrey. But my peer little boy, perhaps thou art hun- 
 gry. Hold, here, take my cake. 
 
 ' Jonas. Oh! no, my pretty mailer, eat it yourfelf; abit^ 
 ■of bread ferves me. 
 
 Godfrey. No, you fhall have this ; I can eat bread as 
 well as yau. 
 
 Jonas. Well, Sir, I thank you ; but J will not eat it 
 now. I will (hare it with my poor father; he is not ufed 
 to tafte fuch good things. 
 
 Sophia, Your poor father, fay you ? here ; yoa fhali 
 ^ive him my pavt. 
 
 Charlotte. And take mine too. 
 Amelia. And mine. 
 
 Jonas. Oh ! no, no ; keep yowr cakes my fwee^young 
 ladies. One piece is enough for me. We are not ufed. 
 to fill our bellies with fweet things. 
 
 Charles, {ironically,) He is right ; that would fpoil his 
 fine voice. 
 
 Sophia. Nobody has alked you for yours. 
 Charles. Oh, I have difpatched that long ago. 
 Godfrey. Come, my man ; will you tafte your cake £rft ? 
 Jonas. Oh ! no. Mailer. Since you are fo good as to 
 give it me, allow me to wrap it up in my handkerchief 
 and take it home. 
 
 Sophia, Stop a moment, I vyill give you a pi^ceof linen 
 cleaner than that, and meantime you may lay your cake 
 in the window. 
 
 Jonas, 
 
«4 THE LITTLE FIDDLER. 
 
 Jonas. I will, my good young lady. I come here \o 
 play upon the iiddle, not to eat* 
 
 Amelia. J (hould wifli to dance a minuet with Mailer 
 Godfiey. Can you play any? 
 
 Jonas. Whatever you pleafe. A minuet, a jig, or a 
 country dance. 
 
 Amelia, Let us have the minuet firft. [Godfrey tahi 
 Amelia hy the hand to dance."). 
 
 Charlnitc, Why cannot we both dance, {ad'vancing to* 
 ^guards Charles.) Mr. Charles? 
 
 Charles. Excule me, mifs, I can't dance. 
 
 Sophia, Yet he has learned full two years. 
 
 Charles. 1 am not in a capering humour to-day. 
 
 Charlotte, {curtjying to hi/n.) So tlien I am refufed. 
 
 Sophia. Come, coufin, lend me your hat. {to Charlotte) 
 7 fliall have the honour, ma'am, to be your beau. 
 
 Amelia. Then if we were to dance a double minuet ?— • 
 
 Godf)ej. Mifs, I am at your fervice. [They dance a dou- 
 ]fle tninuetf after njohich Charlotte goes to take cut Godfrey.) 
 
 CJ:arlotte. Mr. Godfrey, now I will dance with you. 
 , Godfrey. I fhall be happy, mifs, to have that honour. 
 
 Amelia. And now, Sophia, I will be your beau. 
 
 Sophia. As this goes, I find I mull lofe my coufin ; 
 however, thefe ladies have the firfl: title to your complai- 
 fancc. [They dance another ininuet^ during <v:hich Charles 
 goes to the ixjindoavy takes Jonas'* s cake^ and fips out of the 
 room.) 
 
 Sophia, [to Godfrey n.vho wipes his face.) Ah ! you give 
 it up ; you mull own that we have ilronger feet than you 
 gentlemen. 
 
 Gcdfrey. It is becaufe you arp much nimbler. 
 
 Amelia, {to Godfrey.) If your coufin had been as com- 
 pjaifant as you, we ihould foon have overmatched you ; 
 for then one of us could take breath while the other two 
 danced. {They all look round for Charles.) 
 
 Charlotte. Ah ! he is gone; fo much the better. 
 
 Jonas. Shall I play another tune or two? 
 
 Godfrey. No; that is euough ; unlefs, ladies, you 
 would choofe more. The poor little fellow Vv'ill be glad 
 to go and earn fomething elfewhere. I have already told 
 you how little I have in my purfe; and Charles has gone 
 ofi" without paying. 
 
 Charlotte. We will all contribute as well as you. 
 
 Ami'Jia, 
 
THE LITTLE FIDDLER. 25 
 
 Amelia y CeYtainly, we mean it. [takes cut her pur/e.) 
 There, Mafter Godfrey, is my purfe. 
 
 Charlotte. And here is mine. 
 
 Sophia. Hold, coufin, here is a Shilling: keep your 
 -money, and this will do for us both. 
 
 Godfrey. No, no, Sophia, I have a right to pay firff. 
 {They gather the fnoney^ and give it to J^onas.) 
 
 'Jo7ias. I will never take all that 5 this young Gentle* 
 Baan promifed me only fix-pence. 
 
 Godfrey. Take the whole, my man ; wc are very happy 
 to be able to do you a fervice. 
 
 Jonas. God Almighty reward yon. {To Sophia) Novv» 
 Mifs, if you would pleafe to give me a piece of old linea 
 to wrap up the cake that you have made me take. 
 
 Sophia. I had quite forgot it. {runs to a draper, an^. 
 takes out a handkerchief.') There ; it is a little worn, but ic 
 %vil! do very well for yourpurpofe, 
 
 Jonas. May Heaven repay yoa for your generoHty* 
 ^^oes to the nvindoiv for the cake.) 
 
 Jonas, { f or ro^ fully.) It is not here. 
 
 Sophia. What a fid boy is that ! he certainly has takers; 
 this poor child's cake. 
 
 Jonas.. Do not be concerned, my fweet young Lady, 
 J am only forry to lofe it on account of my poor father. 
 
 Godfrey. If Charles were not your brother, his grcedi- 
 nefs fnould coil him dear ; but Jonas's father muft not be 
 aglofer however. My dear Sophia, lend metliat ilx-pence 
 that you were going to pay for me juil: now. 
 
 Sophia. Ko, coufin, I will have the merit of it all to 
 myfelf. [to Jonas.) There, my lad, is fix-pence ; buy 
 another cake for your father. [Charlotte and Ainelia feel i?i 
 iheir purj'ts^) . 
 
 Charlotte. Flold, here are fome more halfpence. 
 
 Amelia. Take this too. 
 
 Jonas. Oh dear, no; this is too much. 
 
 Gcdf-iy. [taking him by the hand atfetlionaiely.) How 
 unhappy 1 am not to have any thing more to give thee ! 
 Jiut I am an orphan, and fubfiil like thee upon the gene- 
 rcfity of othrr.s. 
 
 Jo7tas. [to Godfrey.) I wifii that you had not brought 
 me here, or that you would take back your money. 
 
 Godfrey. Do not be uneafy as to me. Farewel, Go 
 and try to earn fomething elfewhere. 
 
 v Q L . I . C jQn&i- 
 
2(5 THE LITTLE FIDDLER. 
 
 Jonas, {to Sophia, as he is going.) liut, take your hand- 
 kerchief, my good young Lady. 
 
 Sophia. No, keep it if" you have occafion for it. 
 
 Jonas. May Heaven preferve you all in good health, 
 and make you ilill more amiable than you are. {goes out.) 
 
 SCENE IX. 
 
 Sophiay CharlottCy Amelia and Godfrey, 
 
 Sophia. Can you imagime any thing more fhameful than 
 the behaviour of Charles ? 
 
 Amelia. He fhould not play thefe pranks if I were his 
 filter. 
 
 Charlotte. I am forry he has dellroyed all the pleafure 
 that we had in doing a fervice to this poor little boy. 
 
 Amelia. However, he is not ill off at prefent ; the cake 
 has been pretty well made up to him. 
 
 Godfrey. Very true ; thanks to your generofity. But 
 that does not julUfy the behaviour of Charles. Befides, 
 poor Jonas might have had the one without lofmg the 
 other. 
 
 Sophia. It is you, coufin, that have fufFered moil upon 
 the whole. You have deprived yourfelf of your Ihare, 
 that my good-for-nothing brother might eat it. {a knocking 
 is heard at the door. ) 
 
 Amelia, Charlotte, Sophia, Godfrey, Jonas, 
 Godfrey. Here is our little iiddler again. What is the 
 jnatter, my man ? 
 
 Jonas, {crying.) Oh dear! oh dear! Help! I am 
 ruined. {The children gather round him.) 
 Sophia. What has happened to you then ? 
 Jonas. The whole of my poor fubfiftence— all that I 
 had to maintain myfelf and my father — fee, fee here— my 
 little violin — it is broken all to pieces, and your handker- 
 chief and your money — all is gone — he has taken it all 
 from me. 
 
 Godfrey. Who has broken your violin ? who has taken 
 your money ? 
 
 Jonas. 'Twas he — *Twashethat took my cake 
 Sophia. What, my brother I Is it poflible .? 
 Godfrey. Charles? 
 Charlotte, It cannot be. 
 
 Amelia^ 
 
THE LITTLE FIDDLER. Vf 
 
 , Amelia. O the wretch ! 
 
 Jonas. Yes, it was he, it was he. As T was going out 
 of the ftreet-door, he came up to me and afked if 1 had 
 been paid for my playing, as otherwife he meant to pay 
 me. Oh, yes, that 1 have, faid I, and even overpaid. 
 How came they by fo much money r fays he. Let me fee 
 what they have given you. So T, filly fjol that f was — [ 
 fhoald have remembered the cake ; but I thought ro more 
 of that, I vva3 fo overjoyed to carry home To muv.h money 
 to my father. Befides 1 had not couniea it, and was de- 
 iirous to know the fum. Sol laid my fiddle down on the 
 ground befide me, and took cut the handkerchief. See 
 here, faid I to him, what I got more than was promiled 
 me at fii ll ; one of the young mifles gave it me. 1 had 
 tied up all my money in the handkerchief, and h as going 
 to undo the knot, when he fnatched at it, 1 guefled his 
 roguery. So he pulled one v/ay and I another, when all 
 at once, feeing where my fiddle lay on the ground, he 
 ilamped on it with both his feet. I loofed my hold and 
 let go the handkerchief, and fo he got it from me and 
 ran away. Both my fiddle and the bow are broke, and 
 now 1 have neither handkerchief nor nioney. O my fa« 
 ther ! my poor father 1 What will become of us ? 
 
 Sophia, Why really I do not knovv. — I have nothing 
 more in the world. O coufin ! 
 
 Charlotte. Here are fome itv; halfpence. It is ail that 
 I have about me. 
 
 Jonas. My hvcet mifs, I thank you ; but that v/ill not 
 buy me a fiddle. O my poor father ! he had it more than 
 fifteen years. 
 
 Amelia. Take thii too. It is the very lall farthing I 
 have. 
 
 Sophia. (Runs to her dra^joer'.^ Here is my thimble; it 
 is gold, kun and fell it, my poor iittie man. I have an 
 ivory one that will ferve me. 
 
 Godfrey. No; keep your thimble, coufin. Stop, my 
 boy, 1 can affiil you. {Takes out his buckksy and gi^ves 
 ihcrn to h2?n.) 1 have another pair of pinchbeck. You will 
 certainly get twelve thiiiings for thefe. I can give them 
 away, for they a-e my own. My godfather made me a 
 prefent of them for my birth-day. — {Sophia offers hirn her 
 dhimblef and GodJ'rej his buckles. Jonas bejitates.) 
 
 ^ 2 Jonas» 
 
28 THE LITTLE FIDDLER. 
 
 Jovas. No; I will have none of them. My father 
 wculd think that 1 had llvolen them. 
 
 Sophia. Take my thimble at lealK 
 
 Godfrey. Wont you take my buckles? you will make 
 ;me angry. Take them 1 fuy. 
 
 Jr.nas. Oh dear, would you have me deprive you of 
 your ornaments ? 
 
 Godfrey . Do not be uneafy about that. God will repay 
 r.Te, perhaps, more than I give you. Your faiher wants 
 bread. 1 have no father to maintain. 
 
 Sophia. Go, go, and take care of yourfelf. 
 
 Jonas, At leall take back your thimble. 
 
 Sophia. No ; it is not mine now. 
 
 Charlotte. \i you ever pals our way, I will do fomething 
 for you. 
 
 Jhiielia. 'Tis in Square ; any body will fhew you 
 
 Mr. Richmond's. 
 
 Jotias. Oh ! great folks feldom afKime into their houfes. 
 I am fometimes, perhaps, taken down into tiie kitchen. 
 
 Sophia. Well, enough of this. Your father probably 
 is uneafy on your account, and ours may return very 
 foon. 
 
 Jonas. Hov.', mifs ! your papa? Do you expeft him 
 faon ? 
 
 Sophia. Yes, go your ways, elfe the rogue who took 
 your handkerchief and money may take this from )ou 
 too. 
 
 Jcnas. But I hope you are very fure not to be fcolded. 
 
 Godfrey. No, no, never fear. Good bye ! 
 
 fcnas, {As he goes out.) The good-natured little fouls! 
 
 SCENE XI. 
 
 Sophia^ Charlotte, jlmelia, Godfrey. 
 
 Charlotte. 1 am very forry that you have deprived your- 
 felf of your buckles, Mafter Godfrey. 
 
 Jlmelia. You havefct us a good example. 
 
 Godfrey, i only followed that of Sophia. I fhould be 
 happy in the opportunity of doing a good aflion if it had 
 rot been furnilhcd by the mean behaviour of Charles. 
 With v/hat pleafure lliall 1 now look at my pinchbeck 
 buckles I 
 ^ SCENE 
 
THE LITTLE FIDDLER. 29 
 
 SCENE XIL 
 
 Mr, Mel/orf, Sophia, Jnieliay C harlot te, Godfrey, yonas. 
 
 The children get cloj'c together. Sophia and Godfrey ca/I a 
 fide look at jronas, and nx-hifper each other. ^ 
 
 Mr. Mel f. [to the Mlj's Ahhmonds.) Your fervanf, la- 
 dies 1 i thank you for the honour that yoii have done my 
 daughter. But give me leave to hear, in your prefenccy^ 
 what this boy has to fay. He was waiting for me upon 
 the iiairs, and cannot Jeave me, he fays, until he iia--5 
 fpoken to me before you — {to Jonas) Come, what have 
 you to lay ? 
 
 jcnas. {to Sophia and Godfrey .) My good young mailer 
 and mifs, I ht^ you, for heaven's fake, not to be angry 
 with me; but 1 cannot help fpeaking, and it would be iil 
 done of me to keep what you have made me take, with- 
 out the confent of your papa. I knov/ very well that 
 children have nothing of tlieir own to give away. 
 
 Mr.Melf. What is ail this ? 
 
 Jonas, i am going to tell you, fir. This young maimer" 
 called me from his window to coiwe In and play upon my 
 violin for thefe ladies. There was another little gentleman- 
 too along with them^ very handfome, but a very iil-na- 
 tured rogue. 
 
 Mr. Melf. What ! my fon ? 
 
 Jonas. I beg pardon. That word efcapad me. Well; 
 I played my belt, what tunes I knew, and this good little 
 company were fo kind as to beftow me a piece of cake^, 
 with a handkerchief to wrap it up, and almolt a handful 
 of money befides. I do not know how much, 
 
 Mr, Melf. Well ? 
 
 Jonas. Well, that ill-natured little gentleman took 
 away the cake, which I was intending to carry to my 
 poor father who is blind. That I ihould not have 
 minded ; but he flips out of the room, and when I was 
 going away quite overjoyed with my little bundle, he 
 watches me in the paifage, takes the handkerchief with 
 all the money from me by force, and breaks my violin in 
 pieces. Look ye, there it is, (crying.) /\il my riches, 
 that fupported me and my father. 
 
 C 3 Mr, 
 
36 THE LITTLE FIDDLER, 
 
 Mr. Me//. Is it poflible ? Such a malicious ill-natured 
 a*Slion ! — What ! my Si>n r — 
 
 Charlotte. His behaviour in every thing elfe makes this 
 very prrbable. Aik Sophia herfelf. 
 
 Mr. Melf. Go, my man ; do not be afHltfled : I will 
 indemnify you. But is that all ? 
 
 Jonas. No fir; only hear me. Being in fuch trouble, 
 I recurned to tell thefe good little gentlefolks the whole 
 affair. They had not money enough to pay for the da- 
 Diage : fo this pretty mifs gives me her gold thimble, and 
 this young gentleman his filver buckles. 1 could not pof- 
 libly keep them : my father would have thought that I 
 had llolen them. I knew you were coming home, fo I 
 waited to return them to you, and here they are. — But 
 I have no fiddle now. O my fiddle ! O my poor father ! 
 
 Mr. Melf. What an account thou had; given me I Is it 
 vhou or you, my generous children, whom I Ihould moll 
 admire } Excellent boy ! in extreme irjdigence, fo lofe 
 all ; and yet, from the fear of doing wrong, to run th« 
 rifque of letting a father whom you love perilh with 
 hunger. 
 
 Jonas. Is it fo great a matter not to be a rogne ? No, 
 no ; one never thrives on ill-gotten bread. It is what my 
 father and mother have often told me. If you would only 
 plcafe to buy me another fiddle, that will make amends 
 for all. Whatever more the thimble and buckles would 
 have brought, God Almighty will repay me. 
 
 Mr. Melf. Your father and you mull be endowed with 
 extraordinary uprightnefs of heart, not even to fufpei\ 
 the depravity of others! God will make ufe of me as an 
 inftrument to impart his bieflings to you. You Ihall Hay 
 jjere ; Mnd for the firll you ihall wait upon Godfrey : Af- 
 terwards wc will fee what we can do better for you, 
 
 Jonas. What I wait upon this little angel of a gentle- 
 man. Oh ! 1 fhould be delighted [bo-ivs to Goeifrcy.) But, 
 no; { forroitjjully') 1 cannot leave my father all alone. 
 Without me, how would he do to live? What! fliould 
 Ibe in abundance, and he die for want.? Oh ! no. 
 
 Mr. Melf. Excellent child ! and who is thy father,? 
 
 Jonas. An old blind labourer, whom I fupported by 
 playing on the fiddle. It is true, he feldoni eats, nor I 
 neither, any thing elfe but a piece of bread with fome 
 milk. Cut God always gives us enough for the day, and 
 
 we 
 
THE LITTLE FIDDLER. p 
 
 we take no care for the morrow : he provides for that alfo. 
 
 Mr. Mel/. Well, I will take care of thy father and, if 
 he chufes, I will get him into an alms-houfe, where old ^ 
 and infirm people are well maintained. You may go and 
 fee him there whenever you pieafe. — {jfonas, after mi ex* 
 clamationofjoy, runs about the room^ quite trau/ported.) 
 
 Jonas. O g oodnefs ! What, my dear father ! No ; that 
 will make him die with joy. I cannot Hop any longer, 
 but mull go for him and bring him here. — [Runs out, 
 Sophia and Godfrey take Mr, Melfcrt's hands, Thej nvips 
 their eyes,) 
 
 SCENE XIIL 
 Mr. Melfort, Sophia^ Amelia, Charlotte, and Godfrey, 
 
 Mr. Melf. O my dear children ! how happy would this 
 day have been for me, if, \^hiie \ admire the generofity 
 of your fentiments, the idea of my fon's unvvortnineis did 
 not intervene to poifon my happinefs ! But, no; ir fhould 
 not affeft it. God has given me another fon in thee, my 
 dear Godfrey. If you are not fo by birth, yet \ou are 
 by the ties of blood, and by congensal worthinefs of 
 heart. Yes, you Ihall be my fon. — But where is Charles ? 
 Go, feek him, and bring him hither to me immediately. 
 — [Godfrey goes out.) 
 
 Sophia. It Is almoft an hour fince we faw him. While 
 the little boy was playing a minuet to us, he difappeared 
 with his piece of cake. 
 
 Godfrey, [returning.) He v/as feen going into a confec- 
 tioner's not far off. i have told John to go for him. 
 
 Mr. MAf. Children ftep into my ftudy. I wifli to 
 know what anfwer he will have the aillirance to make me,- 
 When 1 want your telHmony, I (hall call you. 
 
 Charlotte and Amelia. Then we Ihall take our leave. 
 
 Mr. Melf. No, my dears ! I v/ill fend word to your 
 papa and mama, that you will fpenJ the rell of the even- 
 ing with us. Probably the generouj little Jonas and his 
 old father will be our gueils alfo. I have occafion for 
 fomething to afTu.ige the cruel wound that Charles has 
 given my heart, and I know of nothing more falutary ihain 
 the converfation of fuch amiable children as you. 
 
 Sophia [lijfening.) 1 think 1 hear Charles coming —(Jfr. 
 Melf ort opens his Jludj-door. The children ^ithdraiv.) 
 
 C 4 SCENE 
 
3.2 THE LITTLE FIDDLER. 
 
 SCENE XIV. 
 
 Mr. Mclfcrt, 
 
 I have long dresdcd a difcovery of this dlfagreeable 
 nature, but could never have lufpcdcd him of any thing 
 fo horrid. It is, perhaps, Hill not too late to correal his 
 vices. Alas ! why am 1 obliged to try a dei'pejaie re- 
 medy ! 
 
 SCENE XV. 
 
 Mr. Melfort^ Charles, 
 
 Charles, What are your commands, papa? 
 
 Mr. Mclfort, Where have you been ? Were you not in 
 your chamber ? 
 
 Charles. Our tutor is gone out. Godfrey was below 
 ibiirs. So, aft^r having Itudied all the afternoon, 1 grew 
 lired of being alone. 
 
 an 
 
 Mr. Mdlf. Why did not you go, as well as Godfrey, 
 d join the little company that 1 found with your fiiUr ? 
 Charles. Aftd fo 1 did : but thofe miiTes treated me ib 
 
 Mr. Melf, How ? you allonifh ine. 
 
 Charies. At firil they drank tea, but without alkingme 
 to have a drop.- On the contrary, they Ihev.cd me all 
 the fpite in the world, l^hen Godfrey picked up a liiiic 
 beggar brat in the rtreet, and brought him to play the 
 iidciie to them. He gave him fome of the cake that was 
 brought up to them, and me not a bit. They danced, 
 but not one of the ladies would dance with me, though 
 there v/ere three of them, and no gentleman but Godfrey. 
 Vv'hat could 1 do hore ? i went down to the door to luok 
 iit the people pafling by. 
 
 Mr. Melf, Only to the door? What was it then that 
 palled at the corner ofthellreet, between a little fiddler 
 and you ? 1 have been told that you beat him and broke 
 his violin, and that he went away crying. 
 
 Charles. Yes, that is tru?, papa ; and if I hadnot been 
 very good-natured, 1 fliould have got a conitable to put 
 hm in bridewell. You Ihallhear, hr. When 1 flnv him 
 go out, 1 faid to inyfelf, 1 muit give this poor creature 
 
 foniethmcr 
 
THE LITTLE FIDDLER. 35 
 
 fomething too for his trouble, for I know that Godfrey 
 has nothing of his own, and a beggar is but ill paid v/ith 
 only a morfel of cake. So I took ioine money out of my 
 purfe which I gave him, and he drew out a handkerchief 
 to put it in. 1 perceived that it was one of my filler's 
 handkerchiefs ; you may fee the mark. I begged hiiii 
 very civiily to return it, which he would not, bo I took 
 him by the collar, and we druggled together, and by 
 accident I put my foot upon his fiddle. 
 
 Mr. Melf. {With indignation.) Hold your tongue, baf? 
 liar ! I cannot bear to hear you. 
 
 Charles. [Dra'Lvir.g 7iear to hifn, and going I0 take him by 
 the hand) Why, my dear papa, what mai-ies you angr\ ?. 
 
 Mr. Melf. Be gone, wicked creature, but of my fight! 
 you ih-jck me. {lie calls the children fn^m the /ludj.) 
 
 SCENE xvr. 
 
 Mr, Melfort] Sophia , Jmdia, Charlotte, Charles ^ Gcdfrry,- 
 
 Mr, Melf. Come hither, my children ! I will fee none 
 but thofe who merit my aifedlion. As for you, quit my 
 prefence for ever. But no, fiop. You fhall receive your 
 ientence firit. {To Sophia and Godfrey.) You have heard 
 his charges againll: you. » 
 
 Sophia. Yes, papa j and if it were not neceffary for our' 
 Gwn j unification, 1 »\ouldfay not a word againll liirn, for 
 fear of increafmg your anger. 
 
 Charles. Do not believe any thing that itie v/ill tel^ 
 you. 
 
 Mr. Melf. B e ^\ 1 e n t . I h a v e aire ?. d y h a d a proo f o f t h y 
 detefiable falHiOod. Lying is the high road to theft and- 
 murder. Thou hafl aiready committed I'.ie frit- crime', 
 and perhaps vvanteii only iireogih to attempt \.\\: cuur. 
 Go on, .'?ophia. 
 
 Sophia, in- the firfc place^ he has done no bufirfS^f st a:! 
 this afternoon., it was Godfrey tiiat wrote his trarifiatioa. 
 jfor him. 
 
 Mr. Melf. Is this true ? 
 
 Godfrey, I cannot deny it. 
 
 Sophia. Then he fpilc a difli of tei uron- Amera'b flip ;- 
 
 fti^d while we were biify in wiping ir, he ■?' ai.-.ed at- 
 
 Ifiblc^ ajid emptied tlis tea-pot. There was not- a drop 
 
 C 5 iett 
 
54 T ir E C A iN A k i - ii 1 R D. 
 
 left for us. Thefe young ladies are witnefTco {piinimg i9 
 the ISIifs Richmoacls.) As to the cake — 
 
 Mr. Melf. That is enough. All your bafcnefs is dif- 
 covered. Go up into your chamber for this day : to- 
 morrow morning 1 will put you cut of the houfe. I will 
 give you time enough to amend before you return, and 
 if that experiment does not fucceed, there are not wanting 
 methods to difpofe of incorrigible reprobates, who dillurb 
 fociety by their mifdeeds. Godfrey, tell John to fee that 
 he keeps his room. You will give orders in the mean 
 time that your tutor be fent to me as foon as he returns. 
 
 Sophia and Godfrey, {i?iterceding for him.) Dear papa! — 
 Dear uncle ! 
 
 Mr. Melf. I will not hear a word in his favor. He 
 who is capable of taking from the poor by force the earn- 
 ings of his indurtry, of breaking the infirument of his 
 livelihood, and of feeking to juftify fuch a6lions by falfe- 
 hood and calumny, Ihould be turned out of the fociety of 
 men. I thank God that he has left me llill two fuch ex- 
 cellent children as you. You Ihall be my confolation 
 henceforward, and with you 1 will endeavour to make 
 myfelf as happy this evening as the father of io unprin- 
 cipled a fon can be. 
 
 THE canary-bird. 
 
 CANARY-BIRDS to fell! Who'll buy my Canary^ 
 birds } Fine Canary-birds ! Thus cried a man paffing 
 by the houfe of little Jefly. Jefly heard him : (he ran to 
 jthe window, and looking into the ilreet, faw that it was 
 xi bird- feller who carried upon his head a large cage full 
 f)f Canary-birds. They Jumped fo nimbly from perch to 
 perch, and chirped fo fvvcetJy, that JelTy, in the eagerncfs 
 of her ctiriofity, was near falling out of the window,. 
 while fhe endeavoured to have a nearer view of them, 
 "Will you buy a Canary-bird, mifs? faid the birdman to 
 her. Perhaps I may, anfwered j^ffy ; but that does not 
 depend on me entirely. Stop a nttle ; I will go and afl-i 
 my papa's leave. The man promifed to ftop,. and feeing 
 .1 bulk on the other fide of the ilreet, laid down his cage 
 Uicrc and Hood by the fide of it, Jeffy in the mean time 
 
 xaa 
 
THE CANARY-BIRD.. 35 
 
 ran to her father's chamber, and entered it quite out of 
 breath, crying, Come here, papa! quick! make hafte I 
 
 Mr. Gorver. And what is the hurry ? 
 
 yejj. There is a man in the ilreet that fells Canary- 
 birds. I dare fay he has more than a hundred. He car- 
 ries a great cage quite full of them on his head. 
 
 Mr. Go^er. And why does that make you fo glad ? 
 
 'Jejfy. h'i\\ papa; becaufe — that is if ycu give me 
 leave — [ fliould like to buy one. 
 
 Mr. Gower. And have you money enough ? 
 
 JeJfy. O yes, in my purfe. 
 
 Mr. GoiAjer. But who will feed the poor bird ? 
 
 Je£y. 1 will, papa, myfelf. You'll fee, it will be glad 
 to be my bird. 
 
 Mr. Goiver.- Ah 1 I am afraid 
 
 Jejy. Of what, papa? 
 
 Mr. Go'iver. That you will let him die of hunger or 
 tljirll. 
 
 "Ji^v. I let him die of hunger or third ? Oh ! no, cer-- 
 tainly I fha'nt. Nay,. I will never touch my own break- 
 faft, before my bird has had his. 
 
 Mr. Gorver. Jefij ! Jeffy ! you know you are very- 
 giddy ! and then you have only to negledhim one day. 
 
 Jelly promifed her father fo fairly ; fhe coaxed him fo' 
 much, and pulled his coat-iliirt fo often, that Mr. Goi.ver 
 confented at lafi: to his daughter's requeil. He croffed the 
 llreet, leading her by the hand ; and when they came up 
 to the cage, they chofe the pretcieit- Ciiuary-biid in it ; a 
 male, of the moll lively yellow, with a little black tuft 
 upon his head. Who was ever (o happy as Je.Ty then ?' 
 She held her purfe to her father, that lie might pay 
 for the bird.. Mr. Gcwer then took money oat of his- 
 own, to buy a handfome cage with drawers, and d 
 water-cup of cryftal. Jedy had no fooner given the 
 Canary-bird pofTeffion of its little palace, than fhe ran 
 to every part of the houfe, calling her mama, her fillers 
 and all the fervants^ and lliewing them the bird which her 
 fxithcr had been fo good as to bay her. When any of her 
 little friends came to fee her, the firit words were, do you: 
 know 1 have the prettiell Canary Bird in the world r hfe 
 is as yellow as gold, and has a little black creft like ihe 
 plumes of mama's hat. Come, I will Ihew him to you ; 
 his name is Cherry. Cherry was quite happy under , 
 C 6 JelTy's 
 
36 THE CANARY-BIRD. 
 
 JefTy's c.'ire. The firfi; thing that flic thought of in the 
 morning was to give him freih grain and the clearcll wa- 
 it r. Whenever there was any cake at tabic. Cherry had 
 his part of it firft. She had always Tome bits of fugar in 
 jtore for him, iand his cage\vas garniflied with frclh greens 
 of one fort cr another. Cherry was not ungrateful to all 
 thefe aticntions. He foon learned to dilHnguilh Jelly j 
 .and the 'moment he heanl her Hep in the room, what Hut- 
 tt-ring of his wings I what inccilknt chirpings ! Jcffy al- 
 inoll devoured him with kiiles. At the end of a week he 
 began to fing, and produced the moll delightful mufic. 
 isometimci. he fwelled his little notes to fiich a length, that 
 one would have thought he muil: expire from fatigue; 
 then, after paufiiig a moment, he would begin again 
 fwQeter than ever, with a tone fo clear and brilliant that 
 te could be heard all over tlie houfe. Jefiy palled whole 
 hours in liikning to him as fhe fat by his cage. She fomc- 
 times would let her work fall oat of her hands to gaze at 
 him, and, after he had entertained her with a fweet fong, 
 ihe regaled him in her turn with a tune upon the bird- 
 organ which he would endeavour to imitate. Th.efe plea- 
 lures, however, became familiar to JeiTy. Her father, 
 one day, made her a prefent of a book of prints. She was 
 fo agreeably taken up with it that Cherry was fomething 
 the lefs minded. He would chitp the moment that he faw 
 Jefiy, th:)ugh ever fo far off; but Jelfy heard hiin not. 
 Almoll a week had paficd iince he had cither had frefh 
 greens or bifcuit. He repeated the fweetcit airs that Jeli'y 
 iiad taught him, and compofed new for hej, bat in vain. 
 The truth was, Jefl'y's thoughts were othe: wife engaged. 
 Her birth-day came on, when her godfather gave her a 
 great jointed doll. This doll, which f}ie called Colum- 
 bine, completely baniflied all thoughts of Cherry. Frunv 
 jmorning tiU night fhe was bufied with nothing but drcf- 
 fmg and undrdhng Mifs Columbine a hundred times, 
 ta'king to her, and carrying her up and dov/n the room .. 
 The poor bird vv;;s very happy to got fome food towards, 
 evening. Sometimes it happened that he was obliged to 
 wait for it till the next day. At length, one day when 
 Mr. Cower was at table, and call his eye accidentally 
 upon the c?.ge, he faw the Canary-bird lying upon its 
 brcalt and panting for breath. Jt:. feathers were rultled, 
 ».nd it fcemed contraikd all of a lump. Mr. Gower 
 3 wefij 
 
THE CANARY-BIRD. z^ 
 
 went clofe up to it; but no more fond chirpings! The 
 poor little creature had fcarce iirength enough left to 
 breathe. Jeily, cried Mr. Gower, what is the matter 
 with your Canary-bird: Jeny blufhed. Why, papa, I 
 — fomehow, 1 forgot ; — and all in a tremble flie ran tt> 
 fetch the box of feed. Mr. Gower took down the cage, 
 and examined the drawer and the water-cup. Alas ! 
 Cherry had not a fingle grain, nor a drop of water. Ah ! 
 poor bird ! cried Mr. Gower ; thou art fallen into cruel 
 hands ! If i had forefeen this, 1 ihould never have bought 
 thee. All the company rofe from table, holding up their 
 hands, and crying. The poor bird 1 Mr. Gower put 
 fome feed into the drawer, and filled the cup with frech 
 water, but had much difficulty in bringin^g Cherry back 
 to life. Jefly left the table, and went up into her cham- 
 ber, crying, and made her handkerchief quite wet with 
 her tears. The next day Mr. Gower ordered the bird to 
 be carried out of the houfe, and given as a prefent to the 
 fon of Mr. Mercer, his neighbour, who was counted a 
 very careful boy, and would pay more attention to him 
 than JeiTy had done. But, to hear the little girl's com- 
 plaints and expreffions of forrow ! Kti \ my dear bird ! 
 my poor Cherry ! Indeed I promife yoa faithfully, papa, 
 that I v/ill never forget him a fingle moment as long as I 
 live. Only leave him with me this once. Mr. Gower 
 fufFered himfelf at length to be touched with Jeffy's en- 
 treaties, and gave her back the Canary-bird, but not 
 without a fevere reprimand for her negligence, and the 
 ftrideft injun6lion as to the future. This poor littie crea- 
 ture, fays he, is fliut up, and therefore not able to pro- 
 vide for its own wants. Whenever you want any thing, 
 you can aflc for it; but Cherry cannot make people un- 
 deritand his language. If ever you let him foffer hunger 
 
 or third again At thefe words JeJTy fned a iiood of 
 
 tears. She took her papa's hand and kifTed it, but her 
 grief was fo full that ihe could not utter a word. Now 
 jgfly was once m.ore millrefs of Cherry, and Cherry was 
 fmccrely reconciled with jeil^/. About a month after, 
 Mr. Gower was obliged to go into the country for a few 
 days with his lady. Jelly, JefTy, faid he, in parting with 
 his daughter, I earnellly recom.mend poor Cherry to ycu;" 
 care. Her parents were fcarcely got into the carriage, 
 .?5/heft Je.^y rail to the cage, and carefully provided ti^.e 
 
 bird 
 
3? THE CANARY-BIRD. 
 
 bird with every thing neccfTary. In a few hours after, 
 her time began to hang heavy. She Tent for fome of her 
 Htile acquaintance, and foon recovered her chcaifulnefs. 
 They went out to walk together, and at their return fpenc 
 part of the evening in playing at blind-man's bufFand four 
 corners. After that they danced. In fine, the little 
 company broke up very late, and Jefiy went to bed quite 
 fatigued. The next morning Ihe awoke by break of day, 
 and began thinking on the amufements of the evening 
 before. If her governefs had let her, (lie would have run 
 as foon as ihe got up, to fee the Mifs Marfhalls, but was 
 obliged to wait till afier dinner. However, Ihe had 
 fcarcely finiHied it, before fhe defired to be conduced to 
 their houfe: and Cherry ! — he was obliged to ihiy at home 
 alone, and to faft. The following day was alfo fpent in 
 amufements: and Cherry! — he was forgotien again. It 
 was the fame the third day : and Cherry ! — who could 
 think of him in the midll of fuch diverfions ? The fourth 
 day, Mr. and Mrs. Gower returned from the country, 
 jeify had thought very little about their return. Her 
 father had fcarce kiifed her and enquired after her 
 health, before he afked. How is Cherry? Very well, 
 cried Jcffy, a little confufed ; and (he ran towards the 
 cage to carry him fome water. Alas ! the poor little 
 creature was no more. He was laid upon his back, with- 
 his wings fpread and his bill open. Jelfy fcreamed out 
 aixi wrung her hands. Every one in the houfe ran up> 
 and was eye-witnefs of the difailer. Ah 1 poor bird ! 
 cried Mr. Gower; how painful has thy death been ! If 
 1 had wrung thy head off the day that I went to the 
 country, thou wouldell have had but the pain of a mo- 
 ment, whereas now thou haft endured for feveral days the 
 pangs of hunger and thirl!:, and haft died in a long and 
 cruel agony. However, thou art ftill happy in being 
 delivered from the hands of fo pitilefs-a guardian, Jf'lfy 
 would have hid herf-lf in the bowels of the earth : (he 
 \vould have given all her play- things, and all her pocket- 
 money, to purchafe the life of Cherry; but it was then 
 too late. Mr. Gower took the bird, and had its fkin. 
 llufied and hung up from the ceiling. JeiTy did not dare 
 to look at it : her eyes were hiled with tears whenever (lie 
 chanced to perceive it, and every day flic entreated her. 
 father to remove it from kcr fi^ht.- Mr, G.ower did not,. 
 
 con fen t,. 
 
THE CHILDREN WHO WOULD, &c.- 39 
 
 confent, till after many fupplications on her part ; and 
 whenever JeiTy Ihevved any mark of inattention or giddi. 
 nefs, the bird was hung up again in its place, and every 
 body would fay in her hearing, Poor Cherry I what a 
 cruel death you fuffered! 
 
 THE CHILDREN WHO WOULD BE THEIR 
 OWN MASTERS. 
 
 Camillus. \ H ! Papa, how I ft^.ould wilh to be big ! to 
 
 jTj^ be as big as yon. 
 . Mr. Orpin. And why Ihouid you wiih fo, my dear? 
 
 Cant. Becaufe tnen I fhould not be under any body*s 
 command, and might do whatever came into my head. 
 
 Mr. Orpin. I fuppofe, then, you would do wonders. 
 
 Cam. 'I'hat I ihouid, I proniife you. 
 
 Mr. Orpin. And do you wilh aifo, Julia, to be free to 
 do whatever you pleafe ? 
 
 Julia. Yes indeed, papa. 
 * Cam. Oh I if Julia and I were our own mailers ! 
 
 Mr, Orpin. Well, children, I can give you that fatif- 
 fadion. After to-morrow morning you ihall have the 
 liberty of conducting yourfelves entirely according to your 
 own fancy. 
 
 Ca7n. Ah! you are jefting, papa. 
 
 Mr. Orpin. No, 1 ipeak quite ieriouily. To-morrow, 
 neither your mother, nor I, nor in iliort any body in the 
 houfe, iliall oppofe your inclinations. 
 
 Ci'.m. \Vhat pleafure ihall we feel to have our necks 
 out of the yoke ! 
 
 Mr. Orpin. That is not all. I do net intend to give 
 you this privilege for to-morrow only: it Ih-all continue 
 until you come of yourfelves and requefl me to ail'ume my 
 authority again. 
 
 Cam.^ At that rate v/e fhall be our own mailers a lono: 
 while. 
 
 Mr. Orpin. Well, I ihall be glad to fee you able to 
 conduct yourfelves : fo prepare to become great folks to- 
 morrow. 
 
 The next day came. The two children, inilead of 
 rifing at kwtw o'clock as ufual, lay in bed till near nine. 
 Too much ileep makes us lieavy aivd liftlei^. This was 
 
 ihe 
 
40 THE CHILDREN WHO WOULD 
 
 the cafe vvhh Camillus and Julin. THey awoke at length 
 uncilled, and got up in an ill-humour, tlovvever, they 
 plealed tiienifclves a little with the agreeable idea of act- 
 ing in whatever manner they liked the whole day. Come, 
 what Ihall we dofirll? Gid Camillus to his filler, after 
 they had drefled thcmfelves and breakfafted, 
 
 Julia. Why, we'll go and play. 
 
 Cavi. At what? 
 
 Julia, Let us build houfes with cards. 
 
 Cam. Oh ! that is very dull amufiment. I am not for 
 that. 
 
 Juli-a. Will you play at blind- man's buff? 
 
 Cam. What, only two of us ? 
 
 jfuli^i. Well, at drafts, or at fox and get^Q, 
 
 Qam. You know I cannot bear thofe games that oblige' 
 one. to fit liill. 
 
 Julia. Well, then mention fome to your own liking. 
 
 Cam. Then we'll play at riding on a iHck. 
 
 Julia. Ay, that is pretty play for a little girl ! 
 
 Cam. We'll play then, if )ou like, at horfes. Yoa 
 jQiall be the horle, and I will be coachman. 
 
 Julia. Oh, yes ! to lafli m.e with your whip as you did. 
 t'other day. J have not forgot that. 
 
 Cam. I never do it wiiliugly ; but the thing is, yoa 
 won't gallop. 
 
 Julia. Ay, but that hurts me : fo I won't play at any. 
 fuch game. 
 
 Cam. You won't ? won't you ? Well ! let us play at 
 hounds and har^. 1 will be the huntfman, and you ihali 
 be the hare. Come,, ni.ake ready; I iliall fet off. 
 
 Ju'ia. Pihaw ! I'll have none of your hunting. Yoii 
 do nothing but tread upon my heels, and punch me in. 
 the fides. 
 
 Cam. Wt.Il, fmce you do. not chufe any of my gnmes^, 
 I'll never play with you again. Do you hear that? 
 
 Julia. Nor i with you. Do you hear. that too? 
 
 At thefe words they quitted the middle of the room^ 
 where ihey were ll.-inding, and retiicd each into a corner, 
 and there remained a confjuerable time without looking 
 ct or fpeaking to each other. They were Hill in a pout^^. 
 when the clock llruck ten. The forenoon would foori 
 pafs over; therefore Camillus at length approaching his 
 •iiilcr iijid^ ".i mail do tvcry ihin^ that you like. . Well 
 . f ihc-n^v 
 
BE THEIR OWN MASTERS. 41 
 
 then, I will play at drafts with you for twelve chefnuts a 
 game." 
 
 j'ulia. I have no chefnuts : and befides you know you 
 Gwe me a dozen already. You fhould pay me thofe lirft. 
 
 Cam. Yes, I ov/ed them to you yeilerday ; but 1 do not 
 owe any thing to-day, 
 
 Julia. And pray how did you come to be quit? 
 Cam. Nobody has a right to aik any thing of thofe who 
 are their own m afters. 
 
 Julia. Mtry well ! I ihall tell my papa of yoar cheat- 
 ing. 
 
 Cam, But papa has no power over me now. 
 
 Julia. Jf that be the cafe, I won't play. 
 
 Cam. Then yotrmay do as you like. 
 
 They go away pouting again to the farther ends of the 
 rcom from each other. Camillus began to vvhiflle, Julia 
 to fing. Camillus tied knots on his whip, and cracked 
 it: Julia drefled her doll, and began a converfation with 
 it- Camillus grumbled, and Julia fighed. The clock 
 ilruck again. They had another hour lefs to play in. 
 Camillus, in a pet, threw his whip out of the window ; 
 Julia tofi'ed her do:l into a corner. They look at esch 
 other, nor knov.'ing what to fay. At length Julia breaks 
 filence : " Come, Camillus, 1 will be your ]ior*fe.'* 
 
 Cam. There now, that is right ! J have a long ftring 
 for the bridle. See here. Put it into your mouth. 
 
 Julia. No, not into my mouth. Tie it round my waiil, 
 or fallen it to my arm. 
 
 Cam. How you talk ! Did you ever fee horfes have the 
 bit any v/Kere but between their teeth ? 
 
 Julia. But 1 am not a real horfe. 
 
 Cam. Well, but you llnould do jull the fame as if yo« 
 were. 
 
 Julia, I do not fee any occafion for that. 
 
 Ca77i. I fuppofe you tlnnk that you know m.ore about it 
 tlian 1 do, who am all the day in the liable. Come, take 
 it the right way, 
 
 Julia. -You have been trailing it about in the dirt all 
 the week. No, I'll never put it into my mouth. 
 
 Ca7n. Then 1 won't have it any where ell'e. I would 
 rather not play at ail. 
 
 Julia. Jull as you like ! 
 
 A third 
 
42 THE CHILDREN WHO WOULD 
 
 A third fit of pouting, more fallen and peevifh tha» 
 before. Camillus goes for his whip : Julia takes up her 
 doll. But the whip rcfufes to crack: the doll's drefling 
 goes all wrong. Camillus aghs, Julia weeps. This in- 
 terval brought on dinner-hour ; and Mr. Orpin came to 
 alk ihcm, if they chofe to have it ferved up. But what 
 is the matter with you ? faid he, feeing them both quite 
 dull. Nothing, papa, anfwered the children, and 
 wiping their eyes, followed their father into the dining- 
 room. The dinner this day confuted of a number of 
 diihes, and a bottle of wine was opened for e;ich of the 
 children. My dear children, faid Mr. Orpin, if I had 
 ftili my former authority over you, I would forbid you to 
 tafte all tliefe diilies, and particularly to drink wine. At 
 IcaU, 1 would defire you to be very (paring of them, be- 
 caul'e 1 know how dangerous wine and high-feafoned food 
 are to children. But ye are now your own mailers, and 
 may eat and drink whatever ye fancy. The children 
 did not wait to be told this twice. The one fwallowed 
 great bits of meat without bread ; the other took fauce in 
 whole fpoonfuls: and they drank full bumpers of wine, 
 without remembering to mix water with it. My dear, 
 whifpered Mr.s. Orpin to her hufband, they will make 
 themfelves fick. 1 fear they will, my dear, anfwered 
 Mr. Orpin ; but I would rather that they fhould learn for 
 once at their own expence how much one may fufFer 
 from ignorance, than by a premature attention deprive 
 them of the fruits of fo important a lefTon. Mrs. Orpin 
 faw her hulband's intention, iind therefore fuffered our 
 thoughtlefs little couple to indulge their greedinefs. The 
 cloth was now rfmoved. The children had llufFed as 
 long as they were able, and their little heads began to be 
 heated. Come with me, Julia, cried Camillus, and 
 took his filler with him into the garden. Mr. Orpin 
 thought proper to follow them unoblerved. There was a 
 little pond in the garden, and at the edge of the pond a 
 fmall boat. Camillus had a mind to go into it. Julia 
 flopped him. You know, faid flie, that wc mud not go 
 there. Mull not: anfwered Camillus. Do you forget 
 that we are our own mailers: Oh! that is true, faid 
 Julia: fo, giving her hand to her brother, they both 
 went into the boat. Mr. Orphin drew nearer to them, 
 but did not chufe to difcover himfelf yet. He knew that 
 
 the 
 
BE THEIR OWxN MASTERS. 4^ 
 
 the pond was not deep. Even if they fall in, faid he to 
 himfelf, I fhall not have much trouble in getting them 
 out. The two children v/ilhed to difengage the boat 
 from the bank, and pUiQi it out towards the middle of the 
 pond ; but they were not able to untie the knots of the 
 rope which held it fail. Since we cannot {\iil, faid the 
 giddy Camillas, we may at lead balance ourfelves. So, 
 llriding acrofs the boat, he began to prefs it dov/n, firll* 
 on one fide, then on the other. Their heads being a little 
 dizzy, it was not long before their legs failed them. 
 They laid hold of each other to fupport themfelves, and 
 fell both plump upon the fide of the boat, and from thence 
 into the water. Mr. Orpin flew like lightning from the 
 place v/here he hnd been hid. He threw himfelf into the 
 water, feized his rafn children one in each hand, and 
 brought them back into the houfe, half dead with terror. 
 They felt themfelves violently fick while they were un- 
 drefiing and rubbing with cloths. At length they were 
 put each in a warm bed : they fell alternately into a ftupor 
 and convulfions : they complained of a dreadful head-ach 
 and pains in the bowels, were feized with frequent faint- 
 ing fits, and in the intervals with {hudderings, ficknefs of 
 the llomach, and difficulty of breathing. In this deplora- 
 ble condition they pafTed the reft of the day : they fobbed 
 and wept, till at length they fell faft afieep through wea- 
 rinefs. Early the next morning their father entered their 
 chamber, and aflced how they had paffed the night. Very 
 ill, anfwered both in a feeble voice : we could not lie eafy 
 in bed, and feel a ficknefs yet in the head and ftomach. 
 Poor children, how I pity you ! But, added he a moment 
 after, what will ye do with your liberty to day ? Ye 
 remember that ye enjoy ic ftill. Oh ! no, no, anfwered 
 both eagcfly. And why, my little friends? Ye faid, 
 the other day, that it was fo difagreeable to be fubjedl to 
 the diredion of others. We have been well punifhed for 
 our folly, replied Camillus. And (hail take warning for 
 a long time, added Julia. 
 
 Mr. Orpin. Ye will not be your own maflers then, any 
 Jonger ? 
 
 Camillus. No, no, papa: we would rather be told by 
 you what to do. 
 
 Julia. It will be much better for us both. 
 
 Mr, 
 
44 THE BUSHES. 
 
 Mr Orphi. Think well of what ye fay ; for, if I re- 
 fume iny authority, I inform you before-liand, that my 
 very firli orders will be difagrceable to you. 
 
 Cant. No matter, papa ; we are ready to do whatever 
 you fnall think proper. 
 
 Mr, Orpin. Well, I have here a yellow powder, called 
 rhubarb. Jt hac an unpleafmg taile, but is excellent for 
 thofe who have hurt their ftomachs by excefs. Since ye- 
 confent to follow my orders, I command you inftantly to 
 take this powder. Let me fee you obey ! 
 
 Ca7n. Oh ! yes, yes, papa. 
 
 Julia, I would take it, though It were as bitter as foot. 
 
 Mr. Orpin gave them the medicine, and the children, 
 without making, as formerly, any grimaces, endeavoured 
 each to excel the other in taking it with a chearful coun- 
 tenance. This remedy happily had its effef^, and they' 
 both recovered very foon. After that, whenever their 
 p:irents would terrify them with threats of punilhment, 
 they would fay. We ihall let you be your own mailers ! 
 and the children felt more terror from this threat than 
 many others to whom one fliould fay, I will put you vx 
 prifon ! 
 
 THE BUSHES. 
 
 ONE iine evening in the month of iVIay, Mr. Ogllby, 
 was fitting with Algernon, his fon, upon the fide of a 
 fmall hil!, from whence he pointed out to him the beau- 
 ties of nature as they lay before him. The felting fun, 
 in taking his laft adieu, fcemed to have clothed every 
 thing iiT a robe of purple. They were roufed from this 
 pleaiing meditation by the chearful fong of a fnepherd 
 who was driving back his bleating flock from a neigh- 
 bouring field. On each fide of his road there grew up | 
 thorn-bulhes which no flieep approached without leaving 
 upon them fome part of her fleece. Little Algernon ^^^^■f 
 quite angry at thofe robbers. Do you fee, papa, cried he, 
 thofe buihes, how they rob the flieep of their wool ? Why 
 did God make tiiofe ill-natured brambles ? or why do not: 
 all men join with one accord to dellroy them? If the poor 
 iheep come back this fame way again, they will leave the 
 
 reil 
 
THE BUSHES. 45 
 
 reft of their clothing upon them. But, no; I will rife 
 to-morrow at break of day, and come with my bi!l-hook, 
 and fnip-fnap, cut all thofe briars down to the ground. 
 You fliall come v/ith me, papa, and bring a little axe, 
 and the whole ihall be iinilhed before breakfalt. 
 
 We will think of your projeft, anfwered Mr. Ogilby. 
 But in the mean time do not be unjuftly angry with thofe 
 buihes. Remember what we do about Lammas. 
 Jlger. What do we do then ? papa. 
 Mr. Ogilby. Have not you feen the Ihepherds arm them- 
 felves ji/ith great fliears, and rob the trembling fheep not 
 of a fev/ locks of wool only, but of their whole fleece ? 
 
 Alger. That is very true, papa, becaufe they want it to 
 make themfelves clothes ; but thofe buihes rob them out 
 of mere fpite, and without having the leaft: occafion for it. 
 Mr. Ogilby. You don't know what purpofe thefe bits of 
 wool may ferve to them ; but fuppofing that they fervtd 
 none, has a perfon any right to appropriate a thing to 
 himfelf, merely becaufe he wants it ? 
 
 Alger. But I have heard you fay, papa, that iheep na- 
 turally lofe their fleeces about that time of the year ; then 
 it is much better to take it for our ufe, than to fufler it 
 to fall off quite ufelefs. 
 
 Mr. Ogilby. Your remark is juH. Nature hath given 
 all beafts a clothing, and we are obliged from them to 
 borrow ours, unlefs we chufe to go quite naked and re- 
 main expofed to the inclemency of the Winter. 
 
 Alger, But a bufli has no occafion for clothing. So 
 you lee, papa, we mufh not give up our defign. I fhall 
 certainly cut all theie thorns down to-morrow. You will 
 come along with me, won't you ? 
 
 Mr. Og'by. With all my heart. Come then, now for 
 to-morrow morning by break of day. 
 
 Algernon, who thought himfelf already an hero, merely 
 from the thought of dellroying v/ith his little arm this 
 legion of robbers, could hardly fleep, taken up as he was 
 with his viftories of the next day. vScarce had the chear,- 
 ful iinging of the birds that perched on the trees near his 
 windows announced the return of the dawn, before he 
 hafied to awake his father. Mr. Ogilby, on the other 
 hand, though indifFerent as to the fate of the thorn-buflies, 
 yet, pleaf-d with the opportunity of fhevving to his fon 
 the beauties of the opening d?rf^ was no lefa eager to quit 
 
 his 
 
46 JOSEPH. 
 
 his bed. They tireiled themfelves hailily, took their in- 
 llruments, and fet forward on the expedition. Algernon 
 went before with an air of triumph, and Mr. Ogiiby had 
 fome difficulty to keep up with him. As they approached 
 the bulhes, they faw a number of little birds flying back- 
 wards and forwards amongft them, and fluttering about 
 the branches. Softly 1 faid Mr. Ogiiby to his fon. Let 
 us fufpend our vengeance for a moment, for fear of dif- 
 turbing thofe innocent creature?. Let us go up again to 
 that part of the hill where we fat yefterday evening, and 
 examine what it is that thole birds feem to feek fo bufily. 
 They went up the hill, feated themlelves, and looked on. 
 They faw that the birds were employed in carrying away 
 thofe bits of wool in their beaks, which the buflies had 
 torn from the flieep the evening before. There came 
 multitudes of yellow-haminers, chaffinches, linnets and 
 nightingales, who loaded themfelves with tliis plunder. 
 What is tlie meaning of that ? died Algernon, quite allo- 
 niflied. It means, replied his father, that Providence takes 
 care of the fmallell creatures, and furnifhes them with 
 every expedient for their happinefs and prefervation. 
 You fee, the poor birds find htre a lining for the habi- 
 tation which they prepare for their young. They make 
 ready, you fee, a very comfortable bed for themfelves and 
 their little family. Thus the honefi thorn-bufh, againft 
 which you were fo eafily provoked yefterday, unites the 
 inhabitants of the air with thofe of the earth. He takes 
 from the rich his fuperfluities, to fatisfy the wants of the 
 poor. Will you come now, and cut him down ? Heaven 
 forbid, cried Algernon. Thou art right, my fon, replied 
 Mr. Ogiiby. Let him flourifli in peace, fmce he makes 
 fo generous sl ufe of his conqucils. 
 
 JOSEPH. 
 
 THERE lived once in Briftol a crazy perfon whofe 
 name was Jofeph. He never went out without 
 having five or fix wigs on his head at once, and as many 
 muffc: upon each of his arms. Though his fenfes were 
 difbrdered, he was not mifchievous, and muft be teazed a 
 long time to be put in a paffion. Whenever he walked 
 S the 
 
JOSEPH. Jpr 
 
 tlie flieets, a number of troublefome little boys would 
 come out of the houfes and follow him, crying, Jofcph I 
 Jofeph ! how do you fell your wigs and your muffs ? 
 Some of them were even fo ill-natured as to throw ilones 
 at him. Though Jofeph commonly bore all thefe infults 
 very quietly, yet he was fometimes fo tormented that he 
 would fall into a fury, aad take up ftones or handfuls of 
 dirt to throw at the rabble of boys. Such a combat as 
 this happened one day before the houfe of Mr. Denham. 
 The noife drew him to the window, and he beheld with 
 grief his own fon Henry engaged in the fray. As foon a3 
 he perceived this, he ihut down the fafh, and went into 
 another chamber. At dinner, Mr. Denham faid to his 
 fon, Who was that man that you was running and hal- 
 looing after ? 
 
 Henry, You know him very well, papa. It is the 
 crazy man called Jofeph. 
 
 Mr. Denham, Poor man ! What can have occafioned 
 this misfortune to him? 
 
 Hoiry. They fay that it was a lawfuit for a great eftate. 
 He was fo grieved at lofing it that he has lolt his fenfes 
 too. 
 
 Mr, Denham. If you had known this man at the very 
 time when he was llript of his eftate, and if he had faid 
 to you, My dear Henry, I am unfortunate; 1 have juil 
 loft an inheritance which I long enjoyed peaceably ; all 
 my property is gone to fupport the expence of a lavv-fuit; 
 I have now neither town-houfe nor country-houfe ; in 
 fhort, nothing upon earth left. Would you have laughed 
 at him then r 
 
 Henry. God ff:>rbid ! who could be fo wicked as to laugh 
 at a man in his misfortunes 1 I Ihould much rather have 
 endeavoured to comfort him. 
 
 Mr. Denham. What, then, is he happier now, when 
 he has loll his reafon befides? 
 
 Henry. On the contrary, he is much more to be pi- 
 tied. 
 
 Mr. Denhatn. And yet this day you infult and throw 
 flones at an unfortunate man, whom you would have en- 
 deavoured to comfort when he was lefs an objeft of pity. 
 
 Henry* My dear papa, I have done wrong j forgive 
 me! 
 
 Mr. 
 
4« J O S E P IT. 
 
 l\fr. Denham, I pardon you willingly, if you are ferry 
 for your fault. But my pardon is not fufficient. There 
 is another uhof^^ forgivenels you have Hill to afk. 
 
 Henry, You mean Jofeph. 
 
 Mr. Denham. And ivhy Jofeph ? 
 
 Henry. Bccaufc I offended him. 
 
 Mr. Denham. Jf Jofeph had retained his fenfes, it would 
 certainly be his pardon that you ihould demand ; but as 
 he is not able to underfland what is meant by pardon, it 
 were ufelefs to addrefs yourfelf to him. Yet you think 
 that every one Ihould afk pardon of thofe whom he has 
 offended ? 
 
 Henry, S>o you have taught me, papa. 
 
 il/r. Denham, And do you know who it is that has 
 commanded us to have compaffion upon the unfortunate? 
 
 Henry. God. 
 
 Mr, Deuhafn. And yet you have not fhcwn compaiTion 
 to poor Jofeph : on the contrary, you have aggravated his 
 mifery by your infults. Do you think that fuch condud: 
 does not offend God ? 
 
 Henry, Yes, I acknowledge it, and will afic forgivenefs 
 of him to-night in my prayers. 
 
 Henry kept his word ; he repented of his fault, and at 
 right afked pardon of God from the bottom of his 
 heart. And he not only ceafed to trouble Jofeph for 
 feveral weeks himfelf, but he hindered alio others of his 
 comrades from infulting him. In fpite of his fair refolu- 
 tions, however, he happened one day to mix in the rabble 
 of boys who were following him. 'Tis true, it was purely 
 out of curiofity, and only to fee the tricks that they played 
 upon this poor man. Now and then he could not refrain 
 from hallooing like the reil:, Jofeph ! Jofeph ! and by 
 degrees canie to be the foremoll in the mob. At length 
 Jofeph's patience being tired by the fliouts that purfued 
 him, he turned fhort about, and taking up a large Hone, 
 threw it at him with fuch violence that it grazed his cheek, 
 and almoll cut off part of his car. Henry returned home 
 all over blood, and roaring heartily. It is a juil punifh- 
 ment on you from God, faiJ Mr. Denham. But, replied 
 Henry, .Why have 1 alone been hurt, while my compa- 
 nions, who ufcd him much worfe than I did, have not 
 been punifhed ? The reafon is, anfwered his father, that 
 you knew better than the otheis^ what a fault you were 
 
 committing 
 
THE LITTLE GLEANER. 4^ 
 
 committing, and confequently your offence was more 
 criminal. It is very jult that a child who knows the 
 commands of God, and of his father, fhould be doubly 
 puniHied, whenever he has fuch a difregard of his duty as 
 to violate them. 
 
 THE LITTLE GLEANER. 
 
 A X)rama, in one Act. 
 
 Characters. 
 
 Lord Bevil. 
 
 Marcellus, /jIs So^!. 
 
 Harriet, -^/V Daughter* 
 
 Mrs. Jennings. 
 
 Emily, her Daughter. 
 
 Hardy, Bailiff to Lord Be^vlL 
 
 Scene. A nenv reaped field, en nvhich remain Jiill fe'veral 
 Jhea'ves of corn. On one fide appears a nobleTKan'' s 
 feat ; on the other fenjeral cottages ^ and other abjecis 
 that adorn a rural profpeSi. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 {The fage reprefents a f eld of corn co~jered nfjith Jhea-ves.) 
 
 Emily, [holding ^cvith h'cth hands a hafet full of ears of 
 corn, Shefts do-ivn near a Jheaf) 
 
 COME, this is not a bad beginning! what joy will 
 this be for my poor mother ! {/he lays her hajket on 
 ■the ground y and locks at it nx:ith an air of fails faction.) 
 That old reaper! how good-natured he was to iill my 
 balket ! I might have run about here and there all the 
 day, and never have picked up fo much as half of this. 
 God reward him for it ! but here are llill fome ears upon. 
 
 the ground : if [ could only glean a handful or two — 
 
 {She prejfes doivn the corn ears in her bafet ^vAth bothy 
 bands.) I can make it hold them by prelling down a little, 
 and befides, 1 have my apron. {She rifesj takes the tvjo 
 corners of her apron in one hand, and prepares fo put into it 
 nxjith the oth^r the ears of corn that f?e gathers^ "Jjhen a noife 
 
 VOL. I, D 14 
 
50 THE LITTLE GLEANER. 
 
 /■/ heard.) O dear ! Yonder is a man coming towards me, 
 who ieerns to be angry. Yet 1 do not think that I have 
 done any iiarm. 
 
 S C E N E II. 
 
 Emily, Hardy. 
 
 Hardy, [feizing her by the arm.) Ah ! little thief! have 
 J caught you at it ? 
 
 Emily. What do you fay, fir ? J nm not a rhief. I am 
 an honell little girl, 1 can tell you that. 
 
 Hardy. An honell: little girl ! you an honeit little girl ! 
 {Snatches the bajhet out of her hands ) What have you got 
 in this then, my honell little girl? 
 
 Emily, Ears of corn, as you fee. 
 
 Hardy. And did thefe ears of corn grow in your baflcet ? 
 
 E?nily. Ah ! if they grew there, 1 fliould not have 
 occafion to take fo much trouble in gathering them up and 
 down the fields. 
 
 Hardy. Then they are ilolen ? 
 
 Emily, Pray, fir, do not treat me fo ill. I would rather 
 di^ of hunger, and my mother too, than do what you 
 fay. 
 
 •Hardy. 'Blood! why they did not throw themfelves 
 into your bafket of their own accord, did they? 
 
 Emily. Oh. dear! you terrify me with your fwearing. 
 But only hear me. 1 went to glean down in yonder field, 
 and there was a good-natured old man who law me ac 
 work. Poor child ! faid he, how (lie labours ! 1 will 
 affift her. There were fome fheaves lying in the field, and 
 he pulled out of them whole handfuls of ears, which he 
 threw into my bafket. What is given to the poor, faid 
 he, God repays ; and — 
 
 Hardy. Aha ! I underlland you. I'he old man in that 
 field below filled your bafivCt with ears that you have been 
 , pulling here out of our flieaves . Heh ! 
 
 E?nily. Nay, then you may go and afk himfelf. He 
 can tell you. 
 
 Hardy, i go and afk him ! yes, you may wait for that. 
 I have caught you here ; that is enough. 
 
 Emily. But when I tell you that 1 have not touched a 
 fingle fheaf! the few ears that I have in my apron, I 
 
 picked 
 
THE LITTLE GLEANER. ^i 
 
 picked up from the ground, becaufe I thought that was 
 allowed. However, if you do not choole that 1 fhould, 
 I am ready to return them. There, thefe are yours. 
 
 Hardy. No, no ; thefe ihall remain with the other, and 
 you Ihall remain with the bafket, wherever it goes. 
 Come follow me to the houfe of correction. 
 
 Emily. {Frighi^tud^) How ! You don't fay fo, my dear 
 fir! 
 
 Hardy. Oh ! yes, your dear fir ! but I inoiild be much 
 dearer if I let you efcape, iLould I noti* To the houfe cf 
 correftion I fay, come, come along! 
 
 Emily. Ah! pray, for God's fake !■— I have picked up 
 nothing here but the handfuls of ears that 1 returned to 
 you. What would my poor mother fay, if I fhould not 
 go home the whole day, and if flie heard that I had been 
 put in prifon ? it would be enough to kill her. 
 
 Hardy. A great lofs ! the parifh would be v/eii rid of 
 her. 
 
 E/nily. {Begins to cry,^ Ah ! if you knew what a good 
 mother fhe is, and how poor we are ! you would pity us. 
 
 Hardy. I am not here to pity people. I am here to take 
 them up, when they trefpafs upon my lord's grounds, and 
 to clap them in prifon. 
 
 Emily. But when one has done nothing, when one is 
 innocent as I am ?-— 
 
 Hardy. Oh! yes, tell me of your innocence! what, 
 come here and ileal a whole baflcet full of corn, and then 
 tell me a thou land lies ! come, come, walk along ! 
 
 Emily. Ah 1 my dear fir, have compafiion on me. 
 Take my bafeet if you will; alas ! my little ilore wiil 
 hardly make you much richer. But let me go, I entreat 
 you ; if not on my own account, at leall for the fake of 
 my poor mother. I am all the comfort and help that fhe 
 has. 
 
 Elardy. li I let you go, it is not on account o^ your 
 mother at leall, that I can tell you ; I could wiih her a 
 hundred miles off: it is only on your own, becaufe your 
 whimpering has moved me a little. But do f>ot expe<5t to 
 have your bafket too; the law feizes on it as forfeit. 
 Then, at feffions, their worfhips will lay on a fvvinging 
 fine, and if that is not paid, off to prifon, and turn out of 
 the village. {Takes the bajket upon his Jhoulder. Emily 
 nx:eeps bitterly atid kneels to l/nn ) Go, do not teaze me, 
 D 2 or 
 
52 THE LITTLE GLEANER. 
 
 or you will fee v\ hat is to be got by that ! {goes off runt tcr- 
 i>!g.) Only fee, if one were not always to be on ilie watch 
 after them, little as they are, they would run away, I da 
 believe, with the fields themlelvey. 
 
 SCENE in. 
 
 Emily [alone.) 
 
 {She Jtts do^V'jn on the ground and rejls her head upon a 
 jloeuf. For Jome mo?ncnts, /he nxeeps in Jilence, at lajl Jl^e 
 ri/es and looks about her ) Ah ! he is gone ; the ill-natured 
 man 1 he has carried away what was all my fatisfaclion. 
 1 have loft every thing, my ears of corn, my pretty balkct 
 and all ; and befides, who kno\ss what they will do to my 
 poor mother and me ? [After a Jljort pauj'c ) How happy 
 thofe jitttle birds are. ^1 hey at leali are permitted to come 
 and take fome grains for their food, and 1 — but who 
 knows whether fome ill-natured man, like this, be not 
 watching them now, to kill them with his gun. I will 
 frighten them all away, and then I wiil go myfelf ; for, 
 perhaps, they would puniih me for having lefted my head 
 on this fheaf. — But what two children are thofe coming 
 this way ? 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 MarcelluSy Hc.rriet^ Emily {jwiping her eyes.) 
 
 Marc. Ahal was it you then, Utile girl, that the bailiff 
 furprized juft now. Healing the ears of corn from our 
 fhi-aves? {E7nilyJobs, hut cannot answer.) 
 
 Harriet y [lcckii:g at her atte72ti%'cly, and taking her brother 
 €ifide.) She feems to be a very good little girl, IMarcellus. 
 See how fhe cries ! Do not reproach her any more! that 
 will afflid her worfe ; and it is not worth while, for a few 
 cars of corn that ihe has picked up — {Goes to her.) My. 
 poor child, what makes you cry r 
 
 E7nily Why, th.y accufe me unjultly; and perhaps 
 you tiank me in fault. 
 
 More. Then you are not in fault ? 
 
 E. tly. No, indeed, you may believe me. I wen" into 
 that held down there to glean. An old reaper tock pity 
 cn my fatigue, and filled my bafket wi'.h ears of corn. I 
 
 then 
 
THE LITTLE GLEANER. 55 
 
 then came here, to pick up a few others that I faw fcat^ 
 tered about. Your iil-natured bailiff found roe near this 
 fheaf, and accufed me of ftealing. He took away my 
 bafket, and would have carried me to prifonj if my en- 
 treaties and tears for my mother had not at length pre- 
 vailed on him to let me go. 
 
 Harriet. Ah ! I fnould be glad to fee him dare to 
 molert you ! We have a good papa, who does not fufter 
 any ill to be done to the poor, and who would foon have 
 releafed you. 
 
 Marc. Ay, and who will very foon make him give 
 you back your bafket. I promife you that, 
 
 E?nilyy {joyfully.') O dear ! do you think fo, my fweet 
 little mafter f 
 
 Harriet. Marcellus and I will go, and will ,fo beg of 
 him — Do not be uneafy. He is never fo v/ell pltafed with? 
 us as when we fpeak to him in favour of poor people. 
 And befides, we could get you your balket again without 
 fpeaking to him. 
 
 Emily. Ah ! how happy you are, my pretty little mifs, 
 not to want help from any body, and even to be able to" 
 jkelp others ! 
 
 Marc. Are you very poor then, my little girl ? 
 Emily. One mud needs be poor, that comes here glean- 
 ing, with fo much trouble, what is 'to make a little bread.- 
 Harriet. What ! is it for bread that you come gathering 
 the ears of corn ? I thought that you intended to toall the 
 rains on a hot fire-fhovel, and fo to eat them, as my 
 rother and I do fometimes when nobody fees us. 
 Emily. O dear! no. My mother and i intended to 
 beat the corn out of thofe ears, and to give it to the' 
 miller, that we might have flour to make bread. 
 
 Harriet. But, my poor child, you could not have muck' 
 cut of that, and it would not laft you very long. 
 
 Emily. Why, fuppofe we had only enough for a day or' 
 two, my mother and I fhould have a day or two the m.ore 
 to live. 
 
 'Marc. Well ! that you may have another day certain, I 
 will give you this fhilling which 1 have kept the lall of all 
 my money becaufe it is quite new. 
 
 Emily. Ahj mygccd little mafler I So much money 1 
 No, no, 1 dare not take it. 
 
 D 3 Harriet- 
 
54 THE LITTLE GLEANER. 
 
 Harriet {/miling.) So much money ! Take it, never 
 fear ! If 1 had my purfe abouc me I would give you mucii 
 more j but 1 keep it for you, and you ihall not be a 
 lofer. 
 
 Marcelhts, {fill holding out the momy.) Come, take it ! 
 {Emily blulheSj receii/es the money, and cnrijics to him ^^with' 
 cut /peaking,) 
 
 Marc. This is doing only half. I will run as faft as I 
 can after our bailiff, and make him give me back the 
 baiket, or elfe 
 
 Emily. Oh ! fir, do not give yourfelf that trouble. 
 You have promifed to affiil me, that is enough for me. 
 
 Harriet. Tell me, where do you live? 
 
 Emily. Jull by, in the vill.ige. 
 
 Marc. We never faw you before ; and yet we come here 
 .nlong with pnpa every year, about harvell-iime. 
 
 Emily, We have been here only a week, and live with 
 a good old woman called Margaret who has fliewed much 
 friendiliip to my mother; Oh! a great deal of friendfliip 
 indeed. 
 
 Harriet. What, old Margaret ? 
 
 Marc. Why, we know her. She is the widow of a poor 
 weaver who was out of work. My papa makes her come 
 fometimes to weed in the garden. 
 
 Harriet. Will you take me to your mother's ? 
 
 Emily. It would be too great an honour for her. 1% 
 young lady of quality, like you 
 
 Harriet. No, no; our papa will not let us think our- 
 fclves to be any better than other people, and if you have 
 no other reafon 
 
 Emily. None at all ; fo far from it, you may help me to 
 comfort her for the lofs of my baflcet and my corn. And 
 then, that naughty man that threatened us 
 
 Marc. Fear none of his threats! While my filler is going 
 with you to your mother's, I will run aner him, and 1 
 think You will come back here again? 
 
 Emily. If you chule it, my good yuung mailer. 
 
 Marc. Your baiket fhall be here before you return. 
 
 Emily. Perhaps I ihall bring my mother with me, to 
 thank you. 
 
 Harriet. Come along 1 let us haikn to find her ! {^'akcs 
 Emily by the han^, and goes out ^vith her.) 
 
 SCENE 
 
THE LITTLE GLEANER. 5^ 
 
 S C E N E V, 
 
 MarccIIus [alone.) 
 
 How happy are my Tifter and I, not to be obliged, like 
 this poor child, to go about picking up ears of corn for 
 our food. Really, this little girl fpeaks as if (lie Vvcre boni 
 to fomethlng better. She has not that dir'ty vulgar ap- 
 pearance of other cottage girls. Oh ! certainly papa will 
 oblige me fo far.- — But here he comes along with HaFd}V 
 That is clever ! here comes the bafKet too. 
 
 SCENE vr. 
 
 Mar cell us y Lord Be-vil, and Hardy, 
 
 Marc, [running up to his father.) Ah ! d^ar papa, how- 
 glad I am to meei: you ! — {To Hardy.) Give me this baflcett 
 
 Hardy. Softly! foftly, fir! You will pull my arm off! 
 
 Lord Be'vil. What do you want with that bafKet, Mar- 
 cell us ? 
 
 Marc. It belongs to a poor little girl from whom this 
 wicked Hardy took it, as well as the ears of corn that had 
 been given her. You fliall hear the whole, papa. 
 
 Hardy. So, • fo, one is wicked then for doing one's 
 duty, and for not affiiling rogues in their diihonelly ! Why 
 does my lord give me wages ? 
 
 Lord Eenjil. I have often told you. Hardy, it is for 
 hindering vagrants from haunting my grounds and in- 
 commoding my labourers, but not for feizing poor people 
 and dragging them to prifon : far Icfs, if they be honeft 
 perfons, reduced by neceffity to feek a mite of nourifh- 
 ment from my fuperfluity, and who meddle with nothing 
 but a few ears of corn that lie fcattered after a rich' 
 harvell. 
 
 Hardy. In the firft place, I do not hinder them to glean 
 as much as they will, after the corn is in ; but while 
 there is one ^'heaf on the ground 
 
 Marc, {ironically.) Why do not you fay tco, after the 
 fields are fallow, or covered with fnow ? There is a- 
 great deal to pick up, indeed, after the harvell is goc 
 home \ 
 
 D 4 Hardji- 
 
56 THE LITTLE GLEANER. 
 
 Hardy, You do not underhand thcfe aflairs, marter.— 
 In the next place, who can anRver to us that thefe are not 
 thieves ? 
 
 Marc. Thieves! blefs ine, thieves! The little girl told 
 me that file had not taken a fingle ear of corn here, and 
 that it was an old reaper in the next field who filled her 
 bafket for her. 
 
 Hardy. That is good ! (b.o. told you : as if there was a 
 word of truiii in what ihofe gentry fay 1 1 caught her 
 here clofe by a fheaf. 
 
 Lord Bevil. Palling oat the ears of corn ? 
 
 Hardy. 1 won't fay (o iinich as that. But how do I 
 know what Ihe had been doing before [ came up? And 
 then is not all that Ilory falfe of an old reaper wlio filled 
 her bafket for her ? Oh ! it is very like the country people 
 here; thofe folks are fo charitable! 
 
 Marc. iNow I'll maintain that thofe ears of corn were 
 given her, for fhe told me [o : and fo good a little girl I 
 «ni fure would not tell a ftory. 
 
 Hardy. And pray, mafter, have you never told a ftory ? 
 yet we all look upon you to be an excellent young gen- 
 tleman. 
 
 Marc. Do you hear, papa, how this fellow Hardy 
 treius me? {to Hardy, angrily.) No, if I told ftories I 
 ihould be a wicked boy ; bat J do nor, nor this good little 
 girl neither. And it is you that are a — 
 
 Lord B evil. Softly, Marcellus; 1 am thus far fitisfied 
 with your defence. We fiiould believe all men honeil, 
 tiniil we are convinced of the contrary. Bat we fhould 
 never be in a palfion with thofe who are of a different opi- 
 nion : we fhould rather endeavour to bring them by gen- 
 tlenefs to a more facisfaftory and jail way of thinking. 
 
 Hardy. No, no, my Lord, it is much better to believe 
 all men wicked, until we f^e beyond a polfibility of doubt- 
 ing that they are honelt ; that is much the wilelt maxim. 
 Whenever I meet an ox in my road, I always I'uppofe him 
 to be mifchievous, and get out of his way. It may h ip- 
 pen that he is not dangerous, bat 1 run no rifque in being 
 cautious. Th^^ furcil way is always the belt. 
 
 Lord Bevil. U all men had your manner of thinking, 
 with whom could we live ? And what dealings could ever 
 have fubfifted between you and me, if infcjad of putting 
 you into an honelt fervice upon my eilate, in order to af- 
 ford 
 
THE LITTLE GLEANER.' ^y 
 
 ord a livelihood to a dlfbanded old foldier, I had given 
 yoLi up to the magiftrate as a vagrant, having neither 
 difcharge nor certiiicate ? 
 
 Hardy. Yes, that is very true; but it is alfo true that 
 I am an hone ft man. 
 
 Lord Be-vil. I do not keep you in my fervice but be- 
 caufe I am perfiaaded of that : but I had no foundatioa 
 for believing it at hrll, except your word and your coun- 
 tenance. 
 
 Marc. My dear p;ipa, if you depend upon one's word- 
 and countenance, you will much Tooner believe our little 
 girl than Hardy. 
 
 Hardy. Ay, Mafter ! look at my face. Your papa 
 will certainly be well fatisned with the countenance of 
 your little girl, if it conveys fo favourable an impreflioa 
 as mine doe^. 
 
 Mate. Oh! yes, it becomes you very well with that 
 
 bear's face, to 
 
 Lord Be^il. Fie, Marcellus ! — Hardy, do you knov/ 
 this little girl ? 
 
 Hardy. Yes, my Lord ; I know her and T do not know 
 her. i know that ftie has been here about ten days with 
 her mother; but how or why they came here, the over- 
 feers can bell inform you. And to fpeak my mind freely, 
 it is ill done of them to receive luch folks into the pariili 
 to increafe the expence of the poor's rate. 
 
 Marc. Weil then. Til take that expence upon me; 
 yes 1. 
 
 Hardy. Why, have you any thing of your own, Sir? 
 
 Marc. If I have nothing, my papa has enough.' 
 
 . Hardy. In the mean time, ail the pariih murmurs ; but 
 
 when once you greafe the fii'c of people in office, [imitaies 
 
 the ad ion of counting fuoney) for 1 am pretty fure the 
 
 overfeers 
 
 Marc. Look ye there, if he is not fpeaking ill of the 
 overfeej-s ! it would be well done to teli them. 
 
 Lord Be^vtl. Softly, child. I fee. Hardy, it is impof- 
 fible to cure your fufpicious temper ; fo that I arn in- 
 clined 10 fufped too, in my turn. You judge that this lit- 
 tle g'rl has filled h^r baflcet here, becaufe you fjunJ her 
 in my field neaVa fheaf. You judge chat the' overfeers 
 would receive a bribe, becaufe they have admitted a poor- 
 family into the village. Well then, I judge that you 
 D 5 only 
 
58 THE LITTLE GLEANER. 
 
 only kept this child's baficet, becaufe Ihe had no. money 
 or tobacco to give you ; and that in fuch cafe you would 
 have fiee!y releafed her. 
 
 Hardy. How, my Lord I can you imagine? — 
 
 Lord Benjjl. Why may not I think of you, as you allow 
 yourfclf to think of othe:\^ ? 
 
 Hardy. Well, my Lord, I had better hold my tongue. 
 And were J to fee thole beggars carry away your fields, 
 your groves and your meadows — -i:)hali I take this bafl«.et 
 to the ilcward ? 
 
 Marc. Oh no, no, dear papa, I beg it as a favour. 
 
 Lord Bc^il. Hardy, you will carry it to the poor wo- 
 man's houfe, and make aa apology to the little girl. 
 
 Hardy. An apology ? my Lord, an apology ? can yoa 
 think of fuch a thing ? 1 go and make her an apology ! 
 for what? 
 
 Marc. For what? for having given her fb much uneafi- 
 nefs without caufe» and for having affronted her by accu^ 
 ling her of a bafe action. 
 
 Hardy. If ihey have not an apology nor baflcet un- 
 til 1 
 
 Lord Btv'd. Hardy, if I had been guilty of injulHce to: 
 you, 1 Ih'ould never hcfitate to make amends. And to 
 convince yoiiof it, I will go myfelf: I will carry back 
 the bafket, and make an apology in your name. 
 
 Hardy. Or, rather do you Mailer M^ircellus take that- 
 ch a ige upon you. 
 
 Marc. Oh ! with all my heart.. Papa, the little girl is: 
 10 come back prcic-ntly v.iih Harriet, who is gone to com- 
 fort her mother. 1 mud wait for her. 
 
 Hardy. lx\ that cafe, I have no bufinels here. [He goc:;: 
 (l^\miittering.) I fee we fhall have fo many beggars in tiiis 
 village, that we mult fton go begging ourfelves. 
 
 SCENE VIL. 
 lord Devil, Marcclhts. 
 
 Marc. Papa, do you hear Vvhat he fays ? 
 Lord BcziL Yes, my dear: 1 am Willing to excufe his 
 humours. 
 
 Marc. But how can you keep fo iil-natared a man? 
 
 lor 4 
 
THE LITTLE GLEANER. 5.9 
 
 Lord Be'vil. lie is not ill-natured, my dear; but his- 
 overmuch zeal to ferve us leads him aliray. He is moft 
 faithfully attached to me, and fulfils his duty pundtually,- 
 Marc, But then, if he is unjull ? 
 
 Lord Benj'il. You heard him fay, that h^ did not think 
 he was. His only fau it is, that he follows his orders too 
 literally, and that he has not difcernment enough to make 
 the proper diftinffcions between perfons and circumilances* 
 Marc. Pray, papa, explain that to me. 
 Lord Be^vil. VVith pleafare, my dear. When I fixed 
 him in his employment, I gave him in charge to rid my 
 grounds of vagrants, and to carry all fuch, when found 
 upon them, before a juftice. This order could only re- 
 gard thofe wretches who live by thefts and robberies, o~ 
 Ihould come to defr.iud or moleil my tenants. 
 
 Marc, Ah 1 I underftand. Whereas he looks upon all ' 
 thofe as rogues who fubfiil upon the charity of others, and 
 r.evcr informs himfelf whether old age, licknefs, or ine-- 
 vitable misfortunes, have reduced them to that condition. 
 Lord Be-vil. Very right, my dear boy ! for circum-^ 
 fiances alter things exceedingly. For inliance, you did 
 not flievv fufficient reflexion in your difpute with him. 
 Can you tell whether the mother of this littie girl is not a 
 difhoneil perfon ? v/hether the little girl heife'lf has not 
 told you an untruth, and adually llolen thofe ears of corni 
 out of my Iheaves ? 
 
 Marc. No, my dear papa, that is iiripoflible T 
 Lord Be-vil. Why impoilible ? are you clearly informed 
 of every thing I Do you know who Ihe is, who her mother 
 i-s, and with what view they have come here? 
 
 Marc. Ah 1 if you had only {^tn her ! if you had only 
 heard her fpeak 1 her language, her countenance, her tears I 
 Then fhe is fo poor as to have occafion for a handful of corn-- 
 ears to make her bread. Need one know more than this?. 
 Should I let a poor perfon perifn with hunger, becaufe X 
 do not know as yet whether he merits my alfii^ance ? 
 
 Lord Be'vil. Let me kifs thee, my dear boy 1- Frcferve" 
 always thefe generous difpofitlons towards the poor, and 
 God will blels thee, as he has bleil- me, for the lame {<d\-i- 
 timents, by giving birth to them in thy yoang hearts 
 Mercy is alv/ays preferable to feverity. A want of feeling, 
 €an only lead to injuftice; and if he who folicits our* 
 fiompaiTion docs not merit it, the fault is his, not oa's. 
 
 D 6 M^m 
 
Co THE LITTLE GLEANER. 
 
 Marc. But, my dear p:ipa, it is not prudent to commit 
 to fuch men a^ Hardy an ofiice which puts it in one's power 
 to be unjuft. 
 
 Lord Be'vil. You would be right, my Ton, if I had left 
 to him alone the power of condemning or acquitting. He 
 can at moll commit but a flight injury, which it is eafy 
 to remedy ; and fhis inconvenience is unavoidable. To 
 judge of things according to the principles of equity, f 
 have in my ileward a man of good underltanding, upright 
 jind noble in his fentiments. He gave me a favourable 
 account of the little girl and her mother, as foon as they 
 were tirlt received into the village, and informed me that 
 they live with old Margaret, who is a very honell woman. 
 
 Marc. But what if Hardy had beat the little girl, as 
 he threatened her ? 
 
 Lord Bevil. Nothing could have carried him fo far. I 
 have forbidden him, on pain of lofmg his place, to ilrike 
 nny perfon whatfoever, even thofe whom he fhould fur- 
 prife in doing any thing amifs ; and he rigoroufly purfues 
 the orders that I give him. 
 
 Marc, Ah ! papa, here is my filler returning with the 
 little girl, 
 
 SCENE Yin. 
 Lord Be-"jily MarcelluSy Harriet Emily, 
 
 Miirc. {running ivith the bajket to Emily ^) Here, my little 
 girl, here is your bafket. I'here has not been a finglecar 
 ot it touched. 
 
 Emily. O my dear bafket! how much am I obliged to 
 you, my good little mailer ! {percei'ving Lord Be-viL) Who 
 is that gentleman ? 
 
 Harriets {ritmiing tonvards ber father, and jumping up to 
 hnbracd bi?n.) This is our good papa. 
 
 Marc. Oh ! he is a good papa, indeed, that I cnn 
 affure you ; fo that you have nothing to fear. Come, 
 I'll introduce you to him. {Coming fomvard.) He has 
 fcoldcd old Hardy well, for treating you as he did. 
 
 EmiJsy {advances fearfully tc^ivards Lord Bevil and curt' 
 ffs to him) i beg para on, my Lord, for the liberty — bat 
 ycur LorUihip's children arc fo good ! 
 
 Lord 
 
THE LITTLE GLEANER. 6r 
 
 Lord Bevil, {ajide.) Marcellus was right. Whoever 
 looks on her cannot doubt her innocence. That grace- 
 ful air, her manner of fpeaking, are proofs of no vulgar 
 education. 
 
 Emily, {in a loiv 'voice to Marcellus and Harriet .^) Have' 
 I made your papa angry ? He is talking to himfelf. 
 
 Lord Be^ilf {pnjerheartng her.) No, my dear. \i my 
 children have behaved well to you, they have done no- 
 more than you appear to merit. 
 
 Harriet, Nor than Hie does really merit, papa. Ah ! if 
 you had feen her mother ! 
 
 Lord B evil. Who is your mother, my dear? By what 
 means did you come to thefe parts } and how do you 
 live ? 
 
 Emily, We live — indeed I can fcarce tell how. We 
 live upon little or nothing. We fpend the day, and 
 fometimes the night, in Spinning and working at the 
 needle, to get us bread. Old Madge affords my mother 
 lodging ; and they fent me to-day into the fields to glean j 
 but, indeed, my firlt attempt has not turned out weil. 
 
 Marc, [hi a njohifper to Emily.') Better than you think ! 
 my fifier will get papa's leuve, that you fhall hxive ears of 
 corn without gleaning. 
 
 Lord Be-vil. But vvhetedid you live before ? 
 
 Emily. At Richmond, which is a few mUe? off. Living 
 was too dear there. So old Ma.'-garet perfuaded my mo- 
 ther to come to her, and offered her houfe-room for 
 nothing. 
 
 Lord Bevil, {^afide.) If people who ar^ fo poor exercife 
 humanity to each other, what duties have not v»'e to 
 fulfil? [to Emily,) Is your father living; what is his 
 profeffion ? 
 
 Marc. I will lay a wager he is no working man. 
 
 Harriet, And fo v/ill 1, efpeciaily fince I have feen her 
 mother. 
 
 Emily, [confufed.) My father ? — .1 have none. Indeed 
 I never faw him. He died before I was born. Ah ! if 
 he was living now — 
 
 Lord Bevil. And do not you know who he was ? What 
 was his name ? 
 
 Emily. My mother will inform you better than I. 
 
 Lord Bcvil, Could 1 fpeak with her I 
 
 Harriet^ 
 
62 THE LITTLE GLEANER. 
 
 Harriet. Oh yes, P^P''^? ^^ is comincr herfelf. Shff 
 only begged a momeni's time to put herfelf in order. 
 
 Lord Beuil. And who brought you up ? 
 
 Em:ly. My mother entirely my lord. She taught me 
 to read and write. Sheinrtru(^s me in my religion, and 
 gives me fome leilons in drawing. 
 
 Lord Benjil. In drawing ! I have not a doubt remaining. 
 This is a branch of fome good family reduced by misfor-t 
 tunes to necelhty. 
 
 Harriet. Ah ! here ihe comes. 
 
 Marc. Is this ih.^ ? 
 
 Lord Bevily {ajtcie.) I am impatient to clear up this 
 myllery. Thi^ child recalls to my mind features that are- 
 well known to me, but whofe 1 cannot recolk^l, 
 
 S- C E N E IX. 
 Lord B-C'vil, Mrs. 'Jennings^ Marcellus, Harriet, Emily- 
 Emily ^ {^running to meet her mot bar, nvbo appears cotifufed 
 on feeing Lord Ue-uiL) Come, mama, do no be afraid! 
 this is the papa of thoie two amiable children that ihewed 
 us fo much good-nature ; and he is very kind too, as 
 kind ns iiis children. {Mis. 'yen)ii7igs ud^vatices rnvdejlly. 
 Harriet eagerly takes her hand, and dra^ivs her en. to^-wards- 
 her father.) 
 
 Harriet. Oh! my papa know5al]* :• 
 
 Mrs.Jenn. May! flatter myfcif that your lordfhip has 
 not fufpeded my little Emily r — 
 
 Lord Bevil. I'he fight alone, madam, of you and your 
 daughter is futricient to convey the moil favourable opi- 
 nion of you both. 
 
 Marc. Is her name Emily ? Oh ! papa, it is eafy to fee 
 that (lie was not born to be a gleaner. 
 
 Mrs. Je,>n. The laws of ncceiiity are fomeiimes fevere, 
 and as long as we do nothing diflionourablc — 
 
 Lord Be^'il. Nobody fliould- blulli for poverty; it may 
 be found united to tvcvy virtue. B-ut may I take tlie 
 liberty, madam, to afic your name ?• 
 Harriet. Her name is IVlrs. Lambert. 
 Mrs. Jen?!, I fhould not difguile my real name from; 
 your lordihip. I find myfelf, indeed, under the necef- 
 ijty of difclofmg it to you, in order to juflify myfelf in 
 
 your 
 
THE LITTLE GLEANER. 6^ 
 
 your lordfhip's opinion, for theftate to which you iee me 
 reduced. Yet I fhould wiili [looking at the children) to 
 make this avowal to you without witneffes ; not that 1 
 blulh fjr my humble fituation, but if my name was 
 known, I fliould fear to meet among the lower clafs, fome 
 ungenerous fouls, who would perhaps take a pleafare in 
 mortifying me, becaufe they fometimes fee thofe who are 
 in profperity behave with the fame want of generofuy to 
 themfelves. 
 
 Marc. Well, 1 fliall not liilen 
 
 Harriet, And I will never mention a word of It, I 
 afTure you. Whoever you are, Emily Ihall always be my 
 friend. 
 
 Lord B. Be afTured, Madam, I (hould not enquire thefe 
 particulars without being ftrongly intereiled in them ; and 
 unlefs I were refolved to make amends for the injuitice of 
 fortune. 
 
 Mrs. Jenn. I was born of a good family, though little 
 favoured by fortune. I pafTed my youth in London, as 
 companion to a Lady of the firil rank. Eight years ago 
 I became acquaint-'d v^ith Mr. Jennings, a lieutenant- 
 colonelin the army, who had come to fpend fome months 
 in tov/n. 
 
 Lord B. [eagerly) Jennings! Jennings! 
 
 Mrs.J^p.nn. He conceived an affefti^n for me, and his 
 good qualities prejudiced me in his favour. 1 gave him 
 my hand, and a few days after our marriage we retired to 
 afmall el'cate which he had in Dorfetihire. 
 
 Lord B, 'Tis the fume ! 'tis the fame! I can trace his 
 features in the face of this child. 
 
 Mrs. Jenn. How ! my Lord. 
 
 LordB. Goon, Madam, I conjure you. 
 Mrs. Jenn. I will be as brief as poffible. We were 
 beginning to enjoy, in a peaceful retirement, the happi- 
 tteis of a moll tender union. But alas ! the fatigues of 
 the fervice had impaired my hufband's health, and a fe- 
 vere ilinefs feizing him, put an end to his life in a few 
 days, [sweeps ) 
 
 Harriet i [to Einily.) Poor child ! you became an orphan 
 Mtry focn. 
 
 Emily. Ah, me; beforel was even born. 
 
 Mrs. Jenn. He left me pregnant of this child whom 
 you ft^e. She was born in forrow. As foon as my huf- 
 band's 
 
6+ THE LITTLE GLEAxN'ER. 
 
 band's brothers, who were hard-hearted worldly men, 
 faw that there was no male heir, ihey took poiTellion of 
 his property ; and as we had delayed from day to day the 
 formal atteihitions requifite to put our marriage articles in 
 force, 1 wasohliged tobe fatisiied with whatever they thought 
 proper to allow forthe fubfillence of me and my daughter. 
 
 Lord B. Their ungenerous avarice gives room to fup- 
 pofe ihat the Turn was fmall and could not lafl you long. 
 
 Mrs. Jcnn. Jt fufficed to m-^iintain me for a few years 
 in Dorftrtlhirc, during which time I continued to flatter 
 myf:;lf with the expectation of obtaining a fmall jointure. 
 But at length feeing all my hopes fruilrated, 1 took the 
 rcfolution of returning to Loncon to my former benefac- 
 trefs. On my ariival, I learned that ihe had died a fhort 
 time before. Having then no other refource than to fell 
 what remained of my clothes and jewels, and to work 
 with my own hands for a fubfiihnice, I retired to Rich- 
 mond, to live private and unknown. And there J met 
 fome time ago a woman whom 1 had formerly known, and 
 who lives in this village. 
 
 Harriet. That is old Margaret, papa. 
 
 Mrs. 'Jcnn. bhe had been fervanc to the Lady whom I 
 iijcntioned. My attention to her during a fevere illness 
 attached her ilrongly to me. 1 explained my firuation to 
 her, and fhe propofed to me to come and live here, where 
 I might enjoy a llill more obfcure retreat. I nm Indebted 
 much to her hofpitality, and as (he has no iciation to 
 perform the Inll: office^ for hef;^ H^e has given me to un- 
 derhand that I Ihall fucceed to the poffefiion of her little 
 cottage. You fee, my Lord — 
 
 herd B. 'Tis enough, Madam. This generous woman 
 fhall not furpafs me in gratitude. It gives me inexpref- 
 f/ble joy to be able to repay a debt v/hich 1 have con- 
 trailed to your worthy huiband. 
 
 Mrs, Jentu How, my Lord, have you known my huf- 
 band ! 
 
 Marc. The father of this good little Enii'y ? 
 
 Harriet, ■• my dear Emily, I fee v.'e fhall keep you with 
 us. But what is the mutter? do you cry ? 
 
 Kmily. It is only for joy. 
 
 Lord B. To your huihand I owe my life. How happy 
 
 .^iji 1 then in being able to i.pay that kindnefs to his 
 
 wife and his child 1 I ferved under him lail war. In a 
 
 I * dangerous 
 
THE LITTLE GLEANER. 6$ 
 
 dangerous engagement one of the enemy's horfemen had 
 his Kvord lifted over me at a time when I was quite fpent 
 with f ttigue. To that I muft have perifiied if my brave 
 lieutenant-colonel had not faved my life by rulhing upoa 
 him at the very moment. 
 
 Mrs. Jenn. J know him well by this defciiption. He 
 was as brave as he was generous. 
 
 herd B. Some days afier, I v/as fentwith a detachment 
 upon a very dangerous expedi-don. We were furrounded 
 and forced to yield after a long refiflance. My baggage 
 had been plundered, {o that 1 was flript of both clothes 
 and money. Colonel Jenrii.igs being informed of my 
 fnuation procured me a recommendation to the enemy's 
 general. Through his exertions I obtained every aiTill- 
 ance requifite whilil under cure for a deep wound thut I 
 received. I was more than two years in recovering; and 
 when we were ordered hom-^*, had barely time to pay him 
 a vifit of acknowledgment before I was ol5liged to go 
 on board immediately for the Well-Indies. I married 
 there to my advantage ; and in confequence of tK^t cir- 
 cumftance, returned to England about fix years ago. I 
 was preparing to fly to him, when I heard that he was na 
 more. I little tliought that his wife and daughter expe- 
 rienced that reverfe of fortune in which I am grieved to 
 find you at prefent. 
 
 Mrs. Jenn, Good God ! by what wonderful ways halt 
 thou conduiled me hither! 
 
 Marc, What, your father faved papa's life ? 
 Harriet. How dearly we ought to love you? 
 Lord B. Come hither, Emily ; thou ihalt find in me 
 the father whom thou halt lolt. My children, too, have 
 occafion for a fecond mother to replace her whom death 
 has taken from them. The education that you have 
 given your amiable child, {Emily goes clofe up to hiniy an^ 
 takes hts hand) Ihews me, Midam, how wordiy you are 
 to fill fo delicate an employ. I (hall take every neceffary 
 precaution that you may not have to dread a fecond timCj, 
 the unforefeen Itrokes of adverfity. {To Emily, ivbo fiill 
 holds his hand) Yes, my little dear, [ will make no dif- 
 ference between you and my Own children. You are the 
 living image of your generous father, and are as worthy 
 of my afFe«ition as he was. of my gratitude. 
 
 Mrs. Jenn. 
 
€6 THE LITTLE GLEANER. 
 
 Mrs. yenn, {ivit/? emotion.') How fhall I anfvver, my 
 Lord, to fo much kindnels ! 1 have only tears to exprefs 
 what I feel. 
 
 Hart let y {embracing her.) My dear new mama! will 
 you always be with us then, as well as Emily? You Ih^ll 
 iee how glad we will be to obey you. 
 
 Marc. Yes, and Emily Ihail be my other filler. She 
 will certainly not go any more to glean. Ah 1 ill-natured 
 Hardy, how I ihall laugh at you now 1 
 
 Mrs. Jenn. My dear little lambs ! with what joy you 
 fill my heart ! Inllead of one child then, 1 have now 
 three ; and no mother fhall equal me in attention and 
 tendcrnefs to them, {to Lord Be^vil) Will your Lordfliip 
 permit me to go and impart thefe happy tiditigs to m/ 
 good friend Margaret ? I almoil fear that flie will die 
 with joy. 
 
 LordB. Nothing is more juH, Madam; meantime I 
 will go and order an apartment to be prepared for you at 
 my houfe. 
 
 Harriet, Papa, will you give me leave to go with Emily 
 and my new mama ? 
 
 Marc. And me too, papa ; I fhould wi(h to accom- 
 pany them. 
 
 LordB. With pleafure my dear children. Afterwards 
 you will bring Mrs. Jennings and her daughter to our 
 houfe, without forgetting good old Margaret whom I 
 invite alfo to come and dine with us. 
 
 Marc, {to Emily y <\'jho is going to take the hojket) No, 
 Emily, this is not fit for you to carry now. Let the baf- 
 ket remain here. 
 
 Emily. Oh ! Sir! I would not give this baflcet for any 
 thing in the world. To it I owe my own happinefs and 
 my mother's; the happinefs of knovving you; and ia 
 fhort my life and well-being. No, my dear little baflcet, 
 I fhall never blufli to carry you. {'She lifts it up ^joith dif" 
 fcuhy.) 
 
 Harriet. At leafl take the ears of corn out, ir will be 
 lighter. 
 
 Emily. No, no. They are mine. For the good old 
 reaper gave them to me, whatever Hardy might fay. X 
 will make a prefsnt of them to old Margaret. 
 
 Lord Ei> 
 
CECILIA AND MARIAN. 67 
 
 Lord B. She fhall not be forgot next harveft, and from 
 tins day forward fhall be allured of bread for her whole 
 life. 
 
 Mrs. Jenn. May heaven reward you in your children 
 ^Qx thefe afts of generofity ! 
 
 CECILIA AND MARIAN. 
 
 BEFORE the fun had rifen above the horizon to en- 
 liven with his fplendor one of the finell mornings of 
 the fpring, young Cecilia v/ent down into her father's 
 garden to taiie with more appetite, as ihe roved through 
 its walks, the fweetaefs of a little cake of which Ihe in- 
 tended to make her breakfafl. 
 
 Every thing that could add to the beauties of the rifing 
 day united to charm her. The pure breath of zephyr, 
 Vv'hiie it diffufed a calm around, refrefhed every fenfe. 
 Her palate was feailed with fweets ; her eye with the 
 lively freilmefs of the fpringing verdure; her fmeli with 
 the balmy perfnme of a thoufand flowers; and that her 
 ear alone might not be without its fnaie of delight, two 
 nightingales perching near her on the top of a green ar- 
 bour, charmed her with their morning fong, Cecilia was 
 fo tranfported with all thefe delicious fenfations that her 
 fine eyes v.'ere bedewed with a moifture v/hich, however, 
 relied on her eye-lids without dropping in tears. Her 
 heart felt a foft emotion and was imprefTed with feelings 
 of tendernefs and benevolence. All at once this agree- 
 able calm v/as interrupted by the found of fteps, and a 
 little girl came forward towards the fame walk, eating 
 with great appetite a piece of coarfe brovv-n bread. As 
 ilie, too, came into the garden for amufement, her eyes 
 wandered from one objed to another, without being fixed 
 on any ; fo that fhe came clofe up to Cecilia before fhe per- 
 ceived her. On feeing who it was, fhe Hopped faort a 
 moment, and looked down ; then like a young d.ztx that 
 is frightened, and almoil as fwift as one, fhe ran back 
 again with all '\\Q.x fpeed. Stop, flop, cried Cecilia, 
 wait for me; why do you run away? But thefe words 
 made the little wild creature fly Hill flUlier, Cecilia pur- 
 
 fued ; 
 
68 CECILIA AND MARIAN. 
 
 fued ; buf, as (he was lefs iifeci to running, could not pof- 
 fibly come up with her. Luckily the little Itranger had 
 turned up another walk, j and that in which Cecilia was 
 leddiredly to the garden gate. Cecilia, as fenfible as fhe was 
 pretty, flipped foftly along by a clofe hedge that bordered 
 the walk, and reached the end of it juft as the little girl 
 was going to pah by. She caught hold of her unawares, 
 crying. Ah ! now you are my prifoner. Oh ! 1 have you 
 fall, you cannot efcape now. The little girl llruggled to 
 get out of her hands. Do not be ill-natured, faid Ceci- 
 lia to her ; if you knew how well I mean to ufe you, I 
 am fure you would not be fo (hy. Come, my good 
 child, coine along with me for a moment. Thcfe friendly 
 words, and Hill more, the gentle tone of voice with 
 which they were pronounced, encouraged the liuie ftran- 
 gcr, and Ihe followed Cecilia into a fummer-houfe that 
 was near. 
 
 Is your father alive: faid Cecilia, making her fit dowa 
 bcfidc her. 
 
 Marian. Yes, Mifs. 
 
 Cec. And what does he follow } 
 
 Marian. Any trade at all to earn his bread. He came 
 to day to work in your garden, and lias brought me with 
 him. 
 
 Cec. Oh ! I fee him down there, u^pon the lettuce bed- 
 It is fat Thomas. But what are you eating for your 
 breakfaft ? Let me fee ; I want to tafte your bread. Oft 
 dear! how it fcrapes my throat ! Why does not your fa- 
 ther give you better than this ? 
 
 Marian. Becaufe he has not fo much money as your 
 papa. 
 
 Cec. Bi'.t then he earns fome by hiswork, and he could 
 afford you houllicld bre^id, or elfe fomeihing along with 
 this to make it palatLble. 
 
 Maian, Yes, if 1 was his only child ; but there are 
 five of us, and we all eat heartily; and then one wants a^ 
 frock, and another a jacket, and thdt miikes my father 
 quite at a lofs what to do. Sometimes he fays, *tis all in- 
 vain for me to work, I (hall never earn enough to feed; 
 and clothe this young fry. 
 
 Cec. Then you never eat any plum cake i 
 
 Marian. Plum cake? what is that? 
 
 Cec. Sec, here is fome in my hand. 
 
 Meirian* 
 
CECILIA AND MARIAN. 69 
 
 Marian. La ! 1 'aevzr faw any before in. my life. 
 Cec, Tafte a little of it. Don't be afraid. You fee I 
 eat it. 
 
 Marian^ {joyfully.) Oh 1 dear Mif , how good it is. 
 Cec- 1 believe fo. My good girl, what i^ your name? 
 Marian, {rijing, and making her a lo-zv curf/ey.) Marian, 
 Mifs, at your fervice. 
 
 Cec. Well, my gocd Marian, flop here for me a mo- 
 ment. I am going to afri fomething from my governefs 
 for you, and will return immediately. Eut don't yoii 
 go away. 
 
 Marian. Oh ! no ; I am not afraid of you now. 
 Cecilia ran to hergovernefs and begged her 10 give her 
 fome currant jelly for a little girl who had nothing but 
 * dry bread for breakfafl. The govern-efs was pleafed with 
 the good-nature of her amiable pupil. She gave her 
 fome in a cup, and a fmnll roll at the fame time; and 
 Cecilia ran with all her fpeed to carry Marian this break- 
 fall. Well, faid fhe as llie came np, have I made you 
 wait long ; Here, my good ci)ild, ta-ke this ; lay dowa 
 yourbrown bread, you will eat enough' of tha-tanotier ame. 
 Marian^ [tajiing the jelly, and licking her lips,) It is like 
 fugar. I never tailed any thing fo Iweet. 
 
 Cecilia, i am glad that you like it. I vvr.s pretty fure 
 it would pleafe you. 
 
 Marian. V/hat, do you ea- fuch as this every day ? Ah 1 
 we poor people do not know what it is to talte it. 
 
 Cec 1 am forry for that. H uk ye, come to fee me 
 now and then, I wi;l always give you f(;me. But blefs 
 me, how healthy you look ! Are you never fick.'' 
 Marian. Sick, what I? no never. 
 Cec. Do you never catch cold ? or feci your head 
 fluffed.? 
 
 Marian. What ficknefs is that ? 
 
 Cec. V/hen one is always coughing, and blowing one's 
 nofe. 
 
 Marian. Oh, yes, that happens tome fometimes, but 
 it Is not a ficknefs. 
 
 Cec, And do they make you keep your bed then ? 
 Marian. Ha ! ha ! my mother I dare fay would make 
 a fine noife if I were to take it in my head to be lazy. 
 Cec, Why, v/hat work can you do ? You are fo little. 
 
 Marian, 
 
;o CECILIA AND MARIAN. 
 
 Marian. Muft not I go in the winter to get flraw for 
 our cow, and dry ilicks to make the pot boil r and in fum- 
 mer mull I not go to weed the corn, and in harvell time to 
 glean and pull hops ? Ah, Mifs, we are never at a lofs 
 for work. 
 
 Cec. And are your fifters, too, as healthy as you ? 
 
 Marian. Oh! we are all hearty, and as full of play as 
 little mice. 
 
 Cec. Well, now I am glad of that ; 1 was at iirfl afraid 
 that God took no care of fo many poor children ; but 
 finceyou have your health, 1 fee that he has not forgotten 
 you. I am very well, too, in health, though certainly 
 not fo flrong as you; but, child, you go barefoot; why 
 do not you wear fhoes and ilockings ? 
 
 Marian. Becaufe it would coll my father too much mo- . 
 ney, if he was to give them to us all ; fo he gives none of 
 us any. 
 
 Cec. And are not you afraid of hurting yourfelf? 
 
 Marian. I never once mind it. God almighty made 
 the foles of my feet hard, like flioes. 
 
 Cec. I Ihould not like to lend you mine; but how 
 comes it that you have left off eating ? 
 
 Marian. The time has pafl away in talk. I mHll now 
 go and gather fome greens for our cow. It will foon be 
 eight o'clock, and fhe waits for her breakfalt. 
 
 Cec. Well ; take the refl of your roll with you ; Hop a 
 moment; I will take out the crumb, and you fhall put the 
 jelly into the hollow of the crult, 
 
 Marian. I will caj ry it to my youngeft filler. Oh ! fhe 
 will not be nice about it ; Ihe won't leave the lead crumb, 
 when once flie talles it. 
 
 Cec. Now I lo\Q you better than ever for thinking of 
 your little filler. 
 
 Marian. 1 never get any thing good but I give her 
 part. Good bye mifs. 
 
 Cec. Good bye Marian ; but remember to come here 
 to-morrow at the fame hour. 
 
 Marian. If my mother does not fend me fomewhere elfe, 
 I'll warrant I lliall not fail. 
 
 Cecilia had now tailed the happinefs of doing good. 
 
 She walked a little longer in the garden, thinking how 
 
 happy flie had made Marian, how grateful Marian had 
 
 Ihevved herfelf, and how pleafed her little filler would be 
 
 6 to 
 
CECILIA AND MARIAN. 71 
 
 to tafte currant jelly. What will it be, faid fhe, when I 
 give her fome ribbands and a necklace. Mama gave 
 me fome the other day that were pretty enough ; but I 
 am tired of them now. Then I'll look in my drawers 
 for fome old things to give her. We are jult of a fize, 
 and my flips would fit her charmingly. Oh ! how I long 
 to fee her well drell:. 
 
 Next morning Marian (lipped into the garden again. 
 Cecilia gave her fome gingerbread that fhe had bought 
 for her. Marian did not fail to come every day, and 
 Cecilia thought of nothing but new dainties to give her. 
 When her pocket-money was out, fhe begged her mama 
 to order her fomething out of the pantry, and her mother 
 confented with pleafure. It happened however, one day, 
 "* that Cecilia received an anfwer which grieved her. She 
 was entreating her mother to advance her a little of her 
 weekly allowance to buy fhoes and ftockings for Marian, 
 that fhe might not go barefoot. No, my dear Cecilia, 
 anfwered her mother. And why, mama ? I will tell you 
 at dinner my reafons for wifhing that you would be a lit- 
 tle more fparing towards your favourite. Cecilia was 
 furprized at this refufal. She never longed fo much for 
 dinner-time as that day. At length they fat down to 
 table. Dinner was half over before her mother fpoke a 
 word concerning Marian. At length, however, a difh of 
 fhrimps that was ferved up furnifhed Mrs. Allen with an 
 opportunity of beginning the converfation thus. 
 
 Mrs. A. Ah ! here is my Cecilia's favourite difh, is it 
 not ? I am glad they have brought fome up to-day. 
 
 Ce£. Yes, mama, I like fhrimps very well, and at this 
 feafon they are good. 
 
 Mrs. A. I dare fay that Marian would like them ilill 
 better than you do. 
 
 Cec. Ah ! my poor Marian I I fuppcfe flie has never 
 feen any. If flie was only to look at thefe long whifkers, 
 fhe would be frightened; oh! fo frightened! I think i 
 fee her running away with all her fpeed. Mama, if you 
 will give me leave, 1 fhould be curious to fee how fhe 
 would look. There, I will take only two for her, two of 
 the fmalleft. 
 
 Mrs. A» I am almoil unwilling to confent to your re- 
 quclh 
 
 Cecm 
 
72 CECILIA AND MARIAN. 
 
 Cec. Why fo, mama ? You that do good to every 
 body? 1 uiked you this mornirvg, too, for a little money 
 to buy (lioes and ftockings for Marian, and you refufed 
 me. M:irian furely nnift have vexed you. Has Ihe done 
 any milchief in the garden? oh! I {hall be fure to fcold 
 her. 
 
 Mrs. A. No, my dear Cecilia, Marian has not dif- 
 pleafed me. But do you wifh by your kindnefs to her to. 
 make her happy or unhappy ? 
 
 Cec. Happy, mama. God forbid that 1 Ihould wifh 
 the contrary. 
 
 Mrs. J. I could wifh, too, with all my heart, to fee 
 her more fortunate, fince flie has gained your elleem. But I 
 is it true, Cecilia, that flie eats her bread quite dry for^ 
 break fall ? 
 
 Cu. It is very true, mama. J would not deceive you. 
 Mrs, A, How ! and has Ihe been content with it till 
 now? 
 
 Cec. O dear ! yes, and I never cat a tart with more 
 plealure than flie eats her brown bread. 
 
 Mrs. A. Then I fliould think fhe has a good appetite. 
 But I can hardly imngine that flie goes barefoot. 
 
 Cec. I have always feen her barefoot. Aflc the gar- 
 dener t\{Q.. 
 
 Mrs. A. Then flie makes them all over blood, when flie 
 ^valks on the gravel or pebbles. 
 
 Cec. Not at all. She runs about in the garden like a 
 little deer; and flie fays, laughing, that God almighty 
 has made the foles of her feet hard, like a pair of flioes. 
 
 Mrs. A. I know that you never tell ilories, but I con- 
 fefs thiit I can hardly believe what you fay now. I fliould 
 be glad to fee the v/ry fiices that my Cecilia would make 
 in eating her bread quite dry, without butter or fsveet- 
 meats. 
 
 C£c. Oh ! I know it would flick in my throat. 
 Mrs. A. Nor fliould I be lefs curious to fee how flie 
 would fet about walking barefoot. 
 
 Ctc. Well then, mama, do not be angry, but yefterday^ 
 I had a mind to try. Being all alone in the garden, t 
 took ofi^ my flioes and flockings to walk barefoot. I felt 
 my feet fadly hurt, but flill I walked on. At laft I 
 llruck againlt a fl:one. Oh ! that did fo pain me, that t 
 went back as fofcly as I could, and put on my flioes and 
 
 fl.ockings, 
 
CECILIA AND M A R I A K. 73 
 
 ftockings, and I promifed fairly never to walk barefoot 
 again. My poor Marian ! yet Ihe is fo all the fummer. 
 
 Mrs, A. But how comes ic, then, that you cannot cat 
 dry bread, nor walk barefoot as £v.^ does ? 
 
 Cec, The tiling is, perhaps, that I am not ufed to it. 
 Mrs. A, Why then, if fhe ufcs herfelf, like you, to 
 eat fweet things, and to wear fhoes and ilockings, and af- 
 terwards if the brown bread fhould go againil her, and 
 file fliould not be able to walk barefoot, do you think that 
 you would have done her any great fervice ? 
 
 Cec. No, mama: but I mean that fhe ihall never be 
 obliged to do fo again all her life-time. 
 
 Mrs. A. A very generous dcfign ! and will your poC' 
 ket-money be fufficient for that? 
 
 Cec. Oh 1 yes, mama, if you will only add ever fo lit- 
 tle to it, 
 
 Mrs, A, You know that my heart is never again fl help- 
 ing the dillrcft, whenever an occafion offers. But is Ma- 
 rian the only child that you know in neceffity ? 
 
 Cec, Nay, J know many others befide. There are two, 
 efpecially, juil by in the village, that have neither father 
 nor mother. 
 
 Mrs. A. And they v/ithout doubt ftand much in need 
 ©f affiitance. 
 
 Cec, Oh ! they do indeed, mama. 
 
 Mrs. A. But if you give Marian every thing, if yr u 
 feed her with bifcuits and fweetmeats, while you let tiie 
 reft die with hunger, will there be much juftice and hu- 
 manity in that management? 
 
 Cec. But now and then I fnall be able to give tlicm 
 fomething. Yet, after all, I love Marian bed. 
 
 Mrs. A. If you were to die, and Marian had been uf;.'d 
 
 to enjoy every indulgence 
 
 Cec. 1 am pretty fure that fhe would cry for my death. 
 Mrs. A. Yes, I am convinced of tliat. But then woui.l 
 ^e fall into indigence again, and perhaps be obliged to 
 do fome difgraceful aftion, in order to live well and 
 drefs well as before. Who would then have the blame or ^ 
 her ruin ? 
 
 Cec, {/orronvfuUy.) I fhould, mama. So then I mufc 
 never give her any thing again ? 
 
 VOL, I. E _ Mrs. A. 
 
74 CECILIA AND MARIAN. 
 
 Mrs. A, I do not think fo ; however, I fliould im-'^gine 
 that you will do well to give her fweet things feldcmer, 
 Slid to make her a prcfent rather of a good coat. 
 
 Ccc. Why, I was thinking of it. 1 will give her, if 
 you pleafe, one of my frocks. 
 
 Mrs. A. I fuppofe your muflin flip would become her 
 furpnzingly ; cfpecialiy without Ihoes or ftockings. 
 
 Cec. Oh I every body v/ould point at her. How fliall 
 we do then r 
 
 Mrs. ^. If I were in your place, I would be fparing 
 in my amufemenis for fome time, and when 1 had faved a 
 little money, would lay it out in buying whatever was 
 jjioil neceflary for her. Ihe (luff that poor children wear, 
 is not very expenfive. 
 
 Cecilia followed her mother's advice. Marian came 
 feldomer indeed to fee her about breakfall time, but Ce- 
 cilia made her other prefents that were more ufeful. At 
 «ne time ihe would give her an apron, another time a 
 petticoat ; and ihe paid the fchool mailer of the village 
 fo much a monlh for her fchooling, that (he might ini- 
 pFOve herfelf pcifedly in reading. Marian was fo fen- 
 Jible of thefe kindneffes that flie grew every day more 
 tenderly attached to Cecilia. She came frequently to fee 
 lier, and would fay to her, Have you any commands for 
 ine ? Is there any work that I can do for you ? And when- 
 ever Cecilia gave her an opportunity of doing any flight 
 Service, it was p'cafmg to fee with what joy Marian 
 exerted herfelf ta oblige her. One day flie came to the 
 garden gate to wait for Cecilia's coming down, but Ce- 
 cilia did not come. Marian came back again, but could 
 not fee Cecilia. She returned two days fucceilively, but 
 no Cecilia appeared. Poor Marian was difconfolate, not 
 finding her bencf'ictreli. Ah ! faid flie, can it be that 
 the dees n:)t love me.' I have perhaps vexed her without 
 meaning it. I am furc, if 1 knew in what, I would afk 
 her pardon, for i could not live without loving her. Jull 
 then Mrs. Allen's maid came out. Marian llopped her. 
 Where is Mif^^ Cecilia.? ailked flie. Mils Cecilia.? re- 
 plied the woman. She has, perhaps, not long to live. 
 1 am afraid that flie is in her lad moments. She has the 
 fmall-pox. O dear heart ! cried M^arian, I won't let her 
 die : and running to the flairs, flie flies up into Mrs. 
 Allen's chamber. Madam, faid flie, for God's fake tell 
 
 me 
 
CECILIA AND MARIAN. 75 
 
 me where is Mlfs CeclHa ? I mull fee her. Mrs. Allen 
 would have flopped Marian, but the door being half 
 open, Hie had a iight of Cecilia's bed, and was alrea- 
 dy by her fide. Cecilia was in a violent fevQVy alone, 
 and very low in fpirits ; for all her little acquaintances 
 had forfaken her. Marian, drowned in tears, took her 
 hand, fqueezed it in hers, andkiffedit; faying,, Ah! is 
 it thus 1 find you 1 Do not die, I pray you ; what would 
 become of me, were I to lofe you ? 1 will Hay with yoa 
 night and day. I will watch over you, and {qi'vc you;' 
 will you allow me? Cecilia, fqueezing her hand, figniiied 
 to her that (he would do her a pleafure in ftaying con- 
 ilantly with her, Marian was now become, with the 
 ccnfent of Mrs. Allen, Cecilia's nurfe; and performed 
 this part to admiration. She had a fmali bed made up 
 for her clofe befide her little fick friend, and never left 
 her a moment. On the flightell expreflion of pain from 
 Cecilia, Marian rofe immediately to know what me 
 wanted. She gave her, v/ith her own hands, the medi- 
 cines ordered her by the phyficlans. Sometimes flie 
 would go. and gather bulrufhes, lo amufe her by making 
 liandfome little rulh baflcets while Hie looked on. Some- 
 times Ihe would tumble all Mrs. Al'en's library over, to 
 £nd pidures for her in the books. She exerted her ima- 
 gination in fearch of every thing that was capable of 
 diverting Cecilia from the iQwfQ of her iiincfs. Cecilia 
 had her eyes clofed by the diforder for near a week. 7'his 
 time appeared to her very tedious! bat Marian told her 
 llories of what happened in the village ; and. as (he had 
 profited well by her lelTons at fchool, read to her what-, 
 ever ihe thought would give her plealui-e. Now and 
 then, too, (he addreiled her with the mofi fenfible confo- 
 lation?. With a little patience (he would fay, God al- • 
 mighty will have pity upon yon, as you have had pity 
 on me. At thefe words (he v/ould weep, then quickly 
 drying her eyes. Will you let me ling you a pretty forg 
 to divert you ! Cecilia had only ro make a (ign, and Ma- 
 rian would fmg her all the longs that the had learned from 
 the young country maids round about. Thus the rims 
 pafied over, without hanging heavy on Cecilia. At 
 length by degrees her health was re-eihibliilied : (he could 
 open her eyes again : her iovvnefii of fpirits left her ; the 
 pojck dried up, aijd her appetite returned, iisr face was 
 
 Lit A» j-ti** 
 
L E JACK. 
 
 ftill covered with red fpots. Marian feemed to look at 
 her wiih more pleafure than ever, while Ihe thought how 
 narrowly fhe had milTed lofmg her. Cecilia on the other 
 hand regarded her with equal tendernefs. How fliall 1 be 
 able to pay you, (he would (ay, to my fatisfaClion, for all 
 that you ha\e done for me? She aflced her mama in what 
 manner fhe might recompenfe her tender and faithful 
 nurie. Mrs. Allen, who was almolt hefide herfelf with 
 joy to fee her dear child reftored to health after fo dan- 
 gerous an illnefs, anfwere 1 her. Leave it to me. I Giall 
 take the charge of acquitting both your obligations and 
 jnine to her. She gave private orders to have a complete 
 fuit of clothes made for Marian, and Cecilia undertook 
 to try it on her the firll day that (he fi^iould be allowed 
 to go down into the garden. It was a day of rejoicing 
 through the whole houfe. Mrs. Allen and all her family 
 >vere tranfported with gladnefs at the recovery of Cecilia. 
 Cecilia was delighted that fhe had it in her power to re- 
 compenfe Marian : and Marian was out of her wits with 
 joy to behold Cecilia once more in the fame fpot where 
 their acquaintance had commenced, and befides, to find 
 herfelf new clad from head to foot. 
 
 LITTLE JACK, 
 
 MR. Churchill was returning home one day on horfe- 
 back, after taking a ride about his own efcate. As 
 he pail'ed by the wall of a burying-ground belonging to a 
 fmall village, he heard the groans of a perfon on the 
 other fide. This worthy gentleman had a heart too full 
 of compaflion to hefitate in flying to the relief of the 
 unfortunate pcrfcn whom he heard groan. He a'ightec, 
 and giving his horfe to the fervant who followed him, 
 fprung over the enclofure of the burying-ground. He 
 ilood on tiptoe, and looking all round, at length per- 
 ceived in a corner, at the fartheft end, a grave covered 
 with eatth that was Hill quite frefh. Upcn this grave 
 lay, at his full length, a child about five years old, who 
 was weeping, Mr. Churchill approached him with looks 
 
 of 
 
LITTLE J A C r:, 7; 
 
 cf kindnefs, and faid to him. What doll thou do thej&, 
 my lictle friend f 
 
 Child. \ am c^Iiifig my mother. They laid her here 
 jerterday, and ;1i€ does not get up. 
 
 Mr. Ch, That is becaufe Ihe is dead,' my poor child. 
 
 Child. Yes, they iay that ilie is dead, but I cannot be- 
 lieve it. She was fo well the other day, when ftie left me 
 with old Suflm oar neighbour ; ihe told me fiie was to 
 come back, but fne does not come. My father is gone 
 away too, and my litde brother, and now the pther little 
 boys of the to^vn won't have nie. 
 
 Mr. Ch. Won't have you r why fo ? 
 
 Child.. I do not know ; but when I want to go along 
 with them, they drive me away and leave me by myfelf. 
 And they fay naughty things, too, about my father and 
 mother. That is v/hat vexes me moll of all. O mammy 
 get U23, get up ! 
 
 Mr. Churchill's eyes filled with tears. You fay that 
 your father is gone away, and your brother too j where 
 are they gone I 
 
 Child. I do not know where my father is ; and my lit- 
 tle brother went away yellerday to another town. There 
 came a gentleman ail in black, jull like our parfon, and 
 took him away, 
 
 Mr. Ch. And where do you live now? - 
 
 Child. With our neighbour. Sufan. .lam to be there 
 until my mother comes back, as fhe promifed me. I love 
 my other mammy Sufan very well; but {pointing to the 
 grave) I love my mammy that is here a great deal better. 
 
 mother, rnother! why do you lie fo long? when will 
 you get up? 
 
 Mr. Ch. My poor child, you call her in vain, for yoa 
 will never awake her. 
 
 Child. Well then, I will lie down here, and ileep by 
 her. Ah ! I faw her when they put her into a great cheft 
 to carry her away. Oh ! how white ihe was 1 and how 
 cold 1 i will lie down here and fleep by her. 
 
 Mr. Churchill could no longer refrain from tears. He 
 {looped down, took the child up in his arms, and kilTing 
 him tenderly, faid. What is your name, my Door liitle 
 fellow? 
 
 Ch'ild. They call me Jackey when I am good, and when 
 
 1 am a bad boy they call me vou Jack, 
 
 £ 3 Mr. 
 
7$ LITTLE JACK. 
 
 Mr. Churcliill, though in tears, fmlled at this nnfwcr. 
 Will you take me to SuTan ? Oh yes, yes. Sir, anfv/ered 
 the child ; and running befnre Mr. Churchill as fall as his 
 little legs could go, conducted him to Sufan's door. 
 SuTanuas not a little furprized on feeing a gentleman 
 enter her cottage with little Jack, who pointing to her, 
 and running to hide his face in her lap, faid. That is 
 ihe ; that is my other mammy. She kjicw not what to 
 think of fo extraordinary a vifit. Mr. Churchill, how- 
 ever, did not leave her long in fufpence. He cxprcflcd 
 to her the fituation in which he had found the child, and 
 the comprifiion that he felt for him ; and at the fame time 
 TequeJled her to favour him with every information con- 
 cerning the parents of little Jack. Sufan bade him be 
 feated, and placing herfelf clofe by him, began thus. 
 The father of this child is a ihoe-maker, whofe houfe 
 joins mine. He is an honert, fober, laborious man, un- 
 der thirty, and a comely pcrfon. His wife was a hand- 
 fome woman, but did not get her health well. Withal 
 ihe was very careful, and a good houfewife. They were 
 married about feven years ago, lived vallly well together, 
 and would have made the happ'eil couple in the world, if 
 they had been a little better in their citfairs. John had 
 nothing but his trade, and Margaret being left an orphan, 
 brought her hufband only a little money that ftie had 
 favea in the fervice of a worthy clergyman, the curate of 
 the next p?.ril}i. This liitle fum was laid out in buying a 
 bed, and a few other articles of Koufliold furniture, with 
 a fmall Itock of leather for his work, in fpite of their 
 poverty, they contrived to maintain themfclves du/ing 
 •the £ril years of their marriage, by dint of labour and 
 good management. But children came on, and then be- 
 gan their dirficulties. Yet fiill they might have made it 
 t)\it by doubling their induilry, if" misfortunes had not 
 happened to them. Poor Margaret who had worked in 
 the fields every day during tlie hay time, to bring home 
 feme money at night to her hufband, fell fick of fatigue, 
 and continued fo all the harvell and all winter. Phy- 
 ■fick is very expcnfive, and then befides, the work did not 
 go on .fo v/cll, becaufe John's cnftemers left him one by 
 one, as they were afraid of being ill fcrved in a houie 
 where there was a fick wife. At lall Margaret grew bet- 
 ter, but h<ir hulband's bulincfs declined. He was obliged 
 
 to 
 
LITTLE JACK. 79- 
 
 ta borrow money to pay the apothecary ; and having lofl' 
 all his cuilomers, he was now quite out of v/ork. Ac 
 the fame time Margaret could earn nothing ; her llrength 
 was (o much reduced that nobody would give her em- 
 ployment. Berides, the rent of their houfe, and the in- 
 terell of the money that they had borrowed, came heaviiv 
 upon them. They were obliged more than once to fuflrr 
 hunger, and thought themfelves very happy when they 
 had a morfel of bread to give to their children. At iheic" 
 words little Jack withdrew into a corner, and began to 
 fob. With all this it happened that their hard-hearted 
 landlord, feeing them not able to pay the rent of the two 
 winter quarters, threatened John to put him in gaoL 
 They begged hard of him to have patience until the Jiay- 
 making came on, becaufe then they could earn fome- 
 thlng by working in the fields ; but neither their entreaties- 
 nor their tears coiild fofcen him, though he is the richi^lt 
 man in the place. It was with much ado that he a! - 
 lowed them a month's delay ; but he fwora that if at the 
 end of th??t time he was not paid the wliole, he would 
 fell their furniture and put John in prifon. Their houfe 
 was now a pidure of melancholy and patient dillrefs* 
 capable of foftening a heart of Hone. You may believe 
 me. Sir ; I have often been grieved to the foul on hear- 
 ing the complaints of thefe good neighbours,* and not 
 being able to relieve them, i went once myfeif to their 
 landlord, and prayed him to have compaffion en their 
 extremity. I offered to pawn to him all that f poffefH^d 
 in the world. But it was to no parpofe. You are no 
 better than they are, anf.vered he ; this it is to have fuch 
 traih o'^ tenants as you are ail together. Ah I Sir, ihere the . 
 tears trickled donxin Sufans cheeks) I bore this reproach 
 patiently, that I might not provoke him ftill more ; but 
 oh ! how I fuffered in being no more than a poor widow, 
 and in not being able to afford the leaft comfort to thofe 
 worthy people! How much good the rich might do if 
 they had the fame inclination as the poor 1 But to return 
 to our unfortunate neighbours ; I advifed Margaret to 
 make known her diilreffes to the clergyman with whom 
 fhe had lived fome years as an honell and worthy fer- 
 vant, and to beg oi him to advance her fame monev. 
 She anfvvered me, that fne v/ould fpeak about it to her 
 huiband, but that Ihe could hardly thiak of doing fo,- 
 E 4 bcjauie 
 
8e L I T T L 1» J A C K. 
 
 becaufc the curtate might imagine that they were reduced 
 to want through their own br.d jnanagcnietu. Three days 
 ago file brought me her two children as flie ufed to do, 
 and begged me to take care of them till the evening. 
 She intended to go to a neighbouring village, and try if 
 ihe could have fome hemp from the weaver to fpin, in 
 order to clear her debt. /She could never bring hcrfeif to 
 go before the clcrgym.an her old mafter; but her huiband 
 was to go in her Itead, and he had fet off the lame day. 
 I took charge Q'>f the children with ple-iifure, for 1 loved 
 them vevy well, having been at the birth of them. Mar- 
 garet, as file was going, clafped them to her breall and 
 kilfed them, as if it were the lull time that ever flie iliould 
 fee them. Her eye^ were fwimm.ing in tears, and flie faid 
 to the eldefl, Jackey, 1 am to be back very foon, and then 
 j'll come and fetch you. She took me by the hand, 
 thanked me for being fo good as to look after her chil- 
 dren, kified them once more, and departed. A little 
 time after, i heard an odd fort of noife in her houfe, that 
 vent thump, as it were ; but imagining that fhe was gone 
 out, I fuppofed it might be only the inner door clapping 
 to, and fo did not think any more about it. Well, the 
 t'vening came on, it grew dark nighty and I faw nothing, 
 ci' my neighbour. I thouglu 1 would go to her houfe, and 
 f(?e if (lie v/as gone in to lay her hemp down before (he 
 came to fetch tlie children. I found the door open, and 
 went in. But O heavens ! hew was I Ibuck on behold- 
 ing Margaret ftretched at her length, ftone dead, at the 
 foot of the flairs. As for me, I Hood motionlefs, and as 
 cold as a ftone.. I did not know what to do. At length 
 after trying in vain' to recover her, I ran to the furgeon 
 who came, and feeling her pulfe, Ibook his head and 
 ient direftiy for the coroner. They held an inquell, the 
 furgeon being prefent, to examine how flie came by her 
 death; and they brought it in that ibe mull have died 
 fuddenly, or that having fallen into a fit, and not being 
 able to call for help, flie expired in that condition. 1 
 can eafily imagine how it happened. She had returned 
 into hsr own houfe to go up to the loft for the bag that 
 was to hold her hemp, and as her eyes were IHII dimmed 
 with tears, Ihe had miiled her Hep in coming down, and 
 fallen from the top of the Hairs, with her head foremoll, 
 on the ground, Tiie bag tiiat was bciiie her flievved it- 
 
 plainly. 
 
LITTLE JACK. 8i 
 
 plainly. Yet for all that, the coroner thought otherwife. 
 So the body was ordered to be buried the next morning: 
 before day-light in a corner of the church-yard, and aa 
 enquiry to be made after John, to know what was be-^ 
 come of him. I propofed to the parifh officers to keep 
 the two children myfe:f ; for though 1 find it hnrd enougli 
 to live, yet; thought I,, the bounteous God knows that I 
 am a helplefs widow; and if thefe two children come to 
 my charge, wili furely aiTill me to feed them. The 
 younger brother to this did not flay long wirh me. 
 Yelleiday of all days, and even not long afcer Margaret- 
 had been buried, did the worthy curate her old mailer 
 come by chance to fee her. He knocked for fome time 
 at her door, and as nobody opened, he came to my win- 
 dow and affced me what was bt^come of John J^hnfoii. 
 the fhoem:-;kcr tliat lived in the next houfs. I told hinx 
 that if he v/ould give himfelf the trouble to -lop in a mu~ 
 ment, i had many things to tell him. He came in, and 
 fat down there, juft where you Srre. I told him all thac 
 had happened, which made him ihed tears. Afterwards 
 1 told him that John had fome thoughts of applying to 
 him in his diftreis. He fecmed furprized, and ailured me 
 pofitively thiic he had not fcen John. The t.vo chiidrert 
 Came up to him, arid he fondled them a good deal. I,itr!e 
 jack afl:ed him if he could not awake his mother, who 
 had been a long time afleep. The tears came into the 
 good curate's eyes vvhcn he heard the child talk fo ; and' 
 he faid to me, Good woman, I will iend to-morrovv for 
 thefe two ii:tle boys, and I will keep them at h- iTiC v/lthi 
 me. if their father returns, and fhould be able to bring 
 them up, 1 fnall reilore them to him wheocvcir he requires 
 it. in the mean time f will take chargepf their educa- 
 tion. All this v/as not very agreeable to me ;.for 1 love 
 tiieCc little innocents as if I were their tnothcr, and h 
 would have gven me fome pain to ice them fna!>ched 
 fr<:m me fo fv)on. Dodtor, faiJ I to him, I cannot cocfent 
 to part with chefe children. I am uied to ihem, and they 
 are ufed to me. — Well then, mv g' od woman, you muit 
 give me one of them, and 1 will leave you the other, fmce 
 he is likely to be fo happy with you ; an.^ from time to 
 time I fhall fend you fomething towards his maintenance. 
 I could not refuTe the good parfon this. He aiked little 
 Jack if he fnould not like to go with hiii^, "What, there 
 E 5 whcr.' 
 
82 LITTLEJACK. 
 
 where my mother is ? fald Jack ; oh yer- with all my 
 heart. — No, my little man, I do not mean there ! but to 
 my hyndfome houfr, and my handfome garden. — No, no, 
 let me itay here wiih Sufan. I'll go every day to where 
 my mother is. I would rather go there than to your 
 handionie garden. The good gentleman did not chuie to 
 trouble the child more, who had gone to hide himfelf be- 
 hind the curtains of my bed. He told me that he would 
 fend his man for the ybungell, who would give me more 
 trouble than the other ; and at his going, left me fome 
 uioney for this child. This, Sir, is all that 1 have to in- 
 form you of the parents of little Jack. What doubles 
 my uneafinefs at prcfent is, that John does not return, 
 and that a report goes in the parilli, that he is gone to 
 join a CTang of fmugglcrs, and that his wife killed herfeif 
 i'or gnef. Thcfe ilories have gained fuch ground in the 
 village, that there is not one, even to the children, but 
 talks of them ; and whenever my poor Jack would go 
 amongft the other boys, they drive him away, and are 
 ready to beat him. The poor child is quite dull, and 
 never ftirs out now, unlefs to go to his mother's grave. 
 
 Mr. Churchill had lillencd in filence to Suf.m's account, 
 and was deeply af]ed"ied by it. Little Jack was come 
 again clofe up to her. He looked at her with fondnef=, 
 and called her feveral times his mother. At length Mr. 
 Churcliili faid to Sufm, My worthy woman, you have 
 conduced yourfelf very generoufly towards this unfortu- 
 nate family i God will not fail to reward you for it. 
 
 Si'/an. 1 have done no mor^ than my duty. We are 
 ient into this world to affiit and relieve each other. I 
 always thought that I could do nothing more pleafing ia 
 the fight of God for all the bleflings that 1 have received 
 from hini, than to comfort ray poor neighbours to ihs 
 u'.moil of my power. Ahl if 1 could have done moi2 
 than I did 1 But I am pofi'eifed of nothing In the world ex- 
 cept my cottage, a little garden where 1 have a few greens, 
 and what \ can earn by the work of my hand?.. Never- 
 theltfs, for thcfe eight years th-it I have been a widow, 
 God has always given me an honcll fupport, and i hope 
 will do fo while 1 live. 
 
 Mr. Ch. But if you keep this child, the expence of 
 iraintaining him may be very inconvenient to you, before 
 he be cap<.bic of earning hii breadr 
 
LITTLE JACK. 83 
 
 Bufan, I fhall always take care not to let him want. We 
 win iliare even to my laft morfel of bread. 
 
 Mr. Ch, And how are you to furnifh him with clothes ? 
 
 Sufan. i leave the care of that to him who clothes th« 
 fields with grafs and the trees with leaves. He has given 
 me fingers to few and ipin ; they fli.ill work to clothe our 
 poor little orphan. VVhofcevcr can pray and work, wlil 
 never want. 
 
 Mr. Ch. Then you are refolved to keep litt'o Jack vv'lrh 
 ycurfelf. 
 
 Sn/an. Always, Sir ; I could not live under the thought 
 offending awoy this deditute infant from me, or of jet- 
 ting him come upon the parij"h. 
 
 Mr. Ch. You are, I fuppofe, related to his family? 
 
 i'lifun. No othervyife than as neighbours and fellow- 
 chri-rians. 
 
 Mr. Cb. Then, as T am alfo related to both of you, by re- 
 ligion and humanity, I will not fufter you alone to have all' 
 the honour of doing good to this orphan, fince God has 
 provided me with me means for it .iiore amply than you. 
 Commit the education of little Jack to my care ; and fince 
 yoC are fo ilrongiy attached to each other, and that your 
 benevolence merits my eileem as much as the child's affec- 
 tion for ids mother, I. will take yo«u both home with me, 
 and provide for you. Sell your garden and your cottage, 
 and come live at my houfe ; there you fliall have a com- 
 fortable lupport and a home for the refl of your life. 
 
 Su/arty {^looking, at hi?n ajfet^ionately.) Do not be angry 
 at me, fir. May God reward you for all your goodneA !- 
 hat I cannot accept your oft'^rs. 
 
 Mr.Ch. And why? 
 
 Sufa?i. In the firli place, I am fond of the fpot where 
 Ivvas born, and have lived fo long; ih::n again, I could 
 not fait rayfelf to the buille of a great houie, nor to the 
 fight of fo many folks in a fami'y j neiiher am I uf d to 
 eufs or nice living. I Ihoald fail fick if I had nothing to 
 do, or if J eat hner food than ordinary. Let me b de 
 therefore in my cottage with my little Jack: it will do 
 h.im no ha-m to live a little hard. Neverthelefs, if yoa 
 chafe to fend him now and then a fmall mart?r, 10 pay lor 
 his fchooling, ard. to furni.fn him with tools for whatev« r 
 trade he may take up, the gracious God wl/I not fail to 
 pay you an hundred fold; at leaft this bcy.and i will .-r../ 
 £ 6 da I i'T 
 
84 LITTLE JACK. 
 
 daily for you that he may. I have no child ; he fliall be 
 initcad of one to me ; and what little I polTefs fnall be- 
 long to him, whenever it plcafcs tlie Lord to call me to 
 hiinlelf 
 
 Mr. Ch. Well then, be it fo. I do not willi that what 
 J mean well fliould make you unhappy. I will leave little 
 J;Kk with you, fince you are fo well together. Talk to 
 him often of me, and tell him that I am in the place of 
 a father to him, while you, en the other hand, will take 
 upon you the cares and the name of the mother for whom 
 he grieves fo much. I fhall fend you every month what 
 may be fufficient for your fubfiftence. I will come fre- 
 quently to fee you ; and my vifit fliali be as much on your 
 account as his. 
 
 Suf.n lif ed up her eyes to heaven, and implored its 
 favours en Mr.. ChurchiJl. She then faid to the child, 
 Come hither, Jackey, and afk this gentleman's bleiling ; 
 he will be your father now. The little boy did fo ; but 
 faid prefently to Sufan, How can he be my daddy? he 
 wears no apron. Mr. ChnrchiJl fir.ilcd a^ this innocent 
 quertion cf little Jack, and throwing his purfe on the 
 table, i^'arewel, faid he, generous Sufan ! farewel my 
 little friend ! it fiiall not be long before you fee me again. 
 He then left them, and mounting his horfe, took the 
 road that led to the parilh where the Curate lived who 
 had taken home the younger orphan. He found the Cu- 
 rate reading a letter, on which he now and then fhed 
 tears. After the firfl civilities, Mr. Churchill explained 
 the fuhjedl of his vifit to the worthy divine, and afked 
 him if he knew what v/as become of the father of thofe two 
 unfortunate children. i:ir, anfvvered the Curate, it is not 
 a quarter of an hour fince 1 received this letter, writteii by 
 him to his wife. It was enclofed in one to me, and con- 
 tains a fmall draft for the ufe of his wife : he requcils 
 me to deliver it to her, and to confole her for his ab'.ence. 
 A^ ihe is dead, I have opened the letter: here it is ; be 
 fo kind as to read it. Mr. Churchill eagerly took the 
 letter, and read as foliov.'s : 
 
 Dcvir wife, 
 
 I cannot think without uneafincfs on the trouble that 
 my abfence muft have occafioned you. But let me inform 
 }ou of what has. haj;>pened to me. Being on my wa)i to 
 
 the 
 
LITTLE JACK. g^ 
 
 the clergyman's houfc, I began to think in this manner: 
 Of what ufe will it be to me to go begging thus ? 1 fhall 
 only get rid of one debt by contra(fling another, and fhall 
 gain nothing but the uneaunefs of thinking how to pay it. 
 1 that am yet young, and can work, to go and afk fo 
 much money ? I ihall be taken either for an idle fellow, 
 or a drinker. The parfon to bs fure married us, and 
 loves us as his children ; but if he were to take a diflike, 
 and refufe me! or on the other hand, if he were not able 
 to relieve us ! And then fuppoiing that he advanced me 
 the fum for a year, fhculd I be fure to have it in my 
 power to pay him ? and if I did not, fhould not I be as 
 bad as a thief? It would be defrauding him. Thus I 
 reafoned, my dear Margaret, and began afterwards to 
 think hov/ 1 might extricate our affairs by ading in a 
 juiter manner. I often fighed and put up my prayers to 
 heaven. At laft it came into my head all at once, thouc^,ht 
 1, you are flill a young man, you are llout and able bo- 
 died, what harm would fhere be if you went on board of 
 a man of war for a few years ? You can read and write, 
 and caft accounts pretty v.'ell. You may iiill make a for- 
 tune for your wife and children ; at leall you may clear 
 all your debts. Confider that if you have good fuccefs, 
 and happen on fome prize money, it will be the making 
 of your wife. For above half an hour thefe were my 
 thought?, when at lail I faw part of a prefs-gang at a dif- 
 tance behind me. They foon came up with me, and afked 
 me whence I came, where I was bound, and whether I 
 would go as a volunteer? I feemed at firft not to like the 
 fea, but they queiiioncd me again, and promifed me a 
 bounty of five pounds. I told them that for fo much I 
 would ferve during the war. Done, faid they. Come 
 along with us, my lad, and the afrair fhall be feuled pre- 
 fently. They brought me before the lieutenant who aiked 
 me fome queflions; and I anAveied them fo much to 
 his fatisfadion that he advanced my bounty immediately. 
 And thus, my dear Margaret, I ha^e entered the king's 
 fervice to clear my affairs, i fend you a draft for the 
 five pounds. I would not keep a penny of it. Pay the 
 forty fliillings that we owe, and whatfoever elfe maybe 
 due. VVitii the remainder do the beil you can to keep 
 houfe. Live well, that you may recover your flrength. 
 Clothe our children, and- fend them icon to fchcol. I 
 
 know 
 
86 LITTLE JACK. 
 
 know that although you are handy and careful, you will 
 not be able to make this fum lail very long. But pa- 
 tience ! my wages are 17s. 6cl. per month; 1 will try if 
 r cannot find a way to forward part of them to you at the 
 end of a few months ; and whenever we arrive in har- 
 bour, I iliall aflc leave to go on fliorc on purpofe to fee 
 you. My dear Margaret, do not grieve ; trull in God, 
 We may foon have a peace. I will then return to you, 
 and we (hall begin houfekeeping together once more. 
 My lieutenant has promifed me to write to our church- 
 wardens, that the parifh may not be uneafy on my ac- 
 count. Bring up our children carefully; make them 
 Hick to home, and be fond of work. Pray with them 
 every day, and teach them their duty, that they mav 
 grow up to be honeil men ; for you are very capable of 
 inilruditing them well. Live in the fear of the Lord, 
 pray to him forme, and 1 will pray to him in your be- 
 half. Anfvvcr me foon. You have only to give your 
 Jetter to the dodlor, he knows bril how to direct it. Re^ 
 member, me 10 the two boys. Tell Jack that if he is a 
 good lad, 1 will bring him home fomething at my return. 
 God be praifed for all things. Continue ftill to love 
 me, who remain 
 
 Ycur ever faithful hufband, 
 
 JOHN JOHNSON. 
 
 r,Ir. Churchll's eyes were filled with tears whi!e h.e 
 read this letter^ When he had iiniHied it. This man, 
 cried he, may truly be called a good hufband, a good 
 father, and an honeft man! Sir,, there is a real pleafure 
 in contributing to the happinefs of fuch excellent people.. 
 As to Joiia's debt5, I v/ill pay them and will enable hi.a 
 befidcs 10 take up his trade again decently. Let this 
 money remain for the children who have colt their fatJier 
 4,ear ; and let it be divided between them a^ foon as they 
 are capable of doing for thcmrelvcs. 7'iil then keep jC 
 in your h;-inds, and Ipeak to them at times of it as of. 
 the llr(;ne;e(t proof of a father's aficdion, I will pay you 
 intcrclt for it, to be joined with the capital ; for I \A%. 
 to \\.\vit fome part in this iacrcd dcpolit. The worthy 
 curate was too ir.uch a(lci!:leJ to be able to anfwer Mr. 
 Ch'jrchill. The K tter undcrllood the forte i>f his filcnce,, 
 and fc]ucc7,ing him by the hawd, took his leave. 
 
 I All 
 
THE MASONS ON THE LADDER. 87 
 
 All his defigns in favour of John have been executed. 
 John, being fafe returned, enjoys an eafinefs of cir- 
 cumftances which he never experienced before, and 
 would be the happieil of men, but for his grief for the 
 lofs of Margaret. He iinds ho other comfort, than in 
 talking of her conllancly with Sufan. This worthy wo- 
 man looks upon herfelf as his filler, and as a mother to 
 his children. Little Jack never lets a fmgle day pafs 
 without going to his mother's grave. He has made fo 
 good a ufe of Mr. Churchill's generofity, in improving 
 himfelf, that this excellent gentleman has it in view tO' 
 eftablifn him. in the moft advantageous manner. He has 
 taken the fame care of John's younger fon, and he never 
 mounts his horfe vviiliout recalling to mind this affecting 
 incident. Whenever he meets any fubjeft of chagrin, he 
 goes to fee the perfcns whom he has made happy, and 
 always returns home relieved of every uneafy fenfation. 
 
 THE MASONS ON THE LADDER. 
 
 As Mr. Dormer was v/alking one day with little 
 Archibald his fon, in one of the public fquares, 
 they llopped before a houfe that was building, and which 
 was raifed as high as the fecond itory. Archibald re- 
 marked a number of workmen placed one above another 
 upon the rounds of a ladder, who were moving theirarms 
 up and down fuccelTively. This appearance excited his 
 ciiriofity. Papa, cried he, what game are thofe men 
 playing ? Let us go a I'.ttle nearer to the foot of the ladder. 
 They placed themfe.lves in a fpot where there was no 
 danger, and obferved a man go and take a large ftone 
 from a heap, and carry it to another man placed on the 
 firll round of the ladder;, and he, raihng his arms abovci 
 his head, handed the ftone to a third who was placed 
 above him,, who, by the fame operation, paiTed it up to 
 a fourth ; an.d thus^ from one haud to another, the ilone 
 very foon reached the fcaffoldj. where the mafons were 
 ready to make uie of it. 
 
 V/hat 
 
SS THE MASONS ON THE LADDER. 
 
 What do you think of this fight? fiiid Mr. Dormer to 
 hi? fon. Why are fo many pcrfons employed in buikling 
 this.hoafe? Would it not be better that one man fingly 
 fliould work at it, and that the rell lliould go, and each 
 build for himfclf ? 
 
 Very true, indeed, papa, anfwered Archibald ! there 
 would then be many more houfes th.m there are. 
 
 Do you coniider well, faid Mr. Dormer, what you now 
 fay r Do you know liow many arts and trades are con- 
 cerned in forming fuch a houfe as this ? One hnglc man, 
 therefore, who would undertake a building, fliould be 
 mailer of all thefe profeflions ; fo that he would fpend his 
 v/hole life in acquiring thofe different forts of knowledge, 
 before he could begin to build. But, fuppofing that he 
 could in a fhort time perfect himfeif in cvjry ihing necef- 
 fary to be known for the purpofe ; fee him aM ahMie, and 
 without any aflillance, firll digging the earth to l:iy his 
 foundation; then going to feek Hone, hewing it, making 
 mortar, plaiiter and white-wa(h ; in fhort, preparing 
 every thing neceflliry to a mafon. See him full of ardor, 
 taking his meafurcment.s raifing his ladders, trcfling his 
 fciiflolds : but in what time do you think his houfe would 
 be raifcd to the top ? 
 
 Archibald. Ah! p.ipa, I am greatly afraid tliat he 
 would never be able to finilh ir. 
 
 Mr. Dormer. You nre very right, child ; and it is the 
 fame with ail the labours of focicty. Were a man to with- 
 ,draw himfclf totally and work for himfeif alone ; were 
 he to rcfule to borr >vv tlie aid of others, fearing to be 
 obliged to lend them his in return, he v<.ou'd exhaufc his 
 ftrcngth in the undertaking, and fee himfeif qui. kly under 
 t^e necefUry of abandoning it : whereas, if men lend 
 their ai^iltance rnutuaiiy, they execute in a fhort time the 
 molt puzzling and laborious works, to perform which 
 each of them fingly would require the courfe of a whole 
 life. It is the lame alfo with the pleafures of life : he who 
 would talle them alone could procure ro himftlf but few 
 enjoyments; but let all unite in contributing to their mu- 
 tual happinefs, and each will find his ihnre in this union.-— 
 Yon are one day to be a member of fociety, my dear 
 child ! Let the example of thele workmen be always pre- 
 fent to your m.emory. You fee how much they eafe and 
 fhoiten their kibours by mutually aiding each other. We 
 
 will 
 
T H E S V/ O R D. S9 
 
 will piifs by here again, fome days hence, and we fftall 
 find their houfe finilhed. Endeavour, therefore, to help 
 others in their undertakings, if youvvifli that they fhould, 
 in their turn, exert themfelves to labour for you. 
 
 THE SWORD, 
 
 A D R A M A, in One Act. 
 
 Chara cters. 
 
 Lord Onsburgh. 
 
 Augustus, - his S071. 
 
 Henrietta, - his Daughter, 
 
 Elder Raynton, *) 
 
 Younger Raynton, 
 
 Elder Dudley, ■ 
 
 Younger Dudley, 
 
 Crape, - a Servant to Lord Qnjhurg^% 
 
 £cEN£. The Jpartment of Au^ujius* 
 
 Friends of Jlugujiuu 
 
 S C E N E I. 
 
 Augvjius* 
 
 AHA ! this IS my birth-day ! They did well to tell 
 me, othervvife f ihould never have thought of ic« 
 Well, it will bring me fome newprefent from papa. Butj 
 let's fee what will he give me ? Crape had lomething 
 under his coat when he went into papa'? room* Hevvouid 
 not let me go in with him. Ah ! ii 1 were not obliged 
 tp appear a little more fedatc-than ufual, I fhould have 
 forced him to fhew me what he was carrying. But hiit I 
 1 ihail foon knov/ it. Here comes my papa., 
 
 S C E N E II. 
 
 Lord^ Of;Jhurgh, {holding in his hand afnjoord and belt.) 
 Jugujlus, 
 
 Lord Onjh. Ah ! are you there, Auguflus ? I have a!- 
 ready wifhed you joy of your birth. day ; but that is not 
 enough, is it ? 
 
 Aug. 
 
90 T n E S W O R D. 
 
 Aug. Oh ! papa — but what have you in your hand 
 there ? 
 
 Lord OnJJ), Something that I fear will not become you 
 well. A Iword ; look ye ! 
 
 Aug. What ! is it for me ? Oh ! give it to me, dear 
 papa ; I will be fo good and fo diligent for the future — 
 
 Lord Onjl. Ah ! if i thought that 1 But do you know- 
 that a fword requir^'s a man ? That he mufr be no longer 
 a child who wears one, but fhould condudl himfelf with 
 circumfpe(5lion and decency ; and, in fhorr, that it is not 
 the fword that adorns the man, but the man that axioms 
 the fword. 
 
 Aug. Oh ! never fear me. I fhall adorn mine, I war- 
 rant ! and i'Ji have nothing to fiiy to thofe mean per- 
 fons 
 
 Lord Ovfo. Whom do you call thofe mean perfons ? 
 
 Aug. \ mean thofe who cannot wear a fword and a bag: 
 thofe who are not of" the ncbility, as you and I are. 
 
 L^crd 0)ijb. For my part, J know no mean perfons but 
 thofe who have a wrong way of thinking, and a worfe of 
 conducing themfelves ; who are difobedient to their pa- 
 rent?, rude and unmannerly to others : fo that I fee many 
 mean perfons among the nobility, and many noble amongll 
 thofe whom you call mean. 
 
 Aug. Yes, 1 think in the Hime manner. 
 
 L.crd Onjb. What were you talking then ju II now, of a 
 bag and fword ? Do you think that the real advantages of 
 nobili:y confiit in thofe fopperies ? They ferve to diilin- 
 guifli ranks, becaufe it is neceflary that ranks ihould be 
 dilUnguifned in the world. But the moll elevated rank 
 does only add more difgrace to the man unworthy to fill 
 it. 
 
 Aug. So I believe papa. But it will be no difgrace to 
 me to have a fword, and to wear it. 
 
 Lord OnJh. No. I mean that you will render yourfelf 
 worthy of this diiVintftion no otherwife than by your good 
 behaviour. Here is your fword, but remember 
 
 Aug. Oh ! yes, papa. You Ihall fee 1 {He endca-vours 
 to fut the Jhjordhy kispde, but cannot. Lord Onjlurgh helps 
 hint to buckle it on.) 
 
 LordOnJh, Eh 1 why it does not fit {o ill. 
 
 Aug. Does it now? Oh ! I knew that. 
 
 Lord Onjbt 
 
THE SWORD. 91 
 
 hord Onjb. It becomes you furprlzingly. But, above 
 all things, remember what I told you. Good bye ! {Going, 
 he returns.) 1 had forgot. I have jull: fent for your little 
 party of friends to fpend this day with you. Obferve to 
 behave yourfelf fuitably. 
 
 Jug. Yes, papa. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Augujius, 
 
 {He Jlruts up and doivn the Jlage^ and nonjj and then looks 
 hack to fee if his /--word he behind him.) This is fine ! this 
 is being fomething like a gentleman ! let any of your 
 citizens come in my way now. No more familiarity if 
 they do not wear a fword : and if they take it amifs— 
 Aha ! — out with my rapier. But hold ! let us fee iiril if 
 it has a good blade, [dra^uoing his fnxiord and ujtng furious 
 gejiures.) What, does that tradefman mean to affront 
 nie? — One,-., -two! — Ah! you defend yourfelf, do you ^ 
 — Die^ fcoundrel ! 
 
 SCENE IT. 
 
 Henrietta, Augujius* 
 
 Htnriettay {fivko f creams on hearing thofe lajt words.) 
 Blefs me ! Augullus, are you mad? 
 
 u4iig. Is it you, filler ? 
 
 Henrietta, Yes, you fee it is. But what do you d.0 
 with that inllrumeni: ? {pointing to thefivord.) 
 
 Aug. Do with ii? what a gentleman Ihould do. 
 
 Hinrietta. And who is he that you are going to fend 
 out of the world \ 
 
 Aug. The firil that fnall dare to take the wall of me ! 
 
 Henrietta. I fee there are many lives in danger. And 
 if I iliould happen to be the perfon — 
 
 Aug. You : — I would not advife ycu. I wear a fword 
 now, you fee. Papa made me a prefent of it. 
 
 Hinrietta. I fuppofe to go and kill people, right or 
 wrong. 
 
 Aug. An't I the honourable ? \{ they do not give me 
 the refpe<^s due, fmack, a box on the ear : and if your 
 
 little 
 
gi T II E S W O R D. 
 
 little commoner will be impertinent, — rword in hand— 
 {goi^'g to iirci'W it.) 
 
 Henrietta, Oh! leave it in quiet, brother. And left I 
 fhould run the lifque of uifronting you unknowingly, I 
 vvilli to hz infornied what the refped is thut you demand. 
 
 Aug. You ihall Toon fee. My father has juil fent for 
 fome of my young acquaintance. If thcfc little puppies 
 do not behave thenifelvcs refpedfuliy, you Ihail fee how I 
 will manage. 
 
 Henrietta. Very well ; but I afk you what we mull d(* 
 to behave ourfelves rerpe(ftfa]ly towards you ? 
 
 Aug' In the iirll place, 1 inlill upon a low bow ; very 
 low. 
 
 Hc7iriettay {njjith an offered gra-uity making him a lovj 
 furf/y.) Your lordfliip's moil humble fervant. Was that 
 well ? 
 
 Aug. No joking, Henrietta, if you pleafe, or elff — • 
 
 Henrietta. Nay, I am quite ferious, 1 alTure you. We 
 mull take care to know and perform our duty to refpeflable 
 pcrfons. It would not be amifs to inform your little 
 friends too. 
 
 Aug. Oh 1 I will have fome fport with thofe feUows ; 
 give one a pull, t'other a pinch, and play all forts of 
 tjicks on them. 
 
 Henrietta. Thofe, I take it, are fome of the duties of a 
 gentleman that wears a fword ; but if iho^^ fell oxvs fhould 
 not like the fport, and return it on the gentleman's ears— 
 
 Jug. What [ low vulgar blood ? No, they have neither 
 hearts nor fwords. 
 
 Henrietta. Really, papa could not have given you a 
 more ufeful prcfent. He faw plainly v/hat a hero was 
 concealed in the perfon of hib ion, and that he wanted 
 bat a fword to fliew him in his proper light. 
 
 Aug. Hark ye, filler! it is my birth-day, vvc mud 
 divert ourfelves. However, you will not fay any thing 
 of it to papa. 
 
 Henrietta. Why not ? he would not have given you a 
 fword, if he did not exped fome exploit of this fort from 
 a gentleman newly equipt. Would he have advifed you 
 otherwife ? 
 
 Aug. Certainly ! you know that he is always preaching 
 to me. 
 
 Henrietta, What has he been preaching to you, then ? 
 
 Aug. 
 

 THE S V/ O R D. 93 
 
 Aug. I don't know, not I. That I fhould adorn my 
 fword, and not my fvvord me. 
 
 Henrietta. In that cafe you underflood him properly, I 
 mull fay. To adorn one's Iwcrd, is to know how to make 
 ufe of it ; and you are willing to Ihew already that you 
 have that knowledge. 
 
 Aug. Very well, filler! You think to joke; but I 
 would have you to know, madam 
 
 HejirieUa. Oh ! I know extremely well, all that you 
 ■can tell me; but do you know too, that there is one 
 principal ornament wanting to your fword ? 
 
 Jug. What is that ? {TJnbuckles the belt, and looks all ouer 
 ibef^ord.) I do not fee that there is the leafl; thing want- 
 ing. 
 
 Henrietta. Really, you are a very clever fwordfman. 
 Eut a fword-knot, now? Ah ! how a blue and iilver knot 
 would dangle from that hilt ! 
 
 Aug. You are right, Henrietta. Hark^ye! you have a 
 whole band-box full of ribbands in your room ; fo — 
 
 Henrietta. I was thinking of it; provided that you ^q 
 not gfve me a fpccimen of your fencing, or lay your blade 
 about me in return. 
 
 Aug. Nonfenfe 1 here is ray hand, that is enough; you 
 have nothing to fear. Eut quickj — a handf)me knot! 
 When my little party comes, they Ihall fee me in all my 
 grandeur. 
 
 Henrietta, Give it to me, then. 
 
 Aug, [giving her the fnvord.) There, makehaflel You 
 will leave ii in my room, on the table, tliat I may find it 
 when I want it. 
 
 Henrietta. Depend on me« 
 
 S C E N E V. 
 AuguJluSf Hcnriettay Crape, 
 
 Crape. The two Mailer Dudleys, and the Mailer 
 Rayntons, are below. 
 
 Aug. Well 1 cannot they come up ? Mull 1 go to receive 
 them at the bottom of the ilairs ? 
 
 Crape. My lady ordered me to tell you to com.e and 
 meet them. 
 
 Jzig, No, no ; it is^ better to wait for them here. 
 
 Henrietta, 
 
9+ T II E S W O R D. 
 
 Henrietta. Nay, but fmce mania defires that you will 
 go down— — 
 
 Jug. Indeed, they are worth all that ceremony ! Well, 
 I Ihall go direclly. Come, wliat are you doing ? Will 
 this make my f^vord-knot r Go, run, and let me find it 
 on ir.y table, properly done. {Going out,) Do you hear? 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 
 Henrietta, 
 
 The little in folent! in what a tone he fpeaks to me! 
 Luckily 1 have the fword. A proper inftrurnent, indeed, 
 in the hand of To quarrelfome a boy ! Yes, yes, ftay till t 
 return it to you. My papa dees not know you fo well as 
 I ; but he mud be told — Ah ! here he is. 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 Lord Onfuurghy Henrietta. 
 
 Henrietta. You are come in good time, papa. I was 
 going to you. 
 
 LordO?iJh, What have you then of fo much confequence 
 to tell me? — But what do you do with your brother's 
 fv\ord ? 
 
 Henrietta. I have promifed him to put a handfome knot 
 to it ; but it was only to get this dangerous weapon out 
 of his hands. Do not give it to him again, whatever ycu 
 do. 
 
 Lord Oi'JIj. Why fhould I take back^a prefont that I 
 have given him ? 
 
 Henrietta. At leaft be fo good as to keep it until he be- 
 comes more peaceable, i juft novv found him all iilone, 
 laying about him like Don Quixote, and threatening to 
 make his firfh trial cf fencing upon his companions that 
 come to fee him. 
 
 Lord Onjb. The little quarreller! If he will ufe it for 
 his riril exploits, they Ihall not turn out to his honour, I 
 promiie you. Give me this fword. 
 
 Henrietta J {gi'ves him tie Jnvord.) ^hcre, fir, I hear 
 him on the Ibirs. 
 
 LordOnjl. Run, make his knot, and bring it to me 
 when it i:> ready. {J'hey gc out J) 
 
 SCENE 
 
THE S W O R D. 95 
 
 SCENE viir. 
 
 Au'JuJluSy elder Dudley y younger Dudley ^ elder Raynto?:, 
 younger Raynton, 
 
 {Jugujlus enters firftt ivith his hat on ; the others folloi^ 
 him, utjcovered.) 
 
 Elder Dudley ^ [afide to elder Raynton.) This is a very- 
 polite reception. 
 
 ^Elder Ray7iton, {ajtde to elder Dudley.) I fuppofe it is the 
 fafnion now to receive company with one's hat on, and 
 to walk before them, in one's own houfe. 
 
 Jug. What are you mumbling there? 
 
 Elder Dudley. Nothing, Mr. OnfLurgh ; nothing, 
 
 Aug. Is it fomething that I ihould not hear ? 
 
 Elder Raynton. Perhaps it may. 
 
 Jug. Now I infill upon knowing it. 
 
 Elder Raynton. When you have a right to demand it. 
 
 Elder Dudley. Softly, Raynton I It does not become us 
 in a ilrange houfe- 
 
 Elder Raynton. It is flill lefs becoming, to be unpolite 
 in one's own houfe. 
 
 Jug. {haughtily.) Unpolite? I unpolite : Is it becaufe 
 I walked before you? 
 
 Elder Raynton. That is the very reafon. Whenever we 
 have the honour to receive your vifits, or thofe of any 
 other perfon, we never take the precedence. 
 
 Jug. You only do your duty. But from you to me— 
 
 Elder Raynton. What then, from you to me? 
 
 Jug. Are you noble ? 
 
 Elder Raynton, {to the t^vo Dudleys and his brother.) Let 
 us leave him to himfelf, with his nobility, if you will 
 take my advice. 
 
 Elder Dudley. Fie, Mr. Onfbur-gh ! If you think it be- 
 neath your dignity to keep company with us, why invite 
 us here ? We did not af!-: that honour. 
 
 Jug. It was not I that invited yoii ; it was my papa. 
 
 Elder Raynton. Then we will go to my lord and thank 
 him for his civility. At the fame time we Ihall let him 
 know that his fon thinks it a dilhonour to receive us. 
 Come, brother ! 
 
 Jug. {flopping him.) You cannot take a joke, Mafler 
 B-ayaton. Whv, I am very happy to ice yo;j. It was to 
 
 do 
 
95 T H E S W O R D. 
 
 do me a pleafure that pnp.i invited you, for this is my 
 birth-day. 1 beg you will ilay with mc. 
 
 Elder Raynto-n. That is another affair. But be more 
 polite, for the future. '"I'hough 1 have not a title, as yoii 
 have, yet I will not fuifcr any one to offend me, without 
 refenting it. 
 
 Elder Dudley. Be quiet, Pxaynton I We Ihould ref! o-ood 
 friends. 
 
 Younger Dudl^K This is your birth-day then, Mr. Onf- 
 burgh ? 
 
 E.lder Dudley, I wifli you many happy returns of it. 
 
 Elder Raynton. So do 1, fir; and all manner of profpe- 
 rity. {/JJide) And particularly that you may grow a little 
 more polite. 
 
 Younger Raynto7i. I fuppofe you have had fcveral liand- 
 fome prefents. 
 
 Aug, Oh ! of courfe. 
 
 Younger Dudley. A great deal of cakes and fweetraeats, 
 HO doubt ? 
 
 Aug, Ha! ha! cakes? That would be pretty, indeed. 
 I have thofe every day. 
 
 Younger Raynton, Ah! then, I'll wager, it is in money 
 Two or three crowns ? eh I 
 
 Aug. {di/dainfully,) Something better, and which I 
 alone of all here — yes, I alone, have a right to wear, 
 {Elder Rayntoji and elder Dudley conMcrfe ajide.) 
 
 Younger Raynton. li I had what has been given you, I 
 could wear it as well as another, perhaps. 
 
 Aug. [locking tit him ivitb an air of contempt,) Poor 
 creature ! [To the ti.'jo elder brothers.) What are you both 
 whifpering there again ? I think you fhould affill to amufe 
 me. 
 
 Elder Dudley. Only furnifii us with the means. 
 
 Elder Raynton. He that receives friends fhould fludy 
 their amufement. 
 
 Aug, What do you mean by that, Mr. Raynton ? 
 
 S C E N E IX. 
 
 Elder Raynton, younger Raynton y elder Dudley y younger 
 Dudley, AuguJluSy Henrietta, 
 
 Henrietlay [bringing in a plate ivith cakes.) Your fervant, 
 gentlemen ; I am glad to fee you w H. 
 
 2 Elder 
 
THE S V/ O R D. 9; 
 
 EUer Raynton* Much at your rervice, mifs, {hovjing to 
 her.) 
 
 EUer Dudley. We are happy to fee you, mifs, amongft 
 our party. 
 
 Henrietta. Sir, you are very obliging. — [To Jugujlus.) 
 Brother, mama has fent you this to entertain your friends, 
 until the chocolate is ready. Crape will bring it up ^^t- 
 fently, and I ihall have the pleafare of helping you. 
 • EUer Rayntott. Mifs, you will do us a great deal of 
 honour. 
 
 ^ug. We do not want you here !— But now I think of 
 it — my fword-knot ! 
 
 Henrietta. You will find the fword and the knot in your 
 room. Good bye, gentlemen, until 1 fee you again, 
 
 EUer Raynton. Shall we foon have tlie favour of your 
 company, mifs ? 
 
 Henrietta. I am going to alk mama leave. 
 
 SCENE X. 
 
 EUer Raynton J younger Raynton y elder DiUleyy younger Dudley, 
 uiugiijius, 
 
 Augujiusy {fitting do^jjn.) Come, take chairs, and lit 
 down. [They look at each other, ayU fit a'on.vn ivithout /peak" 
 ing. Augufius helps the tnxiflyonngefi, and then him/elf y Jo 
 plentifully, that nothing remains for the i-Liw eUefi.) Stop a 
 moment ! They will bring in more, and then I'll give yoa 
 fome. 
 
 Elder Raynton. 0]\ \ no ; we do not defire it. 
 
 Aug. Oh ! with all my heart ! 
 
 Elder Dudley. U this be the politenefs of a young no- 
 bleman 
 
 Aug. Is it with fuch as you that one rauft ll?:nd upon 
 ceremony? I told you before, that they will bring us up 
 fomething elfe. You may take it when it comes, or not 
 take it. You underftan.d that.? 
 
 EUer Raynton. Yes, that is plain enough ^ and we 'fee 
 plainly too in what company we are. 
 
 EUer Dudley. Are you going to begin your quarrels 
 again? Mr. Onfburgh, Raynton, fie I {^Augujlus rifes -, all 
 the.nfi rife a!fo.) 
 
 VOL. I, F Ap(^. 
 
.^S THE S W O R D. 
 
 ""^"S' iS^'"S ^P ^^ ^^^^ ^^^^^' R^yfii^^^') ii^ what compel p.y 
 are you then, my little cit ? 
 
 Eider Ray ntciiy {firmly.) With a young nobleman that is 
 very rude and very impudent; who values himlelf morp 
 tiian he ought ; and who does not know how well-bred 
 people fliould behave one to the other. 
 
 Elder Dudley. We arc all of the fame opinion. 
 
 Aug. 1 rude and impudent? Tell me ioy who am a 
 gentleman? 
 
 Elder Raynton. Yes, I fay it again ; very rude, and \^ry 
 impudent ; though you were a duke, though you were a 
 prince. 
 
 ■ Aug, {firiking him.) I'll teach you to whom you are 
 talking ! [Elder Raynton goes to lay hold on him. Augujhis 
 Jltpshacky goes out, and Jhuts the. door after him.) 
 
 SCENE xr. 
 
 Elder Raynton, younger Raynton, elder Dudley, younger Dudley » 
 
 Elder Dudley. Blefs me, Raynton, what have you done ? 
 Tie will go to his father, and tell him a thoufiind Hories. 
 What will he think of us ? 
 
 Eider Raynton. His father is a man of honour. I will 
 go to him, if Auguftus does not. He certainly has not 
 invited us here to be ill-treated by his fon. 
 
 Younger Dudley. He will fend us home, and make a 
 complaint againll us. 
 
 Younger Raynton. No; my bnther behaved himfelf pro- 
 perly. My papa will approve what he has done, when 
 we tell him the whole. He does not underiland having 
 his children ill ufed. 
 
 Elder Raynton. Come with me. Let us all go and find 
 Lord Onll)urgh. 
 
 SCENE XH. 
 
 Elder Raynton, younger Raynton, elder Dudley, younger 
 Dudley, Augufius, 
 
 {Augujlus enters <with his fword undra'wn. The trvo 
 younger boys run, one into a corner, and the other behind an 
 arm- chair. Elder Raynton and elder Dudley fiand firm.) 
 
THE SWORD. 9$ 
 
 Aug. [golagup to elder Rajnton,) Now I'll teach you, 
 little infoleiit — Dra-ivs, and injiead of a blade, finds a long 
 turkey'' s feather. He fops Jhort, in confufion. The lit t la 
 ones burji into a loud laugh , and come up.) 
 
 Elder Raynton. Come on 1 Let us fee the temper of your 
 fword ! 
 
 Elder Dudley. Do not add to his confufion. He only 
 deferves contempt. 
 
 Tou7iger Raynton. Aha! this was it, then, that you 
 alone had a right to wear ? 
 
 Younger Dudly. He will do no great harm to any body 
 with that terrible weapon. 
 
 Elder Raynton. I could punifh you now for your rude- 
 nefs, but I Ihould bluih to take fuch a revenge. 
 
 Elder Dudley. He is no longer worthy of our company- 
 Let us all leave him to himfelf. 
 
 Tounger Raynton. Good bye to you, Mr. Knight of the 
 Turkey's Feather. 
 
 Tounger Dudley. We fhall not come here again until you 
 be difarmed, for you are too terrible now. i^ds they are 
 going y elder Raynton flops the?n.) 
 
 Elder Raynton. Let us Hay and give an account of our 
 behaviour to his father, other wife appearances will be 
 again It us. 
 
 Elder Dudley. You are right. What would he think of 
 us, were we to leave his houfe thus, without feeing him ? 
 
 SCENE xiir. 
 
 Lord Onfhv.rghy Augufius, elder Raynton, younger RayntOKi, 
 elder Dudley ^ younger Dudley. 
 
 {They all put on an air of refpeSI, at the entrance of Lo^d 
 Onfburgh. Augujlus goes afde^ and cries for fpite.) 
 
 Lord Onfb. {to Auguflus^ looking at him <with indignation.^ 
 What is this, fir, that 1 hear r {Augu/lus fobs, and cannot 
 fpeak.) 
 
 Elder Raynton. My lord, you will pardon this difiurb- 
 ance that appears amongft us. It was not caufad by us. 
 From the firlt moment of our coming, iVIr. Onfburgh re- 
 ceived us fo il! 
 
 Lord 0,ifb, Do not be uneafy, my dear little frierd, 
 I know all. I was in ihe next room, and heard, fn m 
 
 F 3 the 
 
100 P R I S C I L L A A N D iM A R C U S. 
 
 the beginning, my Ton's unbecoming difcourfe. He Is. 
 the more blameable, as he had jiilt been making me the 
 fairell promifes. I have fufpeded his impertinence for a 
 long time, but I vviflied to fee, myfeif, how far he was 
 capable of carrying it; and, for fear of mifchief, I put a 
 blade to his fword, that, as you fee, will not (pill much 
 blood. [The children biirji out a laughhfg.) 
 
 Elder Rayntcn. Excufe the freedom, my lord, that T 
 took, in telling him the truth a little bluntly. 
 
 Lord Onjh. 1 rather owe you my thanks for it. You 
 are an excellent young gentleman and deferve, much 
 better than he does, to wear this badge of honour. As a 
 token of my eilecm and acknowledgment, accept this 
 fword ; but I will iirft put a blade to it that may be more 
 wprthy of you. 
 
 Elder Raynton. Your lordHiip is too good ; but allow us 
 to withdraw. Our company may not be agreeable to 
 Mr. Onlburgh to-day. 
 
 Lord Onjb. No, no, my dear boys, you fliall ftay. My 
 fon's preience fliajl not difturb your pleafure. You may 
 divert yourfelves together, and my daughter fhall take 
 care to provide you with whatever may amufeyou. Come 
 with me into another apartment. As for you, fir, {to Au- 
 gujius,) do not offer to itir from this place. You may cele- 
 brate your birth-day here all alone. You fhall never have 
 a fword, until you deferve it, if you were even to grow 
 old without wearing one. 
 
 PRISCILLA AND MARCUS. 
 
 MRS. CAREY a young widow had two children 
 Prifcilla and Marcus both equally deferving of 
 her affcftion, which neverthelefs they Hiared very une- 
 qually. Frifcilla, young as fhe wr.s, perceived her mama's 
 partiality to her brother. It afilidled her, but fhe con- 
 cealed within her own breafl: the forrow which this prefer- 
 ence o:caficned her. Though not difagreeably plain, 
 her features did not correfpond with the charms of her 
 mind ; but her brother was beautiful as the God of Love 
 is painted to us. All the fondnefs, all the carefTes of 
 
 Mrs, 
 
PRISCILLA AND MARCUS. loi 
 
 Mrs. Carey, were laviflied on him alone ; and the fer- 
 vants, to gain the favour of their millrefs, were Ihidious 
 to fuitter him in all his fancies. Prifciila, on the con- 
 trary, from her mother's cold nCiS, found heifelf the more 
 flighted by the rell of the faniily. Far from anticipating 
 her wifhe?, they even neglected her real wants. She 
 would fhed floods of tears, when flie found herfelf alone 
 and forfaken by every body, but never fufFered the 
 ilighteft complaint or mark of d'fcontent to ef:ape her in 
 the prefence of others. In vain did fhe endeavour, by a 
 conllant obfervance of her duty, by her mildnefs and her 
 attentions, to make amends in her mother's opinion for 
 the deficiency of her beauty : the qualities of her mind 
 were unnoticed by eyes accuitomed only to look on out- 
 ward advantages. Mrs. Carey, not much affedled by the 
 marks of tendernefs vvhich Prifciila ihewed her, feem.ed, 
 particularly fmce her hulband's death, to view her with a 
 kind of difguii:. She was continually chiding her, and 
 required perfeftlons In. her which could not even be ex- 
 pelled from an undcrftanding far morr^ advanced. 
 
 This unjufl mother fell fick. Marcus appeared Urongly 
 touched at her fuiierings ; but Prifciila, who, in the 
 foftened looks and languid countenance of her mother, 
 thought fhe perceived an abatement of her accuflomed 
 feverity, far furpaffed her brother in her care and vigi« 
 lance. Attentive to her mother's flightefl wants, ihe 
 exerted all her penetration to difcover them, that fhe 
 might fpare her even the trouble of expreffing them. 
 While her mother's illnefs had the leafl appearance of 
 danger, fhe never quitted her pillow. Entreaties, or even 
 commands, could not prevail upon her to take a moment's 
 repofe. At length Mrs. Carey recovered. This happy 
 circumftance dilfipated the apprehenfions of Prifciila; 
 but her forrows began afrefh, when llie faw her mama 
 reafTume her ufual feverity towards her. 
 
 One day, when Mrs. Carey was difcourfmg with her 
 children of the pains that fhe had fufFered during her ill- 
 nefs, and was thanking them for the tender and earnell 
 afleftion which their cares for her had teflified, *' My dear 
 children, added fhe, you may both afk of me whatever 
 will give you moil pleafure. I promife to grant it to you^ 
 if your defires are within the extent of my fortune. 
 
 F s What 
 
102 PRISCILLA AND MARCUS. 
 
 "What do you wifli, Marcus? faid flie firft to her fon.— 
 A wurch and a cane, mama, replied he. — You fliall 
 have rhem to-morrow morning. 
 
 And you, Prilcilla ?— Me, mama? me? anfwered (he, 
 trembling,' I have nothing to wilh for, if you love me. 
 
 Th:it IS not an anfwer. You fhall have your recom- 
 penfe too, mifs. Wliat would you wiih ? Speak. 
 
 Though Prifcilla had been accuflomed to this tone of 
 feverity, yet fhe felt it more fenfibly on this occafion than 
 ever flie had done before. She threw herfelf at her mo- 
 ther's fcety looked up to her wilh eyes all drowned in 
 tears, and fuddenly hiding her face with both her hands, 
 lifped out thcfe words, " Give me only two kilTes, fuch 
 as you give my brother." 
 
 Mrs. Carey's heart melted at thefc words, and fhe felt 
 thofe fentimcnts of affedion to her daughter now revive 
 which fhe had hitherto fuppreiied. Taking her up in 
 her arms, Die clalpcd her to her brcall and loaded her 
 \vith kifies. Prifcilla, who for the firll time received her 
 mother's carefie?, gave a loofe to the efFufions of her joy 
 and love. She kifled her cheeks, her eyes, her breall, 
 her hands : and Marcus, who could not help loving his 
 iifler, mixed his embraces with her's. They all enjoyed 
 a happineis which was not ccntiaed to the prefcnt mo- 
 ment. Mrs. Carey repaid with interell: to Prifcilla that 
 aitedion which Ihe had before withheld from her, and 
 Prifcilla returned it with new marks of tendernefs. Nor 
 was Marcus in the leail jealous on this account, but re- 
 joiced in his filter's happincfs. He foon reaped the re- 
 ward of fo generous a behaviour. The natural goodnefs 
 of his difpofition having been a little injured by the 
 weaknefs and doating fondnefs of his morher, he gave 
 way in youth to many little indifcreiions which would 
 have loil: him her heart, but Prifcilla always found means 
 to excufe him to her. The fenfible advice too which 
 fhe gave him completed the reform of his manners; and 
 they all three experienced that there is no true happinefs 
 in a family without the moll cordial union between bro- 
 thers and iillers and the moll lively and et;[ual aftVclion 
 between parents and children. 
 
 THE 
 
 I 
 
[ J03 ] 
 THE LAMB. 
 
 LITTLE Flora, the daughter of a poor country man, 
 was feated one morning by the lide of the road, 
 holding on her lap a porringer of milk for her break fa it, 
 in which fhe Topped a few flices of coarfe black bread. 
 Juft then a farmer was palling the road, who had in liis 
 cart about a fcore of lambs that he was going to fell at 
 tiie. markets Thefe poor creatures, crowded one upon the" 
 other, with their feet tied together and their heads hang- 
 ing down, iilied the air with plaintive bleatings, which 
 pierced the heart of Flora, but were heard by the farmer 
 with an ear of unconcern. 
 
 When he was come up oppofite to the little country girl 
 he threw down before her a lamb which he was carrying 
 acrofs his fhoulder. '* There, my girl, faid he, is a 
 good-for-nothing beaft that has juA died, and made me 
 Sve fhiilingsthe poorer. Take it, if you will, and make 
 a ftew of it." 
 
 Flora quitted her breakfaft, laid down her porringer 
 and her bread, and taking up the lamb, began to examine 
 it with looks of compaffion. '* But, faid ilie immediately, 
 why lliould I pity you ? To-day or to-raorrow they would 
 have run a great knife through your throat, while now 
 you have nothing more to fear." While Ihe was fpeak- 
 ing thus, the lamb revived by the warmth of her arms, 
 opened its eyes a little, made a flight motion, and cried 
 baa faintly, as if it was calling its mother. It would be 
 difficult to exprefs the little girl's joy. She covers the 
 lamb with her apron, and over that with her llufF petti- 
 coat, bends her breaft down towards her lap to warm it 
 Hill more, and blows with all her force into its nollirils 
 and mouth. She felt the poor animal ftir by degrees, 
 and at each of its motions flie felt her own heart throb. 
 Encouraged by this iirll fuccefs, fhe crumbles fome fofc 
 bread into her porringer, and taking it up in her fingers, 
 with fome difnculty forced it between its teeth which 
 vverefhut fall. The lamb, which was dying only through 
 hunger, felt itfelf a little flrengthened by this nouriih- 
 ment. It began now to ftretch its limbs, to Hiake its 
 head, to wag its tail, and to prick up its ears. It had 
 foon Hrength enough to fupport itfelf upon its legs, and 
 F 4 then 
 
I04 THE VINE- STUM P. 
 
 then went of its own accord to Flora's porringer, who 
 imiled to fee it drink up her breakfall. In Ihort, before 
 a qjiarter of an hour was pail, it had already played a 
 thcuiand little gambols. 
 
 Flora, tranfported with joy, took it up in her arms, 
 and running to the cottage, fhewed it to her mother. 
 I^aba (fo fhe named it) became from that moment the 
 objeifl of all her cares. She fhared with it the little bread 
 which was given her for her meals, and would not have 
 exchanged it fingly for the largell flock in the neighbour- 
 hood. Baba was fo gratefully, fenfible of her fondnefs, 
 that ilie never quitted Flora a fingle ftep : fhe would come 
 to eat out of her hand, would frifk round her, and when- 
 ever ihe was obliged to go out without her, would bleat 
 moft pitifully. 
 
 This was not the only recompence with which Heaven 
 repaid Flora's compalTionate tendernefs. Baba brought 
 forth young lambs, and thefe others in their turn : fo that 
 in a few years after. Flora had a pretty flock that nourilh- 
 ed all her family with their milk, and furniflied them 
 comfortable clothing from their wool. 
 
 THE VINE-STUMP. 
 
 MR. Sutton, being at his country-honfe in thefpring, 
 went out with his fon Julius to walk in his garden. 
 The violet and primrofe were in their bloom, and many 
 trees began already to ihcw their budding verdure, and 
 to be clothed in white and crimfon bloflbm?. 
 
 They went by chance into a fummer-houfe at the foot 
 of which rofe a vine-lhimp twilling wildly and ilretching 
 its naked branches in a rude irregular manner. *' Papa ! 
 cried Julius, fee this ugly Tree, how it points at me ! 
 why do not you have Martin to grub it up and make 
 fire-wood of it?'* At the fame time he began to pull at 
 it in order to tear it up, but its roots had taken too firm 
 hold in the earth. *' Do not moIeU it, faid Mr. Sutton 
 to his f')n, I will have it Hand as it is, and at the proper 
 time I ftiall tell you my reiifons." 
 
T H E V I N E . S T U M p. 105 
 
 Julius, But, papa, fee clofe by it thofe lively blollbms 
 of the lilac and the^ laurufdnus. Why is^not it as well 
 adorned as they are, if it is to be kept? Jt fpoils and dif- 
 figures the garden. Shall 1 go and tell Martin to pluck 
 it up ? 
 
 Mr. Sutton. No, my dear; I tell you, I will have it 
 fland as it is, at leall a little longer. 
 
 Julius perievered in condemning it : his father tried to 
 divert his attention to other objects, and the unfortunate 
 vine-ltamp was forgotten. 
 
 Mr. Sutton's affairs called him to a diilant part of the 
 country. He fetoff the next day, and did not return till 
 the m'ddle of Autumn. His iirft care was to vifit his 
 country-houfe, whither he brought his fon once more. 
 The da\ being very hot, they went to enjoy the fhade of 
 the fummer-hcufe. *' Ahl papa, faid Julius, what a 
 charming green fliade ! I thank you for having that ugly 
 dry flump plucked up that 1 was fo uneafy to fee lafl 
 Spring, and for putting in its place this handfome flirub, 
 to give me an agreeable furprize. What delightful fruit I 
 See, thefe fine grapes, fome purple, others almoft black. 
 There is not a fingle tree in the garden that looks fo v>'ell. 
 They have all loil their fruit, but this • — fee hov/ it is 
 covered 1 fee thofe large green leaves that hide the clullers. 
 I Ihould like to know if the fruit be as good as it appears 
 handfome." 
 
 Mr. Sutton gave him a grape to tafie. This renewed 
 his joy ; and how much was it enlivened, when his father 
 informed him that from thofe berries was produced that 
 delicious liquor which he IcQietimes tailed after dinner. 
 *' You feem to be aftonifiied, my dear, faid Mr. SuttoB. 
 1 fiiould furprize you much more, were I to tel! you that 
 this is the fiime crooked mifliapen ftump that pointed at you 
 in the Spring. 1 will go, if you chufe, and order Mar- 
 tin to pluck it up and make lire-wood of it.'* 
 
 Julius. Ohl by no means, papa: let him take all the 
 others in the garden before this ; I do like the grapes ^ 
 well! 
 
 Mr. Sutton. You fee then, Julius, th.at I did v/ell in 
 not follov/ing your advice. What has happened to you 
 happens frequently in the world. We lee a child ill 
 clothed, and of an unpleafing outfide appearance ^, we 
 defpife him and grow proud, on comparing ourfeives with 
 
io5 CAROLINE. 
 
 him ; we even carry our cruelty fo far as to addrefs him 
 with infulting difcourfes. Beware,-* my child, of fuch 
 halty judgments. In this perfon, fo little favoured by 
 nature, dwells perhaps an exalted foul which will one day 
 «llonilh the world by its great virtues, or enlighten it by 
 its knowledge. It is a rugged Hem, but may produce the 
 noblell fruits. 
 
 CAROLINE. 
 
 LI T T L E Caroline, of whom we have fpoken, 
 (page 15,) was one day playing befide her mother 
 who was then bufy writing letters. The hair-dreiler being 
 come, Mr5. P told him to flep into an adjoining 
 
 drelling-room with Caroline, and to take a little of her 
 hair off. Inftead of a little, the hair-dreirer took off fo 
 jnuch that the little girl's head was entirely naked. Her 
 mother entered jufl as this unlucky operation was iinifhed. 
 ** Ah ! my poor Caroline, exclaimed fhe, you have loll 
 Jill your tine hair!" — '* Do not be uneafy, mama, 
 anfwered Caroline with the greatell fimplicity ; it is not 
 iolt, it is put up in that drawer." 
 
 Laft Summer vacation, while Ihe was in the country, a 
 chicken was ferved up at dinner, and Mrs. P , who 
 had no company hut her children, having helped her 
 eldeft daughter to fomc of it, offered a bit to Caroline. 
 
 No, mama, anfwered Ihe with a figh ; I fliall not eat 
 any of it. — 
 
 And why, tdv dear ? — 
 
 Becaufe, mama, that chicken and I {aw one another 
 every day, and we lived very friendly together. — 
 But your filler eats fome of it. — 
 
 Oh! my filler may eat it, to be fure^ fhe was not fo 
 well a^'quainted with it as I was. 
 
 What may not be lioped from a child born with fuch 
 amiable fimplicity, and fuch tendernefs of heart? May 
 ihe re^lemble her mcther more and more, and all my willies 
 for her wVd be dccompliilied, 
 
 THE 
 
I 
 
 f 107 ] 
 
 TH E FARMER. 
 
 SIR John Downton had fhut himfelf up one morning- 
 in his lludy, in order to give his attennon to feme 
 aiFairs of confequence. A fcrvant came to inform him 
 that farmer Martin his tenant was at the Itreet-door 
 and defired to fpeak with him. Sir John ordered him to 
 fliew the farmer into the drawing-room, and to rcqiieil: 
 him to flay a moment, until his letters fhould be finiilied, 
 Robert, Arthur and Sophia, Sir John Downton's chil- 
 dren, were in the drawing-room when Mr. Martin was 
 introduced. He fainted them refjpedlfully as he entered, 
 but it was eafy to fee that he had not learned h^s bow 
 from the dancing-mafter ; nor were his compliments of a 
 more elegant turn. The two boys looked one at the 
 other, fmiling with an air of contempt. Their eye? 
 meafured him very lamiliarly from head to foot. They 
 vvhifpered each other and laughed out fo loud that the 
 poor man blufned and did not know what countenance 
 to put on. Robert even carried his incivility fo far, as- 
 to walk round him, holding his nofe, and aficing his bro- 
 ther, *' Arthur, do not yo^u perceive fomething of" the 
 fmell of a dung-heap r " And going for a chafing difh of 
 hot coals, he burnt fome paper aver it and carried it 
 round the room, to difperfe, as he faid, the iinplcai^nt 
 fmell. He then called a fervant and defired him to- 
 fweep up the dirt that Martin had left on the floor-cloth 
 with his nailed flioes. Arthur, mean time, held his 
 fides, laughing at his brother's impertinences. 
 
 Jt was not the fame with Sophia their filler. Inflead 
 of im.itating the rudenefs of her brothers, flie reproved 
 them for it,, endeavoured to excufe them to the farmer, 
 snd aptproaching him with looks of good-nature, ofterei 
 him wine to refreili himfelf, made him fn clown, and. 
 took his hat and Hick herfelf and laid them by. Jn the- 
 mean time Sir John came out of his lludy, and approach- 
 ing -farmer Martin in a friendly manner, took him by the 
 iiand, afked how his wife and clilldren were, and wha£ 
 had brought iiim to town. '' Sir, anfwered the farmer, 
 1 come to pay yoa my half-year's rent:" and at the fame. 
 Siinc he drew out of his pocket a leathern bag full of 
 F 6 money. 
 
io5 THE FARMER. 
 
 money. ** You will not be difpleafed, continued he, 
 that 1 have been fomething beyond my time : our roads 
 were (o flooded, that I could not carry my corn to market 
 fooner." 
 
 *' I am not at all difpleafed with you, replied Sir John : 
 I know that you are an honeft man and have no occafion 
 to be put in mind of your engagements." At the fame 
 time he had a table laid before the farmer, to count the 
 money on. Robert Itared at the fight of farmer Martin's 
 guineas, and feemed to look at him with a little more 
 refpeft. 
 
 When Sir John had counted the farmer's money and 
 found it right, the latter drew out of his great-coat pocket 
 a fmall jar of candied fruits. *' I have brought foiViething 
 faid he, for the young folks. Won't you be fo good. Sir 
 John, as to let them come out one of thefe days, and take 
 a mouthful of the country air with us. I'd try to enter- 
 tain and amufe them too, as well as I could. I have two 
 good llout nags, and would come for them myfelf, and 
 take them down in my four-wheeled chaife." 
 
 Sir John prcmifed to go and fee him, and would have 
 kept him to dinner; but Mr. Martin thanked him for his 
 kind invitation, and fxcufcd himfelf for not being able 
 to accept it, as he haa many bargains to make in town, 
 •and was in a hurry to return home. Sir John filled his 
 pockets with cakes for his children, thanked him for the 
 prefrnt that he had made to his, and having wifhed him 
 good health, as well to fupport his fatigues as on his fa- 
 mily.'s account, faw him down Hairs and took his leave. 
 
 As foon as he was gone, Sophia, before her brothers^ 
 informed her father of the rude reception which they had 
 given to the honell farmer. Sir John expreffed his dif- 
 plealure at Robert and Arthur, and at the fame, time 
 commended Sophia for her conduft. *' I fee, faid he 
 killing her, that my little Sophia knows how to behave 
 lierfelf to honeft people." 
 
 As it was about breakfaft hour, he opened the farmer's 
 jar of fruits and eat fome of them with his daughter, and 
 they both thought them excellent. Robert and Arthur 
 were at table too, but were not invited to taile the fruits. 
 They devoured them with their eyes, but Sir John did 
 not fecm to obferve their longings. He refumed his com- 
 mendations of Sophia, and exhorted her never to defpifb 
 
 a pcrfon 
 
T H E F A R M E R. 109 
 
 a perfon for the plainnefs of his drefs. '* For, faid he, if 
 we were to behave politely only to thofe who are well 
 clad, we fliould feem to direct our civilities to the drefs, 
 not to the perfon who wears it. People in the moil homely 
 clothing are often the moll honell ; we have an inltance 
 of it in farmer Martin. He not only by his labour fup- 
 ports himfelf, his wife and children, but during thefe iix 
 years that he is my tenant, he pays his rents (0 punftually 
 that I have never had the fmaileft fault to find with him 
 in that refpeft. Yes, my dear Sophia, if this man was 
 not fo honeft, I could not fupply the expence of main- 
 taining you and your brothers. It is he who clothes you 
 and procures vou a good education ; for it is in clotinng 
 you and paying the expences of your initrudtion that 1 
 difpofe of the fums which he pays me every half-year.*' 
 
 After the breakfall was finilhed, he ordered the re- 
 mainder to be locked up in the beaufet. Robert and 
 Arthur followed it with defiring eyes and faw plainly 
 that it was not kept for them, in this their father foon 
 confirmed them. ** Do not expe6l, faid he, to taile thefe 
 fruits, either to-day, or any other time. When the 
 farmer who brought them fhall have reafon to be fatisfied 
 with you, he will not fail to knd you forne/' 
 
 Robert. But, papa, is it my fault, if he did not fmell 
 well ? 
 ^ Sir John. Flow did he fmell, then ? 
 
 Robert. Of the dung-heap, inluilerably. 
 
 Sir John. Whence could he have contracted that fmelU 
 
 Robert. From his loading carts with it every day. 
 
 Sir John. What (hould he do then, to get rid of it? 
 
 Robert. He Oiould— he lliould— 
 
 Sir John. He ihouid, perhaps, not put dung upon his 
 grounds at all? 
 
 Robert. There is only that way. 
 
 Sir John. But if he did not enrich his land, how could 
 lie draw a plentiful crop from it? And if he had always 
 bad crops, how could he manage to pay me the rent of 
 his farm ? 
 
 Robert would have replied, but his father gave him a 
 look in which Arthur and he plainly read his difpleafure. 
 — The next Sunday, very early, the good farmer v^^as at 
 Sir John Downton's door. He fent up his compliments, 
 ^and kindly invited him to come and take an excarfion to 
 
 his 
 
no T H E F A R M E R. 
 
 his farm. Sir John, pleafcJ with his hearty obliging 
 manner, would not mortify him by a refufal. Robert 
 and Arthur earneiUy entreated their father to make them 
 of the party, and promifed to beliave themfclves more 
 civilly. Sir John yielding to their folicitations, they 
 mounted the four-wheeled chaife with joyful looks, and 
 as the farmer had a pair of excellent horfes and drove 
 well, they were at his houfe before they had any fufpicion 
 of it. Who can defcribe their fatisfadion when the chaife 
 Hopped? Cicely, wife to farmer Martin, appeared with 
 a fmiling countenance at the wicket, which fhe opened, 
 and falutcd her guefts ; and taking the children in her 
 arms to help them down, fhe kilfed thcfm, and led them 
 into the yard. All her own children were there in their 
 bell clothes, who welcomed the young gentlemen, fa- 
 luting them with great refped. Sir John would willingly 
 have Hopped a moment to talk with the little ones and 
 carefs them, but Mrs. Martin prefled him to go in, left 
 the coffee ihould grow cold. It was already poured out> 
 at a table which was covered with a napkin as white as 
 fnow. The coffee-pot was not of filver, nor the cups of 
 china, yet every thing was in the ncatell order. Robert 
 and Arthur, however, looked at each other flily and 
 would have burft out in a laugh if they had not feared 
 to ofiend their father. But Cicely, guefling their 
 thoughts by the looks which they exchanged, made ^n 
 apology for their fare, which Ihe confelled was not fo fine 
 as they would have had at their own houfe; however fhe 
 hoped that they would be fatisfied with the cheerful en- 
 tertainment of poor people. With the coffee they had 
 muflins of a delicious taite. It was eafy to fee that 
 Mrs. Martin had uled all her art in kneadiii'i; and bakinij 
 them. 
 
 After breakfall, the firmer allied Sir John to look at 
 his orchard and grounds, to which he confented. Cicely 
 took all the pains imaginable to make this walk agreeabie* 
 to the childitn. She fliewed them all her llocks which 
 covered die fields, and gave them the prettiell lambs to- 
 play with. Siie then lea them to her pigeon-houie ; every 
 thing there was clean and wholefome : there were on the 
 ground two young pigeons which had jull quitted theij? 
 nei}, but did not dare as yet to truft their callow wirgs. 
 tJome of the mothers were fitting over their i^ggs, and 
 
 others 
 
T H E F A R M E R. iir 
 
 others bufied in giving nourifhment to their young which 
 had juil broken the Ihell. From the pigeon-houie they 
 went to the bee-hives : Cicely took care that they fhould 
 not go too near them, but however ihe gave them a view 
 of the bees at work. 
 
 As mofl of thefe fights were new to the children, they 
 feemed very much delighted with them : they were even 
 going to take a fecond review of them, if farmer Martin's 
 youngeft fon Tom had not come to inform them that 
 dinner v/aited. They were ferved on pewter and drank 
 out of Delft ware : but Robert and Arthur were ftill {o 
 full of the pleafure of their morning's walk that they 
 were afhamed to indulge their fatirical humour,* they 
 thought every thing excellent. It is true. Cicely had 
 furpafTed herfelf in preparing them the beft cheer. 
 
 After dinner. Sir John perceived two fiddles hung up 
 againft the wall. What perfon here plays thofe inftru- 
 ments ? faid he. 
 
 My eldefl fon and I, anfwered the farmer ; and with- 
 out faying any more, he made a fign to Luke, his fon, to 
 take down the fiddles. They played by turns fome old 
 tunes on the fiddles, both fprighcly and pathetic, of which 
 Sir John exprefied his fatisfadion in the mofl flattering 
 manner. ~ _, 
 
 As they were going to hang up the inftruments again, 
 ** Come Robert and Arthur, faid Sir John, it is now 
 your turns. Play us fome of your beft tunes:" and at the 
 fame time he put the fiddles into their hands. But they 
 did not know even how to hold the bow, and their con- 
 fufion raifed a general laugh. 
 
 Sir John then requefted the farmer to put the horfes to, 
 that they might return to town. Martin preiTed him > 
 llrongly to pafs the night v/ith him, but at length yield^^^* 
 to Sir John's excufes. — '' Well, Robert, faid that gen- 
 tleman to his fon, as they returned, how do you find 
 yourfelf after your little journey ?" 
 
 Robert. Very well, papa. Thofe good people have 
 done their utmoft to give us every fatisfadion. 
 
 Sir J, Do^ivnion. 1 am happy to fee you fatlsfied. But 
 If farmer Martin had not taken (o much pains in doing 
 the. honours of his houfe, if he had not offered you the 
 fmallell refrePament, would you have been as well pleafed 
 with him as you nov/ feem to be ? 
 
 Robert, No, certainly, ^j> 
 
112 T H E F A R M E R. 
 
 Sir John. What would you have thought of him ? 
 
 Robert. Thit he was an unmannerly clown. 
 
 Sir John. Robert, Robert, thi> honellman came to our 
 houle, and far from ofFtring him any refrefhment, you 
 made game of him. Which then is ihe beil bred, you or 
 t\\Q farmer ? 
 
 Robert, {bhij}:i7ig,) But it is his duty to receive us well. 
 He gains by our lands. 
 
 Sir John. What do you call gaining? 
 
 Robert, I mean, that he finds it his advantage to 
 gather in the crops of oar corn-fields, and the hay of our 
 meadows. 
 
 Sir John. Yo\i are right. A farmer has occalion for 
 all that ; but what docs he do v^ith the |j;rain ? 
 
 ^ Robert. ^ He maintains with it, himfclf, his wife and 
 his children. 
 
 Sir John. And with the hay ? 
 
 Robert. He gives it to his horfes to eat. 
 
 ^/> John. And what dees he do with his horfes.? 
 
 Robert. He ufes them in plowing the ground. 
 
 Sir John. Thus you lee, that one part of what he gains 
 from the earth returns to it. But do )0u believe, that he 
 confumes the remainder with his family and his horfes? 
 
 Robert. The cows have their part of it too. 
 
 Arthur. And his fiieep too, and his pigeons, and his 
 poultry. 
 
 Sir John. That is true. But are his whole crops con- 
 fumed upon his own ground ? 
 
 Robert. No. I remember to have heard him fay that 
 he took part of them to market, to fell for money. 
 
 Sir John. And what does he do with this money ? 
 
 Robert. 1 faw, lall week, that he brought you a leathern 
 bag full of it. 
 
 Sir John. You now fee who draws the greatefl profit 
 from my lands, the farmer or I, It is true, he fc*eds his 
 horfes with hay from the meadows, but his horfes {qtvq to 
 plow, the fields which, wiihcut thcfe plowings, would 
 be exhaulled by weeds. H^ feeds his iheep too, and his 
 cows, with the hay; but their dung contributes to make 
 the fallow grounds fruitful. Piis wife and his children are 
 fed with the corn of the harvells, but in return they pafa 
 the fummer in weeding the crops, and afterwards, fome 
 in reaping them, fome in threfhingi and thefe labours 
 
 agaia 
 
THE FARMER. irj 
 
 again turn to my advantage. The reil of his corn and 
 hay he takes to market to lell them, but it is in order to 
 give me the money that he receives. Suppofe that there 
 remains feme part for himfelf, is it not fair that he fnould 
 have a recompence for his labours? Now therefore, once . 
 more tell me, which of us two draws the greatell profits 
 from my lands? 
 - Robert. Inow plainly fee that you do. 
 
 Sir John. And without this tenant, fhould I have that 
 profit ? 
 
 Robert. Oh \ there are many tenants to be had. 
 
 Sir John. You are right; but not one more honeil than 
 , this. 1 had formerly let this farm to another who impo- 
 verifiied the land, cut down the trees, and let the out- 
 , houfes run to ruin. At quarter-day, he never had any 
 money for me ;- and when J would expoftulate with him, 
 he ihewed me clearly that his whole ilock was not fufilcient 
 to anf>ver my demand. 
 
 Robert. Ah ! the knave 1 
 
 Sir John. If this man were of the fame kind, ihould I 
 receive much profit from my ellate ? 
 
 Robert. Certainly not. 
 
 Sir John. To whom then am I obliged for what I do 
 receive ? 
 
 Robert. I fee that you owe it to this honeil farmer. 
 
 Sir John. Is it not therefore our duty to receive a man 
 well who renders us fo great fervices ? 
 
 Robert, Ah! papa, you make me fee very plainly that 
 I was wrong. 
 
 For fome minutes a deep filence enfued. Sir John then 
 refumed the difcourfe thus ; Robert, why did not you 
 play upon the fiddle ? 
 
 Robert. You know, papa, that I have never learned. 
 
 Sir John. Then farmer Martin's fon knows fomething 
 that yoa do not. 
 
 Robert. That is true. But then, does he underlland 
 Latin as I do ? 
 
 Sir John. And do you knov/ how to plow? can you 
 drive a team ? can you fow wheat, barley, oats, and other 
 grain, or rear a crop of them ? Would you know how {o 
 much as to fix a hop-pole, or prune a tree, fo as to have 
 good fruit ? 
 
 Robert, I have no occafion to know all that : I am no 
 farmer. Sir 
 
114 THE FATHERS RECONCILED 
 
 Sir John. But if all the people in the world knew no- 
 thing elfe but Latin, how would things go then ? 
 
 Robert, Very ill ; we Ihould have no bread, no vege- 
 tables. 
 
 Sir John. And could the world do very well, even though 
 nobody knew Latin ? 
 
 Robert. I believe it could. 
 
 Sir John. Remember then all your life what you have 
 Jult feen and heard. This farmer fo coarlely clad, who 
 faluted and addreiled you in fo ruftick a manner; this 
 man is better bred than you, knows much more than you, 
 and things of much greater ufe. Iherefore you fee how 
 unjull it is to defpife any one for the plainnefs of hisdrefs 
 -or the ungracefulnefs of his manner. 
 
 THE FATHERS RECONCILED BY THEIR 
 CHILDREN. 
 
 A Drama, in one Act. 
 
 Characters. 
 
 Mr. Crumptok. 
 
 Con ST AN TINE, - his Son. 
 Alicia, - - his Daughter. 
 
 Thomas, - - - Son of the apothecary tf 
 
 the tillage. 
 Grace, - - - his Sijier. 
 
 ^he fcene lies in tv garden^ under the ivindoivs of Mr. Crump- 
 ton's houfe in the country. On one fide a fummer-honfey 
 and at the bottom of the J} age a tuft of trees. ' 
 
 S C E N E I. 
 
 Mr. Crump ton, Alicia and Ccnfanti'-c* 
 
 Alicia. T> U T papa— 
 
 X3 Mr. Crumpton. I repeat it to you. I-et nei- 
 ther of you henceforward, under pain of my difpleafure, 
 have the leaft connexion with the apothecary's chilcr.n. ,^ 
 -, Alicia. What lias made you fo angry then with Mr. 
 Garvey ? 
 
 Mr. 
 
BY THEIR CHILDREN. 115 
 
 Mr. Crumpton. Ami obliged to give you an account? 
 
 Ccnjiantine. No, certainly. It does not become us to 
 queftion you. {to Alicia,) When my papa gives his or- 
 ders, it is our bufmefs to obey without reply. 
 
 Mr, Crumptofi, Yes, that is my meaning, Mr. Garvey 
 is an obftinate^, difobliging perlbn. Ungrateful ! to re- 
 fufe fuch a matter to me who am his landlord, and from 
 whom he enjoys his fortune and livelihood I 
 
 Conpantins. That is fcandalous, papa : and I do not 
 know why we have been fo long conneded with the chil- 
 dren of fuch people. Indeed if there had been one 
 genteel boy befides in our neighbourhood, 1 ihould never 
 have fpoken a word to Thomas. 
 
 Alicia. O papa ! can you hear my brother talk fo ? 
 Thomas and'Grace are fuch good children; we fhould be 
 very happy if we were as good as they. 
 
 Mr. Crumpton. What is it to me whether they be good 
 or bad? Once more I forbid you to have a word of dif- 
 courfe with them, or elfe I fhall keep you fhut up at 
 home. 
 
 Cotifiantiiie. Let Thomas dare fo much as to come 
 fneaking about this garden ! I'll give him — 
 
 Mr. Crumpton. What would you fay? I do not intend 
 that they fhould be ill-treated, or affronted in the fmallell 
 matter. 
 
 Confianiiney [confufed.) Nay, I do not mean that, nei- 
 ther. I only fay that I will not let them come within a 
 hundred yards of us. Oh ! I fhall keep a look out. 
 
 Alicia. Yet you had fo great a fi iendlhip for Mr. Gar- 
 vey ! You looxked upon him as i'o honeil: a man 1 as a man 
 of fo much learning and good fenfe ! you remember very 
 well that it was he who tauglit my brother Latin, and 
 gave me my iirfl leffons in fpellmg, merely through friend- 
 fhip, before we had a mafler, 
 
 Mr. Cru7npton. All that may be; but I forbid another 
 word on the fubjeft. I will have nothing to fay to him, 
 as you fhall have nothing to fay to his children. What? 
 I think you cry. Dry up thofe tears, Mifs. Have you 
 then fo little refpeft for your father's commands, that it 
 cofls you tears to obey them ? 
 
 Alicia. No, papa. But pardon this lafl mark of regard 
 that my heart affords them. I Ihail not be \t{^ obedient 
 than my brother. 
 
 Conjlaniine, 
 
Ii6 THE FATHERS RECONCILED 
 
 Coiijlantine. We fhall fee who will be moll dutiful. 
 
 Alicia. At leall: you will not infill that I fhould hate 1 1 
 them. Jt would not be in my power to obey you. 
 
 Mr. Crumpton. Neither to hate them, nor to ufe them 
 ill : only to break off all connexion with them. This is 
 my order. 
 
 Alicia. I will do whatever is your pleafure. But I have 
 one favour to afk you. 
 
 Mi\ Crumpton. What is that ? 
 
 Alicia. That I may fpeak to them once more, to tell 
 them your orders. 
 
 Conjlantine. For what? all correfpondence is at an end. 
 
 Mr. Crumpton. I think your requeft reafonable, and 
 grant it. You may lell them at the fame time that their 
 father mull pay me in three days, or elfe he will repent it. 
 
 Alicia. How ? my dear papa, does Mr. Garvey owe you 
 any thing? 
 
 Mr. Cru7npton. Do you think that I would afk him for 
 what he did not owe me ? But that does not concern you. 
 Only remember to obey me. [He goes out,) 
 
 SCENE II. \ 
 
 Alicia and Conjlantine, 
 
 Alicia. Well, brother, is this your friendfliip for Tho*) 
 mas and Grace ? 
 
 Conjlantine. Well, filler, is this your obedience to your 
 father ? 
 
 Alicia. You pretend to obedience ? It is hypocrify ; 
 nothing more. Ycu only flatter him to wheedle fomc 
 money from him. You love nothing in the world. 
 
 Conjlantine. Becaufe I do not take pleafure in conti- 
 nually difobliging him? Would you have me run after 
 thefe children now he has forbidden me? 
 
 Alicia. Yoit little deferved their friendfliip, if it colls 
 you no more to give it up. But whenever your expe<^a- 
 tions from any one are at an end, your afFcdion for them 
 foon vaniflies. 
 
 Co77jla}2tine. As if I had ever any thing to expe*^ from 
 children of that fort 1 
 
 Alicia. What was that cafe then of mother of pearl 
 which you prevailed on Grace to give you not a week 
 
 ago? 
 
BY THEIR CHILDREN. 117 
 
 ago? and thofe tablets that you contrived to coax fo dex- 
 tdroufly from Tommy yefterday ? You have cringed to 
 them a thoufand times for a nofegay or an orange ; and 
 now— 
 
 Confianthe. Now I muft obey. But truly the apothe- 
 cary's children are fine company to grieve after ! 
 
 Alicia. Yes, and 1 fhall fee you, perhaps, this evening 
 in the middle of the dirtieft boys of the village. 
 
 Conjiantine. I fhall not lofe much by the exchange. 
 
 Alicia. And they ilill lefs. 
 
 Conjianiine. I do not care. But here comes Mr. Tho- 
 mas ; advife him as a tender friend not to come too 
 near me. 
 
 Alicia. If you do not like to fee him, you may go away* 
 
 Conjianiine, I ^0 not like to fee him, and I will ftay. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Alicia, Conjianiine, Thomas {carrying a little <wooden houfe^ 
 painted blue.) 
 
 Thomas y {to Alicia.) Oh ! how glad I am to find you ! 
 
 Cotiftajttine, Dear Tom, what have you there in that 
 little houfe ? 
 
 Thomas. It is a prefent that Mr. Billingfley's game, 
 keeper made me. 
 
 Conjlantine. And you come to make me a prefent of it, 
 my dear friend ? 
 
 Alicia, {afide.) The hypocrite ! 
 
 Thomas, it is for Mifs Alicia. 
 
 Alicia. For me, no, no, my friend. Since it is a pre- 
 fent to you, I will not deprive you of it. — But pray what 
 is it? 
 
 Conjlantine, {imperioujiy.) Come, Pll fee what it is ; {en^ 
 deavours tc Juatch the ^wooden houfe from Tho??ias <u)ho holds 
 it forcibly.) Some ugly bird, I fuppofe. 
 
 Thomas. An ugly bird ? no, you are out. Guefs, Mifs : 
 but I wont keep you in pain ; it is a fquirrel. Oh ! a 
 comical little beaft it is ! He always ftrives to hide himfelf 
 in your pocket : then he comes to eat out of your hand, 
 and he runs after you like a little fpaniel. {He takes it out 
 of its houfe f and gives its chain to Alicia.) Don't let it go, 
 though. He muft grow tame with you, otherwife he 
 would take a trip to the grove. 
 
 Conjianiine 
 
ii8 THE FATH5:RS RECONCILED 
 
 Conjlantine, {nvith a look of en^vy.) A fine prefent In- 
 deed ! a fquirrel! it fmells like a pole-cat. 
 
 Alicia. O the charming little creature ! how fprightly 
 It looks ! 
 
 Thomas, I could have wiflied, Mafler Conflantine, to 
 have another to offer you ; and I will bring you the firft 
 that I have. When lie is a little ufed to you, Mifs, he 
 will play fuch tricks as will make you die with laughing. 
 He is worle than a monkey. 
 
 Alicia. For that reafon, Mafler Tommy, I will not de- 
 prive you of it. {to the fquirrel.) Come, little rogue, go 
 into your houfe again. You mull take it back, friend 
 Thomas. 
 
 Conjlantine. Yes, do not you hear ? You mull take it 
 back. 
 
 Thomas. How? he Is not nine now. You would not 
 difoblige me, Mifs Alicia ? Nj, I know you would not. 
 {he runs to the funnner- houfe.) There. I will leave him 
 here on the bench. 
 
 Conjlantine, [to Alicia.) Only dare to take it, and fee 
 if papa won't make you pay dear for it. 
 
 Alicia. 1 am almoft inclined to take it, becaufe of your 
 threatening. My papa has not forbidden me to receive 
 fquirre^s. I am forry for poor Tom, that I have nothing 
 to give him in return but a fad farewel. 
 
 Conjlantine. Well, leave it to me; I will difmifs both 
 him and his fquirrel. 
 
 Alicia. No, no, do not take that trouble, [to Thomas, 
 as he returns.) Once more, my friend^ I cannot accept 
 your prefent. I have fuch difagreeable news for you that 
 1 do not know 
 
 Confantine^ Yes, yes, Mr. Thomas. If you Ihew yourfelf 
 before ourgarden, oronly look at the walls of our houfe !— 
 
 Thomas. What ? could you have the heart. Sir, to hin- 
 der me ? 1 thought you h;id more friendihip for me. 
 
 CoTiJlantine. Our friendfliip is broken off, to let you 
 know ; and pray do not think 
 
 Alicia. 1 beg you will excufe his ill manners. You do 
 not know, perhaps, that }'our father has had a quarrel 
 with ours. 
 
 Thomas. Pardon me, I know it, and it has made me 
 
 unealv enough. However, I did not think that the mat- 
 
 3 ter 
 
BY THEIR- CHILDREN. 119 
 
 ter went fo far as to break off our friendfliip. And I 
 fliould ftill lefs have expefted it from Mafter Conftantine. 
 
 Conflantine. Sifter, will you fend him away immediately, 
 or fhall I go and acquaint my papa ? - 
 
 Thomaf, If you are to have any trouble on my account, 
 Mifs Alicia— 
 
 Alicia. Do not fear, my friend ; you may flay awhile. 
 My papa will not take it amifs. 
 
 Cohji amine. We fhall fee that ; I will open the caufe to 
 him. (^He goes out hut returns a moment afterwards and 
 /lips into the fummer-houfe unpercei'ved. ) 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 Aliciai Thomas* 
 
 Thomas, For heaven's fake, Mifs Alicia, tell me, what 
 have I done then to your brother ? 
 
 ^ Alicia, In the iirfl place the matter is that he is a little 
 jealous on account of the fquirrel that you have given me. 
 Then he thinks that he will curry favour with our papa, 
 in taking part in his quarrel with yours. For my papa is 
 very angry, and I do not know why. 
 
 Thomas, Nor I neither. I only heard my father fay as 
 he walked about by himfelf, I could not have expeded 
 this from Mr. Crumpton. He then went to find my mo- 
 ther ; and as my fifter was with her then, fhe mull know 
 what the bufinefs was, 
 
 Alicia. In the mean time, my papa has forbidden us to 
 fee you or fpe.ak to you. 
 
 Thomas. What 1 fhall I fee you no more ? fhall I not be 
 allowed to fpeak to you ? Ah ? how fhall I part with you ? 
 what will my poor fifler do who is fo fond of you ? Gh 
 dear ! what have we done then ? 
 
 Alicia, Comfort yourfelf, my dear Thomas; we fhall flill 
 be good friends, and if we are forbidden to fee each other, 
 who will hinder us to think one of the other ? Thus for in- 
 flance; when I play with your fquirrel, I fliall think of 
 you. I will always call him by your name. Oh! how 
 I fhall love him ! 
 
 Thomas, How happy you make me in idling me fb ! I 
 do not know whether I fiioald now grieve any more j but 
 here comes my filler. She looks very dull. 
 
 SCENE 
 
120 THE FATHERS RECONCILED 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 Alicia^ Thomas-^ Qrace, 
 
 Alicia, {running to meet Grace, and fainting her.') My, 
 dear Grace ! 
 
 Grace. My good Mifs Alicia! {Conjiantine appears at\ 
 the bottom cf the Jiage, hading Mr. Crumpton pri'vately\ 
 behind the fummer-houfe.') 
 
 Thc?nasy {to Grace.) Ah ! you are going to hear difa- 
 greeable news. 
 
 Grace. And I bring you no better. My father and mo« 
 ther are in fuch trouble 
 
 Thomas. Did 1 not tell you fo ? Well, what pa/Ted ? 
 
 Grace. Your father perhaps may be angry with ours, 
 but certainly his demand is fomething unreafonable. 
 
 Alicia. Unreafonab'e? that cannot be. Ah 1 if it were- 
 fo, 1 fhould dill have hopes of perfuading him. Tell me, 
 however, what is it? 
 
 Grace. You know that handfome tuft of trees that is 
 behind your garden ? 
 
 Alicia. Oh yes ; where we ufed to go in the fpring 
 evenings to hear the nightingale fing. " A charming little 
 grove 1 
 
 Grace. You know, too, that this little grove was given 
 to my father by old Mr. Drury, in return for his fervices 
 to him during his life-time. 
 
 Alicia. Well ! 
 
 Grace. Well, Mr. Crumpton wants to have it. 
 
 Alicia. What, my papa? 
 
 Thomas. What our pretty little grove? 
 
 Grace. My father told him, that he Ihould be very 
 happy to oblige him ; that he (hould never forget how 
 much he and his family were indebted to him ; but that 
 his friend had delired him on his death-bed never to part' 
 with this grove, that it might always lerve to keep him 
 in his memory. 
 
 Alicia. With all the refpedl that lowe my papa, I can- 
 not deny but he is in the wrong here. But however, he^ 
 would not have it for nothing. That is not his way of 
 thinking. 
 
 Grace. Oh dear, no. He means to pay my father for 
 it, and even perhaps more than it is worth, 
 
 ^ Thomas, 
 
BY THEIR CHILDREN. 121 
 
 Thomas. And what does he wifli to do with it ? Has he 
 not a view of it as well as we ? 
 
 Grace, He wants to cut down all thofe.fine trees. 
 
 Alicia and Thomas. Cut them down ? 
 
 Grace. You knovy the hill that is behind the grove? He 
 fays that will make a fine prcfped. Now the grove is at 
 the foot of the hill ; fo, to have the profpeft, he mull cut 
 down the grove. 
 
 Alicia. Ah ! now I fee why he brought down <in archi- 
 tedl from town who talks to him about grottos and bridges 
 and Chinefe temples. My father dreams of nothing but 
 improvements. He has a plan of them continually in his 
 hands, and talks of them a hundred times a day, even to 
 me. And I who made myfelf fo happy to fee all thofe 
 fine things fhortly ! Ah ! I'll have nothing to do with, 
 them. Let your father keep his grove. 
 
 Thomas, What would become of the birds that chirp 
 fo fweetiy en thofe venerable trees, and who generally 
 built their neils there, becaufe nobody dillurbed them, 
 and we carried them food there? 
 
 Grace. And the refrefning cool that we breathed there 
 in the hot fummer days? 
 
 Alicia. And the echo that ufed to anfwer us from the 
 hill when we fung ? 
 
 Grace. The profpefl of a grove in ful! leaf is, I believe, 
 as good as that of a hill. 
 
 Alicia. And then what occafion has my father for 3 
 new profpetTc ? He has fo many others on ^vzi-^j fide. 
 
 Thomas. I jhould think thai one of my own limbs was 
 lopt off at every ftroke of the hatchet. 
 
 Alicia. No, no; your father mull not deprive himftlf 
 4> his grove. 
 
 Grace. Mull not? Ah! he will not keep it lon^. 
 
 Alicia. Why not? My papa will never go and take it 
 from him by force, I fuppofe ? He has not tiie power. 
 
 Thomas, But if he is angry with us and has forbidden 
 you to fee and fpeak to us, I would rather give ten groves 
 like that. 
 
 Grace. And don't you think that I would too? W^hat 
 fhould 1 do there without you, Mifs Alicia? I fliould ne- 
 ver have any defire to go into it. 
 
 Alicia. My dear Grace, we ufed to be fo happy in it. 
 Do you remember when we ufed to go there in the even- 
 
 vo L. I. G ing. 
 
322 THE FATHERS RECONCILED 
 
 ing, and tell each other every thing that had happened to 
 us in the day ? 
 
 Grace. Yes, and each broiij^ht her work. You fewed, 
 and 1 knitted, 'i hen, when 'rhonias brought us flowers, 
 ve left ofF our work to make nofegays. You gave mc 
 yours, and I gave you mine. That was enough to make 
 •US think of each other the whole next day. 
 
 Thc?nas. And now that is all over, never to return! 
 
 Jllicia. No ; we fliail have no more Tuch delightful mo- 
 inents. It will make me grow fick, and then my papa 
 ivill be forry, and 1 will tell him, that if he would rertore 
 me to health, he muft allow n^e to fee my little friends 
 Jigain. {^ bey all three embrace y and ^veep.) 
 
 Grace. But meantime the grove will be cut down; it 
 certainly m.Uil. 
 
 Alicia, And why ? 
 
 Grace. Ah; Mifs Alicin, I have not told you all. 
 About ten years ago, Mr. Crumpton lent my father fifty- 
 pounds to fee him up ; and you know that my father has 
 never yet been able to pay him. 
 
 Alicia^ [cifide.) Ah 1 this was the debt m.entioned juft \ 
 ^ow. \ 
 
 Grace. If wc will keep the prove, Mr. Crumpton will 
 liave his fifty pounds ; and my fuher does not know how 
 to raif^ them. Amongll all his friends, there is none but 
 your papa himfelf that could furnilh him with fo great a 
 fum ; and he is the very perfon that demands it. 
 
 A'icla, {taking buh their handi.) Oh! if there be no- 
 thing but that, I can fettle it. 
 
 Grace. Settle it ? 
 
 Thomas. You, Mifs? 
 
 Alicia, {jiviih joy in her countenance.) Do you promife 
 jiot to betray nie ? 
 
 Grace. I betray you ! 
 
 'ThcKias. /• h ! can you doubt but we will promife? 
 
 Alicia,. Well then, hear me. You know — 1 cannot 
 tliink of it without being moved liill — You know how 
 fonci my mama was, of me. In her lull illnefs, one day 
 when I was alone with her, fhe called me to her bed fide; 
 ibedding a flood of tears, ihe kiffed me, and taking a 
 purfe from under her pillow. Here, my dear ^^Hcia, iaid 
 flie, take this. 1 forbid you lo let any ouc know that \ 
 hftve given it to you. Keep this money for important oc- 
 
 4 cafions. 
 
BY THEIR CHILDREN. 123 
 
 calions. You have a kind heart and a good underftand- 
 ing for your »ge; (it was mama, however, that faid 
 this.) You will know how to difpofe of it worthily. Your 
 father has a noble and generous foul, but is foinething 
 pailionate and revengeful. You may, perhaps, fpare him. 
 occafions of vexation or forrow. On fo extenfive an eilate 
 as ours, there mull be many poor people who have fuf- 
 fered undeferved loffes ; fuch you may affid: in fecret. 
 You may alfo repay fuch fervices as may be done you, 
 without having always recourfe to your father. It is 
 through your hands that I have for thefe two years pail 
 dilbibuted my f^ivours and my aiTiltance : I hope that you 
 have acquired fuificient difcernment to dillinguifh thofe 
 who have a claim to pity. In fhort, I doubt not but yon 
 wiil make the bell: ufe of this little fum which I trull to 
 your hands, for the benefit of honeity in diftrefs. I 
 fhaii think that I myfclf have done the good which, you 
 fhail do ; and it is the beft means by which I can be pre- 
 fent to your memory." She was fo exhaulled that fhe 
 could fiy no more; but I ihall ever remember this dif- 
 courfe as long as I live. 
 
 Grace, {-cviping her eyes.) Excellent lady I 
 
 Thomas. My father and mother never fpeak of her but 
 with tears in their eyes. 
 
 Alicia. My mama had a great friend (hip for them too. 
 She told me at her death, always to look upon Mr. Garvey 
 ■as one of my belt friends, and to follow his fenfible advice 
 in every thing. You fee, then, that I have obligations 
 to you. How happy am I in honouring mama's memory ; 
 in fatisfying my own graritude ; in faving my papa from 
 an adl of injuilice ; in fparing him the forrow that he 
 would feel, for it ; in prcferving. every thing; the charm- 
 ing little tuft of trees; our own friendlhip; the pleafure 
 oi' feeing each other as before — 
 
 Grace, {thro^ving her arms round her nsck.) O my dear 
 Mifs Alicia ! 
 
 Thomas y {taking her hand.") My father will blefs you in 
 his heart, but he will never take your n;oncy. 
 
 A'iicia. Certainly he will take it if I requeft him. No- 
 body in the world ihall know any thing of it. Stay here, 
 my dear friends ; I will go for it. 
 
 ^Thomas. I ihall not take the charge of it, however. 
 
 G 2 Aiicicu 
 
124 THE FATHERS RECONCILED 
 
 Alicia. You fliall, my dear Grace. Antl Thomas, if 
 70U hinder her, t:;ke notice I do not accept your fquir- 
 rel : 1 obey my faih.^r rigoroufly ; J never look at you 
 again ; 1 never go either to vour houfe, or into the grove 
 again. 
 
 Grace. Well, mifs, fince you fpeak in that manner— 
 
 Jliciay {Jioppi}7g her mouth.) You do not know what 
 you fay. 1 won't even hear you. Stay for me, I Ihall 
 foon return. If 1 am not interrupted, 1 Ihall write a few 
 lines to your father. Jn cai'e that 1 cannot join you 
 Again, I will put the purfe near the fummer-houfe; there, 
 under that large Hone. Mark the place well now; do 
 you hear? 
 
 Grace. I am fure that my father will fend me back with 
 your money. 
 
 Alicia. Let him beware of that. Befidcs, you will not 
 know where to find me ; for, alas ! it is perhaps the lail 
 lime that we are allowed to difcourfe together. 
 
 Grace. Ah 1 Mifs Alicia, what cruel words 1 
 
 Alicia. I mufl certainly obey my father. But we are 
 neighbours: we are not forbidden to look at each other ;\ 
 and whenever our eyes can meet unobferved — \ 
 
 Grace, Oh! mine fhall take care to feek yours, and to 
 tell them that I fhall never forget to love you. 
 
 Thoffias. Who will hinder us to be in your way when ^ 
 you go out to walk ? and then — 
 
 Alicia. You are right. A fmile, a little wink or fide 
 look can pafs without being feen. Come, take comfort ; 
 all will go well. But where is the fquirrel ? As 1 am 
 going into my room, I will carry it up. 
 
 Thomas. Stop a moment ; I will go and fetch his houfe, 
 and carry it for you as far as your door. {Runs to the funi' 
 mer-hcu/e.) 
 
 Alicia. Good bye, my dear Grace. 
 
 Grace. Ah ! Mifs Alicia, I cannot believe that it is to 
 be for ever. 
 
 Thomas y {returmng in a fright i»ith the /quirreV s houfe. ^ 
 Elefs me! the fquirrel is not here. 
 
 Alicia. What! my fquirrel gone? O dear, Thomas! 
 
 Thomas. Somebody mull have opened the door, for I 
 remember to have iliut it. 
 
 Alicia. Jt can be none but my brother. He was jealous 
 
 tJiat you made me a prefent of it; and while we were 
 
 8 fpeaking 
 
BY THEIR CHILDREN. 125 
 
 fpeaking here, he flipped into the fummer-houfe and 
 opened his little door. 
 
 Thomas. If he only carried away the fquirrel to play 
 U'ith him a little ? 
 
 Alicia. I know him better than you do. He has let 
 him run away. 
 
 Thomas. Well, ftay; he cannot be very far off. If t 
 can difcover him upon fome tree, I need only fnew him a 
 nut to make him come down immediately. I will go and 
 hunt all about. 
 
 Alicia^ [to Thomas.) I wifli you fuccefs in the chace, 
 my dear friend ! {To Grace.) Poor 1 homas ! I pity him> 
 he was fo happy in making me that prefent! 
 
 Grace. That is true indeed. He never was at eafe until 
 he had brought it to you. 
 
 Alicia. Weil, I mull leave you, my dear Grace. I will 
 take the terrace walk; it leads to the houfe; and do you 
 go out by the little door of the garden, and flip round 
 along the wall. You need only (land under my window, 
 without taking notice of any thing. 1 will throw you 
 the purfe with a letter. If my papa is not in my way, I 
 will come and brin^ ihem to you myfelf. 
 
 Grace, O my dear generous friend, what good nature ! 
 {Tbey go out dijsrent njjays,) 
 
 S C E N E VI. 
 
 Mr* Crumpton, Cottfiantine, 
 
 Conjlanttne. Well, papa, was I wrong? You fee what, 
 pains my filler takes to obey you. 
 
 Mr. Crmnpton. And what is this llory of a fquirrel ? 
 
 Conflantine. I did not tell it to you while we were hid, 
 becaufe they would have heard us. But here is the affair : 
 The dear friend Thomas made a prefent of the fquirrel to 
 the dear friend Alicia. The dear friend Alicia received 
 this ugly little beaft with fo much pleafure, that flie calls 
 it her dear friend Tommy. But I have managed fo, that 
 flie has not had much amufement with it. 
 
 Mr. Crmnpton. How fo ? 
 
 Conjlantine. They put the fquirrel's little houfe on the 
 fummer-houfe bench. I flipped in there, whilll they 
 were taking a tender farewel. 1 opened the little door, 
 
 G 3 took 
 
126 THE FATHERS RECONCILED 
 
 took the fquirrel cut, and let him loofc amongtl the trees. 
 J law him ibon climb up into a tree, and jump from 
 branch to branch. They will be pietty cunnin[( if they 
 ever catch him again. 
 
 Mr, Cr-u//i/>/o/r Then, fir, you have done a very raf- 
 cally :i(it^c;n. Did not 1 forbid you to nioicll thofe poor 
 children ? and you knew very well the trouble that you 
 were going to caufe to your fifter. 
 
 Conjf amine. Since (he diibbeyed you, did ihe not deferve 
 to be puniihed ? 
 
 Mf. Cru7Kpton. Is it to you that the right of piinifhing 
 her belonged ? Run, tell the gardener and his people to 
 look for the fquirrel and to bring it to me. 
 
 Conftaitine. But papa, you forbad my fifter any com- 
 municution with Mr. Garvey's children ; and will you 
 fuffer her to receive a prelent from them } 
 
 Mr. Crumpton, Was Thomas informed of my intentions 
 when he brought the fquirrel ? 
 
 Conjlantine At leail Alicia knew them, and was not 
 that diiobeying you ? 
 
 Mr. CruNipi'on, It belonged to me to determine that. 
 She certainly would have iliewed me the prefent diat Ihe 
 received ; and if 1 thought it proper, I Ihould crder htr 
 to return it. Again 1 lay, ruw and let this fquirrel be 
 found again, or you ihali anfwer to me for it. 
 
 Conjlantine. But papa, you have heard them talk finely. 
 My filler has money unknown to you, and ihe gives it to 
 IV'ir. Garvey to pay you. Should not I do better, to go 
 and watch Grace, to furprize her when ilie receives the 
 purfe, and to bring it to you? 
 
 Mr. Crumpton. Only dare to do it. You know my 
 orders. Obey. 
 
 Ccnjlantine^ {murmuring.) I thought that I had done 
 fuch fine things i 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 Mr. Crwnptony {niujiug.) 
 
 Yes, I fee that I have fuifi^red my paffion to carry 
 nie too far. What a pattern of friendfihip, gratitude and 
 generofity, do thefe children fliew! It is true, I had for- 
 bidden Alicia — But fliould I have forbidden her } ihould 
 
 I fup- 
 
BY THEIR CHILD RE isr. iif 
 
 I fupprefs thofe rentiments in her heart, to which I myfelf 
 had given birth ? Could 1 deprive her of the only happi- 
 nefs which llie enjoys in this folitude? the greateil happi* 
 nefs of human life? an amiable and virtuous fociety with 
 children of her own age ? a blefling, the lofs of which I 
 could not make good with all my fortune? and for what 
 reafon ? to fatisfy an empty whim. My dear Alicia, 
 neither thofe grottos, thofe bridges, thofe Chinefe tem- 
 ples, nor all thofe ornamcnto v/ith which I meant to em- 
 bellifh my garden, nothing, in (liort, could have made 
 you forget the unadorned grove where f ienddiip found fo 
 fweet a retreat. V/hat a leflbn is this to me ? But for you, 
 I was alfo going to lofe a valuable friendlhip. However 
 you preferve to me the precious blefling. You fave me 
 fi-om injuflice and remorfe. How your noble condudl makes 
 me feel the unworthinefs of your brother. Ill natured 
 boy ! in what an odious light has he fhewn himfelf. But 
 let m.e banilh this mortifying idea from my heart. I am 
 impatient to know if Mr. Garvey thinks as generoufly as 
 his children. The part that he takes, will determine my 
 happinefs. I have either lod: a friend undeferving of my 
 attachment, or I Ihall now iind one worthy of me. 
 {Alicia crojjing the bottom ofthejiage on tiptoes ^ Mr. Crumptotz 
 per celues her y and calls i^ Alicia 1 [She goes on. Mr*Crumptoii- 
 calls a/econd time,) Alicia! come hither! 
 
 SCENE Vllt. 
 
 Mr. Crumpton, Alicia, 
 
 Mr. Crumpton. Where were you going ? V/hy did yoa' 
 flrive to avoid me? 
 
 Alicia^ {^c on fit fed.) Becaufe — I was afraid to didafb you, 
 papa. 
 
 Mr. Crumpton, You were going, perliaps, to feek the 
 fquirrei that Thomas gave you- as a prelent ? 
 
 Alicia. Yes, papa. It is true, he has given me one. 
 I fuppofc; Conftantine told you. 
 
 Mr. Crumpton. You did not receive it, I prcfume. 
 
 Alicia, i 1 no. — Oh ! yes, how could I avoid it. Poox? 
 Tommy ! he was in fuch joy when h^ offered it to me. 
 
 Mr, Crumpton. You mult reiurn it. 
 
 Ali'cia, Yes, papa, if I had it; but it has run away. 
 
 G 4 Mr. 
 
128 THE FATHERS RECONCILED 
 
 Mr. Criimpton. Fs this true, Alicia? 
 Alicia. Yes, fir, I afTure you. 1 can fnevv you hi. 
 houfe ; it is empty. 
 
 Mr. Crumptcn. Who could have let it out ? this was a 
 trick of Conltantine's. 
 
 Alicia. No, papa. Do not accufe my brother of it. 
 The door mull have been ill-fallened, and fo the prifoner 
 efcaped. But Tommy is in purfuit of him, and if he 
 catches it again, he will bring it back to me. 
 
 Mr. Crumfton. You mean then, to have a fecond con- 
 verfation with him r What have you to fay to him? Have 
 not you told him my refolution ? And have not you taken 
 your leave of him ? 
 
 Alicia. Yes, papa ; but — Oh ! I was fo (orry ! I Diall 
 not eafily comfort my felf. 
 
 Mr. Crumpton. You find then a difiiculty in obeying me ? 
 Alicia. Oh! it is not that; never imagine it. But 
 could you love me ftill, could you own me for your child, 
 if r were to tell you that this quarrel does not grieve me? 
 What would you think of me, or what would my friends 
 think, if 1 could withdraw my heart from them at once, 
 without feeling the leail concern ? 
 
 Mr. Crumpton. But is the offence offered me by theijr 
 father fo ind:fFerent to you that you take no part in it? 
 
 Alicia. Oh ! I do take a part in it, and I would 
 give any thing in the world that you had full fatisfadion. 
 Mr. Crumptcn. You know then what I afk of him, and 
 what he refufes me? 
 
 Alicia, I know — I know — Ah! papa, why do yoa 
 iifk me ? 
 
 Mr, Crumpton. Becaufe I would know if Mr. Garvcy's 
 children are acquainted with the affair, and have entruiled 
 it to you. 
 
 Alicia. Yes, they told me — they told me all. Do not 
 be angry, papa 1 
 
 Mr. Crumpton, Well, what do you think of my de- 
 mand ? Does it appear unreafonable ? Have not I a right 
 to expc6l from Mr. Garvey, in return for all my kind- 
 HiiU:, a flight compliment which 1 would repay him an 
 hundrcd-lclJ ? 
 
 Alicia. Dear papa, I am only a child ; how can I 
 decide amongll big people ? 
 
 Mr. Crumpton, Confult your heart. I would know 
 what it fays. Alicia^ 
 
BY THEIR CHILDREN. 129 
 
 Alicia. Pray excufe me. My heart, perhaps, might 
 fay fomething that would difpleafe you. 
 
 Mr, Crumpton, I underlland. It would ju(^ge, no 
 doubt, that I am in the wrong. 
 
 Alicia, Ah ! now you are going to be angry, 
 Mr. Crumpton. Only fpeak ; you will fee. 
 Alicia, I would not offend you for any thing in the 
 world. 
 
 Mr. Crumpton, You will not ; only tell me freely what 
 you think. 
 
 Alicia, Well then, I think that you are right, and 
 Mr. Garvey too. 
 
 Mr. Crumptcn. Both of us right? Ah ! you little flat- 
 terer, that is impoffible. One of us mull be right, and 
 the other wrong. 
 
 Alicia. Pardon me !, I fpoke it as I think. You have 
 done Mr. Garvey great kindnelTes, and are right to expedl 
 from him, in acknowledgement, a matter that you have fo 
 much at heart : and he is right in refufmg it you, becaufc 
 he has reafons for not giving it up. 
 
 Mr, Crumpton, But are his reafons juft, or ill-founded? 
 Alicia, It is not for me to be the judge of them. Yoa 
 look upon it as his duty, in gratitude to give you up his 
 little grove; and he looks upon the keeping of it to be 
 alfo a duty of gratitude. You would cut it down, to 
 make a fine profpedl ; he thinks it an agreeable fhady 
 retreat for his children. You are his landlord, and have 
 power : he has nothing but the prayers and tears of his 
 family. 
 
 Mr, Crumpton. Enough of this; you are too dangerous 
 an advocate. Well, let him pay me the fifty pounds that 
 I have lent him, and he may keep his grove. 
 Alicia, Then it v/ill be force — 
 Mr. Crumpton. That will fhew which is right. Eh ? 
 Alicia, No papa, I only meant — Oh ! I do not know 
 what I would fay. But the fifty pounds, where can he 
 have them ? 
 
 Mr. Crumpton. If you do not know, neither do !• 
 However, if he applie 1 to you— 
 
 Aliciay {embracing her father.) Oh! I cannot conceal 
 
 it from you any longer. And though you were even t» 
 
 punifh me for it — I have deferved your anger — I have— 
 
 G 5 Mn 
 
I30 THE FATHERS RECONCILED 
 
 Mr, Crump/ on. Come, come, let me go ! What decs, 
 all this mean, mlfs ? 
 
 SCENE JX. 
 
 lilr. Crnvipton, Alicia, Conjlantiney [hauling in Grace,) 
 Grace. 
 
 Conjlantise. Ah ! papa, I have her, I have her. She 
 has a letter ; I fuppnfe, for my fifter. Come, give it to 
 jne, or I'll fearch you all over. Yes, yes, Ihe had it int 
 her hand as Ihe flipped along the yew-hedgf. 
 
 Mr. Crumpton. No violence, Conftjntine. (*7o Grace.). 
 Do you want any body here, child? 
 
 Grace, {confufed.) No — Yes, fir, I was looking for—- 
 Mr. CnoHpton. Why are you frightened? Well, whom 
 do you want ? 
 ■ Grace. Mifs Alicia. 
 
 Conjiantine. But you know, Grace, that papa has for- 
 bidden her to fpeak to you. 
 
 Mr. Crumpton {to Ccnjiantine.) Irequeft you to be iilent. 
 \To Grace.) And what is this letter in quelHon ? 
 
 Grace. It is nothing — nothing — {locking jGrron.':fully at 
 
 ■Alicia.) Ah ! Mifs Alicia, will you forgive me? 
 
 Alicia. My dear Grace, we rauit hide nothing from 
 Jjapa, now. 
 
 Conjlanfine, [to Mr. Crumpton.') How, fir? they fpeak 
 to each other before your face, fs that obedience ? 
 
 Mr. Crumpton. Will you be filent ? Well, Grace, may 
 not 1 know ? — 
 
 Grace. Well, fir, fmce 1 muft tell you, the matter is, 
 that my father has written a letter to m:fs here, thanking 
 her for her kindnefs. {treynhling as Jhe offers ihe letter to 
 Alicia. Conjlantine feizes it.) 
 
 Conftantine. O pnpa ! it is full of money. {To Alicia.') 
 Ah ! you will be paid now. 
 
 Alicia. I was going to confefs the whole to you, papa, 
 when Grace and my brother interrupted us. 1 fubmit to 
 my punifhment. 
 
 Mr. Crumpton, {opens the letter and reads.) 
 
 " MoJ} worthy Mifs, 
 " I Should not be deferving of your generous inten- 
 tions in my favour, if 1 were bafe enough to lead you into 
 :he flighted ad of deceit, by accepting the money which 
 
 you 
 
BY THEIR CHILDREN. 131 
 
 you offer me in order to pay your papa. No, my dear 
 mifs, I am his debtor, and fhall have the misfortune to 
 continue fo, until 1 can acquit my debt by my own re- 
 fources. I am unhappy in not being able on this occafion 
 to meet your father's wiflies. fo chearfuliy as I would oa 
 any other. If Mr. Crumpton, without mentioning it to 
 me, had purfued the courfe which his power enables him 
 "to ufe, I fhould never have expoftulated. He may MfTure 
 himfelf, that I ihould not even have formed in my Ovvn 
 mind a fingle complaint againil him. At leail, I ihould 
 not have to reproach myfelf with violating the facred pro- 
 mife that I have pafl. Let him know thefe fentiments, 
 my worthy little friend. His friendfliip and yours are 
 more valuable to me than all the poilefiions in the world. 
 Continue fiill in the fame generous difpofition towards 
 me and my children. 
 
 I have the honour to be, &c.'* 
 
 {Mr. Crumpton, ^without JhutttJig the letter, looks at 
 Alicia.) 
 
 Alicia, {running to him.) Now, papa, you fhall know 
 how this money came into my hands, and forgive me for 
 not owning to you before !^ — 
 
 Mr, Crumpton, {kijjing her. ) I know the whole, my dear 
 Alicia. I heard your converfation. I am delighted with 
 the noblenefs and generofity of your fentiments. 1 do not 
 blufh to confefs, that perhaps, but for you, I was going. 
 to commit an aflion that would have made me unhappy 
 all my life. Here is. your money. Make that noble 'ufe 
 of it which your excellent mother enjoined you. Do not 
 fear that I ihall ever fufier it to be exhaufted by your 
 bounty. Your little grove fhall remain, my dear chil- 
 dren, and friendihip fnali unite you llill. 
 
 Alicia, {taking his hand.) O papal I ov/e you now a 
 fecond life. 
 
 Grace, {taking his other hand.) O fir 1 what goodnefs ! 
 Ah ! how my father — 
 
 Air. Crumpton. Tell him, my dear Grace, that I re- 
 quell him to take his note again ; that I have a fmall 
 alteration to make in it, of which I will fpeak to him. 
 
 Conjlantine. How? papa, you — 
 
 Mr. Crumpton. Hold your ill-namred tongue. You 
 have given ms to-day proofs of a very bad heart. 
 
 G 6 Conjlantine^ 
 
132 THE FATHERS RECONCILED 
 
 Conjiantine. I have only obeyed you. Mull not chil- 
 dren obey their parents ? 
 
 Mr. Crumpton. Without doubt, they niufl. But when 
 the commands of their parents are unjuft, they muft then 
 firrt obey their duty and their Maker. If your heart did 
 not tell you that mine yielded too much to pallion, 1 
 have no further hopes of you. See how Alicia has aded. 
 
 Conjiantine. But mama did not leave me any money at 
 my own difpofal. 
 
 M)\ Crumpton. Becaufc fhe forefaw the improper ufe 
 that you might have made of it. And then, had not you 
 words at leaft of comfort for your little friends, and for a 
 man who had once the care of your education ? But what 
 is become of the fquirrel ? Have you given orders to find 
 him ? 
 
 Conjiantine* I could fee nobody in the garden. 
 
 SCENE X. 
 
 Mr. Crianptcn, Conjiantine, Alicia, Grace, Thomas, 
 
 {Thomas enters running, and out of breath. He holds the 
 fquirrel in one hand, the other is ^v rapped in a handkerchief 
 Jlained ^vith drops of blood. ) 
 
 Thomas. Joy ! joy ! here he is ! I have found him, here 
 he is ! {perceiving Mr. Crurnpton, he fops f:ort.) 
 
 Alicia, {running to him.) O ! my good Tommy, {Jhi 
 takes the fquirrel.) My pretty little Tommy, have I found 
 you ? Oh ! you Ihall never efcape from me again. Come, 
 iir, mnrch into your houfe once more. {Shuts him up in 
 his houfe, and carries him into the J'ummer -houfe.) 
 
 Mr. Crumpton. What is the matter with your hand, my 
 clear Tom ? I think I fee blood upon your handkerchief. 
 
 Thomas, {ivith Jurprife and joy.) My dear Tom ! mifs, 
 do you hear that ? 
 
 Alicia. Yes, child; all is made up. 
 
 Grace. Now we are friends for ever. {Thomas jumps far 
 joy, and boiMS to Mr. Crumpton. Grace taking her brother'' s 
 hand, and looking at it ivith concern.) Have you hurt youi;- 
 fcif .'^ Let me fee. 
 
 Alicia. And on my account too ? 
 
 Thomas. It is nothing. It was a branch that broke with 
 tte fpring that I made to jump after |he runaway. I 
 
 tore 
 
VERSES ON AN INFANT, &c. 115 
 
 tore my hand a little ; but [ fliould have left an arm be- 
 hind, rather than not bring back the fquirrel to Mifs 
 Alicia. 
 
 Alicia, Ah ! how good-natured ! Papa, you muil have 
 it dreft. Nurfe has an excellent falve. 
 
 Mr. Crumpton. That care Ihall be yours. Come, 
 children, follow me. I will have a little entertainment 
 prepared for you to-day, at my houle, and I will go my- 
 felf, and invite your parents to come and partake of it. I 
 have been your fcholar this day, and 1 fee, by your ex- 
 ample, that well-difpofed children may give ufeful leiTons 
 to their parents. 
 
 VERSES ON AN INFANT in the CRADLE, 
 
 Happy child ! the blifs pofTefiing 
 Which calm Innocence bellows; 
 
 Ah! preferve the envied bleffing. 
 To enfure your life's rcpofe. 
 
 Sleeping, many a playful vifion 
 
 Paints before you forms of joy. 
 Peaceful fports and f^enes Elyfian 
 
 All your flumb*ring hours employ. 
 
 When you wake, your parents, fmiling. 
 Meet your eye's nevv-open'd charms ; 
 
 You, their tender cares beguiling, 
 Fill with blifs their clafping arms.- 
 
 Hopeful babe ! your joy or fadnefs. 
 Prompt by turns their changing vow; 
 
 When your front expands with gladnefs, 
 Pleafure fmiles on every brow. 
 
 Happy child ! the blifs poiTelling 
 
 Which calm Innocence bellows. 
 Ah ! preferve the envied blefTing, 
 
 To enfure your life's repofe. 
 
 Mildly gay, no forrovv wounds you. 
 No vain wifh your peace dellroys; 
 
 While each objed that furrounds you 
 Brings you ever varying joys. 
 
 Should 
 
131 VERSES ON AN INFANT, &c. 
 
 Should your breaft, with fhort-liv'd anguifh. 
 
 Heave a momentary figh, 
 Round your lip the dimples languifli. 
 
 E'en while tears bede.v your eye. 
 
 Ev'ry harfli and joylefs feeling 
 
 Tender infancy difarms ; 
 Clay-cold age, his troubles healing. 
 
 Melts with love before your charms. 
 
 Kappy child ! the blifs poflefling 
 Which calm innocence beflows. 
 
 Ah 1 preferve the envied blelling 
 To enfure your life's repofe. 
 
 Soon, alas 1 your profpecft drowning* 
 Angry ilorms lliall Iweep the plain ; 
 
 Fortune foon unkindly frowning. 
 
 Plunge in grief youth's fportive train. 
 
 Mc, whom nature kindly blefTes, 
 Still, ev'n ilill, uith artlefs Lore, 
 
 Spent with toil and keen diibelTes, 
 Fortune oft has wounded fore. 
 
 Thoufand cares, alas ! fubdue me, 
 
 Jn life's bufy circle toil, 
 Treach'rous hopes, reverfes gloomy, 
 
 Friendlliips falfe, and kindred loll. 
 
 Happy child ! the blifs poffefiing 
 Which calm Innocence beftows ; 
 
 Ah ! preferve the envied blefling. 
 To enfure your life's repofe. 
 
 If thou, Chance, with aim perfidious. 
 Point i'iQih forrows at my head ; 
 
 Here 1 lliield me, pow'r infidious ! 
 Peace pn.teds the infant's bed. 
 
 Here the innocent's carefles. 
 
 Pouring balm my forrows o'er, 
 Spite of thee, and life's diitrcHes, 
 ' To my heart Ihall peace reiloie. 
 
 Whllil 
 
THE LITTLE MISS DECEIVED, c^:c. 135 
 
 Whilft I fing (proud fage believe me) 
 Th' only ags that taltes of blifs. 
 
 Of the hours which fate may give me 
 Sweetell: hour perhaps is this. 
 
 Happy child ! the blifs poffeffing 
 Which calm Innocence beliows ; 
 
 Ah 1 preferve the envied bleffing, 
 To enfure your life's repofe. 
 
 ■&' 
 
 THE LITTLE MISS DECEIVED BY HER MAID, 
 
 Mrs, Barlo-zVy Amelia^ 
 
 Amelia. 11 /f A M A, wiil you give me leave to go and 
 -LVJ. fee my ccufin Henry this evening ? 
 
 Mrs. Barlo-xv. No, I do not chufe it, Amelia. 
 
 A?nelia. Pray, mama, why fo ? 
 
 Mrs. B. I have no occafion, I fuppofe, to tell you my 
 reafons. A little mifs ought always to obey her parents, 
 without allowing herfelf to afk them queilions. However, 
 to fatisfy you that I have always a reafonable motive, 
 whenever I order or forbid you any thing, I fhall tell you. 
 Your coufm Henry can only fet you an indifferent ex- 
 ample ; and I fnould fear, if you faw him too often, that 
 you would imitate his levity and indifcretion. 
 
 yl/nelia. But, mama — 
 
 Mrs. B. No reply, 1 requefl. You know that my 
 orders muil be followed punctually. 
 
 Amelia reti zd a little to hide Iier tears; and foon after, 
 her mother being gone out, fhe fat down in a corner, and 
 gave her grief full vent. Jufl then Nanny, who was 
 lately come into Mrs. Barlow's fervice, entered the room. 
 ■** How, Mifs Amelia, faid fhe, are you crying ? What is 
 the matter? May not I know v/hat troubles you r" 
 
 Amelia. Leave ilie, Nanny. You cannot comfort me. 
 
 Nanny. Nay, why not? There was Mifs Sophy, at my 
 laft fervice, always came to me whenever any thing ailed 
 her, '' My dear Nanny, ffie would fay, you fee what has 
 happened tome; tell me, what mull I do ?" And I had 
 always good ad/ice to give her, 
 
 AmsUHi 
 
136 THE LITTLE MISS 
 
 Amelia. I do not want your advice. I tell you once 
 more, that you can do nothing for me, 
 
 Nanny. Give me leave, at leart, to go for your mama. 
 She will, perhaps, be better able to comfort you. I do 
 not like to fee fo pretty a mifs as you in trouble. 
 
 Amelia. Oh, yes I mama, indeed ! 
 
 Nanny. I cannot believe that it was fhe who grieved 
 you. 
 
 Amelia. Who fhould it be, then ? 
 
 Nanny. I could never have thought it. I fhould always 
 fuppofe you fo reafonable, that your mam.i could not 
 refufe you any requell. Ah ! if I had a child fo well 
 difpofed as you, fhe fhculd be her own millrefs. Bat 
 your mama loves to command, and for a whim would 
 oppofe your moll innocent willies. How can one have (o 
 amiable a child, and take pleafure to thwart her ! I can- 
 not exprefs how I fufFer to iee you in this fituation. 
 
 Amelia^ {beginning to cry afrejh.) Ah ! it will break my 
 heart. 
 
 Nanny. Indeed, I fear it will. How red and fwelled 
 your eyes are ! You are very cruel to yourfelf, not to let. 
 thofe who love you fincerely, try to give you feme com- 
 fort. Ah ! if Mifs Sophy had been in half your trouble, 
 flie would not have failed to open her heart to me. 
 
 Amelia. I dare not mention mine to you. 
 
 Nanny. Not that, for my part, I care much about 
 knowing it. — Oh 1 it is, perhaps, becaufe your mama 
 makes you ftay at horae while (he goes to the play. 
 
 Amelia. No : fhe has promifed me not to go there with- 
 out me. 
 
 Nanny. Well, what is it, then ? Your trouble feems to 
 increafe. Shall I go for your little coufin ? You may 
 play along with him to divert you. 
 
 Amelia, {/ghing.) Ah 1 I Ihall not have that pleafure 
 any more. 
 
 Nanny. It will not be hard to procure It for you. A 
 young mifs fhould have fome company. Your mama 
 has not a mind to make a nun of you ? 
 
 Amelia. I am not allowed to fee him. 
 
 Nanny. Net to fee him ? 1 do not know what your 
 mama thinks. Mifs Sophy's was juft the fame. She 
 would never let her have the leaft intimacy with Mifs 
 Semplc. But how we contrived to deceive her ! 
 
 Amelia, 
 
DECEIVED BY HER MAfD. 137 
 
 Amelia. How was that ? 
 
 'Nanny, We watched the moment when fhe went out to 
 pay vifits : then either Mifs Sophy went to Mils Semple, 
 or Mifs Semple came to her. 
 
 Amelia. And her mama did not know it ? 
 
 Nanny, It was I that guarded againll: that. 
 
 Amdta. But if I were to go to fee my eoufin, and 
 mama fh )uld afk. Where is Amelia ? 
 
 Nanny. 1 would tell her that you were in the garden : 
 or, if it was a little late, I would tell her that you were 
 gone to bed, and fall alleep % and immediately I would 
 run to find you. 
 
 Amelia. Ah ! if I thought that my mama would know 
 nothing of it— 
 
 Nanny. Trull me for that : fhe will never fafpe£l it. 
 Will you take my advice? Go and pafs the evening with 
 your little coufin. Never trouble yourfelf about the reft. 
 
 Amelia. 1 have a mind to try it for once. But yoa 
 prvomife me at leaft that mama — 
 
 Nattny. Go 1 never fear ! ♦ 
 
 Amelia in effe<5l did go to fee her coufin. Her mama 
 came home a lliort time after, and afked where fhe was. 
 Nanny anfwered, that (he had been tired of fitting all 
 alone, fo had eaten a good fupper, and was gone to bed. 
 In this manner Amelia deceived her unfufpe(^ing mama 
 feveral times. Ah ! much more did fhe deceive herfelf 
 in adling thus. Before, fhe was always cheerful, and 
 took pleafure in being near her mama, and would run 
 with joy to meet her, whenever fhe had been abfent a 
 moment. But now, what was become of her chearful- 
 nefs? She was ever faying to herfelf, ** O dear 1 if 
 mama knew where I have been !" and fhe trembled 
 whenever fhe heard her voice. If at any time fhe faw her 
 look a little ferious, *' I am undone ! fhe would cry. 
 Mama has difcovered that I have difobeyed her.'* But 
 this was not all that made her unhappy. Nanny would 
 often cunningly tell her how generous Mifs Sophy had 
 been to her ; how often fhe had given her fiigar and tea ; 
 and how freely fhe had trufted her with the keys of the 
 cellar and beaufet. Amelia took pride in deferving from 
 Nanny the fame praifes for confidence and generofity. 
 She Hole fugar and tea from her mama for Nanny, and 
 found means to procure her the keys of the cellar and 
 
 beaufet. 
 
138 THE LITTLE MISS 
 
 beaufct. Ncvcrthelefs, fometimes fhe felt the reproaches 
 of her confvicnce. '* I am duing wrong, Ihe would fay to 
 hcrfelf, and my tricks will be found out luoner or later. 
 I fliall lofe the friendfhip of mama." She then went to 
 Nanny, and proteiled that fhe would never give her any 
 thing again. ** Julias you pleafe, mifs, anfvveied Nanny; 
 but take care ; you may perhaps, have reafon to repent 
 it ! Stay till your mama comes home, 1 will tell her 
 how obediently you have followed her orders." Amelia 
 cried and did every thing that Nanny defired her. Be- 
 fore, it was Nanny that obeyed Amelia; but now it was. 
 Amelia that obeyed Nanny. She fuffered every fort of 
 rudenefs from her, and had nobody to whom fhe could 
 complain. The wicked girl came to her one day and 
 faid, " You mull know, I have a fancy to tarte the 
 pie that was locked up in the beaufet yellerday ; befides 
 that, I want a bottle cf wine. You mull go and look for 
 the keys of your mama's drawers." 
 Amelia. But, dear Nanny 1 
 
 Nan72y, We are not talking about dear Nanny ! Do you 
 mind what 1 afk of you ? 
 
 Amelia, Why, mama will fee us ; or if fhe does not 
 fee us, God AJmighty will fee us and punilli \is. 
 
 Na>2ny, He faw you all the times that you went to your 
 coufm, yet 1 never obferved that he has punifhed you. 
 
 Amelia had received good inItru6lions in religion from 
 her mother. She was ilrongly perfuaded that God has 
 always an eye upon us ; that he rewards our good adflions, 
 and has only forbidden us what is evil, becauie it is hurt- 
 ful to us. It was through mere thoughtlelihefs that ihe 
 went to fee her coufin, contrary to her mama's orders. 
 But it always happens that, from yielding to one error, 
 ©ne falls immediately into another. She faw herfelf 
 obliged to do every v/rong thing that her fervant ordered 
 her, for fear of being betrayed by her. 
 
 It may cafily be imagined how much flie fuffered in 
 this fituation. She one day withdrew to her chamber, in 
 order to weep at her eafe. ** Oh ! cried flie, how much is 
 one to be pitied who is difobedient 1 Unhappy cliild that 
 1 am ! Slave to my own fervant I I can no longer do what 
 is my duty, but am forced to do what a wicked maid 
 orders me. I mull be a liar, a thief and a hypocrite ! 
 Lord have mercy on me!" Saying thus, flie held up 
 
 both 
 
DECEIVED BY HER MAID. .jjg 
 
 both hands to hide her face which was drowned in tears, 
 and began to refleft what lieps Ihe fliould take. At length, 
 fhe role all at once, crying, ** I am rc-fdlved : and though 
 my mama were not to Jet me come near h-er for a month ; 
 though file were tc — But no, fne will be reconciled to 
 me ; ihe will call me once more her Amelia. I depend, 
 on her fondnefs-. But how dear it will coit me 1 How 
 Ihall 1 bear her looks and reproaches ! No m-^itter ; 1 will 
 confefs the whole to her.'* S-he then immediately fprung 
 out of her chamber, and feeing her mama walking all 
 alone in the garden, ihe flew towards her, arrd embracing 
 her clofely, covered her cheeks and her bofom with her 
 tears. Grief and con fufion ftopped her fpeech. 
 
 Mrs. Barloiv. What is the matter, my dear Amelia? 
 
 Jmelia. Ah ! mama — 
 
 Mrs. B. What is the meaning of thefe tears ? 
 
 Amelia. My dear mnma ! 
 
 Mrs. B. Speak, child! what occafions this agitation? 
 
 Amelia. Ah ! if 1 thought that you could pardon me ! 
 
 Mrs. B. I pardon you, fince your repentance appears fo 
 lively and fo fincere. 
 
 Amelia. My dear mama, I have been a difobedient 
 girl; J have gone feveral times to fse my coufin Henry, 
 contrary to your orders. 
 
 Mrs. B. Js it poflible, my dear Amelia? you who for- 
 merly feared fo much to difpleafe me ! 
 
 Amelia. Ah 1 I ihould not be your dear A.melia, if yott 
 knew all. 
 
 Mrs. B. You n.ake me uneafy: but trufi: every thing 
 with me. You muft have been deceived. You never gave 
 me caufe of complaint until now. 
 
 Amelia. Yes, mama, I have been deceived. 'Twas 
 Nanny, Nanny — 
 
 Mrs. B. What ! it was Ihe ? ' 
 
 Amelia. Yes, mama : and that fhe might not tell you, 
 I have often ftolen the keys of the cellar and beaufet. I 
 have flolen for her I know not how much fugar and tea, 
 
 Mrs. B. Unhappy mother that I am ! Do I hear this 
 ihocking account of my own daughter! Leave me, un- 
 worthy child !• I fhallgo and confuk with your father how 
 we Ihould treat you. 
 
 Amelia. No, mama, I will not quit you. Punifh me 
 iirfl:, but promife me that your love for me will one day 
 return. Mrs. B, 
 
14» THE LITTLE MISS 
 
 Mrs. B. Ah ! unhappy cliild ! you will be fufficiently 
 punilhed. 
 
 Mrs. Barlow, at thcfe words, left Amelia quite dilcon- 
 folatc, featcd on a graH'y turf, and went to feek Mr. Bar- 
 Jow, and they concerted together the means of faving 
 their child from her ruin. 
 
 Nanny was called up. Mr. Barlow, after loading her 
 with the fcverelt reproaches, ordered her to quit hishoufe 
 immediately. It was in vain that fne wept and pleaded 
 for a K'fs rigorous fentence. In vain Ihe promifed that 
 nothing of the fame fort Ihould ever happen again. Mr. 
 Barlow was inexojable. You know, anfwered he, how 
 mildly I have treated you, and what indulgence I have 
 iliewn to your faults. I thought that my kindnefs might 
 induce you to lecond my wifhes as to my child's education, 
 and it is you that have led her into difobedience and theft. 
 You are a monfter in my fight ! Leave my prefence, and 
 be careful to reform, unlefs you wifh to fall into the hands 
 of a more terrible judge. 
 
 It was next Amelia's turn. She appeared before her 
 parents in a fituation worthy of pity. Her eyes were 
 fv^oln with crying ; all the features of her face were 
 changed j a frightful palenefs covered her cheeks, and 
 her whole body fhuddered as if in the convulfions of an 
 ague. Unable to utter a word, flie awaited in mournful 
 filence the judgment of her father. •« You have, faid he 
 in a fevere voice, you have deceived, you have offended 
 your parents. What could incline you to follow the ad- 
 vice of a wicked fervant, rather than of your own mother, 
 who loves you fo tenderly, and defires nothing in the 
 world fo much as to make you happy ? If 1 punilhed you 
 with the indignation that your behaviour infpires ; if I 
 bani filed you from my fight for ever, as I have the com- 
 panion of your faults, who could accufe me of injuftice ?'* 
 
 Jntelia. Ah ! papa, you can never be unjull towards me, 
 Puniflime with all the feverity that you ihall judge necef- 
 fary, I will bear the whole: but begin with taking me 
 once more in your arms ; call me once more your Amelia! 
 
 Mr, Bcirlc-w. I cannot embrace you fo foon. I am wil- 
 ling not to challife you, on account of the confeflion that 
 you have made ; but I Ihall not call you my Amelia, until 
 you have deferved it by a long repentance. Pay great 
 
 attentioa 
 
DECEIVED BY HER MAID. 141 
 
 attention to your c»ndu(^. Puififliments always follow 
 faults, and it is you that will punifli yourfclf. 
 
 Amelia did not as yet fully underftand what her father 
 meant by theie lall words. She did not expefl Co mild a 
 treatment: fhe went therefore up to her parents with a heavy 
 hearr, and curtiying to them, repeated afrefh her promifes 
 of the moft perfe^ fubmillion. In effeft, fhe kept her 
 word : but alas ! her punilhraent followed very foon, as 
 her father had told her. The wicked Nanny fpread the moft 
 infamous flories concerning her. She told all that had pailed 
 between her and Amelia, and added a thoufand horrid lies 
 befides. She laid that Amelia, by the humblefl entreaties, 
 and by the force of prefents which fhe had ftolen from her 
 parents, had laboured fo long to corrupt her, that at 
 length Ihe fulfered herfelf to be perfuaded to procure her 
 fecret meetings with her coufm Henry ; that they faw each 
 other every evening, unknown to their parents ; and that 
 Amelia came often home very late. Thefe things fhe 
 related with circumftances fo odious, that every one con- 
 ceived the moft difadvantageous ideas of Amelia. She 
 was obliged to fuffer the moft cruel mortifications on this 
 fubjeft. Whenever fhe entered amongft a party of her 
 little friends, ihe faw them all whifper each other, and 
 look at her with an air of contempt, and an infulting 
 fmile. If ever fhe ftaid fomewhat late in a company, 
 they would fay, ** It is plain, fhe waits here until the 
 hour of her appointment." Had flie a falhionable rib- 
 band, or an elegant drefs, they would fay, ** Whenever 
 one can get one's mama's keys, one may buy what one 
 pleafes." In fhort, upon the leaft difference between her 
 and any of her companions, ** Do not talk, mifs ! they 
 would fay. Thinking of your coufin Henry confufes your 
 ideas." Thefe reproaches were fo many llabs to the 
 heart of Amelia. Oftt^n, when Ihe was quite overwhelmed 
 with grief, fhe would throw herfe f into her mother's 
 arms, and feekfor comfort there. Her mother generally 
 anfwered her, ** Suffer with patience, my dear child, 
 what your imprudence has brought on you. Pray to God 
 to forget your fault, and to fhorten the time of your mor- 
 tifications. Thefe proofs will beof fervice to you all your 
 life, if you can profit by them. God has faid to chil- 
 dren. Honour your father and your jnothery and fubmit in 
 all things tB their ivill. This commandment is meant for 
 
 their 
 
142 T HE O L D MAN B E G G l N G, 
 
 their happinef'^. Poor c'mldren ! ye know not the world 
 yet. Ye cannot forefee ll^e confequences that your actions 
 may draw afier them. God has committed che care of 
 guiding you to your parents who love you as themlelve?, 
 and who have more experience and reflection to ward otf 
 ^very danger from you. This you did not chufc to be- 
 lieve; but you now experience how wifely God requires 
 of children fjbnniiion to their parents, fince you have 
 fufi'ered fo much by your difobcdicnce. My dear x'^melia, 
 let your misfortune ferve for your inilrudtion ! It is the 
 fame with all the commandments. God prefcribes to ua 
 only what is advantageous ; He forbids only what is per- 
 nicious to us. We ait therefore to our own hurt, when-, 
 ever we co what is wrong. You will often find yourfelfin 
 circumilances, when it will be impofiible for you to fore- 
 fee how much vice may injure you, or how much virtue 
 may profit you. Recollcvit then what you have fuffered 
 by one fmgle fault, and regulate all the adions of your 
 life upon tiiis unerring principle: E^-oery aBion 'ivhich is 
 contrary to Virtue.^ is contrary to our oivn happine/s.^* 
 
 Amelia punilually obeyed the wile advice of her mo- 
 ther. I'he more itie was af{erwards obliged to fuffer the 
 confequences of her imprudence, the more refer ved fhe 
 became and attentive to her own behaviour. She pro- 
 fited fo well by this difgrace that, through the prudt^nce 
 of her conduit, i^i\e itoppcd the mouths of all who would 
 fpeak ill of her, and obtained the name of the irreproacU- 
 ai?le Amelia, 
 
 THE OLD MAN BEGGING. 
 
 Mr. Aunejley \W1 H Y aid not you make this good 
 {io aferijant.) \ VV o'd man come in ? 
 
 Old Man. Sir, I was alkcd ; but it was my own choice 
 not to go in. 
 
 Mr. Ann. And why, pray? 
 
 Old Man. I blufli to tell. I amdoing a thing to whIcU 
 I am not accuilomed : I come— to beg alms. 
 • Mr. Ann. You feem honell : why fiiould you blufh to 
 be poor ? 1 have fome friends that are fo. » Be you of the 
 number. 
 
 Old Man, Excufs me, ilr : I have not time. • 
 
 Mr. Ann, 
 
THE OLD MAN BEGGING. 143 
 
 Mf. Ann, What have you then to do ? 
 
 Old Man. What is the moft important thing in this 
 world: to die. I may tell you, fince we are alone. I 
 have not more than a week to live. 
 
 Mr. Amn How do you know that.? 
 
 Old Man. How do 1 know it ? I can fcarcely explain 
 that to you. But I know it, becaufe I feel it: and chat 
 proof is fure. Happily nobody is a lofer by my death. 
 My daughter and my Ion in law have maintained me 
 tliefe two years. 
 
 Mr. Ann. They have only done their duty. 
 
 Old Man I was once ju 11 rich enough not to fear be- 
 coming chargeable to any body. I lent my money to a 
 gentleman that called himf-lf m.y friend. He lived mer- 
 rily, until at lafthe reduced me to poverty. 1 beg pardon, 
 fir! you are a gentleman too ; but I fpeak the truth. 
 
 Mr. Ann, I have as much pleafure in hearing it as you 
 have in fpeaking it, though it were even againli myfelf. 
 
 Old Man. I fhould have been wifer, had I worked to 
 the laft ; but I was grown pale and withered, and I looked 
 upon this change as a fignal from Providence to repofc 
 myfelf. 1 never difiiked work. Sir. Wlien I was young, 
 that fuppi^rted my health: I had no other phyfician. 
 Bat what iirengthens youth, exhaufts old age. I was no 
 longer nble to work. When I had loft my fortune, I was 
 deilrous to work again. I defired it with all my heart. I 
 felt ioY mv arm?, but could not find them. Excufe me 
 for dropping a tear when I think of it. No moment of 
 my life ever v/as more heavy than when I felt myfelf fo 
 weak. 
 
 Mr. Ann. You then had recourfe to your children ? 
 
 Old Man. No, fir: they came to me of themfelves. I 
 
 had only one daughter, but 1 found a fon in her huihand. 
 
 They made me welcome to every thing they had, and 
 
 took care of me, although 1 had not fixpence to leave 
 
 them. May God Almighty take them to his heavenly 
 
 table, as they have taken me to their table in this world ! 
 
 Mr. Ann. What, are they become cooler to you now? 
 
 Old Man. No, fir, but they are become poor themfelves. 
 
 The floods have fwept away their houfe and deftroyed 
 
 their Rock : fo they have borrowed money to maintain me 
 
 at eafe till my death ; the only thing that ever they did 
 
 againlt my will. 1 could wifn them to have a fum for my 
 
 funeral 
 
144 '1' HE OLD MAN B E G G 1 N G. 
 
 funeral before-hand, that 1 may not be a charge to them, 
 even when dead. It is for this reafon that I come begging 
 alms. I am an old man, but a young beggar. 
 
 Mr. A)in. -And where do you live ? 
 
 Old Man. I beg pardon, fir ; but mull not anfwer that, 
 either for myfelf or my children. 
 
 Mr. Ann. Excufe my indifcreet curiofity. Heaven for- 
 bid that 1 Uiould feek to gratify it ! 
 
 Old Man. Sir, 1 believe you. In eicjht days, look up 
 to heaven : you will then, I hope, fee my dwelling ; it 
 will not be concealed then. 
 
 Mr. Ann. {ojfermg him a handful of Jilver.) Take this, 
 good old man, and may Gcd keep you ! 
 
 Old Man. All that, fir? No, it was not my intention. 
 I want but a crown ; the rell is of no fervice to me. There 
 is no want in heaven. 
 
 Mr. Ann. You will give the remainder to your children.. 
 
 Old Man. God forbid 1 My children can work; they 
 want nothing, 
 
 Mr. Ann. Farewell, my good old man 1 Go and repofe 
 yourfelf. 
 
 Old Man. {returning him all his tnontyy except a croivn.) \ 
 Take this again, fir. 
 
 Mr. Ann. My friend, you make me blufh. 
 
 Old Man. I blufli myfelf too. Even a crown is too 
 much to take. Keep the reft for thofe who are to beg 
 longer than I. 
 
 Mr. Ann. I feel for your fituation. 
 
 Old Man. I hope that heaven will alfo feel for it, and 
 for your generofity, fir, and repay it to you. 
 
 Mr. Ann. Will you take any food ? 
 
 Old Man. 1 have already had fome broth and feme 
 bread. 
 
 Mr. Ann. At leaft take fome provifion with you. 
 
 Old Man. No, fir; I will not affront Providenc-e {q 
 much. However, a glafs of wine, — juft one— 
 
 Mr. Ann. More, if you chufe, my friend. 
 
 Old Man. No, fir, only one ; I cannot bear more. You 
 deferve that I fliould drink with you the laft drop of wine 
 that I fhall tafte upon earth, and in heaven 1 will tell 
 from whom i received it. Bountiful God! even a cup of 
 water is not without its recompenfe from thee. {Mr. An^ 
 neftey goes bimfelf for a bit tie. The old man lifts up his 
 
 hands 
 
THE PLEASURES, &c. 145 
 
 hands to heaven.') My lail refrefhment ! Heaven reward 
 him one day who gives it to me. 
 
 Mr. Ann. [rcturnitig nvith a hottls and f^vo glaj/es.) Take 
 this glafs, my good old man. 1 have brought one for my- 
 ielf too. We will drink together. 
 
 Old Man, {looking up.) God be thanked for all the blef- 
 iings of this life ! (Drinks a little ; then touches glajfes nvith 
 Mr, Annejley.) Pvlay the Lord grant that your latter end 
 be as happy as mine ! 
 
 Mr. Jnn. My good old man. Hop here to-night. No- 
 body fliall fee you, if you dehre it. 
 
 Old Man. No, fir, I cannot ; my time is precious. 
 
 Mr. Ann. Can I ferve you in any thing further? 
 
 Old Man. 1 could wifh it, fir, for your fake. But I 
 want nothing more in this world ; nothing but a glove, 
 {looking at his hand.) I have loil mine. 
 
 Mr. Ann. {taking a pair out of his pockety and offering 
 them.) Mere, my good friend. 
 
 Old Man. Keep that : I aik only one. 
 
 Mr. Ann. And why do you not take the other ? 
 
 Old Man. This hand can bear the air. It is only the 
 left that fuffers. It has loft its warmth thefe two years. 
 ( Puts the glo'vc on his left-hand, and gives his right to 
 Mr. Anncpy.) 1 iliali think of you, fir. 
 
 Mr. Ann. And 1 too of you. O my good friend I let 
 me accompany you. I find it hard to keep the promife 
 that I gave you. 
 
 Old Man. Then fo much the better for you, fir, if you 
 keep it. {going) 
 
 Mr. Ann. Give me your hand once more, my good old 
 man ! It is full of bleffings. 
 
 Old Man. i hope to take you by the hand in Paradifc. 
 
 THE PLEASURES AND ADVANTAGES 
 OF A SOCIABLE CHARACTER. 
 
 FERDINAND was by nature of a thoughtful and 
 obferving turn. In his vv?lks with his uncle, nothing 
 that llruckhis view was loll to his reflexions. His coufms 
 complained that, while he appeared to enjoy fo much 
 V o L. I. H himfelf. 
 
146 T H E P L E A S U R E S, &c. 
 
 himfelf, he f>)Ught fo little to contribute to the genera! 
 ^imufement of the family. They thought at firll of re- 
 quelling their father not to take him with them anymore, 
 but a more gentle method of corredVing him foon occurred. 
 They agreed together to hold the fame condud with him, 
 for fome days, that he maintained towards them. One 
 went to fee Wcftminller-abbey ; another the regalia and 
 armoury at the Tower ; a third the exhibition at Somerfet- 
 houfe ; but when they came home, the accounts which 
 they generally gave to each other of what they remarked 
 were fuppreiled. Inllead of that mutual communication 
 of the pleafures of the day which made their evenings 
 pafs fo delightfully before, a grave referve and a tirefome 
 iilence took place amongil them. Ferdinand rem:y-ked 
 this change with as much furprize as mortification. He 
 felt the want of thole effufions of communicative chear- 
 fulnefs which, indeed, rarely originated from him, but 
 in which he never failed to inierelt himfelf. Accuitomed 
 as he was to reflexion, he eafily perceived the injuilice of 
 his own behaviour, and foon became as free as he had 
 before been rcferved. When he yielded to this amiible 
 principle which is implanted in men by nature, in or- 
 der to conncrt and unite them by fentiment, his heart 
 tailed the pleafures of benevolence and friendfhip ; and 
 his ardent defire of knowledge found new means of grati- 
 fication from the lights which he colie*fled from others, 
 at the fame time that he imparted his informatioa to 
 them. 
 
 A GOOD 
 
A GOOD HEART, &c. 
 
 147 
 
 A GOOD HEART COMPENSATES FOR 
 MANY INDJSCRETIONsT 
 
 A Drama, in one Act. 
 
 Characters. 
 Mr. V'aughan. 
 
 Mary Anne, - his Daughter. 
 
 FREDERICK, . hts Nephew, 
 
 l^OROTHEA, . . hisNnce. 
 
 OERVANT. 
 
 ^^'^^^y - - an old Coachman, 
 
 Scene, An apartment in Mr. raughan''s Countrj-Houfe^ 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 Mr. Vaughan. 
 
 could no. he p loving him But let him ne.er anuear 
 before me again, l „,,i never even hear him mentioned^ 
 
 SCENE If. 
 
 Mr. Faiighan, Dorcihea. 
 
 commrldT; ^''^^""'■-'^f—.'-Ie? What are yo„r 
 
 ycf ;„^7^;:-bLtr! '"^ "'''' '^' >-• — ■"? 
 
 Dorofh. {,:,r„l„g fak ) Concerning Fre.icridc - 
 
 H 2 
 
 CC ^^^ 
 
r^S A GOOD HEART COMPENSATES 
 
 *' Dear Pa^a, 
 
 *' I <im forry to have none but difagreeable news for 
 you ; however, it is better that you fhould receive them 
 from me, than from another. Our dear Frederick" 
 Oh ! yes. He deferves that affec'lionate name now.— - 
 ** Our dear Frederick goes on very indifferently. He 
 fold his watch fome days ago, and what is ilill worfe, the 
 greatcft part of his fchool books and books of devotion. 
 J v.'Ill tell ydu how 1 came to know it. At a Handing of 
 fecond-hand books, 1 alkedthe other day by chance for the 
 Whole Duty of Man ; for as 1 had worn mine out by dint 
 of reading ir, I thought J could not do better ihan to buy 
 ant! her. The bookfeller ihewed me one which 1 knew 
 imiJiediately to be Frederick's. 1 was pofitive of it, as 
 hi- name was upon the title page. I bought it for fix- 
 pCTce, but did not fay a word about it, for fear of pre- 
 judicing our fchool-fellows againll him. I contented 
 inyi'clf with fliewing it to the head mafter who fent for 
 the bookfeller, and alked him from whom he had that 
 book. The bookfeller confelled that he had bought it 
 frc m my coufin, and Frederick could not deny it, but 
 faid, that he had fold it becaufe he wanted money ; and 
 that meantime, until he fhould be able to buy another, 
 he had borrowed one from a friend who had two. The 
 bead mailer would know what he had done with this 
 money, and Frederick told him, though 1 fufpe<i\ his 
 account to be all a fib. Oh ! thought I to myfelf, we 
 rnull find if he lias not parted with fome of his neceiTaries 
 too. J thought firft of the watch that you gave him for 
 his new-year's gift, to let him fee how his time went, 
 which was a matter that he minded very little, as you 
 may remember. I afked him what o'clock it was. He 
 feemed confufed and told me that his -.vatch was at the 
 watch-maker's. I went thither that moment, in order to 
 be certain. There was not a word of truth in it. I ex- 
 pollulated with him> as an affci5\ionate couhn ought; but 
 he anfwered me that it was no concern of mine, and that 
 his watch was much better as he had difpofed of it than 
 in his fob, as he had no longer occafion to know the hour, 
 for his bufinefs. Who knows what he may have done 
 worfc ? for one cannot guefs the whole." — Well what do 
 you fay to this, Dprothy ? 
 
 J>orotbta, 
 
FOR MANY INDISCRETIONS. 14*5^ 
 
 Dorothea. Dear uncle, I own that I am as much di^ 
 pleafed at my brother as you are. Notwith (landing— 
 
 Mr. Faughan. A little patience ! this is not all. The 
 beil of the ilory is to come, {reads.) 
 
 ** Only hear Vv'hat he has done fmce. The day before 
 yefterday he went out in the afternoon v/ithout leave. 
 Evening came on ; he did not return. . Supper bell rang : 
 he was not to be found. In fhort, he Hald out the wh.olc 
 night, and did not come in until the next morning. You 
 may imagine how he was received. They aficed him 
 where he had been ; but he had invented all his Tories 
 before-hand. And indeed though every thing that he faid 
 were true — however, he is to appear this evening before 
 all the mafters ; and if they do him juilice he will be ex- 
 pelled fhamefuliy, or at leall fent home. What aiiliiiEs 
 me moft is his ingratitude for ail your kindneiTes, the 
 difgrace that he brings on us, and the irregular way of 
 life that he follows. I cannot believe that he told truth, 
 in fpeaking of the place where he fpent the night." And, 
 why do not you mention iti '* But I wifh that he may. 
 It would be flill worfe, and he would only be the more 
 worthy of your refentment. He threatens now, to run 
 away, and go home." Yes, yes, let him come ! let him 
 only put his foot upon my threihold ; he will fee the con- 
 fequence. Let him go where he fpends his nights. As 
 for you, Dorothea, I defire you never to fpeak a word to 
 me in his favour. They may put him in prifon, fend him 
 home, expel him ignominioufly ; it is al) equal to me. I 
 fhali never concern myfelf about him. He may go to 
 fome fea-port and ihip himfelf as cabin-boy for the Weft- 
 Indies. J have ufed him as my fon too long. 
 
 Dorothea, True, my dear uncle, you have been as a 
 father to us, and even our own parents could not have 
 ihewn more care and kindnefs to us. 
 
 Mr. Faughan. I have done it with pleafure, and take 
 no merit to myfelf for it. Your mother, v/hile I was 
 abroad on my travels, did the fame for my children. So 
 it became my duty, and I never to this day declined it: 
 but— - 
 
 Dorothea. Ah! if my brother has forgot himfelf for a 
 
 'moment, it is owing only to his impetuous temper. You 
 
 fcave hid him long under your eye. Whenever he had 
 
 H 3 done 
 
i^u /I owuu ntLAKT COMPENSATES 
 
 done a fiuit. his repentance and forrovv for having of- 
 lended you, always exceeded the oHciue. 
 
 Mr. yau^han.. W- 1!, and how many indifcretians have 
 1 pardonc-d him ? V/hcn he burned his e;c- brows and haiV 
 wirh his tire-works ; when he threw a ilone through one 
 of ournei,;^hbbur's windows, and broke a large lookine- 
 glais; whenne fell into the mire,, and fpoiled a new fuit 
 c* cl-.thes; when he overturned the handfomeft carria^^e 
 that I ever had ; did not 1 for-ive him all this ? I attrl- 
 buted thefe milchievous freaks to a petulance that did not 
 hos^^ever as yet ihew a bad difpolition: but to fell his 
 watch and his books, to leave his Ichool a-niohts and lye 
 out, tofly^ag.unll his mailers, and ilill to have the face 
 to think or coming home to me ! 
 
 Dorothea. My dear uncle, be pleafed iirfl to hear what 
 he can i.iyjn his juiHiication. 
 
 Mr. fau-r/jun. Hear him? Heaven forbid that I ihould 
 •even fee him I ihaii tell all my tenants to receive him 
 .wic.i a good ihck. It he offers to come amon^it them ' 
 . Doro!.b,a. Ah! no. Your heart could never conient to 
 fuch h.rlnnefs You will not deny the requeit of a niece 
 that loves and honours you as her father. 
 
 Mr. Vaughan. You IhaJl fee whether that will be diffi- 
 cult to me. 
 
 Dorothea. Will yo:u have me think then that you no 
 . onger love the memory of your filter, that you no'lon^er 
 love me ? -^ 6 * 
 
 Mr.Vaughan. You ? I have no fault to find with you • 
 and therefore your brother's mubehaviour fliall never 
 changemy fentimentsas toyou. But if you love me do 
 not teaze me with any more folicitations. Studv only to 
 live happy in my friendfhip. 
 
 • Dorothea. How can I live happy, while I fee my bro- 
 ther in difgrace with you ? 
 
 Mr. Vaughan. He has deferved it but too well. Why 
 not tell what he did with the money, and where he lav 
 out.'' ^ 
 
 Dorothea. It appears from the letter that' he confc/red 
 both Jt IS only Kichard that will not believehim. {Looks 
 at Mr. faughanivith the tears i,i her eyes.) Ah! dea-P 
 uncle — -^ ' 
 
 Mr.Vaughan, {a little foftened.) Well. He (hall have 
 one chance more, on your account. I will wait for the 
 head mailer s letter. SCENE 
 
FOR MANY INDISCRETIONS. 15.1. 
 SCENE iir. 
 
 Mr. Vaughan, Dorotbeuy ServafiL 
 
 ]\Ir, Vaughan. What do you want ? 
 
 Ser-vant. A mefTenger, fir, would fpeak with you. 
 
 Mr. Vaughan. What has he brought I 
 
 Sewant. A letter from the fchool. {Giues him the letter. Y 
 
 Mr. Faughan^ [looking at the fuperfcription.') Right! I 
 was waiting for this. It comes from the he^d mailer: I 
 know his hand. Where is the mefTenger ? Let him wait 
 for my anfwer. 
 
 Ser-vant. Shall I fhcvV him up ? 
 
 Mr. Vaughan. N.) ; I will go down. I wifh to inform, 
 myieif from his own mouth. [Goes out. Dorothea fol\(,^'ujing 
 him, the Ser-vant makes Jigfis to her to J}op.) 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 Dorothea, Ser'vant* 
 
 Sernjant. Haikye, Mifs Dorothea 1 come here ! 
 
 Dorothea. What have you to fay ? 
 
 Servant. Mailer Frederick is here, 
 
 Dorothea. My brother? 
 
 Ser-uant. If he be not come yet, he is not far oiF. 
 
 Dorothea. Who told you fo ? 
 
 Ser'vant. The melTenger that overtook him on the road^ 
 Ah 1 iriifs, what has Mailer Frederick done ? 
 
 Dorothea. Nothing unworthy. Do not believe him ca- 
 pable of it. 
 
 Ser^vant. Ah ! I never thought fo of him. Heaven 
 knows we all loved him, and would have given our lives 
 for him. He fatisfied us for the leail fervice that we could 
 do him. He fpoke for us to your uncle, whenever he was 
 in a paflion with iis ; and he was a friend to all the poor 
 people in the neighbourhood. I wonder how his fchool- 
 maller could be angry with him. Ah 1 1 fee how it i?. 
 They were going to punifli him for fome arch prank, and 
 he, being a fine fpirited young gentleman, would not be 
 ufed fo roughly. 
 
 Dorothea. V/here did the meiTenger find him ? 
 
 H 4 Ssi'va/it^ 
 
1^2 A GOOD HEART COMPENSATES 
 
 Ser-uant. About a Hage off. He was fleeping under a 
 \vi!lr>vv on the bank of a little ftrcam. 
 Dorcthea^ My poor broiher ! 
 
 oei-vant. Ihc man flopped till he awoke. You mufl 
 tliink how furprized Mailer Frederick was on feeing him. 
 He imagined that this man had been fent after him to 
 bring him back ; and he told him that he would fooner be 
 torn in pieces than go wiih him. 
 
 Dorothea. Ah ! 1 know his ilout refolute way. 
 Servant. The meflenger protelled to him that, (he had 
 fuch a regard for him,) if he were fure to be fcolded, or 
 even to lofe his place for it, he would not moleil him. 
 He then told him his meflage, and how they fpoke of 
 him at f:hooI. 
 
 Dorothea. And what did my brother refolve to do ? 
 Servants Although he was fpent with fatigue, he 
 walked on by the mefienger*s fide, and they came toge- 
 tl\er as far as the edge of our grove. Mailer Frederick 
 ilruck in there, to go and hide himftif in the grotto, and 
 there he will flay for the mcfienger's return, to know how 
 your uncle will take matters. 
 
 Dorothea. Oh ! if I could fpeak to him 1 
 Servant. It is likely that he wilhcs it as much as you. 
 Dorothea. My uucle often \\ alks that way. Jfhefhould 
 meet him in the firil of his pailion ! Oh ! be lb kind as to 
 run and tell him to hide himlc-lf in the barn, behind the 
 truiles of hay. 1 will go to him as ibon as my uncle 
 ualks cut. 
 
 Ser'vnnt. Never fear, mifs. J will bring him there 
 mylcJf, and help him to hide himfelf. {Goes out.) 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 Dorothea, {alone.) 
 
 What troubles he continually caufes to me I yet I can- 
 not help loving him. 
 
 SCENE vr. 
 
 Dorothea, Mary Jt:ne, 
 
 Dorothea. Ah! dear coufin, how I did long to fpeak 
 with you ! and yet, alas \ 1 have but very ill news for you. 
 
 Mar J 
 
FOR MANY INDISCRETIONS. 153 
 
 Mary Anne. I know the whole. My papa juft now 
 gave me my brother's letter to read. That from the 
 ^choolmafter has redoubled his anger agalnft Frederick. 
 
 Dorothea, I do not know how to go about juftifying 
 him. 
 
 Mary Anne, I would wager that he is innocent. , Do 
 you know Richard's hypocrify ! He does all the faults, 
 and is cunning enough to lay the blame of them upou 
 others. This is not the firil inftance of his Uriviug to 
 hurt your brother in my papa's opinion. Twenty times 
 has he, by underhand complaints, had him almofl tt^rned. 
 out of the houfe ; and then, when matters have '^h^qqvi 
 cleared up, he hi.mfelf has been found the only perfon in 
 fault. I fee, even from his letter, that he h a pickthank, 
 and that Frederick, at worft, has been only imprudent. 
 
 Dorothea. What comfort your kindnefs affords me I. 
 Yes, my brother is naturally well inclined, free, fincere, 
 generous, unfufpcdling ; but he is alfo petulant, daring 
 and inconfiderate. He is headltrong in his refj! unions,, 
 and lofes refpedlfor thofe that do not treat him according 
 to his humour. 
 
 Mary Anne. And Richard is envious, di/Tembling, hy- 
 pocritical, and fawning. Like a cat that gives you ac 
 iiifc a paw ^s foft as velvet, and afterwards llrikes )ca 
 wiih her talons at the moment when you depend moft oa 
 lier kindnefs. How willingly would J give my b:ocher,. 
 with all his falfe virtues, for yours, ** with all his imper- 
 fections oa his head.'* Tke worH is^ that fred;;ricR is 
 not here. 
 
 Dorothea. And if h-e were.'' 
 
 Mary Anne. Eh ! where is he then ? Let me run to him, 
 I long to fee him. 
 
 Dorothea. Hift! I think I hear my uncle talking to 
 Tiimfelf. 
 
 Mary Anne. Well, you are Frederick's fifter ; it is- ojt 
 right tiiat you ihould fee him fi-li. I will Itay here wiui 
 my papa, and try to foft-en him, D'o you f.m to ihe 
 poor Wanderer, and give him fonie wjrds of comfort ai d 
 hope. 
 
 Dsrothsa. Yes, and a good le<5lure befides, Jararcyo!, 
 ists. lie deierves it ju all events. {Goes out.) 
 
 H 5. S C £ N :£- 
 
154 A GOOD HEART COMPENSATES ' 
 
 SCENE VIT. 
 
 Mr. Vaughany Mary Anne. 
 
 Mr. Vcmghav.. 1 am fo provoked with this boy that I 
 have not Lceii iibie to write, to fend b:ick the mt-lTenger. 
 liovvever, he may Ihiy here till to-morrow morning. Let 
 nie coir pole myielf a little. 
 
 Mary Anne. How, papa! are you flill angry with my 
 poor coufin ? Is hi^ crime io very great then ? 
 
 Mr. Vaughan, Truly it becomes you much to excufe 
 him. J i'ee that your head is no better than his, and you 
 would have done worfe, perhaps, in his place. Yet you 
 have both of you a good example before you. 
 ■ Mary Anne. Who is that ? 
 Mr. Vaughan. My good boy Richard. 
 Mary Anne. Oh ! yes. My brother is a boy of great 
 veracity, indeed, very generous ! he is a pretty pattern ! 
 Mr. Vaughan. I know that Dolly and you are no friends 
 to him. 1 myfelf, from your opinions of him, had con- 
 ceived a prejudice againft him; but his maikr gives me 
 fuch a good acc<iunt of him to-day — 
 
 Mary An7,e, Nay, did not all his mailers quite I'icken 
 you with his praifts here? They knew his father's fortune, 
 and people always hope to wheedle prefents from a father, 
 by flattering him concerning his ion. 
 
 Mr. Vaughan. \ grant, they may have flattered me a 
 little with regard to him ; however, from his earlieft child- 
 hood he has never played me a fiiiglc prank of the thou- 
 fands that Frederick h;is. 
 
 Mary Anne. His pranks never hurted any body but 
 himfelf. 
 
 Mr^->Vaughan. You would make one mad. Did he 
 hurt nobody but himfelf, when he overturned my chariot? 
 a carriage elegantly gilt, and .quite new, that had jull 
 coft me two hundred pounds ! 
 
 Mary Anne Jt was but an accident ; imprudence is 
 pardonable at his age. Peter was trying die carriage, 
 and Frederick tcazed him fo much to take him up on the 
 feat, that at lall he did. After they had gone a little 
 way, he dropped the whip, and Peter went down for ii. 
 The horfesj rinding the leins in weaker hands, fet off. 
 4 Luckily 
 
FOR MANY INDISCRETIONS. 155 
 
 Luckily the harnefs gave way, and nothing fufFered but 
 the carriage. 
 
 Mr, Vaughati. That was not enoagh, perhaps ! And 
 who, upon the whole, has more reafon to complain 
 than I ? 
 
 Mary Anne, Frederick, who had his head terribly cut ; 
 but above all, poor Peter that loft his place by it. 
 
 Mr. Vaughan. I cannot think of it yet with patience. 
 That fine adventure coft me above eighty guineas ! 
 
 Mary June. And how much grief did it coft the good- 
 natured Frederick ! He will never forgive himfelf for 
 having occafioned poor Peter's difgrace. 
 
 Mr. Vaughan. Two good-for-nothing fellows, fit to go 
 together ! 1 am furprized, however, that you pick out 
 the worft charadlers, and plead their caufe. Really it is a 
 pity that you were not born a boy, to be companion to 
 your coufin. I think, you would have had charming ad- 
 ventures together. 
 
 Mary Anne. Nay, but — 
 
 Mr. Vaughan. Flold your tongue ! your teazing tires 
 me. I am going to take a turn in the garden. Go find 
 Dorothea, and both of you come to me. [Goes out njj'ithout 
 his hat.) 
 
 SCENE VIIL 
 Mary Anne, 
 
 I fhall have a good deal of trouble to bring him abotit. 
 However, let us not defpair. He is only ill-natured in 
 words. 
 
 SCENE IX. 
 
 Mary Anne^ Dorothea, 
 
 Dorothea y {half opening the door , and peeping in.") Hift» 
 Mary Anne. Well ? 
 Dorothea. Is my uncle out? 
 
 Mary Anne. He is juft gone. Where is Frederick .? 
 Dorothea. He waits for us on the back ftairs. 
 Mary A?me, You have no more to do hue take iiim to 
 our room. 
 
 H 6 Dorothea. 
 
156 A GOOD HEART COMPENSATES 
 
 Dorothea. No ; that won't do. Jenny is there. 
 
 Mary Anne. Why, cannot we bring him here ? Nobody 
 ccraes here when my papa is out. 
 
 Dorothea. You are right ; and it will be eafier too for 
 him to ilip out upon occafion. btay heic, 1 will bring 
 him up. 
 
 SCENE X. 
 
 Mary Anne, 
 
 How curious I am to hear him tell his ilory ! And I 
 ihall be glad to fee him too. It is above a year lince he 
 left us. Ah ! I hear him. [Goes to the door to meet him.) 
 
 SCENE XL 
 
 Mary Anne, Dorotheay "Frederick. 
 
 Mary Anne, [embrncifig him.) Ah ! my dear coufin» 
 
 Dorothea. He deferves this kindnefs, indeed, for the 
 trouble that he has caufed us. 
 
 Mary Aime. I fee him, and all is forgotten. 
 
 Frederick. My dear coulin, do I find you then- il ill the 
 fame ? You have never been lb hard upon me as ray 
 lifter. 
 
 Dorothea. If I were as much fo as your uncle; ah .'' 
 then — 
 
 Frederick. In the firft place, what does he fay ? Can it 
 be true thiit he is fo enraged againfl: me? 
 
 Dorothea. If he knew us to conceal you here, we fhould 
 iiave no more to do but to quit the houfe,, and go about 
 our bufmefs. 
 
 Mayy Anne. Oh ! it is very true. Do not think of ap- 
 pearing before him yet awhile. He is in a humour to 
 do you a mifchief jull nov^. 
 
 Frederick, What can OUT head mafler have written to- 
 him ? 
 
 Djrothea. A handfome encomium upon your exploits. 
 
 Mary Anne. My brother had touched a little upon the 
 •A:rj(M^ by yefterday's port. 
 
 Frederick, What! has Richard written? Then I have 
 o^calion lor nothing mere to juilify me. He knows the 
 
 whole- 
 
FOR MANY INDISCRETIONS. 157 
 
 whole matter as well as I, for I entrulled him with, every 
 thing. 
 
 Mary Anne. One needs only to judge of you from his 
 letter. 
 
 Frederick, Well, if I be not innocent, 1 am the greatefl 
 rogue — 
 
 Dorothea. That is faying nothing. You muH be either 
 one or the other. 
 
 Frederick. And could you think me guilty? What is 
 my crime ? felling my watch ? 
 
 Dorothea. No more than that? who can tell if your 
 ftiirts too, and your clothes-— 
 
 Frederick. Very true. I would have fold every thi«g, 
 if I had occafion for more money. 
 
 Dorothea. A very pretty defence, truly ! and to pafs 
 whole nights from the fchool ! 
 
 Frederick. One night, filter. 
 
 Dorothea. And to ^Ay againft a proper chaftifement ! 
 
 Frederick. Say, rather againll an outrage that I did not 
 deferve. If I had fubmitted to it, I fhould always have 
 borne a blot in the opinion of my uncle : and if they had 
 expelled me, I fhould never have appeared before you. 
 
 Mary Anne. But, dear Frederick, what can you fay in 
 your defence? V/e fhould know it, in order to clear you 
 to papa. 
 
 Frederick. Here is the fa6l. Some days ago they talked 
 of a fair that was to be in the neighbouring village. Our 
 mafler gave a few of us leave to go there, in order to 
 amufe outfelves, and gratify our curiofity. 
 
 Dorothea. Ah ! then it vvns for oranges and tarts that 
 your wat :h and your Whole Duty of Man went, or perhaps, 
 for a fight of monkies and tumblers. 
 
 Frederick. Surely, my filler mull have a great tafle for 
 thefe things, to fuppafe that one could fpend money on 
 them. No, it was not fo. 1 v/as dry, and went into a 
 publick houfe to have fome beer. 
 
 Dorothea, Why, this is worfe HilL 
 
 Frederick, Really, filler, you are very fevere. But do 
 let me finifh. While I was fitting there — 
 
 Mary Anne i {lijlening at the door.) We are undone ! my 
 papa ! I hear him ! 
 
 Dorothea^. Run ! run! 
 
 Jtr^dsrick:;, 
 
158 A GOOD HEART COMPENSATES 
 
 Frederick. No ; I will wait far my uncle, and throw 
 iriyfelf at his feet. 
 
 Mary Anne. Oh ! no, dear coufin ; he is not capable of 
 liftenlng to you. Do, for my fake — 
 
 Frederick, You would havci me? 
 
 Mary Anne, Yes, yes ; leave me to manage for you. 
 {She fujhes him hy the Jhouldcrs to the door of the back Ji airs, 
 Jhuts it up07i him, and returns.) 
 
 SCENE XII. 
 Mr, Vaughan, Mary Anne, Dorothea, 
 
 Mary Anne. Ah ! papa, I fee you are returned already 
 from your walk. 
 
 Mr. Vaughan. I am looking for my hat. Hang it, I 
 do not know where 1 have left it. 
 
 Dorothea^ {looking about.) Here, here it is. 
 
 Mr. Vazighan. You could not think of bringing it to m€. 
 
 Dorothea, i mufl have been blind fare, not to fee it. 
 
 Mary Anne, Who can think of every thing ? 
 
 Mr. Vaughan. Truly, you have fo many things to take 
 up your attention ! 
 
 Mary Anne I was jufl: thinking of poor Frederick. 
 
 Mr, Vaughan. Mull I conltantly have that name rung 
 in my ears? 
 
 Mary Anne. Well, papa, let us talk no more about him. 
 Would not you chufe to finifh your walk before the dew 
 falls ? 
 
 Mr', Vaughan. No. I will go out no more this evening, 
 {Mary Anne and Dorothea lock at each other , Jhaking their 
 heads nvith an a?r of dijaj'pointment.) It is too late. Be- 
 fides, I have juil been told that my old coachman is be- 
 low, and would fpcak with me. 
 
 Mary Anne T^Xid. Dorothea. What, Peter? 
 
 Mr. Vaughan. Whatever damage he has caufed me, the 
 mlfchief is done, atid he has been fufficiently puniihed for 
 it. I would know wliat he has to fay to me. 
 
 Mary Anne. He might very well wait until you returned 
 from your walk. 
 
 Mr. Vaugcan. No, no. I fhall difmifs him the fooner. 
 Afccr al! — {Mary Anne and Dorclhea iv hi/per together.) {to 
 May AhnelY Whren your father — {to Dorothea.) When 
 
 your 
 
FOR MANY INDISCRETIONS. 159 
 
 your uncle fpeaks to you, I think that you fhould liften to 
 him. After all — {^Dorothea endeanjours to Jhal aiuaj.) 
 Where are you going, Dorothea ? 
 
 Dorothea^ {confujed.) I have bufinefs down (lairs. 
 
 Mr. Faughan. Well, tell Peter to come up. [Dorothea 
 goes out.) 
 
 SCENE xirr. 
 
 Mr. Faughan, Mary Anne* 
 
 Mr. Faughan. After all, I pity the poor man. I never 
 had fo good a coachman. My horfcs were fo fleek, that 
 one might fee one's face in their coats j and he never 
 embezzled their corn at the alehoufe. 
 
 Mary An7ie. Ah ! if you had kept him, you would have 
 fpared poor Frederick many a forrowful moment. 
 
 Mr. Faughan. Say no more of him. It was he that 
 occifioned me to difcharge Peter, and to be at prefent 
 without a coachman ; for after him I conceived a difiike 
 to all others. I Ihall never find one to replace him. 
 
 SCENE XIV. 
 Mr. Faughan^ Mary Anne, Dorothea and Peter, 
 
 Dorothea. Uncle, here is Peter. 
 
 Peter. I beg pardon, fir, but I cannot think that you 
 are ftill angry with me. I hope you will not take it amifs 
 that 1 have made bold to wait on you as I pafled the 
 houfe, and to beg you to let me have a difcharge. 
 
 Mr. Faughan. Did not I give you one? 
 
 Peter. 1 never had any other than ** There; take your 
 wages ; quit my houfe this moment, and never let me 
 fee you again." You did not give me time^ fir, to afk 
 for a gentler difcharge. 
 
 Mr. Faughan. You did not deferve more ceremony 
 from me, after deItro3'ing my iineft carriage. I wiih that 
 Frederick had broke his neck at the fame time. 
 
 Peter. What can one fay, csir? A coachman's fenfe is 
 in his whip, and I had jull loll pofTeflion of mine. But I 
 ihall be wifer for the future. 
 
 Mr. Faughan. Well, it is all over. How do you live? 
 
 Peter, 
 
i6o A GOOD HEART COMPENSATES 
 
 Peter. Ah ! dear mailer, fince I left your houfc I hav# 
 never had a happy moment. You know, upon quitting 
 your fervice, I went to live with Major Bramfield. Oh ! 
 what a mailer! he could never fpeak but with his caoe 
 lifted up; rell: his fou! I 
 
 Mr. Vaughan. He is dead then ? 
 
 Peter. Yes, to the great joy of his foldiers. He never 
 gave me his orders without ("wearing Ijke a Turk. His 
 horfes had their full meafure of corn, and his people 
 plenty of hard knocks, but not much bread. 
 
 Mary Anne. Ah ! poor Peter ! why did you flay in his 
 fervice ? 
 
 Peter. Where could T go ! What kept me there befides, 
 was, that my wife found employment in the honfe in 
 walliing and mending the linen. She earned at leaft half 
 as much as maintained our children. Every one trembled 
 before the Major. Death alone made him tremble, and 
 laid him low. At prefent I am out of place, and do not 
 know where to lay my head. 
 
 Mr. Vaughan, But you know that I never wifli any one 
 to llarve, much iefs an old fcrvant. 
 
 Peter. Ah! I always thought fo ; but thofe terrible 
 words ** Never let me {zz you again,'* founded conti- 
 liualiy like a clap of thunder in my ears. 'J"en of the 
 Major's greatell oaths could not have frighted me fo 
 much. 
 
 Mary Anne. ^ nd you have had na mafler fmce ? 
 
 Peter. Ah I Mifs, it is not here as in London, fn the. 
 poor little villages about her;?, people sv:\nt their cora 
 more for themfelves than fjr their horfes. I worked at. 
 cjaily labour in the fielJs, my wife fpun, and my children, 
 went about afeing charity. But we all together made fa< 
 little, that we were not able at the week's end Co pay the- 
 rent cf a poor garret. Very foon we had nothing but the 
 earth f ^r our btd, and the (ky for our covering. My poor, 
 wife died cf grief and hardtliip. {ijoipes bis eyes.) 
 
 Mr. Vaughan. You defcrved it ull. Why did not you. 
 come and aik my alliftance ? 
 
 hhoy Anne, {to Dorctbca.) Now my papa fhews himfcif 
 once more. A good fign fjr Frederick. 
 
 Peter. Ah ! fir, what a woman it was ! Sure never was 
 a better v/ifc. Whenever I came home at light without 
 iiavin^ cai-ned a far thing, aad thought that 1 mull go to 
 
 bed 
 
FOR MANY INDISCRETIONS. i^r 
 
 bed hungry, I always found half of her morfel of bread 
 left purpoiely for me. When I foamed with rage like one 
 in defpair, and would deftroy every thing round me, ihe 
 always reftored me to my calm fenfes, and made me a rea- 
 fonable man again. Now Ihe is dead, and I cannot bring 
 her to life. There began my real unhappinefs, and heavea 
 knows where it will end. 
 Dorothea. Ahl poor Peter ! 
 
 Feter. I had no more hopes of finding a fervice In thefe 
 parts ; fo I fet cut one fine evening with my little girl in 
 my arms, and I took my boy by the hand. We walked a 
 great part of the night, and flept the remainder under a 
 hedge. Next morning, by break of day, we were in 
 fight of a town. Luckily there was a fair tkere that day. 
 I earned fom.e money by carrying burthens. But, fir, I 
 muft fay, it was an angel, an angel from heaven, Mafter 
 Frederick — 
 
 Mr. Faugh an. An angel/ What Frederick? that re^ 
 probate ? 
 
 Maty Anne and Dorothea^ {approaching Peter <with looks 
 cf joy and curiojjty.) What, Frederick ?. Frederick ? 
 
 Peter. Dear mailer, ufe me ill if you will; but not 
 that fine generous child. I would rather that you Ihould 
 trample me under your feet. 
 
 Dorothea. Oh ! tell us, Peter, tell us. 
 Peter. My little Lucy went to afk a charity at the door 
 of a public houfe. Mailer Richard and Mailer Frede- 
 'rick were fitting there at a table, with feme beer before 
 them. 
 
 M-. Vaughan. Ay ! fine inclinations truly ! In ?.n ale- 
 houfe ! 
 
 Dorothea. Nay, uncle, he only went to refrefii himfelf. 
 Mir. Vaughan. What bufinefs had he in the town at all ? 
 Mary Anne. He had leave to fee the fair. Your good 
 Richard, you fee, was there too. 
 
 Peter. He prefently knew my child, and rofe from 
 table in fpite of all that his companion could fay. He 
 made poor little Lucy drink a glafs of beer, took her by 
 the hand, and leading her our, heard from herfelf a brief 
 account of our mifery. He then defired her to bring 
 him to me, and found me in the next llreet, drinking out 
 of my hat at a well, as the heat of my Vvork had made 
 me dry. I thought that I fhould run mad with joy upon 
 
 feeing 
 
iGz A GOOD HEART COMPENSATES 
 
 feeing him. All fhabby and dirty as I was, I took him 
 in my arms before every body ; and hugged him fo clofe, 
 the folks were afraid that 1 fliouid iHiic him. Ah! he 
 was heartily glad to fee me too. At lull, as there were 
 a number of people about us, he told me to lead him to 
 a place where we might be by ouiielves, and 1 took him 
 to a barn, where I had already befpoke my bed for the 
 night. I 
 
 Mi?ty Anne. Ah ! papa, I would lay a wager — 
 Mr. Vaughan. Silence. Well, Peter? 
 Peter. J told him all that 1 have now told you. The 
 dear child began to cry as if he would break his heart. 
 1 Ihould beg for you, c.ied he, as I am the caufe of your 
 misfortunes ; but I will not lleep without relieving ihem. 
 Here, Peter, faid he, feeling iu his pockets, take what 
 money I haTe about me. 1 was not for taking it; that 
 made him angry. I told him that it was money given 
 him for his amufement, and that as for me, 1 was uled to 
 hardfliip. He frowned, and llamped with his feet, and 
 I verily believe would have hit me if 1 had not taken his 
 purfe. 
 
 Mr. Vaughan. How much was there in it ? 
 Peter. Almoll a crown. He would keep no more than 
 fix-pence. It Ihall never be faid, continued he, that an 
 honcll fcrvant of my uncle's, who has neither robbed 
 nor defrauded any one, lliall be obliged in his old age to 
 go begging with his children, and not have fo much as 
 a lodging. Take a little room. Before three days I will 
 return, and I will fupport you ever until I fhall have 
 written to my uncle. We have both provoked him againll 
 us ; but he is too humane, and too generous, to abandon 
 you to mifery. 
 
 Mr. Vnii^han, Did he really fay fo, Peter? 
 Peter. I'can take my oath of it, mailer. 
 Mary Anne. Well, well, we can believe you ; finifh 
 your ftory. 
 
 Peter. How do you employ your children ? faid he, as 
 he took my Billy upon his knee. Employ them ? faid I, 
 they go about felling nofegays and toothpicks ; and when 
 nobody buys, they afk charity. That is not right, faid 
 he. They would never learn any thing by that trade but 
 idlenefs and profligacy. You Ihould make your boy learn 
 a trade, and put the girl out to a decent fcrvioe. 
 
 Mary 
 
FOR MANY INDISCRETIONS. 163 
 
 Mary Anne. Frederick was very right there, papa. 
 
 Peter. Yes, faid I ; but how can 1 (.>iTer the children to 
 any body in thele rags? If 1 had only three guineas, I 
 co'jld loon fettlt; them. There is a weaver hard by, that 
 employs young hands, and would take my Billy, if [ 
 could give him two guineas fee; and a dairy-man's wife 
 would take Lucy into her fervice, if fhe was a little clad. 
 Then I could go and offer myfelf for fervice in fome rich 
 fiimily, and not be reduced to rtroll about like a vagrant, 
 
 Mr. Vaughan. And what did Frederick fay? 
 
 Peter. Nothing, fir. He went away, but two days 
 after he returned. Where is the weaver that will take 
 your fon apprentice? carry me to him. So I did, and 
 he fpoke with him privately for a while. And the dairy- 
 man's wife, faid he, that will take charge of Lucy— 
 where does Ihe live ? I took him there too. He left nae 
 at the door, went and fpoke to the woman in her dairy, 
 joined me again without faying a word, and we came 
 away. After we had walked about forty yards, he flopped, 
 and taking me by the hand. My honeft old fiiend, faid 
 he, make yourfelf eafy as to your children. He then 
 pointed me to a ihop of fecond-hand clothes that happened 
 to be not far off, where he had paid beforehand for this 
 jacket, and this great coat. — Don't I look like a fquire 
 in them? 
 
 Mary Anne, O my excellent coufin 1 good-natured 
 Frederick 1 
 
 *■ Mr. Vaughan t {nviping his eyes.) I fee now where the 
 'watch went. 
 
 Peter. That is not all, fir. DTd not I catch him flip- 
 ping money into my pocke:? 1 was poficively for return- 
 ing it to him, and to'd him that he had already done too 
 much for me. But if ever I faw him fall in a paffion, 
 it was then. He affured me, fir, that you had fent it^o 
 him for my ufe. And when I was for coming here di- 
 redly to thank you, he told me that you would not have 
 it mentioned. Ah! thought I to myfelf, Mr. Vaughan 
 was/) good a mailer ! Perhaps he would take me again. 
 For all that I did not dare to come, as Mailer Frederick 
 had forbidden me. 
 
 , Mr. Vaughan. O Frederick ! my dear Frederick ! yoa 
 have flill then that noble and generous heart tha,t I always 
 took you to poffefs froni your infancy, 
 
 Mary 
 
164 A GOOD HEART COMPENSATES 
 
 Mary Anne. And what determined you at lad to appear 
 again before my uncle? 
 
 Peter, The cafe was this : They would not take my Billy 
 without a copy of the regiller of his baptifm, and for that 
 J muft coRie here to the clerk of this parifh. As I entered 
 the village, 1 heard that my Lord Vaily wanted a coach- 
 man. Jt feemed as if Mailer Frederick had fent good 
 luck along with me. I waited on my Lord, who pro- 
 mired to take me if I could bring him a proper difcharge 
 from my l.i!l mafter. 1 could not go into the other world 
 to af;: the Major for one; fo I took my chance, though 
 iiidly afraid, to apply to you. And iliould you even re- 
 ^\i'it me, 1 ihall at leall have returned you my acknow- 
 ledgment? for the relief that you were fo kind as to con- 
 vey to me through the hands of Mafter Frederick. 
 
 Mr. Vcughan. No, honeft Peter ; you are indebted for 
 them to himfelf alone. It is he who has ilripped himfelf 
 to cover you. But he is alfo indebted to you for the 
 return of my favour. From what a misfortune you fave 
 him ! Yes, but for you, but for you, fo great was my 
 refentment againft him, I fhould have banifhed him from 
 my prefence for ever. 
 
 Peter. Say you fo, fir ? Then I fhould be the happieft 
 man in the world ! What, to {<x\t him from misfortune, 
 r.s he has me ! Each of us to owe that obligation to the 
 other ! 
 
 Mr. Vmighan. That fneaking varlet Richard had almoft , 
 turned my heart againll -him. How could I trull that 
 knave, who has fo often impofed upon me ! But the head 
 mailer of the fchool — 
 
 Mary Anne. Why, papa, he mull ha\e impofed on him 1 
 as well as you. 
 
 Mr. Vaughan. But blefs me, they write me word that 
 Frederick is run away. If he fliould grow dcfperate ! If 
 any misfortune fliould happen to him ! 
 
 Peter. A horfe ! a horfe ! I'll bring him back to you, 
 if he were at the world's end. {Going to run out.) 
 
 Dorothea, {holding him,) My dear uncle, would you 
 really pardon him r Would you take him to your arms 
 once more ? 
 
 Mr. Vaughan. Ay j though he had fold all his clothes ! 
 though he were to return as naked as he was born ! {Do-* 
 rothea makes aftgn to Mary Anne, and rum out.) I , 
 
 Marj I \ 
 
FOR MANY INDISCRETIONS. 165 
 
 Mary Anne. What If he were here, papa ? 
 
 Mr. Faughan. Here ? has any one feen him ? Where is 
 he? where is he ? 
 
 Peter. Ah ! if he was here ! if he was here ! I would 
 jump up to the cieling for joy. 
 
 Mary Anne. Weli, papa, do you fee him ? 
 
 S C E N E XV. 
 
 Mr. Vaughan, Frederickf Mary Annty Dorothea, Peter* 
 
 {Frederick entering^ kneels to his uncle. Peter Jhe<ws an av« 
 tra'vaganceofjoy, Dorothea and Mary Anne melt into tears.) 
 
 Frederick. Ah ! uncle, my dear uncle, will you for- 
 give me? 
 
 Mr. Vaughan. Forgive you ! I love you a thoufand 
 times better than before. You deferve it ; and fhall never 
 leave me again. 
 
 Frederick. No uncle ; never, never. {Turnings he fees 
 Peter y and takes him by the hand.) Ah ! if you had feen 
 the mifery of this poor man and his children ! If you had 
 been the caufe of their diftrefs ! 
 
 Peter. 'Twas I, 'twas I my felf. Why fhould I have let 
 you climb upon my feat, or have left you to manage a 
 pair of fiery horfes ? But who could refufe you any thing? 
 I could not, though the carriage were to run over me 
 through it. So mark, Mafter Frederick ; never afk me 
 any thing improper again I I fhould agree to it, I knov/ ; 
 but I (hould go and drown myfelf diredlly. 
 
 Mr. Vaughan. Why did not you write me an account 
 ©fall this, inftead of felJing your watch, your books, and 
 perhaps your clothes ? It was at leall an imprudence in a 
 child like you, who knows not the value of things- 
 
 Frederick. Yes, that is true; but to let this family be a 
 moment longer in their diftrefs, feem.ed to me as bad as 
 murder. Befides, as you had turned Peter away in a pallion, 
 I was afraid that you ihould forbid me to affitt him ; and 
 that by difobeying your exprefs orders I ihould make my- 
 felf more blameable. 
 
 Mr. Vaughan. What, then, you would have difobeyed 
 me there ? 
 
 Frederkk. Yes, uncle ; but in that only. 
 
 Mr. Vaughan. 
 
i66 A GOOD HEART COMPENSATES, &c. 
 
 Mr. Vaughan. Kifs me, my brave Frederick ! — After a]!, 
 there is one artiv.le in the letter which makes me heTitate; 
 that is, your lying out. Where did you pafs the night ? 
 
 Frederick. 1 had carried Peter the money that day. 
 Our matter was not at home in the evening, and 1 knew 
 that the doors would be Ihut at ten o'clock. I thought to 
 be home before ; and lo 1 ihouid, if 1 had not gone ailray 
 after dark. 
 
 Dorothea. Poor brother! where did you lie then ? 
 
 Frederick. I. found an empty old flicd, and there I 
 ftretchcd myfelf upon a great ilone, and never flept fo 
 well in my life. 1 was lo happy to have relieved Peter! 
 
 Mary Ann c. Ah! that ill-natured Richard! He took 
 good care not to tell us all this, and yet he knew it. 
 
 Mr. Vaughan. l^'rom this moment 1 withdraw my regard 
 from him, and you alone 
 
 Frederick. No, uncle ; I will not be happy at the ex- 
 ■pence of another, and far lefs at that of your fon. 
 
 Dorothea y {taking his hand.) How much ought I to love 
 fucb . -other ! 
 
 Mr. t' atighan. Well, let him remain at the fchool ;" 
 you fhall never leave me. 1 vvilh to have you always near 
 my heart, and will have mafters for you of all forts, if 
 they were to come a hundred miles. 
 
 Peter, [making a Io-tv 6ozv.) My worthy mader, yoa are 
 always the fame. 
 
 Mr. Faughany [patting him on the fi>oulder.) Peter, have 
 you agreed with Lord Vafty? 
 
 Peter. Blefs your heart, fir, I had not my difcharge. 
 
 Mr. Vaughan. You fhall not need one. 1 fee, 1 fhall 
 make Frederick and you happy in having you near each 
 other once more : but never let him mount upon your feat 
 again. We iliall take care of your children too. 
 
 Peter y [j'oblingj and crying for joy.) Dear mailer! — 
 Sir! — are you ferious ? Is not this a dream ? Frederick ! 
 Mafter Frederick ! fhall my poor children — Ah! let me 
 go and fee my old friends in the liable ! 
 
 OLD 
 
[ ifi; ] 
 
 O L D C O L I N. 
 
 Mr. Dexter y Percinjal his fon. 
 
 Perct'val. T) A PA, I know a very good fervant to re- 
 XT commend to you, when you difcharge old 
 Colin. 
 Mr, Dexter. Who has given you that commiflion ? 
 Have I any thoughts of lending him away ? 
 
 Perci'val. Would you always keep that old fellow ? I 
 think, a young fervani would do much better for us. 
 
 Mr. Dexter. How, Percival ? That is a very bad rea- 
 fon for being tired of a good fervant. You call him aa 
 old fellow 1 Child, you ought to blufh for it ! It is in 
 my fervice that he is grown old ; and perhaps the cares 
 which he took of your infancy and the Ibrrow that he felt 
 for your fits of ilinefs have hallened old age on him. You 
 fee then, how ungrateful and unreafonable it would be to 
 take an averfion to him on account of his age. And d^o 
 you think you.'-felf any better founded in faying that a 
 young fervant would anfwer our purpofe ? That decifion 
 is above your age, and requires more experience than you 
 can pofief'^. At another time 1 will make you fenfible of 
 the advantage that an old fervant has above a young one 
 in diligent and faithful fervice. 
 
 Perci'val. I believe it, papa, fmce you fay fo. But he 
 wears a wig ; and it is /o droll to fee a man in a wig 
 iftanding behind your chair at dinner. I can hardly turn 
 my eyes towards him, without being ready to laugh out. 
 
 Mr. Dexter. That does not fhew a good difpofition, 
 boy ! 1 Ihould never have fufpe6lcd you of it. Do ynu 
 know that he loft his hair in a long and dangerous fick- 
 nefs? To ridicule him, is it not to inlult God who fent 
 this iicknefs on him ^ 
 
 Perci'val. But he is always grumbling, and is not fo 
 merry as the other fervants. 
 
 Mr, Dexter. Colin may be ferious, but is not a grum- 
 bler. It is true, he is not fo nimble as a young puppy 
 of eighteen or tv/enty ; but does he incur your diflike on 
 that account? O fon, that thought makes me jfhudder * 
 
 Then 
 
i68 OLD COLIN. 
 
 Then you will have an averfion to me too, if God fhouU 
 grant me a long life ? 
 
 Perci-val. Oh ! no, papa; I am not (o wicked. 
 Mr. Dexter. And do you think that it is not fo to hat« 
 Colin, becaufe his age hinders him from bcring fo alert as 
 formerly ? 
 
 Perci'val. I am wrong, papa, I confefs ; and I afflire 
 
 you that 1 am very forry for having 
 
 Mr. Dexter. Why do you flop ? For what are you forry, 
 do you fay ? 
 
 Perci'vat. If I difcover my fault to you, perhaps you 
 will be angry with me. and 1 ihall gain nothing by it but 
 a punifliment. 
 
 Mr. D(xter. You know, child, that I am not fond of 
 punilhing, and that I try that method very feldom. It 
 is by kindnefs and good advice that 1 endeavour to cor- 
 re€i your filler and you. I do not know what fault you 
 have committed, therefore cannot promife abfolutcly not 
 to chaftife you. Is it on thofe terms that you intend to 
 m:ikc a confeHion ? You know my afFeftion for you. That 
 is the only fecuiity that I can give you ; and you may de- 
 pend on it with as much confidence as on my promife. 
 
 Perci'val. Well, papa, I own that — 1 called Colin — an 
 old rogue. 
 
 Mr. Dexter. How? Is it poflible? Could you fo far 
 forget how you fhould behave to an honell man ? And 
 did Colin hear you ? 
 
 Perci'val. Yes, papa; and that is what troubles me 
 moil. 
 
 Mr. Dexter. It is very well to be forry. But it is not 
 enough to be concerned for having affronted one of our 
 fellow-creatures to his face: one ought to feel the fame 
 forrow for aifronting him in his abfence. 
 
 Perci-val. Yes, 1 am forry to have ufed Colin ill at all : 
 but what grieves me moil, is that 1 treated him io before 
 his face ; for — 
 
 Mr. Dexisr. You have begun to open your heart to me. 
 Conclude ! 
 
 Perci'val. Yes, papa — for Colin, when I ufed him foill, 
 ihed tears, and faid. The pains and infirmities of mv old 
 age are not enough, but I mull moreover be the laughteir 
 of childhood. 3 
 
 Mr. 
 
O L D C O L I N. 169 
 
 Mr. Dexter. Poor Colin ! I know him well. That ill 
 treatment would go to his heart. It is indeed hard at his 
 age to be the laughing-flock of a child. But how mirch. 
 more mud he fuiFer in receiving this treatment from a: 
 child whom he has known from his birth, and ferved with 
 an attachment liiat can never be requited. 
 
 Pcrcival. Ah ! papa, how much am I to blame 1 'I will 
 aik his pardon ;_and be affured that in all my life he Ihall 
 never have reafon to complain of me. 
 
 Mr. Dexter. Very well, child : on this condition alone 
 God and I can pardon ycu. We are all weak and liable 
 to be carried away by our pafiions for a moment. Buc 
 when we return to ourfelves, we muil thoroughly repent 
 for our fault; we mud force our pride to make amends 
 for it, and ufe all our refolution to avoid it for the future. 
 But r fnould wifh to know what could make you behave 
 To ungenerouily to Colin. Had he offended youi* 
 
 Percival, Yes, papa — Atleaft I thought fo. I -was 
 playing with my pop-gun-, . and aimed to Ihoot a pea at 
 hii face. Have done. Mailer Percival, fays he, or I 
 fhall go and complain to your papa. His. threatening 
 made me angry, and then i called him names. 
 
 Mr, Dexter, it wd'i on purpofe, then, that you flrovs 
 to vex him ? 
 
 .Pcrci-vaL I cannot deny it. 
 
 Mr. Dexter, That aggravaies your fault ; and that was 
 what made him fhea teais. 
 
 Percival. Ah! papa, if you give me leave, I will go 
 to him this moment, and afk his pardon. 1 ihall not be 
 eafy until rie /or gives me. , , 
 
 Mr. Dexter. Yes, child; we Ihoald never put oif for a 
 moment the performance of oar duty. I fhall wait for- yoii 
 here. {Percival goes out, and returns jhori'ty tiftcr '-j:ith an 
 air of fatisfaciion . ) • . 
 
 Percl-oaL Pap?., now I am pleafed with mvfelf. - Colin 
 has forgiven me wich all his heart:, and I do not think 
 that I iliaiiever comnait the fame fault again. 
 
 Mr. Dexter. God forbid that you fhouid ! Without his 
 grace you can never anfwer for the firmeft refolution. 
 
 Percii-al. And what fhouid I do for that purpoie r . 
 
 '.Mr. Dexter. Pray for his affiHance, He v/ill not refujc 
 it to you. ,' 
 
 vo I.. ;, I Perri^4tL 
 
lyc OLD COLIN. 
 
 Perchval.l will pray for it from the bottom of my 
 heart. But papa, there is another thing that I have juft 
 now done without your leave, and which perhaps will 
 make you angry. 
 
 Mr. Dexter. What is that, child ? 
 
 Percival. The new crown-piece that you gave me as a 
 Chrilimas-box I have given to Colin. 
 
 Mr. Dexter. Why fhould I be angry at that ? I am very 
 well pleafed that you fhould do good actions of yourfelf, 
 without acquainting me. You may difpofe of all the money 
 that 1 give you. It is your own ; and you could not make 
 a better ufe of it. We (hould early accullom ourfelves to 
 a prudent generofity. Did Colin feem fatisfied ? 
 
 Perci'val, He dropped tears of joy, and I was pleafed to 
 fee it. 
 
 Mr. Dexter. I applaud you for that fentiment> my boy. 
 A humane heart always rejoices to foften the diftreiles of 
 its fellow- creatu.'es. All the virtues produce joy in our 
 fouls, but none fills them with fenfations more delightful 
 and more lafting than beneficence. 
 
 Perci'val. Ah ! if ever I poflefs the means, I will relieve 
 all thofe about me that are in dillrefs. 
 
 Mr. Dexter. My lad prayer to heaven fhall be to 
 flrengthen tliis virtue in your heart, and to render yoa 
 capable of putting it in pradice. 
 
 Percival, And Ihall I be every time fo well pleafed as 
 to-day ? 
 
 Mr. Dexter. It is the only pleafure that never grows 
 weak. Endeavour above all things to enjoy it in your 
 family. U your fervants are honell people, you ought to 
 gain their afFedions iHll more by kind treatment than by 
 money ; and at the fame time not negled to make them 
 fmall prefents now and then. If you bellow them feafon- 
 ably, and with a good grace, you will make your fervants 
 your firmeft friends. 
 
 Perci'val. But papa, have they not their wages? 
 
 Mr. Dexter. They have them for their fervice; no 
 more. But fmall prefents will create affedion in them, 
 and they will go beyond their duty. 
 
 Percival, 1 do not underrtand you very well, papa. 
 
 Mr. Dexter, Colin will (civc as an inftancc to explain 
 my meaning. 1 give him his wages, his clothing and 
 his food, for ferving mc. When he has ferved me, are 
 
 1 wc 
 
O L 1> C G L I K ijt 
 
 w€ not quit? does he owe me any thing more? At the 
 fame time, you know, he takes care of every thing in 
 the houfe ; he has of himfelf lindertaken the trouble of 
 infpeding the other fervants, and has often faved me 
 great expences. He does all this through good-will, 
 without any particular order ; becaufe I gained his grati- 
 tude by occafional prefents. When your years will allow 
 you to mix in the world, you will hear nothing in every 
 family but complaints of the negligence and ingratitude 
 of fervants. Be affured, my dear, that the fault lies 
 oftenell with the mafters who endeavour to infpire them 
 with fear, rather than with attachment. 
 
 Percival. Now I underfland you perfedly ; and 1 wili 
 one day make ufe of your inllrudlions and your example. 
 
 Mr. Dexter, You will never have reafon to repent fol- 
 lowing them. I inherited them from my father, and 
 /hall always remember what he ufed to tell us on this 
 fubjeft. 
 
 PercinjaL Ah ! papa, if it be not too much trouble, I 
 jiiould be glad to hear the itory. 
 
 Mr, Dexter. 1 take pleafure in making you this retura 
 for acknowledging your fault, and for your generofity to 
 honed Colin. '* Captain Flood, a brave officer, who had 
 retired from the fervice, lived upon his ellate, with his 
 wife, an amiable lady, and five children worthy of fuch 
 excellent parents. The inhabitants of the neighbourhood 
 poifefled the greateft refpc(5l for them, and this family all 
 together formed the molt pleafing fight imaginable. The 
 Aveetnefs of Mr. Flood's difpofition, and the excellent 
 order that fublifted in his houfe, gained him the good-will 
 and admiration of all thofe who had the happinefs of 
 knowing him. The young people in thofe parts were eager 
 to be in his fervice; and whenever a placf? was vacant in 
 his family by a fervant's dying or going away, it was fought 
 as a defirable fituation. Content appeared in the faces 
 of all his people. To fee them, one would have takea 
 them for dutiful children round their father. His orders 
 were fojuft and fo moderate, that not one of them ever 
 had a thought of difcbeying him. Harmony reigned 
 amongft them as amongit brothers. If ever they dif- 
 puted, it was which had moft zeal in the fervice of their 
 mailer, and moil attachment to his interefts. Mr. Ful- 
 iner, wlio was formerly an intimate of Captain Flood's, 
 1 2 afl4 
 
1-2 OLD COLIN. 
 
 and had like him retired to his eftate in another county, 
 Hopped one day at his Jioufe, in pafling that way on his 
 road to Londoa. After a variety of difcoiirfe, the con- 
 verfiition fell at laft upon the difagreeablc circumftances 
 frequently. attending the care of a family. Mr. Fulnier 
 complained of the fatiguing employrhent of watching 
 over fervants ; that he had never found any but fuch as 
 were infolenr, idle, or inattentive to their maker's bufi- 
 nefs. As to that, faid Mr. Flood, I cannot complain of 
 mine. For thefe ten years I have had no w: ighty fubjedl 
 'of d'ifplcafure.* I am very well fatisfied with ihem, and 
 they are the fame with me. That is a hnppinefs not very 
 common, faid Mr. Fulmer. You mull have fome parti- 
 cular fecret for making good fervants, and for keeping 
 "them in that perfection. The fecret is very fimple, an- 
 fwered Mr. Flood ; and here it is, continued he, pointing 
 ho a fmall dcfk. I do not underftand you, faid Mr. Ful- 
 jTicr ; but Mr. Flood, without making any r«^ply, opened 
 the defk. It contained fix drawers, with thefe titles: — 
 Extrnordifiary expences. — For vtyfe^f. — For my ivife. — For 
 my children, — S er 'v ant s ^j: ages » — Gratuities to !hem.\ — As I 
 have always by me, refumed Mr. Flood, a year's rent of 
 my eftate beforehand, I make fix portions of it at the 
 1:cj:jnuing of every year. Jn the firll drawer I put a certain 
 fum, which is inviolably referved for unforefeen occaiions. 
 1\\ the fecond what I intend for my own expences. The 
 •tliird contains the money neceiTiuy for the domellic charges 
 of the family, and my wife's pin-money. The fourth 
 fufficient for the proper education of my children. The 
 ;,\vages of my fervants arc in the fifth ; and in the fixth are 
 "^the gratuities that I beftow them. It is to this laft drawer 
 . that I owe tTie happinefs of having never had bad fervants* 
 Their wages are for what their duty requires of them : 
 but the prefents that I diftribute to them occafionally, are 
 for the performance of what is not ilridlly comprized within 
 their duty, for fervices in which their afl'edlion to me oat- 
 flrips jny orders and my wifhes.'* 
 
 ALFRED 
 
[ 173 I 
 
 ALFRED AND DORINDA. 
 
 ON a fine fummer's day, Mr. Vernon had promifed to 
 go a walking with his two children, Aifjed and 
 Dorinda, in a very fine garden a little -way out of town. 
 He went up to his dreifing-room to prepare himfeir, and 
 the children remained in the parlour. Alfred, delighted 
 with the pleafures that he promifed himfelf from his walk, 
 jumping and running carelefsly to and fro in the room,' 
 bruflied the fkirt of his coat againfl: a very valuable flower 
 that his father was rearing with infinite pains, and which' 
 he had unfortunately juil brought in from before the* 
 window, in order to preferve it from the heat of the fun. 
 
 brother ! what have you done? faid Dorinda, taking 
 up the flower which was broken oit* from the ftalk. She 
 was holding it dill in her hand, when her father, who 
 had finifhed drefling himfelf, entered tlie parlour. Hcvv, 
 Dorinda, faid Mr. Vernon in an angry tone, do you pluck' 
 a flower that you have feen me take fa much paias to rear 
 in order to have feed from it? Dear papa, ahfvvered 
 Dorinda, trembling, pray do not be angry ! I am not 
 angry, replied Mr. Vernon, growing more calm j hut as 
 you may take a fancy to pluck flowers too in the garden 
 that I am going to fee, and which does not belong to me, 
 you will not take it amifs that I leave you at home. 
 
 Dorinda looked down, and held her tongue. Alfred" 
 could not keep filence any longer. He approached his 
 father with te^s in his eyes, and faid. It was not my 
 filler, papa; it was I that plucked oiF the flov/er : fo it is 
 
 1 that mull ftay at home. Take my filler along with you. 
 
 Mr. Vernon, touched with the ingenuous behaviour of 
 his children, and their aifedlion for each other, kiffed 
 them, and faid. You are both dear to me alike, and you 
 fhall both come with me. 
 
 Alfred and Dorinda leaped for joy. They went there- ' 
 fore to walk in the garden, where they faw plants of the 
 moll curious forts. Mr. Vernon v/ith pleafure obferved 
 Dorinda prefs her cloaths on each fide, and x'^lfred take 
 up the fkirts of his coat under his arms, for fear of doing 
 any damage as they walked among the flower?. The" 
 flower that he had loll would, without doubt, have given 
 1 3 him 
 
i;4 THE FROWARD LITTLE GIRT.. 
 
 him a good deal of pleafure ; but he enjoyed much more 
 in feeing, mutualaiFcdtion, candour and prudence, iiouriih 
 V ift his children. 
 
 THE FROWARD LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 OYe children, who hnve had the misfortune to con - 
 tratSl a vicious habit, it is for your comfort and en- 
 couragement that I tell the following ftory : in which you 
 will fee that amendment is eafy, whenever one forms a 
 iincere and courageous refolution. 
 
 Rofalind, until her feventh year, was the joy of her 
 parents. At that age, wTicn the growing light of reafon 
 legins to fhew us the uglinefs of our faults, flie, en the 
 contrary, had contra£led one, which cannot better be 
 deAribed to you, than by the example of thofe fnarling 
 curs that growl incefiantly, and feem always ready to ru» 
 £t your legs and bite them, if any one, by millake, 
 touched her play-things, fhe would give that perfon a fide- 
 look, and grumble between her teeth for a quarter of an 
 hour. If any chid her, though ever fo gently, Ihe would 
 flart up, and flamp wiih her feet, and throw the chairs 
 about the room. Neither her father nor mother, nor any 
 one of the family, could bear with her now. It is true, 
 file fometimes repented of her faults ; nay, (he often flied 
 tears in privatej on feeing herfelf become the averiion of 
 every body, even to her parents. But habit foon got the 
 better of her, and her temper became more crofs every 
 day. One evening (it was New- Year's Eve) f\\e faw her 
 mother go towards her room with a fmall baflcet under 
 her cloak. Rofalind would have followed her, but Mrs. 
 Fau'kener ordered her to go back to the parlour. Upon 
 this ihe put on the fullcneli face that ever fhe (hewed, and 
 clapped the door to fo violently that fhe made all the 
 windows rattle. Half an hour after, her mother fent for 
 her. What was her furprize, on feeing the room lighted 
 up with twenty candles, and the table covered with the 
 moft elegant toys. She could not utter a word, tranf- 
 poried as (he was with joy and admiration. Come hither^ 
 Rofalind, faid her mother, and read on this paper for 
 
 whom 
 
THE FROWARD LITTLE GIRL, if; 
 
 whom thefe things are intended. Rofalind went to the' 
 table, and faw amongft the toys a flip of paper, on which 
 ftie read the following words written in large letters: — - 
 For an amiable little gii'h in return fur her good beha^jiour* 
 
 She looked down, and did not fay a word. Well, 
 Rofalind, faid her mother, for whom is this intended? 
 
 Not for me, faid Rofalind, with the tears in her eyes. 
 
 Here is another paper, faid Mrs. Faulkener ; fte if thl> 
 does not concern you. 
 
 Rofalind took it, and renid. For a fronvard little girl^ 
 <z>jho is fenjible of her fault s.^ and in beginning a ne-jj year 
 nvill take pains to amend them. Oh ! that is I, that is 1 I 
 faid fhe, throwing herfelf into her mother's arms, and 
 crying bitterly. Mrs. Faulkener alfo dropped tears, partly 
 of forrow for her daughter's faults, and partly of joy for 
 the repentance that flie ihewed. Come, faid (lie, after a 
 moment's filence, take what is intended for you, and m.vy 
 Cod, who has heard your refolution, give, you force to 
 execute it ! 
 
 No, mama, anfwered Rofalind, the whole belongs to 
 the perfon meant in the firft paper. Keep it for mc, until 
 I am like her : you can tell me when I am fo. This anfwer 
 gave Mrs. Faulkener much pleafure ; (he therefore imme- 
 diately put all the toys into a drawer, and giving the key to 
 Rofalind, faid. There, my dear child, you fhall open the 
 drawer when you you rfe If fhall think it the proper time. 
 
 Near fix weeks pafied without the leail inftance of ill- 
 humour from Rofalind. She threw her arms round her 
 mother's neck, and fobbing, afked. May I open the 
 drawer, mama ? Yes, my dear, you may, anfwered 
 Mrs. Faulkener, clafping her tenderly in her arms. But 
 pray tell me how you have managed to get the better of 
 your temper fo'? I iludied it continually, replied Rofa- 
 lind ; it cod me fome trouble, but every morning and 
 evening, and a hundred times in the day, 1 prayed to 
 God to keep up my courage. 
 
 Mrs. Faulkener fhed the moft delicious tears; and Ro- 
 falind became miftrefs of the toys, and foon after, of the 
 affeftions of all her friends. 
 
 Her mother related this happy change in prefence of a 
 
 •little mifs who had the fame fault ; and Ihe was fo ftruck 
 
 with it that Ihe immediately formed the refolution of 
 
 imitating Rodilind, in order to become amiable like her. 
 
 I 4 This 
 
176 THE USEFUL DISAPPOINTMENT. 
 
 This artempt had the fame fuccefs : and thus Rofalind 
 was not only more happy herfelf, but rendered thofe alio 
 happy who chofe to profit by her example. What child 
 of fpirit would not wilh to enjoy the fame honour and the 
 fame happinefs ? 
 
 THE USEFUL DISAPPOINTiMENT, 
 
 ONE fine morning, in the month of June, Ambrof« 
 prepared to fet out with his father on a party of 
 pleafure, which for a fortnight before had taken up all 
 liis thoughts. He had rifen, contrary to his culiom, very 
 early, in order to haften the preparations for his jaunt,. 
 However, juil as he thought that he had reached the objeil 
 of his vvifhes, the iky darkened all at once, the clouds grew 
 thick, and a violent wind bent down the trees and raifed 
 up a tempeft of dull. Ambrofe went aown every moment 
 into the garden, to obferve how the Hiy locked: he then 
 dipped up the Hairs three at a time, to examine the baro- 
 meter; but the ilcy and the barometer were both agajnlf 
 him. For all this, he did not fcruple to give his father 
 good hopes, and to affurc him that thefe unfavourabifc 
 appearances would difperfe in a moment; that prefent.ly 
 it would be the finell weather in the world ; and he con- 
 cluded, that they ought to fet out dircdly, to have the 
 benefit of it. 
 
 Mr. Powell, wlio did not repofe a blind confidence in 
 his Ion's prognollics, thought it more prudent to wait a 
 Jittle. Juit then the clouds burit, and difcharged a heavy 
 fhower of rain. Ambrofe, who was doubly difappointed, 
 began to cry, and obilinately refufed to be" comforted. 
 The rain continued until three o'clock in the afternoon. 
 At length the clouds difperfe.d, the fun refumed his lullre, 
 the iky its clearnefs, and all nature breathed the frefhnefs 
 of the Spring. Ambrofe recovered his good humour by 
 degrees, in proportion as the fky brightened. His father 
 took him out a little way, and the calmnefs of the air, 
 the fmg.ing of the birds, the frefh green of the fields, and 
 tlie iweet perfume that breathed all round him, reilored 
 jeace and fatisfadion completely to his heart. Do not 
 
 you 
 
THE PAGE, 177 
 
 you remark, faid his father to him, the agreeable change 
 juft new produced all round you? Recoiled how dull 
 eveiy thing yederday appeared to us ; the ground parched 
 up by a Jong. drought, the flowers without colour and 
 hanging their languid heads, and in fliort, all vegetation 
 feeming to be at a Hand. What muft we fuppofe to have. 
 fo I'uddenly made nature appear young again ? The rai<n 
 thac has fallen to-day, faid Anibrofe. 
 
 The injuilice of his compla^'nts, and the folly of his be-, 
 haviour, ftruck him fiiinfibly as he pronounced thefe words, 
 Ke biuihcd, and his father judged that his own thoughts 
 would be fufficient to teach him another time to facrilice, 
 v/ithout i-eluftance, a feliifh pleafure to the general advan-' 
 tage of mankind. 
 
 T H E P A G E. 
 
 A D R A M A, in O N E A C T. 
 
 Characters. 
 
 The Prince of . 
 
 Mrs Do'iFFEN. 
 
 Elder DoRFFEN, - an Enjtgny 7 „ o 
 
 Younger DoRFFEN, Page, "^ tier bom. 
 
 Captain Derenhoff, - - Her Brother. 
 
 Master of a Royal Academy. 
 
 Attendant. 
 
 l^he Jiage reprefents an anti-chamher in the palace. B^yr^vO' 
 appears a bed-chamber ^w'lth folding doors open:: ^ivithrt/f-de 
 a camp hedy at the foot of n.vhich, on a Jiand, is a lamp 
 lighted i anda^vatch. 
 
 S C E N E I. 
 
 T'he Prince {in a morning goivn, Idling upon a camf) h:if 
 and covered. ivit ha large cloak.) The Page {af.eep in nu arvi- 
 chair in the anfi-chamber,) • 
 
 The Prince | T^ H I S is fomething like reil.— This ir 
 {a-tvaking.) \ jL the happinefs of peace. — One can no v 
 indulge fleep, without being aroufed by the ndife of arni-% 
 [Looks at his nuatch,) Two o'clock? It mull, Be later! i 
 have flept more than two hours. Page ! T^S^ ' 
 
 is Tje 
 
t78 THE PAGE. 
 
 The Page, {fiartingfrom bisjleep^ halfaiuakej and falling 
 hack into the arm-chair.^ Eh ! who calls ?— I'm coming— 
 prefently. 
 
 The Prince. Is any body there ? What, no an Aver r 
 The Page^ {^turning him/elf and yanvning.) Oh dear! I 
 vas in fuch a fine lleep ! 
 
 The Prince. 1 hear fomebody fpeak. Who is there ? 
 {He turns the lamp, and fees the page.) Js it polFible i What! 
 that child here? Should he watch by me, or 1 by him ? 
 What could my people mean ? 
 
 The Paget (^'iA^'i" ^p half ajleep^ and rubbing hi i eyes.\ 
 Sir! 
 
 The Prince. Come, come, my little friend, awake! 
 Tell me what o'clock it is by your watch : mine is (topped. 
 
 The PagCy {f upper ting himjelf on the arms of the chair ^ and 
 fill half afeep.) £h ? what, fir? 
 
 The Pnncey {fmiliug.) You are faft afleep. What a co- 
 mical little face I He would afford an excellent pidure as 
 he is now. 1 bid you fee what o'clock it is by your 
 watch. 
 
 The Page, {approaching foivly.) Watch, fir? I beg your 
 highnefj's pardon I 1 have none. 
 
 The Prince, You are dreaming ftill ; or have yoa really 
 no watch ? 
 
 The Page. I never had one. 
 
 The Prince. Never ? How could your father fend you 
 hither without a thing fo nccelTary, and indeed the only 
 thing for vvhich, in )Our cafe, you have an abfolute 
 ©ccafion. 
 
 The Page. My fi\ther ? Ah ! if he were alive ! 
 
 The Prince. You have no father, then ? 
 
 ^'he Page. He died. Sir, btfore I was born. I never 
 faw bim. 
 
 The Prince. Poor child ! But your guardian, your mo- 
 ther Ihould have taken care — 
 
 The Page. My mother, fir? Ah! «does not your high- 
 nelsknowit? She lives very poorly indeed. What money 
 ihe had (he laid out upon me, but Ihe had not enough to 
 buy me a watch. 
 
 '^rhe Prince. Who is your guardian ? 
 
 fbe Page My uncle, fir. 
 
 The Prince^ {fmiling.) That is good. B#t there are fo 
 many uncles m the world I What is your uncle's name ? 
 
 Th< 
 
THE PAGE. r79 
 
 ^Jbe Page, H« is a captain in your highnefs's guards, 
 and an guard to-day. 
 
 TJ^e Prince. You are right : I recolledl him : it was he 
 that brought you to me. My little man, take this taper; 
 hold it faft. In that bed-room {pointing) there, on that 
 fide, you will £nd two watches hanging by the glafs. 
 Bring me the one that you find on the right-hand, 
 and take care to fet the room on fire with the taper I 
 Make hafte ! 
 
 Th^ Pag€, {going.) Yes, fir. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 The Prince, 
 
 What a fweet child ! what amiable fimplicity ! Ah ! If 
 there were a man like this child for fincerity, and that man 
 my friend ! — It is a pity that he is fo little : he will nevei 
 anfwer J I muft fend him back to his mother. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 The Pr47ic£j the P^ge, 
 
 The Paget {holding the light in one handy and the *ivatvh in 
 \ the other.) It is five o'clock, fir. 
 
 The Prince. I was not miflaken : it will foon be light, 
 {Taking his tvatch.) But is this the one that I fent you to 
 bring ? Was this on the right hand ? 
 
 The Page. Is not that h, fir? Indeed I thought it wa.';. 
 
 The Prince. Well, my little friend, fuppofing it wa% 
 if you had known your own intereft properly, you fhould 
 have taken the other; for this, fct round as it is with bril- 
 liants, cannot be proper for a child to wear. Is it poi- 
 fible that covetoufnefs direfted your choice? or are you 
 like thofe who lofe all, by trying to gain too much ? Tell 
 
 The Page. I do not know what your highnefs fays. 
 
 The Prince. I muft explain myfelf then more clearly* 
 Can you tell the right from the left ? 
 
 The Page, {looking at each hand by turns.) The right and 
 the left, fir? 
 
 The Prince, {patting him on the Jhoulder.) Well, my little 
 friend, perhaps you diftinguifh them as little as good from 
 
 16 evil. 
 
i8o THE PAGE. 
 
 evil. Pity that you cannot preferve that happy ignorance! 
 Go, run and tell your uncle, the captain, to come t© inc; 
 
 {The page goes out.) 
 
 S C E N E IV. 
 The Prince, 
 
 How irigenuous ! how amiable a child ! — An adtlitJonal 
 reafon for reftoring him to his family. 1 he court is the 
 center of corruption. I will not fufFer him to fall a vidim 
 to it. Yes, I will fend him home. But where mult he 
 go, if his mother be fo indigent, as he fays, and not able 
 to maintain him ? I muft enquire about it. DerenhofFcan 
 give me every information that I defire. 
 
 S C E N E v. 
 The Prince, the Page*, 
 
 The Pcrge. My uncle, the captain, is coming to your 
 highnefs. 
 
 The Prince. Well, what is the matter? You look quite 
 heavy. Perhaps you would wifh to have a little more 
 fieep ? . _ , . • 
 
 The Page, Why yes, fir, a little. 
 
 The Prince. If that is all, go and fix yourfelf again in 
 your arm-chair. I hi^ve been a child myfelf, and. know, 
 how agreeable refc is at your age. Go feat yourfelf, I 
 tell you ; I give you leave. [The page fits- iu the arm-chqir^. 
 and fettles him/elf to JJee^.) 1 thought he would not need to 
 be bid twice. . . 
 
 • ^ S C E N E VI.' . . . ,■ 
 
 The Prince, Capt-ain J>erenhoff, the Page, {ajleep,)' 
 
 Capt. Derenhoff. Your highnefs — C •• 
 
 The Prince. Come in, captain. What do you thinkcf ' 
 the little mefTenger that I lent to you ? What ufe Ihall I 
 make of him ? to attend me in my chamber ? ' 
 
 Capt, D. IJhrugging up his JJjoulders.) I confefs, iir,he 
 ia rather little. • 
 
 The Prince, Or to go on horfebagk on my bufmefs ? 
 
 ^. . ' ■ Capt^ 
 
I 
 
 THE PAGE. i8i 
 
 ■•Capt, D, I fhould be afraid that he would never corns 
 back. 
 
 T/?e Prince. Or to watch here at night ? 
 
 Capt. D. {fmiling,) Yes, provided your highnefs fleep, 
 ,' 1^ he Prince. What, can I do then with this child ? no- 
 thing; that is plain. So that in bringing him hither^ 
 you probably did not intend that he fhould be of ufe to 
 me in his fervice, but that I fliould to him in his fortune. 
 You told me, I recoiled, that his mother was not able to 
 bring him up ; but is it true that fhe is reduced abfolutely 
 to indigence ? 
 
 Capt. D. [laying his hand on his hreaji.) Yes, fir, it i% 
 the exad truth. 
 
 7 he Prince. And by what misfortunes ? 
 
 Capt. D. By this very laft war, which has enriched f(?. 
 many others. It is true, her eilate was fomething en- 
 cumbered, but at prefent it is taken totally out of her 
 hands. Every thing is pillaged, burnt, utterly deftroysd, 
 Befides all this, law fuits : they follow war, as the plague 
 does famine. Happily for her, 'her children are fettled 
 for the prefent. The youngeft is page to your highnefs, 
 the eldeft, enfign in your highnefs's guar'ds. As to the. 
 mother, fhe lives as fhe can. .^ 
 
 The Prince. V/retchedly enough, no doubt. 
 , Capt. D, True fir. {Coldly.) She has retired to a cotr 
 tage, where fi^ie lives quite alone and retired! I never 
 go to fee her. I am her brother, and could, not bear the 
 Ihocking fight of her diilrefs. ' . . 
 
 The Prince. You are her brother? 
 
 Capt. D, Yes, fir, unhappily. , • > . 
 
 The Prince, {jwith contempt.) Unhappily? and yoi> 
 never go to fee her ? 1 underibnd you, fir.. 'll&^ diilrefs - 
 would make you blufh; or, if it affedted you, to relieve 
 her, you think, would coH you fomething. {Capt. DerenhoJ^ 
 appears confu/ed.) What is your filter's name? . .\ 
 
 dipt. D. DorfFen, fir. 
 
 The Prince, {7nv-fing.) I)orfl'en ? Had not I a major, of 
 that name in my troops ? 
 
 Capt. D. Yes, fir. 
 
 The Prince. Who was killed at the opening of the firfl 
 campaign of the war? 
 
 . Capt. D. True, fir. He was father to the enfign, and 
 to this child J a man @f honour, and, perfectly brave. H^, 
 
 mounted 
 
i82 THE PAGE. 
 
 mounted a breach with the chearfulnefs of one going to an 
 entertainment. He had the heart of a lion. 
 
 The Prince. Of a man, captain ; that is faying more. I 
 remember him very well, and could wifli — 
 
 Capt. D. {draiAjing near.) What would your highnefs 
 Wifli ? 
 
 The Prince. To fpeak with his widow. 
 
 Capt, D. Your highnefs can tlo that immediately. She 
 is here. 
 
 The Prince. Is (he here ? fend to her ; let her come to 
 me a^ foon as flie nfes. 1 defire to fee her, and to return 
 her child to her. 
 
 Capt. D. Sir— 
 
 The Prince 1 forbid your mentioning it to her. Go. 
 {Captain Dermhoff goes out.) 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 The Pn'trce, the Page, i^ajleep.) 
 
 The Prince. Whatt! reduced to fo diftrcfsful a fituation 
 by the war ? Dreadful fcourge ! how many families has it 
 plun^jed into mifery ! Still, however, it is better that they 
 Ihould be unhappy by the war than by me. It is necef- 
 fitv, and not my elioice, that has made me take up arms, 
 \He ri/es., and after ivalking about a little, /lops before the 
 Pagers chair.) Amiable child ! — how he fleeps at his eafe ! 
 It is innocence in the arms of fleep. He thinks himfelf 
 in the houfe of a friend, where he ought not to be under 
 con lira int. Perfe«5lly in nature ! [ivalks about again.) 
 His mother? But indeed I Ihould not concern myfelf 
 much for her, if fhe were like the captain. 1 will put 
 her to the proof, in order to know her; and then — then 
 it will 'be lime enough to take my meafures. {He leans 
 ever the hack of the arm chair, and locking fondly at thi 
 Pace, perceinjes a letter hanging out of his pocket.) But 
 what is this ? a letter? {opens it, and reads at the bottom) 
 *' Your afFeftionate mother, Catharine Dorffen." Ah! it 
 is from his mother. Shall I read it ? I wifh to know her 
 charafter. She will not diflemble with her own child. 
 Let us fee. {reads ) 
 
 ** My dear fon. The difficulty that you find in writ- 
 ing, has iM)t» I fee, hiiKlercd your complying with my re- 
 
 q^ueft 5 
 
THE PAGE. 4«5 
 
 queft ; and your letter is even longer than I could «xpe(ft. 
 This willingnefs in you convinces me that you love me. 
 1 am fenfible of it, and thank you fincerely for it. Yoa 
 tell me that you have been introduced to the prince ; that 
 he has been fo good as to approve of you ; that he is the 
 beft and mildeft of mafters, and that you love him very 
 much already." {He looks nt the page.) What, my friend, 
 you have written fo to your mother? I only do my duty, 
 then, in making you a return, and in feeking to give yoa 
 proofs of my friendfhip. ** You have reafon to love 
 him, my dear child ; for without his generous afliftancc, 
 what would be your lot in this world ? You have loft your 
 father; and although your mother be ftill living, you are 
 not the lefs to be pitied. Fortune has put it out of her 
 power to fulfil her duty to you ; that is my greateft grief, 
 and the moft cruel of my diftrefles. While I had only to 
 think of myfelf, misfortunes could never afFed me ; but 
 when your image offers itfelf to my thoughts, my heart 
 is ready to burft, and my tears never ceafe." Much 
 tcndernefs, much fenfibility appears here ; and if fhe be 
 as excellent a woman as fhe is a tender mother — And why 
 Ihould (he not? She is, I have not a doubt of it. '* I 
 cannot, my dear, lead you myfelf in the road to fortune, 
 as I could wifh ; I am obliged to remain here in folitude 
 and retirement ; but I fhall never ceafe to give you my 
 advice with all the earneftnefs of affedlion ; and while 
 my voice can reach you, it fhall conftantly entreat you 
 to follow the paths of honour and virtue. As a frefh 
 proof of that obedience which you have hitherto fhewa 
 to me, I requeft you always to carry this letter about 
 you." {Looks at the page.) Well, he has been obedient. 
 ** If ever you fhould be in danger of failing in your 
 duty, or negle6ling the advice that I gave you when I 
 kiffed you at parting, and bedewed you with my tears, 
 then my dear fon remember this letter; open it; thinlc 
 of your mother, your unfortunate mother, who is only 
 fupported in her folitude by the hopes that fhe builds oa 
 you." What has he not a brother? ** Think that fhe 
 would die with grief were you to behave amifs, and that 
 you yourfelf would flab the heart that loves you above all 
 things upon earth." She fees his danger. She is right, 
 for he is much expofed here. Ought fhe to have fent 
 him hither? «♦ It is not fuipicion or diftrufl tiial make 
 
 rae 
 
i84 T H E PAG- E. 
 
 me fpeak thusi Your behaviour never gave mc caufe for 
 them. . No, my dear child ; but your brother has made 
 my tears flow; you, 1 hope, will fpare the feelings of 
 your mother more than he has done." So then, the 
 eldert ? — the enlign ? — I mufl inform myfelf more of this. 
 ** You have always behaved with duty and refpedl ; I 
 own it with tears of joy. • Go on, my dear child ; be- 
 come an honeft man, and your mother, be flie ever fo 
 poor, ever fo unhappy, will foon forget her misfortunes 
 and dillrefs." Very well. I like this woman ; misfor- 
 tune exalts her fentiments, inftead of depreffing them. 
 ** You tell me at the end of your letter, that all your 
 companions have watches. 1 know that you fhould have 
 cne too ; however, you break off there, and do not ex- 
 jprcfs even a wifli for one. This referve pleafes me, and 
 I am unhappy in noc being able to reward it. You know,. 
 my dear, that I cannot, and therefore you will pardon 
 me. Bufinefs of importance calls me to the capital; £ 
 am going thither, and this journey will take from me 
 what little money 1 have left. It is a neceflary expence, 
 and I cannot avoid it. But be allured that in the end I 
 fhall do every thing in my power to fatisfy your wi/h. 
 And fhould I even ilint myfelf of neceffaries, I will never 
 fuffer my heart's belt beloved to want an encouragement 
 
 to virtue. I hope foon to fee you again, and am." 
 
 This woman .is worchy of a better lot. I will keep this 
 letter, and fiievv. it to my wife. But no, it is this child's 
 treafure ; why deprive him of it? {He puis the letter inta 
 the pagers pocket agahi.^ With what tranquility he fleeps 
 ilill ! Heaven, they fny, prepares the iiappinefs of its 
 children w.hile trey lleep. [He takes h-m by the hand.) 
 Ho ! my little friend ! {^be page atuakesy and locks at the 
 prhice for /qme time.) He is a charming child, upon my. 
 life! Come, my little friend, awake. Jt is broad day, 
 and you cannot' flcep here any longer. Rife. 
 
 The F age y. [rljing J!cn.vlj.) Yes, fir. 
 
 The Prince. You are fall aHeep Hill. Here, go into my 
 bed-room. [He ga£s in.) Put out the light, and (hut the 
 doors. Now go to that place where you found the watch. 
 Make harte 1 not there, this way. Here, ilraight en ;, 
 quick; come back the other fide. Well, are you awake 
 now? 
 . The Page, Helgho ! yes, iir, .. 
 
THE PAGE. 1S5 
 
 ^'he Prince.. Tell me, for I look upon you as a diligent 
 chiW, and even clever ; c^n you write letters ? 
 
 The Page. Oh, yes; v/hen I fet about it. 1 have writ 
 two long ones already. 
 
 The Prince. Thefe two were to your mother, I fuppofe. 
 The Page, {jwiih a pleafed, familiar air.) Yes, fir, to 
 my mother. 
 
 The Prince. Joy fparkles in your eyes when I fpeak of 
 Jier. {iifide.) What affedion they bear to each other even 
 in poverty ! But is your mother very good ? 
 
 The Paget {faking the prince'' s hand hei-zveen both his.^ 
 Ah ! if you knew her !" 
 
 The Prince. I will know her, my little friend. 
 The Page! She is fo good-natured, and fo fond of me— 
 ,,The Prince. 1 could wiih her fons to be like her. Your 
 brother the enfign I they fay he does not go on weil< 
 But you ? — ' 
 
 The Page, {Jhaking his head.) Ah! my brother th6 
 enfiwn^ — . 
 
 The Prince. Yes, they f:iy that he caufes your mothec 
 much trouble. Is that true ? 
 
 The Page. Ah ! fir — But I was forbid to open my lips 
 .^boiJt. it. If his colonel knew — [ivith an air f ccnfidence.) 
 Oh ! that colonel is an ill-natured man. 
 
 The Prince. He fliall know nothing of it, I promifeyou. 
 Speak then; what has been the matter? what has your 
 brother 4one ? 
 
 The Page. A great many things. I don't know myfelf 
 quite how it was. I only faw that my mother was mighty 
 angryjabout it; and to hide my brother's fault, Ihe gave 
 aw4^y .all that flie was worth in the world. {He goes near to the 
 prince and /peaks low.) Only fur that, flie faid, he might- 
 have been broke. 
 
 The Prince. Broke? for what ? . 
 The Page. Ah I fir, I cannot tell that. '' 
 The Prince. What, not to me ? 
 The Page. They would, not let myfelf know chat. 
 The Prince, {laughing.) They were very right, I think, 
 Butas'to yon, iince you have not a watch, I fuppofe yoi^ 
 a^ced your mother in your letter to buy you one. 
 
 'The Page. Only .once, no rtiore. ' 
 
 ThePrinci. Oh! then Ihe \yas angry with you? 
 
 /' Ths 
 
9U THE PAGE. 
 
 Ti'c Page. No, no, fir ; Co far from that, fhe wrote to 
 me rhat Ihe would fpare from the little money that fhc 
 4iad, and buy me one. I am forry that I fpoke to her of 
 it. She can hardly live as it is. That grieves mc very 
 much. 
 
 7'he Prince. So it ihould. A good fon ftiould not bc ant 
 cxpence to his mother. It is his duty, on the contrary, to 
 fcek all means of relieving her. As to the watch, if 
 that were all, one might content you. {He takes out /m-s 
 purfe) Hold, my little friend; here are twelve guinea« 
 thAt I can fparc. I will make you a prefent of them^ 
 Give me your hand. 
 
 The Page, [holding his hand, <ivhile the prince counts 
 nut the money >) Are they for me, iir ? 
 
 The Prince, Yes, certainly; but tell me, what do you 
 think to do with this money ? 
 
 The Page. Could not I buy a watch with it ? 
 
 The Prince. Yes, and a very handfome one; but how- 
 ever, when we conlidcr the matter, you have no abfolute 
 occafion for a watch. There are enough here. {While he 
 /peaks, the page looks earnejlly at him,) If 1 were in your 
 place, I know very well what 1 would do. I would lay 
 that money out better. However, juft as you pleafe. I 
 am going to drefs. Stay here until I come back. 
 
 The Page, {calling him.) Sir? 
 
 The Prince. Well, what do you want ? 
 
 The Page. My mother is in town. She fets off thii 
 morning, and I could vvifli to take my leave of her, 
 {coaxingly.) Will your highnefs give me leave ? 
 
 The Prince. No, my boy; there is no occafion for that. 
 Your mother ftiali come to you for this time. Yoa^ihall 
 fee her; have a little patience. {He goes out:) 
 
 S C E N Ti vjir. 
 
 The Page, 
 
 She will come here ? I (hall fee her here ? what cap 
 be the reafon of that? no matter; if fhe comes and feeS 
 me, that is enough. One, two, three — {counts all the 
 money.) Twelve guineas to buy a watch' How happy I 
 am! 1 think I have it already in my hands; I hear it 
 click, and wind it up myfelf. But when the prince faid 
 
 that 
 
THE PAGE. in; 
 
 that he knew very well what he would do if he was ia 
 my place, what did he mean by that ? what would he do 
 then ? Ah ! he has watches in ail his rooms ; Co he does 
 not know what it is to want one. But he toM me, too, 
 that a good fon Iliould relieve his mother. No doubt he 
 was thinking then of mine. Twelve guineas ! {^looks at 
 them.) It is a great deal of money indeed ; a great deal 
 of money. If my mother had them, they would be of 
 great fervice to her. {He prejjes the money to his hreaji ^-with 
 both his hands.) Ah I a watch 1 a watch 1 [lets his hands 
 fall.) But then a mother too! and fo kind a mother ! 
 Yelterday, too, (he was fo dull, Die looked fo pale, and 
 fo ill. 1 do believe that giving her this money would re- 
 cover her at once. — Shall I go without it myfelf for her 
 fake ? — {JVith refolution.) Yes, I will. — But let her come 
 foon, for I may change my mind. I have the watch at 
 heart flill ! Puts his fijiger on his mouth.) Not a word I 
 Hill ! fomebody comes. 
 
 SCENE IX. 
 
 Mrs* Dorffctti Captain Derenhoff, the Page* 
 
 'iThe P^gey {running to meet his mother.) Ah! main a ! 
 
 Mrs. Dorffeny {looks anxioufiy rounds 'without minding the 
 child.) I do not know, brother, but I am uneafy ; what 
 can his highnefs want with me ? 
 
 Capt. D, There ; look at that child. He is going to 
 give him back lo you. {She looks at the child nvith furprize 
 and concern y <who meantime hangs on her y quite jnyful.) But 
 in faft, it was noafenfe to bring him here. What cam 
 the prince do with him .? The other pages grow up, ap- 
 pear like men, and enter into the army. But he — {imth 
 a look of contempt) he is fuch a diminutive creature, he 
 never will be good for any thing. The milk that you 
 gave him was poifoned by your griefs. He is a plant 
 that is fpoiled at the root. He will never have llrength 
 or figure. 
 
 Mrs. Dorffen, { forro'v fully .) Oh ! brother! 
 
 Capt, D. In fhort, when you fee the pritice, be C^re 
 not to fay a word to him of this child. It would be to 
 no purpofe. Rather folicit him in favour of the enfigo. 
 He has fome appearance at Icatt ; he is a iiian. 
 
 Mrs, 
 
j8g THE PAGE. 
 
 Mrs. Do;- ff en. lii favotar of the enfign ? 
 
 Capt. D. Yes, he has fent for him. 
 
 Mrs. Dor fen. You frighten me. Can he have learnt ?— 
 
 Capt. D. {colaly.) It may be fo : nay indeed it is pro- 
 bable. [Leaning upon his cane, and fcakt7ig his head.) VVhat 
 do you think would be the confequence if he knew that 
 the puppy meant to decamp, and had taken up money ? 
 and that it is only on my account, who fettled the affair-— 
 {n.vitb vehemence.) I tell you, and you will fee it, I fhall 
 fuffer for my own good nature, and perhaps be put un-. 
 der arreit myfelf. 1 wilh I had never concerned myfeif 
 about your children. However, I never lliall again—' 
 {as he goes cff grumhlingy he turns back.) No, Inever. ihall 
 as long as I live, [gcss out.) 
 
 SCENE X. 
 Mrs. Dorfcn, the Fc^gc. 
 
 V^he Page, {/t'^if^g her concern.) My uncle is always in 
 a bad humour. But let him talk on, mama, never fear. 
 
 Mrs. DorJ'en.- Be quiet, child ; you dont know-^ 
 
 The Page. Oh! i know more than he does. Th« 
 prince is not what he fays. He. never does harm to any 
 body. So far from that, look, look here ; {Jhevjs the 
 iiuel've guitieas in his hand.) fee all that — i^nd it was he 
 that gave it to me. 
 
 Mrs. Dcrffen, {aficnifoed.) Is it pofuble ? The Prince ?' 
 
 The Page. He took it out of a large, large purfe that 
 was full of gold, a little before you came. Ah! if the 
 prince chofe, mama, if he chofe — Oh ! he is rich, I 
 promife you. 
 
 Mrs. Dorffen. But how was this? I do not underftand 
 it. He muilhave had fome reafon. 
 
 The Page. Certainly. His watch was flopped. He 
 had been hunting all day ysllerday, and forgot to wind it 
 up ; and this morning — {he runs to the bed -roomy and opens 
 the door.) There, mama; there is the place where he 
 lay. So he called me, and bid me look at my watch ; 
 and as I had none — 
 
 Mrs. Dorffen. He gave you that monf?y. 
 
 'T^ he Page. Yes, he gave it to me to buy one, {Sheiuing^ 
 t^e money again.) Twelve guineas, mama. 
 
 Mrsi 
 
THE PAGE. .*i89 
 
 Mrs, Dorffen. Look at me. Am 1 to believe'you ? 
 
 The Page, Indeed you may. But I am not in a hurry 
 for a watch. I fhall have one fome time or other, {taking 
 his mother's hand,') Take this money, mama. i^ut it 
 into your purfe. 
 
 Mrs.Dorffen. {jwifh emotion.) What, my dear? Hc»v ?— 
 
 The Page. I am fo forry to fee you always crying. Ah ! 
 mama, I wifli I had a great deal of mofiey, then you 
 fhould never cry any more. All, yes every farthing yoa 
 Ihould have and welcome. 
 
 ' Mrs. Dorffen. Xleaning over him.) What! you would, 
 niy dear ! 
 
 The Page. How pleafed Td be to fee you happy and 
 contented 1 , 
 
 Mrs, Dorffenj {kiffing him.) I am happy, my love. I 
 would not give the happinefs that I feel this moment for 
 all your prince's gold. Ah ! you do not know how the 
 compafTionate tendejneis of a fan imprefles the heart of 
 an unfortunate mother. 
 
 The Page, [taking his mother's hand, again.) But you 
 will take this money, though; I beg you, my dear 
 rnama, not to refufeme. 
 
 Mrs. Dorffen. Yes, my dear, I will take it. As others 
 may impofe upon you, I fhall take care to« 
 
 The Page. To do what ? to buy me a watch ? 
 
 Mrs. Dorffen. Why, if you remain with the prince, you 
 will want one. 
 
 The Page, Oh !. no, ho. The prince has watches in 
 every room. He told mc himfelf that I ihould not want 
 one. 
 
 Mrs. Dorffen. But what he ha-s given you was to buy one* 
 
 The Page. That is what he told me, however. 
 
 Mrs. Dorffen. You are deceiving me my dear ; and 
 even your fondnefs for your mother ihould not make you 
 tell a llory. 
 
 The Page. A llory ? Then you . do not . believe . me ? 
 Now I vvilh that his highnefs were here, I wifh he would 
 come, {turning about.) Ah; hera he is himfelf. 
 
 • S C E N E XI. 
 
 The Prince^ Mrs. Dorffen, the Page, . - 
 
 The P^-ge, [rufining to meet the Prince.) Is not it tpue fir, 
 ;hat you gave me twelve guineas at firft, to buy a watch ? 
 3 ^^'^ 
 
1^9 THE PAG E. 
 
 T/^ Prince, {/mi It Kg.) Yes, my man. 
 The Page. And did not you tell me afterwards, that I 
 fhnuld not want one? 
 
 The Prince. Yes, that is true too. 
 
 The Page, [turning immediately toivardi his mother.) Well, 
 
 mama, now 
 
 Mrs. Dorffen, {coTtfu/eJ.) Your hlghnefs vvill be To good 
 as to txcufe the fimplicity of a child who forgets the 
 xefpea 
 
 The Prince. Excufe it, madam ! that fimplicity dclighty 
 xne, nnd 1 could wifh to find it in every body ; it is fo 
 agreeable to nature. Well, my man, your mother would 
 not believe you then ? 
 
 The Page t [looking a little ^vexed.) No, fir. At firft fli« 
 would not believe me, and afterwards Ihe would not ac- 
 cept the money. 
 
 The Prince. What do you fay ? accept ? Why, have 
 you thought fo little of my prefent, as to give it away 
 again ? I cannot fuppofe that. 
 
 The Page, {hejitating.) Sir 
 
 The Prince, \i I tliought fo, I fliould not bc very ready 
 to give you more. Come then, tell me the truth ; ts it 
 fo? 
 
 The Page, {pointing to his mother.) Ah 1 fir, my mama 
 is fo poor ! 
 
 The Prince, {chucking hint under the chin.) Good little 
 foul ! Have you given up then the only objeft of your 
 wifhes, in order to relieve your mother ? It would be very 
 hard, indeed, that you fhould lofe a watch for doing fo. 
 {He takes out his oivn-X There ! if I had but this fingle 
 watch, I would give it to you, to reward your affeftion. 
 
 The Page, [taking it joyfully.) Ah! hr. But does it 
 
 The Pritxe. Never fear ; it goes very well. {The Pagt 
 rujis to his mother, to Jheiv her the icafch.) 
 
 The Prince. Come, my little friend, put up your 
 watch. And fince you have m.ide fo good ufe of the 
 little that I gave you, {gives him his furfe,) here, take 
 this. There are a hundred guineas in (lead of the firft 
 twelve. 
 
 The Page {looking at him ivith ajionifiment.) Sir? 
 
 ThiPrinu, Do you hefiiate ?« Here, take them^ 
 
THE PAGE. ig^i 
 
 The Page. What, the purfe, fir, and all that Is — • 
 {Going to return it.) Indeed it is too much. 
 
 The Prince, Yes, for yourfelf. But 1 give it to you, 
 that you may difpofe of it. And who do you think want* 
 it moft ? 
 
 The Page. Who wants it ? [Looks at the Prince and hit 
 mother by iatrns^) There mama, take it. 
 
 Mrs. Dorffen^ {coming f orvjar d tsnvards the Prince.) Youf 
 highnefb 
 
 The Prince. Pray, no acknowledgements, madam. 
 You will find that it is very little, and I fear it may 
 be of more harm to you than advantage. But [pointing 
 to the Pctge) I need not tell you that this child is too 
 weak and too little for my fervice. At his age, children 
 are hardly able to do much for others. Tn (hort, 1 hope 
 you will have no objedlion to take him back again. You 
 are filent. 
 
 Mrs. Dorffen. Your highnefs will excufe— 
 
 The Prince. What ? 
 
 Mrs. Dorffen. I own, fir, I am wrong to blufh for a 
 poverty which 1 did not bring upon myfelf, and 1 may 
 without difgrace ingenuoufly confefs it to my fovereign. 
 [Coming nearer, and looking fiedfajily at him.) Yes, fir ; 
 my circumilances are too narrow to maintain and bring 
 u.p my fon. 1 have long looked forward to the future 
 with an anxious eye ; and now my fears are real. 1 fliall 
 be the victim of grief. Ah ! if I mull carry back with 
 me into the forrowful retreat of mifery this child that your 
 highnefs returns to me, who is the only ohje<^ of a 1 my 
 concern ; this child who is too youiig as yet — [enJeanjour- 
 ing to contain her tears) to — feel the lofs of a father— 
 Ah ! pardon a mother's weakuefs. 
 
 , The Page, [taking the Princess hand,) forrav fully* 
 Mama is crying, fir. 
 
 The Prince. Well ! fuppofing that you were to live with 
 your mother ? 
 
 The Page, [uuifh a look of entreaty.) Your highnefs won't 
 I fend me home ? 
 
 The Prince. No? Do you think not? This confidence, 
 my little friend, pleafes me. Madam, he may ftay. And 
 yet it would be a pity if his morals, his innocence— But, 
 no« Thet^ is nothing to fear as yet. 
 
 Mrs, 
 
192 THE PAGE. 
 
 Mrs.Dorff'efiy {looking at him attentii'ely.) His innocence 
 did your highnefs fay ? 
 
 The Prince. There is no fear, madam. You would 
 imagine perhaps that I wilh to draw back my word. But 
 don't be uneafy. 
 
 Mrs. Dorjffeity {fearfully.) Yet, might 1 take the liberty, 
 without breaking through ttie refped that I owe your 
 highnefs, to requeft you to explain yourfelf — 
 
 The Prince. Madam, what 1 meant was this. I have 
 for fome time pail been extremely diflatisfied with my 
 pages. Their company and example might perhaps — Yet 
 after all it is but a perhaps, and one may try — 
 • Mrs. Dorffen^ {eagerly feizing ker fons hand.) No, fir. 
 
 The Prince y {afc^ling difpleafure.) No? As you pleafe. 
 madam. 
 
 Mrs. Dorffen. My fon*s innocence is too dear to me. I 
 fluidder at the dangers to which 1 was going to expofe- 
 him. 
 
 The PriK ce. B u t c n fi J c r — 
 
 Mrs. Dorffeti. i confider nothing : I fee my fon in the 
 i^idll of the flames ; and if I can but fave him^, no matter, 
 though he lliould be naked. 
 
 The Prince But without fortune, without education, 
 madam, what will become of him ? ' 
 
 Mrs. Dor fen. Whatever it Ihall pleafe heaven. I fub- 
 mit to the divine will. Jf h^ cannot fupport his birth, 
 let him go labour in the fields ; let him die in poverty, 
 but retain his innocence. 
 
 ""The Prince ■ {in his natural mamier.) This is thinking 
 nobly. Yes, madam, I fee, you deferve every thing 
 that I can poflibly do for you. {Coming nearer to her and 
 fpeaking nvith earneftnfs.) In what can I be of afhllance to 
 you? 'Tell me how 1 can fcrve you. Only fpeak, you fee 
 a friend before you. 
 
 Mrs. Dorjfeuy {nvith emotion.) Ah! fir 
 
 The Prince. Tell me firll: of all what is your fituauon. 
 How are you with regard to your ellatc ? 
 
 Mrs. Dcrf'en. It will be abfolutely impoflible, fir, for 
 me to fave it. 
 
 - The Prince. Your debts' then are pretty confidcrab^e ? 
 Yoii are at laU' now, 1 am told. Donot they give you 
 any hopes? 
 
 Mrs, 
 
THE PAGE. 193 
 
 s\lri, Dorjfm. None, fir. One cau fc, concerning a 
 fmall inheritance, fhould have been decided long ago in 
 my favour. My title is indifputable. But interell and 
 money are againll it. NecefTity brought me hither to 
 town, in order to endeavour a compromife, but 1 could 
 not fucceed. 
 
 The Prince, So much the better. You (hall have juftice 
 now, without making any facrifice, i give you my word 
 of honour; and accept moreover a penfion of a hundred a 
 year. I hope that it will put you above every neceffity. 
 
 Mrs. Dorffen, {^thronx^ing h'erfelf at his feet.) Oh! fir^ fo 
 much goodnefs ! how ihall 1 — 
 
 The Prince, {raijtttg her.) What are you doing, madam ? 
 Rife, I requej.]: you. 1 only difcharge what I owe to the 
 memory of a man Vv'hofe widow you are. I do for you no 
 more than I would do for any one whofe virtue I elteem- 
 ed. Tell me, would you Itill heiitate to take back your 
 child? 
 
 Mrs, Dorfen. Sir, could I {o forget — 
 
 The Prince, And you, my little friend, would you like 
 to go back with your mother? 
 
 The Page, {plajing ^ith his -xvatch.) With my mother ? 
 Yes, fir. 
 
 The Prince. And yet now I know that you love me, 
 would not you like as well to ftay with me? 
 
 The Page. Yqs^ very well, fir. 
 
 The Prince, Now, if that be fo, were I to give yon 
 back to your mother, it would be fending you away from 
 me, and you have afked me fo earneftly to keep you here. 
 Befides, your mother has thrown you into my arms. 1 
 mull therefore take another way to fettle matters. Stop 
 here, madam, I fliall be with you in a moment, 
 
 SCENE xir. 
 
 Mrs. Dorffen, the Page, 
 
 Mrs. Dorffen^ {throiAjing. her/elf into an arm chair.) O 
 blefiTed day 1 O unexpected happinefs ! 
 
 The Page. Well, mama; well, are you glad? 
 
 Mrs. Dorffen, {dranjjing him to her ajje^ionatelj.) O my 
 ion, my dear fon ! 
 
 VOL. I. K Th 
 
194 THE PAG E. 
 
 The Page. But you do not rejoice. You ought to be 
 merrier, mama. 
 
 Mrs. Darjj'en, Even my happinefs makes me blufli. It 
 reproaches me for the little trufl: that I had in Providence, 
 and for the forrow that I felt when you came into the 
 world. It was but a moment after 1 had heard of the lofs 
 of your father. I looked at you with pity, and lamented 
 that you ever faw the light. {She takes him in her arms and 
 kifes him.) Yet it was you that was to relieve your unfor- 
 tunate mother ! your young hands were to dry up her 
 tears ! O heaven ! what can 1 now delire more ? Nothing, 
 nothing, but to be fure of your brother's lot, and then 
 jny happinefs would be complete. 
 
 The Page. My brother'b ? Why, mama, what of him ? 
 
 Mrs. Dcrffen- Jf the prince knew what he has done — 
 
 The Prince. And if he did, there would be nothing of 
 it. You faw how good and how generous he is. 
 
 Mrs. Dcrjfen. To us, my dear, who are not guilty of , 
 any crime. I 
 
 The Fage. Befides, he promifed me that he would not ' 
 tell, and ihat the colonel fliould know nothing of it. 
 ■ Mrs. Dorffeut {frightened ) What ! he promifed you ! 
 
 The Page. Yes, indeed : fo you need not be afraid. 
 
 Mrs. Dorffen. 1 am thunder-itruck. You have told him 
 then ? I 
 
 The Page. Nay, hardly any thing. Only all that I I 
 knew. And then he aflced me concerning my brother's 
 behaviour, and fo I could not tell a hb. You know you 
 bid me never to do fo. 
 
 Mrs. Dorffen. But, my dear child — 
 
 The Page. Why, mama, are you uneafy ? | 
 
 Mrs. Dorffen. Uneafy? O heavens ! can you afk ? Oh! \ 
 if the prince Ihould enquire farther, if he Ihould be in- 
 formed — You may ruin your mother and y6ur brother 1 
 you may plunge us all into the deepell niifery. 
 
 The Page, {ready to cry.) The deeped niifery ? 
 
 Mrs. Dorffen. Somebody comes — {She kffes ana encou' 
 rages him.) Say not a word. Dry up your tears. They 
 will only, perhaps, make the matter worfe. Do not be 
 uneafy. 
 
 SCENE 
 
THE PAGE. 195 
 
 SCENE XIII. 
 
 Mrs. Dorffen, the Page, the Prince follonxjed by Captain 
 Derenhoffy and Enjtgn Dorffen. 
 
 The Prince. Come in, gentlemen. {To the EnJIgn.) 
 You are enlign DoriFen, then ? the fon of that brave 
 Major ? 
 
 Enjign Dorffen, {ho-'mng njery lonv.) Yts, fir. 
 
 The Prince. That is a great recommendation with me. 
 Your father was a man of honour and a brave officer. I 
 have no doubt but his example roufes your emulation, 
 and that you llrive to make yourfelf worthy of him. 
 
 Enfign Dorffen. Sir, I only do my duty. 
 
 The Prince. That is doing every thing. The braveft 
 jrian can do no more. There, fir, is your mother : her 
 virtues, and the hopes that may be formed of this amiable 
 child, have given me the moil favourable idea of your 
 family; and therefore I wifhed to fee you all afTembled 
 
 Enjign Dorffen, [Jiill hoiving.) Your highnefs does me 
 particular honour 1 
 
 The Prince. No more, certainly, than you defcrve. 
 
 Enjign Dorffen. Your highneis judges favourably of 
 me. 
 
 The Prince. Really, fir, I only want to be confirmed in 
 the opinion that I am tem.pted to form of you at prefent, 
 in order to make your fortune : and yet that air of free- 
 dom and confidence that becomes you fo well— 
 
 Enfign Dorffen. Ah ! fir. 
 
 The Prince. Denotes (perm.it m.e to fay) a heart either 
 very noble, or very corrupt. The fon of fuch parents 
 cannot be fufpeded. Certainly not. Therefore, fir,, 
 what can we do to ferve you ? A ilep higher would not ad- 
 vance you much in rank. What think you? 
 
 Enjign Dorffen [rubbing his hands). No, certainly fir. 
 
 The Prince. Now, if we were to pafs over this ftep ? 
 A Company ! the rank of captain ! Ii is the main objeft 
 with you young gentlemen. But hrfl — {turning Jhort 
 round to Capt. Dercnhcff) Sir, what is your opinion of 
 your nephew ? 
 
 K 2 Capt, 
 
196 THE PAGE. 
 
 Capt, Berenhoff {fomething confufed). Mine, fir? My 
 opinion ? 
 
 97^6' Prince, One woald thialc it to be unfavour- 
 ab'e. 
 
 Cnpt. Dercnhojf. No, fir, rather much the contrary ; 
 I believe that he hns courage, and will be a brave 
 
 The Prince {looking nxith J'atisfadlion at enfign Dojjta.) 
 Ay is that true ? 
 
 Capi. Derenhoff. Befides, he has a promifmg figure. 
 
 The Pri7ice. He is a fine lad, I confefs. But his be- 
 haviour, his morals ? I am afhamed, indeed, to afk 
 you about fuch trifles. In ihort, what is his charac- 
 ter ? 
 
 Capt. Derenhoff [fjnilhig.) Oh ! a little too airy, fomc- 
 times petulant. After alJ, fir, you know^ that docs not 
 mifbecome a foldier. 
 
 The Prince. I know ? Really that is fomcthing ncv to 
 me. I want now, madam, only your teitimony. What 
 will you fay of your fon ? — {^fter a pau/e) Nothing? 
 
 Mrs. Dor fen. What Ihould I fay of him ? 
 
 The Prince. What you think. The truih. 
 
 Mn.DorJfm. But can I, fir? If 1 had reafon to praif* 
 him, would you wiih me to do it in his prefence ? or 
 fliould I fpeak to his prejudice before him who can deter- 
 mine his fortune? 
 
 The Prince y {/miling.) Excellent, madam. To tiie 
 fondnefs of a mother you join the addrefs of a woman. 
 I cannot but admire yoH. {In a ferious tone.) Sir, every 
 one has his way. I have mine, when I mean to advance 
 an officer, I begin with putting him under arrell. What 
 do you think of it ? 
 
 Enfign Dorffeny {frightened.) Sir — 
 
 The Pri-nce. Yes, that is my manner. Give up your 
 fvvord to the captain. An air of more modelly would 
 have excufed all. But this confidence, this undaunted 
 tone — What can be expeded from a perfon who with your 
 confcience is mafler of fjch a/Turance ? who faould ba 
 fenfiblethat he has deferved my difpleafure ? who knows 
 how unworthily he has treated the beft of mothers ? and 
 who neverchelefj-i— Sir, let him be confined for a month. 
 I will have no explaaation upon what is pall, and that 
 on your account, madam, and becaufe of the manner in 
 which I came by my informaiion ; but particularly be- 
 caufe 
 
THE FACE, 197 
 
 caufe circumftances make me prefume that his fault is of 
 a weighty nature — [}Fith a fevcre and determined 'voice.) 
 Captain, if hereafter any thing fliould happen, I de fire to 
 be informed of it immediately, you underiland ? immedi- 
 iitely. I mean to advance this young man ; and neither 
 you (/<? i^e captain,') nor (?/z a gentler tone') you, madam, 
 fiiall make me alcer my plan — Never give him any thing, 
 never the fmallelt trifie by way of prefent. His pay may 
 ferve him ; and let him learn to contraft his expences. 
 [hlaking a fign n.vith his hand.) Go, fir, to your confine- 
 nient. {T^he txvo officers go out.) 
 
 SCENE XIV. 
 The Prince^ Mrs. Dorffen, the Pagt. 
 
 The Prince. Well, madam, you feem dejedled. 
 
 Mrs. Dcrffen, {refpe Si fully.) Sir, f am a mother. 
 
 The Prince. But you arc not one of thofe weak mothers, 
 \\'\\o, to fpare their children a Hight mortiiication, chufe 
 not to corred them. 
 
 Mrs. Dorffen. That would be a very falfe tendernefs. 
 No, fir, I only fear that he may have loll for e/er his 
 prince's favour. 
 
 The Prince. Do not be uneafy. madam. My defiga is 
 barely to make him worthy of the favours that I mean to 
 bellow on him. His youth claims feme indulgence, 
 tiierefore I excufe his levities and indifcretion ; but I fhall 
 not always do fo. What in one perfon brings back the 
 Inve of virtue along with repentance, will in another 
 flrengthen his inclination to vice. Upon the whole, mak^ 
 yourfelf eafy. The young gentleman, will come to him« 
 felf, and I fhall proportion my favour to his improvement. 
 {Turning to the page.) As to this child, do you know what 
 my intentions are ? 
 
 Mrs. Dorjfen. Whatever they are, fir, they will only 
 aim to fecure his happinefs. O, fir ! I have never let 
 pafs a day without paying to your virtues the tribute of 
 jny homage, but I now fee how far it fell below them. 
 
 The Prince, What would you fay, madam ? You do 
 jnot know me. My objeft is to give the ftate a worthy 
 
 member^ 
 
198 T K E ? A G E. 
 
 member, and myfelf a Lithful fervant, and i^ tz'iCe xip 
 for my Ton a friend who may one day be ready to facrifice 
 iiis life for hini as his father' has done for me. 
 
 SCENE XV. 
 T/je Prhce, Mrs, Dorjen, the Pr.ge, Attendant. 
 
 Attendant, Plcaie your highnefs, the MaAer of the 
 P^oyal Academy. 
 
 ^he Prince. Let him ccine in. I hope, madam, that 
 you need only to be informed of my intentions to approve 
 them. 
 
 SCENE XVI. 
 
 The Prince t Mrs, DorJ^/:, the Page, the Majler cf tht 
 
 Academy, 
 
 The Mafier^ {ho^uoing,) I am come according to your 
 highnefs's orders. 
 
 The Prince. Your fervant, {\r, I am glad to fee you. 
 Vvhat do children of the firil condition pay at the Royal 
 Academy ? 
 
 The Majicr. Of the flrfl condition, fir ? That is as pa- 
 rents agree. 
 
 The Pri}7ce. However, mention the terms. 
 
 The Majicr. Sixty pounds, fir. 
 
 The Prince. Very well. This chiM I mean to fond to 
 you. And as I fhall be inllead of a father to him, I 
 propofe to do as much for him as the bell: gentlemen do 
 for their children. But tell me, who has the care of 
 attending to thefe young perfons ? for that is the effential 
 point. 
 
 The Majhr, The different mailers, iir. 
 
 The Prince. Who are, I fuppofe, qualified for their 
 
 employment. But I do not know them. It is on yovi 
 
 alone, fir, that I wilh to depend. You have gained my 
 
 ' confidence. Would you be fo good as to take this child 
 
 particularly under your own care ? 
 
 Thi 
 
THE PAG E. 199 
 
 The Majlcr. Sir, it is my duty. 
 
 ^he Prince. I do not mean to make it a duty to you. 
 Will it be agreeable? 
 
 The Majler. Sir, my duty Is always agreeable to me. 
 l^he Prince. Very well. You may depend then on my 
 gratitude. {To the Page, as he takes him by the han(L) 
 Come hither, my man; do you fee this gentleman? he 
 is mild and good-natured; would you like to go and live 
 with him ? 
 
 The Pc-^ge, {after looking a moment at the majler.) Yes, 
 fir. 
 
 The Pri?:ce, But obferve, you are to look upon this 
 gentleman as your mailer, as your benefaftor. You are 
 to (hew him the greateft obedience, and the moft dutiful 
 refped ; and if ever he has reafon to complain of you — 
 
 The Page. Oh ! fir, he never fhall. 
 . The Prince. You have {tcx\ that I can be as fevere as I 
 am gentle. So that at the jmalleil: complaint — 
 
 The Page, {boi\;ing refpeSifully to the majier.) 1 hope, fir, 
 you fhall never have reafon to complain of me. 
 The Prince. How do you like this child ? 
 The Majier. It is enough, fir, that I receive him from 
 your hands ; that will make him always dear to me as my 
 own fon. 
 
 The Prince. V/ell then, he may go with you. You 
 have no objeclion, madam ? 
 
 Mrs. Dorjfeji. Heavens, fir ! objeftion ? 
 The Prince. Go then, my dear; and never quit the 
 paths of virtue and honour. I have only to add, that you 
 may make yourfelf eafy ; you Ihali never want. But why 
 fodull? 
 .,5 The P age y {taking the princess hand.) I v/ifh your high- 
 •^ "liefs all happinfefs. 
 
 The Prince i [tenderly.) And I you the fame, my good 
 little friend. God blefs you, my dear. How grateful 
 his heart is already ! Now, fir, you may take him: and 
 you, madam, accompany this gentleman, and fee where 
 your fon is to be. 
 
 Mrs, DorffcHy {thro^ving her/elf at his feet.) Can I leave 
 your highnefs without humbly — 
 
 The Prince^ What are you doing, madam ? I do not 
 like this. 
 
 Mrs. 
 
2CO THE PAGE. 
 
 Mrs. Dorffcn. Permit me to — 
 
 ^ he Prince, {raijifig bcr.) By no means. Rife, madam. 
 1 cannot fuffer that in any body. 
 
 Mrs. Dorffen. Well, 1 obey your highncfs, and take 
 my leave — {Lifting up her hcHicis.') 1 will bend tlien before 
 iiiy Maker, and pray him to proted for ever To generous 
 a prince. 
 
 'Jhe Prince ^ [n.vith c on (Jefc cvf.cn y accornpanying her a fciv 
 fcps.) Farewel, madam, i wifli you happy. 
 
 THE END OF VOL. I, 
 
 
Fa^r jcuip' 
 
 
 tA 
 
 ^^?*«-<^*2.<e €Z9^ 
 
 e/yiy/fc^^yiyi^ ^^c'l^z/ '■?^--e^. 
 
 Se^^aae. 
 
THE 
 
 CHILDREN'S FRIEND. 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE 
 
 FRENCH OF M. BERQJJINi 
 
 COxMPLETE 
 
 IN FOUR VOLUMES, 
 
 ORNAMENTED WITH FRONTISPIECES, 
 
 A NEW CORRECTED EDITION; 
 WITH ADDITIONS. 
 
 VOL. IL 
 
 LONDON; 
 
 PRINTED FOR J. STOCKDALE, PICCADILLY; 
 
 J.RIVINGTONAND SONS, ST.PAUL'sCHURCH-YARDJ 
 B. LAW, AVE-MARIA-LANE; J.JOHNSON, ST. PAULS 
 
 church-yard; c. dilly, poultry; j. murray. 
 fleet-street; j. sewell, cornhjll; and w. 
 
 QREECH, EDINBURGH. 
 
 M.DCC.LXXXVIlla 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 OF THE 
 
 SECOND VOLUME. 
 
 Page . 
 
 MAURICE -.-.—, 
 
 The Parricide ^ — 17 
 
 Jonathan — — — 18 
 
 Vanity punifhed -* — — • 21 
 
 The Pleafures of Work — — 33 
 
 The Young Sparrows — — •*- 38 
 
 The two Apple-Trees — — . — 41 
 
 If Men do not fee you, God fees you — ^ 43 
 
 The Good Son — — — 46 
 
 Phyfiognomy — • •. — 64 
 
 NarciiTus and Hippoly tus >-*. — 71 
 
 The Man who rofe to fudden Fortune -*• 75 
 
 The Greyhound and the Ring *-. — - 7^ 
 
 The Heft — i^ ^ ^7 
 
 The Little Needle- Women »— ** 103 
 
 The Veteran difmifled with Honour -^ no 
 
 George and Cecilia —- s-. 129 
 
 The Spirit of Contradi(^ioii ^ «— 135 
 
 C«far 
 
iy CONTENTS* 
 
 Csefar and Pompey 
 
 The Little Girl with Whifkers 
 
 The Scar — 
 
 — 13? 
 
 "*• -^-^ 142 
 
 — 144. 
 
 The Silk Slip — — — 146 
 
 The Fire — -. — . ,^2 
 
 The Great Garden •- — — ^ 167 
 
 Blind-Man's JSu^ .-^ .» ^ i;^ 
 
 THE 
 
THE 
 
 CHILDREN'S FRIEND, 
 
 MAURICE. 
 
 [ My d€ar Son, 
 
 DO not let the news that I am going to communi- 
 cate afflift you too much. I wilh 1 could conceal 
 it from you, but I cannot. Your father is dan- 
 geroufly ill, and without a miracle in his favour we mull. 
 lofe him, O heavens ! my heai t is raady to burft when I 
 think of his afflidion. For thefe fix days I have not 
 clofed my eyes, and am now fo weak that I can fcarcely 
 hold my pen. You muft come home immediately. The 
 fervant who delivers you this letter, will return with 
 you. Your father defircs earneilly to fee you. ** Mau- 
 rice, my dear Maurice, if 1 could embrace him before I 
 die !" he has repeated a hundred times in the day. 
 Would to heaven that you were here now 1 However, do 
 not lofe a moment in packing up your things ; and I have 
 ordered the man to make all poflible expedition. Every 
 moment will be an age of anxiety to me, until I clafp 
 you in my arms. Adieu, my dear child 1 may the Lord 
 proted: you from all dangers on your journey ! I wait 
 your return with the moft lively impatience, and am 
 
 Your ever afFeftionate mother, 
 Oxford. 
 
 CECILIA LAVINGTON. 
 
 Dear Ccuji?i, 
 
 I have now no other friend but you to apply to, snd 
 from you alone I can hope for comfori in a misfortiuie 
 too weighty for me to bear. Heaven iias deprived nie of 
 
 VOL. II. B whiit 
 
2 MAURICE. 
 
 what was deareft to me on earth, my bclcved huib^nd'. 
 You know how fincere and tender an afFedlion I bore 
 him. 'I'his day fe'nnight he dt fired me to fend for our 
 fon from fchool. When Maurice was brought up to his 
 hed, he iirecched out his hand to him, and had fcarceljr 
 given him his blelling, before he expired. With him is 
 gone all the I'atisfartion and happinefs of my life. You 
 fee me now plunged into a fituation the moil dillrefsfal 
 and aifli(fling to a woman, and a mother. Yet if I fuf- 
 fered alone, I could bear it ; but my poor fon fighs by my 
 fide. He is not yet fenfible of the misfortune of being 
 an orphan. It wounds my heart to fee him look up 
 to me with tears in his eyes, while he prcfles my hand, 
 and fpeaks of his father. None but a mother can have 
 an idea of fo affliding a fight. 1 think at ihofe times 
 that I read in his looks thefe melancholy words : " It is 
 you alone, my dear mother, that mull maintain me now." 
 W^herever 1 go, he is at my fide, and wipes the tears from 
 his little eyes wiih my g^wn. Sorrow ftops my voice 
 when 1 would comfort him, for the very fight of my 
 child renews all my afflidions. How Ihall I maintain 
 him ? My poor hufl^and has left me nothing, and my 
 hands are too feeble to work. To whom then Ihall I 
 look for alTiilance, unlefs to you f On you alone I reft all 
 my hopes. Heaven, I doubt not, vyill dilpofe your heart 
 to relieve a dellitute and forlorn widow, and to prove 
 that the ties of blood which unite us are facred. 1 give 
 up my fon to your care. Whatever kindnefs you fhew to 
 him, I fliall receive as performed for my fake, and for 
 the memory of a man who Joved you. All the flrength 
 and fpirits that I have left 1 will exert, to gain mylelf a 
 livelihood by working ; but to bring up my fon properly 
 is beyond my power. 1 give him up therefore to you en- 
 tirely. However fevere it may be to part with my child, 
 1 muft yield to neceffity. In the mean time I comfort 
 myfclf in the reflexion, thnt I rely on the fa.vour of a 
 jiicrciful God, _and the kindnefs of a worthy relation. 
 Be you to him as a father, and enable him one day to 
 foften my afflii^lions. I am unable to proceed. My tears, 
 which wet my paper, (hew you fufficiently what my heart 
 feels. You have it in } our power to determine my hap- 
 finefs, and the well-being of my fon. God will forever 
 
 biefs 
 
MAURICE. 3 
 
 blefs your liberality ; he will reward you even in this 
 world for your kindnefs to two unfortunate relations. 
 I am, dear coufin, 
 
 Your difconfolate kInAvoman, &c. 
 0:cfcrd, 
 
 CECILIA LAVINGTON, 
 
 Madajftf 
 
 Yoars of the 7th inH:. in which yo4j inform me ef your 
 hufband's death, has given me the fincereil; affliclion. 
 You may be afTured, I partake of your grief, and feel 
 ftill more for your lofs than for my own. Yet I mud 
 confefs, I cannot help being a good deal farprized that 
 you think of applying to me alone for afliilance. Is it 
 abfolutely nece/Tary that your fon ihould h.ive the educa- 
 . tion of a fcholar, and add another to the number of half- 
 learned fmatterers that are already in the world ? Are 
 there not many other profeflions in which he may render 
 as great fervices to fociety, and labour to n)ore advantage 
 for his own interell: ? Confider with yourfelf, how without 
 fortune or friends will he bs able to advance him felf? 
 You know the world too well, to make it neceiTary for ma 
 to ihew yon that fuch an attempt would be impradlicable. 
 On the other hand, it would be unpleailng to yourfelf 
 to fee him chargeable to Grangers. You fpeak of the 
 ties of blood ; but my own family, which is very nu- 
 merous, puts me more forcibly in mind of them ; and I 
 b'eg you to believe that it is with great difficulty 1 c;;a 
 maintain them in a fuitable manner. To load myfelf 
 with an additional burthen, is abfolutely out of my 
 power; and I am convinced, tbat upon more mature re- 
 flexion, you wjH djfpenfe with my doing fo. All that I 
 can do is to put your fon apprentice to a mercer at Ro- 
 chefter, a Mr. Duranr, with whom I have coac.rns in 
 bufinefs. I promife you, he Iball be well treated there. 
 You may fend him upon trial for fome time : and if ap- 
 proved, he will take him without a fee. Confider ma- 
 turely of my offer, and let me know your determination, 
 and your fon's. if he refoJves to go to the Univerfuy, it 
 is abfolutely out of my power to maintain him there. I 
 B z rcquel^. 
 
4 MAURICE. 
 
 requeft you to accept the enclofcd order for four (guineas, 
 as a proof of my concern for your prefent diltrefled fitua- 
 ation, and to believe me. 
 
 Madam, c^c. 
 London, 
 
 Dear Sir, 
 I cannot forget the care that you and Mrs. Matters took 
 of me wliile at your academy, though I have at prefent 
 fcarccly ih'-ength to write you thcfe lines of acknowledge- 
 ment. But my mama, who fits by me crying, is un- 
 able through grief to take pen in hand, and has laid that 
 tafk on me who am fo unfit for it. However, from re- 
 membering your conllant kindnefs to me, I find fome fa- 
 tisfatlion in writing lo you, though I may fucceed but 
 indifferently. You are already informed, I fuppofe, of 
 my papa's death. Ah ! fir, what you foretold me is not 
 come to pafs. You bid me not to be uneafy ; that I 
 fhould perhaps, when I came home, find my papa out of 
 danger. But, alas! he is dead. My mama is now a 
 poor widow, and I an orphan. I dreaded no lefs, as I 
 came near our houfe. I had fallen afleep in the chaife, 
 and dreamed that my papa was in heaven ; and that he 
 took me by the hand, and fpoke to me. At this I awoke, 
 and in waking, feemed to hear the pafling-bell toll. Yet 
 we were not near the houfe, and had more than three 
 miles to go yet. At lalt, when I arrived, my mama 
 was at our door, waiting for me, all in tears. She killed 
 me, and took me up flairs to my papa who was in bed 
 and almoll fpeechlefs. When I kilfed him, oh dear! 
 how I cried and fobbed. At this he opened his eyes, and 
 feeing me, laid his hand upon my head, and gave me his 
 bleffing ; but in fo faint a voice as fcarcely to be heard. 
 Ah ! you cannot imagine how my mama and 1 cried. 
 Ail his neighbours and acquaintance were in tears, too, 
 at his funeral ; but mama and I more than any body. 
 1 begin to eat and drink a little, but my mama has 
 abfolutely taken no nourifhment, fo that fhe is as pale as 
 death ; and 1 beg of her continually not to die, for then 
 I do not know what would become of me in this world. 
 Ah ! dear fir, you may imagine how great a trouble it is 
 to mama and me, that 1 am not able to continue my 
 
 educa- 
 
MAURICE. 5 
 
 education. But it cannot be otherwife, and I muft be 
 content. My mama has written to her coufm in London, 
 who is a rich merchant, to requell him to maintain me 
 atlcliool; but he v/i!l not, and he fays that I ihall be 
 no better than a half-iearned fmatterer. For my part, 
 I think, I might have learning enough if my mother 
 had the tenth part of his money. But no ; 1 mivll go 
 apprentice to Mr. Durant the mercer, at Rocheiler. I 
 cannot tell you how much that grieves me. Mama 
 ftrives to comfort me, and tells me that it is a repacable 
 line of bufinefs, and that i may make a fortune by fol- 
 lowing it with application. But what does all this fignify, 
 when one diflikes it ? You know, dear fir, that learning 
 was ail to me : 1 wifhed to be as good a fcholar and di- 
 vine as my papa. Before, I had always a book in my 
 hand ; now I Ihall be employed meafuring filks with a 
 yard. But I muft hold my tongue, fince it cannot bs 
 otherwife. Dear fir, I wifh you happinefs, and fliall al- 
 ways think of you. 1 hope, too, that you will not for- 
 get me, and thank you again for your kind treatment of 
 me. 1 fuppofe Mr. Durant will feldom take me to Lon- 
 don, fo that as I pafs there in my way to Rocheiler, I 
 (hall go and fee you and Mrs. Mailers ; and if ever I 
 come into great bufinefs, you Ihiall take whatever you 
 pieafe in my ihop, without paying a farthing. Only try. 
 You fhall fee. Meantime 1 am, and ever ihall be. 
 
 Dear fir, 
 
 (as you ufed to call me,) 
 
 your little friend, 
 
 Oxford, MAURICE LAVING TON, 
 
 Maurice, Mrs. La'vington, Oxford, 
 
 Maurice, Ah ! mama, the ftage is ready to fet oiF. 
 
 Mrs. La'v. {in tears.) My dear child, are you going" 
 then to leave me ? 
 
 Maurice. Pray, mama, do not cry fo, or I Ihall be dull 
 all the journey. Where are my gloves.? Ah! they are oa 
 my hands. I do not know what I am doing, 
 
 B 3: Mrs,. 
 
6 MAURICE. 
 
 Mrs. lav. What pain it is to pf.rt with you ! I will 
 accoi"npr;ny you at leall a little way out of town. 
 
 MaurUc. Nay, dear mania, you arc already fo ill, 
 ami fo vve;ik ! 
 
 Mrs. La-'j. It is but half a mile, my dear. 
 
 Maurice. Bur you know, ihe dodor fays that you mufl 
 take caie of yourfelf. U you were to come home worfe, 
 pnd be obliged, like my papn, to take to your bed and 
 .die^ I ihould be the caufe of it. No, you mull not ftir 
 out, or q\(c I'll net go. 
 
 Mrs. La'v. Well, my dear child, then I will ftay. 
 
 Maurice. Yes, m.nma, do not move our, and when I 
 am gone, lie down on the bed and try to rell. 
 
 Mrs. La-j. Oh ! I wifli I. could. 
 
 Maurice. Good bye, good mama. 
 
 Mrs. La'v. God blefs you and watch over yon, my 
 dc-ir c!ii!d. Be good, honeil and indultrious, and make 
 your mother hnppy. 
 
 Maurice. You (liall fee, mama ; you Ciall fee that I wi-lj 
 make you happy. 
 
 Mrs. Lav. VVrite to me regulajly, at leaft once a fort- 
 night. 
 
 Maurice. Yes, every week, mama ; and will you write 
 to me too ? 
 
 Mrs. Lav. Can you a{k that ? I fhall now have no other 
 plcafure upon eartft. But fhall we ever fee each other 
 ai;ain in this world ? 
 
 Maurice. Oh! yes; we fliall fee each other again. I 
 will take care to behave fo well that I will get leave to 
 come and fee you in fix months. But mama, the flage is 
 going off. 1 muft lenve you. 
 
 Mrs. La^v. One kifs more, my dear child ! Farewel I 
 {J hey ^ua-ve their hands until cut of fight.') 
 
 Mr. Durant, Maurice. Rochcfer. 
 
 Mr. Durcnt. What d^o you bring me there, my little 
 geivtleinan ? 
 
 Maurice. A letter, fir, my name is Lavlngton. I fup- 
 pofe you know what it concerns. 
 
 Mr. Durant. Oh ! you are little Lavington. I am glad 
 to fee you. I like your face very well. Have you a tafte 
 ior buiint fs ? 
 
 Maurice* 
 
M A U R r C E. 
 
 Maurice, {fighing.) Why yes, fir. 
 
 Mr. Durant. You have been ibme time at fchool ; car^ 
 you read ? 
 
 Maurice. Yes, fir, I could read when I was only five 
 years old ; and now I am twelve. 
 
 Mr. Durant. Then your father muft have begun prett;/ 
 early with you. Can you write too, and call acc.mpts ? 
 Kow much is 6 times 8 r 
 
 Maurice. 48 ; ar.d 6 times 48 make 288; and 6 times - 
 288 make — nop a moment — make 1728 ; and add 59 to 
 that, it makes 17S7 exaflly, the prefent year of our 
 Lore. 
 
 Mr. Durant. PIovv' ? Why you caft accompts like a 
 banker. J ihail be glad to have lb clever a httle boy be- 
 hind my counter, 
 
 Maurice. J hope, fir, I fhall give you fatisfaftion. 
 
 Mr. Durante According as you behave yourfelf. 
 
 Maurice. Sir, 1 afK no better. 
 
 Mr. Durant* I make no doubt but we fhall be good 
 friends. 
 
 Maurice. O fir! you fiiall never have reafon to find 
 fault with me. I love my mama too well to run the riCt 
 of grieving her. 
 
 Mr. Dturant, Come then, I will introduce you to my 
 wife and children. I have two much about your age. 
 
 Maurice, I hope, fir, to gain the regard of all your 
 family. 
 
 Lady Ahher-villey Maurice, 
 
 Maurice, {carrying a piece of fat tin rolled Jip.) Your fer- 
 vant, madam. Mr. Durant gives his compliments to 
 your ladyihip, and fends the twelve yards of fat tin, of the 
 pattern that you fhewed him. You know the price, 
 madam ? 
 
 Lady Abber. He alked me thirteen fliillings at the firft 
 word. That is fomething dear. 
 
 Maurice. Have you a meafure in the houfe, madam? 
 
 Lady Abler. Mr. Durant is an honeft man. I never 
 meafure after him. How much does it come to } 
 
 Maurice. ^<t\zn pounds fixteen fhillings, madam. 
 
 Lady Abber, That is a good deal of money. Has he 
 ordered you to receive it ? 
 
 B 4 Maurice, 
 
8 MAURICE. 
 
 Maurice. That is as your ladyfhip pleafes. 
 
 Lady Abber. Well, there are leven pounds fixtcen {hil- 
 lings, I fhall ca.l on him for a receipt ; hut \i 1 were 
 diipofed to cheapen, cannot you abate me foniething? 
 
 Maurice. Yes, madam. Mr. Durant told me that I 
 Ihould abate a lliilling a yard. 
 
 Lac^y Abber. Well, my little boy, that is very honefl:. 
 I am perfectly well pleafed with your fincerity. Let me 
 fee; that makes twelve Ihillings. 
 
 Maurice. Yes, madam ; I have twelve ihillings to return 
 you. 
 
 Lady Abber. Keep them yourfelf, my little friend. This 
 is my birth-day, and I will make you a prefent of them. 
 
 Maurice. Madam, I beg pardon, 1 cannot take them. 
 
 Lady Abber, You fhall; it is my property, and I give 
 it to you. 
 
 Maurice. Perhaps Mr. Durant would t?.ke it amifs. 
 
 Lady Abber. That is my concern. I lliali make that up. 
 
 Maurice. Madam, I return you a thoufand thanks. 
 This money fhall not flay long in my pocket. I will fend 
 it off directly to my mama, and mention your ladylhip 
 to her in my letter. I (hall go and write it imn-iediately. 
 
 Lady Abber. No, no ; I mufl not let you go (o Lv^t. I 
 fee that we have a good deal to ^Ay to each other. Tell 
 me in the iiril place who is your mama, and where does 
 Ihe live ? 
 
 Mciwice. Ah! my poor mama is widow to a clergy- 
 man of Oxford. My papa is dead thefe two months. Tie 
 was too chariiable to the poor to leave much money be- 
 hind him. He kept me at fchool for three years near 
 London ; but I was fcfnt home a little before he died, be- 
 cauie he wilhed to fee me once more. And as it was 
 not in mama's poaer to continue my education, a kinf- 
 man of hers fent me to be apprentice to Mr. DuraHt the 
 mercer. I am vviih him upon trial. But if my relation 
 that is fo rich had thought proper, i ihould have gone to 
 the Univerfity and taken my degrees. Ah ! 1 Ihould 
 have been happy to follow my fludies, and to become one 
 day a great fcholar. I was always the foremod in my 
 ciafs, and my mailers were very fond of me. The next 
 time that your ladylhip fhall have occafion for any thing 
 from us, 1 will fliew you a letter from our head mafler, 
 which I received a week ago. You will fee by it how fond 
 
 he 
 
MAURICE. 9 
 
 he was of me. Ay, aiKi he fays, he will be fond of me 
 as long as he lives. 
 
 La^j Abler. I do not doubt it, my good chi.'d. You 
 have already made me very fond of you, though this is 
 the firil time that ever I have feen you. But tell me; 
 would you be glad to go from behind the counter, and 
 return to fchool ? 
 
 Maurice. Ah ! if that was poflible. But my mama 
 cannot doit; fhe has not money enough, and fchooling 
 is expeniive. 
 
 Lady Abber, Yes ; but if your mother has not, there 
 are many people in the world that have more than enough. 
 What would you fay if I were to fend you to a gentle- 
 man who ihouid examine you, to fee if you have made 
 good ufe of the time that you have fpent at fchoo), and 
 are likely to make a progrefs if you fhould return thither ? 
 Maurice. O madam, how happy fiiould I be 1 Pray 
 fend me to the gentleman direftly. You fhall fee what he 
 v/ill fay of. me. And then "I may learn what I have not 
 yet had time to know. 
 
 Lady Abber. Do you know the principal academy of 
 this town ? 
 
 Maurice. Oh yes, madam. I have often fighed as I 
 pafTed by the door of it. 
 
 Lady Abber. Well ; iiay a moment. (^Bhe fits doavn be- 
 fore her bureau, nxirites a letter and gi^es it to Maurice) 
 There, run to the academy and afk for the mailer. Yon 
 mull fpeak to bimfelf. You will give my compliments 
 to him and reqaell him to fend a line in aniwer to my ' 
 note. 
 
 Maurice. But madam, I am in a hurry to fend thefe 
 twelve {hillings to my mama. 
 
 Lady Abber. You can wait till to-morrow. Perhaps 
 you may have Hill better news to fend her. 
 
 Maurice. I will firft, madam, carry your letter ar.d 
 then hallen to Mr. Durant who waits for me. 
 Lady Abber. T.ike care not to go allray. 
 Maurice. Oh 1 I Ihall ilnd my way. I wifh your lady. 
 ihip good morning. In lefo than half an hour the mailer 
 of the academy Ihall Lave your letter, I will fly to him. 
 like a bird* 
 
10 MAURICE, 
 
 The Majler cf the Academy, Maurice. Rochefter* 
 
 Maurice. Sir, I have a note for you from Lady 
 
 Oh 1 dear, 1 have forgot her name. But J will run back 
 to her to know it. 
 
 The Mdjier. There is no occafion for that, child. I 
 fuppofe the hidy's name is to the note. {^He cpens^ and 
 looks at the bctiom.) Lady Abberville 1 Oh ! it is a hand 
 that i know very well, {reads.) 
 Sir, 
 
 The child whom I fend to you is a poor orphan. His 
 father is lately dead, and his mother has been under the 
 necefljty of taking him from fchcol, in order to put him 
 apprentice, lie Teems, however, to have a llrong delire 
 for learning ; therefore I beg as a favour that you will 
 have the goodnefs to examine him, and if you form any 
 hopes of him, I ihall charge myfelf with his education. 
 This being my birth day, puts me in mind of the duty to 
 which we are born, that of doing good to our fellow- 
 creatures ; and this child feems to have been fent by hea- 
 ven to be the object of it. J requeH you to give me your 
 opinion of him, and am, fir, &c. 
 
 Take a feat, my little man. I fliall be at your fervlce 
 in a minute. I am in hafte to finifh a letter. 
 
 Maurice. Oh ! fir, what fine books you have there ! it 
 i;; a long time finceT have looked into any. Will )oa 
 plcafe to let me open one while you write ? 
 
 The Majler. With all ray heart, my dear. 
 
 Mam ice. Hah ! this is Homer. But it is in Greek. It 
 is too hard for rae. I never read it but in Englifh. 
 
 The Majlcr. What ! have you read Homer ? -And what 
 410 you think of him ? 
 
 Maurice. He is full of fine paflages, and cfpecially of 
 beautiful fimilies. Only 1 wifh that Achilles had not 
 been fo pafTionate and ftubborn. 
 
 The Majier. V/hat initances of paflion or ftubbornnefs 
 do you find in him ? 
 
 Maurice. Was it well dene of liim to leave the Greeks 
 in dilbcls? Was it their fault if he quarrelled with Aga- 
 jViemnon ? They had done him no wrong. Should not he 
 have fuifered himfelf to be perfuaded, when the deputies 
 came to make fubmiflion to him in his tent? But no, he 
 z remains 
 
MAURICE. II 
 
 remains immoveable as a rock. I Hiould not have Jet 
 them entreat me fo long. I fliould have foJlovved them 
 at the iirll word. 
 
 The Majier. Then you are very good-natured. 
 Maurice, We fhould be fo towards alJ men, and efpe- 
 ciaily to our countrymen. Oh ! you have a Sophocles 
 too. The tragedy of Philodletes^ I believe, is by him. 
 1 have read it in Englifh. Jt is a very moving play. 
 But I'll tell you, fir, what I liked bell in it. 
 The Miijlcr. i ihould be g!ad to know. 
 Maurice, it is a young Grecian — What is this his- 
 name is? 
 
 The Majler. Neoptolemus. 
 
 Maurice. Yes, yes ; Neoptolemus. It is when he 
 comes back and brings PhiJcdetes his bow and arrows, 
 J think that I fhould have done the fame. But 1 beg 
 pardon, fir ; perhaps my talk growj tirefome to you. 
 
 The Majier. Not at all. I iiiten to you wiih pleafure, 
 Bcfides, my letter is finifhed. 
 
 JSIaurice. Then, lir, J will beg you to tell me wh;»t fine 
 book of prints that is, that lies open on your tiefk. 
 
 The Mafier. Jt is a col'eclion of engravings from the 
 £neft paintings in the gallery at Florence. 
 Maurice. That is Jupiter ; I know him. 
 The Majhr. How do you like him ? 
 
 Maurice. 1 like the piduie very well, l)ut not Mr» 
 Jupiter. 
 
 The Majler. Why not ? 
 
 Maurice. Becaul'e he was an odious chara(J^er. I do 
 not know how the Greeks and Romans could be fucii 
 fools as to worihip him. He was quite a libertine, and 
 alwavs quarrelling with Juno, is that acting like a god ? 
 The Majier. You arc right. He was an improper and 
 contemptible cbjev^ cf worfnip. However, nothing has 
 been handed down to us concerning him but the imagi- 
 nations of the vulgar; and you know that the people has 
 always been blind and fuperititious. 
 
 Maurice. Why our peaiants nov^-a-days have more 
 fenfe. Only imagine, fir, the clergyman cf a parlfn 
 going into the pulpit, and preaching that God almighty 
 has a //ife, whom he deceives and icolds every day. His 
 pariliiioners would not believe a word of it. 
 
 B 6 The 
 
12 MAURICE. 
 
 ^'he Majler. How comes it that the vulgar are rxoyt . 
 more fenlible than in former times ? 
 
 Maurice. From the light of the gofpel. There every 
 thing Ihews a juil and good God. If I had lived in 
 Greece, and had poflefTed fuch a book, they would never 
 have worftiipped any other than the God that we worfliip. 
 
 The Majier. Kifs me, my line hoy ; what is yourname?- 
 Mcrurice. Maurice Lavington. 
 
 The Majler. Indeed, my dear Maurice, it would be a 
 pity that you paffed your life behind a counter. You 
 mull apply yourlelf to learning again. 
 
 Maurice. Ah ! 1 fhould like that very well, if it was in 
 my power. 
 
 The Majler. I will give you my anfwer to Lady Ab- 
 berville. 
 
 Maurice. Sir, I fhall take it with pleafure. But Ihe 
 requeils you, fir, 1 believe, to have the kinunefs to exa- 
 mine me. 
 
 The Majier. I have done that already. I can judge of 
 your ynderllanding and your heart. Perhaps I may have 
 the pleafure of contributing to procure you a more happy 
 lot. Amufe yourlelf in looking over thefe prints, while 
 I write my anfwer. 
 
 Maurice. Or rather, fir, oblige me with a pen and fome 
 paper : 1 will write too. 
 
 The Majter. To your benefadlrefs 1 
 
 Maurice. No, fir ; to another perfon. 
 
 The Majier. May not I know to whom ? 
 
 Maurice. When my letter is finiflied, fir, you fhall 
 fee it. 
 
 The Majier. I long to have a view of it. {They both Jit 
 doixtt. Maurice ^-writes the fdla^'jing letter.^ 
 
 Dear Sir, 
 I thank you a thoufand times for your kindncfs in 
 taking notice of me and in writing to Lady Abberville. 
 1 fliould be very happy to return to my former fchool> 
 where every body loves me ; but iince you will be the 
 occafion of my happinefs, I (hall be glad to enjoy it un- 
 der your eye. U 1 am io lucky as to be admitted into 
 your academy, I will love ycu wiiii all my heart. I hope, 
 I lliall be diligent and. well behaved, and learn every thing 
 that you will be kind enough to teach mc, i hardly dare 
 
 hope 
 
MAURICE. i^ 
 
 hope that it will be fo. That depends on the will o£ 
 Providence, and yours. But it i remain with Mr. Du- 
 rant, you will not refufe me the pleafure of coming lo fee 
 you now and then, and of difcouriing a iittlvi with yoa 
 and reading your fine books ; otherwife 1 ihdl! foon f rget 
 all that 1 have learned at fchool, and 1 fhould be forry for 
 that, although it be not much. 1 hope, dear fir, you will 
 have the goodnefa to oblige me, and 1 will let my mama 
 know it, to comfort her forrows ; for Ihe is very fond of 
 me, and 1 too of her. Perhaps one day 
 
 The Majier. Well, Maurice, is your letter finifhed ? 
 Maurice, No, fir, not quite. I have more to fay than 
 you have. But there, fir, read it, fuch as it is. 
 
 The Majier, How is this ? Why it is addreiled to me» 
 Well, this is charm^ing. No, my good lictle Maurice, 
 you fhall not remain at Mr. Durant's, but fiiall come 
 to me, if you like it better. You will go now to Lady 
 Abberviile. Give her this note, with my humble refpecls, 
 and let me know what fhe fays of it. 
 
 Maurice. O dear! fhall I be fo happy!— 
 The Majier. Go, and heaven befriend you I 
 Maurice, Oh 1 1 fhall run, and be back again diredlly.. 
 [Bonxjing to the majier.) Your fer van t, fir. 
 
 Lady Ahber'villey Maurice. RocheJIer» 
 
 Lady Ahber'viUe, Well, Maurice, do you bring me aa- 
 
 fvver ? 
 
 Maurice. Yes, madam ; here it is. 
 
 Lady Abler. I am curious to know what it fays; no-- 
 thing very favourable, 1 am afraid. 
 
 Maurice, Oh-! nothing to my prejudice, madam, lam 
 fure. 
 
 Lady Abler, {reads to herfelf.) 
 
 '' ** Madam, 
 
 " You could not give me a morefenfible pleafure than 
 what 1 felt in the converfation of this amiable child. His 
 looks full of ingenuous innocence, the lively fpirit that 
 appears in his eyes and animates his difcourfe, have 
 warmly attached me to him. I'o fnine as a man of -eLters 
 is more fuitable to his gexiius, than to purfue the line to 
 
 wlikh 
 
 an 
 
14 MAURICE, 
 
 which his father's death and the poverty of his family had 
 delHned him. 1 congratulate you, madam, that you chofe 
 for the objed of your generoiity a child of fo fair hopes. 
 Heaven feems to have thrown him in your way for that 
 purpcfe. 1 am Itrongiy perfuadcd that his behaviour-^nd 
 feiuiments will never give you caufe to leptnt, and (hall 
 elleem myfelf very happy if by my carts 1 can promote 
 your generous intentions. 
 
 J have the honour to be. &c." 
 
 LaJy Ahher. The mailer feems to be only half fatisiied 
 with you. 
 
 Maurice, Oh ! madam, he is quite fatisfied. He told 
 me fo, and I can fee it in your e\es. 
 
 Lady Abher. Ay? Can you fee it there, my little cun- 
 ning man ? But to fpeak ferioufly, if there was a perfon 
 that would take the charge of ) our maintenance and edu- 
 cation, what would you do for that perfon ? 
 
 Maurice. What would I do ? — I hardly know. I can 
 do nothing of myfelf, hut I would pray f )r that perfon 
 from the bottom of my heart, both day and night. 
 
 Lady Abler. Then you Ihall pray for me, my dear 
 child, as for your fecond mother. 
 
 Maurice. Will you be my mama ? 
 
 Lady Abler. Yes, I will. Your fitherls dead. I will 
 fill his place, and do every thing for you that he would. 
 Ygu (hall go to your learning again, and nothing fhall be 
 wanting to your education. 
 
 Maurice, Oh dear! my good mama, I can hardly fpeak 
 for joy. 
 
 Lady Abler. If you love me, you will never call me any 
 thing but mama, remember. 
 
 Maurice. Oh ! yes, mama. I am as happy as a 
 king. 
 
 Lady Abler. You will lofe your little fenfes. Come, 
 be compofed, and let U3 take a walk in the garden. I 
 have fomething to fiy to you of your mother. 
 
 Mr. Duranty Maurice, Kochejier^ 
 
 Mr, 
 
 Mr. Durcfjt. Where have you been fo long ? 
 Maurice. Oh! Mr. Durant, if you knew— 
 
MAURICE. 15 
 
 Mr. Durant. Knew ! I know that you (hould not be (o 
 long on an errand. Do not Jet this be the cafe another 
 time. What ! could not you find Lady Abberville at 
 home ? 
 
 Maurice. Yes, fir, I found her, and I found in her a 
 fecond mother. 
 
 Mr. Durant. What fluff is this? Are you mad? 
 
 Maurice. No, fir : but I am going to my learning 
 again. I ihall be put to an academy in a few days, and 
 my mama, Lady Abberville, will come to-morrow and 
 fpeak to you about it. 
 
 Mr. Durant. What, do not you chafe to flay with me, 
 then ? 
 
 Maurice. Why, fir, I like learning and ftudy better 
 than bufmefs. 
 
 Mr. Durant. So then, you are only come hither to go 
 away again ? You have deceived me. 
 
 Maurice. No, lir, I fhould be very forry. I had ^not a 
 thought of going, and could have ftaid here contenj^edly. 
 But fuppofe yourfelf in my place for a moment. \f my 
 papa had not died, I fliould not have quitted fchool to 
 live here, A worthy lady ads to me like a parent and 
 offers to put me to fchool again : is it a fault in me to 
 accept her ladyfhip's offer ? 
 
 Mr. Durant. WeH, you are only upon trial here, it is 
 true, and your choice is free. You are very right. 
 However, 1 wifn I had never feen you, for I began to be 
 fond of you, and now I fhall grieve to part with you 
 {(^oes out.) 
 
 Maurice. Mr. Durant is fomething blunt, but a very 
 worthy man. I ihall be forry to leave him and his wife 
 and his children. But I muft write to mama. Oh ! 
 how happy will fhe be on reading my letter ! 1 wiih that 
 fee had it now in her hands, and that I were by her fide 
 the next moment. (He begins to write,) 
 
 '* Dear Mama y 
 " Joy! joy I you are now free from all trouble, and 
 J too. Do not, however, let tears of joy hinder you from 
 reading my letter. This is the ilory of myhappinefs. 
 Mr. Durant fent me this morning to carry fome fattin to 
 Lady Abberville. Oh ! an excellent lady ! Ah ! if you 
 were here now ! but do you know, mama, that you are 
 
 to 
 
^ 
 
 i5 MAURICE. 
 
 to be here before a week ? ih^^ will give you an apartment 
 in her houfe, and you will live with her, and 1 fha!l go 
 to fchool, and fnall come to fee you whenever you chufe. 
 Oh! that will be a happinelV ; fuch a happinefs ! you 
 remember, forall that, how you cried whei I was leaving 
 you. You ("aid that you kiflcd me, perhaps, for the lall 
 time. 1 hope now, you will never have that to fear again. 
 My mama is to fend you nioney for the journey, for Ine 
 is as much my mama as you are, and J am very fure that 
 you will not be angry at that. All the money, hoA'ever^ 
 that you receive in this parcel is not from her ; there are 
 twelve Hiillings from me. She gave them to me, and I 
 fend them to you. Make hafte to get every thing in rea- 
 dinefs for your journey hither; the fooner you come the 
 happier we fliall be. I have fpoken fo well of you to the 
 lady that ilie vviihes to fee you a'moil as much as I do» 
 Set out, let out : I fhall watch the coming of every ftage> 
 to tell you the whole fti»ry before you fee her, though I 
 fuppofe ihe tells it to you herfelf in the letter that Die 
 writes to you to-day. I have not time to add more, for 
 I ihould be afraid that my letter would be too late if I 
 wrote all that 1 have to fay. 
 
 lam, dear mama, &c.'* 
 
 ** Madam y 
 
 •' How Ihall [ find words to exprefs to you my joy 
 and grantude ! Gracious heaven ! my misforrunes are 
 ■^then at an end. I am happy and my child alio, and ta 
 you we owe that we are io. How Hi all i be able to bear 
 lb' fudden an elevation from agulph of mifcry to the fum- 
 mit of joy ! I have onlv tears to expre fs vvhat 1 feel, and 
 I am forry that I cannot give you even this telHmony of 
 my gratitude perfonally at this moment. Ycu have 
 wiihed to be a mother, therefore you may, perhaps, form 
 an iJea of my haipinefs ; as for me, I want words to ex- 
 prefs it, and f Hiali want them, perhaps, Itill more when 
 1 for the firll time fee my fon placed between u^both, and 
 our aims intermingled in embracing him. Eut you will 
 underliand my filence, which the ardor and finceriry of 
 my attachment to you iliallpeifedly explain every moment 
 of my life. 
 
 Oxford^ I have the honour to be, &c." 
 
 THs:. 
 
[ '7 ] 
 
 THE PARRICIDE. 
 
 HAT dreadful weather! I perifh with cold and 
 have no Ihelter agaiull: the bitter winds, no bed to 
 warm my benumbed limbs. I am old and my Itrength 
 is exh.iurted by labour. Unnatural Ton! The thought of 
 you tears my heart. Unnatural Ton ! I gave you l-fe ; I 
 nourifhed you and took care of your weak and fickly in- 
 fancy. When I faw you fuffer through iilnefs, my tears 
 fell upon your cheeks. You loved me at that time and 
 would fay, while you carefied me, '' Papa, what makes 
 you cry? I am not fick now; do not be troubled; fee 
 I am quite well,'* You raifed yourfelf up in your bed ; 
 your little hands would p'lay in my hair, and you would 
 fay again, ** Do not grieve any more ; I am cured.'* And 
 as you f^ oke the words, you would fall down again 
 through weaknefs. You would ftrive to fpeak, but could 
 not. At lall, hovvever, your body grew llrong; you be- 
 came hale and robuJl, and you fiioufd have been the prop 
 of my old age. I laboured all my life for you, and now 
 you ihut me out of your houfe in the midft of wind and 
 fnow. ** We cannot live together any longer, father," fald 
 you to me in your fury. And why not, my fon ? What 
 have I done to you ? I have exhorted you to virtue ; that 
 is all my crime. When I faw you fpend in debauchery 
 the earnings of fixty years labour, the fortune of which [ 
 willingly ftripped myfelf to enrich you, I pointed out 
 your danger to you. God is my witnefs that I was more 
 anxious on your account than on my own. Was I not 
 filent long enough, for fear of troubling you? But my 
 filence and my forrow^ .which I llrove to hide, made no 
 impreiTion on you. I was then obliged to fpeak. I" 
 thought it my duty then to refume the prerogative of a 
 father;. yet my authority was tempered with mildnefs. 
 My difcourfe was as tender as it was earneft. I fpoke to 
 you of your mother who died through grief on account 
 of your diforderly life I 1 ipoke to you of myfelf, whom 
 the fame caufe would probably fend to my grave. I 
 fhewed you my aged cheeks almoft worn with the tears 
 that you have made me Ihed. I Ihewed you my grey hairs 
 which ilood on end through anguifli and forrow, I opened 
 
 my 
 
iS JONATHAN. 
 
 my arms to you, to invite you to my bofom. I (hould 
 have fallen on my knees to you, if your father, even 
 in that humble pollure, could have foftened you. And 
 you, my fjn — 1 can fcarceiy believe it yet — you advanced 
 towards me with a threatening air: your arm was ilretch- 
 c(l out, and your gate fhui againll me. You my Ton ? 
 You are no longer i'o. Why do my bowels ilill feel the 
 yearnings of a father towards you ? J am tempted to wi(h 
 that 1. could curfe you : but no i dare not breathe forth 
 even my complaints aloud, i fear leil heaven fhould hear 
 them, and left this houfe, which you have Ihut againll 
 me, fhould fall upon your door. I will lay myfelf down 
 on the Jlone before your door. To-morrow you cannot 
 come out without feeing me, and 1 hardly think that your 
 heart will not loften when you fee what 1 ihall ha\ e fuf- 
 fered during this dreadful night. But if the feverity of 
 the feafon, if my exhaulted old age, and ftill more, the 
 iorrows that wound my heart, (hould occaiion my death, 
 then fliudder at thy crime ; weep for me, and for yourfelf 
 ftill more. Ah 1 I fiiould think my death a fortanate cir- 
 cumllance, if it could produce your reformation. 
 
 Such were the complaints of this old man. But the 
 north wind all the Jive-long night carried away his fighs 
 unheard. The tempeil filled the air with dreadful whir- 
 lings; the fhattered trees of the forcll were bent down; 
 and all nature ibemed to fliudder with horror at the crime 
 of his fon. The next morning the old man was found 
 dead upon the Hone. He had his hands clafped together, 
 and his face turned towards heaven. The name of his 
 fon was the laft word that he had pronounced. He had 
 prayed to the \ery lall moment for the parricide. 
 
 JONATHAN. 
 
 JONATHAN, a gardener of Lincoln, was looked 
 upon as the moitlkilful in the county. His fruits fur- 
 pafled thofeof his neighbours in bignefs, and were always 
 found to have an exquifite flavour. All the fjrfl: gentlemen 
 round about were ambitious of having his peaches at their 
 dcferts, fo that he had no occaflon to fend his melons to 
 
 the 
 
JONATHAN. 19 
 
 the market ; they were befpoke on the beds, and very 
 often could not be had for gold. The reputation that he 
 obtained, and the profits that he drew from his labours, 
 incrcafed his ailiduity in the cultivation of his garden. 
 Rich and indullrious as he was, he eafily found a proper 
 jp.atch, and efpoufed Claribell, a young woman in the 
 neighbotirhood, as prudent as fhe was handfome. The 
 firll year of their marriage was very happy. Claribell af- 
 filted her hufband in his labours, and the fruits of their 
 garden were more profperous than ever. 
 
 Unhappily for Jonathan, near his houfe there lived 
 another gardener, called Guzzle, who at day break fixed 
 himfelf in an alehoufe, which he feldom left before night. 
 Jonathan was delighted with Guzzle's hearty humour, 
 and was not long before he fell into the fame tafte. At 
 firft, he went now and then to meet him at the alehoufe, 
 and only talked to him of gardening; but very foon, in 
 his own garden, he talked to him of nothing but ftrong 
 beer. Claribell grieved at the change in her huiband's 
 behaviour. As fhe had not as yet fufHciedt experience 
 herfelf to undertake the care of the wall-trees, fhe was 
 frequently obliged to bring him home to his work, and 
 ufually found him amonglt his pots and glafTes. Alas 1 
 it would often have been better for him to flay from the 
 garden. His head was now generally muddled with beer 
 when he went to work upon his trees, and his pruning- 
 knife cut away at random amongil the branches ; thole that 
 bore were cut, as well as thofe that did not ; and the 
 fine peach trees, on which laft year there had not been a 
 fingle bough unfruitful, did now only llretch their lazy 
 arms, like io many yawning idlers. The more Jonathan 
 found his garden decay, the more fond he grew of this 
 fottifh way of life. His fruit and his vegetables had loft 
 their great name, and not being able by his earnings to 
 fatisfy his fondnefs for drink, he parted by degrees with 
 his furniture, his linen, and his clothes. At length one 
 day, when his wife was gone to market with fome roots 
 that fhe had reared herfelf, he went and fold all his garden 
 utenfils, in order to drink the money with Guzzle. It 
 would be difficult to defcribe ClaribelTs grief at her re- 
 turn. To be reduced from a moderate competency to the 
 moft deftitute poverty was not the height of her misfor- 
 tune. She felt ftill more flrongly for the fate of her huf- 
 band. 
 
20 JONATHAN. 
 
 band, and cf a young infant, fix months old, which Hie 
 had then at the breait. Wlio (hould iuppofe that this 
 child was to fave the whole family from dellrudion ? 
 
 The evening cf the fiime day, Jonathan came home 
 fwearing, thiew himfelf into a chair, and leaning on his 
 elbow over riie table, iurlily aficed his wife for fomething 
 to eat Claribsil handed him a large cafe-knife, and a 
 bafket that was covered with her apron. Jonathan fnatched 
 the apron off; but what was his lurprize, to fee his own 
 child faft alleep in the ba&et. ** Eat there, faid Claribell 
 to him ; it is all that 1 have left to give you. You are 
 the father of this child, and if you do not devour him, 
 famine and mifery sliortly will." Jonathan, ihanderllrnck 
 at thefe words, remai:ied fpeechlefs, with his eyes ilu- 
 pidly fixed upon hii fon. At length liis forrow broke 
 out in tears and exclamations. He rifes, and embracing 
 his wife, afks her pardon and promifes to reform ; and 
 he kept his word. 
 
 His father in law, who for fome time had refufed to fee 
 him, being informed of his good intentions, advanced 
 him a iv.m to enable him to put his garden in order again, 
 Jonathan made good ufe of thij lupply, and very foon 
 hi.') garden flourifhed as happily as ever. He became 
 once more and continued even to his old age, a6tive, in- 
 dulhious, a good hulband and a good father. He took 
 pleafure fometimes (though he blufhed at the fame time) 
 in telling this llory to his fon, who, from his example, 
 conceived fuch an averfion to drinking and idlenefs, tha.t 
 he was all his life as fober as he was laborious. 
 
 VANITY 
 
[ 2. ] 
 
 VANITY PUNISHED, 
 
 A Drama, in one Act, 
 Characters. 
 
 Mr. Waller. 
 Mrs. Waller. 
 Valentine, - Their Sen, 
 
 ul:.lZn, } - Friends u Mr. W.lkr. 
 Michael, - a Country boy, 
 
 Martin, - - the Gardener, 
 
 SCENE I. AGarden, 
 Mr. Waller, Mrs, Waller, 
 
 Mr. W. XT' ONDER is our Valentine walking in the 
 X garden with a book in his hand, J am 
 very much afraid that it is rather through vanity than 
 from a real defire of improving himfeif, that he always 
 appear? to be bufy reading. 
 
 Mrs. W. What makes you think fo, my dear? 
 
 Mr. W. Do not you remark that he cafts a fide-look 
 now and then, to fee if any body takes notice of him ? 
 
 Mrs. W. And yet his mailers give a very flattering ac- 
 count of his diligence, and all agree that he is very far 
 advanced for his age. 
 
 Mr. W. That is true. But if my fufplcions are right, 
 and if the little that he can knov/ has made him vain, I 
 would rather a hundred times that he knew nothing and 
 were modeft. 
 
 Mrs. W. That he knew nothing ? 
 
 Mr. W. Yes, my dear. A man without any great 
 extent of knowledge, but upright, modell and induf- 
 trious, is a much more eitimable member of fociety than 
 a learned man whofe ftudies have turned his head and 
 puffed up his heart. 
 
 Mrs. W. I cannot think that my fon is of that defcrip- 
 tion. 
 
 Mr. W. Heaven forbid ! But while we are here in the 
 country I Ihall have more opportunities of obferving 
 
 him; 
 
22 VANITY PUNISHED. 
 
 him ; and I am refolved to take advantage of the firfl: that 
 IhalloiFer, to clear up my doubts. 1 fee him coming to- 
 wards us. Leave me alone with him a moment, 
 
 S .C E N E II. 
 
 Mr. Pf^allcr, Falentine. 
 
 Val. {to Michael, ^vhom he pupes back.) No; leave me. 
 Papa, it is that little fool of a country boy that comes al- 
 ways to interrupt me in my reading. 
 
 Mr. W. Why do you call that good-natured child a 
 little fool ? 
 
 Val. Why, he knows notliittg. 
 
 Mr. W. Of what you have learnt, I grant you ; 
 but then he knows many things which you do not, and you 
 may both inform each other a good deal, if you will com- 
 municate what you know, one to the other, 
 
 Val. He may learn a good deal of me, but what can I 
 learn from him ? 
 
 Mr. W. \^ ever you fhould have a farm, do you think 
 that it would be of no fervice to you to have an early 
 notion of the labcursof the country, to learn to dillinguifh 
 trees and plants, to know the times of fowing and haiveft-, 
 and to ftudy the wonders of vegetation ? Michael poireiles 
 thefe different parts of knowledge, and defires no better 
 than to fhare them with you. They will perhaps be one 
 day of the greateft ufe to you. Thofe, on the contrary, 
 that you could communicate, would be of no fervice to 
 him. So that you fee, in this intercourfe, all the advan- 
 tage is on your fide. 
 
 Val, Well, but papa, would it become me to learn 
 -anything from a little country boy ? 
 
 Mr. W. Why not, if he is capable of inflruding you ? 
 I know no real diftindion amongft men, than that of 
 ufeful talents and good manners; and you murt own that 
 in both thefe points, he has equally the advantage over you. 
 
 Val. What, in good manners too ? 
 
 Mr. W. in ^\z\-y llation, they confdl: in treating all per- 
 fons as our duty prefcribes to us. He does fo, in ihewing 
 a particular attachment and complaifance to you. Y)o 
 you do the fame? do you make a return of mildnefs and 
 good will? And yet he feems to merit them. He is 
 adive and intelligent. I believe him to be poffell of 
 good-nature, fpirit, and good fenfe. You ought to think 
 
 yourfclf 
 
VANITY PUNISHED. 23 
 
 yodrfelf very happy in having fo amicTb'e a companion 
 with whom you may at once amufe and improve yourfelf. 
 His father is my f)fter- brother, and has alwavs had a re- 
 markable affedion for me. I am pretty fure that Michael 
 has the fame for you. See how the poor little fellow 
 hankers about the terrace-walk, to meet you. Take care 
 and ufe him wich civility. There is more honour and 
 integrity in his father's cottage than in many palaces. 
 His family too has been our tenants for fome generations, 
 and I fhould be glad to fee the connexion cuntinued be- 
 tween our children. {^He goes out .) 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Va lentine, {alo ne . ) 
 
 5, a fine connexion indeed ! I think papa is joking, 
 little country bt^y teach me any thing! No; I will 
 
 Yes, 
 'Thisli ^ ^ _ .... 
 
 furprize him now fo much with my learning that he will 
 not think of talking to me of his own, I'll warrant him. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 Valentine i Michael. 
 
 Mich. You won't have my little nofegay, then, Mailer 
 Vakntine ? 
 \. Val. Noffgay .? Pfliaw ! neither ranunculus nor tulip. 
 
 Mich. Why, it is true, they are only field flowers, but 
 i they are pretty, and I thought you might like to know 
 ' them by their names. 
 
 Val. A great matter, indeed, to know the names of 
 your he/bs. You may carry them where you found them. 
 Mich. Well now, if J had known that, I would not 
 have taken the trouble to gather them, i was refolved 
 not to go home yefterday evening without bringing you 
 fomething, and as I came back from work, tiiough it was 
 rather lace, and I had a great mind for my fupper, I 
 Hopped in our clofe, to gather them by the light of the 
 moon. 
 
 Val. You talk of the moon ! Do you know how big it 
 is? 
 
 Mich, Heh ! Fegs ! as big as a cheefe. 
 
 VaL 
 
 \ ..:... „.. 
 
24 VANITY PUNISHED. 
 
 Fal. Ignorant little clown ! {Struts ^vith an air of im- 
 portance, nubile Michael Jiands Jlari)!g at him.) Look here. 
 {Shelving him his-book.) This is Telemaquc. Have you 
 ever read it ? 
 
 Mich. That is not in the Catechifm : our fchoolmafter 
 never talked to me about that. 
 
 FaL No, it is none of your country books. 
 
 Mich, Nay, how fliould 1 have read it then ? But, let J 
 us fee it. | 
 
 Fal. Do not think of touching it with your dirty hands ! 
 {Holding one of them up.) Where did you buy thefe tanned 
 leather gloves ? 
 
 Mich. Anan ! it is my hand, Mafler Valentine. 
 
 Val. The fkin is fo hard, that one might cut it into 
 fhoe foles. 
 
 Mich. It is not with idlenefs that they are grown fo 
 hard. You know how to talk very well, 1 dare fay, and 
 ytt I would not change conditions with you. To work 
 honeftly, and offend nobody, is all that I know, and it , 
 would be no harm if you knew as much. Good bye, fir, I 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 Valentine, {alone.) 1 
 
 I think the little clown had a mind to make game of I 
 me. But I fee company coming on the terrace- walk. I 
 mull put on a ihidious air before them. {He fts down, 
 feeming to read in his hcok nvith great attention.) 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. PFaller, Mr. Ray, Mr. Najb. 
 Falentine, {feated on a bench on one fide.) 
 
 Mr. Wal. What a fine evening ! Would you chufe, 
 gentlemen, to take a walk up tliis flope, to fee the fun 
 letting ? 
 
 Mr. Ray. I was going to mention it. The weather is 
 delicious, and the Iky perfedly without a cloud in the 
 wert. 
 
 Mr. Naf>. J Ih all be forry to go far from the nightingale. 
 Do ycu hear his charming melody, madam? 
 
 8 Mrs, 
 
VANITY PUNISHED, tj 
 
 Mrs, IFal, I was taken up with thinking. My heart 
 was filled with pleafure. 
 
 ^^. Ray, How can one live in town during this charm- 
 ing weather ? 
 
 Mr, Wal, Valentine, will you walk up the flope with 
 OS, to fee the fun fetting? 
 
 Val. No, I thank you, papa. I am reading fomething 
 here that gives me more pleafure. 
 
 Mr. Wal, If you fpeak truth, I pity you, and if you do 
 not Come, gentlemen, there is not a moment to lofe. 
 Let us continue our walk. iX^ey -walk fortfjard up the hill.) 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 
 Valentine t {, feeing them at a good dijlance. ) 
 
 There, they are almoil out of fight: I need not be 
 under any conllraint now. [Puts the book into his pocket,) 
 What an opinion will thefe gentlemen have of my dili- 
 gence ! 1 fhould like to be a bird and fly after them, to 
 hear the praifes that they are giving me. {Saunters about^ 
 yaivning and lijilefs, for near a quarter cf an hour,) I am 
 tired, after all, of being here aJon'', 1 can do better! 
 The fun is fet now, and I hear the company returning, 
 I will flip into the wood, and hide myfelf in it fo, that 
 they fliall fcarcely find me. Mama will fend all the 
 fervants to look for me with lights. They will talk of 
 nothing but me all the evening, and will compare me with 
 ihofe great phiiofophers that have been known to go 
 allray in their learned meditations, and to lofe themfelves 
 in v/oods. My adventure will make a iiae noife 1 Now 
 for it. {He goes into the ivosd.) 
 
 SCENE viir. 
 
 3/r. and Mrs. Waller, Mr. Ray, Mr, Najh, 
 
 Mr. Ray, I never faw wcathei: morepleafmg, nor a more 
 charming fcene. 
 
 Mr. Wal. Gentlemen, my pleafure has been doubled 
 by my enjoying it in your company. 
 
 Mr, NaJh. The nightingale too flill continues his fong, 
 Hisvoice feems even to grow more tender as night comes 
 ©n. I am forry that Mrs. Waller does not feem to liftea 
 ro it with as much pleafure as before* 
 
 r o L . 1 1 , C Mr^ 
 
:S VANITY PUNISHED. 
 
 Mrs. If. It is becaufe I am anxious about my fon. 1 d& 
 not fee him in the garden. {She calls him.) Valentine! 
 He does not anfwer ! {Percei'ving the gardener, Jhe calls hini) 
 Martin, have you fctn my fon? 
 
 Martin. Yes, madam, about ten minutes ago I faw 
 him turn towards the grove. 
 
 Mrs. IV. Towards the grove? Blefs me; if he fhould 
 lofe himfelf ! Pray run after him, and brihg him in. 
 
 Martin. Yes, madam. {Goes out.) 
 
 Mrs. ly. Mr. Waller, won't you go along with him ? 
 
 Mr. W. No, my dear, I am not uneafy, for my part* 
 Martin will be able to find him. 
 
 Mrs IV. But ?f he fhould take a different way ? I am 
 frightened out of my wits ! 
 
 Mr. Najh. Make yourfelf eafy, madarii. Mr. Ray and 
 I will take the two fides of the wood, while the gardenei* 
 ihall take the middle. We cannot fail of finding him fo, 
 
 Mrs. IV. Ah ! gentlemen, 1 did not dare to alk it of 
 you ; but you know the feelings of a mother. 
 
 Mr. W. Gentlemen, do not give, yourfelves fo much 
 trouble, I'd rather you would n<>t. 
 
 Mr. Ray. You will not take it amifs that we comply 
 with Mrs. Waller's requell, rather than your's. 
 
 Mr. JV. I mufl conlefs, it is againll my inclination. 
 
 Mr.. Najh. We will receive your reproaches at our re- 
 turn. {^ hey njj alk t onwards the gro'ue.) 
 
 SCENE IX. 
 
 Mr, and Mrs. Waller* 
 
 Mrs.-W, Why, my dear, whence comes this indiife* 
 rence about your ion ? 
 
 Mr. W. Do you think, my dear, that I love him left 
 than you do ? No, but 1 know better how to love him. 
 
 Mrs. W. And what if he could riot be found ? 
 
 Mr. W. I fhould be very glad of it. 
 
 Mrs. W. What, that he Ihould pafs the night in a 
 gloomy wood ? What would become of the poor child \ 
 and what would become of me \ 
 
 Mr. VV. You would both be cured. He of his vanity> 
 and you of your injudicious fondiiefs which keeps it up in 
 liim. 
 
 Mru 
 
VANITY PUNISHED. ty 
 
 Mrs. W. What do you mean, my dear? 
 
 Mr. W. I am juft now convinced oi what I only fuf- 
 Ipefted in the morniftg. The hoy*s head is filled with ex- 
 teffive vanity, and all his reading is but oilentationk He 
 lias only loft himfclf on purpofe to make us look for him, 
 and to appear abfent and forgetful through int&nfe ftudy„ 
 It gives me more pain that hi:s mind fhould wander from 
 a right way of thinking th-aft if his fteps really went 
 aftray. He will be unhappy all his life if he is not cured 
 of it in time, and there is nothing but a wholefbme hurai* 
 Jiation that can fave him. 
 
 Mrs. fV. But do you conlider-«> 
 
 Mr. W. Yes, everything. He is eleven ye^rs old. 1^ 
 he catt profit any thing by his natural fenfe or his learn- 
 ing, the light of the moon and the direction of the wind 
 may guide him fufp.cierttly to clear the wood. 
 
 Mrs. W. But if he has not that thought? 
 
 Mr. W. He will then better fee the neceAity of profiting 
 by the le/Tons that I haVe given him upon this fubjeft-. 
 !Befidcs, we intend him for the army, and in that profef* 
 fion he will have many nights to pafs without fhelter. He 
 will know now what it is, and fiot go to a camp quite raw, 
 to be laughed at by his companions* Then the air is not 
 very cold at this feafon of the year, and for one night he 
 will not die with hunger. Since by his folly he has brought 
 himfelf into a fcrape, let him get out of it again, or fuj4ef 
 the difagreeable confequences of it. 
 
 Mrs, W. No ; [ cannot agree to it ; and if you don't 
 fend people after him, I will go myfelf. 
 
 Mr. W, Well, my dear, I will make you eafy, though 
 I am forry that you will not let me follow my plan, as f 
 intended. I fnall t^I little Michael to join him, as it 
 were by chance. Colin too fhall be at a fmall diltance, in 
 t)rder to run to them in cafe of an accident. For ^n^ 
 thing more, do not al>:it; I have taken my rcfolution, 
 and do not chufe, by a blind weakncfs, to deprive my fori 
 ^f a ielTon that may be of fervice to him. Here are our 
 friends coming back with Martiti. 
 
 Mrs. IF, O heavens 1 I fee, and they have not found 
 '^im. . 
 
 Mr, W, I am glad of it, 
 
 C ^ S C E N K 
 
MB. VANITY PUNISHED* 
 
 SCENE X. 
 Mr. ami Mrs. Waller, Mr. Ray, and Mr, Najh. 
 
 Mr. Najh. Cur fearch has been in vain ; but if Mr* 
 Waller will let us have fome lights and fervants — 
 
 Mr. JV. No, gentlemen ; you have complied with my 
 wife's rcqueft, you vvill now lilten to mine. I am a father, 
 and know my duty as one. Let us go into tlie parlour, 
 and I will give you an account of my defign. 
 
 SCENE XI. {The middle ofihe n»ood.) , 
 
 Valentine, 
 
 What have I done, fool tliat T was ? It \% dark night, 
 and I don't know which way to turn. {Calls.) Papa! 
 papa! Nobody anfwers. I am undone; what will become 
 of me ? [cries.) O mama I where are you ? Anfwer your 
 fon this once. Heavens ! what is that running through 
 tJie wood ? lf.it ihould be a j-obber ! Help 1 help ! 
 
 S GENE XIL 
 
 Valentine, Michael, 
 
 Michael. Who is there? Who is it that cries fo ? What, 
 is it you, fir ? How do you happen to be here at this time 
 of night? 
 
 Valentine. O ! dear Michael, my dear friend, I have 
 Joft my way. 
 
 Mich, {looking at him frji nvith an air of fur prize, and 
 then :burfiing out in a laugh.) You don't iay {^ ? J your 
 dear Michael? your dear friend? You milbke ; I am 
 only a dirty little country boy. Don't you remember ? 
 Nay, let go my hand. The fkin is only fit to cut up for 
 ihoe foles. 
 
 Val My dear friend €xcufe my impertinence, and for 
 pity's fake guide me back to our houfe. My mama will 
 pay you well. 
 
 Miih. {looking at him from top to bottom.) Have you 
 iiiiiilied reading your Teilymack ? 
 
 VaL 
 
VANITY PUNISHED. 29 
 
 P'al. {looking do^Mn quite confu/ed,) Ah ! pray now — 
 
 Alich, [putting his finger to the Jide of his nc/e^ and looking 
 up.) Tell me, my little wife man, how big may the moon 
 be juil now ? 
 
 Val. Nay, fpare me, I" beg of you^ and guide me out 
 of this wood. 
 
 Mich. Ycti fee then, mafler, that one may be a dirty 
 Httle coanrry boy, and yet be good for fomething. What 
 would you give 410W to know your way, inftead of know- 
 ing how big the moon is ? 
 
 f^aL I own my fault, and I promife never to fiiew any 
 pride for the future. 
 
 Mich. Well, that is clever. But this fame repenting 
 )^y neceffity may only hang by a. thread. It is not amils 
 that a young gentleman fhould fee what it is to look upon 
 a poor man's fon like a dcg, and play with him according 
 to his fancy. But to (hew you that an honeil clown does 
 not bear malice, I will pafs the night with you, as I have 
 paffed many a cne with our iheep on the downs. To- 
 morrow morning early I will take you home to your papa* 
 HtTQf then, Til (hare my bed-chamber with you. 
 
 Fal, O, my good Michael ! 
 
 Mich. [Jlretching him/elf under a tree ) Come, iir, fettla^ 
 yourfelf at your eale. 
 
 Fa!. But where i^ this bed-chamber of your's ? 
 
 Mich. Why here. [Striking O'l the ground.) Here is fhy 
 bed ; take ycur place. It is wide enough for us both. 
 
 Fal. What, mull we lie here under the open air ? 
 
 Mich. I aflure you, fir, the king himfelf has not a 
 better bed. See what a fine cieling you have over your 
 head ; ho'^v many bright diamonds adorn it 1 and then our 
 handfome filver lamp. [Pointing to the moon.) Well, what 
 do you think of it ? 
 
 Fal. Oh I my dear Michael, I am ready to die wi-th 
 hunger. 
 
 Mich. I dare fay I can help you there too. See, here 
 are fome potatoes. Drefs them, as you know how, 
 
 Fal. Vv^hy they are raw. 
 
 Mich. It is only to boil or roafl them. Make a fire, 
 
 Fal. We want a light to kindle one j and then where 
 fliall we find coal or wood ? 
 
 Mich, [fmiling.) Why cannot you find all that In your 
 books I 
 
 C 3 Fah 
 
30 VANITY PUNISHED. 
 
 Val. Oh ! po, my dear Michael. 
 
 Micb. Well jhen Til fhew you that I know more than 
 you and all your Tcllymiicks. {Takes a tinder box, nx:ith 
 Jtint and Ji eel cut of bis pocket.) Crack 1 there is fire already ; 
 now you (hall Ice. {lie gathers a handful of dry lea-ves^ and 
 putting tbevi round the tinder ^ f^^^ 'with his band until they 
 take f re.) We fliall Toon have a blazing hearth. [He puts 
 bits of dry luood iipoti the lighted lea-ves.) Do you fee? {lays 
 the potutQes clofe to the fr^, and fprinkles them fjith duji.) 
 Thib mult izwty inlh'ad ot" alhes, to hinder them from 
 burning. {Ha-ving laid them properly and co'vered them ones 
 tnoie 10 th dujh he turns the Jire o^ver tkem^ then adds frejh 
 KGood and blo^ws it up nvitb his breath.) Have you a finer 
 iire hi your papa's kitchen \ come, now they will foon be. 
 done. 
 
 yd, O my good friend, what return can I make to 
 your kindneis? 
 
 Mich, Return.? Pooh! when one does good, it pays it- 
 ielf. But {top a moment. While the potatoes are roaft:-. 
 ing, I will letch fome hay for you. 1 faw a good deal 
 lying in one part of the wood. You will fieep upon that 
 Jike a prince. But take care of the roalt while I am 4way*. 
 ^Goes out Jinging.) 
 
 SCENE XIH. 
 Valentine, 
 
 Fool that I was ! how could I be fo unjuft as to defpife 
 this child. What am I, compared to him .? how little X 
 am in my ou n eyes, when 1 examine his behaviour and 
 mine! but it lli:ill never happen again. Henceforward I 
 will not defpife thofe of a lower condition than myfelf. I 
 will not be fo proud, nor fo vain. {Hi n^valks about, and 
 ga'.bers up dry ficks for the f re,) 
 
 SCENE XIV. 
 ralentinSy Micbaelj {hauling in a large bundle of bay. ^ 
 
 Mich. Here is your bed of down, your coverlid and all, 
 I will make you a bed now (.|uite fofc. 
 
 Fa! 
 
VANITY P U N I^S:H E D. 3* 
 
 Val. I thank you, my friend. I would help you^ but 
 X do not know how to fet about ki 
 
 Mich. I don't want you. i can do kail alone. Go 
 warm yourfelf. i^He unties the bi^ndle, fpreads part of it on 
 the groundy and referees the reji for a conjering,) That is 
 finiihed. Now let us think of fupper. {Takes a potaioe 
 from the f re, and tafles it,) They are done. Eat them, 
 while they are warm, they are better fo. 
 
 Fal. What, won't you eat fome wiih me ? 
 
 Mich. No, thank you. There is jail enough for you, 
 
 Val. How? Do you think? — 
 
 Miih. You are too kind.. I won't touch them. I am 
 not hungry. Befides I fhall have as much pleafure ia 
 feeing you eat them. Are they good ? 
 
 Fal. Excellent, my dear Michael. 
 
 Mich* 1 dare hy, you never tailed fweeter at your papa's 
 table, / 
 
 Fal. That is very true, 
 
 Mich. Are you done ? Come then, your bed is ready 
 for you. {Valentine lies doxvn. Michael fpreads the reft cf 
 the hay o-ver him,, then takes of' his jacket ) The nights are 
 cold; here, cover yourfelf with this too. If you find 
 yourfelf chilly, come. to the fire \ 1*11 take care that it does 
 not go out. Good night> . 
 
 FaL Dear Michael, I fhall never be eafy until I make 
 you amends for my treating you il!. 
 
 Mich.- Think no more of it; 1 do not. The lark will 
 awake us to-morrow morning at break of day. {Falentine 
 falls afeepy and Michael fts up clofe hy him. to keep the fire 
 in. At hrecik of day Michael a^wakes him.) C me malter, 
 you have Hept enough.- The lark has opened her fong 
 already, and the fun will foon appear behind the hill. 
 Let us fet out, and go to your papa's. 
 
 Fal. {rubbing his eyes.) What already ? fo foon ? Good 
 morning my dear Michael 1 
 
 Mich. Good morning. Mailer Valentine I How did 
 you ileep ? 
 
 Fal. {rifing.) As found as a rock. Here is your jacket. 
 I thank you a thoufand, thoufaad times. 1 Ihali never 
 forget you as long as I live. 
 
 Mich. Do not talk of thanks. I am as happy as you. 
 Come, walk along with me. I'll guide you. {They go off.) 
 
 C 4 SCENE 
 
3« V A N I T V P U N I S H £ n. 
 
 SCENE XV. {J room in Mr. JFaller's Hon/e.) 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. iraller. 
 
 Mrs. IV. In what terrors have I pcified this whole night! 
 1 fear, my dear, that Tome accident has happened to him. 
 We mufl: fend out people to look for him, 
 
 Mr. W. Make yourfelf eafy my love ; I will go myfelf, 
 J^ul who knocki ? (7^/6^ door opens.) Look, here he is. 
 
 SCENE XVI. 
 Mr, and Mrs. Waller y VaUntiney MichaeL 
 
 Mrs. ir. {rimnittg to her fen,) Ah ! do I fee thee againr> 
 my de;r child ? 
 
 Mich. Yes, madam, there he is, ifcgs I a little better 
 mayhap than before you loil him. 
 
 Mr. IV. Is that the cafe ? 
 
 Fal. Ye?, papa. I have been well punifhed for my 
 pride. What will you give him that has reformed me? 
 
 Mr. IF. A good reward, and with the greatell chear- 
 fulnefs. 
 
 P'al. [frsfcnting Michael to him.) Well, this is he to 
 whom you owe it. 1 owe him lu)' friendfhip too, and he 
 fhall always Ihare it. 
 
 Mr. W. If that is {o^ I'll make him a little prefent txtry 
 year cf a couple of guineas, for curing you of fo intole- 
 rable a fault. 
 
 Mrs. TV. And I will make him one of the fame fum, 
 for having prefcrved my fon to me. 
 
 Mich, if you pay me for the fatisfadicn that you feel, 
 I ihould pay you too for what I felt. So we are clear. 
 , Mr. W. No, my little man, we fliall not run from our 
 words. But let us go to bieakfail: all four. Valentine 
 fliall relate his adventures of the night. 
 
 Val. Yes, papa; and I lliall not fpare myfcIf, though 
 J (hoiild be turned into ridicule for them. I blufh for my 
 folly, but hope that I fliall never have to blufh for the 
 fame behaviour again. 
 
THE PLEASURES OF V/ORK, 33 
 
 Mt\ IF, My dear Tdii, how happy you will make your 
 mother and me by proving that your reformation is fincere, 
 and H'ill never fuffer a relapfe. 
 
 {Valentine takes Mchael by the han4\ Mr. Waller gi^es 
 his to his laiijy and they all go into the next apartment.^ 
 
 THE PLEASURES OF WORK. 
 
 Lady StanfeU. XXl H AT- is the matter, Viola ? You 
 VV i^?'^'^ grieved. 
 
 Fio^n. So I am, mama. 
 
 Lady Stan. Ac what, -my dear? I thought to fee you 
 come back quire in fpirits after your walk. 
 
 Fiola. My alk wa.s pleafent at firll ; but in coming 
 home, as 1 pafled before our carpentei-'s houfc, I faw his 
 three children fitting at the door, and crying moft piceouily. 
 They were itarving with hunger.- 
 
 Lady Stan. How Cdn that be? Their father has a good 
 trade, and it; is not a week fince I paid him three guineas 
 for work done aoouL our houfe. 
 
 Fiola. 'So my govtrnefs told awon:an, one of the neigh, 
 bour5,,that came up to comfort the children and gave 
 them fomc bread. 
 
 Lady Stan. And what did (he fay ? 
 
 Fiola. This poor man, faid fne, is much to be pitied. 
 Ke works night and day, and is never the richer; his 
 wife manages fo ill. She knows nothing of houfewifery. 
 She can neither few, nor fpin, nor knit ; and cannot even 
 get up the family's linen. If her hufband wants a clean 
 Ihirt, he mull have it waflied and mended out of the 
 houfe. • 
 
 Lady Stan. Sad management indeed : snd I do not 
 wonder that you were grieved at finding a woman wha 
 dees not perform any fint^le duty of her fex.. I wifh ihe • 
 may be the only one of that fort that you will ever meet, 
 
 Fiola. Ah! mama, this is not all. As {he can do 
 nothing for her family, nothing in the v/orldj idlcn fs 
 has led her to drinking^ When her hufband, after work- 
 ing hard, thinks to have a good meai ready for him at 
 his return home, he finds his wife ftretched upon the bed, 
 
 C 5 ioioxi- 
 
54 THE PLEASURES OF WORK. 
 
 intoxicated; and very often his cliildren have not a bit of 
 bread to eat the whole day. Don't }0U think thofe poor 
 children much to be pitied? 
 
 Lady Stan. 1 pity them as well as you, my dear; but 
 en this difagreeable occafion, you had an opportunity of 
 making a remark that may be ferviceable to you all your 
 life. 
 
 Viola, What is that, mama ? 
 
 Lady Stan. That a woman who neglefls the employ- 
 ments of her fex and condition, is the mod contemptible 
 ;ind unhappy creature in the world. You may now per- 
 ceive the reafon why your papa and 1 conftantly advife 
 you to be doing fomething. 
 
 Viola. Oh! yes, mama; I fee now how much yoa 
 love me when you inftrud me in my work. But pray 
 tell me, have young ladies of fortune and quality any 
 occafion to learn fo many things ? When they are mar- 
 ried, have not they waiting women to do for them what- 
 ever they want ? 
 
 Lady Stan. My dear Viola, work is as abfolutely necef- 
 fary for them as for the children of the poor. Not to 
 mention the reverfes of fortune that may one day deprive 
 SI woman of every means of fubfiltence, except the labour 
 of her own hands : and yet thele reverfes are common 
 enough. But in the higheft rank of life, amidfl a crowd 
 of fervants ready at her call, fhould not fhe herfelf know 
 fomething of what work is, in order to employ each one 
 properly in his feveral way, not to require of them more 
 than they can perform, to be able to recompenfe their 
 diligence by making their fervice eafy, and thus to gain 
 their attachment and refpeft. Obliged by her rank and 
 her wealth to employ a great number of tradefmcn, how 
 will flie be able, without knowing what wcrk is herfelf, 
 to fet the proper value upon that of others, by neither 
 cutting iliort the fair demand of a ufcful tradefman, nor 
 ■yielding to the impofitions of the vender of luxuries and 
 fiifhion.ible toys ; and thus on the one hand indulge a ge- 
 jierofity fuitablc to her birth, and on the other guard 
 again il a ufeUfs expence? Bcfide.s what a pleafure for a 
 fenfible woman to fee herfelf and her children clothed ia 
 the wcrk of her own hands, and to employ the favings 
 of fuch ceconomy in relieving the fick and indigent, and 
 
 bringing 
 
THE PLEASURES OF WORK. 35 
 
 bringing up their children, fo that they may in proper 
 lime maintain their parents r 
 
 Viola. Ah ! pray don't let us lofe a moment. Teach 
 me all that, mama. 
 
 Lady Stan. I will, my dear; that I may, by fo doing, 
 both perform my own duty, and affift you to follow the 
 diftates of nature and religion ; but particularly that I 
 may fave you from that dangerous dilTipation which a 
 habit of idlenefs may render agreeable and even necef- 
 fary. I will do it in order to make domeflic retirement 
 not unpleafmg to you ; in order to make you yourfelf 
 amiable ii; rhe eyes of your hufband, and refpedable in 
 thofe of your children ; in order to procure you hereafter 
 a relief and amufement that may divert your attention 
 from the evils of life, which might otherwife aifedl you 
 too forcibly ; and in fine, to infure to you the tranquil- 
 lity of a good coTifcience, and to render you happy every 
 moment of your life. You have feen, by the example of 
 the carpenter's wife, to what odious vices idlenefs may 
 lead us. But what think you of that vapourilh unhappy 
 lilllefihefs, the moil infupportable torm.ent to a woman ? 
 I can give you, perhaps, a flight idea of it, and propor- 
 tioned to your underflanding, in the ftory of a little girl 
 of your own age. 
 
 Viola. O dear, mama! make haile; let us have the 
 little girl's ftory, . 
 
 Lady Stan. Then here- it is. '' Mrs. Friendly was 
 always happy in being employed, and never pafTed a 
 quarter of an hour otherwife the whole day. Angelica, 
 her daughter, could hardly believe her when fhe talked 
 to her of the fatisfaftion arifing from induftry, and the 
 difagreeable eifeds of doing nothing. It is true, fhe worked 
 whenever her mother bid her, for ilie was accuilomed to 
 obey; but one may eafily imagine how unhappy Ihe was 
 at her work, as ^'a^ never began it but with reluctance. 
 My dear child, Mrs. Friendly would often fay to her, 
 when fhe faw her at work with her head hanging down, 
 and her hands in a carelefs poilure, I wifh you may foon 
 feel the tirefome languor that arifes from having nothing 
 to do, and the fatisfad\ion that one enjoys in being mo- 
 derately employed. This v^'ifh, infpired by her affection, 
 Tvas not long unaccomplifhed. Angelica, then about eleven 
 years old, was to go one day with her mother to a coim- 
 
 C 6 \xy 
 
^6 THE PLEASURES OF WORK. 
 
 try-houfe many miles off. Mrs. Friendly, at her depar- 
 ture, took ht'r work-bag wich her, and Ilrongly recom- 
 mended it to Angelica not to forget hers. Angelica 
 was willing to obey ; but how eafily does one lofe fight 
 of a duty that is performed with reluilance ! The work- 
 bag was forgot. Their journey at firil was quite agree- 
 able. The weather was fine, and all nature feemed to 
 fmile. But about noon, the clouds thickened round the 
 horizon, and the thunder rolled from one end of the iky 
 to the other. Their fright obliged them to ftop at a 
 fmall town, where there was only one inn, and imme- 
 diately afterwards the rain came down in a flood. As 
 the approaching ftorm had forced a number of travellers 
 to feek fhelter in the inn, Mrs. Friendly and her daugh- 
 ter could not find a fingle room in it difengaged. She 
 therefore ordered the hoi ies to be unharnefled^and alighted 
 at the houfe of a good old woman clofe by, who very 
 civilly reilgned them her bcd-ch.^mber and her bed, the 
 only one that fne had. How happy was Mrs. Friendly 
 that flie had brought her work. The good old womaa 
 fat befide her, fpinning at her wheel, and between work 
 and convcrfation the longfummer's afternoon paiTed away 
 without fceming tedious to them. Poor Angelica was 
 not very happy in the mean time. The cottage vva^ 
 fmall, and after llie had vifited every corner of ir, (lie 
 had then abfolutely nothing h f t to do. The rain, which 
 ftiU fell in great abundance, did not allow her to fet her 
 foot out of doors ; the terrible noife of the thunder left 
 her no defire for fleep, and the convcrfation of the old 
 woman, v\ho could talk of nothing but her work, was 
 rot very likely to amufe her. She begged her mama to 
 'Jet her have hsr work ; but Mrs. Friendly told her \tvY 
 juiUy, that llie would not deprive hcrfelf of amufement 
 for her ; that having taken care to bring with her fome- 
 thing to employ hcrfelf, it was but fair that fhe ihould 
 enje^y the fruits of her attention, and that fiie on the 
 contrary fhould fulter for her negligence and forgetful- 
 nefs. Angelica could fay nothing to reafons fo forcible. 
 After many wearifome yawning*;, fighs of impatience, 
 and fruitlefs murmurs againfl the weather, Angelica at 
 length got to the end of the evening. She eat a fmall 
 fupper without nppetite, and went to bed much out of 
 kumour with her jaunt. How joyful did flie rife at the 
 
THE PLEASURES OF WORK. 57 
 
 flrft fummons of the fun who rofe without a tloud ! With 
 what eagernefs did fhe hailen her iviother's departure! 
 At lad the carriage was ready; and Mrs. Friendly, hav- 
 ing generouily rewarded the good old woman for her 
 civility, fet forward again as well fatisfied wiih her man- 
 ner of pafTing the day before^ as Angelica was difcon- 
 tented with it. The roads had lately been much broken 
 up, and the rain water which Hill covered them, hin- 
 dered the ruts from being obferv d. The chaife jolied 
 out of one hole into another, the axle creaked, and the 
 glaffes rattled ; at lall a wheel broke down, and the car- 
 riage was overthrown. Happily Mrs. Friendly and her 
 .daughter received no hurt. They recovered from their 
 fright by degrees, and perceiving at a dillance a Ifttle 
 hamlet upon the fide of a hill, Mrs. Friendly took her 
 daughter by the hand, and attended by her fervant, 
 walked towards the hamlet, intending to fend aifiilanc* 
 to her coach-man. There was in this place neither fmith 
 ror wheelwright ; fo that they were obliged to wait al- 
 nioft two da\s for wheels from town, as Mrs. Friendly 
 would travel in no other carriage but her own. Poor 
 Angelica, how ihe cried ! how fhe lamented the tediouf- 
 ncfs of the time 1 The fright of her fall had made fuch 
 an impreflion on her, as to deprive her of the ufe of her 
 limbs; fo that flie could not enjoy even the amufement 
 cf walking. What could Mrs. Friendly do to make her 
 time lefs heavy ? The ilri6l juliice that fhe made a point 
 of purfuing with her daughter, forbad her to rehgn her 
 own work to her; befides, Angelica had fo neglected her 
 improvement in needle-work, thit fhe would have en- 
 tirely fpoiled it. She then began to feel the value of em- 
 ploying one's felf, and bUilhing with fiiame, faid thus to 
 her mother : Ah! mama, 1 have well deferved what has 
 happened to me, and now for the firfl: time fee the rea- 
 fon why you always advifed me fo flrongly to work. I 
 have fufiiciently felt the wearifomenefs of doing nothing. 
 She then threw herfelfinto her mother's arms, and hiding 
 her face in her bofom, I beg pardon, mama, for griev- 
 ing you by my indolence. 1 faw that you were troubled 
 to fee me fret. But, for your fake and my own, I fhall 
 change my behaviour from this moment. Mrs. Friendly 
 kiiTed her daughter, praifed her refolution, and to 
 ilrengthen the effect of Angelica's fclf-taught lefTon, 
 
 Ihewed 
 
38 THE YOUNG SPARROWS. 
 
 fliewed her how a tafle for work hinders our time front 
 hanging heavy, and foftens the vexations of life, by di- 
 verting our thoughts from them in an agreeable and fa- 
 jutary manner, bhebielled the accidents of a journey that 
 iiad wrought fo happy a change in her daughter. 
 
 -Angelica, on the other h;.nd, kept her promife and 
 even went beyond it ; fo that Mrs. Friendly never had 
 reafon to find fault with her afterwards, unlefs for t09 
 great application. 
 
 THE YOUNG SPARROWS. 
 
 LITTLE Robert one day perceived a fparrow's neft 
 under the eaves of the hou fc, and running imme- 
 diately for his fillers to inform them of his difcovery, 
 they all contrived together how to get the little covey into 
 their pofleflion. It was agreed to wait uncil the young 
 ones ihould be fledged ; that then Robert ihou'd raife a 
 ladder againll the wall, and that his filler fliould hold it 
 fart below, while he climbed up for the nsft. When they 
 thought the little birds fuiTiciently feathered, they made 
 ready to put their defign in execution, it fucceeded per- 
 feflly, and they found three young ones in the neft. The 
 old birds fent forth piteous cries on feeing their little ones, 
 whom they had nourifhed with fo much care, taken from 
 them ; but Robert and his fillers were fo overjoyed, that 
 they did not pay the leall attention to their complaints. 
 
 Thev were at firft fomething puzzled what to do with 
 their prif ners. Augulla, the youngell, being of a mild 
 and compaffionate difpofition, was for having them put 
 into a cage : fhe promifed to take'the charge of them upon 
 herfeif, and to feed them regularly every d.iy : Ihe de- 
 icribed in a lively manner to her brother and filler, the 
 plcalure that they ihould have in feeing and hearing thofe 
 young bird.s when grown big. This was oppofed by Ro- 
 bert: he maintained that it was better to pluck them jufl 
 as they wert-, and that it would be much more funny to 
 Jock at them jumping about in the room without feathers, 
 than to fee them difmallv fliut up in a cage. Charlotte, 
 the eldell, declared herf If of the fame opinion as Augulla, 
 but Robert perfilled in his own. 
 
 At 
 
THE VOUNG SPARROWS. 39 
 
 At laft the two little girls, feeing that their brother 
 would not give up the point, and that befides he had the 
 neft in his pofTeflion, agreed to whatever he defired. But 
 he had not waited for their confent to begin his execution. 
 The iirll was already plucked. There is one ftript, fays 
 he, fetting it on the ground. In a moment all the little 
 family were deprived of their tender feathers. The poor 
 things cried, peep ! peep ! and complained very piteoufiy ; 
 they Ihuddered with the cold, and Ihook their bare little 
 wings. But Robert, inftead of pitying their fuiterings, 
 did not end his perfecutions there ; he pufhed them with 
 his toe to make them go on, and whenever they tumbled 
 over he burft out a laughing; and at lail his fillers joined 
 in the laugh with him. 
 
 While they were indulging this cruel amufement, they 
 faw at a diflance their tutor coming towards them. Mum ! 
 Each pocketed a bird, and was flinking ofF. '* Well, cried 
 their tutor to them, where are you going .' Come hither !" 
 This order obliged them to Hop. They advanced flowly, 
 with their eyes fixed on the ground. 
 
 The Tutor, Why do you run away at my coming.^ 
 
 Rob. We were only playing. 
 
 The Tutor. You know, I do not debar you of amufe- 
 ment, and indeed I am never fo happy as when I fee you 
 all merry. 
 
 Rob, We were afraid that you were coming to fcold us. 
 
 The Tutor. Do I ever fcold you for taking an innocent 
 diverfion ? I fee you have done fomething amifs. Why 
 have you each your hand in your pocket ? I mull know 
 the reafon. Shew me each your hand, and what you 
 have in it. {They Jheuu each their hand, 'with a bird 
 plucked. ) 
 
 The Tutory {njjith an emotion of pity and indignation.^ And 
 who could give you the idea of treating thefe poor little, 
 creatures thus ? 
 
 Rob. Why, it is fo droll to fee fparrows jump without 
 feathers. 
 
 TheTutor, You think it very droll to fee innocent crea- 
 tures fufFer, and to hear their cries when in pain ^ 
 
 Rob. No, fir ; I did not think it put them 10 pain. 
 
 The Tutor, Did'nt you ? Come hiiher : I will cc nvince 
 you it did. {He plucks afci'J hain out of Robert's head.) 
 
 Rob, Ohl Oh! 
 
 I Thi 
 
40 THE YOUNG SPARROWS. 
 
 The Tutor. JJocs that hurt you ? 
 
 Rcb. Do you think it does not, to pluck one*s hairs ? 
 
 1 he Tuicr, Pfliaw ! there are only a dozen. 
 
 Rcb. But tiiat is too much. 
 
 TheTuior. Wh; t would it be then, were one to pluck out 
 all your hair To? Have you a notion oi' the pain that you 
 would feel ? And yet you have pui thefe birds to tor very 
 fame torture, though they never liid you an) harm. And 
 you, young ladies, you ihai (hould be more tende r-heaned, 
 did you TufFer this ? 
 
 1 he tw ) little mifle- were llanding by filen*:, but hear- 
 ing thef.- iall: words, and feeling the keennefs of the rebuke, 
 they fat down with their e^fs f'^vimming in tears. The 
 tutor remarking their forn-w, v\a3 touched with it and 
 faid no n)or to fhem. 
 
 Robert did not try, and enJcavour/^d to justify himfelf 
 thus : r (ould not ihmk that 1 aid them any harm They 
 fung all the while, and they clapped their wings as if they 
 were pleaffd. 
 
 The Tutor Do you call their cries lingint^ ? But why 
 ihould they fmg ? 
 
 Roh I luppofe to call their father an.i mother. 
 
 TheTutor, No doubt. And when their cries fliould have 
 brought them, wh.-.t did the your.goncs mean to tell them 
 by clapping their wings ? 
 
 Rob. 1 cannot fay exadly ; perhaps ;o aik their help. 
 
 The Tutor, Jull {o. Therefore, if thofe bird could have 
 cxprciied themfelves in our fpeech, you would have heard 
 them cry, ** Ah I father and mother, fave us ! We have* 
 unhappily fallen into the hands of cruel children who have 
 plucked all our feathers. We are cold, and in paiii. - 
 Come, warm us and cure us, or we lliall die." 
 
 The little girls could hold out no longer ; they fobbed 
 and hid their faces in their handkerchiefs. It was you<, 
 Robert, that led us to this cruelty. We hated the 
 thought of it ourfelves. Robert was then himfelf fenfible 
 of his fault. He had already been puniflied by his tutor 
 plucking his hair ; he was now much more fo by the re- 
 proaches of his own heart. The tutor thought there was 
 no occafion to add to this double punilhment. It was not, 
 •indeed, from an inflindl of cruelty, but purely from want 
 of thought, that Robert had done this ill-natured adion, 
 and the pity which he felt from tluit moment for all crea- 
 tures 
 
THE TWO APPLE-TREES. 41 
 
 tures weaker than himfelf, opened his heart to the fenti- 
 jnents of kindnefs and humanity that have animated him 
 all the relt of his life. 
 
 f 
 
 THE TWO APPLE-TREES. 
 
 A Rich hufbandman had two Tons, the one exadJy a 
 year older than tlie oiher. The very di^y the fecond 
 was born, he had fet in the entrance of his orchard two 
 young apple trees equal in fi7.e, which he had fince cul« 
 tivated with the fime care, and which had thriven fo 
 equally that nob-dy could give the preference to either 
 ofthe:Ta before the other. When his children were ca- 
 pable of handling garden tools, he took them, one fine 
 Ipring day, to fee thofe two trees which he had planted 
 for them, and called by their names; and after they 
 had fufficiently admired their fine growth, and the number 
 of bloiToms that covered them, hefaid, '* You fee, chil- 
 dren, 1 give you thefe trees in good conuiuon. They 
 will thrive as much by your care as they will lofeby your 
 negligence, and their fruit will reward you in proportion 
 to your labour.'* 
 
 The youngeil:, -named Edmund, was indefatigable in 
 his attention. He was all day bufy in clearing his tree of 
 infects that would have hurt it, and he projped up its 
 ftem, to hinder it from taking an ugly bent. He loofened 
 the earth all round it, that the warmth of the fun and 
 the. moiilure of the dews might cherifa its roots. His 
 mother had not tended him more carefully in h s infancy 
 than he did his young apple-tree. 
 
 His brother Mofes did none of all this. He fpent his 
 time on a mount that was hard by, throwing ftones from 
 it at pafTengers in the road. He went amongll all the 
 little country boys in the neighbourhood, to box with 
 them, (o that he was always ieen with broken ihins and 
 black Gycs, from the blows and kicks that he received in 
 his quarrels. He negletlcd his tree fo far, in fhort, that 
 he never once thought of it, till one day in autumn he by 
 chance faw Edmund's tree fo full of apples, ftreaked with 
 purple and gold, that were it not for the props v^hich 
 
 fupported 
 
42 THE TWO APPLE-TREES. 
 
 fapported its branches, the weight of its fruit muft have 
 bent it to the ground. Struck with the fight of fo fine a 
 growth, he ran to his own, hoping to find as large a cro{> 
 on it; but what was his lurprize, when he faw nothing 
 but branches covered with mofs, and a few yellow leaves ! 
 Quite angry and jealous, he went to his father, and faid, 
 ** Father, what fort of a tree is this that you have given 
 me? le is as dry as a broomlHck, and 1 Ihail not havete* 
 apples on it. But my brother !— -Oh ? you have ufed him 
 better. Bid him at lead fnare his apples with me."— 
 ♦* 5hare with you ? faid his father : fo the induftrious ji 
 would lofe his labor to feed the idle. Take what yoa I 
 get; it is the reward of your negligence, and do not 
 think lo accufe me of injuUice, when you fee your bro- 
 ther's rich crop. Your tree was as fruitful and in as good 
 order as his. It bore as many blofToms, and grew in the 
 fame foil ; only it had not the fame ufage. Edmund has 
 kept his tree clear of even the fmallefi: infedls; you have 
 fuffered them to eat up yours in its bloflom. As 1 do not 
 chufe to let any thing which God has given me, and for 
 which I hold myi'elf accountable to him, go to ruin, I 
 take this tree from you again, and call it no more by your 
 name. It mull pafs through his hands to recover itfelf, 
 and is his property from this moment, as well as the fruit 
 that he fhall make it bear. You may go and look for 
 another in my nurfery, and rear it, if you will, to make 
 amends for your fault: but if you negled it, that too 
 fhnll belong to your brother, for afliiling me in my^ 
 labour." 
 
 Mofes felt the juftice of his father's fcntence, and the 
 wifdom of his defign. He went that moment and chofe 
 in the nurfery the moll thriving young apple-tree that he 
 could find. Edmund alliflcd him with his advice in rear- 
 ing it, and Mofes did not lofe a moment. He was never 
 out of humour now with his comrades, and i\\\\ lefs with \ 
 himfelf, for he applied chearfully to work, and in autumn i 
 he faw his tree fully anfwer his hopes. Thus hehad the 
 double advantage of enriching himfelf with a plentiful i 
 growth of fruit, and at the fame time of getting rid ofv:' 
 the vicious habits that hehad contracted. 
 
 His father was fo well plcafcd with this chaxJge, that 
 the following year he iliared the produce .of a fma'll or-? 
 chard between him and hh brother.. 
 
 IB 
 
I 45 i 
 
 IV MEN DO NOT SEE V O U, 
 GOD §EES YOU. 
 
 MR, Fergufon was walking in the country one fine 
 warm day in harveft time, with his youngeft fon 
 Frank. Papa, (faid Frank, looking willfully towards ^ 
 garden by the fide of which they were walking,) I am 
 very dry.-^^And I too, my dear, anfwered Mr. Fergufon 5 
 but we mufl have patience until we go home. 
 
 Fra-nk. There is a pear-tree loaded with very fine fruit : 
 they are Windfor pears. Ah 1 with what pleafure I could 
 eat one ! 
 
 Mr. Ferg. I do not doubt it; but that tree is i-n a pri^ 
 vate garden. 
 
 Frank. The hedge is not very thick, and here is a hole 
 where \ can eafily get through. 
 
 Mr. Ferg. And what would the owner of the garden 
 fay, if he fhould be there ? 
 
 Frank Oh 1 he is not there, I dare fay, and nobody 
 can fee us. 
 
 , Mr. Ferg. You miftake, child ! There is one who fees 
 jiil, and who would punifh us, and juilly too, bccaufe it 
 / would be wicked to do what you propofe. 
 
 Frank. Who is that, papa ? 
 
 Mr. Ferg. He who is every where prefent, who never 
 lofes fight of us a moment, and who fees to the very bot- 
 tom of our thoughts ; that is, God. 
 
 Frank, Ah ! it is very true. 1 Ihall not think of it any 
 more. 
 , Juft'then a man flood up behind the hedge, whom they 
 could not fee before, becaufe he had been fitting down on 
 a grafly Hope. It was an old man, the owner of the 
 garden, who fpoke thus to Frank: ** Return thanks to 
 God, my child, that your father hindered you from Heal- 
 ing into my garden, and coming to take what does not 
 belong to you. Know, that at the foot of each tree there 
 is a trap laid to catch thieves, where you would certainly 
 have been caught, and perhaps have lamed yourfelffor 
 ever. But fmce, at the lirft word of the prudent leiTon 
 given you by your father, you have fliewed a fear of God, 
 and did no longer infill on the theft that you intended, I 
 
 will 
 
4i TF MEN DO NOT SEE YOU, 
 
 will give you with pleafure fome of the fruit that you 
 wiflied to taite." At t he fe words he went up to the finefiJ 
 pear-tree, fhook it, and brought back his hat full of pears 
 to Frank. 
 
 Mr. Fergufon would have taken money out of his purfc 
 to pay this civil old man, bat could not prevail on him to 
 accept any. ** I have had a fatisfaiftion, fir, in obliging 
 your Ton, which I Ihould lofe were I to be paid for it. 
 God alone repays fuch adions." 
 
 Mr. Fergufon (hook hands with him over the hedge, 
 and Frank thanked him too in a very manly manner; 
 but he fhcvvcd a iVill more lively gratitude in the hearty 
 appetite that he appeared to have for the pears which 
 did indeed quite run over with juice. That is a very goc-d 
 man, faid Frank to his papa, after he had finilTied the lall, 
 and they had got a good diitance from the old man. 
 
 Mr. Ferg, Yes, my dear ; and he is (6, no doubt, be- 
 caufe his heart is convinced of this great truth, that Gv.'d 
 never fails to reward good aflion?, andchaftife evil. 
 
 Frank. Would God have punilhed me then, if I liad 
 taken the pears ? 
 
 Mr, Ferg. The good old man told you what would have 
 happened to you. God, my dear child, orders every 
 thing that paffes upon earth, and direfts events fo as ro 
 reward good people for their virtuous actions, and to pa- 
 nilh the wicked for their crimes. I will tell you an ad- 
 venture which relates to this fubjec^, and made fo ftrong 
 an impreflion on me, when a child, that I ihail never for* 
 get it as long as 1 live. 
 
 Frank, Ah! papa, how happy I am to-day ; a pleafant 
 walk, fine pears, and a ftory befides 1 
 
 Mr. Ferg. When I was as little as you, and lived at 
 iny father's, we had two neighbours, the one on th« 
 right, the other on the left-hand of our houfe : their 
 names were Dobfon and Vicars. Mr. Dobfon had a fon 
 called Simon, and Mr. Vicars one alfo of the name of 
 Gamaliel. Behind our houfe and thofe of our neighbours 
 were fniall gardens, feparated at that time only by quick- 
 fet hedges. Simon, when alone in his father's garden, 
 amufed himfelf with throwing Hones into all the g irdens 
 round about, never once thinking that he might- hurt 
 fomebody. Mr. Dobfon had cbferved this, and repri- 
 manded him feverely for it, threatening to chaftife him if 
 
 ever 
 
f <J O D S E E S y G U. 41 
 
 'ever he did fo again. But unhappily this child knew 
 not, or elfe did not believe, that one ihould not do amifs, 
 even when alone, becaufe God is always near us and 
 fees whatever we do. One day, when his father was gone 
 out, thinking that nobody could fee him and therefore 
 that he ihould not be puniihed, he filled his pocket with 
 ilones and began pelcing them all round him. Juft at 
 the fame time Mr. Vicars was in his garden with his fon 
 Gamaliel. This boy had the misfortune to think, as 
 well as Simon, that it was enough not to do amifs before 
 others, and that when alone one might do what one 
 pleafed. His father had a gun charged., to fhoot the 
 fparrows that came picking his cheriies ; and he was fit- 
 ting in a fummer-houfe to watch them. At this moment,, 
 a fervantcame to tell him that a Grange gea'.Ieman wanted 
 him in the parlour : he therefore left the gun in the fum- 
 -mer-houfe, and exprefsly forbid Gamaliel to touch it. 
 But Gamaliel, v/hen all alone, faid to himfelf, '* 1 dont 
 fee what harm there would be in playing with this gun a 
 little;" and faying thus, he took it up and began to ex- 
 .erciie with it like a foldier. He handled his arms and 
 ' reited his firelock, and had a mind to try if he could 
 make ready and prefent. The muzzle of his gun hap- 
 pened to be pointed towards Mr. Dobfon's garden, and 
 juil as he was going to fhut the left eye, in order to take 
 aim, a pebble Hone thrown by Simon llruck him in that 
 very eye. The fright and the pain together, made Ga- 
 maliel drop the gun, which went off; and, oh ! what cries 
 and fhrieks were immediately heard in both gardens I 
 Gamaliel had received a blow of a flone in the eye, and 
 Simon received the whole charge of the gun in his leg. 
 Thus the one loft his eye, and the other remained a cripple 
 all the reft of his life. 
 
 Frank. Ah ! poor Simon ! poor Gamaliel ! ho,v I pity 
 them ! 
 
 Mr. Ferg. They were, it is true, very much to be pi- 
 tied ; but their parents ftill more fo, for having children 
 fo difobedient and vicious. After all it was a real hap- 
 pinefs for thefe tvvo bad boys to have met with this acci- 
 dent. 
 
 Frank. How (o^ papa ? 
 
 Mr. Ferg. I will tell you. Jf God had not early pu- 
 
 Rifhed thefc children, they would always have continued 
 
 7 in 
 
4^ THE GOOD S Kk 
 
 Ih mifchlef, whenever they found themfelves aldnfc ; 
 whereas they experienced by this warning, that whatever 
 bad adions men do not fee, God fees and punifhe^. Thi$ 
 Was therefore a lefTon to them to ameTid themfelves, and 
 they became thenceforth prudent and fedate, and Ihunned 
 doing mifchief when alone, as much as if all the world 
 faw them. And this indeed was the defign of Providence 
 in thus punifiiing them ; for our merciful Creator never 
 chaftife5 as but to make us becomfe better. 
 
 Frank. Well, that eye and leg will make me take care. 
 J will fhun what is Wrong and do what is right, even 
 though I fee nobody near me. 
 
 As he had finiflied thefe words, they arrived at thelt 
 own houfe-door. 
 
 THE GOOD SON. 
 
 A D K A k A, in Two A c t s ♦* 
 
 Characters. 
 
 J«REMY Good AC RE, a Ccunl'ry Lahoureft 
 
 Nanny Good acre, his Wife. 
 
 Cicely, - - their Daughter, 
 
 Isaac - - her Lover. 
 
 c^ r^ ^ \ a. Lieutenant of Foot\ 
 
 L.HARLES UOOftACRE ^ p <^ 
 
 I con to Jeremy. 
 Boniface, - a Schcolmajier. 
 
 Recruiting Serjeant^—^diers— Country People, 
 
 SCENE I. . 
 
 ^^^''^l/^ P^^^ before Jeremy Gocdacre^ s cottage. In the middk 
 ofit, a large tree, 'with a feat round it. 
 
 I/aaCy [alone.) 
 
 I Did not fee her all yelterday. 1 have not fpent a day 
 this twelvemonth without feeing her. What can hav6 
 happened? Every thing is quiet in the houfe. Ah ! Cicely^ 
 can you fleep at eafe, while you know how uneafy 1 am ? 
 
 * The following is rather an imitation, or paraphrafe, than a tranf- 
 lation ot' the diama which bears the fame title in the French (xf 
 Mr. Bkrq^uin. _ The neceflity of deviating fiom the original will be 
 obvious to every 'reader. The French drama is alfo imitated from the 
 Germiia of Mr. ENGEt, 
 
 —Mayhap 
 
I tmecoodson. 4^ 
 
 ^Mayhap fhe has changed her mind, and loves fame- 
 body elfe. {Goes to^vOards the cottage door.) Heh ! Cicely^ 
 Cicely t 
 
 SCENE ir. 
 
 I . JfaaCy Ckelji 
 
 I C/r. {fhimicking him,) Heh! Ifaac^ Ifaac !-^WelI, here 
 
 lam. 
 
 ■ ifaac. You feem to be In high Ypirits, Cicely. 
 
 \ Cic. Are you angi-y that I am glad to fee you ? 
 
 Ifaac. You did not want to fee me yefterday though, or 
 you would have been where yoii promiredi 
 
 Cic, WelU are .you going to feoid rne? Do you think I 
 'was not as urteafy as you were? 
 
 Ifaac. Dear heart 1 Cicely^ are you ferlous ? Well, now 
 I am as happy as I was dull a minute agOi But what 
 hindered you to come ? 
 
 Cic. You kndw it was the firfl: day of the month ; and 
 when my brother, at his landing, wrote to father from 
 Porrfmouth, he told him Jhat he ihould hear from him 
 again, without fail, as yefterdayi 
 
 Ifaac. Well ? 
 
 Cic. So father would not wait fdr thd poflinan, biit 
 Tent me, about four o'clock, to the poll-office, for the 
 fetter. They told me there^ to wait ; that it could not 
 be long before the coach cane in : {q 1 llaid, upon thornsi 
 And father, U'neafy at nly ftop, came foon afterwards ; 
 •and before a quarter of an hour's eiidj comes mother too. 
 You know I could not quit thenl. So there we ftaid until 
 dark night> and no coach. 1 fuppofe fome accident had 
 happeneds We came back forrowful enaugh^J and I could 
 not leave father and mother grieving by themf:ilves j now 
 tell me, could 1 ? 
 
 Ifaac. No, you are very right. I flian't fcoldyou. But 
 what is your hurry now ? Where do you want to go ? 
 
 Cic. To fee if the letter is come yet. Father and mo- 
 ther are terribly uneafy. They are fo fond of my brotheri 
 and he of them. , 
 
 ifaac. Now, Cicely — are you fond of me ? 
 
 Gic. My brother, that was only a private foldier, and 
 is now a lieutenant. 
 i Ifaac* Yea, Cicely, but-*^ 
 
 (7/f. 
 
4S THE GOOD SON. 
 
 Ck. And has two or threefcore men at his command. 
 
 Ij'aac. Ah! your brother is well off. 
 
 Cic. How grand will he be in his fcarlet coat and his 
 gold Ihouldcr-knot 1 Oh! it is a fine thing, Ifaac, to be 
 a captain ? Doft not think To ? 
 
 Ijaac. Ay, J Ihall know it, I am afraid. He'll be 
 afiiamed now, mayhap, to fee me one of his family, as I 
 have no gold fhoulder-knot, nor men at ray command. 
 
 Cic. No, Jfaac, do not make yourfelf uneafy. My 
 father has lived in the fame way of life with you thefe 
 fixty years, and my brother has too much fenfe to defpife 
 it. He would have been the fame as you, if he had not 
 chanced to enllrt when he was young. No, he will never d 
 Jook for a hulband for his filter out of her own condition. 
 
 I/aac. Ah ! Cicely, how happy you make me i 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 "Jeremy, Cicely j Jfaac* 
 
 Jer. Are you comeback already \ Where Is the letter? 
 Let's lee. 
 
 Cic. Father, 1 have not been at thepolt-office yet. 
 
 Jer. And you lland there, prating 
 
 Cic. I was juft a going. Well, I'll run as fall as I can. 
 Will you go ilaac ? 
 
 Jer. Ay, go together ; fo you will be back the fooner. 
 nut don't loiter on the road. And Cicely, as you pafs, 
 'lou'll tell Mr. Boniface the fchoolmalter, to come here 
 and read t'.ie letter for me. 
 
 S C E N E IV. 
 
 Jeremy, 
 
 How unenfy I am about the delay of this letter! I 
 could not reft the whole night. Ah ! my dear boy, how 
 the thoughts of you make us glad and forry by turns I 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 Jeremy y Nanny, 
 
 Kan. Well, this letter does not come. I don't know 
 )k)w it is ; a dread hangs over me. 
 
 7'r. 
 
THE GOOD SON. 49 
 
 y^r. Do not be impatient, my dear ! we diallhear fl'om 
 him prefently, and lee him too again very foon. 1 know 
 we fhall. A'hl I am fure I pray for that every day. 
 
 Nanny. He is a foldier, my good man, and a foldier is 
 not certain of his life a moment. That is v/hat makes me 
 unhappy. V^ry often, when his letters are read to us, 
 and you imagine that I cry for joy, it is 'for grief and 
 forrow. Kach, I think-, is perhaps his laft : ami this 
 money that he fent us at his landing I cannot look at it 
 without a heavy figh. As I faid to myfelf, it is his pay 
 from the king, the price of his blood; and can we, his 
 father and mother, be happy while we are fpending it } 
 Ah ! I wiih he were here now. 
 
 Jer. We (hall have him here by and by, never fear. 
 He will come to quarter in fome town, mayhap, near 
 ourfelves, and then welhall go and fee him once a week. 
 
 Nanny ^ {o'verjoyed.^ AyQ, twice, three times a week, 
 my man. Ah ! if that was the cafe, how happy fhould I 
 be ! But who can tell whether we fhall know him again f 
 
 Jer. Heh ! I dare fay I fhall know my own fon. 
 
 Nanny, What, when he is dreft like an ofiicer, all ever 
 gold lace, with his breaft-plate and his fwafh ? 
 
 •SCENE VI. 
 Jeremy, Nanny, Boniface^ 
 
 Bon, Good morrow, neighboiir Jeremy. Good flior* 
 row, dditietjoodacre. 
 
 Jer. How doft do. Mailer Boniface? {Jhaking him i>^ 
 '4he hand.) 
 
 Bon. Well, you have received hews from your foa? 
 V/here is tlie letter ? Let 'me read it to you. 
 
 Jer. Wc have not received it yet, and I am fo impa- 
 tient — 
 
 Bon, I fuppofefo, if it were only to have th« hotjourof 
 receiving a letter from a lieutenant. But how the plague 
 •did he g€t up fo high ? I cannot think, for my part. Be* 
 •iides, you never fheu'ed me his letter that mentions it; 
 yon got the ex^i-feman to read it for you. 
 
 Nanny. Then you did not hear thatpart, Mr. Boniface? 
 Do, tell him how it was, Jeremiah-. 
 
 vot.. n* D B<yn% 
 
5^ 
 
 THE GOOD SON. 
 
 Bon. Aye, come, do tell us about it, neighbour Je- 
 remy. 
 
 yer. Well, mailer Boniface, the matter was as thus: 
 In that lalt battle — at what d'ye call it — near— 1 never can 
 think of the name; all his regiment was fadly mauled j 
 moll of the oflicerb killed or wounded. My fon too had 
 received a ball, bat never minded it. He rallied about 
 three hundred men as well as he could, {^iv/fb 'vehemence.) 
 led them up to the enemy fell on with fixed bayonets, 
 checked them fo much that oui people had time to retreat, 
 and at laft came ofi-" in good » rder at the head of fifty men. 
 His general law the whole, miide him lieutenant upon the 
 {pot, and proniifed to befriend him as long as he lived. — 
 Ye.s mafter Boniface, it is all true. My fon did jull as 
 I tell you. 
 
 Bon. Oh ! it is a brave youth. I faw that long ago, 
 while he was at fchool with me. When my boys were at 
 play it was Charley that, led the gang ; and if ever there 
 was aquarrel, he always fobercd theiloutclt of them. It 
 was in him then, neighbour Jeremy. Thatis all natural 
 to him. 
 
 y^r. {^y-ighmg^) Ayt, by the ma fs is it ! 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 
 Jeremji Kminyy Cicely, Boniface* 
 
 ' Cic. {running.) Father! father.! here is the letter, 
 here it is ; and another Bank-note in it, I dare fay, for it 
 ieels thick. 
 
 Jer. My good Charley! I am afraid he hurt* himfelf 
 to ferve me. 
 
 Cic. And father, fome more wine too. The wincii 
 'merchant, h« with the great red nofe, was at the poft- 
 ^otiice at the fame time with mc, and had juft got an order 
 •i^o fend you another hamper full. Ifaac is gone to fetch 
 it, 
 
 ^^^\[hni A h.tmper full ? - 
 
 • Jer'. There will be fome of that for you, Mafier Boni- 
 /ace. But mean time, w« have a little of the laft left, 
 •You fhall drink with me while you read the letter. Go, 
 dame, and bring us that bottle and three gla/Tes, with a 
 bite of bread and theefe. We will make a breakfaft of it 
 
 here 
 
THE GOOD SON. $i 
 
 here under the tree. Bring out a table. Cicely. Make 
 
 hafte. 
 
 . Namy and Cicely {as they go off,) But pray, now, do not 
 
 read the letter without us. 
 
 Bon. Never fear. You know, I cannot read before I 
 break my fail:. 
 
 SCENE vrrr. 
 
 Jeremy, Boniface , Cicely , {n.\:ho goes backxvards and forwards ,') 
 
 Jer, Open the letter, however, Mailer Boniface, 
 though we won't read it the more for that. And yet I am 
 curious to know what he fays about the peace, and if he 
 will ibon come and fee us. 
 
 Bon. Of the peace, quotha r Aye, they talk of it a 
 good deal, but I cannot think it. They recruit and im- 
 prefs iliil as fail as ever. Why, this morning a ferjeanc 
 with Iiis party came into the town. 
 
 Jer. What, to recruit? 
 
 Bon. Ay, marry. The fame that fwears he enlilled 
 Jiaac, your daughter's iweecheart, at the fair in t'other 
 town. Take care, neighbo-ur Jeremy, he'll carry off 
 Cicely's hulband that is to be, if you do not take care. 
 He is a ilippery fellow, that ferjeant. 
 
 Cic. {coming near to lijlen.) O gracious, are you ia 
 earneil:, Mailer Boniface t 
 
 Jer. Do not be afraid, child, you know it was all a 
 trick. 
 
 Bon. Nay, if you are fure of that. But come, let us 
 
 unfeal What a fine hand your fon writes ! how fair 
 
 and legible: but he is indebted to me for it. {He hems, 
 and be 7 ins to read.) 
 
 " , Honoured father--''* 
 
 Jer. {f retching his head out to^jjards Boniface to hear tie 
 letter.') Ah 1 my good Charley. 
 
 Bon. ** As cur regiment is ordered home, to remain it* 
 this country" — 
 
 Jer. Heaven be praifed 1 Then he will not crofs th? 
 feas again. How happy my wife will be ! 
 
 Bon, *' I hope fhorily to have the happinefs. of feeing 
 m,y family"— 
 
 D 2 Jir. 
 
52 T FI E GOOD SON. 
 
 *Jer, Oh ! I knew we (hould foon have him here. 
 
 Bon. ** Meantime J cannot give you greater fatisfaftion, 
 :thin by informing you how honourably I have been 
 .treated a few dayi fince" — 
 
 "Jer. {joyfully.) ks t Let us hear, let us hear. 
 
 Bon. ** By the general who politely invited me to 
 dinner with him." — 
 
 J^r, My Charley to dine with him ? Oh ! how the reft 
 ■would Hare ! all thofe great officers ! Well? well? 
 
 Bon, *' He held a particular converfation with mc for a 
 long time, and was pleafedtopay me feveral compliments 
 on my behaviour during the war, which were certainly 
 more than I deferved. In Ihort, he afked me where I was 
 .born, and who wa;S my father." — 
 
 Jer. What! the general aik about me? Well, what 
 •did he fay f let's hear; quick. Mailer Boniface. 
 
 Bon. ** I told him that you were a poor honeft labour- 
 *3ng man, but that I v/ould not change you for any father 
 in the world, notwithftanding your condition." — 
 
 Jer. {J.if ting up his hands.) Heavenly goodnefs ! I think 
 'I hear him. 
 
 Bon. ** Tlve general was pleafedwith this expreflion of 
 my duty towards you, and filling his glafs, drank your 
 health in the prefence of the whole table, requefting me 
 to in^form you that he had done himfelf that pleafure, and 
 to aflure you always of his friendfhip and good wilhes." 
 
 "Jer. {o^uerjcycd.) Now, is it pollible. Mailer Boniface'? 
 The general? Some duke, no doubt. 
 
 Bon. Ay, you'hear he drank your health. 
 
 Jer. {rufis toxvards the cottage, and calls out.) Wife! 
 wife ! never mind what you are doing there, but come 
 hither: come quick. 
 
 Nanny y {from ^within the cottage.) What is the matter, 
 Jeremiah ? 
 
 Jer, Nay, come, you fhall hear ; come, I tell you, 
 quick. 
 
 S C E N E IX. 
 
 Jeremy, Boniface, Na?iny^ 
 
 Jer. {hijjini Nanny.) Oh I my dear good wife., what a 
 fon thou haft given mei 
 
 Najiny 
 
T K E G O C D S O N. ST 
 
 Nanny y {Jets the nuim and bread and cheefe on the tahli^ 
 Boniface lays hold on it unconcernedly.') Whac is the matter 
 good now ? I am all over in a flutter of joy. Is he coming 
 home? 
 
 Jer. Oh! better than that. He dined with the general, 
 d'ye know, and the general alked about our town, and 
 about me, and mv Ton told him that I was a poar labourer, , 
 but that he would not change me for all the fathers in the 
 world. And with that the general drank my health pub- 
 liikly, and promifed me his friendfhip. {Nanny claps her' 
 hands for joy.) So now, my dear, we mull drink the 
 general's health. Come, dame, take you that glafs, 
 you t'other, Mafter Boniface, and I'll have this. {^Takes 6ff<> 
 his hat.) Fill ail bumpers. Come, here^s a health to ttie 
 noble general. 
 
 Bon, 'Fore George, he doe? not drink better than this. 
 
 'Jer. Hark ye, neighbour Boniface, you niufl: wrire 
 for me to my fon, as how I have pledged the general's 
 hrcalth in a bumper, and that he mull thank him from 
 nie, and aflure him that 1 love him dearly. Now don't 
 forget. Nay, by the rights of the bufinefs, it would not^ 
 be amifs,. I think, to fend a civil line or- two to himfeif. 
 
 Bon, Pooh! neighbour Jeremy, what doll talk on ? 
 
 Nanny. But Charley is coming home, is he ? we Hiall 
 foon fee him. Eh ? 
 
 Jer. Softly child, you will hear that dlrecflly. 
 
 Nan7iy. Ah! if he could come before our Cicely Is 
 married, it would be a double happincfs. 
 
 Jer. Patience! Patience 1 mailer Boniface will go on. 
 
 Nanny. Ay, ay; pray go on; mayhap he'll lell us- 
 fomething more. 
 
 Bon. {ftting donvn agaim • Nanny gees to his fde, and- 
 lifiens attentively.) '* invited me to dine with him" — 
 Where didl leave off? — " Drank your health — RcquelU- 
 ing me" — ^Ay, here it is — '* Rec^uelting me to infoiin 
 you"— 
 
 S C E N E X, 
 Jeremy y Nanny ^ Cicely y Boniface, 
 
 Cic. {cryi7ig and fobbing.) Help, help, father; here are ^ 
 the foldiers. 
 Jer. How? What is the matter? 
 
54 THE GOOD SON. 
 
 C/V. The recruiting ferjeant is going to take away 
 Ifaac. 
 
 Bc^i Whatj and the hamper of wine too, that he is 
 bringing? 
 
 INanny, O iny liars, this is a misfortune ! 
 
 Ctc. Do father, go and feeif you can relcafc hira. Yoa 
 are his father in a manner as well as mine. The ferjeant 
 will refpe^: you, I am fure. Every body refpedls you. 
 
 Jer. Siily child I as if every body lived in our town. 
 But make yourfelves eafy ; it is not fo bad perhaps as you 
 imagine. 1 will go and talk to them. 
 
 Cic. Do father, and 1 will go with you : perhaps we 
 may prevail on them. 
 
 SCENE XL 
 
 Nanny y B on if ace » 
 
 Nanny. Lackaday ! I wifh T could follow you. But 
 now Mafter Boniface, you that can fpeak like an oration, 
 why don't you go and hold fonh to them ? 
 
 Boii. No, no, dame ; my bufmels is to comfort the 
 afflided. I cannot quit jo«. 
 
 Nanny, {jwith anxiety.) Blefs me ! don't T hear a nelfe 
 already in the town ? I hope no harm will happen to my 
 poor man. Do, neighbour Boniface, go and fee what is 
 the matter. 
 
 Bon, Why yoa would not have me go ! what me .? 
 
 Nanny. Yes. You are a man of learnin-g. Ycu can 
 talk to them fomething like. 
 
 Bon. Ay, ib much the worfe. Thefe blades would 
 deiJre no better fport than to fall foul of men of learning, 
 like me. 'Sblood, keep to your books, they would fay 
 to nie. And then again 1 am a little hally, who can tell 
 what might happen? 1 fliould never have meddled with 
 learning, thut is plain. 
 
 Nanfiy. Come, you arc one of our bell friends, Mr* 
 Boniface, and won't you help us? 
 
 Bon. Nay, but have a little moderation after all. 
 Gammer. Think of my profeffion. f can give you 
 counfelo and confolations in EngliQi and in Latin, as much 
 as you will ; but for helping folks, it does not lie in my 
 waj', 
 
 Nan?i)\ 
 
THE GOOD SON. y^ 
 
 l-^anny. Well, I could not have expeiSled this of, yoiu 
 I fee, 1 mull hobble after them mylelf. 
 
 SCENE XII. 
 
 Boniface y {alone. ") ^ 
 
 Yes, yes! go and pufh myfelf in amongft a parcel c^" 
 young fvvaggerers. I have only twenty brats in my fchopl 
 ajid thofe young monkies play tricks on me from mo/ning 
 to night. What v/ould I be amongd a rc';re of great, 
 hulking fellows? I fhould have no.rods there to frightea 
 them. I think it is much better to finilli this b .trie, and 
 then I can read the rell of the letter, i long to kuDW — 
 i^Fills his glafsy and reads to him/elf.) " The firft cf next 
 month r" — Why that was yellerday. {Continues to read 
 eagerly,^ ** The, fecond ? To be here on the I'econd of th@ 
 month?"— Heh ! they'll be quite happy. {Drinks off his 
 ivine,) There is not a moment to be loft. [Fills again and 
 drinks.) I'll run after them, and bring them back. [Fills 
 and drinks a third time.) The time is precious. {Holding 
 the bottle upy and jeeing it empty, rifes in a hurry , as if lo 
 run after them y and calls.) Jeremy! Nanny 1 They are too 
 far off: they do not hear me. Well, this news will make 
 it up for me with Nanny. It would be a pity to quarrel 
 with fuch good folks, efpecially juft now, when they have 
 got a frelh hamper of fuch nedar as this. 
 
 ACT IT. 
 SCENE I. 
 
 Jeremy i Ifaac, Nanny, the Serjeant, Country People, 
 {Cicely and Soldiers fan ding hy.) 
 
 The Serj. {to the Soldiers.) Come, n.o more q^ this 
 whining; rake him before ajuflice. 
 
 Country People. You won't take the man by force, vv-ill 
 you ? 
 
 Ifaac, Ay, let him, if he dare. 
 
 The Serj. You mav all talk as you will : this is my man. 
 {Slappiyig on his pocket.) Here is my beating order, and 
 that is enough. 
 
 D 4 Ij'aac* 
 
S6 THE G O O ]> S O- N. 
 
 I//iac. Beating order? you have no order to trapaa 
 folks. 
 
 yer, [inakh'.g a Jjgn fo the country people to be Jtlent.) 
 Karkye, Mr. .SerJ-eant, good words go a great wav. 
 
 The SerJ. Good words ? J defire no other. Let's fee of 
 wh?i> ion yours are. 
 
 Jer. Til tell you what, ferjeant, I love my king and 
 country with all my heart; and if the war wa> not almuil 
 over,, and every thing fettled, if we were in any danger, 
 and I here was a real occafion — 
 
 The. SerJ. Is this all that you have to fay ? 
 
 yer.. Nay, ferjcant, only hear mf. 
 
 f/je Ser. {leaning oji his cafie,) Well, let us hear. 
 
 yer. This young man is my f>n in law that is to be ; 
 ' bui what of that? if things were as I tcld you, 1 fnould 
 be the frll: to fay, carry him off. For what can there be 
 xnore our duty, than to fight for one's country? Take 
 inyfelf too, I would fay. My head is grey, it is true, 
 and my face covered with wrinkles, but I am neither too 
 old nor too weak to fight as well as another. My fon's 
 noble bravery has made me ilrong again, (w/VZ> ijehcmence,). 
 1 will fight as long as I can carry a firelock, and when old 
 age and wenkncfs overpower me, ] will hearten up the 
 young fellows round me to behave themfelves bravely. If 
 I fee any cf them draw back, I'll throw myfelf in his way 
 and flOp his flight, or, if he will run, he fliall pafs over 
 the carcafe of a poor old man. Yes, upon noy foul, ferjeanr, 
 I wftuld fty exadly fo, — if things were at that pafs. 
 
 The SerJ. And 1 would fay. My good old gentleman,— • 
 you don't know what you are talking about. 
 
 Jcr. {advancing a Jlep) Markye^ ferjeant, mayhap j<7« 
 don't know what you are doing. If you give yourfelf airs 
 with us, we'll find your betters fomewhere ; and if I write 
 to my fon, that is a lieutenant — 
 
 The SerJ. You a fon a lieutenant? But if you had a 
 dozen, 1 can only fay, that 1 mull have Mailer Ifaac here, 
 or the i'mart money. 
 
 I/aac. Ay, ay, this is a fine way to come and get folk's 
 money. You a king's man ? 
 
 '1 he Serf. J do no more than the king does, in regard to 
 ycur money, except that i take the trouble to come for it 
 myfelf Two guineas, or he mufk march. 
 
 Nar.nj. Nay, ferjeant, for pity's fake— 
 
 Thi 
 
 
THE GO O D SO N. cf 
 
 The Serj, Pity ! we foldiers have much *o do with pity. 
 How would it be if the enemy were amongft you? No 
 quarter then, but your money or your lives 1 
 
 Nawy^ {^Jhuddering.") Oh dear me ! 
 ■ The Srj. No, no, we have not much time for pity« 
 Broken arms and legs are nothing amongft us. — But come, ' 
 we are lofing time. Harkye, you muit find the money, 
 or the man is mine. Come along; march. {Goes off njoitb 
 the foldiers and Ij'adc. ) 
 
 'Jtr. Follow him, neighbours to the jurdce's, if he'goes 
 there. I'll be after you prefently. {^Cicely and the country 
 fefiple go ouf.) 
 
 S C E N E II. 
 yeremj^y Nanny, Boniface y {out of breath^ • 
 
 Jtr. Ah ! Mafter Boniface, you left us in the lurch. 
 
 Bon, What a plague! I have been running after y oil 
 this quarter of an hour. 
 
 ^er. What is the matter, then ? you feem all alive. 
 
 Bon. Matter ? the matter is here, gaffer. {Sinking tht 
 htter.) Why your fon is to be with us to-day, man, 
 
 Jer. To-day, Mr. Boniface? 
 
 Bon. Only hear, {He reads.) ** Our regiment Is ordered 
 Into quarters, and the firil of next month the company to 
 which I beicng wilt march through your town." Look 
 ye there, neignhour Jeremy , the Aril, that is, as one Ihould 
 fay, yefteruay. 
 
 Nanny, is it poflible ? Yefterday ? and not here yet ? 
 
 Bon. Scop, ftop. Hear what follows. {Reads.) '* Or' 
 if not ihat day, on the fecond at fariheit, I fliciU alk per- 
 million of the commanding officer to-go.and fee you as we 
 pals by. 
 
 Jer. Then, my dear boy comes at laft I Wife, I will 
 go and jneet him. I'll go as far as the common. I'll 
 iireich out -my arms towards him, and call to him. My 
 fon, my dear fon ! 
 
 Nanny. Nay, don't leave me pr'ythee. How can I 
 keep pace with you, being fu feeble? Then he will think 
 that 1 do-not love him as well as you do. 
 
 Bon. Ay, ay, ftay where you are> neighbour. Only 
 let me have a guinea, quick. 
 
 D 5 >. 
 
58 THE GOOD SON. 
 
 Jer. A guinea? For what? 
 
 £e>rt. I'o keep the feijeant in dlfcourfe about the two 
 giiintas that he afks, and then when your Ton comes — 
 
 jf'er. Ah ! right. Here my good friend. Run, fee 
 whui you can do. For my part, I can think of nothing 
 but my fon at this moment. {^Bonifu^e goes out lUMning.) 
 
 SCENE JII. 
 ye-remy^ Nanny » 
 
 Kanny. Pray, Jeremy, don't you go and leave me. I 
 could not ftay behind. You had better get up on this 
 little hil!. You will fee farther from the top of it. 
 
 Jer. You are right, my dear. Marry, J am all on iirC 
 with joy and impatience. 
 
 Nanny y {^ivhile Jeremy goes up the hill.) Heaven be 
 praifid, then my ion is come liome again. I fhali fee 
 hiiTi once more, after fo many long yesfrs. Dear I how 
 n-.y heart beats ! My joy was great when he came into the 
 world, but now much greater. *{She calls to Jeremy.) Well, 
 . my dear man, do you fee nothing of him ? 
 
 Jer. {en tiptoes, holding his hand o<ver bis eyes.) Not yet, 
 honey ; the fun dazzles me. 
 
 Nanny. I hope all this joy may not be out of feafon. • 
 Step down, and lend me a hand to got up. 1 lliall fee' 
 farther than you. 
 
 J.r. What a duft* ]s.it a flock of fheep ? No; I fee 
 the gliitening of their arms. They are coming down by 
 yon hill. It is they, my dear. It is they. 
 
 Nanny. Do yon fee our boy? 
 
 Jer. Me cannc>t be far off. Eh ! who is this that comes 
 galloping towards us through the town? {He tbroxvs his 
 hot up.) Hiizza ! wife, here he comes on horfeback. Our 
 ovvn Charley. 
 
 Na^.ny. Good lack ! I am out of my wits with joy. Oh I 
 I ttiUit go to meet him. Gracious 1 here he comes. 
 
 SCENE 
 
THE GOOD SO N. ^9 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 yeremyt Nanny ^ Lieutenant Goodacre, 
 
 ■ Lieut. Goodacre, [ettteiing as "Jeremy comes do-zvn fram the 
 hilL) My dear father ! {embraces his father and nut her.) 
 
 Jer. Ah! my good ion. Gad blefs thee, my dear 
 boy ! The fight of you makes me ihed tears of joy. You 
 have a thankful father. 
 
 Nanny. Oh ! that yQu have, my dear child, and a 
 thankful mother too. 
 
 Lieut. Goodacre. Why do you talk of thanks "ly ho- 
 noured parents? It is 1 that have obligations to you. 
 
 Jer. No, Charles. 1 will fay it bef;re all the world, 
 yv-u have repaid me much more than I have ever given 
 'you. You are all my comfort, and the happineis of my 
 old age. It is you that keep me alive, and prolong my 
 days 
 
 Nanny. We can never make you amends for the happi- 
 nefs that you afford us. 
 
 Lieut. Goodacre. And is it not the greatefl: happineis 
 that I cati enjoy myfelf ? It would be none, if your affec- 
 ti-n did not make you ftiare it with me. Yes, fnv dear 
 and honoured parents ; 1 have never ceafed to think of 
 you in every circumftance of life. When any good for- 
 tune has happened to me, I have thought very little cf 
 the advantage that fell to myfelf from it. The- greateft 
 pLeafure that I feit at fuch times, was in thinking of the 
 fatisfadion that it would occalion to you. Eat in no 
 part of my life have I enjoyed f > great, fo fenfible a hap- 
 pi-nefs as at this moment, wnen I iee both your eyes filled 
 With tears, {taking each of them by the hand, and looking 
 at them by turns.) O my worthy parents, I can never 
 fit^isfy myfelf with feeing you. — But compofe yourfelves. 
 I cannot Hay very long with you now. I rna'l return 
 fliortly, and fpend a te\v days with you. Well, how do 
 you go on ? How do you pafs your old age? liov/do you 
 liver Wliere is my filler, that 1 have not icon iince i\ifi 
 was in her cradle. Let ine fee her. 
 
 Jer. bhe is a good girl, and gives us vail fatisfaftion. 
 \\ e are going to marry her, if \ou approve it. out I'll 
 bring her hither directly, {going, he relurns.) And yet I - 
 aui gneved to tell you — 
 
 '....-: D 6 Ncin:r. 
 
Co THE GOOD SON. 
 
 Nar.ny. But for you fhe might be very unhappy. Our 
 intended fon-in-lavv, my dear child— 
 
 Jer. Has been trapanned by a ferjeant, that luckily is 
 Hill here. Before he releafes him, he expe^ls two gui- 
 neas ; and ihey have been promifed to him, to keep him 
 on the fpot, as we were in hopes that you would come iu 
 the mean time. How happy it is that you arrived here 
 to-day? 
 
 Lieut. Goodacre. Well, go father, and try to bring him 
 hither without telling him that 1 am here, nor my filter 
 neither. 
 
 yer. Nay, how fliall I refrain ! I would much rather 
 cry out to every body that 1 meet. He is here, he is 
 here, {goes out.) 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 Nanny y Lieutenant Gocdacre, 
 
 Lieut. Qccdacrey {Ijoklng round him.) How charming is 
 this retreat 1 Now indeed 1 know the place of my birth. 
 Yoridur is the cottage that I have fo often fighed after. 
 There the great tree, under the fliade of which we ufed to 
 iit with our neighbours on fine fummer evenings : and 
 liere the hill that i chofe for the f:ene of my fports. O 
 hiippy years of my childhood ! Of every fpot that I fee 
 xound me, there is none, my dear mother, that does not 
 remind me of fome maik or other of your aiFe«ltion. But 
 you feem thoughtful. 
 
 Nanny. ?v'Iy joy is ib great, I can hardly give it vent, 
 }f I were alone, i could cry for an houi^ Befides, too, I 
 think — 
 
 Lieut. Gocdacre. What, my dear mother ? 
 
 Nar.Tfj. That you are not our equal now. You arc too 
 much above us. 
 
 Lieut. Goodacre. I too much above you? Oh! banifh 
 that thought. Are not the ties of nature the molt facred ? 
 y\m not I convinced that I cannot be dearer to any per- 
 Ibns upon earth than to you and my father? And Ihould 
 not I in return feel a more fincere aftetfticn to my parents, 
 thnn to any other pcrfon in the unive.fe? Ah! believe 
 me, I fhuU continue to love and refpett you the fame 
 as ever, 
 
 S C E N E 
 
THE GOOD ON. h 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 Nanny y Lieutenant Goodacre, Cicely, 
 
 Cic. [enters haftily to her mother, fiuithout ohferving LieU" 
 tenant Goodacre) What is the matter, mother? Why did 
 my father fend me here in fuch a hurry ? [percei'ving 
 Lieutenant Goodacre, J/je dra^Ms back.) Oh goocineis 1 an 
 officer ! 
 
 Lieut. Goodacre y {afide to Nanny.) Mother, is that my 
 filter ? [Na>Lny makes Jigns to him in the afirmati-ve* He 
 goes tn kifs her.) What a charming countenance ! 
 
 Cic. ijiruggling.) Oh! fye fir, be quiet. 
 
 Nanny. What Cicely, to your brother? 
 
 Lieut Goodacre. How furprized fhe feems ? Yes, Cicely, 
 your bro her, and I hope a brother that you love. 
 
 Cic, Dear mother! what this fine officer? U he my 
 brother Charley ? 
 
 Lieut. Goodacre, {kijing her.) What amiable innocence! 
 
 Cic. [running to her mother, quite overjoyed.) Oh ! mo- 
 ther, we have nothing to fear now. ifaac will foon be 
 releafed. 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 
 Jeremy, Nanny y Lieutenant Goodacre, Boniface, Cicely f 
 Ifaac, the Serjeant, Country People, 
 
 Jer, [pointing to his fon.) There, ferjeant ; there is the 
 gentleman that will pay you the two guineas. 
 
 The Serj. [fur prized.) How is this? an officer ? [taka^ 
 eff his hat.) 
 
 Lieut, Gficdacre. You fay, iir, that you have enlifled 
 this man : where is your beating order ? 
 
 7'he Serj, [prefenting it to him nxiith fo?ns confufon^ 
 Here, fir. 
 
 Lieut, Gbodacra. I fee the number of your corps. What 
 officer commands your party ? 
 
 The Serj. Captain Marfhall, fir. 
 
 Lieut. Goodacre y [havi.ig looked onjer the paper,) Why 
 
 this is but a copy. Well, 1 know your captain, and think 
 
 1 fhould know you too. Your dealing with this man does 
 
 not fcem to have been fair. 1 am afraid that you Have 
 
 c abufed 
 
62 THE GOOD SON. 
 
 abufed the honourable profeflion of a foldier, and looked 
 upon it as allowing you a privilege to extort poor peo- 
 ple's money. 1 fhall write to your captain, and mean- 
 time ihall be anfwerable for this man's appearance. ^Ser* 
 jeant goes cff\ ) 
 
 SCENE viir. 
 
 jferemy, Nanny , Lieiiteitant Goodacre, Boniface^ Cicely , 
 IJaac^ Country People, 
 
 Lieut Goodacre. Come hither, fifter : Is this your in- 
 tended fpoufe? iie is a clever young fellow. 1 like 
 Cicelv's choice very much. 
 
 Ifaac. You are very good, captain, to approve it, as 
 I am no more than a hufbandman. 
 
 Lieut. Goodacre. And what was my father? Are not 
 you b';rn of hone ft parents? 
 
 Naruiy. Yes, indeed, my dear Ion, as honed as any in 
 the parifh. 
 
 Lieut. Goodacrt. Well, I fhall not he happy nnlefs I am 
 at your wedding. 1 iTiall take all the expence of it upon, 
 myfelf 
 
 Country People, {fwith a 7nurmur of approbation.) That 
 is very generous indited. 
 
 Lieut. Govdacre. But do not 1 fee Mr. Boniface? 
 
 Bon. Y-^"5, captain, much at your fervice. 
 
 Lieut. Goodacre. Ah ! one of my oldeft acquaintance?, 
 {jhakiHii l^<^'^ds ijuith him.) I am forry to have made him 
 angrv lb ofcen formerly. 
 
 Ban. That is all palt. The pre Tent docs me much ho- 
 nour. Do you know, cnptain, that it was I who read all 
 your letters for this good couple ? 1 have furead your re- 
 putation through the whol-- country, indeed I came in 
 lTi}f'if for fune ill are of it. 
 
 Lieut. Goodacre. Yes, Mr. Boniface, I acknowledge it 
 with p!' afure. Your inftrsKilions have not been entire-iy 
 uflefs tc m'-' in my advanciirncnt. 
 
 Ben {ho-Xi:! affciledly., and ri/es ivi-th a pedantic tnfs of his 
 head) Who wi.uld think [a/ide] that 1 have l^og^ed 9. 
 captain ? 
 
 ^Lient Goodacre. Fatber, do thefe good people b.lorig to 
 the village ? 
 
 7'r. 
 
THE GOOD SON. 63 
 
 '^er. Yes, child, they are our neighbours, and have 
 been very kind to us in our old age. 
 
 Lieut, Goodacre, I am heartily obliged to you, my good 
 friends. 
 
 Country People, {approaching familiarly.) How plain he 
 is, and how aiFable ! He does not think himfelf above us. 
 Kindly welcome home, captain. We have always been 
 glad to hear news from you, when you were abroad. (L?>«- 
 tenant Goodacre takes each of them by the hand.) 
 
 Jcr. Every thing that 1 fee of you, my dear fon, pleafes 
 me highly, and convinces me that whatever 1 heard to 
 your advantage was true. You certainly have behaved 
 yourfelf as a worthy foldier. 
 
 Lieut. Goodacre. I hope fo, father ; and I am indebted 
 for it to your good advice and that of my mother. There 
 is no part of the world, I thank heaven, where my me- 
 mory is hateful : I flatter mylelf that in many parts it is 
 rcfpedled. [looking at his ^vatch.) But my lime is almoU 
 expired. I mull leave you, my dear parents. . 
 Nanny. What, already ? fo fooa ? 
 Jer. Stop a 'little longer. We have fcarcely had time 
 to look at you. 
 
 Lieut. Goodacre. I muft abfolutely join our divifion 
 again. Be affured that my heart alone would be fufficient 
 to keep me here, if my duty did not call me away. But 
 ihall 1 afe you one thing before I leave you ? 
 Jer. and Nanny. Any thing, child, anything. 
 Li£ut. Goodacre. Well then, my dear parents, come and 
 live with me. You fhall command my pay, fuch as it is, 
 iu the fame manner as you ever command ray duty and 
 aifedion. 
 
 Jer. and Nanny. My dear fon — 
 
 Lieut. Goodacre. You hefitate? Ah! your confent mull 
 be quite voluntary. It would be no happinefs to me, if 
 it ceafed to be one to you. 
 
 Jer. Hear me, my dear child. We are old and can- 
 not live long. Let us die here where we have fpent all 
 our days. Let us die in our cottage ; that fpot is dear to 
 u-s, fince iri it you was born. Only come and make us 
 happy with the fight of you now and then, it is all that 
 Ifve deiire. 
 
 Liint, Goodacre* Oh ! certainly, certainly, father. 
 
 Na?7nyt 
 
$4 PHYSIOGNOMY. 
 
 Nanny, And we, my dear Ton, will go to fee you in 
 return. They w.ll be days of happinels to us when we 
 fiee you, and we (hail never ceafe to blefs heaven for hav- 
 ing given us luch a fon. 
 
 PHYSIOGNOMY. 
 
 MR. Oakley having one day furprized his daughter 
 Arabella very buiy bifore her glai's, they had the 
 following conerfntion on the fuhjetl. 
 
 Mr Oakley. AVny Arabella, you are dreft very fine. I 
 fuppoTe it is to receive or to pay vifits. 
 
 Arabella, Yes, papa, I am to fpcnd the evening with 
 the Mifs Monktons. 
 
 Mr. Oakley. I thought you were going to figure in a 
 circle of ciuche/Ies. What needs ail this drefling for. 
 friends that you fee every day? 
 
 Arabella, Why, papa, you know — when one goes out, 
 one ihould not be in a difliabille as at home. 
 
 Mr, Oakley. Then you are generally in dilhabille at 
 home? 
 
 Arabella. No, papa ; — but you know there ought to bs » 
 a difference. 
 
 Mr. Oakley. I undcriland. You mean that you (hould 
 be a little more attentive to your drcfs. But J thought, 
 as I came in, that you feemed bufy in examining your; 
 looks, and your figure. Does your glafs tell you that 
 your lludics have fucceeded ? {^Arabella looks don.vny and' 
 blujhes.) What is your intention ? 
 
 Arabella. Papa, one always likes to pleafe, and— we 
 would not appear io as to frighten people. 
 
 Mr. Oakley. Ha, ha! then it depends on our choice 
 to pleafe people, or to frighten them ? 
 
 Arabella. Not entirely. But I meant — as others do 
 when I hey fay, on^ looks like a fright. 
 
 Mr. Oakley. 1 fhould like to know what that means. It 
 may be cf uie to myfelf. 
 
 Arabella. Why for inftance ; when one is pitted deeply 
 with the imall pox, or has a great long nofe and chin, or 
 a wide mouth, 
 
 Mr, 
 
PHYSIOGNOMY. 65 
 
 Mr. Oakley. Thank heaven you have none of thefe ; 
 but rather, indeed, a fenfible little countenance. What 
 more do you want, in order to pleafe univerfally, and not 
 to be a fright ? 
 
 Arabella. Ah ! T can't tell how it is, but I know Tome 
 little miiies that have very handfome faces, and yet they 
 do not pleafe me ; and 1 know others that are not counted 
 handibme, and yet I like their faces very much. 
 
 Mr. Oaklew Can you trnfl: me with your thoughts ? 
 Tell me thofe iirft that are handfome and yet have not 
 the good luck to pleafe your talle. 
 
 ArahetJa. That is eafily done. \n the frll: place, there 
 is Mifs i>loomer. She has a clear friooth fkin, as white 
 as a lily, with line blue eyes and rofy lips. But (he has 
 an aftVcied loll which makes her feem lovver than Hie is; 
 r.nd fhe hangs her head on one Ihoulder, fo that her face 
 looks, quite another thing. Then {\\t draws out her words 
 flovvly, as if file weighed each fyllable, and in fpeaking 'iTi^ 
 looks at you, expeding you to admire txzry fentence. 
 In the next place, there is the eldeft Mifs Archly ; fhe 
 paffes for a beauty; but her looks are {o proud and fneer- 
 ing, that when v/e are a number of us together, we can- 
 not help thinking fhe defpifes or ridicules us. As for 
 Mifs Drake, fhe carries herfelf with fo much confidence, 
 and fpeaks with fuch an air of command, that a boy 
 would bluH-i — 
 
 Mr. Oakley. Softly! At this rate we fhall fall into 
 fcandal. I would rather hear you mention thofe who, 
 without being handfome, have found m.eans to pleafe you. 
 
 Arabella. You know Mifs Emily Johnfon } She is much 
 marked with the fmail-pox, and even has a pearl on her 
 left eye from it ; but yet her countenance is fo pleafing, 
 that one may read in it good-nature, mildnefs, and com- 
 plaifance. The youngeit Mifs Archly has the fmalleft 
 call in the world with her eyes, from having had fome- 
 thing hung before one eye that was fore for almofl a 
 twelvemonth when fhe was young. She looks to the 
 right, to fee what is on her left hand. Well, it is no^ 
 thing when one becomes ufed to it, and we all love her 
 dearly ; fhe is fo lively, and fo gay, 
 
 Mr. Oakley. You feen then, outward advantages, fuch 
 as a fair foft fkin, white teeth, a handfome nofe, rofy 
 lips, a fine cafy fhape, in fhort, all the beauties of face or 
 
 perfon^ 
 
66 PHYSIOGNOMY. 
 
 perfon, are not fufficlent by themfclves to make one 
 pleafe : one mult have befides a happy countenance, and 
 engaging manners. 
 
 Arabella. Certainly, papa; for otherwife I cannot tell 
 how fome pleafe me who are neither handfome nor well 
 ftiaped, and how others are difagreeable with all thefe ad- 
 vantages. 
 
 Mr, Oakley. But can you tell why the firil have fome- 
 thing in their countenances more agreeable to us than the 
 regular features of the fecoad I 
 
 Arabella, Becaufe, I fhould think, one fees there fome 
 figns ot their diipofition ; and we are apt to think that 
 thofe who have an appearance of good-nature in the fea- 
 tures of the face, mull have a good heart. 
 
 Mr. Oakley. When you were before your glafs, you 
 flrove, no doubt, to throw a little good-nature into your 
 countenance, that people might imagine you to poffefs it 
 in your dlipoluion too? 
 
 Arabella. Oil ! pray papa, do not m.ake game of me. 
 
 Mr. Oakley. I do not mean it. But you told me juft 
 now that you .vifiied to pleafe, and you owned this to be 
 the iureit method of doing fo. 
 
 Arabella, Yes, certainly 
 
 Mr. Oakley. But do you think that fuch a countenance 
 may not be deceitful, or that one can afiume the power of 
 pleafing and lay it down at pleafure ? 
 
 Arabella. Yes, papa, I think ioy for I have heard you 
 and others fay a hundred times, ** i would never have 
 thought that little girl to have fuch a deceitful counte- 
 nance — That man looked like honerty iifelf, and yet he 
 has deceived us. — Such a perfon knows how to compofe 
 his face fo, that one would fvvear him to be poUell of 
 every virtue." 
 
 Mr. Oakley. But did we fpeak, then, of thofe that we 
 had feen often, or for a long time, or pretty near us? 
 
 Arabella. Ah! i do not know that, papa. 
 
 Mr. Oakley. Or might not this wrong judgment pro- 
 ceed fr^.m a want of fagacity ? or from not fufficiently 
 remarking whether fuch perfons have always the fame 
 countenance, or only take it up upon occaiion ; or ia 
 fliort, whether they fpeak and ad conhllently, and uni- 
 form 'y ? 
 
 Arabella, What is the meaning of that, papa ? 
 
 Mr, 
 
PHYSIOGNOMY. ^f 
 
 Mr. Oakley. Whether every thing agrees, their coun- 
 tenance, their cyts, the found of their voice, all the fea- 
 / tures of their face ; whether any part contradicts, or gives 
 the lie to the other. 
 
 Arabella, Oh I there are a good many things to mind 
 in that. And yet 1 Ihould imagine, if I faw any one a 
 long time, and pretty often, and took particular notice of 
 what you have mentioned, J could not be miilaken. 
 
 Mr. Oakley. Ah ! child, do not be too fure. 
 
 Arabella. However, 1 think, I can fee in my little friends 
 what is affeded, and what is natural. 
 
 Mr, Oakley. So, then you fuppofe that you are knowing 
 enough in the art of difguihng ihe thoughts, and that 
 you have judgment and penetration enough, to ditlinguifh 
 truth from hypocrify upon a countenance ? Reaiiy, I 
 ihould never have expedled fo much from fo light a little 
 head as yours, 
 
 Arabella. Oh ! I have taken notice in Mifs Bloomer, 
 that her prim mouth, her ftare, her motions with her 
 head, and that drawling tone of hers, are not natural ; 
 and that the elder Mifs Archly 's proud flouting look, and 
 Mifs Drake's ^vee. undaunted manner is not at all affefted, 
 becaufe the one is really vain and felf-conceited, and the 
 other impudent. 
 
 Mr. Oakley. Perhaps they are not far enough advanced 
 in the art of putting on counterfeit looks. However 
 your opinion is, that our averfions and our likings, our 
 faults and our virtues are painted on our faces, and that 
 one can read in a pcrfon's features, as in a book, what he 
 is in the bottom of his heart. 
 
 Arabella. Why not? I never faw a paflionate perfoa 
 with a mild afpedl, nor an envious perfon with a fmiling 
 countenance ; nor one who v/as cruel and unfeeling, with 
 looks of tendernefs. Only fee our neighbour, Mrs. Grim- 
 flon, how fhe eyes people as if fhe would eat them up, 
 and with what a grumbling voice fhe fpeaks. Every time 
 that Mifs Artichoke, die old maid, comes here, when 
 mama has comi"»any, only obrerve how her eyes go round, 
 to fee if any lady prefent has any thing new or elegant 
 about her drefs ; and with what looks of jealoufy (he mea- 
 fures her from head to foot, as if Ihe was hurt at another's 
 happiuefs. 
 
 . . Mr 
 
6n r II y s I o G N o M Y. 
 
 Mr. OaUey, Why, indeed, we may pretty fafely pro- 
 nounce that the one is envious, and the other paiTionate. 
 But may it not fometimes happen, that nature fhoulcT 
 give the fame perfon a h .ppy countenance, and a perverfe 
 dilpofition ; or, on tlie ocher hand, iadiiFerent features 
 along with a noble keart ? 
 
 Jlrahclla. I do not know, but I can hardly believe it. 
 
 lilr. Oakley. Why lo r 
 
 Jrahella. iJecaufe we may fee by a perfon's figure 
 whether he is weak or flrcng, fickly or in health ; and ic 
 inufr be the fime with the (liipofjtion. 
 
 Air. Oakley. Well, now 1 ihall give you two pafTages 
 from hillory, that feem to contradift your notion. A 
 certain able phyfiognoniiil:, called Zopyrus, boarted that 
 from a view of a perfon's Ihape and countenance, he 
 could diilinguifii his manners and ruling pafiions. After 
 one day looking at Socraies, he judged him to be a man- 
 of a bad. mind and vicious inclinations^ feme of which 
 he mentioned. Alcibiades, the friend aaxi fcholar of So- 
 crates, who was well acquainted with his mailer's merit, 
 could not help laughing at the judgment of the phyfiog- 
 nomill and taxing him with grofs ignorance. But Socrates 
 confcfled that he was really by nature inclined to thofe 
 vices of which he was accufed, and that he preferved' 
 himfelf free from them by the conltant exertions of philo- 
 fophy. ^5ifop, that Have who was endowed with fo much- 
 wit, had a perfon fo difagreeable and deformed, that 
 when he Hood to be lold he could prevail on nobody to 
 purchafe him, until his witty anfwers fliewed them con- 
 vincingly what he was. — Here are two examples that feem- 
 to prove the contrary of what you maintained. 
 
 Arabella. Well now, that furprizes me as to Socrates :■ 
 I hive often heard you talk of him with admiration. 
 And as to JEiop too, J have read his fables with fo much 
 pleafure. 1 fhould have thought them both the fined 
 looking perfons in the world. But however, it agrees 
 again with what 1 faid, that one may be ordinary, and 
 yet have I don't know what of wit, fenfibility, or good- 
 nature, in the countenance. 
 
 Mr. Oakley. You are right ; fickncfs or grief may alter 
 the features. But that was not the cafe with Socrates. 
 He owned himfelf that he was at firft viciouily inclined^ 
 and the fraturcs cf his face Arongly confirmed it. 
 
F H y S I O G N O M 7. 6f 
 
 Arahella. I think his anfwer explains the difficulty. 
 He was born with a bad difpoficion, but as he had much 
 .good fenfe at the fame time, and f.iw that pafTmn, pride 
 ■and envy were terrible vices, he ftruggled with them and 
 •came at length to get the better of them. His heart was 
 purged of his faults, but his countenance kept the marks 
 of them ftill. 
 
 Mr. Oakley. You Teem to be pretty ready at a reply, 
 JNay, there is feme truth, too, in your reafoning. How- 
 ever, I have a fmall queilion to propofe to you. — If Mifs 
 Archly, that proud little mifs, who has a face, you fay, 
 expreliing difdain and felf-conceit, fhould, from the fen- 
 •fible inftrudions of her parents, be convinced of her own 
 folly ; or if dillrefTes and ficknefs obliged her to endea- 
 vour to render herfelf agreeable to others, by being mild, 
 affable and minnerly, fo that llie fhould become quite the 
 contrary to what fne is at prefent ; and fuppofe it were 
 the fame with your other little friends, as to the faults 
 that you find in them alfo ; would thofe marks of pride, 
 affeftation or impudence remain ftill upon their faces? 
 Or when, by continual and redoubled efforts they fhould 
 have changed their vices into the oppofite virtues, would 
 the fame alteration take place in their countenances ? 
 Jrabella. Yes, certainly, papa. 
 
 Mr. Oakley Well, the truth may lie between our dif- 
 ferent ways of arguing. Socrates, when young, yielded 
 to the folly of his paflions, a-nd even retained for a long 
 time his choleric temper, fmce he entreated his faends to 
 admonif/i him, whenever they faw him ready to give way 
 to it. But in a more advanced age, when he had been 
 intruded in the fchool of wifdom, he began undoubtedly 
 fo combat his vices, to reform himfelf daily, and to rife 
 by degrees to the highell pitch of perfeftion in every mo- 
 ral virtue. But then it was too late to new-model his 
 features. The mufcles and fibres of his face becoming 
 ftifF, the beauty of his mind could make no impreffion 
 through his countenance. It was like the fun in a cloudy 
 iky. Now in ciiildhood, when the features are more ten- 
 der and flexible, the different movements of the foul are 
 in their turns forcibly impreffed on them. So that if by 
 a reform during that period the virtues take place of the 
 vices in the mind, the outward expreflion of thefe virtues 
 on the countenance will alfo efface that of the vices. For 
 
 the 
 
7© PHYSIOGNOMY. 
 
 the countenance may be compared to a thin veil. If you 
 throw it over the head of a fair CircalTian, and afterwards 
 over that of a Negro wench, yoa will eafily fee through 
 it the florid bloom of the one, and the footy blacknefs of 
 the other. I do not know whether you underiland what 
 I mean. 
 
 Arabella. Oh ! yes, perfedly from that comparifon ; 
 and to fhew you that 1 do, I will give you one of my 
 own. I have often with the grcateft eafe cut the letters 
 of my name, or the date of the year, upon a young tree, 
 but 1 could not do fo upon an old one : the bark would 
 have been too hard, and too rugged. 
 
 Mr, Oakley, Why you furprize me. But even thougk 
 your comparifon fhould not be quite exad, it is certainly 
 true that if vvc do not take up a habit of virtue until an' 
 advanced age, we fhall appear the lefs amiable in the 
 eyes of others ; becaufe our features, long accu Homed to 
 exprefs our former vicious inclinations, can with difficulty 
 be modelled to reprefent our prefent virtuous fentiments: 
 and what are we to conclude from this ? 
 
 Arabella. That we fliould — that we ftiould 
 
 Mr. Oakley. Confider well before you exprefs yourfelf. 
 
 Arabella. That we Ihould endeavour, while young, to 
 have an amiable countenance. 
 
 Mr. Oakley. But if we are not in our heart what our 
 countenance denotes, would not the contrail be remarked .' 
 You faid juft now of Mifj Bloomer, that Ihe was not 
 what fhe wilhed to be thought. So, you fee — 
 
 Arabella. Yes, I fee that we fhould itrive to be really 
 what we wifli to appear. So, for inilance, if we woulU 
 appear mild, modeft, referved, or good-natured, we fhould 
 llruggle againil all thole inclinations that would hinder 
 us to be fo in elFeft, otherwife our counterfeit looks will 
 foon be di (covered. For if one is really mild, modeit, 
 referved, or good-natured, the features of his face will 
 ihevv it. 
 
 Mr. Oakley. Very well, my dear Arabella. And is 
 not that an excellent receipt for obtaining true beauty» 
 and the genuine a^t of pleafing ? How unhappy would 
 thofe be to whom nature has refufed her charms, if they 
 were debarred the hopes oi acquiring an amiable and en- 
 gaging countenance by goodnefs of heart., and other qua- 
 lities moll pleafing in the fight of God and man. There- 
 3 * fore. 
 
NARCISSUS AND HIPPOLYTU3. 71 
 
 fore, my dear, take my advice ; do not go to feek ia 
 your glafs for the art of appearing better than you really 
 are. But whenever you find yourfelf ruffled by any paf- 
 fion, run immediately and confult it. You will fee the 
 uglinefs of envy, anger or vanity. Then afk yourfelf, if 
 fuch a portrait can be agreeable in the eyes of either God 
 or man, 
 
 Arabella. Yes, papa ; your advice is, very good, and I 
 win follow it. But 1 fhall reap another advantage frcni 
 your in{lru6lions. 
 
 Mr. Oakley. What is that? 
 
 Arabella. I will look very attentively at every body 
 that I fee in company, and ftrive to difccver by their 
 faces what opinion I fliould have of them. 
 
 Mr. Oakley. No, child, take care how you do fo. The 
 fi;-ft .would be contrary to good manners, and unfuitable 
 to the mcdeHy of your fex ; and the fecond would be 
 very dangerous, confidering your candour and inexpe- 
 rience. To difcover in the features of any perfon his 
 difpofition or way of thinking, requires long lludy, re- 
 peated obfervations, and a very penetrating judgment. 
 You would find yourfelf continually deceived in your 
 likings or diflikes. The knowledge of the world will 
 inftruft you by degrees. At prefent lludy only yourfelf, 
 and ufe all the ftrength of your mind to acquire every 
 virtue, in order to become more amiable and more beau- 
 tiful. 
 
 NARCISSUS AND HIPPOLYTUS. 
 
 NARCISSUS and Hlppolytus were nearly of the 
 fame age, and loved each other from their earlieft 
 infancy. As their parents were cloie neighbours, they 
 had opportunities of being together every day, Mr. 
 Chambers, the father of NarcifTus, had a place under 
 government, ihe profits of which were immenfe; but the 
 father of Hlppolytus. Mr. Marvel, poffefled a moderate 
 fortune, on which, however, he lived content, and all 
 his views aimed at making his fon happy by the advan- 
 tages of a well dire<Sied education, fince he had it not in 
 
 his 
 
72 NARCISSUS AND HIPP'OLYTUS. 
 
 his power to leave him great riches. To obtain this end, 
 he made choice of means the moft worthy of his pru- 
 dence. Hippolytus, at nine years of age, was formed to 
 all the exercik-s of the bo<ly, and his underllanding en- 
 riched with many ufeful acquirements. Being conllantly 
 in excrcife and motion, he was healthy and robuli. Al- 
 ways contented, and happv in the nilection of his parents, 
 he enjoyed a mild chearfulnefs which communicated its 
 influence to thofe who had the happinefs of being in his 
 company. His little neighbour Narciflus was one who 
 felt this happinefs ; for the moment that Hippolytus left 
 him, he would be quite at a lofs for amufement. That, 
 his time might not hang wearifome, he was continually || 
 eating without being hungry, drinking without being" 
 dry, and dozing without being fleepy. So that fcarce a 
 day pafl'ed but he was troubled with qualms of the llo- 
 mach, or violent head-achs. Mr. Chambers, as well as 
 Mr. Marvel, tenderly wiihed his fon's happinefs; but to 
 procure it he had unfortunately taken the means which 
 were quite oppofite to his end. Narciffus from the cradle 
 had been bred up with the utmoll delicacy. He had al- 
 ways a fervant behind him, to hand him a chair whenever 
 he had a mind to change his feat. He was dreft and un- 
 dreft as if he had not the ufe of his hands. It feemed as 
 if all thofe who were about him only breathed for him, 
 and that he could not help himfelf even to live. While 
 Hippolytus, in a thin linen jacket, helped his father to 
 cultivate a little garden for his amufement, Narciflus, in 
 a fine fcarlet coat, was lolling in a chariot, paying morn- 
 ing vifits with his mama. If ever he went to take the 
 couniry air, and alighted out of the carriage but for a 
 jnoment, they took particular care to put his great coat 
 on, and a handkerchief round his head, for fear he Ihould 
 catch cold. Accullomed as he was to be humoured Vn. 
 his flightell fancies, he wifhed for every thing that he 
 faw ; but this wilh lafted only for a moment; and the 
 more troublefome it was to procure him what he wiihed, 
 the fooner he was tired of it. To fpare him the fmallell 
 /ubj'd of ill humour, his mother had ordered all the fer- 
 vants to refpeiSl even hij> follies. This ill-judged indul- 
 gence made h4m fo wh^miical and imperious thai: every 
 body in the houfe hated and defpifed him. Befides his 
 parents, Hippolytus was the only perfoa that loved him 
 
 and 
 
; NARCISSUS AND HIPPOLYTUS. 73 
 
 and could patiently put up with his humours. He knew 
 / how to manage his temper, and could make him even 
 good humoured like himfelf. 
 
 How do you contrive to be always fo merry? faid Mr. 
 
 Chambers to him one day. I do not well know, fir, an - 
 
 fwered he. It comes of itfelf. But my papa tells me, thit 
 
 one is never perfectly happy, without mixing a little work 
 
 / with one's play. And 1 have obferved it, too, whenever 
 
 any flrangers come to our houfc, and we quit our work to 
 
 entertain them : I never find my time hang heavy but on 
 
 -i fuch days. It is this mixture of exercife and amufement 
 
 ;] that makes me always be in good health. I fear neither 
 
 :tf the winds, nor the rain ; neither the heat of the day, nor 
 
 / the cold of the evening ; and I have almoft dug up a whole 
 
 pht in my garden, before poor NarcifTus quits his bed of a 
 
 morning. Mr. Chambers heaved a figh ; and that v6ry 
 
 day he went to confalt Mr. Marvel how he fhould aft, in 
 
 order to make his fon as healthy and as chearful as Hippo- 
 
 lytus. Mr. Marvel took pleafure in anfvvering his quef- 
 
 tions, and laid before him the plan that he had foHowed, 
 
 The powers of the body and of the mind, faid he, fliould 
 
 be equally kept in exercife, unlefs they are meant to be 
 
 /..unferviceable, as money buried in the ground would ha 
 
 / e-ven to its owner. Nothing can be imagined more prc~ 
 
 ■ jiidicial to the health and happinefs of children, tfian to 
 
 give them a puiill.^nimous turn, by ufing them to excef- 
 
 Jive delicacy ; and from a pernicious complaifance, to 
 
 give way to their whimfical and obllinate humours. To 
 
 what vexatious difappointments will not a man be ex- 
 
 ,pofed, who has been accullomed from his childhood to 
 
 ! "fee even his follies flattered; fince of all the warmeit 
 
 wiflies of his heart, he may happen to fee fcarcely one 
 
 accompliihed, and thus be led bafely to murmur 
 
 againll his deftiny, when he (hould for the moll p^rt thank. 
 
 heaven for rejefting his infatuated vows.? He adieJ, wirK. 
 
 tokens of -heart-felt fatitfadlion, that Hippr)lytus would 
 
 certainly never be that unhappy perfon. Mr. Chambers 
 
 was ftruck with this difcourle, and refolved to conduct 
 
 his fon to happinefs by the fame way. Alas ! it was too 
 
 late. Narcilfus now was fourteen years old, and his 
 
 mind, {b long enervated, could not bear any exertion, 
 
 though ever fo little fatiguing. His mother, as weak as 
 
 himfelf, entreated her hulband not to teaze their darling. 
 
 •V L , II. E Her 
 
74 NARCISSUS AND FIIPPOLYTUS. 
 
 Her hufband, wearied out with thefe entreaties, dropped 
 the (enfible defigii that he had forraed ; and the darling 
 funk more and more into hiibits of pernicious effemi- 
 nj'.cy. Thus the It ength of his body declined, in pro- 
 portion as his mind was degraded by ignorance. At 
 length, when he had gained the age of leventeen, his pa- 
 rents fent him to the univerfity, intending him after- 
 wards for the ftudy of the law. Mippolytus being def- 
 tined for th^' iame profeffion, accompanied his young 
 friend. I had forgot to mention that Hippolytus, in his 
 diHcrent Ihidies and acquir.'ments, had never had any 
 other inftiudtor than his f.ither. Narcillus had as many 
 mailers as there are different accomplifnments to acquire; 
 and he renu-mbered a few of ihe trims uf-rd by each of 
 tliem tolerably well. 7"his was all the fruit of his lludies. 
 The underitanding of Hipp lytus, on the contrary, was 
 like a gardea whofe airy fituuiion every where admits the 
 kindly ra)s of the fun, and in which every feed, by a 
 judicious cultivation, comes rapidly to the growth. Al- 
 ready well inflruded, he earncftly dehred frefh know- 
 ledge. His di igence and good behaviour afforded a pat- 
 tern for iiiiitiiion to his companions. His mild temper, 
 his lively apprehenfion and joyous humour, made his 
 company ftrongly attrading. Every body loved him, and 
 every body wiOied to be his friend, NarcifTus at firft 
 was happy to be in the fame lodging with him. But very 
 foon his piide, mortified by the efteeni that Hippo- 
 lytus had acquired, would not fuffer him to be longer a 
 uitnefstoit. He therefore feparated from him upon a 
 frivolous pretence. Being now left to himfelf, and his 
 own vitiated talte, he fighed for pleafure, and thjught- 
 ]e{s]y fnatched at whatever feemed to offer her deceitful 
 image to his view. I Ihall not attempt to defcribe to 
 you how often he blulhed for himfelf, and how from one 
 impiudence to another, he fell at laft into the groffeft 
 irrev^ularities. It will fufHce to inform you that he re- 
 turned to his father's houfe with the feeds of a mortal 
 djftemper in his bofom ; that he languished fix months 
 on a b d of pain, and expired in the fevereft agonies. 
 Hippolytus came home to his parents, regretted both by 
 his teachers and his companions, and enriched with a 
 treafure of learning and prudence. Wjth what iranf- 
 ports of joy waii he received by his family ! O children, 
 
 how 
 
THE MAN WHO ROSE, 5cc. 7^ 
 
 how fweet a thing it is to make ourfelves beloved by all 
 who know u?, and at the fame time to feel ourfelves wor- 
 thy of this univcrfal afFedion ! His mother thought her- 
 felf the happieft of women ; and tears of joy filled his 
 father's eyes whenever he beheld him. A confiderahle 
 employment in his profefilon was conferred on him with, 
 the unanimous approbation of all who knew his charac- 
 ter, and enabled him to gratify his ardent defire of pro- 
 moting the happinefs of his friends. And he enjoyed 
 their happinefs as much as they did themfelves. His 
 parents, too, iliared the fame generous fentiments,- and 
 lived in affluence to a good old age. He took pleafure 
 in repaying them with intereft the attentions which they 
 had fhewed for him. A wife endowed with beauty and 
 virtue, and children refembling himfelf, made his hap^ 
 pinefs complete. Whenever, therefore, any man was 
 mentioned as being both happy and worthy to be fo, the 
 name of Hippolytus always occurred iirll to the thoughts 
 of thofe who knew him. 
 
 THE MAN WHO ROSE TO SUDDEN FORTUNE. 
 
 ONE fine evening, in the month of June, Mr. RulTel 
 went out v/ith his fon Eugene, to take a walk in 
 fome of the moil agreeable environs of the city. Tlie 
 weather was mild, the fky clear, the purling llreams and 
 waving trees lulled them to an agreeable thoughtfulncrs. 
 What a lovely evening ! faid Eugene, ench.inted witk 
 the beauties of nature that furrounded him. He preffed 
 his father's hand, and faid to him, If you knew, papa, 
 what thoughts rife in my heart 1 He was filent for a mo- 
 ment, then lifting up towards heaven his eyes which 
 were moiilened with tears, I thank my God, faid he, for 
 the happy momenta that he gives me to enjoy. Oh ! that 
 every body could talle the beauties of the evening as I 
 do ! That all maskind overflowed with joy, as 1 do at 
 this moment ! I could wifh to be king over a large coun- 
 try that 1 migh^ make all my fubjecls happy. Mr. Ruf- 
 fel embraced Iti^ fon. M^ dear Eugene, faid he, th« 
 
76 THE MAN WHO ROSE 
 
 benevolent wifh that you have jult exprefTed, comes from 
 a heart as generous as humane. But would not your 
 thoughts change with your fortune ? Would you preferve 
 in an exalted ftation thefe fcntiments that animate you 
 now in the middling condiiion to which heaven has ap- 
 pointed you? 
 
 Eugene. Why do you afk that quelHon, papa? cannot 
 one become rich without becoming cruel or wicked ? 
 
 Mr. KuJ/el. It does not always happen fo, my dear. 
 There are fome fortunate perfons who remember their 
 paft dillrefles, and in whom this reflcd:ion produces fcn- 
 timents of charity towards the unfortun;ite. But to the 
 difgrace of the human heart, a change of fortune fre- 
 quently alters affections the moll tender and fymf athetic. 
 While we are unfortunate ourfelves, we think that hea- 
 ven requires it of all men as a duty to relieve our fuffer- 
 ings. l^ the hand of God remove misfortune from us, 
 we conclude all his intents in the prefervation of the uni- 
 verfe to be fulfilled ; and we no longer think of thofe 
 wretches tn.^t remain in the gulf from which we have been 
 refcued. We have an inftance of this in the man who 
 comes fomctimes to afk relief of me, I give it to him 
 with a reludance that I cannot conquer, though I reproach 
 myfelf for it. 
 
 Euge?ic. Why truv?, papa.; I obferved that you put your 
 alms coldly into his hand, without ever giving him thofe 
 words of comfort that you do to other poor people. 
 
 Mr. Ruffd. I will Irhevv you, my dear, whether he de- 
 fcrves them. Mr. Lowe was a linen-draper in the Mino- 
 ries. Though the profits of his bufinels were but mode- 
 race, a poor perfon never appeared at his door in vain. 
 This^wasall the pleafure that he indulged himielf in pur- 
 chafing; and he thought himfelf happy to enjoy it, 
 though he could not command even this to the full 
 extent of his wifhes. Bufincfs called him one day 
 upon Change. He fiiw in one part of it a number of 
 .principal merchants together, who were talking of vaft 
 cargoes, and immenfe profits to be expe(^ted from them. 
 Ah ! faid he to himfelf, fighing, .ho^fc-^rappy thefc people 
 are ! Jf I were as rich, hearen knows, 1 ihould not be fo 
 for myieif alone, and that the poor fliould partake of my 
 abundance. He goes home full of ambitious thoughts, 
 l^ut how can his narrow bufmefs enable him to fulfil his 
 
 ^. J- vail 
 
TO SUDDEN FORTUNE. rr 
 
 vaft projetSls ? With tolerable ceconomy, it was no more 
 than fufficient to afford him a decent lubfillence the year' 
 round. ** I fhall always be at a Hand here !" cried he, 
 '* and never rife above this middling condition in which 
 I linger at prefent.'* A hand-bill, inviting adventurers 
 to purchafe in the lottery, was at this moment put into 
 his hand. He feized the idea with eagernefs, as if in- 
 fpired by fortune ; and without minding the inconvenience' 
 to which his covetoufnefs might reduce him, he went 
 to the lottery-office, and laid out four guineas, the only 
 money that he could fpare in the world. With what' 
 impatience he waited for the drawing! He one time re- 
 pented having fo foolifhly hazarded a flake, the lols of 
 which would difturb him. At another time he fancied 
 that he faw riches falling down upon him in fliowers. hv- 
 iaft the drawing began. 
 
 Eugene, Weil, papa, did he get a prize ? 
 . Mr, RuJJeL Five thoufir.d pounds. 
 
 Eugene. Aha ! he would jump for joy .^ 
 
 Mr. Riijfel. He went immediately and received his mo- 
 ney, and fpent fome days in thinking cf nothing elfe. ' 
 \N\iQVi he had had enough of that, 1 can pat this fum to a 
 better ufe, faid he, than barely porirsg over it. He therefore '■ 
 enlarged his flock, extended his dealings, and by his ac- 
 tivity and knowledge of trade he foon doubled his capital. 
 Jn lefs than ten years he became one of the richeit men 
 in the city. It mufc be faid in his praife, that he had till- 
 then been faithful to his vow, in making the poor partake 
 of his abundance. At the fight of an unfortunate perfon 
 te remembered his own former condition without being 
 afhamed of it. And this recolledion never faile^^ of pro- 
 fiting the perfon who occafioned it. Led by degrees to 
 frequent fine company, he contrafbed a tafte for luxury 
 and djifipation. He purchafed a magnificent country- 
 houfe and fine gardens, and his life became a round of 
 pleaiur'^s and amufemenc. The moll extravagant whim.s 
 he gratified without fcruple, but foon perceived that they 
 had made a conliderable breach in his fortune. Trade, 
 which he had given up in order to be quite at ieiiure to 
 enjoy himfelf, no longer enabled him to repair it. Be- 
 fides, a habit of indulgence and a mean vanity would not 
 fuller him to leifen his expences. I fhall always have 
 enough for one, thought he ; let others provide for them- 
 E X felves. 
 
78 THE MAN WHO ROSE, &c. 
 
 felves. His heart, hardened in this refolution, wa:i 
 thenceforth ihut to the unfortunate. He heard the cries 
 of niifery around him, as one hears the tempeil grumble, 
 when fheltered from its fury. Friends whom he had till 
 then fupponed, came to folicit him for freih relief. But 
 he refufed them harfhly. Have I made a fortune, faid 
 he, only to fquander it upon you ? Do as I do, faid iie, 
 depend upon yourfelves. His mother, whom he had cut 
 fhort of hali the peniion that he allowed her, came to 
 beg for a retired fhelter in a corner of his houfe, there to 
 fpenJ her few remaining days ; but he had the barbarity 
 to rcfufe her, and with dry eyes beheld her die in mifery. 
 This crime, however, did not long remain unpunifhed. 
 His debaucherie,'. very foon exhaufced all his wealth, and 
 deprived him of the flrcngth neceffary to fupport himfelf 
 by vv rk. In Ihort, he was reduced to the Itate of mifery 
 in wiiich you fee him, and now begs his bread from door 
 to door, an objc(5l of contempt and indignation to all 
 honell people. 
 
 hu^ent^. Ah! papa, fince fortune can make men fo 
 wicketi, 1 w fli to remain as I am. 
 
 Mr. RiiJjtL My dear Eugene, I wifh the fame for the 
 fako iX your haippinefs ; but if heaven delHnes you to a 
 more exalted ftation, may you never forfeit the noblenefs 
 and generofity of your foul. Think often of the Aory 
 that i have jull now told you. Le-irn from this example, 
 thit ue can never talle true happinefs, without feeling^ 
 for the misfortunes of others ; that it is the powerful 
 man's duty to conifort the forrovvs of the v;eak ; and that 
 he reaps more true happinefs from the performance of this 
 duty, than from all his pomp and luxury. 
 
 Ihe fun was now going to iet, and his parting beams 
 threw a lively glow upon the clouds which feemed to form 
 a purple curtain round his bed. The air, frefliened at the 
 approach of evening, breathed an agreeable calm. The 
 birds, in repeating their farewel longs, rallied all their 
 powers of melody. The leaves of the grove mingled a 
 gentle murmur with their concert, and every thing feemed 
 to infpire fentiments of joy and happinefs ; but Eugene 
 and his father, inilead of the iranfports which they had 
 felt at iirlt, returned home loll in melancholy reflexions. 
 
 T H F. 
 
[ 79 J 
 THK GREYHOUND AND THE RING. 
 
 A Drama, in Two Acts. 
 Characters. 
 
 Mr. Calvert. 
 
 Serin A, /jIs Daughter, 
 
 Eustace, his Son. 
 
 Lionel, 1 v • j . r n 
 
 T-, > triends to huflacv. 
 
 Kui'US, j •' 
 
 ScUNE, An apart me?! f in Mr. Cahert's honfe. 
 
 A C T I. 
 SCENE I. 
 
 Serina [a!o7ie.) 
 
 AH ! my poor little Diana ! I fhall never be able to 
 fit at work without you. It was here on this Jittle 
 cufhion that you lay down befide me, while I was at my 
 needle. How joyful and pleafed were we both when you 
 awoke I You would run, (haking your tail, under trie 
 fopha and under the chairs and tables, and then jump 
 from one to the other. How happy did you appear whea 
 I took you in my lap ! How you would ii*.k my hands and 
 face, and play with me ! Oh 1 how forry Ihall 1 be if I 
 never fee you again ! Ah 1 I ihould never have loil )oa 
 myfeltj but that carelefs 
 
 SCENE II. 
 Serina y Eujlace, 
 
 Eujiace^ {overhearing thefe laji ivords.) I fee, my name 
 is caiicd in quellion. 
 
 Serina. Ay, wh.^fe e1fe fliould it be? If you had not 
 been lo pofitive in taking her out wiLh you yellerday, ilie 
 would not have beea kft. 
 
 E 4 Lujiace, 
 
^0 THE GREYHOUND- AND THE RING. 
 
 Eujface. That is true, and I am as ferry for it as you 
 2 re : but what can I do now ? 
 
 b'sriiia. Did I not beg of you to leave her at home ? 
 but you could not go a flep without having her at your 
 hech. 
 
 Rujlace. I own it. I was fo plcafcd when (lie was along 
 with me, to fee her walk fometimes before me, and fome- 
 timcs behind me. Tlien ihe would run from me as if I 
 was piirfuing her, and come back again at fuil fpeed, and 
 jump up about mc fj playful. 
 
 Serina. Then you fliould have taken better care of her. 
 
 Eujlace. Yes, 1 fhould fo. l>ut as Ihe ufed to go away 
 from me, and come back of herfelf witliout any occafiou 
 for my calling her, 1 thought 
 
 Sen':w, You thout^ht: — you have never the leaft mif- 
 truil of any thing; and by that poor Di.ma was loil. 
 
 jEufiace. I promife you, filler, the next time- 
 
 Seri}ia. Yes, another time when we have nothing to 
 ]©le. I could not llccp a quarter of an hcur together all 
 Jail night. 1 thought 1 iieard her whinirg to me at a dif- 
 lance, and that 1 ran to the fJe from which h.^r cries 
 feemed to come. Then I awoke, and found m.yfelf alone. 
 Ah ! I dare fay (he is as dull too, for her part. 
 
 Eujlace. Dear filler, it makes me doubly unhappy to fee 
 you grieve fo. 1 would give all that I am worth in the 
 world to have her again. 
 
 'Serina. Now you make me grieve ftill more. Why, 
 tlon't you know at leaft where you miffed her ? One might 
 enquire amongft all the neighbours thereabouts. 
 
 Eujiace. I'd lay a wager fhe followed me into this flreet, 
 and almoft as far as our own houfe too. But as fhe runs 
 up into every court fmelling about, fbmebody mull have 
 Ihut their door upon her and kept her in. 
 
 Serina. Yes, I dare fay it was fo ; otherwife fhe would 
 have come back to her lodging. She knows the way to 
 it well enough. 
 
 Etijiace, Lionel was along with mc, and declared to me 
 that he faw her but the moment before we mifled her. 
 And.itvvas his f^uk ; for he was playing fuch comical 
 tricks as we walked along, that I forgot Diana juft then. 
 
 Senna. Well^ he fhould have helped yoa at leail to 
 look tor her. 
 
THE GREYHOUND AND THE RING. Si 
 
 EuJIace* So he did all yeflerday evening, and to-day 
 again very early. We went into all the llreets and lanes 
 round about, and fearched every court and market near 
 us. We enquired, in fhort, among all our acquaintances, 
 but could h'^ar nothing of her. Indeed, filter, I am' 
 afhamed to look you in the face. I know you muft be< 
 angry with me. 
 
 Serina, {taking him by the hand.') No, I am not angry 
 now. You did not mean to diibblige me; and befides, 
 you are fo forry yourfelf I But who is this coming up.-, 
 flairs ? Go and fee, 
 
 SCENE IIL . 
 
 Serina, Eujiace, LioneL 
 
 Lionel {^opening the do.r.) It is 1, it is I, Eullace. Good 
 morning to you, Mifs Serina. 
 
 Senna, Good morning, M.iiler Lionel. 
 
 LioneL I have got a fcent of Di^na, and I hope pretty - 
 foon-~-— 
 
 Serina What r to find her again ? 
 
 LioneL lil tell you. You know that old woman that 
 lives at the Cv>rner of the Hi ear, and fells cakes and garden 
 ituff? , 
 
 Serina. What? hns fhe my little dog? 
 
 LioneL No, no; fhe is a very honefl woman, and a • 
 good friend of mine. You knov./, Euilace, that Diana' 
 too wanted t'other day to f mpe acquaintance with hi^r^ 
 ftanding up with her paws upon the counter, and fmelling 
 at the bifcuits, 
 
 EuJIace, Ah ! yes ; but her little fond tricks would not 
 do there, for the old woman gave her a great iboke on the. 
 nofe v\ith her glove. 
 
 Serina. Oh 1 that is nothing. Well, Mailer Lionel ? 
 
 LioneL Well, jud now 1 went to her ibop to buy fome- 
 cakes, and was telling her of our lofs. VV"hat, fays (hej 
 that little cur dog? — 
 
 Serina. Cur dog, Mailer Lionel ? Don'r call my pretty 
 Diana fo. I would rather not hear you talk of her at all, ■ 
 
 LioneL Nay, 1 only tell you her own words. That 
 
 littlr cur dog, fays (he, that belongs to that pretty young . 
 
 gentleman, your acquaintance? Yes, faid 1, the lame. 
 
 Well, you know another little niailer that lives h-ere be- 
 
 E 5 low. 
 
Sz THE GREYHOUND AND THE RING. 
 
 low, at the large houfc with the balcony ? It was he that 
 coaxed her away. 
 
 Eiijiace, How ? could flie mean Rufus? 
 Lionel. Don't you remember that he was at the old 
 woman's (hop yeilerday as we pafled, and pretended not 
 to fee us, for fear of being obliged to offer us fome of his 
 walnuts ? 
 
 Eufiace. That is very true. I recollect it now. 
 Lionel. Well, when we had pafl her houfe a little way, 
 he caiied Diana as fhe was following us, and offered her a 
 bit of cake, and while the poor thing was bufy feafting 
 herfelf, he fnatched her up in his ^rms and carried her 
 home. I'he good woman told me the wjiole trick. 
 
 Serina. An ill-natured creature! well, however, we 
 know where (lie is. Brother, you had better go to him 
 without any more ado. 
 
 Lionel. I am greatly afraid that he would not find her 
 there. Rufus has taken her only to fell her, as he does 
 his bocks and whatever elfe he can purloin at his father's. 
 He is capable of any thing. Why, we were playing at 
 marbles t'other day, and he cheated. 
 
 Eitjlnce. Ay? is that his way? I'll run to him this ■ 
 ixoment. 
 
 Lionel. You will not find him at home. I have juff 
 been there, and he was o"ut. 
 
 Ssrina. Perhaps he bid them fay that he was not at 
 home. 
 
 Lionel. No; I went up to his room, and I told the 
 maid that I wanted him to come and play at marbles, and 
 that I would wait for him at your houfe. 
 
 Serina. He will never h ive tliC- face to Ihcw himfelf 
 here, if he has really taken Diana. 
 
 Lionel. Ah ! you do not know his a.Turance. He would 
 come here on puipofe, that you might not fufpeft hiai ; 
 but I'll c^invict \\u.n hQl'(Ttt you. 
 
 Serina, We mull go cunningly to work and queftion 
 him filly, to make him difcover the fecret. 
 
 Lionel, V\\ tell you. AH the cunning required is to, 
 fliew him at ilie iirlt word that lie is a rogu-e'and a thief. 
 
 J.ujlace. No, no, my dear Lionel, that would only 
 briiig on a quarrel, and my papa would not have any 
 here. Mild words, perhaps, will touch him better than 
 rcptouvhco or violence. 
 
 Sirina, 
 
THE GREYHOUND AND THE RING. 85 
 
 Serina, Perhaps too he does not know that the little 
 greyhound is ours. 
 
 Lionel. Noc know, does not he fee her along with your 
 brother every day ? he has played with her a hundred 
 times, and Hole her yelkrday to fell her. That is juil his 
 character. 
 
 Eujiace, Hill I here he comes. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 Scrinay Ei/JIace, Lionel, Rufus, 
 
 Ru/us, They told meat home, Lionel, that you wanted 
 me toplay at marbjes. Come, I am ready. Ah I Euitace, 
 how do you do? Your humble fervant, mifs. 
 
 Serina. You are going to your diverfion, Mafler Rufus, 
 Noriiing gives you uneafinefs ; but we are all in trouble 
 here. 
 
 Rufus. What is the matter then ? 
 
 Seri^ia. We have loft our pretty little greyhound. 
 
 Rufus. Dear! that is a pity! ihe ^i,'jas a pretty little 
 creatuie, indeed. Her body fo handfome ; a grey vvitti 
 black r^ots here and there, and her brealland f'orefeet and 
 tail all white. She is worth two guineas, if £he u worth 
 a farthing. 
 
 Serina. You know her fovvell ! could not you help us id 
 find her again ? 
 
 Rufus. Do you take me for a dog-keeper ? or am i 
 obliged to look after yours ? 
 
 Eujiace. My hfter did not mean to affront you, Rufus. 
 
 Seri-iKZ. Oh dear! no. It was only a civil qucilion. 
 As you live in our neighbourhood and fhe was loll not far 
 off, 1 thought that yuu might have been abla to give us 
 fome account of her. 
 
 Liond. Certainly, you ccuhl not apply to a better 
 peiii'Mi. 
 
 Rufus. What do you mean by thfit. Mailer L'onel? 
 
 Li'nel. What is befl known to yourfelf ; ihougii I ara 
 perl?clly acquainted too with the whole affair. 
 "" Rufas. If it were not out of reiped to niifs — 
 
 Lionel. You -flio.uld.tharU-: her yourielf^ lh.;t I do uot 
 chuitife you i'^^r ycur' impudence. 
 
 E 6 ^.ulace^ 
 
84 THE GREYHOUND AND THE RING. 
 
 Eujiace, {taking Lionel ajide,) b'of'tly, my dear Lionel, 
 or we Ihail lofe the greyhound. 
 
 Seriua. \^y as you fay, you have fome regard for me. 
 Miller Rufus, be fo good as to hear me attentively, and 
 anfwerme, yes or no. 
 
 Lionel. And without fhufHing. 
 
 Serina. Have not you our greyhound? or don't you 
 know where fhe is ? 
 
 Riifusy {confi'/id.) I.? I yeur greyhound.'' 
 
 Lionel. Do you ftammer at the queftion } you have her. 
 And 1 know the whole llory too. You took her treacher- 
 oufly, coaxing her with a bit of cake. 
 
 Rufus. Who told you fo.? 
 
 Lionel. One that faw you do it. 
 
 Serina. I atk it as a favour of you. Mailer Rufus, to 
 tell me is that true or falfe ? 
 
 Rufus. And fuppofe I did give your dog a bit of cake, 
 or that 1 took lier up a moment to play with her, is that 
 a reafon th-at 1 fhould have her, or know what is become 
 of her } . 
 
 . Serina. N^^r do we fay fo. We only afk you if you 
 know whe e flie is jull now. 
 
 Eujlace. Or if you did not keep her at your houfe lafl 
 night out of a fiolick, to frit-^hten us a 11 tJe, raid after- 
 wards to give UG the pleafurc of a furpri?,^ ? 
 
 Rufus. What, do you takeour hnufe foj a dog-kennel? 
 
 JLicntl. He mull have a vaft deal of alTurance 1 
 
 Rufus. 1 have nothing to fay to ^cu. You may be 
 counlellor f >r greyhounds as long as you will, 1 woa't be 
 oan.inrd by you. 
 
 LiciuJ. Becaufel have confounded you. 
 
 Sirina. Softly, Mafter Lionel, you rnud be miitaken. 
 I cannot fufptd Maflcr Rufus of fo much meannefs as to 
 keep cur dog if he had found it. 
 
 £ujt(.ce, if he had 1 ft any thing, and I could give h'm 
 an account of it, I would doit with pleafuie. So he necd^ 
 not be angry at our queftions. 
 
 Rifus. 1 ;'.ra very angry at them, and I will make a 
 compiaiit < fit to your father. 
 
 Lionel. Yi uhad better come to the cake-woman'shoufc j 
 I will go along with you. 
 
 Rufus. Ic is very pretty of you., to believe fuch a 
 •prating gofiip before me, 
 
 5 LioneL 
 
THE GREYHOUND AND THE RING. Sj; 
 
 Lionel. Suchgoffips, however, have eyes and ears, and, 
 as far as honefty is concerned, I (hould truft them fooner 
 than you, 
 
 Rufus. I won't put up with this aiFront, and you fhall 
 pay for it. {Hego£s cut.) 
 
 SCENE V. 
 Serinaj Eujiace) Lionel, 
 
 Lionel. What an impudent liar! I would lay my life 
 that he has the dog. Did not you fee how he was con- 
 founded when I told him flatly that he had her ? 
 
 Senna. I cannot believe it yet, and indeed it would be 
 quite too fcandalous. 
 
 LioneL You cannot believe it, mifs, beciufe your own 
 heart is fo good ; for my part 1 can believe any thing of 
 him. 
 
 Ssrina. I muft own, however, that it was very rude not 
 to anfwer our queflions civilly. 
 
 Lionet: If you had not been here, mifs, I would havct 
 tweaked him by the ears a little. 
 
 Euftace. Tut, man, he is taller than you by the head. 
 
 LioneL \i he wa? twice as tall, I'll wager he is a cow- 
 ard. Did not you obferve that he grew more impudent 
 as we were more civil ? and the harder 1 puihed him, the 
 quieter he became. But I'll go and follow hini and take 
 Diana from him, wherever he has put her. 
 
 Serina. Your pains would be to no purpofe, maflep 
 Lionel. Onee more, I cannot believe it. He lives toot 
 ne..ru3, to expefl to hide fuch a tht-ft from us. 
 
 Eujiace. I hope he may not go and kill her, for fear o£ 
 being found out in a lie. 
 
 LioneL .No, my friend, he won't kill her. He keeps 
 her for fale. 
 
 Scrina. O heavens ! what an opinion you have of him I 
 
 Lionel.^ It is fuch as he deferves, and I'll ^o and con- 
 vince you of it. 
 
 SCENE 
 
15 THE GREYHOUND AND THE RING. 
 SCENE VI. 
 
 Serina, Eufiace. 
 
 Eujiace. Lionel is too hot. He makes a terrtble quarrel 
 of the fmalleil diiFerence. If they mull wrangle, I am 
 glad at leaft that it is not here. 
 
 Serina. For then, papa would give us a fine leflbn. 
 Lionel, I believe, is willing to lerve us; but I am forry 
 that he feems to feek his own revenge more than our ad- 
 vantage. 
 
 EiiJIace. He defires no better than to be in every quarrel, 
 and he has done us more harm than good, ff Rufus 
 really Hole Diana, he would return her to me fooner for 
 good words than for threats. But here comes papa, 
 
 SCENE VIL 
 Mr. Calvert y Serina^ Eujiace. 
 
 Mr. Calv. What have you done to Rufus ? He came to 
 me as I was in my room, and feemed quite ruffled. He 
 complains of you very much, but particularly of Lionel, 
 and fays that you accufe him of Healing Diana. Is Ihe 
 loll ? 
 
 EiiJIace. Ah ! yes, papa. I did not like to tell you, 
 becaufe 1 hoped every moment to find her again. ^\\c 
 went allrav from me yerterday evening. 
 
 Serina. Ah! }ou cannot imagine how forry lam for 
 her. I cried the bell part of lafl night, when I awoke and 
 miffed her from my fide. 
 
 Mr. Cal-v. Luckily, it is but a dog. Loffes of much 
 more conft-quence happen every day in the world, and 
 we fliou'd e.,rly accuiiom ourfelves to bear with them. 
 But you, {to Eujiace) why did not you take care of her ? 
 
 EiiJIace. You are very right, papa. ]t was my fault. 
 
 I fiiould have left her at home, or eife not have loil fight 
 
 of her, fince I took her in my charge. And I am forry 
 
 ■ for it efpecially, on account of my fifler, becaufe Diana 
 
 was hers more than mine. 
 
 Serina. I cannot be angry with my brother for It. I 
 have lometimes vexed him without intention, and he has 
 cxcufed me. 
 
 Afr. 
 
THE GREYHOUND AND THE RING. 87 
 
 Mr. Calv. Kifs me, my dear child ; I love to fee yoa 
 bear a misfortune with courage ; but I am ftiJl better 
 pleafed to fee you, in the midil of your grief, not the leaft 
 provoked againfl him that occafioned it. 
 
 Serina. My poor brother is fufficiently puniflied for his 
 negligence, for he was as fond of Diana as J. She was 
 all his amufement ; and he grieves, befides, that he was 
 the occafion of my uneafinefs. 
 
 Mr. Calv. Always prefcrve thefe fentiments, my dear 
 children, one towards the other, and indeed towards all 
 your fellow-creatures, for they are of the fame family. I 
 know many perfons who, for fuch a trifle, would have 
 turned away an honeft fervant. 
 
 Serina. Oh ! heaven forbid ! Prefer a dog to a fervant? 
 A creature without reafon to a perfon of our own kind ? 
 
 Mr, Calv, Why do not all men make that difference as 
 well as you, my dear child? We ihould not then know 
 thofe who would rather fee a poor child fufFer hunger or 
 thirft than a favourite dog; who fhed tears at the indif- 
 pofition of a fpaniel, and look without pity on the lot of 
 an unhappy orphan abandoned by all the world. 
 Serina. O papa ! is it pofiible ? 
 
 Mr. Cal<v. In return for the fentiment which draws that 
 generous figh from your breaft, I promife you, my dear, 
 a greyhound as handfome as the one that you have loft, 
 if yoa are not lucky enough to find her again. 
 
 Serina. No, papa, 1 thank you. I have fufFered too 
 much from the iofs of Diana. If flie does not coii.e back, 
 I will never have another. I will not run the rifque of 
 grieving fo again. 
 
 Mr. CaI'v. You carry things too far, my dear Serina. 
 In that cafe we mufl refign all the moll agreccible plea- 
 fares of life. We {liould be afraid to love a friend, be- 
 caufe death or abfence might one day feparate us from 
 him. If you compare the pleafure which Diana's play- 
 ful fondnefs has aifbrded you ever fince flie was born, to 
 the fhort uneafmefs that her Iofs occafions to you now, 
 the firil you will find exceeds the fecond by a great deal. 
 Nothing is more natural than to be fond of a pretty litt'e 
 creature, like Diana j and indeed, it would be a mark of 
 ingratitude in you — 
 
 Serina. Yes, if I did not think of her nov/, becaufe flic 
 i«not here to play about me, 
 
 Mr, 
 
S^' THE GREYHOUND AND THE RING. 
 
 Mr. Calv. What comforts me a little in this misfortune 
 is, that from this you will be better enabled to bear per- 
 haps a greater. Every thing th;.t we poflefs upon earth 
 may flip from our hands wiih the fame readinefs, and it is 
 wife to accurtom onrfelves early to the moll (evere lofles. 
 But, with regard to our firlt fubjed: of converfation, you 
 have treated Rufus ill, it feems. 
 
 Serina. Not we, papa ; we fpoke to him very mildly., 
 It was Lionel that touched him clofe a little. 
 
 Mr. Calv. And what did he fay in anfwer? 
 
 Eiijiace. He defended himfelf but lamely. Indeed he- 
 was quite out of countenance at the firfl queftion. •. 
 
 Serina. Bnit now 1 wiil afk you, {-apa, do you think, 
 that he could have th« afTurance to deny it, if he had 
 really taken my greyhound ? 
 
 Mr. Calv. I can fay nothing as to that; but, I fhould 
 think, his confufion could notcome from a very clear con-- 
 fcience. However, that we may have no reproach to, 
 make to ourfelves, concerning Diana, we mult advertifs. 
 her to-morrow in the public papers, 
 
 Eujiace. But, papa, if fhe is really in his power, that, 
 trouble will be ufelefs. 
 
 Mr. Cal'v. No, it cannot be ufelefs. A dog requires 
 to be fed, and is not fo fmall or {o quiet that one can hide, 
 it from every body's eyes There may happen to be forne 
 perfba in his houfe honeft enough to giye us information, 
 of It. 1 wiil nat apply to his father, I know his rude 
 manners too well. BefideSj he is offended with me for, 
 fo-rbidding you a too chjfe intimacy with his fon. We 
 muft wait to fee what our advcrtifement will produce. 
 
 Serina. I fliould have fome hopes from it, if I uere able 
 to promii'e a large re ^vard to vvlioever would bring mc bacfc 
 the dog. 
 
 Mr. Calv. I fhall take care of that. Cojne, Euflace,. 
 intomyclofet; we will put down her description, and 
 you fh;>ll take it to the printing- oihce. 
 
 Serij.a. Oh 1 what joy it would be for the poor little, 
 creature, and for me too^ to fee each other onte mor? I 
 
 ACT 
 
/ 
 
 / 
 
 THE GREYHOUND AND THE RING, fp 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 EuJlacCy Serin a, 
 
 Mu/?ace, [running into the room overjnyed.^ Siller! Siiler f 
 Serina, What is the matter? You feem to be in high 
 fpirits. Is Diana foLind ? 
 
 Eufiace. Diana? Oh! fomething much better. See, 
 {Jhenving a ring in a f mall cafe.) look at what I have found 
 not a yard from our door. 
 
 Serina. Oh! the charming ring! But the (lone that 
 iTiouId be in the middle, where is that r 
 
 Eiijlace. 1 fuppofe it had fallen out. See here it is in a 
 paper. liOok at this diamond in the light. See how it 
 fparkies ! My papa's brilliant is not fo large. 
 
 Serina. I pity him very much that has loll it. 
 
 Eufiace. It is woi fe than to lofe a greyhound. 
 
 Serina, Oh ! I don't know that. My little Diana was 
 fo pretty, and fo fond of us. And then we had her a 
 whelp. Oh ! when I think how happy we were to fee her 
 learn new tricks as fhe grew bigger, and to amufe our- 
 felves with her play, the iineft ring that ever I could put 
 on my finger would not make me half fo happy. 
 
 Eujlace. But with this ring you might buy a hundred 
 greyhounds like her. 
 
 Serina. It ihould not buy mine, for all that. He that 
 loft the ring has others, perhaps, and I had only my poor 
 Diana. I am vvorfe off than he is. 
 
 Eujlace. It muft belong to a rich man. Poor people 
 have not fuch toys as this. 
 
 Serina. Yet if it was fome unfortunate fervant that loft 
 it, in taking it to the jeweller — or if it was the jeweller 
 himfelf ; the diamond being loofe would make one fufpeft 
 fo; what a misfortune it would be for the poor people! 
 
 Eujlace. You are right. Well, now I am quite out of 
 humour with my prize. We mufi: alk papa's advice about 
 it. Oh ! this is lucky ! \iQXQ he comes. 
 
 SCENE 
 
fO THE GREYHOUND AND THE RING. 
 
 SCENE H. 
 
 Mr. Calvert J EuJiacCy Serifia. 
 
 Mr. Calv. Well, will tiie advertifement for your grey- 
 hound be in to-morrow's paper? 
 
 EuJIace. Papa, I have not been at the office yet. Here 
 is what kept me. A ring that 1 have found. [Gives him 
 the cafe.) 
 
 Mr, Cal'v, A very tine diamond, indeed. 
 
 Eujlace, An't it f This is enough to put a little dog out 
 of one's head for a moment or two. 
 
 Mr. Calv, Yes, if it were your own. Do you intend to 
 keep it ? 
 
 Eujlace. Why, if nobody makes inquiry about it. 
 
 Mr. Calv. Did any b- dy fee you take it up ? 
 
 Eujlace. No, papd. 
 
 Serina. For my part, I fhould never rell until I knew 
 who owned it. 
 
 Eujlace. Let the owner fhew himfelf, and certainly the 
 ring fhail not ftay long in my hands. No, that would be 
 as bad as if I had Itolen it. We muft give every one his 
 own. 
 
 Mr. Calv, You will not be, perhaps, io well pieafed 
 then ? 
 
 Eullace. Why not, papa? T own, I did not think of 
 any thing at iirit but my good luck in finding fuch a jewel. 
 I looked upon it as already my property : but my filler 
 ha.s given me an idea of the trouble that he muft feel who 
 loll it. 1 fhould be much happier in putting an end to 
 his uneafmeis, than in keeping this ring, which would 
 mak-^ me blulh every time that I looked at it. 
 
 Serina. 1 here is fo much pleafure in comforting thofe 
 who are troubled. F -r that realon, I cannot imagine 
 that Rufus or any other could be fo ill-natured as to 
 keep my Diana, if he knew how fony I am for her. 
 
 Mr. Calv. {kijjing them.) Amiable little innocents ! 
 My dear children, howl rej uce in being your father! 
 Let fuch generous fentiments tout nue to fpiing up .;nd 
 gain llrengch in your hearts, fh -y uill be the f undation 
 of your own happinefs and that of your fellow-creatures, 
 
 Serina. You give us the example, papa. How fhould 
 we have other fentiinents I 
 
 Eiijlac:^ 
 
THE GREYHOUND AND THE RING, ^i 
 
 Eujiace, Oh ! Til go and fhew my prize to every body; 
 and we ihould advertife both together in the papers, that 
 we have loll a greyhound and found a ring. 
 
 Mr. Calv* Not fo fafi, my dear ; there are precautions 
 to be taken. There might be fome people who would 
 claim the ring, without being the owners. 
 
 Serina, Oh ! I fliould be as cunning as they. I would 
 afk t'lem iirft how it was made, and I would not gwQ it 
 to any but him that told me very particularly. 
 
 Mr. Cal<v. That way is not the fureft, neither. A per- 
 fon may have {^ea it upon the owner's finger, and come 
 here before him to demand it. 
 
 Serina. Ah 1 papa, 1 fee you know better how to ma- 
 nage than we do. 
 
 Mr. Calu . The lofer will think it worth while to make 
 every enquiry after {^ valuable an article. So we muft 
 wait. 
 
 Eujiace. But if they Ihould not think of doing fo ? 
 
 Serina. We thought of doing fo for Diana ; certainly 
 others will for a diamond. 
 
 Mr. Calv. Meanwhile I fhall take care of it; and do^ 
 you be cautious not to fpeak of it to any body, 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 "EuJlace, Serina* 
 
 Eujface. It is very ftupid, for all that, not to be able to 
 k, v^hen one has any thing fo agreeable to tell. I 
 
 El 
 
 tali^> ^ "^^ --J -^ .^ "5- ^- -" 
 
 fliould have been fo happy to fhew every body my ring ! 
 
 Serina. And why, fince you neither can, nor would 
 keep it? There is no great merit in finding any thing va- 
 luable in the ilreet. 
 
 Eujiace. That is true ; but what I tell you is very true 
 too. 
 
 Serina. People fay of the ladies, that they cannot keep 
 a fecret. Let us fee which of us tv>o will be moft difcreet. 
 
 Eujiace. For fear my fecret fliould want to efcape, I 
 will think of nothing but Diana; and now I'll go to the 
 printing-oiuce with the advertifement. 
 
 Seriiia. Go, urother; do not lofe a moment. But what 
 does Lionel want with us? 
 
 SQENE 
 
92 THE GREYHOUND AND THE RING. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 Seriiia, Euftace, Lionel, 
 
 Lionel, [to Eiijlacit ivbo is going out.) Where are yoi» 
 going, Eullace f 
 
 Eujlace. I have fomcthing particular to do. 
 
 Lionel. Oh ! before you go, you mull lilten to a ftory^. 
 that I have to tell you. It will make you die with laugh- 
 ing. Ha, ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Eujlace, 1 have not time for laugliing now. 
 
 Lionel. You will laugh in Ipite of yourfcif. Only liilen,. 
 We have got full fat'sfadion. 
 
 Eujlace. Full flitisladion? Of whom? 
 
 Lionel. Of Rufus. He has loll his father's ring. Ha,, 
 ha, ha, ha I {Eujiace and Serina lock at each other <vjith aft 
 air offtirprize.) i 
 
 Serina. His father's ring ? 
 
 Lionel. It is faft. He had it given to him this morning 
 to take to the jeweller's, to have the middle diamond fetri 
 in again, that had fallen out. [Eujlace jogs Serina', Jl^e 
 makes a Jtgn to hiin to be Jilent.) He had it when he came- 
 here; but as he went away, quite flullered with anger, 
 the cafe of the ring mull have dropt out of his pocket as 
 he whilked along. 
 
 Serina. And have you feen him fmce he lofl it? How 
 does he look ? 
 
 Lionel. Frightened out of his wits, 
 
 Serina. Docs his father know it ? 
 
 Lionel. There he has drawn himfelf into a frelh fcrape, 
 by telling a great fib. When his f^uher alked him if he 
 had given the ring to the jeweller, he anfvvered, with the. 
 greatell aflurance, that he had. 
 
 Serina. Unhappy creature ! 
 
 Lionel. Why you pity him, do you? 
 
 Eujlace, Indeed he is to be pitied. 
 
 Lionel, He ? 1 wifh you had ken what game I made of' 
 him. 
 
 Serina. What did you find fo comical in all that ? 
 
 Lionel. How? don't you take the jell? To fee him 
 running from ihop to (hop, inquiring about his ring, and 
 plucking twcry one by the fkirt that pafVed. 1 fluck clofe-' 
 to him, to enjoy his diftrefi, and at lall he came up to 
 
 me ; . 
 
THE GREYHOUND AND THE RING. 95 
 
 me: ** Have not you found it? Have you heard nothing 
 of it?" What is it to me? faid I to him. Am I your 
 ring-keeper? — '* Jf you knew what it was worth!" So 
 much the better for him that has found it. ** And thea 
 my father, what will he fay ?'* Why, he'll talk to you 
 with a good ftick. 
 
 Serina, Fie! mailer Lionel, that was very cruel of you. 
 
 Lionel. He had not more feeling for you. 
 
 Eujiace. Should we be ill-natured then, even towards 
 thofe that are fo themfelves ? 
 
 Lionel, Oh! revenge is fweet, and I never have any 
 compafiion for them that offend me. If I had the good 
 luck to find his ring, he fhould not have it fo foon. 
 
 Serina. Would you keep it then? 
 
 Lionel, Oh ! no. 1 would give it to him after his fa- 
 ther had threfhed him well. 
 
 Eujiace, I (hould never have thought you fo ill-natured^ 
 Lionel. * 
 
 Serina. And I cannot believe it, though I hear it from 
 his own mouth. You were fo much concerned about my 
 poor greyhound. It feems, it was not in earneft. 
 
 Lionel. It was from the bottom of my heart. I love 
 thofe dearly, that I do love; but when I hate any one, X 
 hate him heartily, 
 
 SCENE V. 
 Serina J Eujiace y Licriel, Rufus, 
 
 Lionel. Heh ! there he comes. {Points at him ^ith his 
 finger.) Ha, ha, ha, ha! 
 
 Rufus. Oh ! pray now forgive me. I have been very 
 bad, to be lure, but I have been full as unfortunate. I 
 am punifhed now, and well punifhed too, for 
 
 Lionel. Have you Hack up hand-bills concerning your 
 ring ? 
 
 Ru.fus. I dare not appear before my father, and I don't 
 know where to hide myfelf. 
 
 Lionel. I would lay a wager that the ring is hanging at 
 Diana's tail. We fliall find them both together. 
 
 Rufus. 1 have deferved your jeers ; but, for pity's 
 fake 
 
 Eujiace. Make yourfelf eafy, mailer Rufus ; your ring 
 is here. 
 
 Rufus ^ 
 
54 THE GREYHOUND AND THE RING. 
 
 Rufusy {ajlonijhed.) What, have you it ? You my ring > 
 Lionel y \ajide to Serina.) He is making game of him : 
 
 that is right. 
 
 Rufus. But is it really fo ? Oh ! on my knees ril— 
 
 But no — you fhall firft hear how wicked I have been. 
 
 SCENE vr. 
 
 Seriuay Euf.acCt Lionel, 
 
 Serina. What is the meaning of that r He is gone oiF. 
 
 Euftace* I am afraid the poor boy has loll his wits. 
 ^ Lionel. Your joke, for all that, may coll you dear. If 
 he goes and fetches his father to demand the ring ? 
 
 Eujlace. Do you think then that I will keep it ? 
 
 LioncL Why, have you adlually the ring ? 
 
 Eujiace. Certainly 1 have it, otherwife I fhould not 
 have faid fo. I picked it up clofe by our door. 
 
 Lionel. Indeed you are too good. He does not deferve 
 to be fo happy. You ftiould have left him a little longer 
 in pain, at leafl. 
 
 Serina. How, mailer Lionel? Does not my brother's 
 example move you ? Do you know that you lofe ground 
 now very much, in his friend fiiip and mine ? 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 
 Mr. Cal'vert, Serina, Eujiace, Lionel. ' 
 
 Mr.Cal-v. What is the matter with Rufus? I faw him 
 from my window, come in here all in tears. 
 
 Serina. The poor boy was half dead. 
 
 Eujiace. It was he who loll the ring that I found. It 
 belongs to his father. 
 
 Mr. Calv. Have you convinced him of the meannefs of 
 his behaviour towards us ? 
 
 Lionel. Dear fir, no. Diana has not been fo much as 
 mentioned. 
 
 Mr. Cal'^u. At leail I would have infilled upon his re- 
 turning her. He fliould not hear of his ring without that. 
 
 Eujiace. Ah ! papa, my heart would not let me be fo 
 harlli. 1 faw Rufus fo affliftcd. 
 
 Serina. Though 1 love Diana very well, I conld not 
 poffibly think of her jult then, nor of any thing but the 
 grief of that unfortunate boy. 
 
 3 Mr. 
 
THE GREYHOUND AND THE RING. 95 
 
 Mr. Cal'v. You have both a6led generoufly, and yoa 
 are my dear children, my beft friends, all my joy and all 
 my pride. None but bafe fouls would infult the diilrefs 
 of an enemy that is fallen. But where isRufus? Why 
 did not he alk for the ring as he went away? 
 
 Eujiace. He was fo tranfported with joy, that he did 
 not know what he was doing. 
 
 Serina. He ran towards the door, and went out as if he 
 were mad. 
 
 Eujiace, O ! papa, did you but know how overjoyed I 
 am to fee you approve my behaviour, and my fifter's ! 
 
 Mr. Calu. Could you believe me infenfible to a gene- 
 rous a(^ion ? 
 
 EuJlace. Becaufe you had forbidden me— 
 
 Mr. Calv. I forbad you to fpeak unguardedly about 
 the ring, but I did not tell you to keep it, when the 
 owner fhould appear. 
 
 SCENE viir. 
 
 Mr, Calvert, ^erinay EuJlace, Lionel, Rufus {halving the 
 greyhound under his arm.) 
 
 Serina, {ivith an exclamation of Joy.) Ah! Diana! my 
 dear Diana ! [She runs to her, takes her up in her arms, and 
 carejfes her. ) 
 
 Rufus. You fee how much I was to blame, and how 
 little I deferved your generofity. Can you pardon me 
 this fraud, and my unworthy behaviour ? [Perceiijing Mr, 
 Cal'vert.) Ah ! fir, how bad I muft appear in your eyes ! 
 
 Mr. Cal-u. A perfon is no longer fo when he acknow- 
 ledges his fault, and endeavours, as you do, to repair it. 
 Here is your father's ring. 
 
 Rufus. I am afhamed and forry to have offended fo ex- 
 cellent children. What difference between them and me ! 
 How wicked I am, and how generous are they ! 
 
 Serina. It is only a little prank of yours. Mailer Rufus, 
 and you would not have let the day pafs without return- 
 ing Diana to me. 
 
 Rufus. You think too well of me. I had hid her up in 
 the garret, and — 
 
 Mr. Cal'v. We don't wifh to knoA' any more. It is 
 iufficient that you are forry for what you have done. Yoa 
 
96 THE GREYHOUND AMD THE RING. 
 
 now fee yourfelf, that bad a6lIons mak«God and man our 
 enemies, and are always difcovered foon. r or later. I 
 fhould take the liberty too of propofiiig to you as a model, 
 the behaviour of my children, generous litile creatures ! 
 How (hould I thank Heaven for fending me fuch a gift! 
 You fee, the moll noble and certain revenge U that of 
 doing kindnefles, and that nothing is more worthy a great 
 fpirit, than to repay ill-nature with good offices. 
 
 Rufus, Ah ! 1 feel that now myfelf with ihe mod lively 
 forrow. {To Eujiace and Serina.) Will you ever forgive 
 me? 
 
 EuJlacCy [takixig his hand.) Yes, from this moment, and 
 fincerely, 
 
 Serina. I have my Diana once more, and all is forgot. 
 
 Rhfus, {to Lionel.) We (liould be unworthy of this 
 pattern if we did not follow it. 
 
 Lionel. lam as much afliamed as you, and this leffon 
 /hall not be loll en me. 
 
 Rufus. I have juil confeHed all to my father. In pro- 
 porricn as he was angry with me, he was touched with 
 your generofity. He requcfts* perm i (lion to come in about 
 an hour hence, to thank you and to beg your acceptance 
 of a fmall token of his gratitude. 
 
 Mr. Caiv. No, there is no occafion for any prefents. 
 To do well, my children defire no reward but from them- 
 felves. Befides, relloring a perfon his property is no more 
 than a drift duty, 
 
 Eujiace. How plealing to perform that duty ! I have 
 gained a friend for my whole life ; have not J, Rufus? 
 
 Rufus. \i i could be worthy of that honour. I Ihall do 
 every thing in my power to be fo. 
 
 Lionel. Do not exclude me from your friendfl^ip. I wasi 
 no bee er than Rufus ; but 1 have jull now felt how noble 
 a pjlfion revenge may be made. 
 
 Serina^ [carejjing the greyhound ) Ah ! little runaway ! 
 this will teach you anoclier time to llray from your 
 mailers: you have palled a night in prifon for it. Offer 
 to do fo again, and you'll fee ! — Well, what would be the 
 confequence? Ah! no, whatever you do, 1 lind 1 fnall 
 alwavi be fend of you. 
 
 T H E 
 
[ '91 1 
 THE HEN. 
 
 HOW hnppy was Cyprian in fo vvnrthy and affeft'onace 
 a father as Mr. Tirda]!. Whenever he had ihowa- 
 himfelf for any length of time difcreet and diligent, he 
 was afiured th^t his father AvoQld not fail to tefti/y his 
 fatisfaclion with fome recompence or other. Cyprian had 
 a talle for gardening, and began, about the age of twelve, 
 to cultivate choice flowers. His father faw it, and imme- 
 diately began to lludy how he might aiford his fon more 
 pleafii-e. 
 
 They were both at dinner. Cyprian, faid his father, 
 your preceptor has informed me, that you have begun this 
 very day to read the Roman Bliftory, and the Geography 
 of Italy. \i, in a week, you can but give me an exa(!t 
 ;iccount of every thing you may have learned on thefe two 
 fabjefts., you cannot think what 1 "intend iliall recohipence 
 your application I 
 
 Cyprian, one may eafily fa ppofe, did not forget fuch a 
 promife. He employed himfel'f in iludying all the week, 
 to get this recompence ; or rather, he received fuch p!ea- 
 fure from his ftudy, that indeed it was he v/ho ihould 
 have bellowed a recoFApence on his Papa if he had been 
 able. 
 
 He faw the day of trial come, without an:^iety ; and 
 underwent the examination like an hero. He had learned 
 the hirtory of all the kings of Rome, and mark-^d omx. in 
 his map the gradual progrefs of that growing empire. 
 
 In a tranfport of delight, his father took him by the 
 hand, embraced and kifled him. Come, fays he, fince 
 you have fought to give me fo much pleafure, it is but juft 
 that T fhouid contribute in my turn to yours. Saying this, 
 he led him into an adjoining garden, pointed out a vacant 
 fpot tohim, and told him that it was to be hisr Vou may 
 part it in tvvo, ccntiaued he; and plant what flowers yoa' 
 like in one, and any vegetables that you think proper in 
 theoiher. After this, they went into anout-houfe, clofe' 
 behind the gardener's hut, where Cypiian found a fpade, 
 a watering-pot, a rak-c, and other implements of garden- 
 ing, all pcrfeftly ad ipted to his fizeand itrength. On tl.e 
 walls were'ba'fkets hang up, of every-fize, great and fma-H, 
 
 Vol II. F and 
 
98 T HE II E N. 
 
 and on fhelve-d about them, fundry boxrs full of roots, and 
 bags of feeds; the whole together duly ticketed, with 
 cards on every box and bag, marking the proper time for 
 fowing each article. 
 
 One (hould be of Cyprian's age to know the cxcefi of 
 his joy upon this occafion. In his mind, the little fpot 
 of earth which his father had afligned him, was as 
 great as monarchs think their kingdoms ; and whatever 
 hours of relaxation his preceptor let him take, and which 
 he fpent before in folly, were now taken up in cultivating 
 his domain. 
 
 One day, when he came in from doing fomething about 
 his garden he forgot to Ihut the gate. A hen was pecking 
 near the fpot, and took it in her head to go a hunting on 
 his grounds. The flower-bed had been ftrewed but lately 
 with a layer of the richell mould, and was confequently 
 quite full of worms. ^ 
 
 The hen, charmed with fucn d|ji|ious fare, began to 
 fcratch the mould up, and emploJKir beak as well as 
 talons to unearth the worms ; and in particular, (he took 
 a mighty inclination to a part, where Cyprian had, the 
 day, before been planting fome fine pinks. 
 
 How great therefore was the excefs of his rage when 
 coming back to his plantation, he beheld the door ajar, 
 and this new-fafliioned gardener digging upjj^is beds ? Ah ( 
 ah ! you impudent flut ! faid he; your bones fliall pay for 
 this. And immediately he fiiut the door, fur tear his vidim 
 ihculd efcape, and picking up flint (lones, fand, clods of ' 
 earth, and whatever he could lay hold of, he threw them 
 at the bird, purfuing her all the while as clofe as he 
 could. 
 
 The frightened hen, at one time ran with all herfpeed, 
 and at another time ftroveto fly upon the wall, but found 
 that her wings would not befriend her in reaching fuch a 
 height. Unhappily, flie fell back more than once on 
 Cyprian's flowers, and got her wings and feet entangled 
 with the fineft hyacinths. 
 
 Young Cyprian, beholding her thus embroiled, fup- 
 pofed that he had her fall. Two rows of tulips feparated 
 them. His angerwas fo vehement, that ftepping over, as 
 he meant to do, this interval of reparation between the 
 hen and him, he trod them down himfelf. The hen, 
 however, at Jier enemy's approach, redoubled her former 
 
 efforts. 
 
T HE HE N. 9^) 
 
 eiJbrts, and attempted now a fecond time to gain the wall. 
 She rofe a great deal higher than before, yet flill came 
 iliort ; but what was matter of regret for Cyprian, bore 
 av^ay with her from underneath as Hie rofe, a beautiful. 
 rofe-bud-co!oured ten-belled hyacinth. On this, he feized 
 his rake, and flung it at the bird with all his ftrength. 
 The rake turned round, and while he fancied it upon the 
 point of hitting the fugitive mark, it came down, and 
 dafhed two panes of glafs to pieces in a melon frame, as well 
 as broke out two of its own teeth upon the ground. 
 
 The little Fury, made much more furious by thefe 
 damages, had run for his fpade, and now the combat 
 would perhaps have had fatal confequences for his feather- 
 ed adverfary, who fatigued and giddy had crept in be- 
 tween a roie-bufh and the wall, if Mr. Tifdall, at iirfl 
 attraded to his windov^l^y the noife, had not made haile 
 to her afiiftance, jj|| 
 
 The moment ^pian faw iiis father, he flood flock flill 
 in evident confufion ; however he made ihift to find his 
 tongue at lafl, and cried out. See, papa, what ravage 
 this vile creacure has committed in my garden. 
 
 Had you Ihut the door replied his father with an affedl- 
 ed indifference^ this ravage would not have been made. I 
 faw your wi^ole behaviour. Are you not aihamed of ha- 
 ving put forth all your fliength againfi: a harmlefs hen? 
 She has no reafon to conduft herfelf, and though fae has 
 rooted up your pinks, it was not with a wifli todo you any 
 damage, but to get her ordinary food. Now, Cyprian, 
 fhould you have put yourfelf thus into a paffion, if fhe had 
 fcratched up nothing but as many nettle roots ? And how 
 can fhe dillinguifh between pinks and nettles ? It is your- 
 felf alone that are io blame for all this havock. With 
 precaution you woul^i certainly have driven her out fo 
 that fhe might do no further mifchief ; and in that cafe, 
 neither your rake, nor my melon frame, would have gone 
 to ruin, or your lofs have exceeded that of a few flowers. 
 Therefore you alone are punifhable, fo that were i to cut 
 a branch off from this hazle-tree, and with it make you 
 fuffer juft what you defigned the hen inould fuffer — which 
 of us would ad with the greatell juflice ) I ihall not, how- 
 ever, go to this extremity, purpofely to fliew you that we 
 may all fupprefs our refentment, if v/s think proper. 
 Not'^.ithrtanding, for the damage done to mv melon frame, 
 F ^ ', ' Ifluai 
 
-TOO T H E H E N. 
 
 1 fhall deduifl as mucli as will repair it, from the arrears 
 of your allowance in my hands 3 for i am not to fufFer 
 through your ralhnefs. 
 
 Cyprian, upon this, withdrew much abafhed, and 
 all day durft fcarcely lift his eyes up, while before his 
 father. 
 
 On the morrow, Mr. Tifdall propofed a walk, r.nd 
 
 afked if he defired to join him. Cypiian followed, but 
 
 •Dpprefied with fadnefs which he fought in vain to hide. 
 
 His fitherfaw it, and affcding a degree of wonder, wiihed 
 
 to know why he appeared fo grievo-ully dejected. 
 
 Cyprian. Have 1 not the greatell caulb to be dejcifled .? 
 For this whole month pall:, I have denied myfelf fo many 
 p^cafures, merely to buy fomething for my iilter. I had 
 faved ten (hillings, with which I th ouglic to purchafe her 
 a pretty hat ; but mull give the half of it perhaps to have 
 your melon frame repaired. 
 
 il/r. Tijdciil. I dare fay, you would !ia\c been delighted 
 to oblige ycurfiiler, but my mclcn frame, however, muft 
 ije paid for firft. This lellbn will teach you in future not 
 to yield yourfelf up to the mifchiefii of refentment which 
 in general aggravates the fiiit misfortune happening to us. 
 
 Cjprian. Ah ! you may depend upon it, lir, I will ne- 
 <ver leave the garden-door open ag.in, or enke revenge 
 upon a hen for what would be my own omillion. 
 
 "Mr. TtyQiull. But, pray tell me, do you fancy thar, in 
 this vail univerfe, hens only have it in their power to do 
 you damage ? 
 
 Cyprian. '''"0\ no, no; for look ye, not above a week 
 ago 1 left my map upon the table while I went a walking, 
 ard my little filler coming into the room, with a p^n and 
 ink fo blotted it all over, that no one could diltinguilh 
 Europe from Amcricn. 
 
 Mr. Tifdall. Thenii is prudent to fecureyourfelf again-ft 
 the mifchiefs that you may fuffcr from your fellow-crea- 
 tures. 
 
 Cyprian, It is {o^ papa. 
 
 Mr. Tifdall. Without defirirrg in the leafl to give you 
 a di Halle of life, I ran afTure you that you will have to 
 fuffcr many difagrecable affairs, and thofe a deal more 
 prejudicial to you, than the Tiiifchiefs caufed by the hen. 
 Mankind always feek their interell and their pleafures, 
 
 juit 
 
T H E HEN.- !^.!. 
 
 jiift as hens feek worms; and they will do To at the 
 hazard of yourinterells, as hens will at the hazard of your 
 flowers. 
 
 Cyprian. I fee it plainly, fir, by Bella's behaviour; /Ince ' 
 the little pleafure that flie received from fcribbiing on a bit 
 of paper, has occafioned me the lofs of an extremely ufeful 
 map. 
 
 Mr. Tifdall. But could you not have avoided this lofs, 
 by patting up your map before you left the apartment ? 
 
 Cyprian, Cer tain ! y . 
 
 Mr. Tifdall. Then think for the future tocondu*^ your- 
 fe!f fo, that no body may have power to do you any real 
 mifchief ; but if atier all, in fpite of your precaution, 
 you fliould be fo unlucky as to receive an injury, confidec 
 how you mayendurc it, fo as notto render the firil: wrong., 
 flill more prejudicial. 
 
 Cyprian. Ay, papa; but how muft I endure it ?- 
 
 Mr. Ti/dalL With indifference, if it be a flight injury, v 
 but, on the other band, if a great one, vvi;h courage. 
 Now that we ajei)y ourielves, 1 dare propof^ you as an 
 example the conduft that I purfue towards Mr. Hotham. 
 
 Cyprian. Pray don't fpeak of him, papa. Thefe U\o - 
 years pall, he takes no notice of you whenever you meet 
 each other, and there cannot be afalhty that he will not fay 
 to prejudice you in the opinion of the world. 
 
 Mr. Tifdall. And do you know what urges him. to fuck 
 behaviour ? 
 
 Cyprian. That I never yet durft afk you. 
 
 Mr. Tifdall. Nothing but for the preference which I "■■ 
 obtained refpefting an employ tiiat my father had fo wor- 
 thily filled up for five and thirty years, and to which he 
 hadaffedlionately formed me by the moll: diligent iallrudticn, ■ 
 Mr, Hotham had no title to the poR, except his ignorance 
 and feif-fufficiency. My right fucceeded, notwithrlanding 
 allhisintered, and therefore ami honoured, witk his calum- 
 ny and hatred. 
 
 Cyprian. Ah! papa, were I as big as you, I'd teach 
 him better manner.^. 
 
 Mr. Tifdall. Quite the contiary, I let him go on rail- 
 ing at me juil as he thinks fit. Ihe condud which you 
 fhould ha\e purfued, when you v/ere injured by the hen, 
 1 faithfully purfue towards him. The pinks that fhe 
 f-ratched up by the roots, in feeking for worms, may 
 F 3 reprefent 
 
102 T H E H E N. 
 
 reprefent the reputable charadler that 1 bear, and which 
 an order to gratify the worm of Envy that gnaws him, he 
 labours to undo. Were I to feek the means ofpunilhing 
 him, I ihould trample under foot that deference and refpect 
 which I owe tomyfelf, as you trod under foot your tulips. 
 The melon frame and rake which you dr\'naged, are that 
 wealth and peace of mind that 1 iliould destroy, by hurry- 
 ing on to vengeance. Taught in future by the lofies-that 
 you have fuffered, you will ihut the garden door, in order 
 to keep the hen out. Taught too by the wicked difpofi- 
 tion of my enemy, I lay, by means of proper condud on 
 my part, an infuperable barrier between us. Thus in- 
 accelTible to his vinditftive attempts, I enjoy the comforts 
 of my moderation, while he fpends himfelf in thofe at- 
 tempts, and will in time experience the compunftion of 
 his evil confcience. Could his infuk^ vex me, I Ihould 
 jiiake myfelf the vi<ftim that he would facrificc, and be 
 reproached for imbecility, by every worthy charadcr of 
 my acquaintance ; while on the other hand the infenfibilU 
 ty that I manifeit for his injurious treatment yields him to 
 his own contempc, and, in the bofom of good men, keeps 
 up rhe reputation that 1 have gained among them. 
 
 Cyprian, Ah ! papa, what trouble may 1 not fhun here- 
 after, by remembering every thing that ycu have taught 
 me ! 
 
 Thefe laft words were hardly uttered, when they found 
 themfelvcb athome, without imagining that they had been 
 fo near it. Their difcourle, for the remainder of the day, 
 was a continuation of the paft ; and bed-time being come, 
 they feparated quite content with one another, Cyprian 
 funk to {lumber, with a bofom full of gratitude for the in- 
 flruftion which he had juil received, and Mr. Tifdall with 
 one poiTeiling all the fiitisfadlion that a good father cannot 
 bat experience, who is fenfiblethat he has done fomcthing 
 to promote his ofispring's happinefs. 
 
 THE 
 
[ -03 J 
 
 THE LITTLE NEEDLE-WOMEN. 
 
 Characters, 
 
 Mrs. Vincent. 
 Louisa, 
 Leonora, ^ her Daughterp» 
 
 Sophy, 
 
 Gl A R A > thdr Friend* 
 
 A jpooR Woman. 
 
 Madge, | her Daughters. 
 
 Joan, | ^ 
 
 Lmi/i^t fwith L^'Ofisra her ftfiir^ m'i difavind nijor^in^ in 
 ihsir rQ6mi ^\>phj fimuU by Lem/a^ Ckra entirt to tkem* 
 
 Clara* 
 
 HARD at work I How melancholy you all look ! I 
 ihought to find you at play upon the fnow. Come, 
 come, and lee tne trees : they are powdered juil for all the 
 world like— what d'ye call 'ems. 
 
 Lout/a. iNo ; we would not leave our work for any p'ea- 
 f«re that you could name to us. 
 
 Clara. Oh, 1 frequently leave mine for nothing — 3ut 
 you have not long 1 hope, to fit here moping. 
 
 Leonora, We were moping, as you call it, all yeiier- 
 day ; and have been at it again ever fince the clock ftruck 
 
 Clara, My ftars ! I was not up till ten : and in the 
 name of goodnefsl what poffeiles you, to v.'Gik at fuch a 
 rate ? 
 
 Louifa. If you but knew, Clara, for whom we are, I am 
 fure, you would willingly make make one amongft us. 
 
 Clara, Indeed, I would not, Louifa, were it even for 
 myfelf. -'■ % 
 
 'Louifa. Yourfelf! I Ihould not work, thus* tatti "and 
 early, with fuch fpirits, for myfelf: nor you, 1 fancy, 
 Leonora. 
 
 Leonora, No, indeed. 
 . Sophy, Guefs who Ms for. 
 
 F 4. Clara. 
 
iCy THE LITTILE NEEDLE-WOMEN. 
 
 Clara. Not for yourfelf, you fay. It muA be for your 
 do!h then. — I have gue/led it ! Have 1 not? 
 
 L^uifa^ {/heiving the clothes before thc7n.') Yes, yes; look 
 here, and ice if iliefc will fit a doll. 
 
 Ci%ra. How ! how ! Why, here's a drefs complete ! 
 Which o'i you is going to be married ? 
 
 Leonora. Did you ever hear the like ? a jacket to be 
 marri*x.i in ! 1 he girl is crazy, ihe will never giiefs. 
 
 Sj/)by. Vv'cll then, I'll tell you who 'tis for. You know 
 ihofe two poor children, thai have nothing on but rags? 
 
 Clara. What ! that poor wonjan who has lately lolt her 
 huiband, and cannot gci a bit of" bread? 
 
 Louifa. Yes, the fame ; it is for»her poor children that 
 we .-ire To hard at work. 
 
 Clara. But you know, your mama and mine both fcnt 
 her m^oney. 
 
 l\ouifa. So they did ; but there were debts to pay, and 
 
 brejKi 10 buy. As for cloihes 
 
 Leonora. We have taken ihat upon us. 
 Clara. But, my dear, why not much rather fend them 
 fome of your own old clothes? You would, in that cafe, 
 Jpare yourfelves a deal of trouble. 
 
 Lcui/a, How you talk ! As if our clothes were fit for 
 fiich fniall children ! 
 
 Clara. That I know : they would have been loo big, 
 and dragged upon the ground at leafl a quarter of a yard ; 
 but then, their mother might have made them Icfa 
 herfelf. 
 
 Loui/a. KShe cannot. 
 Clara. And why not ? 
 
 Leonora, {looking fiedfajily upon Clara.) Becaufe her pa- 
 rents never taught her iiow to ufe her needle. 
 
 Loui/a. Now, as we are rather ready at it, we defircd 
 mama to let us have fome dimity, and other iUilf, and 
 to cut us out the ncccfiary patterns, prcmiiing to do the 
 rclt ourfelves. 
 
 Leonora. And when the whole is finiihed, wc (i\:([\ vi/it 
 the poor \voman with it, th.tt her children may be dreficd 
 a little v\armly this cold weather. 
 
 Loui/a. Now, my dear, you know the rcafon why we 
 won't go play upon the fnow. 
 
 Clara {'zvith a Jii/ed figh.) I'll woik a litde with yoa. 
 Liui/a. Ay, I fLiid lo. 
 
 'L':oncya> 
 
THE LITTLE NEEDLE-WOMEN. io_5 
 
 Leonora. No, no; we have almoft done. 
 
 Loufja. But, Leonora, wliy deprive her of To great a 
 pleafure ? Look you here, my friend j complece this hem : 
 but you mail few it carefully. 
 
 Sophy, if not, my filler will undo it; I am fure of that.- 
 
 Clara, What you mull fpeak too then, Mrs. Whipper- 
 fnapper ; jull as if you knew what is going forward. 
 
 Louifa. How, Clara.'* i afJure you, Sophy has affifted -; 
 us furprizingjy. It was ihe that held the llufF while we 
 were cuctinp; it, handed us the pincuihion, and picked iiS' 
 up pur thimbles when they fell. Here, my little dear, 
 lake the fcifl'ars : Leonora wants them. 
 
 Clara, Look, dear Louifa, have 1 done this right ? 
 
 Leonora^ {laying hold of the njoork.^ Oh fie ! thefe ilitches ■ 
 are a mile too long, and. all awry. 
 
 Louifa. True, they would not hold. But ftay ; I'll give 
 you fomething elfe. — Here, pafs this bobbin through the 
 jacket collar. 
 
 Clara. Ay. ay ; I fhall fucceed better in^this. 
 
 Leonora^ {looking ever her,) See 1 fee 1 how Hie fets 
 about it ! — 
 
 Louifa. Ah, that's all my fliult, who did not teM her ' 
 how it Ihould be done, — See here, my dear Clara,— in 
 this manner. 
 
 Clara. I was never taught to do fo- much as you ; and 
 that is the reafon that 1 am fo awkward. 
 
 Leonora y {ivith afneer.) Oh, 1 eafily believe you. 
 
 Louifa. But do not vex her, filler : fhe has done her 
 bell. Hold, let me look a. liLtle. How ! you have paffed 
 the bobbin through already. Look ye, Leonora. 
 
 .Leonora (^^pitlUr.g ihe bobbin.) What a pity, it will not 
 Air. A mighty clever needle- woman, truly ! ihe does 
 nothing elfe but make us work. 
 
 Clara { for roavf ally.) Alas! I know no better. 
 
 Louifa. Do not affli(ft yourfelf : you have the bell' of 
 wills; and we have nothing more to boail. It fhall be 
 quickly put to rights. I will do it for you. There; the 
 matter is fettled. . h\?i.veyou. finifhed, Leonora ? 
 
 Leonora. Only one more flitch : — and then, to cut .the 
 thread off.— There : now I will make, up the parcel, 
 i^She is preparing to do foy nvhen Mrs. ViTiccnt enters.) 
 
 Sophy. Heje is mama. 
 
 F 5 Mru 
 
io6 THE LITTLE N EE D LE-WOMEN. 
 
 Mrs. Vincetit. Well, my dears; how do you go on? 
 Perhaps you wifli for my aflirtancc. 
 Loui/a. No, mama; we have finlihed. 
 
 Mrs. Vinci'nt. Have you ? Let rric lee a little. — Very 
 well indeed! — What, my Sophy! 1 am afraid, you 
 thought the time tedious. 
 
 Scphy. Oh, not I, mama : I ahvays had fome little 
 thing to do ; alk my fillers. 
 
 Lcutfa. Yes, indeed : we fhould not have ended fo 
 quickly, but for her aliiftance. She has never quitted us. 
 
 Mrs. Vincent. That was well done. Ah 1 here is our 
 little neighbour too, Mifs Clara. She mull have helped 
 you a good deal. 
 
 Leonora^ [ivith a fneer.) She tried; but 
 
 Lcui/a. Indeed, we had almoll finillied when fhe came. 
 
 Sophy. She made a ftitch or two, but Ihe hardly knows 
 more than I : if you had but feen, mama, how crooked— 
 
 Lcui/a. Hold your tongue ! 
 
 Mrs. Vincent. Con\e ; lince you have been fo very dili- 
 gent, I have joyftil news to tell you. 
 
 Sophy, What, mama? 
 
 Mrs. Vincent. The two poor children and their mother 
 are below. I will fend you up the little ones, that you 
 may drefs them, and enjoy the alloniihment of their mo- 
 ther, when ihe ob(erves them fo much altered. 
 
 Lcui/a. Ah, mama, how you increafc our pleafures ! 
 
 Sophy. Shall 1 go and fetch them up ? 
 
 Mrs. Vi'uent. Yes ; follow me : and you fliall come 
 back with them. In the interim, I will have a little con- 
 verfation with the mother, and contrive how flie may find 
 cut fome employment for the time to come, and earn a 
 little money. {She gees out ^ixith Scphy.) 
 
 Louija. Stay you here with us, Clara : we ihall want 
 your help; and you mufi have fome bufinefs at our toilet. 
 
 Claray [erfforaeing Loui/a ) Ah! niy friend, you have a 
 good heart! i fee that plainly, 
 
 Lccnora. I have had a fling or two at you, Clara. 
 Louifa makes me Liufli., and therefore I entieat your 
 pardon. 
 
 Clara, {erihracing Lccr.ora. Jikenvi/e.) Yes, with all my 
 heart. 
 
 Loui/a, I hear the children coming up. {Scphy enters. 
 iringing ;w ihe little girls, Madge and Jean ) 
 
 Scphy 
 
THE LITTLE NE EDL'E-WOMEN. 107 
 
 Sophy, {'whi/peri7tg Loul/a.) How furprized they will be, 
 I have not told them any thing about it. 
 
 Louifa. You did well : their pleafure will be the greater^ 
 and ours likewife. 
 
 Leonora, I {hall take Madge. 
 
 Loui/a» I Joan. 
 
 Clara. And Sophy and myfelf will hold the pin- 
 cuftiions. {They hig'm to undrefs them.) 
 
 Madge t {crying.) We are cold enough already. Will 
 you take away the little clothes that we have left? 
 
 Louifa. Do not be afraid, poor thing ! come hither. 
 You Ihall fee. A little this way towards the fire. — You 
 are almoftklead with cold. 
 
 Jdan. We have not warmed ourfelves to-day. 
 
 Madge. Thefe fine new clothes, are they for us ? 
 
 foan. Oh blefs me ! What will mother fay? She will 
 take us for your fillers; we ftiall be fo fine ! 
 
 Louifn. And you fhall be our fillers for the time to 
 come : fo never call us any otherwife. 
 
 Madge. Oh, good young lady, we are your fervants. 
 
 Loui/a, Let me have your arm- — The other.— But how 
 ihort it is ! it only reaches to her knees. Well, hair- 
 brains ! (/o Leonora) this is like you 1 Do not you fee 
 that you have handed me the little jacket? 
 
 Leonora, bo I have indeed : for my part, I was puzzled 
 likewife. Madge's feet were covered, and I could not fee 
 her head. We need but change. There is Joan's. 
 
 Louifa. Let us be as quick as pofiible ; and in the mean 
 time, Sophy, do you run and bid mama come up. 
 
 Sophy. lam gone. (She goes out,) 
 
 Louifa.- Ah, now all is right. Turn round. — Once 
 more. Very well: and now, take one another by the 
 hand, and walk acrofs thef'room before u:. {The children 
 dofo, and fur-vey themfelves avith pleafure.) 
 
 Clara, How extremely well they fit ! they are quite 
 pretty ! and there is only one thing wanted. {To Madge.) 
 
 Here is my handkerchief. Blow hard. {To Joan.) 
 
 Now you. — What elfe? — If you had time to drefs their 
 hair. 
 
 Louifa. No, no, my dear Clara ; it is much better hang- 
 ing loofely. Leonora, what fay you? 
 
 Leo7iora. A comb, however, to untangle it, would not 
 be much amifs. I will do that, Louifa. 
 
 F 6 Scphyy 
 
ic8 THE LITTLE NEEDLE-WOMEN. 
 
 Sophy, [runs in jumpifig.) Here is mama. (ilJ/v. ft*:' 
 cent enters luith tt:e mother of the chiUrtn.) 
 
 The Mother. Oh, heavens! wh.it do 1 fee? Are thefe 
 my children? O my generous lady! {fulling do-vjn at 
 Mrs Vincent'' s feet.') 
 
 Mrs. Vif:ce7iti {lifting her up.') My good friend, it is not 
 to me that you are indebted for this happinels. My chil- 
 dren wiflied to make a trial of their (kill in needle-work, 
 and I permitted them to do fo. [Examining the ch'ildren'*s 
 jackets.) Not fo bad, confidcring a firit effay ; you might 
 almoin fet up for yourfelves. 
 
 The Mother, {to louifa and her fife r.) My charming 
 ladies, let me thank you.' God will recompenfe your 
 kindnefs, for I cannot. {Perceii>ing Clara at a difance) 
 Pardon me, my little lady; I did not fee you; otherwife 
 I fnould have paid you alfo my acknowledgments. 
 
 Cla;a, {J^ghing.) No, no. I had no hand in this day*s 
 bufin efs. 
 
 Mrs. Vincent. Do nor a»^ii<5l yourfelf upon that ac- 
 count, my dear. By fighing, you will get nothing; but 
 by (tedfaftly refolving, evpry thing. However, tell me ; 
 dr. not you think it ufeful and delightful for a young lady, 
 like you, to accuilom herlclf betimes to work of fome fort 
 or other? 
 
 Clara. Think fo? Certainly. 
 
 Mrs. Vincent. Of what real pleafure, even at prefent, 
 ,!rc ycu not deprived, by having hitherto ncgleded an 
 employment, fo adapted to your fex and age? 
 
 The Mother. Dear little lady, learn betimes, if you 
 ivould be confidered provident or prudent, to love work ; 
 or it will fooii be too late. I Ihould be very happy now, 
 liad any one but given me fuch a leiibn in my childhood. 
 1 could now have got my bread, and been of ufe to thofe 
 dependant on me for fupport, inilcad of being burthcn- 
 fome to worthy people. 
 
 Mrs. Vincent. Truly, my good friend, it would have 
 been much happier for you, 1 muft own, although 1 Oiould 
 have loll the pleafure of affilUng you. But you are yet 
 full young enough to make up for lolt time, by ap- 
 plication to fome honell labour. Children, you mull 
 knov.', I have procured her fome employment at a weaver's 
 in the neighbourhood j and when flie happens to have 
 
 no^iiing 
 
THE LITTLE NEEDLE-WOMEN. 109 
 
 nothing to do there, Ihe is to come and work here in 
 the garden, 
 
 Sophy. I am very glad of that; for 1 will go too, and 
 help her, if I anr able. 
 
 Mrs. Vincent. With refpefl to Madge and Joan, I mean 
 that my houfe Ihall be their fchool ; and you have both, 
 {to Lcuifa and Leonora,) deferved to be their miftrefles in 
 work and reading. 
 
 Clara. And may I be their affiftant, madam ? 
 
 Mrs. Vincent.. With all my heart, if your mama con- 
 fents; in which cafe, you and Sophy fhall endeavour to 
 outdo each other. (71? the poor nvoman.) My good friend, 
 are you contented that matters fhould be as I have 
 fettled ? 
 
 The Mother. Contented? My benevolent and gene- 
 rous lady, I fhall owe you all my happinefs, and that, 
 too, of my deflitute and friendlefs-chiidren. Dear good 
 angels, give God thanks, for having bleHed you with fo 
 careful a mamma, who trains you up thus betiroes to dili- 
 gence. You fee, it is the fourcc of comforx, to yourfelvesL 
 and to us too. 
 
 *^* Omitted here, " THE LOVE OF GOD AND 
 
 OF OUR PARENTS," a Piece that indeed w;7/ 
 not iKjeJl hear to h tranflated into Rriglijhx. 
 
 THE 
 
[ !!• ] 
 
 THE VETERAN DISMISSED WITH HONOUR, 
 
 A Drama, in one Act. 
 
 Characte r s. 
 
 Lord Cornwallis. 
 
 An Officer, attending him* 
 
 Captain, ^«^IVIrs. Greville. 
 
 Dou 
 
 tuGHNiA, S- their Children* 
 
 Mai 
 
 f 1 A I IN , ana ivi 
 UGLAS, 1 
 
 GliNIA, S 
 
 RY Anne, j 
 
 '^he Scene is at the entrance cf a grove y before the houft of 
 Captain Gre'vilUy Jhmexvhat diji ant from the road, 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 DouglaSy and Eugenia, 
 
 Eugenia is difco'vered fitting on a trunk y and picking Jira^O-' 
 herries, Befde her lies her Jiraiv hat to hold the frato- 
 terries 'wheft picked, Douglas brings her more in his. 
 Both bats are neatly lined i^ith leaves, 
 
 X>ouglas. T O O K ye, filler, we fhall quickly have 
 JLi enough. 
 
 Eugenia. I do not know, Douglas, how I fhall difpofe 
 of mine : my hat is too full already. 
 
 Douglas. Mary Anne cannot be long before Ihe brings 
 the bufhel ; and indeed ihe might have gone into the 
 houfe, found one, and returned in much lefs time than 
 this. However, in the interval, Eugenia, put them in 
 your apron. 
 
 Eugenia. Yes, yes j that would make fine work indeed. 
 To fpot it all from top to bottom ! What do you fuppofe 
 mama would fay ? and therefore 1 have thought of fome- 
 thing elfc. Your hat is biggcll ; fo I will add my flraw- 
 benies to yours, and you Ihall go and gather more, while 
 I am picking thefe. 
 
 Douglas, Well faid, indeed; and in the interim, Mary 
 Anne cannot fail to come, and then we ihall have got 
 enough. 
 
 Eugenia, When they are all together, we ihall fee. 
 
 Douglas, 
 
THE VETERAN DISMISSED, Sec. in 
 
 Douglas, What is over when the bafkets are filled, wc 
 will take ourfelves. 
 
 Eugenia. I think, we (hall not have much appetite to 
 taile them afterwards. Ah, brother ! it is the lall time 
 that we fl-iall eat with our papa this year, and who can 
 tell whether we ihail ever fee him more. 
 
 Douglas. Oh ! do not be dejedled, filler. Every one is 
 not killed in a battle. 
 
 Eugenia. Oh frightful war ! if men were not fo wicked, 
 but would love each other, jull as we do 
 
 Douglas. Mighty fine, indeed ! And do not we quarrel 
 every day for trifles ? We each think ourfelves in the 
 right; and frequently it would puzzle any one to find 
 which is. It is juft the fame among grown men. 
 
 Eugenia. They ought at leaft, then, to be friends again, 
 as foon as we are. Our worft quarrels never come to 
 blood flied. 
 
 Douglas. No ; becaufe our parents fettle them : but 
 men, Eugenia, are not children ; and won't let them- 
 felves be governed, if they have but arms. And in fad, 
 is it right that we iTiould fuifer any one to injure us, 
 without refilling ? 
 
 Eugenia. You are always talking like a foldier ! 
 
 Douglas. A good reafon why; becaufe 1 am to be, one. 
 Look ye, filler; notwithilanding any thing that you fay 
 againft it, war is a very charming thing. Without it, 
 how do you imagine that we Ihould live; would our 
 papa's little fortune be fufRcient to fupport us ? But do 
 not weep. You grieve me. 
 
 Eugenia. Let me weep, dear brother, while we ar6 
 alone. 1 had much rather do fo here, than in the pre- 
 fence of papa, for I know, it would afHid him. 
 
 Douglas. Come, come ; dry your eyes, and fet to work 
 for fome amufement. 1 will go and fill your hat. 
 
 Eugenia. Go that way ; we have left none hereabouts. 
 {.Douglas goes out, and after a moment* sjtlence, Jhe goes on.) 
 I would 1 were but learned enough, that 1 might pray to 
 God, for he would hear me. Or at leaft, if I were big 
 enough, I would go to court, and fall before the king; 
 and he, I sm fure, would grant me my papa's difmiffion, 
 when i begged and prayed him to oblige me. He has 
 ferved his country long enough, I think. {Sl^e jets about 
 picking ker flrai{;bcrries again.) 
 
 SCENE 
 
112 THE VETT.RAN DISMISSED' 
 
 SCENE If. 
 Kugeuiaj Lord Com-Mallis, the Officer. 
 
 Lord C. i^^vhifpcr'nig the officer.) Yonder is the houfe. 
 where we were told Captaia Grevilie lives: he will be 
 very much furprized and pleafed with what 1 bring him; 
 a difmiirion irom the fervice with fuch honour. Bur, 
 what charming lirtie girl is this? I will ftop and have a 
 little c-nverfation with her; fo do not you addrefs me by 
 my name. {To Eugenia y lapping her upon the fi^oiilder.) 
 Why, you are very hard at woxk.,. 1 fee, my pretty child.. 
 
 Eugenia. Oh ! fir, you frightened me. 
 
 Lord C. I afk your pardon then, my dear. I did not 
 mean to do fo. And for whom are you preparing all 
 thefe ftrawberries ? They cannot but be very fine, I 
 think, as they are picked by fuch a plump and fnowy 
 hand. 
 
 Eugenia^ .[holding out the hat.) I beg, then,, you will 
 take fome, fir.. Do not be afraid ; for they are very, 
 clean. 1 only wifh 1 had a better plate to put them into* 
 i^Lcrd C: takes ti.oo or three, as does the officer.) 
 
 Lord C. I never tailed any better : do you fell them^ 
 little dear ? 
 
 Eugenia. No, fir ; though you were to give me — I can-^ 
 not tell how much. 
 
 Lord C. You are in the right : they are above all value, 
 being gathered by fo fweet a little hand. 
 
 Eugenia. Fie ! fir, how you talk ! no, it is not for 
 that : they fliould be at your fervice, were they not in-> 
 tended for {iiipirgjjer eyes) my dear papa. We have not 
 gc-ithcred any for h;m vet this leafon. ; and perhaps, thefe 
 are to be the latl that he will talle. 
 
 Lord C. What, my dear^ he is ill then ; and you think 
 that he will die ? 
 
 The Officer. His iilnefs, however, it is to be hoped, 
 is not )et quite defpc;rate, fince he thinks of eating 
 llraw berries. 
 
 Eugenia. No, not that. It is true, indeed, he has been 
 troubled with the rheumatifm, all lail winter, to a very 
 great degree ; and s not yet quite cured. But cured or 
 not, he mull let out to-morrow. 
 
 s Lord C, 
 
WITH HONOUR. 115 
 
 Lord C. And pray why is his departure then To need- 
 ful ? 
 
 Eugenia. Oh, becaufe his regiment then goes through 
 the village ; and he mufl join it on the march. 
 
 Lord C. His regiment r 
 
 Eugenia. Yes, my Lord Cornwallis's, that is going to 
 America. 
 
 Lord C. {afide to the officer.) I would lay you any wager, 
 this is one of Captain Greville's children. 
 
 Euge7iiay [o-verbeariiig him.) Yes, that is my papa's 
 name. — Do you kncnv him ? 
 
 Lord C. Know him ? Why, the gentleman and I are 
 both his comrades. 
 
 Euge?iia. What! and is the regiment fo near then? — 
 Will It go through the town to-day ? 
 
 Lcrd C. No, not, till to-morrow. We are come, my 
 dear, before it; and — and — {a/ide to the officer.) What 
 excufe can I invent to {^xvo. my purpofe? — And a wheel 
 belonging to our carriage being broke hard by, we thought 
 to get a little diade here, while it was mending. And 
 now every thing, 1 fancy, muH; be fet to rights. This 
 path, J take it, leads diredly to the road again. 
 
 Eugenia, No, fir; it takes you to the village. 
 
 Lord C\ And the village, 1 fuppofe, belongs to your 
 papa? 
 
 Eugenia. Belongs to him? I wifh, indeed, he were fo 
 rich : he has nothing but a little cottage, with a garden, 
 this fmall grove, and yonder meadow. When he is not 
 at the regiment, he pailes all his time here with us. 
 
 Lord C. He was ill then, in the winter ? 
 
 Eugenia, Yes indeed, fir, to our forrow ; and he could 
 not move a limb. Befides, a wound which he received 
 many years ago, below the temple, has broke out afrefh. 
 And now that he is almoll well, he mult be forced to go 
 again, to meet with new misfortunes. 
 
 Lord C. In fach a fituation, why does not he fell out? 
 He might procure fufficient atcellations from the furgeon. 
 
 Eugenia. Oh, mama did that in private for him ; but 
 her letters never yet were anfvvered. Certainly the king 
 refufes to believe her ; or perhaps, that Lord Cornwallis 
 v/ho commands the regiment, is fo cruel 
 »■ Lcrd C, Truly, I believe, my Lord Cornwallis would 
 not like to lofe io good an officer as your papa, by whofe 
 
 inflrud^ians 
 
114 THE VETERAN DISMISSED 
 
 inflj udions I myfelf and all the younger officers may learn 
 fo much. 
 
 Eugema. /.nd yet, yovi do not appear fo very young ;- 
 but are your papa and mama flill living ? 
 
 Lord C. (^a little difconcerted.') Do you doubt it ? 
 
 Eugenia, Oh, I warrant you, they cried at parting with 
 ycu. How GouJd they confent to lofe you? I remember 
 how much grief it caufed mama and us, when firft my 
 eldeft brother went abroad to ftudy j and that is nothing 
 in coniparifon of war. 
 
 Lord C, 1 cannot tell that ; for I have left them after 
 many feparntlons ; in which cafe it is nothing to leave one 
 another. And befides, when firft I went to camp, my 
 father went with me. 
 
 Eugenia. Did he? Oh, thofe fathers that are foldiers 
 themfelves, are a little hard, I can tell you ; but yet that 
 is not the cafe with my papa. He is fo indulgent 1 Why, 
 a child is fcarce fo gentle: Jt is upon the po^nt of honour 
 alone that he can never be pcrfuaded j fo that alter all, I 
 fancy he himfflf is to blame, and nobody elfe, for his re- 
 maining ftill ill the fervice. 
 
 Lord C, Ay indeed f How is that ? 
 
 Eugenia, Becaufe he never afked for his difmiilion. He 
 is ever faying, people would imagine him a coward, ihould 
 he quit the fervice during war. He only wilhes that he 
 may always have but ftrength enough to fit on horfeback j 
 and then, he f^iys, he will part with every drop of blood 
 he has, to ferve his country. Well he will have his with 
 one time or other, but we poor children, then, fhall be 
 without a father. 
 
 Lord C. Recoiled, your father has been hitherto pre- 
 ferved from danger; and why fhould he not continue iUU 
 as fafe ? It is not every mufquet fihat hits. 
 
 Eugenia, But thofe that do, commonly kill their man ;., 
 and in the number, may there not be one that will reach 
 papa ? 
 
 Lord C. That is true indeed ; but what fweet little lad/, 
 is this ? 
 
 Eugenia, My filler Mary Anne, 
 
 SCENE 
 
WITH HONOUR. 115 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Eugenia^ Lord Corn-voaUisy the O^cer, Mary Anng* 
 
 Eugenia, So, Mary Anne, you are come at lafl, I fee 5 
 and where have you been flaying? 
 
 Mary Anne. Why, mama would make me help her to 
 do up papa's portmanteau. 
 
 Euge?na. Where is the bafket ? let me have it, filler. 
 
 Mary Anne. Have you gathered ilrawberries enough to 
 £llitf 
 
 Eugenia. You fliall fee. {e?nptying the hat.) Your par- 
 don, gentlemen. 
 
 LordC. Oh, do not mind us^ {VVhifpsrivg thi O^icer.) 
 What lovely children ! 
 
 Mm-)' An?iSi {wb/fpifiHg Ea^mm,) Who may tkefe be f 
 
 Euginwy {^^hifpmng M&ry Anm.) Offieeri in Lord 
 Cornwaliis's legiment, 
 
 Mary Anne. Do they come to fetch p^pa? 
 
 Eugenia^ No> no : they are before the regiment, which 
 will not go through the village till to-raorrow, as papa 
 expected, 
 
 Mary Anne^ Ah ! would all the cheers, together with 
 the regiment, were at Jericho. 
 
 Eugenia, Speak lower, Mary Anne. If the gentlemen- 
 ihouhi hear you ? 
 
 Mary Anna. Let them hear me, if they like it. What ! 
 thsy come to take away papa, and (Kali not we have leave 
 to make complaint ? 
 
 LordC. {n.vbi/pering the Officer.) Methinks, we are not 
 looked upon very favourably here. 
 
 The 0£icer. Then my lord why do not you difcover 
 yourklf, and mention the good news that you bring their 
 father.^ 
 
 LordC. No. Their opennefs delights me; and the 
 aiFedl^'on that they evince in fiivour of their parents, ra- 
 vifnes my heart. 
 
 Eugenia, {to Mary Anne.) Poor Doogtas is hard at work, 
 while we are chattering here without once thinking of 
 him. I will go and help him. Mary Anne, ftay you 
 liere, and take care haw you fpeak before ihefe gentlemen. 
 
 Mary Attne, Go, go; i know what is proper. 
 
 Eugenia, 
 
ii6 THE VETERAN DISMISSED 
 
 Eugenia. This Is my filler, Mary Anne : I prefent her 
 to you, gentlemen. 
 
 Mary Ar.jiCy {jiiith a little froivanhie/s.) Your fervant, 
 gentlemen. 
 
 Lord C. She has a countenance as refolute as your^) is 
 timid. 
 
 Kugenia, She will ftay here to entertain yon, gentlemen ; 
 for I mufi: run and help my brother to gather flrawberries ; 
 (o that all of us may go back tlie fooner to papa. Will 
 you permit me to inform him of your vifit ? — He will be 
 very happy to receive yau. 
 
 Mary Anne. No ; he will not be very happy to receive 
 you, nor we neither ; we ihoulJ rather be pleafed were 
 we left alone at prefent. 
 
 Eugenia. I hope, your kindnefs will excufe this little 
 mad-cap. 
 
 Mary Anne. Oh yes, to be fure 1 Excufe me? Why thefc 
 gentlemen are fcnfible that little girls, when ftrangers are 
 at table, muft not fpeak a word ; and I have twenty thou^ 
 fand things to tell papa at parting, which will otherwife 
 go near to break my heart. 
 
 Lord C. Dear children, do not fear any thing: you 
 ihall not be difturbed by us in your delightful converfa* 
 tion. {^Eugenia makes a grate fid curt fy, and n.vithdra-^fjs.) 
 
 Mary Anne. But pray tell me, gentlemen, what reafon 
 has the king for thus taking away a good papa from us 
 poor children ? Does he think that we do not want one to 
 bring us up ? 
 
 Lord C. No, no ; but then do you think that he does 
 not want good foldiers, to go abroad and fight.? 
 
 Mary Anne. And what neceflity forf.ghtingr Or fup- 
 pcfe that there fhould be any, furely our papa, irt ftaying 
 at home to give his children a good education, would not 
 be uielefs to his country. 
 
 Lcrd C. No, indeed ; cfpecially, my pretty Mary Anne^ 
 if his other little ones improve as mach as you do. 
 
 Mary Anne. I believe you jell. 1 know that I am 
 thought a little forward in the family ; and I have heard 
 it faid, that if I had but a cockade, I could not fail to 
 make a tolerable foldier. 
 
 J.ordC. Ha! hal ha l A little Amazon ! You would 
 become a perfect hero ! 
 
 Mayy, 
 
^ I T H HONOUR. 117 
 
 T^ary Anne. I can tell you, if I had only a fword, I 
 
 would not be laughed at. 
 
 Lord C. Nay, if that be all, here is mine. 'I will arm 
 you with it. 
 
 Mary Anne Do. I fhould be very glad. 
 
 LordC. {^prefenting the Jh»jcrdy and Jiooping to/alute her.^ 
 This is the tirft ceremony. 
 
 Mary Anne, [keeping him off ^^ Softly! fofdy ! I befeech 
 you, lir. 
 
 LcrdC. {^attempting it again.) Oh! you area charming 
 child ! 
 
 Mary Anne, {running from him.) Brother! iiiler ! 
 
 Lord C, Mighty well, Mifs Soldier; you are afraid of 
 Eie then, I fee ! 
 
 Mary Anne. I afraid of you ! Oh no. But do not, how- 
 ever, come too near, or 1 Ihail run and fetch papa. Papa 
 is an officer as-well as you are, and will net fuffer any one 
 to hurt his little Mary Anne. 
 
 LordC. lltdvtn forbid that I (hould defign to hurt you \ 
 It was only done in joke. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 ■Lord Corntva^iis, 'the Offcsr, Mary Anne, Eugetiia, 
 Douglas. 
 
 Douglas y {co?nin^ holdly -fori-ijard ) You cried out juft 
 Kow, Mary Anne 1 I am come to your affillance. 
 
 Lord C. Againll: us, my little friend? 
 ^Diuglas, Againil any one thac hurts my filler. 
 
 Mary Anne. Thank you, brother; but 1 did not mean 
 to cry out quite fo loud, and have no need of your af- 
 fiilance; for, you fee, I have difarmed one. However, 
 fir, {returning Lord C, his fiver d,) for this 'once 1 grant 
 you quarter. But do not come too near in future. 1 be- 
 lieve you underftand me. 
 
 LordC. Why, 1 vow, you are an extraordinary little 
 ■creature! 
 
 Eugenia. I am charmed to hear you talk fo ; but, gen- 
 tlemen, at \d\k. \'.e have gathered llrawoerries enough to 
 .■'^are feme uich you. {Prefenting them the bpJheL) Take a 
 fbw, let me requeil you. 
 
 Lord 
 
ti8 THE VETERAN DISMISSED 
 
 Lord C. No, indeed ; we do not intend to touch them ; 
 they have a deflination more refpedable than that we 
 fliould think of making free with any. 
 
 Eugenia. Thofe that yoa take will all be from our (hare: 
 and there will be no harm done, ihould we go without. 
 You are in papa's own regiment ; and it is liuing that we 
 {hould treat you with as much refpedt as we are able. 
 
 Mary Anne^ ^taking a nofegay fro?n her bofom and prefenting 
 it to lord C.) Ah 1 on that account 1 will beg you to ac- 
 cept this nofegay. I had gathered it for myfelf. Papa 
 and mama already have had one a-piece, or I could not 
 have given yoa this : but it belongs to me, fir, and I give 
 it you. 
 
 Lord C. And I, my litile dear, accept it with the 
 greueil pleafure, 
 
 Mary Anne. It is fomewhat faded by the fun ; but if 
 you will Hay a little, I will go gather you fome jafmin, 
 violers and jonquils in my garaen. 
 
 Eugenia. Mary Anne, you remeniher, I fuppofe, the 
 rofe-bu(h jull before my window t You may gather all the 
 rofes that are bio An upon it. i 
 
 MaryAmii^. Well, fir, fhall I ? 
 
 Lord C. Would you have that kindnefs, my dear child? 
 But no, I thank you ; for the pleafure of ccnverfing with 
 you entertains me more than all the rofes in the univerfe. 
 
 Mary Anne. A thought ftrikes me. Poffibly, you know 
 what way an officer (hould take to quit the fervice ho- 
 nourably. Could you not aflord us fome good counfel to 
 procure papa's difmiflion ? 
 
 Euge7:ta. if you could, we iliould be very glad to give 
 you every thing in our power. 
 
 Douglas, [nijho has hitherto amufed himfclf hy playing 
 nvith the hilt of Lord C.^s fnvcrd, and looiiing at his uni- 
 form.) O yes ! if you coula only tell us how to keep papa 
 at home, my drum, fpontoon, cartouch box, and accou- 
 trements, (hould all be yours. 
 
 Mary Anne, {iviih a /mile.) And I will give you freely, 
 v;h?t you fought juli now to take by force. 
 
 Lord C. So many charming things at once ! Believe 
 ine, if I did but know— • 
 
 Eugenia, {jorro^ful.) You did but know ! So then we 
 only make things worfe, and grieve you that you cannot 
 be of fervice to us, 
 
 7 Mary 
 
WITH HONOUR. it^ 
 
 Mary Anne. Oh ! I do not give up fo Toon. My Lord 
 Cornwallis, colonel of the regiment, will very foon pafs 
 this way. Well then, we three will go and throw our- 
 felves before him, hang upon his clothes, and not let him 
 go until he has granted our defire. 
 
 Eugenia. Yes, filler, he fhall fee our tears ; and we will 
 tell him how extremely ill papa was all the winter; how 
 indiiFerent he is at prefent ; and how much we fhould la- 
 ment his going from us. Do you think, fir, he would-be 
 fo cruel as to fend us from him, and not grant us our 
 requeft? 
 
 Lord C. I cannot think that of him, my good friends ; 
 but if he be not come already on his way thus far, there 
 is room to fear that he will delay his letting out from 
 London longer; and you know, in that cafe, ycu would 
 lofe your pains, as your papa mall march to-morrow. 
 Happily, however, there is a gentleman, his friend, who 
 can do every tiling, as if he were my lord himfclf ; and 
 he is at prefent with the regiment, ferving as a volunteer. 
 
 Douglas. A volunteer? 
 
 Lord C. Yes ; fo they call it ; one whofe wifh is to ac- 
 quire a knowledge of th^ art of war, affiiled by my lord's 
 inflru£lion. I can anfver for it, he will grant whatever 
 your papa may wifh for. 
 
 Eugenia. And is he your friend ? 
 
 LordC. Yes, truly. 
 
 Eugenia. Then for heaven's fake, fir, fpeak to him in 
 papa's behalf, that he may not be parted from his family, 
 who live but by his means ; and if he mull leave Eng- 
 land, dio you foften, if ycu can, his fervice ; and at any 
 time, fhould he be fick or wounded 
 
 Mary Anne. Wounded? Do not wait, fir, till he is 
 wounded ; but if a fabre fhould be raifed againfl him, run 
 you in and fave him from the blosv. 
 
 LordC. {ajide.) How difHcuh 1 find it to keep flill con- 
 cealed! — No, generous little fouls, fear nothing : I will 
 i)e anfwerable for his fafeiy with my life. 
 
 Eugenia, We may rely upon you, then. How much you 
 charm us, fir ! Yet do not, upon that account, forget to 
 fpeak about him to the volunteer that you juft now men- 
 tioned. — I could talk ftill to you on this fubjeft ; but your 
 heart will tell you tytr^^ thing that I have left unfaid: and 
 
 cur 
 
120 THE VETERAN DISMISSE D 
 
 our papa, whom we fhall lofe to-morrow, mull; be waiting 
 for us. 
 
 LordC, Go, dear children ; but iirft take fome trifle 
 from me, as a recoiu pence for the agreeable half-hour that 
 I have fpent in converfation with you. Here, my fweet 
 Eugenia, take this ring : it is a little too big, but may 
 foon be fitted to your finger. 
 
 Eugenia, [refiijtng the rJng.) No, no, fir; mama, per- 
 haps, would be difpleafed : and fo too would papa,' 
 whofc lead reproach I would not defcrve for the world, 
 particularly as he mult leave us to-morrow, 
 
 Lor^ C. You mull abfolutely take it. Should he be 
 difpleafed, 1 will undertake to reconcile you with him, 
 when he joins the regiment, if I cannot, by my fpeaking 
 to the volunteer, prevent his leaving lingland. 
 
 Eiigefiiay [takij7g it.) Well then, he (hall bring it you, 
 in that cafe ; and if otherwife, 1 Ihall be very happy to 
 remember you, as often as I look upon it. 
 
 Mary Anne. Come, come, filler ; it is high time that 
 we fiiould be gone. 
 
 LcrdC. And you, my lovely Mary Anne, I fuppofe, 
 would not be forry to remember me ? See, here is a copper 
 etDC gilt; and at the top, a compofition ilonc; they call 
 it a falfe diamond. 
 
 Mary Anne, {Icoki?ig at it.) Yes, I underfland you : but 
 there is nothing falfe about it, except your words. It is 
 gold, I am certain, and a real diamond. I will not have 
 it. You have been a plundering for it. My papa is 9, 
 captain, fir, as well as you, but cannot make fuch pre- 
 fents ; for he never went a plundering in his life. 
 
 Lord C, Take, take it: there is no plundering in the 
 cafe. It would be ufelefs to me in the field; and there- 
 fore, if you will not have i( as a prcfent, keep it forme, 
 till fuch time as 1 return. 
 
 Mary Anne. O 1 that I will, with all my heart. 
 
 Lord C. And now, perhaps, you have a kifs to give mc 
 for feci:rity. 
 
 Mary Anne. No, no ; T have told you the conditions. 
 
 Lord C. Well, then, 1 will do what 1 can to obtain them. 
 
 Mary Anne. And I will keep l\-\f:: you knonv <vjbaty fir, till 
 that ;iiiie. — Come, brother. 
 
 Douglas. Go vou firit : 1 Ihall follow you immediately.. 
 I have fometh.'ng to fay in private lo the gentleman. 
 
 Lord 
 
 t> 
 
V/ I T H H O N O U R. ifi 
 
 Lofd C. I will fpeak with you this moment. 
 
 {The Officer f ^who fome little time before had 'wiihdra'wn^ 
 returns, and ginjes 7?iy Lord a pocket-book : they ^-whifper one 
 ^/mother.) 
 
 Mary Ajiney {'whtfpering Douglas.) What ! and Iho-uld 
 you like a prefent too ? 
 
 Eugenia, {in a ixjhifper likenjjife.) Fie, fie, brother^! I 
 ihoiild never have fufpefted you of fo much meannefs. 
 
 Douglas. And fie jo« too, fillers, that can entertain fo 
 mean a notion of your brother ! I have fomerhing very 
 different, and much more important alfo, that I (hould 
 like to alk. 
 
 Mary Anne. Well now, if I were in a merry mood, I 
 could not but burll: out a laughing, at the gravity with 
 which you fpeak of your important fomething ! 
 
 Douglas. Ay, and were you not my fifter, I would make 
 you fqueak, Mifs Saucebox, for fufpedling me. 
 
 Mary Anne, {going out n.vith Eugenia.) Well, manage 
 your important lomething properly. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 Lord Ccr7iix'allisy the Officer, Dcuglas^ 
 
 LordC. I am glad, dciir Douglas, that you dcfinj to 
 ft;iy. We were not quiie acquainted : but at prefent, and 
 particularly as my friend here tells me that my chaife is 
 not fet to rigkts yet, we fliall have fome more minutes to 
 .ftand talking with each other. 
 
 Douglas. So we fliall : bat do not imagine that I remain 
 hzre to get fomething from you. 
 
 LordC. How? 
 
 Douglas. Becaufe yoi: gave my fillers each a prefent^ 
 you might fancy that L want one : but I proteft, fir, i 
 iliail not take any thing. 
 
 Lord C. Unluckily forme, too, I have nothing lean 
 offer you. 
 
 Douglas. Unluckily : I am glad that you have not ; 
 for now, neither can be tempted. 
 
 LordC. [ajide to the Officer.) I am chru'm.ed with his 
 difintereHednefs, and never faw a lovelier figure ! 
 
 Douglas. I havebut one quefiiion, fir, to uilc tou, 
 
 LordC. And what is that, my friend ? 
 
 ^^0 1., il» G Douglas 
 
.S22 THE VETERAN DISMISSED 
 
 Douglas. You told my filler, fuch a gentleman was with 
 the army as a volunteer. Pray what is a volunteer ? 
 
 Lord C. A volunteer is a ibldier who may fight, or not 
 iight, as he chufes. 
 
 Douglas. Oh! if i were to turn foldier, it Oi^uld be to 
 fight; and I would gladly be a vohinteer on that condi- 
 tion. 
 
 Lord C. But a volunteer muft have a deal of money : 
 have you ? 
 
 Douglas. No; but then the king has; and pray, is not 
 he obliged to keep his foldicrs r 
 
 Lord C. No ; for as a volunteer is not obliged to fight, 
 it is bur jull that he fliould fubfiil himfelf. 
 
 Doug/as. I am forry to hear this ; but if 1 wanted only 
 bread and water, or fhould beg the regiment to receive 
 ine, fir, inftead of my papa; — what then ? 
 
 Lord C, Poor child 1 and what fort of a figure would 
 you cut before a company : — You ought to have expe- 
 jience and authority. 
 
 .Douglas. If 1 have not enough of either to command, I 
 mull have, furely, to obey. Let me be any thing, pro- 
 vided I may ferve. 
 
 Lord C. Would you be barely capable of following in 
 the march ? 
 
 .Douglas. I will go as far as t am able ; and when tired, 
 let me be lifted up among the baggage ; or i will ride upon 
 the cannon. Are you fearful that 1 Ihould lag behind ? 
 
 LcrdC. But if you were to ferve inllead of your papa, 
 jou do not remember that you mull part with him, as 
 much as if he went himfelf. 
 
 Douglas. And do not you think that 1 fhould rejoice to 
 be the means of keeping him at )iome here, with mama 
 and fifters ? You would hardly lofe by fuch a change. 
 iUnhappily, my dear papa will not be able to ferve long ; 
 .and I Ihall very foon be what he was. I love a foldier's 
 -bufinefs at my heart. I know a number of marches, and 
 can play them on my fife. Look, here is a bookof fongs r 
 ^t is called the Grenadier'' s Delight. I will give it you. I 
 Jcnow the whole by heart. 
 
 LordC. {afJe to the Officer.) I have a thought. {To 
 JJouglas.) 1 would not wilh a better prefent : and in turn, 
 ,1 will gi\e you, not indeed a book of fongs, my little 
 :DougIaS; but a fmgle fong, 
 
 Douglas, 
 
WITH HONOUR, 123 
 
 Douglas. A fong, indeed, I may accept. 
 
 LordC. {feeling in his po<:ket.) Hold, here is, in the f.rll 
 place, one that you will give your father. 
 
 Douglas. Oh I he never fings, fir, now ; and likes no 
 mufic but the cannon's. 
 
 Lord C. I'hat does not fignify. I am fure, you will 
 both be pleafed with this— if you do but read it. And 
 here {taking a paper out of his pocket-hook) is one for you. 
 
 Douglas, {jumping for joy.) Oh, thank you! Let me 
 fee now, if 1 know it. 
 
 LordC. No, no, Douglas, you fhr.ll read them after 
 we have left you. {He puts the t-vjo paptrs together y and 
 thrujls them into Douglas's pocket.) Let me put them in your 
 pocket : and do you take care not to lofe either.— Now 
 farewel, my little friend ; and fince you love a foldier's 
 life, I will have you for my comrade. 
 
 ^Douglas, {jumping up into his arms.) Yes, I will be fo, 
 I will always love you ; and the firll engagement that I 
 enter, I will be all the while at your fide. 
 
 The Officer. We will go, and let the regiment know thst 
 you are coming. 
 
 Douglas. Do : and pray, fir, give me a good w^ord. 
 
 Lord C. {retiring nvith the Officer.) J feel how much the 
 father's heart muft bleed to quit fuch lovely children ; and 
 rejoice on that account to be the bearer of fuch welcome 
 tidings as the paper, now in Douglas's pocket, will inform 
 him of. Let us withdraw a little to fome corner, where we 
 may, unfeen, remark him. (5^-6-?^ get among the trees ^ and 
 • Douglas has his eye upon thern till they are out of fight.) 
 
 Douglas, {alone, and ftting for a little nv bile profoundly 
 thoughtfitl on the trunk : then getting up, and ^-walking to 
 and fro,) Why fhould they defire to fet papa a fmging ? 
 {Taking out the papers.) Ha I this paper is fealed !-*-there 
 is fomething funny in it, 1 fuppofe. So let mc iee ray own. 
 {Opening it.) \s this a fong ? It does not look like cnp.^ The 
 words go after one another, all along the line. {Reading.) 
 ** 1 promife to pay to Mr. Abraham Newland, or bearer, 
 on demand, the fum of Bfcy pounds." I do not know any 
 tune that will fuit thefe words. {Reading again.) *' London, 
 December i, 1786. For the Governor <ind Company of 
 the B?.nk of England. John Larkin." — He meant to make 
 a fool of rae, I fancy, when he called this a fong. It is 
 all concerning money !— Ho! Captain I Captain ! {goi^.'g 
 cut after them.) G 2 ' S C E N K 
 
11:2-4 THE VETERAN DISMISSED 
 
 S C E N E VI. 
 
 Douglas i Capt. Gre-ville {pale and feef-Uf) Mrs. Gre-ville, 
 Mary Jfifie, Eugenia, 
 
 Capt. Gre'ville. Where, where is he r {Perce i'ving Dou- 
 glas,) Douglas, where is my Lord ? 
 
 Douglas i {locking about bim.) My Lord! I have not feen 
 the leall bit of a Lord, not J. 
 
 Mary Anne. That handfome gentleman that talked with 
 us? 
 
 Eugenia. He that gave me this fine ring. Papa fays, 
 T30 one hut a Lord could make (o rich a prefent. 
 
 Dcuglasy {'vexed ) Blockhead that I was, not to difcover 
 him ! 
 
 Eugenia. Oh! what a fine, fine gentleman ! 
 Man Anne. So good and {o famiiar! On, 
 
 ly fweet 
 
 etui ! I will keep you all my life- time, now. 
 
 Capt. Gre'ville. How long has he been gone? 
 
 Douglas. This moment I was running afier him. 
 
 Capt. Gre'ville. To-morrow, fortunately, I jhall join 
 'his lord (hip ; for it mull be Lord Cornuallis ; it is his 
 cypher that is engraved on the etui : and 1 can tell hitn 
 then, how much my children are obliged to his benevo- 
 lence, i am f -ri-y, however., that I hiui not an opportu- 
 nity of afking him to lodge for one liight with u?. Should 
 you not have been rejoiced to entertain him, children ? 
 
 Douglas. Oh ! yes, yes, papa. He cal ed me comrade, 
 when he took hi^ leave. 
 
 Mary Anne. For my part, though I like him, yet lam 
 glad that he is gone ; for had he liaid, we fliould not have 
 been able then to talk as if we loved you. 
 
 Capt. Gre'ville. Mary Anne Is in the right. I fliould 
 not have been irec to mix my tears with yours, dear chil- 
 dren, in his prefence. 
 
 Mrs. Gre'ville. And, on that account, I could wi(h to 
 have had bis company. The violence that you mult have 
 done your ibrrows, would, in that cafe, have enabled m$ 
 to keep down mine; and fince to-morrow we mull lofe 
 ^ou— 
 
 Eugenia, Oh! do not fpeak of that, mama. 
 
 Catt, 
 
WITH H O N O tJ R. 125 
 
 Capt. Gre-vilie. Dear children, pofTibly I ihall not le^ve 
 you long. Peace cannot be far off: it is the wifh of 
 every one in England ; and no fooner Ihall that wilh be' 
 gratified, but I will inftantly come back, and never par: 
 with you again. 
 
 Mrs, Greville. But yetj till things are fettled, you mull 
 unavoidably be from us ; and what comfort fnall v/e have,- 
 as long as you are abfent ? 
 
 Eugetiia. With what pleafure would I give him back his 
 ring, if he would leave yoa with us ! 
 
 Mary Anne. And I likewife his etui ! 
 
 Douglas. And I too, his new-faihioned fong. See,- 
 fee, papa, what he has put into my hand here. ' Was 
 there ever fueh a fong before ? 
 
 Capt. Gre'ville. Let us fee* {Halving read a lit tie.) Whae- 
 baunty isin this nobleman !• and v/hat a charming way he 
 has of obliging ! He has given ycu, here, an order for 
 receiving a whole pocket-full of goid 1 
 
 Douglas. What, has he^ tricked rne > V/heh you fee ' 
 him, give him back his money : i will not have it. But 
 there is< fomething cH'e ; and he has givers me ikev/ife htre 
 a: fong for you. 
 
 Capt, G)e-vi!k. A fong for me^ my linie fcllo^v ? You ■ 
 are dreaming 1 
 
 Douglas^ [dranving the fealed paper out cf his pocket.) No^^ 
 no : heieit is. 
 
 The childreji, {/miling at each other, and approaching their 
 father ix'ith Itciis of curiojit;.) A fong ! a iop.g ! 
 
 Capt, Gre'viUe. Good heavens! what is this: — The 
 king'.s coat of arms ! (//> opens the packet nxiith a tremblmy 
 hand, and looking at the /tgnaturey cries cut) and fignet ! 
 {^ hen cajiing his eyes o-ver toe three or four frjl lines, breaks 
 forth again.) is it pofTible ? — Dear wife, and little ones,— - 
 rejoice ! rejoice ! 
 
 Mrs. Gre^ville. If you ftaywith us. 
 
 Capt. Gre-ville, Let me read the letter out. {They all 
 C6Tne round him, and Jland flent ivhile he reads.) Oh ! un- 
 expeded joy ! [Continues reading.) No, no ; it mufl be al! ■ 
 adream, in which my pleafed imagination forms the molt 
 brilliant chimeras ! — And yet. Hay; for 1 am av/ake, and' 
 every thing is real, though I never could have hoped for 
 fo much happiiiefs. 
 
 G 3 Mrt' 
 

 126 THE VETERAN DISMISSED 
 
 Mrs. Grc'ville. 1 am dying witli impatience to*] "Sfi 
 know every thing. 
 
 Eugenia, Well, well ; what is it, dear papa ? 
 
 Mary Anne. You keep us all in pain ! 
 
 Douglas. Let me fee your Tong. 
 
 i'.apt. Gre~cilU, [embracing his avi/e and children.) 1 am 
 to ftay with you, my life ! — We are not to be feparated, 
 m/dear children ! — [Gi'ving Mrs. Gre-vilU the letter,) Yes, 
 yes ; read yourfelf. 
 
 Mrs. Grc'ville. \ tremble every limb, and cannot. 
 
 The Children, [unahlc to contain them/elves fcr joy ,) Our 
 papa rtays with us ! Our papa itays with us ! 
 
 Capt. Grenjille, Yes, yes, children, I (hall not go to 
 America, or leave you, and yet ilill continue in the {tx-- 
 vice, in a way fo honourable ! 
 
 Mrs, Grc'ville, {coming to her/elf.) And how ? how, my 
 life? 
 
 Capt. Gre^iUe, The king, informed (but by what means: 
 I know not) of my illnefs, and touched with my fiiuution, 
 permits my ilnying here in England ; but, to recompenib 
 my pL^rvices, (thefe are his own words,) he confers upon 
 me the commaiid of Upnor CalUc, with the rank o£ 
 colonel. 
 
 Mrs. Gre-ville. What, my dear ? 
 
 Eugenia, Joy ! joy ! 
 
 Mary Anne. So then, papa, there is not a greater man 
 in all the army ? 
 
 Douglas. And you are colonel ? are you ? 
 
 Capt. Gre'ville. Yes ; and, for the firrt time in my life, 
 entirely happy. But, my de;;rert life, {to Mrs. Gre'ville,) 
 lliall I be pardoned, when ] tell you fuch an honour is not 
 on account of any Hep that I took to get it ? — It has come 
 .1 cannot tell how. 
 
 Mrs. Gre-ville. Yes, yes ; I know that very well. I did 
 every thing in my power, though what I did was never 
 meant for fuch an honour, joined to fo much happinefs. 
 'J'hey muil be both, however, placed to the account of 
 my folicitation. 
 
 Mary Anne. Ah! the naughty man, fay I; but that 
 mama took greater care of us than he did. 
 
 Eugenia. So, papa, then you deceived u?>} 
 
 Copt. Greville, Ye>, my little deary : but ilill, what 
 could I have done.? I have only this excufe to oiler, that 
 
 falfe 
 
WITH H O N O U R. 12/ 
 
 falfe modefly reilrained me from requefling my difmiirion,' 
 even though I iTiould have thought myfelf unable to be of 
 any real fervice to my country, f was not, however, then 
 quite fenfible of my condition^ but now 1 feel it : yes, I 
 feel within me, that my conftitudon is no longer £t for 
 the fatigue of arms. 
 
 ]\Trs. GrC'ville, And this falfe modefry would have beert 
 death to me, and have left thefe innocents vvithout a 
 father, but that Providence has ordered your affairs much 
 better. Everything, however, now, is to be pardoned - 
 All my wifii is, that we had here the generous nobleman 
 who brought us this glad news, that Vv'e might thsnk him 
 for his kindnefs to our little ones, and alfo for his mellage, 
 which, if the truth were known, I dare engage he has in 
 fome degree been inftrumental in procuring; for what 
 likelihood is there that I, an unknov/n woman, fhould by 
 myfelf have fo far fucceeded beyond every thing that I 
 could ever have wifned ? 
 
 Capt. Gre-ville. At leafl:, if we had but been able to 
 afford him the hofpitality of one night's lodging wiih us. 
 
 Douglas, Let us run difrerent ways,, and overtake him 
 if we can. 
 
 Capt, Greajtlle, Go, go. It grieves me that I cannot 
 follow, you. 
 
 Mary Anne. If we can meet with Ivim, and he will but 
 accompany us back, he fliall have then, inflcad of ons^ 
 three kiiles. 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 
 Douglas, Capt. Gre'ville, Mrs, Grevilky . Eugenia, 
 Mary Anne, Lord Gornivaliis, the 0£icer. 
 
 Lord C. [running from his hiding-place, and laying hold 
 of Mary Anne.) Shall I? — A match, my little maid. [Hg 
 kijfes her three ti?ms,) 
 
 Eugenia and Douglas. My lord ! my lord ! 
 
 Mary Anne, (a little out of countenance.) You have almoil 
 frightened me with your kifles 1 
 
 Capt.Greuilie. O, my worthy general! what words will 
 ihew you half my gratitude? 
 
 ?Ars. Gre-ville. How can my children and myfelf exprefs 
 
 our obligations? To whom we are indebted for fuch a, 
 
 blelTing, we atprefent know not; but your lordiliip is the 
 
 G 4 bearer 
 
Y23 THE VETERAN DISMISSED, &c. 
 
 bearer of a paper, which to mc rellores a hultand, and a. 
 father to my children. 
 
 Lord C. For ihis bleffing, you and they are debtors to 
 the king. I have done nothing but folicited his bounty, 
 tviAJng that I might prove the channel through which it 
 iliould jfiow. Hearing accidentally, dear madam, of your 
 application, I determined to fupport it witii my little in- 
 tereli, and, if pofiible, to get mc^re than was folicrted. 
 You owe this interference to my knowledge of the captain's 
 jnerit ; being, as I was, convinced how much he had in- 
 liru6led his inferior ofnceris, and been of benefit to thofe 
 above him. Upon this account, 1 did not think it rea- 
 ibnable that he fhould ilill be forced to ferve among us, 
 when his infirmity made fervice painful to him. And iHll 
 more, to flicw how heartily I profecuted this afi^"air, with 
 pleafure I took advantage of our march fo near his habi- 
 tation, to bring down myfelf the news of my fuccefs, and 
 glad the bofom of his fpoufe and children with it. This, 
 believe me, is a joy, that I fiiall never forget. {Hd holds 
 out his hand to Capt. Grevillc, <u'ho clafps it -xvith travfport.')- 
 
 Capt. Greville, And is it } oflible that I fliould have met 
 with /uch a generous friend, who, of his own accord, has 
 ieconded an application which the aifeflion of a valuable 
 wife was making for me, but without my knowledge. 
 No one, who had lefs than your benevolence, my lord, 
 <;ouId have ib heartily en-deavoured to promote the happi- 
 iiefs rf an afliided family. 
 
 Mrs. Gre-ville. Then, likewife, you have made fucK 
 princely prefents to my children ! 
 
 Eugenia. I am now afhamed that I took this ring. I 
 -did not think it to be of fo much value. 
 
 Lord C. I muil own it is pretty, but much more fo on 
 your charming hand, it is indeed fo altered, I no longer 
 know it. 
 
 Marj Anne. Neither would you, I fuppofe, fir, your etui ; 
 and therefore I will not fpeak a word about it. 
 
 Dcuglas. As for me, I give you back your fong. It is 
 not what you meant to let me have. 
 
 Lord C. Then be it a miftake, and, fince 1 have already 
 made it, pardon me ; to which 1 hope your good papa 
 will add another favour; that his Douglas may be made 
 an enfign. I will give order for it, if he chufes. 
 
 CaJ>tt 
 
GEORGE AND CECILIA. i?9 
 
 Capt, Greville, If I chufe, my loM ! You are the guar- 
 dian angel fent to fuccour us ! 
 
 Douglas. But is it in your regiment? 
 
 Lord C. Yes, my little friend. 
 
 Douglas. Ah ! how rejoiced I am ! I will go this mo- 
 ment with you, and the name of my papa fhall not fo 
 quickly be forgotten in the army. 
 
 Capt, Gre-ville. You have conferred fo many favours on 
 me ! — would you vouchfafe me, now, one more that I am 
 about to alk .? 
 
 Lord C. I apprehend your meaning, and fo far from 
 not vouchfafing, beg you to beftow it ; namely, an afylum 
 in your houfe for one night, for my companion and my- 
 felf. [Capt. and Mrs. Gre-ville boiv re/pedfuly.) Providedj> 
 however, that Mifs Mary Anne conients. 
 
 Mary Anne. Oh I fince my papa is to remain among us, 
 ftay as long as you think proper. 
 
 Eugenia. I may hope now, my lord, that you will con- 
 fent CO eat a few more firawberries ? 
 
 Mary Anne. You will make them no lefs fweet to us, 
 than 1 imagined your arrival would have made them 
 bitter. 
 
 Douglas. Yes, my lord, come in, and honour my papa 
 by eacing with us ; and hereafter 1 will do every thing in 
 my power to deferve a fecond honour like it — in your 
 Jordlhip's tent. 
 
 G E O R G E AND CECILIA. 
 
 LITTLE George, an orphan, had been brought up 
 from his infancy by L dy Eultace, who, together 
 wit Lord Eullace, were retired from London, ^mJ refided 
 in a hnall country town. From the tendernefs with which 
 they treated him, a llranger in the family would have 
 imagined him to be really their fon. This worthy couple 
 had but one child left them, 'and that a girl, named Ce- 
 cilia, who was nearly of an age with George : and Lady 
 Eiiftace had the faiisfadion. to behold a more than- com- 
 mon mutual fondnefs fubfill between the children, 
 
 G 5 One 
 
ijo GEORGE AND CECILIA. 
 
 One delightful morning, to.vards the end of Augr.ft,. 
 George and Cecilia, with their little friend Lucinda, 
 whofe parents lived that fummer in the neighbourhood, 
 wer;i out a fauntering in the orchard. The two littte 
 girls, of which the youngeil (namely Cecilia) was not 
 yet quite eight years old, were arm in arm ; and walking 
 with that lovely negligence and thofe unlludied graces fa 
 peculiar to a Hate of childhood, they hummed over a de- 
 lightful roundelay, then fafhionable in the mouth of 
 every fongller in the village, while little George preceded 
 them at leifure, piping on an Englifh flute, to harmonize 
 their difcords. 
 
 What a feries of delightful gambols entertained them 
 in the orchard ! But at laft, our Cecilia and Lucinda both 
 call a longing look upon the fruit-trees round about 
 them. In particular, an apple-tree attrafted their atten- 
 tion. All the apples had been gathered feveral days be- 
 fore ; but Hill, a few that had been overlooked, were here 
 and there difcovered hanging, and the deep vcrmiilioii 
 that tinged them, and which the leaves could not entirely 
 hide, invited, as it were, the hand to come and take 
 them. George fprung forward, climbed the tree which 
 they were adnnring, and threw down as many apples as 
 his hand could reach, while the children held their aprons 
 •open to receive them. 
 
 Chance fo ordered it, that two or three of what were 
 thought the fineil fell into Lucinda's, who piqued her- 
 ielf upon this accidental dilkibution, as (lie might have 
 done with reafon, had it been a pre-determined prefer- 
 ence, f nee George was in reality the prettiell and politcll 
 little fellow in the place. 
 
 Lucinda, with a joy and triumph in her eyes, that 
 looked like infult, thus addreffed herfelf to Cecilia: 
 *' Do but fee how fine and large my apples are, while 
 yours are hardly half fo handfome I" Cecilia, at thefe 
 words, hung down her head, and putting on a ferious 
 countenance, kept fiience during the remainder of their 
 walk. It was in vain that George ftudied, by a hundred 
 afliduities, to bring the little maiden back to reafon, to 
 fpread a fmile again upon her clouded countenance, and 
 to make thofe lips pronounce a fyllable, whofe prattle had 
 tili then been fj agreeable. 
 
 Not 
 
GEORGE AND CECILIA. 131 
 
 Not long after this, Luclnda took leave when they had 
 got upon the terrace, and were near home. Before they 
 entered, George addrefled his fifter, as he always called 
 'her, Hiking why flie feemed fo angry with him ? Certainly 
 you cannot be offended, faid he, that Lucinda had her 
 ihare of the apples? You know very well, I have always 
 loved you moil, and would have fliewn it in the tree, by 
 throwing you the fineft apples ; but I know not how it 
 chanced, my dear, they fell into MIfs Lucinda's apron. 
 Could I take them from h^r? Afk yourfelf that quefiion. 
 And belides, I thought you far more generous than to 
 take offence at fuch a trifle ! You Ihall fee, the very nrll 
 occafion thatprefents itfelf of fliowing you my real fenti- 
 ments, it was not my defign to vex you. 
 
 Hey-dey, Mr. George ! faid Cecilia, and who told yoa 
 that I was vexed? Suppofe Mifs Lacinda's apples had 
 been even ten times finer than what I had;, is that any 
 thing to me? I am no glutton, and you know that very ' 
 well, fir ; neither fhould I in the leaii have minded it, 
 but for the fancy little creature's looks. Til not endure 
 them, that I won't; and as for you, fall down upon your 
 knees this inlUnt, or I will never, while I live, forgive - 
 you. 
 
 O ! I cannot do that by any means, faid George, (bend- 
 ing half his body backwards as he fpoke) for by doing fo^ 
 1 fliould confefs a fault with v/hich you have no right to 
 charge me. I am no Itory- teller, and muft fay, it is very 
 wrong in you, Mifs Cecilia, if you will not believe that X 
 did not mean to vex you. 
 
 Very wrong in me ! replied the other. Very wrong in 
 m6 1 What do you, mean, fir? But I fee why you affi'ont 
 me thus; it is becaufe Mifs Lucinda is your favourite. 
 And fo faying, and bellowing a contemptuous curtfy oa 
 him, while ihe looked another way, Hie went into the 
 houfe in a pet. 
 
 As dinner v/as now ready, they fat down, but pouted 
 at each other all the time it lalled. Cecilia did not drink 
 even once, becaufe (he muft have faid, 7''oiir good health, 
 Georgs. And George, on his part, was fo piqued at her 
 injuftice, that he alfo thought proper to prefer ve his dig- 
 nity. And- yet, the little lady would Ileal a glance llily 
 every now and then at George,., and from a corner of her 
 eye, confider all his motion s. As it happened, one oi 
 G 6 thefc 
 
132 GEORGE AND CECILIA. 
 
 thefe fly glances met with one of George's, who was no 
 lofs flily Ihidying Cecilia's motions. Being thus fiir- 
 prifeJ, Ihe turned immediately towards anoiher objed ; 
 and as George took: this to proceed from difdain, though 
 in reality it did not, he afFeded great indifference, and 
 went on eating, jull as if he did not care a farthing 
 for her. 
 
 When the cloth was removed, and the wine and fruit 
 brought in, unluckily poor Cecilia, mortified as flie was 
 at Gfiorge's whole behaviour, replied a little difrefped- 
 iuUy to her mama, (who had befides been obliged to afk 
 lier the queftion twice over,) and fhe was therefore ordered 
 inflantly fiom table. She obeyed, and burlHng out 
 into a flood of tears, withdrew, as if flie knew not whither 
 Jhe was going. As the door was open that conducted to 
 the garden, fhe pafTcd out that way, and, as it were by 
 inilinft, went to hide her forrow in an arbour at the bot- 
 tom of it. There, while ihe burll out again into a flood 
 of tears, and flghed mort lamentably, flie repented of the 
 cuarrel that flie had picked with George, who always 
 ufed, upon fuch fad occaflons, to alleviate her dilbefs by 
 weeping with her. 
 
 George, remaining at the table, could not think of Ce- 
 cilia in dilgrace, and not feel greatly for her fltuation. 
 They had hardly let him take two peaches, before he fet 
 about contriving means to convey them into his pocket 
 for poor Cecilia, whom he defigned afterwards to vifit in 
 the garden, upon fo.iie pretence or other, which he did not 
 doubt bat he fliould be able to invent, and yet he greatly 
 appreliended that his intention would be difcovcred. He 
 puflied back his chair, and afterwards brought it forward, 
 more than twenty times, and was continually looking 
 down for fomething on the carpet. Then all of a fudden ; 
 liOok at pretty Laura ! look at Rover ! cried he, feeming 
 to take notice of two dogs in the apartment; and at the 
 lunie tim^ he had got a peach ready to flip into his pocket, 
 if he could but fix my lord's and lady's obfervation upon 
 ibmcthing at a dillance from him. 
 
 See, papa, m.ama, how prettily they are playing! Do 
 but turn about; they will make you die with laughing. 
 
 Oh ! replied my lord, they will not eat one another, 
 that I will anfvver for; and having juft glanced at them, 
 f ut himfelf §0 Toon into his tir;! pofition, that poor George, 
 
 who 
 
GEORGE AND CECILIA. 133 
 
 who thought himfelf that moment fure of pocketing the 
 peach, was difconcerted, and obliged to put it down again 
 upon the table. 
 
 Lady Euftace had obferved him, and conjeflured his 
 intention ; therefore, having for a while enjoyed the little 
 boy's embarraflment, fhe made his lordfhip privy to the 
 afFair, as well as Ihe was able, and in dumb fhow bade 
 him turn his head on one fide ; which he did accordingly, 
 but could not hide a fmile, that notwiihllanding all his 
 gravity efcaned him. 
 
 However, George, who thought himfelf as yet quite un- 
 difcovered, but was fearful left this device again repeated 
 might betray him, inftantly reforted to another Ihatagem. 
 He took one peach, and placed it in the hollow of his 
 hands put both together, after which he lifted it to his 
 mouth, and made as if he had really been eating, by an 
 imitation of the noife and motion which people make 
 when they are chewing. Then, while with his left-hand 
 he luckily found mciins to clap his peach into a cavity 
 that he had hollowed beforehand in the napkin on his 
 knees, he put his right-hand out to take the other, which 
 he ferved exaftly in the fame manner. 
 
 Some few minutes had now pafied, and, as it happened, 
 my lord and lady had quite forgot little George, and 
 were converfing with each other in their ufual manner; 
 {o that George, fuppofing this a proper opportunity to 
 get away, rofe up from table, with both peaches in the 
 napkin, and began to imitate the mewing of a cat, which 
 a young Ihepherd boy had lately taught him ; and his 
 view in this was to engage the attention both of Pompey 
 and Rover, which he did, and put them into motion. 
 Lady Eullace, fomewhat angry at thefe mewings, inter- 
 rupted him. '* What now!" faid Ihe; and added, 
 ** Well, but George, if our difcourfe difpleafes you, I 
 fancy, you may go and mew a little in the garden." 
 George put on a feigned embarraifment at this reproof, 
 which was another thing that he wanted. He runs up 
 therefore to Laura, faying, ** See, mama, ihe wants to 
 bite poor Rover !" and in turning, he dexteroufly whipped 
 the napkin all at once into his pocket, and pretended to 
 run after Laura, with an intent to punifh her. Laura 
 fcampered towards the door which Cecilia had left 
 
 open, 
 I 
 
IS4- GEORGE AND CECILIA. 
 
 open, when fhe went into the garden, and away went 
 Mailer Georo^e, purfuing him. 
 
 *' George! George! faid Lady Euftace ; pray, where 
 are you going?" George Hopped (hort. ♦* My dear 
 mama, laid he, I will take a turn, if you pleafe, in the 
 garden. Won't you let me? I am fare you will give me 
 leave.'' But afterwards, as her ladyfhip returned no an- 
 fvver, he lowered his voice, and in a fuppliant manner 
 added, " Pray, my dear mama, do let me ! You fhall 
 fee how well I will behave myfelf." ** In that cafe, an- 
 fwered fhe, I will give you leave, Go.^* 
 
 What words can exprefs the greatnefs of his joy ! He 
 was fo joyful, that not minding how he ran, his foot flip- 
 ped and he fell down. By great good luck, the pe.^ches 
 were not damaged in the fall. He got up again inflantly, 
 and ran to feek his filler in every nook and corner of the 
 garden. 
 
 George was got by this time to the arbour, where he 
 faw poor Cecilia wonderfully changed, and in an attitude 
 of forrow and repentance. She was now exceedingly un- 
 happy. She had grieved the three befl friends that Ihe 
 had ; her worthy parents, and her own dear George. 
 
 *' My fweetclt Cecilia !" faid George, and fell down 
 on his knees before her. *' Let us be friends: I would 
 freely afk forgivenefs for my fault, if I had really in- 
 tended to difplcafe you. Yet, if you will afk my pardon, 
 1 will afk yours alfo. Will you? Come, forgive, Cecilia ; 
 let us be friends again. Here, here are two nice peaches: 
 I could n®t think of tailing them, as you were not to have 
 your fhare." 
 
 ** Ah ! my dcarefl George! (faid Cecilia, fqueezlng 
 his hand while ihz fpoke, and weeping on his flioulder,) 
 what a good, fweet-tempercd litth fellow I have always 
 found you ! Certainly, (continued flie, and fobbed while 
 llie fpoke,) certainly a friend in one's misfortunes is a real 
 friend indeed. But 1 will not take your peaches. It 
 would have been pitiful behaviour in me, had i been vexed 
 this morning for the lofs of half a dozen apples. You do 
 not think that I was, George, do you ! No, it was the 
 infulting look with which thac pert Mifs Lucinda viewed 
 me; but I will not think about her now. Will you for- 
 give me? added flie ; and with her han Ikerchief wiped 
 oil" the tears that fhe had let fall on George's hand. I 
 
 know. 
 
THE SPIRIT OF CONTRADICTION. 13^. 
 
 know, I fometimes love to plague you ; but keep your' 
 peaches now, I will not eat them." 
 
 " Well, then, filler, anfwered George, whenever the 
 fancy conies into your head, e'en plague me juil as long 
 as you think proper. Yet I will never let another do fo. 
 You underftand me f But as to thefe two peaches, I can- 
 not eat them. I have told you fo already, and was never 
 guilty of a ilcry,*' 
 
 *' No, nor I, (faid Cecilia, and that moment flung 
 them both away into the public road.) I cannot endure 
 the thoughts of having made a quarrel up for interefted 
 reafuns. — But as we are now clofe friends again, how 
 happy would it make me, if I could but get mama's 
 permifiion to appear, and afk her pardon !" 
 
 ** Oh 1 I will fly and get it for you, anfwered George 5 
 and hardly had pronounced the words, when he was got sl 
 good way from the arbour. I will inform mama, conti- 
 nued he, that it was I who made you anger her, by having 
 vexed you in the morning." 
 
 In effedt, he fucceeded fooner than he expelled. — In- 
 deed, what errors would not any reafonable woman over- 
 look, in favour of a friendihip fo afFe<^tionate and ge- 
 
 nerous 
 
 THE SPIRIT OF CONTRADICTION, 
 
 Mrs. Cranjleld^ Helen y her daughter, 
 
 Hekn.^\\0, mama: I had much rather finiHi this 
 i^ purfe. 
 
 Mrs. Cranfield. But then, Helen, Caroline would 
 certainly bs a great deal better pleafed with the work- 
 bag. Do not you recolle£l, ilie feemed delighted when 
 you Ihowed her yours ? and the bag that you have above 
 llairs is made exaftly like it. 
 
 Helen. Notwithilanding that, mama, I know fhe 
 would like the purfe a great deal better. 
 
 Mrs. Cranfield. Be it fo ; but will the purfe be iinlfhed ? 
 There are itiU at leaft a dozen rows to do ; whereas, the 
 work-bag only wants a ribband to compleat it. Sure yoot 
 
 would 
 
136 THE SPIRIT OF CONTRADICTION. 
 
 would not pay a vifit to your coufin, on her birth-day» 
 and go there without Tome prefcnt for her? 
 
 Helen. O, mama, you know, I lliouid not like to do 
 {0 ; but believe me, you lliall ftte the purfe very fooa 
 iiniflied. 
 
 Mrs. Cranfield, Think before you come to any refolu- 
 tion in the affair. Your father, I fuppofe you know, fets 
 out at four o'clock exadly, and if any one among you has 
 not finillied what llie had to do, that one will not go with 
 him. 
 
 Helen. He fets out at five o'clock, mama, not four. 
 
 Mrs, Cranfield. Helen, will you never be rid of this 
 fhocking trick \ Will you always be determined to affert 
 the abfolute reverfe of every thing that your hear? 
 
 Helen. But if I am fure that papa fets out at five, and 
 not before? 
 
 Mrs. Cranfield. Well, well, Helen ; it will ve-ry foon be 
 feen which is in the right. But i advifj ycu, as a friend, 
 to be prepared againft the hour that / mention. 
 
 Helen. O, if that be all, mama, you may be fure to 
 iind me ready, even at four : for look ye, it is as one may ■ 
 fay, quite finilhed. 1 ihould gain a quarter of a hour be- 
 iide, were I to run and work belovv^ therc^ in the garden. 
 
 Mrs. Cranfield. Why fo, pray ? 
 
 Helen. Becaufe it is fo much lighter there. 
 
 Mrs. Cranfield. But fure, you will lofe a deal of time 
 in going thither and returning? 
 
 Helen. O ! do not fear but 1 (hall recover it agaiti. My 
 work will go on ten times the better fur it. 
 
 Mrs. Crarfield, As you pleafe, Helen ; but remember, 
 I have forewarned you what may be the cafe. 
 
 Helen, t will take the confjquence upon myfelf, and 
 run as fail as poffible. 
 
 In fa<^, fhe did run thither very fait ; fo fail that fhe 
 arrived quite out of breath. She wanted more than haff 
 a dozen minutes to recover; and at lalt, wlien fhe was fet 
 at work, her hands were in a tremble, owing to her 
 flurry; fo that flie frequently took up one flitch for ano- 
 ther. In the end, when ihe was quite recovered, one 
 mull own, Ihe pufhed her work on very fall. And yet, in 
 fpite of all her diligence, it feemed to grow beneath her 
 fingers. Mrs. Cranfield, who was really uneafy, came to 
 find her. 
 
THE SPIRIT OF CONTRADICTIOlSr. 137 
 
 Mrs. Cranfield. Well, Helen, how goes bufinefs for- 
 ward ? Have you finifhed ? 
 
 Helen. No, not yet, mama; nor is it five o'clock 
 yet. 
 
 Mrs. Cranfield. Right, Helen; but it is four: the 
 clock has juil ilruck. 
 
 Helen. Not ftruck, mama. I have been liftening ; fo 
 I am fure of that. 
 
 Mrs. Cranfield, I do not know how it came about then 
 that I heard it; and your father mufi: have heard it like- 
 wife, for you will find that he is fettiag out. 
 
 Helen. O 1 now, I am fure, you are joking : that can 
 never be. 
 
 Mrs. Cranfield. However, Dick has put the horfes to, 
 and here are your brother and your fifters com;ng. They 
 are ready. 
 
 Helen. O, dear me ! You do not fay fn, mama ! 
 The Brother, {cotningfor<voard,) Where are you, Helen.? 
 We are waiting now for none but you. 
 Helen. One moment, brother. 
 
 The Brother. Four o'clock has ftruck, and you re- 
 member, papa at dinner told us that he lliouid go pre- 
 cifely to a minute; having an appointment here, at half 
 pad five. 
 
 Mrs, Cranfield. Well now, Helen, you remember what 
 I told you. 
 
 Helen. But, mama — 
 
 {Helen's three fifiers enter y crying out,) Helen ! COme, 
 come, come ! 
 
 Helen, {^exed.) Do not be in a hurry children. 
 The Brother. How, Helen, have you not done your 
 purfe yet? See here the little landfcape that I ihall give 
 my coufin, 
 
 Firfi Sifier. And this bow-pot, which will be my 
 prefent. 
 
 Second Sifier. And this houfevv'ife of my making for 
 her. 
 
 Third Sifier. And thefe garters that I have knit her.— • 
 But here comes papa. 
 
 Mr. Cranfield, {coming in.) Well, we are fetting out. 
 You know, Helen, I never make any one wait for me, 
 therefore never do 1 ftay for others. If you are ready, 
 come along; but if not, remain behind, 
 
 Helen* 
 
138 THE SPIRIT OF CONTRADICTION. 
 
 Helen. My purfe is not done yet : I have but two fliort 
 rows to finilh: 
 
 Mr. C.ranf.ehU {hcckontJig the other children to /oUgiv.') 
 Well, good bye, Helen : I will give your love to Caro- 
 line, and fay that you wiili her, well and happy, on her 
 birth-day. {They go out.) 
 
 Helen, {crying.') They are fet ting out, and 1 muft ftay 
 at home quite melancholy ! I that waited with fo much 
 impatience for this day ! Caroline will have a prelcnt 
 from every one of rhem, and I, the eldeil:, am not of the 
 party 1 What will fhe think of mc ? 
 
 Mrs. Cranficld. In reality, the cafe is pitiable, I mull 
 own ; and more particularly fo, as it depended on your- 
 felf alone, to fnun this mortifying fituation. I forewarned 
 you what would be the cafe, in proper time ; and if, in- 
 llead of being obflinately bent to go on with your purfe, 
 you had but put a ribband to your work-bag; if you had 
 not loll fo many minutes as you did in running hither ; if 
 you had not| taken it into your head, from the fiill, that 
 your father was not to fet out till five, you would have 
 laved yourfelf all this vexation. The misfortune is now 
 come, and you have only to fupport it, as you ought, 
 with patience. 
 
 Helen. But my aunt and uncle, what will they think of 
 me ? They will imagine that 1 am in difgrace, or elfe 
 that I do not iove my coufin. 
 
 Mrs. Cranfield. You mull own, Helen, they will have 
 fome reafon to fufpcJl as much. 
 
 Helen. Ah, dear mama! inilead of leffening, you in- 
 Creafe my forrow ! 
 
 Mrs. Cranfield. No, Helsn, I am no lefs forrowful 
 than you; but then, if you think proper, I can end your 
 fojrow. 
 
 Helen. Ah now, you are quite good ! Yes, yes ; I will 
 make an end as foon as p&ffible, and then v/e two will 
 take the purfe. My uncle, aunt, and coafin too, will be 
 agreeably farprized, and fee that my coming fo late was 
 not my fault. I fuppofe then, you will fend out to fetch 
 a coach, and in the mean time ! lliall finiih. 
 
 Mrs. Cranfuld. No, Helen, that would be to difobey 
 your father, and deprive you of the benefit accruing from 
 a ufeful leflbn. You fliall not, »at leall to-day, go fee 
 your coufin ; but may have it in your power to be as happy 
 
 as 
 
C^SAR AND POMPEY. 239 
 
 as you would have been b>y going. I have a certain me* 
 
 thod to propofe to you for that purpofe. 
 
 Helen. And what is it, pray, mama ? 
 
 Mrs. Cranfield. To form, from this time forward, a de- 
 termined relbiution not to fettle matters juil: as you your- 
 felf think proper ; to renounce particularly that intolerable 
 trick that you have of contradiding everlailingiy Vv'hatever 
 you hear faid ; and to rid yourfelf of the vile habit of op- 
 pofing your own ridiculous ideas to the counfels of fuch 
 people as you know to be wifer than yourfelf. I am per- 
 fuaded, you have fufHcient courage to take up any refolu- 
 tion, and to fupport it. 
 
 Helen, Yes, indeed, mama, I will, I will {q, 
 
 Mrs, Cranfield. I expedled nothing lefs from you, Helen ; 
 and if during the remainder of the week i fee you perfe- 
 vere in your laudable refolution, v/e will go next Saturday 
 and fee your coufm. We ihall then carry her the puifs. 
 and the work-bag alfo, which will make her think that 
 you have delayed youf prefent v/ith a view of compliment-' 
 ing her with fomething worthier of herfclf, and more ex* 
 preiiive of your generofity. 
 
 Heh7i^ {embracing her mama,) Oh! dear mama, once 
 more you make me happy ! 
 
 Mrs. Cranfield. You, Helen, make me no lefs happy* 
 Poffibly this very moment you are laying the foundation 
 of your whole future happinefs. 
 
 CyESAR AND POMPEY. 
 
 TV /FR. Saunders had brought up two handfome dog?, 
 XVX one C^far and the other Pompey. He had named 
 them (o, not with the wifh or expeftation that they fhould 
 one day become rivals, like the tv/o illuftrious commanders 
 whofe names they bore, but though both were littered 
 at a birth, had always fed together, and been treated with 
 an abfoluce equality, yet it was not long before they ma- 
 nifefted very different ter^ipers. 
 
 Casfar v/as extremely meek and docile ; Pompey rough 
 aad quarrelfome. 
 
 The generous C^efar jumped for joy, when any one ca- 
 refied him, and never took it ill that his brother ihould 
 
 be 
 
140 C^SAR AND POMPEY. 
 
 be fondled in the fame manner ; but the furly Pompey, on- 
 the other hand, whenever Mr. Saunders had him in his- 
 lap, would growl if Cajfar met with the leaft notice, the- 
 leall fmile, or token of aiFedion. 
 
 When the friends of Mr. Saunders, coming on a vifit, 
 brought their dogs, our Caifar would immediately get in- 
 among them, and endeavour lo amufe his company ; and, 
 as his nature was exticmely pliant and insinuating, and 
 his manners very winning, they were always at their eafe 
 whenever it was hh part to entertain them. They would 
 play and friik about the apartments, jult as if they had 
 been all at fchool with one another. The good Csiiir 
 did his utmolt to fet off their beauty and activity, that' 
 Mr. Saunders might be pleafed with their appearance, 
 and induced to do them fome good turn or other. 
 
 What did Pompey do in the mean time? He would get' 
 into a corner, and be all day barking at the ftrang.ers. Jf 
 unhappily they drew too near him, he would then be fure* 
 to grin and fnarl, and often bite their tails or ears. And- 
 if his mailer noticed any one among them for his breed- 
 ing and good parts, he would howl with all his might, aj; 
 if the houfe was robbing. 
 
 Mr. Saunders had remarked th5s odious temper fome* 
 time pall in Pompey, and begun already to negled him. 
 Caifar, on the other hand, gained fomething every da/ 
 on his afteftion. 
 
 On a certain day, as he was fet at table, he refolved to 
 try their difpofitions more than he ever yet had done. 
 They were both attending at the table, Pompey being . 
 nearell ; for the honeft Caviar, to avoid diilenilon, always 
 gave him up with plealure the foremoft place: and Mr. 
 launders held out Pompey a nice piece of juicy meat,- 
 which he immediately fell a chewing. Caefar was nut dif- 
 contented in the ieali at this, bat waited with the greatefl: 
 good humour till his turn Ihould come. His turn foon 
 came ; but Mr. Saunders threw him nothing but a hard 
 dry bone. He took it without any fign of difcontent ; 
 but hardly had the churiilh Pcmpey obferved Ciefar bufy 
 with his ihaie, though njuch interior to his own, than he. 
 rejeded with difdain the bit between his teeth, and fell 
 on Ca^^far to obtain his bone. The gentle Caifar made no- 
 manner of refiitance, but, imagining that it might pleafe 
 the flckic taile of Pompey, yielded it at once. 
 
Ci^SAR AND FOMPEY. -145 
 
 Do not think, my friends, that this condefcenfion on 
 the part of Caefar was the efFed of cowardicCj or even weak- 
 iiefs in him. He liad given ample teltimony of his itrengtii 
 and relolution very lately, in a contell where he had been 
 engaged on account of Fompey, whofe intolerable furli- 
 nefs had drawn down upon him the refcntment of a dog 
 that lived in the neighbourhood. He had not foughc 
 above f-ve minutes, though it was he himfelf who hnd 
 previouily provoked the fight, before he ran away ; wiiilc 
 Ca^far, though without a friend to take his part, continued 
 the engagement like a hero, and acquired at lall fuch 
 glory, as to make his adverfary bite the duft. 
 
 This anecdote his mailer knew ; and as his charader 
 for courage was fo thoroughly confirmed, he made him 
 take the bit of juicy meat that he had before t'hrown to 
 Pompey, but which Pompey had rejeded. ** Caefar, ray 
 good fellow, frtid his mailer, it is but juft that you ihould 
 enjoy your brother's portion, iince he firll took yours.; 
 and therefore eat it." 
 
 Pompey fcowled at Ca;far, feeing the affedion that ac- 
 companied thefe words in Mr. Saunders's countenance^ 
 and Mr. Saunders added., " Since you have (hewn your- 
 felf thus complaifant and generous towards him who treats 
 you with fuch jv^aloufy and envy, you fliall be in future 
 my own dog, and range about the houle as you think 
 proper; but your brother fhall be tied up in the yard : fo 
 quick, a chain for Fompey 1 and let f)nie one bid the car- 
 penter this moment knock up a kennel fr him." Ac- 
 cordingly this lall was inilantly conducted to his ftation., 
 while the other had his liberiy to v/alk about the apart- 
 ments. 
 
 Fompey would very probably have enjoyed with info- 
 lence fo great a mark of favour, had he gained the advan- 
 tage in his mailer's judgment ; buc the heart of C^efar bled 
 at the idea of his brother's fentence, and he eflayed all 
 means to fofteu his condition. When thfi fer van ts gavp 
 him any thing, he would be fure to carry it to Fompey, 
 wag his tail with pleafure, and invite him to regale upon 
 it; and at night he would not fail to vifit Pompey ia his 
 houfe, amufing him in the midll of his fufferings by all 
 poffible means, and for hours together warming his be- 
 numbed limbs. 
 
 But 
 
142 THE LITTLE GIRL WITH WHISKERS. 
 
 But Pompey, far from being foftened by fuch kind 
 aflions, never welcomed Ccefar to his kennel, nor receiv- 
 ed him otherwife than with continual howlings ; fo that 
 very quickly after, rage inflamed his blood, his heart was 
 ulcerated, and his entrails pcrfdly dried up. 
 
 You, children, who read this, if there be any one 
 among you of a difpofition fuch as Pompey had, confider 
 what a mifcrable lot awaits you, and refled upon his 
 punifliment. You will otherwife lead a life of forrowand 
 humiliation, and expire in horror. 
 
 THE LITTLE GIRL WITH WHISKERS, 
 
 " WJ^^'^ you do what I bid you then, Mr. Obfta- 
 VV nacv? Come, fir, obey; or elfe you will be 
 the worfe off for it, 1 can tell you." Thus Camilla, a 
 pert little vixen of whom we are now going to give an ac- 
 count, was perpetually rating and commanding her poor 
 brother. 
 
 Might her word be taken for it, he did every thing 
 amifs : on the contrary, whatever flie thought of doing, 
 was a mailer piece of reafon and reflexion. The diverfions 
 that he propofed were always dull and heavy in her judg- 
 ment j but forgetting this decifion, when the next day- 
 came, flie would molt probably chufe them herfelf, as the 
 Jiveliell and raoil entertaining. Her unhappy brother was 
 obliged, on pain of being foundly lectured, to obey her 
 whims and fancies. If he durft attempt to fliew her the 
 unreafonablenels of her procedure, flie would be that mo- 
 ment in her airs; his play things then were fure to go to 
 ruin, andhimfelf was forced to mope, without amufement, 
 in a corner of the room. , 
 
 Camilla's parents had a hundred times endeavoured to 
 break her of this fault. Her mother in particular, was 
 always telling her that people never gained the love of 
 others, if they were not complaifant and gentle; that a 
 little ^irl, who would on all occaflons let up her own will 
 by way of Luv for others, woukl be found the moll: intole- 
 rable creature in the univerfc-. Thefe pru icnt Itflbns, or 
 inftrudions, made no manner of imprcflion onhcr heart. 
 Her brother, fick of fo much tyranny, began already to 
 
 5 ^ofe 
 
THE LITTLE G[RL WITH WHISKERS. 143 
 
 lofe fometlung of his love and klndnefs for her; and 
 Camilla was fo far from jfhaklng off her domineering difpo- 
 fition on that account, that flie became a hundred times 
 more arbitrary and infulting. 
 
 As it chanced, a gentleman of underftanding, and who 
 was always remarkably fincere and open in his fpeech and 
 condud, dined one day, upon an invitation, with Ca- 
 milla's parents. He cbferved with what a haughty air fhe 
 treated her poor little brother, nay, and every body in 
 the room. At firil through mere poli'.enefs, he kept 
 filence; but, tired out ere long with her impertinence, 
 he began, addrefling his difcourfe to Mrs. Fleming, her 
 mama, as folio .v&: *' Had I fuch a little girl as yours, 
 I know what I v.'ould do." 
 
 What, fir? faid Mrs. Fleming. 
 
 You ihall hear, replied the gentleman. I am lately 
 come from France, and, as I liked to fee the foldiers 
 cxercife, 1 amufed myfelf, by vifiting the grand parade 
 where the foldiers are drawn up, as frequently as I had 
 leifure. Among the foldiers, there were many that I ob- 
 ferved with whi&ers; and, one cannot but acknowledge, 
 they looked very fierce, as foldiers fliould. Now, had I a 
 child like your Camilla, I would give her inftantly a fol- 
 dier's uniform, and 1 would clap a pair of whifkers on her, . 
 and make her a Swifs Corporal, fo that ihe might com- 
 pletely latisfy her pafhon for commanding. 
 
 Hearing this, Camilla iiood confounded. She could 
 not refrain from blufhing, and even wept. 
 
 From that time forward, fhe was fenfible how much a 
 tyranizing difpoiition mifbecame her, and refolved to Ihun 
 the mortifying confequences which it would foon or late 
 bring down upon her. This refolution, afiifted by the 
 prudent counfels of her mother, quickly proved fuccefs- 
 ful. 
 
 Such a change was doubtlefs very prudent on her part. 
 It were however to be wifned, for all young ladies la- 
 bouring under fuch a fa-jlt, that they would yield obe- 
 dience CO the kind inltrufiion of their parents on this fub- 
 jeci; and not wait till fuch time as a man of underftanding 
 'tells them, to their face, that they would look better in a 
 furly foldier's uniform, with vvhifk.ers, than fet off with 
 nice white cambrick frocks, like all good-natured little 
 ladies. 
 
 THE 
 
I H4 ] 
 
 THE S C A R. 
 
 FERDINAND, from nature, had received a fouJ 
 endued with elevated thoughts and generous notions. 
 He po/iciled a lively turn of mind, a ihong and quick 
 imagination, with a chearful temper. His whole perfon 
 in a word, and hii police behaviour, won him every 
 heart. 
 
 However, with fo many amiable qualities, he had a 
 certain great defed, extremely inconvenient to his friends, 
 of giving way to every ilight imprelfion, and yielding up 
 his foul to the emotions which any accidental circumllance 
 jTii;^ht raife within him. 
 
 When he fought amufement in the circle of his play- 
 mates, trifling contradidions ruffled his impatient difpoli- 
 tion, and they favv theiire of rage in a moment inflame his 
 whole countenance; he llamped upon the ground, cried 
 out, and was belide liimfclf with paffion. 
 
 Once upon a time, as he was walking in his chamber 
 to and fro, and meditating on the necelfary preparations 
 for a troat which his father had permitted him to give his 
 lillcr, Marcian, his dear friend and favourite, intended 
 to communicate his notions on the fubjcd. Buried as he 
 was in thought, he faw not Marcian. Marcian, therefore, 
 having called out to him, but in vain, drew nearer, and 
 began to pull him by the fleeve; but Ferdinand, dilturbed 
 and out of patience with thefe interruptions, unexpededly 
 turned rcund, with fo much rud^nels, that he fent poor 
 Marcian quite acrofs the apartment to fall down befide the 
 wain fee t. 
 
 Marcian, after he dropped, lay ilill without the leail 
 appearance of life. To wliich 1 am to add, that, in fall- 
 ing, he had {Iruck his head againll the moulding of a 
 book-cafe, and received a wound, as Ferdinand then 
 fancied, in the temple, whence there came a deal of blood. 
 
 Heavens ! reader, what a fhocking proiped was this for 
 Ferdinand ! uho neverhad intended any harm to Marcian ; 
 and for whom he would have even loft his life, if therehad 
 been occafjon. 
 
 Ferdinand fell down befide him, lamentably crying out. 
 He is dead, he is dead ! I have killed my friend ! Inilead 
 
 of 
 
THE SCAR. ris 
 
 bf trying any means for his recovery, he remained Wretch- 
 ed all along, uttering difmal groans. Happily, his father 
 heard him ; he came running up, took Marcian in his 
 arms, and having laid him on a bed, called out for falts^ 
 and threw cold water in his face, which recovered him a 
 little. 
 
 The return of Marcian to new life, tranfported Ferdi- 
 nand with joy ; but, as he might relapfe, it was not great 
 enough to take away entirely his anxiety. 
 
 A furgeon, being fent for, probed the wound. He 
 found it to be not in the temple, butfo very hear it, that 
 the difference cf a hair's breadth in its pofition would 
 have made it dangerous indeed, if not quite mortal. 
 Being carried home, he foon became delirious. 
 
 Ferdinaad could by no means be perfuaded to leaVvi 
 Marcian. He took up his llation by his dear friend's pillow, 
 and maintained the profoundeft filence; Marcian frequent^ 
 ly pronounced the name ofFerdinand, while his delirium 
 lalted. My dear Ferdinand, he would fay, in uhat had I 
 ioffended you, that I Ihould be treated thus ? Yet, it is 
 quite impoiTible that you fliould be lefs afflidled than ray- 
 ie!f, for having wounded me, without the leail: degree of 
 provocation. Let it not, however, grieve your generous 
 nature. 1 forgive you, and do you forgive me likewife, 
 Ferdinand, for having put you, as 1 mull have done, into 
 a pailion. It was not my wifh to vex you. 
 
 This difcourfe which Marcian thus addrelTed to Ferdi- 
 nand, without obfcrving him, though prefent, and even 
 holding him continually by the hand, redoubled his afflic- 
 tion. Every word proceeding from the lips of Marcian, 
 ss it ferved but to proclaim the greatnefs of his fricndi^.iip, 
 was a poignard to the heait of Ferdinand. 
 
 Atlaft, however, it pleafed God, for Ferdinand's great 
 confolation, to afiuage the violence of the hver, la tea 
 ■days time the patient was enabled to get up. 
 
 What tongue can reprefent the joy ofFerdinand ! It is 
 not to be comprehended certainly by any one, unlefs he 
 himfelf has felt beforehand, the forrovv which Ferd;nand 
 experienced all the while that he was a v/itnefs of his 
 friend's ditirefsful fituntion. 
 
 Marcian being at laft thoroughly recovered, Ferdinand 
 refumedhis former chearful humour, and not needing any 
 other kiTon than the forrowful event that hAd fo iate.y 
 
 V L. II. H happen- 
 
146 THE SILK SLIP. 
 
 happened, he laboured hard to overcome the vehemcnc*: 
 ©t tcinper to which he had been a Have. 
 
 Marcian in a very little liaie had no mark of the acci- 
 dent remaining, but a triHing liar, as jull now mention, 
 ed, ne.u- the temple. Ferdinand could never fee this icur 
 without emotion, even wlien they were both come to years 
 of manhood. It became, in Ihort, the feal of ih.it much 
 clofer friendiliip in which they wcrQ ever afterwards rautu^ 
 ally united. 
 
 THE SILXSLIP, 
 
 LITTLE Matilda had worn nothing but a p!am 
 white frock, till fhe was eight years old. Neat red 
 Morocco fhoes, with filver buckles, fet off her fmall feet J 
 her ebon hair, which had never yet felt the torturingiron, 
 floated in large curls upon her ihoulders. 
 
 She had been one day in the company of certain little 
 girls, who, though not older than herfelf, were drefled 
 already like great ladies; and the richnels of their cloaths 
 awakened in her heart the firrt vain notions that Ihe had 
 ever had within it. 
 
 Dear mama, faid flie, returning from the houfe where 
 fhe had met with thefe fine ladies, I have feen this after- 
 noon the three M'li's Flowerdales. I fuppofe, you knovv 
 them. The cideft of them mull be younger than myfelf, 
 O dear mama, how fweetly they were drelfed I Their pa- 
 rents, fure, mull have a deal of pleafure, feeing them fo 
 fine ! 1 dare fay, they are net fo rich as you ; fo give me, 
 if you pleafe, a fine filk flip, with fuch embroidered (hoes 
 as they had on ; and let my hair be drefied by Mr. Frizzle, 
 who, they telj me, is extremely clever. 
 
 T/:^e Mothtr, I defire no better, if to do fo will contri- 
 bute to your fatisfadion ; but I fear, with all this elegance, 
 you will find yourfelf not quite fo happy as you have been 
 iiithei to, in the fimplicity of fuch plam things as you ge- 
 nerally wore. 
 
 Matilda, And w.hy fo mama .? 
 
 The Mother. Becaufe you will be eternally afraid of /pot- 
 ting, and even of rumpling what you wear, h drefs fo 
 
 elegant 
 
T H E S I L K S L I p. 147 
 
 elegant as that of the Mifs Flov^'erdale's will require the 
 greatell care and attention in the wear, that it may do you 
 honour. U it gets one fpot, the beauty will be loft for 
 ever, as one cannot put it in the wafii-tub to recover its firft 
 luflre; and however rich you may fiippofe me, I fhall not 
 be rich enough to let you have a new fiik flip whenever 
 you may want one. 
 
 Matilda. Oh ! if thai be all mama, do not make your- 
 felf uneafy. I will be very careful of it. 
 
 The Mother. Will your Well then, I muft give you 
 fuch a drefs ; but ftill, remember that I have hinted what: 
 uneafinefs your vanity may caufe you. 
 
 Unperfuaded by the wil'dom of this counfel, Matilda 
 did not lofe a moment in deftroying all the pleafure and 
 enjoyment of her infancy. Her hair, which had till then 
 hung dov/n at liberty, was now to be confined in paper, 
 and fqueezed clofe between a burning hot pair of tongs f" 
 and that fine jet, which had till now fo happily iet off the 
 vvhitenefs of her forehead, was todifappear beneath a clot 
 of powder and pomatum. 
 
 Two days after, Matilda had a handfome flip brought 
 home, of pea-green talfety with fine pink trimming?, and 
 a pair of flraw-worked ihoes to match them. The taile 
 thatappeared inher deaths, their vivid colour and elegance 
 of make — charmed the eye; but when fhe had them on, 
 it was evideni that her limbs were under grea: conllraint; 
 her motions had no longer their accuilomed eafe and free- 
 dom ; and her infant countenance, amidft fo vail a quanti- 
 ty of flowers, filk, gauze, and ribl'Siids, lofl entirely every 
 trace of ingeauous fimplicicy. 
 
 She was, notvvithllanding, quite enchanted at her me- 
 tamorphoi'is. Her eyes, with mighty fati>sfaftion, wan- 
 dered over her whole little perfon, and were never taken 
 off, except when fiie looked round about her, to find out 
 fome glafs in the apartment that might reprefent before 
 her, at full length, the idol which flie then worihipped. 
 
 She had wrought on her mama to fend out cards of 
 invitation to her little fiiends, that when they came tfi 
 vifit her fne might enjoy a feaft, in viewing their furprife 
 and admiration. When they had all met together, ihe 
 walked to ani fro before them., like a peacock ; and from 
 her behaviour, any one would have imagined that fhe 
 H 2 fuppofeJ 
 
:i4« T HE SILK SL I P. 
 
 r^uppofed herftlf an emprefs, and confidered tliofe about 
 her as fubjedled to her empire. L>ut, alas 1 this triumph 
 
 ■ was but of a very fliort duration, and a multitude of mor- 
 
 itifying circumftances followed it. 
 
 The children were peiiiiitted to go out a walking in the 
 iields, near that part of the town where flie lived. Ma- 
 
 .tilda therefore led the. way, and they reached, in ten or 
 
 ^fteen minutes, a delightful country. 
 
 A luxuriant meadow firll of all attraded their attention. 
 'It was every wheje enamelled with a vail variety of charm- 
 ing flower.^, and butterflies whole wings were of a thou- 
 
 ;Jdjid mingled colours, hovered in each quarter of it. The 
 gay little ladies hun'.ed thefe fi.ne butterflies j they dex- 
 
 ^troully caught, but did not hurt them ; and when once 
 they had e.\'amined all their beauty, let them go, and 
 
 -with their eyes purfued the little creatures as they flut- 
 
 .-tered to and fro. They employed thcn)felves in making 
 siiofegays likcwife of the flowers that fprung up in the 
 ^.eadow, wliich they gathered for that purpoie. 
 
 Matilda, who from pride had firfl of all difdained thefe 
 jnean amufements, wanted very loon to flia:e the enter- 
 tainment that they, uilbrded.; but the ground, they told 
 her, might be damp, in v/hich cafe fne would fl.dn her 
 ihoes, and damage her fine flip ; for they had now difco- 
 vered that her intention, in thus bringing them together, 
 was to vex them only wiih aiight of her fine ciothesj, 
 and they refolved to mortify her in their turn. 
 
 She was of courfe obliged to be folitary, and fit flill; 
 while flie obferved the Iprightly chearfulnefs of h r com- 
 panions who fportcd ro.uud about her. The delight of' 
 contemplating on h:;r pea-green flip w;s, compared there- 
 to, a \ery forry kind C/f entertainment. 
 
 At the corner of the jiicadow there was a fort of little 
 grove, in which was to be heard the raufic of a thoufand 
 birds, that feemcd as if inviting every perfon who weat 
 through the meadow, to go thither, and enjoy the cool- 
 iiefs of the fliade. This grove our children entered, jump- 
 ing as they went along with joy. Poor Matilda would 
 have followed them, but flie was told that the buflies 
 would tear all her finery to pieces. She obferved her 
 friends to divert themfelves at //^J /'/^ the corner ^ and 
 purfae each other through the trees. The more flie beard 
 
 them 
 
T HE S I L K S L IP.' 249^ 
 
 them Ihout with joy, the more, as any one might have' 
 expedcd, ihe was peevilh and ill-humoured. 
 
 But the youngell of her vifitors had fome fort of com-' 
 paffion on her. She had juft found out a corner where" 
 there grew a quantity of fine wild ftrawberries, and there- 
 fore beckoned to her to come and eat part of them. She 
 would willingly have done f->, but had fcarcely get into 
 the grove, when unexpedledly a loud cry was heaid. The 
 children gathered^ to the fpor, and found poor Matilda 
 faftened by the gauze upon her hat and ribbands, to a 
 branch of white thorn from v/hich fhe could not by any- 
 means difengage herTelf. They m.ade halle to loofe the 
 pins that held her hat on ;but to add to her aiRidion, ar- 
 her hair, which hi.d been frizzed with fo much labou--, 
 was lik-ewife entangled with the branch of white thcrn, 
 it coll her almoft a whole lock before fiie could be fet at 
 liberty; and lib us all at once the charm In'g fuperflrudure 
 of her head-drefs was abfolutely pulled 10 pieces. 
 
 'Tis not difficult to guefs how little this misfortune thus 
 befalling Matilda touched her play-mates, when the^ " 
 found, as we have faid already, why fhe had inyited them. 
 Inflead of confolation, which fhe needed, and perhaps 
 expe<fled, they could hardly keep from laughing at her 
 comical appearance, and did aftually jeer her with a 
 hundred wicked witticifms. After having fmoothed her 
 down a little, they ran off in fearch of frefh amufemfnt, 
 towards a hill that they faw at fome frnall dillance from 
 them. 
 
 Matilda however could not, without very great difn- 
 culty, reach this hill. Her llrait Ihoes, which had been 
 made fo to fet off her little feet the better, were a great 
 obftruftion to her fpeed ; nor was this all the mifchief, 
 for her ftays were drawn fo clofe that flie could not eafily 
 fetch bfeath. She would have now been happy to go 
 home and change her drefs, in order to be at eale ; bat 
 then flie knew that her little friends would never have 
 confented, upon her account, to be deprived of their 
 amufement. 
 
 They had got by this time to the fummit cf the hili, 
 
 and vvere enjoying the fine vie^v which a fpacious horizon 
 
 prefented them on every fide. They faw on one 'hand 
 
 verdant meadows ; on the other, yellow barvrlb ; biters 
 
 H 3 ihcia 
 
ISO THE SILK S L 1 P. 
 
 ihem rivulets meandering through the country ; and by 
 way of lejinination to the bndjcape, a large river, on 
 wLofe banks were many pleafant tounrry houres. So 
 jnagr.iiicent a profped charmed them. 'I'hey even danced 
 aboui with joy, while Matilda at the bottom of the hill, 
 (for fhe was abfolute'y out of breath, and could not pof- 
 iibly get further,) was devoured witii forrow. 
 
 She had time and opportunity enough, in fuch a fitua- 
 tirn, to make many fad reflexions. To what piirpofe, 
 faid Ihe to herfelf, are thefj line clothes ! how much plea- 
 fuie do they not prevent me from enjoying ! and what pain 
 do I not fuffer, merely from having put them on ! 
 
 She was giving up her mind to thele atllidling thoughts, 
 uhen fuddcnly ihe heard her friends come running down 
 the hill, and all cry out together, as they palled her, Run, 
 lun, fvlatilda, there is a dre.ndful ftorm behind the hill; 
 it is coming towards us ! if you do not make halle, your 
 flip uiil fooii be wet quite through ! 
 
 MatilJa lelt her ftrengih returning, at the fear of fuch 
 a great misfortune as her play-mates threatened. She for- 
 got her wc'^rincfs, her pinched feet, and her tight lacing, 
 and made tolerable halle to reach fome place of fhelter. 
 But in fpite of all her efforts to ihun fo grievous a misfor- 
 tune as the fpoi!ing of her clothes, fhe could not run fo 
 fall as her companions, who were lightly dreiled. Then, 
 too, every moment fhe was flopped, at one time, by her 
 hoop and flounces in the narrow paths by which fhe was 
 obliged to go ; at another, by her train which was fre- 
 quently caught fall by the farz^Q-y and at others by the 
 iiiiC fcaffoid work about her head, en which the wind 
 bent down the branches of thofe trees, under which fhe 
 was forced to pafs in her way homeward. 
 
 At that moment too the llorm burft forth in all its 
 fury ; and there fell a fhower of hail and rain mixed 
 together, after all but Matilda had regained their feveral 
 habitations. 
 
 in the end, however, Matilda got home likewife, but 
 wet through and through. She had behdes left one of 
 her fine Ihoes behind her in a heap of dung, which as flie 
 hurried homeward, fne had fcrambled over without feeing 
 it; and to incieafe the lill of her difailcrs, flie had not 
 
 quite 
 
T H E S I L K S L I p. 151 
 
 quite cleared ihe meadow, when a gull of wind blew ofF 
 her hat iiito the niiddle of a dirty pool of water. 
 
 They had ail the trouble that one can pollibly imagine 
 to undrefs her ; fo much had the hveat and rain evea 
 glued her fhift and other garments to her body ; fo that 
 her whole drefs was fpoiled, and abfoluiely good for 
 nothing. 
 
 ijhali I have another flip, my dear, made up for you 
 againll to-morrow? faid her mother drily, feeing her in 
 tears. 
 
 O no, mama, faid Matilda, killing her: I am con- 
 vinced, fine clothes can never make the wearer of theni 
 happy. Let me take up with my nice white frock again ; 
 and have no more pomatum in my hair, till 1 am eight or 
 ten years older than at prefent ; and forgive my folly. 
 
 Matilda, v/ith the drefs of childhood, came again inta 
 the full poifeflion of her liberty, and feemcd as modell and 
 as charming as flie had ever been. Neither did her dear 
 mama regret the lofs thiit Ihe had experienced in the pur- 
 chafe of this fine filk flip. Sec. fince it proved the means 
 of reinftating her beloved daughter in the happinefs which 
 her vanity and folly would have taken frona her, had it 
 not been for this ufeful le/Ton, 
 
 H 4 THE 
 
[ 152 I 
 
 H E F I R EL 
 
 A Drama, in One Ac t. 
 
 Char 
 
 A e T E R S. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Ci 
 
 RESWELL. 
 
 Adrian, 
 Julia, 
 
 I their Childun, 
 
 True man. 
 
 a Farmer. 
 
 Jane, 
 
 his Wife. 
 
 LUBB! N, 
 SurlEY, 
 
 J their Children. 
 
 Gilbert, 
 
 Mr, Cre/tveWs Groom. 
 
 Scene, The entrance of a 'village y in the environs cf London , 
 in a part of ^vhich, contiguous to the fields ^ appears a 
 fre. On one fide is a farm-houfe mjith a pump^ and 
 on the other fde a hill, 
 
 S C E N E I. 
 
 Adrian f {running ly a path that condaSls round the hill. 
 His clothes and hair cut of order. He looks back and fees the 
 fre burji forth ivitli.double fury.) 
 
 Heaven ! O Heaven ! all burning Hill ! What vo- 
 lumes of thick fmoke and flame ! What is now be- 
 twine of my papa, mama and fiiler ? Am 1 .an unhappy 
 orphan? Heaven take pity on me, and let them be fife; 
 i\>v they are more to me than ail the world befide — With- 
 out theih what fhould I do? [Oppreffed ivith grief and 
 ^.vearinefs y he leans againjl a tree. -1 he farm-houjc door nonjj 
 opens f and the little pcajant Lubbin, nxiho has his breakfaf in 
 his handy cojnes out.) 
 
 Lubbiny {without olfcr-ving Jdrian.) So it does not finii'h 
 then, this fire ? What could poflefs my fiither to go poking 
 with his horfes, juil into the middle of it! But the fun is 
 jiow rifmg. He will foon be back. 1 will fit down here, 
 and wait till he returns. 
 
 {He goes to ft doivn by the tree, and fees little Jdrian.) 
 Hey 1 hey 1 who is here ? a iine young gentleman I what 
 brings you out fo early, my pretty mailer? 
 
 Jdrian, 
 
THE F I R E>- J Si- 
 
 Adrian, Ah ! my little friend, I neither know at f re^ 
 (ent where I am, nor whither 1 am going. 
 
 Liibbin. Kow ! mayhap you live in town ? and ver/' 
 likely where the fire is? 
 
 Adrian. Yes, indeed, I have efcaped I cannot well tell 
 you In what manner. 
 
 Lubbin. is your houfe on fire? 
 
 Adrian. It was in our ftreet that the fire broke out. I 
 was in bed, and ileeping \cr)' foundly. My papa ran up 
 to fnatch me out of bed : the fervants drtii'ed me in a 
 hurry, and one carried me diredly through the fire, 
 vvhi.h blazed all round us as we went forward. ■ 
 
 Lubbin. Poor dear little fe!Jow ! 
 
 {S erne bcdy from the houfe cries cut, Lubbin! Lubbin! 
 But Lubbin is likening to liith Adrian, ^vith fo much atten^ 
 livny that he does not hear it.) . 
 
 S C E N E II, 
 Adrian, I.ubbin, fane) Sukey. 
 
 fajte, {to Sukey, at the entrance.) I hope, he is not 
 gone away, to fee the'fire: 1 think, it is enough to tieai-" 
 ble for liii father's danger. 
 
 Si'ley. No, no, moiicr: heie he is." Ah! ha! he is 
 fpe;>king to a little gcnticinan. 
 
 jane, -{to Lubbin ) Why did not you anfwer, when I 
 called you I ■ 
 
 Lubbin. Have you been calling me? I did not hear 
 you. i was iillening to diis poor boy here. 
 
 Sukey. Poor! What hashappened to him ? 
 
 Lubbin. He was like to have been burnt alive. " H;5 
 houfe was all in flame's, he tells me, when they got hini 
 out. 
 
 Jane. How pale the poor child is! And how did they 
 contrive to fave you, my little mailer? 
 
 Adrian. Our helper was bid to take me to the village 
 where i had been nurfed ; lo he put me on his lhoulJer>; 
 but they Itopped him in the ftreet, • wanting hands to 
 wo;k. i fell a crying, when 1 fa.vv mylelf alone; at 
 which, a good old woma i took me by the hand, and" 
 brought me out of town, ' dredmg me to walk ilriic 
 H 5 forward. 
 
154 THE FIRE. 
 
 forward, till I favv a village ; fo I followed her advice, 
 and here I am. 
 
 'Jane. And can you tell me what your nurfe's name 
 
 VUb ? 
 
 Adrian. No, not now ; but I can recoiled 1 ufed to 
 rail my little foUer-filler, Sukcy. 
 
 SuUy, {earnejily.) if this little boy were Adrian, mo- 
 ther ! 
 
 Adrian. Yes ! yes ! that is my name ! 
 
 Jane. What, Adrian, Mr. Crefvvell's fon ? 
 
 Adrian. O, my good dear nurfe ! J recolleft vou now. 
 And this is Sukey, and this, Lubbin. {l^'hey einbrace each 
 other. ) 
 
 Jane^ {kij/lug Adrian.) How happy am I now! I 
 thought of nothing but niv poor dear little Adrian, fince 
 this fire began. My hufband is gone to give you all the 
 alnliancc that he can. — But how tall he is grown 1 lliould 
 you have recolleded him! I think not, Sukey. 
 
 Sukey. Not ill. mediately, indeed ; but when I faw him 
 firfl, methought 1 felt my heart beat towards him. It is 
 a long time now fince we were laft together. 
 
 Adrian. 1 have been a great wav off, at fchool, and 
 came home only thjee days fince, for the holidays. Had 
 i remained at fchool, 1 fliould, at leait at preTenr, ha\e 
 known nothing of this day's misfortune. O, papa I 
 mama ! O filter ! 
 
 Jane. Poor dear child ! there is no caufe to make your- 
 felf uneafy. On the firll alarm of fire, fo rear your 
 tjuarter of the town, my huiband inftantly f.t out, to fee 
 if he could be of any ufe. 1 know him. Your papa, 
 mama, and filter, will be fafe, if mortal man can fave 
 them. Eut, my lovely Adrian, you have been up and 
 running thefe two hours at leaft, and muft be hungry. 
 Will vou eat a little ? 
 
 I.nbbin. Look ye, matttr, here is a Yorkfliire cake and 
 -butter. Take it I 
 
 Adrian. Mafter 1 You were ufed to call me Adrian, and 
 not mailer. 
 
 LubHn, [embracing him.) Well then, Adrian, take my 
 bieakfail. 
 
 Sukey. Or flay, Adrian, you mull certainly be dry as 
 well as hungry. I will go fetch my milk-pottage. I was 
 putting i.a the bread — 
 
 Adrian* 
 
THE FIRE. 15^ 
 
 Adrian* No, no, my good friends. I cannot have any 
 appetite, till I fee my dear papa, mama, and filler. I 
 will return and feek them. 
 
 Jane. Do you think of what you are faying ? Run into 
 the fla'mes ! 
 
 Adrian. I left them in the flames ; but it was againfi: 
 my will. J did not like to part with them, but my papa 
 would have it fo : he threatened me, and in an angr/ 
 tone bid Gilbert pay no heed to my refiltance. I was 
 forced at Jaft to yield, for fear of putting him into a 
 greater paflion. I cannot hold out any longer, but, 
 whatever be the danger, 1 muil go back to find if they are 
 in fafety. 
 
 June. I cannot let you go, that is certain. Come into 
 the houfe with us. 
 
 Adrian. You have a houfe then. Alas ! I have none. 
 
 Jane. And is not our houfe your's r I fed you with my 
 miik, and furely then 1 cannot deny you bread. {She 
 forces him in, and fays to Lubbin) Take care, and ilay you 
 here, that you may fee your father the fooner, and let us 
 know of his coming. — But do not run to fee the fire. 
 Remember, I forbid you that. 
 
 Lubhin, {alone.) And yet I have half a mind to do Co^ 
 What a charming bonfire it mull make ! I do not fee 
 clearly, but 1 think that ileeple is down, that had the 
 golden dragon on the top. There is many a poor foul, 
 by this, burn;: out of houfe and home ! i pity them, and 
 yet they mull not hinder me frcjm iinifning my breakfail, 
 —^{To Su/tej, 'who re-enterf nviih a tumbler) Well now, 
 ii'Aevj you are a dear good girl, indeed, 10 bring me- 
 drink fo kindly. 
 
 Siikey, Oh ! it is net for you. I am come to get a glafs 
 of water for poor Adrian. He will have neither milk, 
 nor ale, nor wine. " My dear papa, (fays he,) mama, 
 and iilter, very likely, are at prefent dry and hungry, 
 and fhall I have fuch nice thing;.? No, no, indi;ed : let 
 IDC have therefore nothing but a little water; that v/ill 
 icrvt me well enough, eipecialiy as 1 am ij th rfty." 
 
 Lubbin. One muil own, however, it is foinething 
 comical, that Adrian fliould refufe a drop uf any thing 
 that is good, becaufe he cannot get tidings of his parents, 
 
 Sukey. Oh 1 I know you well enough 1 Your filler might 
 
 be burnt alive, and you not eat a mouthful lefs on that 
 
 H 6 account. 
 
156 THE FIRE. 
 
 account. For my part, I fhould be like Adrian : I fliou^d 
 hard4y think of eating, if our houfe were fet on fire, and 
 no one could inform me what had happened to my father, 
 mother, or even brother. 
 
 Lubbin. No, nor I — provided T were not hungry. 
 
 Sukey. Can one then be hungry in fuch a cale? Look 
 ye, Lubbin, I have not the leaft degree of appetite. To 
 fee poor Adrian weep, and take on fo, has made me quite 
 forget my hunger. 
 
 ' Lubbin, So you won't eat your miik-pottage this 
 morning ? 
 
 Sukey, What, you want it, after having fwallowed 
 your own breakfait, with Yorklliire cake into the bar- 
 gain ? 
 
 Lubbin. No; 1 would only take your breakfafi, that, 
 if nji;ther you nor Adrian wilhed to have it, nothing 
 juiglit be loft; that is all. But let vn^c have the tumbler: 
 
 I have not drunk any thing yet. 
 
 Sukey, {gii'ing him the tumblir.) Make hafte then I 
 Adrian is very dry. 
 
 Lubbin, {after drinkifig.) Stay, llay, I will iill it for 
 liini. 
 
 t'ukex. V/irhout rincing it? 
 
 Lubbin. Do you fuppofe then that f have poifon in my 
 mouth fit' 
 
 Sukfyy.X.c\y proper, truly, with the crumbs about the 
 lini ! i will rince it out myfe'f. Young gentlemen are 
 
 II fed to cleanlincfs, and I ihould willi to let him fee as 
 inuch propriety and neatncfs in our cottage, as at home. 
 \S':c rinccs the tumbler, fills it up, and then gees out.) 
 
 J.ubbin, [alone.) So, there is my break fa.Jl: done. Sup- 
 pofe now that J lliould run to town, and fee the fire. I 
 ihall not be mifled if 1 fet out, liay there but half an hour 
 <^r (oy and then come back : it is nothing but a good 
 i^ocnd fcolding from my mother. However, I will go a 
 Jittle way, and then determine. Jt is not more than 
 tvvehe or thirteen minutes' walk before 1 am there.— 
 Come, come; faint heart, the proverb tells us, never 
 won fair lady^ [He fet s ojf, but meets his father.) 
 
 SCENE 
 
THE FIRE. 157 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Luhhitiy Trueman {nxiith a cheji upon his JhcuUerSy tired and 
 out of breath.') 
 
 Luhbin. ^Xlhx you are come back, father? I was going 
 on a little way to meet you. 
 
 True7nanj {^vith anxiety) "Were you? And is Adrian 
 here ? 
 
 Lubbin. Yes, yes ; not long ago arrived. 
 
 Trueman, {putting don/jK the cL'^Ji.) Thank God ! then 
 the whole family are fafe. {He fits dovjn upon the cheJi.) 
 Let me take breath a little. 
 
 Lubbin. Won't you ceme in, father? 
 
 Trueman. No, no; 1 will remain here in the open air, 
 till I am recovered from my hurry. Go, and tell yeur 
 mother that I am returned. 
 
 Trueman [alone, <wipi?ig hi^ /'^^^•) ^ fliall not die then, 
 without having, in my turn, obliged ray benefadtcr. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 Trueman, fane, Adrian, Lubbin^ Sukcy, 
 
 jfane^ {running from the farni-houfe, and embracing 
 Trueman.) Ah, my dear ! what joy to fee you come back 
 fafe ! 
 
 Trueman, {embracing Jane in return.) My iifj ! But 
 Adrian, where is he, pray ? Let me fee him. 
 
 Adrian, {running up.) Here I am. Here, here, father! 
 {Looking round about him) But what, are you alone? 
 Where is my papa, mama, and little filler ? 
 
 Trueman. Safe, my child ; quite fife. — Embrace me! 
 
 Adrian^ {jumping up into his arms.) O what joy ! 
 
 Jane. We have been all in very great perplexity. Our 
 neighbours are come back already. 
 
 Trueman. They had not their benefador to preferve, as 
 I had. 
 
 Jane. But the fire, dear Thomas, is it out, and all 
 the mifchief over ? 
 
 Trueman. Over, Jane I the whole flreet is in flames. 
 If you could only fee the ruins, and the multitude of 
 people ! Women with thsir hair about their ears, alt run- 
 
158 THE FIRE. 
 
 ning to and fro, and calling out to find their hufbands 
 and poor children; to which add the found of bells, the 
 noife of carts and engines, with the crulh of houfes when 
 the tinnbers are burnt through, the frightened horfes, and 
 the throng of people driving full againlt you. i cannot 
 tell you how 1 made my way amidll the flumf.lthat croiTed 
 before me, and the burning beams that feemed ready every 
 moment to fall down and crufh me. 
 
 Jane. Blefs us ! you make ray blood run cold. 
 
 Sukey. See, fee, mother, how his hair and eye- brows 
 are all fiiiged ! 
 
 Trueman. And ft.'e my arm too. But why fliould I 
 complain ? Could 1 have only got away with life, i iliould 
 not have mattered lufing a limb for Mr. Crefvvell. 
 
 Jane, How, my dear, a I^mb ? 
 
 Trueman. What, uife, to fave our benefaflor ! Was it 
 not through his means that we both came together? Are 
 we not indebted to his generolity, not only for this farm, 
 but for every thing ? And what is Hill more, my jewel, 
 was it not your mi'.k that reared his weakly child, now fo 
 lirong and hearty ? {^Adrian clings to Jane.) D;d I fay that 
 I fhould not have maciered lofmg a limb for Mr. Cre-i'well? 
 — I fay more : 1 would liave given my life to fuve him. 
 
 Jane. Then you have been able to a Hill him ? 
 
 Trueman. Yes, I h ive that happinefs to boaft. He 
 himfelf, his lady, and his daughter, had fcarce got out of 
 their houfe, as they fuppoled in fafety, when a haif-burnt 
 beam fell down into the ftreet before them. Happily, I 
 was not ten yards oif : the people fancied that they were 
 crufhed beneath its weight, and ran away. I heard their 
 cries, came back, and ruihing through the burning ruins, 
 brought them cfF. i had already faved this cheft that you 
 fee here, and mv cart, behdcs, is loaded with the greatelt 
 part of their moil valuable furniture. 
 
 Adrian, Be fure, my father will moll richly recom- 
 penfe you. 
 
 Triunian. T am recompenfed already, my dear little 
 friend ! Your father did not perhaps expert fuch a fervice 
 at my hands, and I have laved him. In that thought, I 
 am much better paid than in receiving any recompenfe. 
 But this is not the whole : 1 dare fay he will be here pre- 
 sently, and ;11 his family and people. 
 
 Adrian, What then, Ihall I fee them foon? 
 
 Trueman* 
 
THE FIRE. 1S9 
 
 7'ruema/i. Yes, my Adrian. But run, wife, and make 
 a little preparation to receive them : let fome ale be 
 drawn, and have the cows milked inilanlly. Air fheets 
 to put on all our beds ; and as for us, we will take up our 
 lodging in the liable. 
 
 jtane. Be it fo. 1 will play my part, I warrant you. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 T'ruemaa, Adrian, Lubbitit Sukcy, 
 
 Trueman, And I will go put the hay up in fome kind of 
 order in the barn, and make a little room for thofe who 
 may come hither requiring fome (helter. All the fields, 
 alas ! are covered W)th them. I imagine, I IHII fee them ! 
 fome iiruck fpeechlefs, gaze with ablolute infenfibility^ 
 while they behold their houfes burning, or elfe fall down 
 on the ground, fatigued and frightened ! others run along 
 like madmen, wring their hands, or pull their hair up by 
 the roots, and uttering fearful cries, attempt to force their 
 palTage through a line of foldier?, who with bayonets 
 keep them off, that they may fave the property of the 
 fuiferers from being plundered. 
 
 Sukey. O my poor dear Adrian ! had you been there, 
 they would have trod you under foot. 
 
 Trueman. As foon as they bring back my horfe.?, I will 
 go out again, and take up all the children, women, and 
 old men that I meet. Had I been the pooreft perfon in 
 the village, this misfortune would have rendered me the 
 richeft ; fmce the unhappy whwm I fhall fuccour will be- 
 long to me. {He ft oops to take the cheji up.) 
 
 Liibbin. Dear father, let me help you. 
 
 Trueman. No, no: have a care! it is far too heavy for 
 your ftiength. Go rather, and bid Humphry heat the 
 oven, and put all our kitchen things in order; and let 
 Carter know that 1 want fome flour fent in : thefe mifer- 
 able people who are burnt out of their habitations fhall at 
 )eall find wherewithal to fatisfy their wants ! Thank God ! 
 J am not fo poor, that any one applying to my charity 
 fliould die for v/ant of food. If 1 had nothing elfe, I 
 would give them my lail bit of bread. {He and Lubbin 
 go cut.) 
 
 SCENE 
 
i6o T; H E F I R E.^ 
 
 SCENE Vf. 
 
 Adrian^ Sukey, 
 
 Sukey. Oh ! ihnt I would fhare with you too, Adrian, 
 Who, alas i would have fuppofcd that I fnould have ever 
 ieen you in your prelent fituiition ? 
 
 Jdrlan. Who indeed, my deared Sukey ? for it is very 
 hard in one night to lofe every thing. 
 
 Snkey. Be comforted, however, my dear friend ! fordo 
 not you rccolletft how happy we were once together here, 
 when we were lefs a great deal than at prefent. Well, 
 we will be as happy with each other again. Do you fear 
 that you can want any thing, as long as I have any thing 
 10 give you ? 
 
 Adrian^ {taking Sukey hy the hand.) No, I do not in- 
 deed : but then, I thought, it would have been my part 
 to make you happy, to get you a good hulhand, as papa, 
 has often laid in joke, and to take care of your children, 
 like my o^vn. 
 
 Sukey. Wei',, row I muft contrive to do all this myfelf ; 
 and when we love each other, it is exactly the (dme thing... 
 J will gei you g.11 the fineit flowers that I can make free t*.-) 
 puil in oar garden, and whatever iruit they v.'ill let me 
 gather. You fnall alfo have my bed, and 1 will ilccp all 
 night long upon tr.e ground bende you. 
 
 Adrian y {embracing her >) O my dear, dear Sukey ! ho.v 
 I ought to Ic.ve y( u ! 
 
 Sukey. You Ihall fee likewife what care I will take of 
 ju!ia. I will be always with you both. We drank, you 
 know, the fame milk; and is not that all the fame as if 
 you were my brother, pray, and 1 your filler ? 
 
 Adrian. Yes, and you Ihall ab^ays be my (^i\.^r, and I 
 do not know which of the tuo I Ihall love bcil for the fu- 
 ture, you or Julia. 1 will prefent you alfo to papa, that 
 you may be his daughter : but when, think- you, will he 
 
 come 
 
 Sukey. Why make yourfelf uneafy ? You have been told 
 that he is fafe. 
 
 Adrian. But my father is juft like yours ; and who caa 
 tdl buti-ie will go back again into the flames to fave fome 
 
 friend 
 
T H E F I R E. r6.i 
 
 friend or other. I muft therefore be uneafy till I fee him 
 once again. But hark ye ! do not I hear a tread on the 
 other fide of the hill f Oh ! if it were he ! 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 
 Adrian y Sukryy Gilberts 
 
 Adrian. Ah, Gilbert! 
 
 Gilbert. Ah, my little mafter ! you. are f;fe then ? 
 
 Adrian. Truly, there is great need to talk about my 
 fafsty ! Where is papa, mama, and Julia ?• are they witk 
 you ? 
 
 Gilbert y {not knonjoing ivhat to fay.) With me ? 
 
 Adrian. Yes; you have not left them behind, fare? " 
 
 Gilbert. Behind? {7'urning about.) TliQy sat not hthmi 
 me. 
 
 Adrian. They are not come with you, then.^ 
 
 Gilbert. Unlefs they be here, 1 do not know where they, 
 are. 
 
 Adrian, [ifnpatintly.) You do not come here to feek 
 them } do you ? 
 
 Gilbert y {in confujion.) Do not be frightened, my dear 
 little mailer ! — Are they not come hither I 
 
 Sukey, None but Adrian. 
 
 Adrian. He is confounded, and has fome bad news to 
 tell me ! — They are loft, even after all the pains that 
 honefl: Truenan took to lave them I 
 
 Gilbert. Hear me, — There is no caufe, at lead: I hope 
 not, to alarm yourfelf. About an hour or forty minutes 
 after they had forced rpe from you to afiift the fuiFerers, I 
 found means to get into the crowd. — Dear Mafter Adrian, 
 do not be frightened ; but fo it is indeed. — 1 ran about 
 the ruins to difcover where my mafter was, but could not 
 come at any tidings of him ; no, nor of my miftrefs,, nor 
 Mifs Julia. 1 enquired of every one that I met, if they 
 had heard of fuch a family .'' but conftantly was anfwered, 
 No. 
 
 Adrian. O Heaven ! take pity on me ! Dear papa, 
 mama, and Julia, vvhere> where are you? Perilhed 
 doubtlefs ! 
 
 Gilbert, 
 
i62 THE FIRE, 
 
 GilhtTt. I have not told you all yet ; but pray do not 
 be frightened. — The worll part of the affair comes now. 
 
 Adrian. What is it then? Why do not you tell me, 
 Gilbert? 
 
 Gilbert » How, in Heaven's name, would you have me 
 tell you, if you let yourfdf be frightened in this manner? 
 
 Adrian, Speak ! pray G Ibert fpeak ! 
 
 Gilbert. Well then, the rumour was as follows : that a 
 gentleman, a lady, and a Utile girl, were cruihed to 
 death, when they were juft goi out of doors, and thought 
 themfelves in fafety. {Adrian fujoons auvay.) 
 
 Sukey. Help ! help ! help ! Come here to our affillance, 
 fome one ! Adrian is dying. {She falls donvnby hint.) 
 
 Gilbert, Why, what ails him: 1 mentioned this but as 
 a report ; and befides, they could not tell me who it was. 
 It may be nothing, after all. 
 
 Sukey. Why, how you talk ! His fright at what you 
 inentioned overcame him, and he quite forgot that my 
 father had preferved them. 
 
 Gilbert, {feeling Adrian's cheek.) O my poor dear little 
 Adrian ! he is as cold as any ice ! 
 
 Sukey, {half getting up.) And what could bring you 
 here? It is you that have killed him ! 
 
 Gilbert, I ^ — And } et, lam fure, you heard me bid him 
 not be frightened. {He raifes him a little.) Mailer Adrian ! 
 (^He lets him fall again.) 
 
 Sukey. How you go to work ! — Do not touch him any 
 more. — He will die, if he is not dead already, with fuch 
 treatment! O my dear, dear brother Adrian! — Father! 
 mother I Lubbin ! — Why, where can they all be ? {She 
 runs in for help ) 
 
 Gilbert y {leaning o-ver Adrian.) No, no, he is not dead : 
 he breathes a little. Were he dead, I would go and 
 fling myfelf this moment into fome pond. — {He calls out) 
 Adrian! Mailer Adrian ! — if 1 knevvbut how to bring hirrl 
 to himfelf! — {He blonjjs on Adrian s face.) This blowing 
 tries ray lungs! — It was very foolilh, 1 muft own, in me, 
 to tell him what I did ; but much more fo in him to pay 
 attention to it : and particularly when I bid him not be 
 frightened. — Could I pofiibly fpeak plainer? — Adrian! 
 Adrian 1 — He does not hear me. — When my dear wife 
 died, I took on very fadly for her ; but to die on that 
 account, would have been very filly !— -Adrian ! Adriai\ I 
 
 —What 
 
THE FIRE. 163 
 
 . — What had I bell do? He does not fcem as if he would 
 recover. Ah ! I fee a pump — I will go and fill my hat 
 with water — Half a dozen iprinklings very pollibly may 
 have a good efFe(^l upon him. {As he is coming back to 
 Adrian y Mr. .Cre/%vell enters, leading in Mrs, Crefvjell and 
 Julia, Gilbert drops his hat, and runs aivay.) 
 
 Gilbert. Heaven forgive me ! Should he find him dead, 
 1 do not know what he will do ! For my part, 1 am dead 
 with fear already. 
 
 Air. Cre/welL Was not that our Gilbert ?— Gilbert, 
 what is the matter? Where is Adrian.'* 
 
 Mrs. Cre/well. Sure he ran away, as if afraid of meet- 
 ing with us. Where can he have left him .? 
 
 Julia, {feeing Adrian on the ground.) What is this here ? 
 A child! {Stooping doxvn.) O Heaven! my brother ! and 
 he is dead ! 
 
 Mrs. Cre/-u:ell, {falling donjjn ly Adrian.) How Julia I 
 Adrian l — Yes, indeed ; help ! help ! 
 
 Mr. Crefnjoell. Was this misfortune wanting after all } 
 {Examining the body.) But he is not dead! — Thank Hea- 
 ven, we are better off than that — He breathes a little.— 
 My dear life, {to Mrs. Crsfwelly) as Adrian needs affift- 
 ance, keep your ftrength that he may have it. 
 
 Mrs. Crefwell, {nearly f^ooning.) Adrian! Adrian! 
 
 Julia. Ah ! my poor dear brother ! Would to Heaven 
 the flames had rather taken all from us ! {Mr, Cref-jjell 
 raifes Mrs. Crefvoell, and brings Adrian to her. ) 
 
 Mr. Crefuoell. There is no time to lofe. — Have you your 
 falts about you ? 
 
 Mrs, Creftvell. I cannot tell, I am in fo great an 
 agitation. After fo much fear and fright, here is one 
 ftill greater. I would part with all that is left us for a 
 draught of water. {Mr. Cref<^jjell fees the pu?npy and haflens 
 to it.) 
 
 Julia, {feeling in her mother^ s pocket.) Here is your fal 
 volatile, mama. {While the falts are uftng.) Hear, hear, 
 hear me, Adrian, and look up I or I fhall die with grief. 
 {He comes a little to himfelf.) O heavens, he breathes! 
 {She runs to her papa.) Come, come, papa! come quickly ! 
 come and fee him. {Mr. Crefiuell brings a little luater in the 
 hollo^TV of his hand, and thro-ivs it on his face.) 
 
 Adrian, {fighing bitterly.) Oh! oh! Papa; papa! 
 
i64 THE FIR E. 
 
 Mr. CrefwelL He fuppofes I am dead. That blockhead 
 Gilbert muft have frightened him. 
 
 Julia, {iir/ tra.'ifport.) See ! fee! his eyes begin to open !" 
 
 Mr. Crefi-vell. My dear child, do not you know us? 
 
 Mrs.Crefivsll. Adrian! Adrian! 
 
 Julia. Brother! 
 
 Adrian, {Jookijjg rourjif him.') Am I dead or living r or* 
 where am 1 ? {He Jits up in Mrs. Cref-iveiTi lap.) Ah ! my 
 dear mama ! 
 
 Mrs. Crej'h.velL My child ! and have we brought you 
 back to life ? 
 
 Adrian y [turning to his father.) Papa too ! 
 
 Juliay {embracing hi?n.) My dear Adrian! my fweet 
 brother-! 1 am alive again, now you are. 
 
 Adrian. Oh ! what joy to fee you thus again, dear filler! 
 {^He turns to his mother.) It was your fweet voice, mama, 
 that brought me back to life. 
 
 Mr, Crejivelly {to Mrs. Crefnjoell ) My dear, I was la- 
 menting our misfortune jufl before; but now I find that 
 there was a great deal more to be loft, than goods and 
 fuch things. 
 
 Mrs, CrefwelL Let us not think a moment more about 
 them . 
 
 Mr. Cre/ivell. Nay, rather we fhould rejoice that they 
 are in reality fo trifling. I behold you all three fafe, and 
 can have nothing to dillurb me. 
 
 Julia. But brother," what brought you into fuch a 
 fituatic/n : 
 
 Adrian. Would you think it : — Gilbert. 
 
 Mr. Cre/^velL There, I faid fo. 
 
 Adriav. Why, he told me that you had all three pe- 
 ri fhed in the flames. 
 
 Julia, {locking towards the hill.) Ah ! there he is, papa ; 
 above there. {They all 'look up, and Gi'.bcrt dranvs his 
 head in.) 
 
 Mr.Crefzvell. Gilbert! Gilbert 1— He's afraid to an- 
 (wQT fne ; fo do you call him, Ailrian. 
 
 Adrian. Gilbert! — Do not be fearful, but come down 
 and Ihow yourfelf. — I am alive. 
 
 Gilbert y {en the hill.) Are you fure of that ? 
 
 Adrian. I think fo. Did you ever hear a deal man 
 fpeak } 
 
 Gilbert* 
 
THE FIRE. 165 
 
 Xyilherf, [coining dotvn, but jlopping on a fuddi'n.) You do 
 ^not intend, 1 hope, fir, to difcharge me. Jf you do, I 
 need not be at fo much trouble to cone on. 
 
 Mr. Crpfwell. See, fimpleton, the conf.-quenceof freak- 
 ing without thought ! 
 
 Mrs. Crefixell. A little more, and you had been the 
 death of Adrian. 
 
 Jdriafi. Pray, mama, forgive him ! It was not his fault. 
 
 Gilbert. No, certainly. I bid him not be friohtcned.. 
 {Adrian holds out his hand.) However, I am glad that you 
 do not intend me any harm ; and for the future, I will 
 think no one dead, till fuch time as I fee him ten feet un- 
 der ground, and fairly buried. 
 
 d C E N E VIII. 
 
 Adriany Mr. and Mrs. CrefiveU, Juliuy 7'ruemany yane, 
 Luhhiny 8'uxey. 
 
 ^ruen-an, [running in.) O the wretch ! where is he? 
 
 Sukij, {Jhc^xving Gilbert.) Look ye, father, here ! [Gil- 
 bert Jlinks behind his 7nnjier.) 
 
 Truemmi. Who is this? [SuJcey and Luhbin run towuards 
 Adrian f nvho prefents them both to "Julia \ the farmer bo^ws 
 to Mr. Crefjcell ) 
 
 Mr. Cref-weli, [taking him by the hand.) My friend I 
 what means this humble diflance.? With fuch relpeft to 
 bow before me ! my preferver I and not only mine, but 
 all my family's ! 
 
 Trueman. Yes, fir, it is another obligation that you 
 have laid upon me. I have had the opportunity of (bow- 
 ing you my gratitude for all your favours. 
 
 Mr. Crefvvell. You have done much more for me than 
 ever 1 din yet for you, and more than I fnall ever have it 
 in my power to do. 
 
 Trueman. What fay you, fir? The fervice of a moment 
 only. I, on the other hand, have lived thefe eight years 
 paft by means of your bounty. You cbferve thefe fields, 
 this farm : from you I had them. You have loft your 
 nil; permit me therefore to return them. It will be 
 happintfs enough for me, that I Ihall always have it in 
 jny power to fay, I have not been ungrateful to my bene- 
 facflor. 
 
 ♦ Mr, 
 
i66 T II E FIRE. 
 
 Mr. Crefvotll. Well then, my good friend, I do permit 
 you to return them; but on this proviib, to enrich you 
 with much better. You have, luckily for me, preferved 
 my llrong box that had all my writings in it, and thofe 
 writings are the beft part of my fortune ; fo that to you 
 1 owe the pr .rcrvation of my whole property. Having 
 now no hoiiie in London, I will go down into the country, 
 whither you (hall follow me, and we will fix our habita- 
 tion at a feat that I have in Norfolk. All your children 
 ihall be mine. 
 
 Adrian. Ah ! dear papa ! I meant to bee as much. See 
 here is my filler Sukey, and here is Lubbm, my brother. 
 ]f you knew the love and frlendlhip that they have (hewn 
 to me ! Poffibly I might have now been dead, but for their 
 kindnefs. 
 
 Mrs. CrefixjeUy {grafping Janets hand,) Henceforth we 
 will be but one family; and all our happinefs (hall be in 
 loving one another, like relations. 
 
 Jane. In the mean time, enter and repofe yourfclves. 
 Excufe us, if our cottage cannot afford you the accommo- 
 dations that we certainly could have wilhed to do. 
 
 'Trueman, {locking toxvards the hill.) I fee my cart, fir, 
 and a number of poor people following. Will you give 
 me leave to go and off*er them the fervice of which they 
 are fo much in need ? 
 
 Mr. Cre/well. I will go with you, and confole them 
 likewife. I am too much interelled in the melancholy 
 accident that has diftielfed them, though far le.fs a fuiferer 
 by it. — Lefs ! I fhould have faid, no fufferer, but a gainer ; 
 for the d::.y which I fuppofed, at firil, to be fo unfortu- 
 nate, gives me back much more than I have loll. It gives 
 me, in return for fuch things as with money I can pur- 
 chafe, what is far beyond the value of all money ; — a new 
 family and friends, who ihall therefore be henceforth pre- 
 cious to my heart. 
 
 THE 
 
t '67 ] 
 
 THE GREAT GARDEN. 
 
 MR. Sage had received no very great inheritance from 
 fortune and his parents, but was not without the 
 happy fecret of limiting his deiires to what he poflefTed ; 
 and notvvithftanding he was frequently obliged to gc 
 without a number of conveniencies and comforts which 
 others could command by means of their abundance^ never 
 did one envious thought dirturb his equability of temper. 
 He had never fuftered more than one affliiflion of confi- 
 dercible magnitude, arifing from his want of this life's 
 comforts; and that was the lofs of an afFedlionate and 
 virtuous woman, torn from his embraces by the hand of 
 de.ith. A charming little fellow, Polydore Sage, was 
 the onlv child remaining to confole him; and the educa- 
 tion of this charming lirtle fellovv', was the fingle objed 
 of his rtudy and attention. 
 
 Polydore was endued by nature with very llrong imagi- 
 nation ; and by this, his father had found out the happy 
 fecret of improving his reafon, at a very early time of 
 life ; namely, by exhibiting before him every objedl in its 
 real point of view, of which he had beforehand only given 
 him an idea. By a feries of ftrong images, arranged in 
 order, and feleftcd in a proper moment to produce their 
 full effed, he had enabled him already to make many ac- 
 curate and deep reflexions. 
 
 Satisfied with his condition, this good father wiihed 
 particularly to inculcate in his (on thole principles to 
 which he owed himfelf the calm of his condition, and the 
 peace within his mind. Yes, often would he whifper to 
 himfelf, if I can but accuilom him to live contented with 
 his humble fortune, and point out to him the folly of 
 putting any value upon what he mull not hope to obtain, 
 I jfhall contribute more to make his manhood happy, than 
 by leaving him a heap of gold and iilver. 
 
 Occupied inceffantly on this important leffon, he 
 thought fit one evening to accompany his fon to Vauxhall 
 Gardens, for the firfl time in hi life. Immediately oa 
 entering, Polydore was ftruck with admiration and de- 
 light. The perfume of the flowers, the beauty of the 
 paintings, the well-ordered difpofition of the walks, the 
 2 crowd 
 
i68 THE GREAT GARDEN. 
 
 crowd of men and women who were in them, elegantly 
 drclled, the inceilant motion of the multitude, the hura 
 of their difcourfe, the noife of the caicadc, all joined to 
 artrad: his contemph.tion ; and his eye confidcrcd at one 
 view ten thoufand objcds. His good father feeing him, 
 if we may fay fo, fwallowed up in thought, conduded 
 him to that part of the gardens which was more retired, 
 from public obf.^rvation ; that his fenfes, which weie too 
 much occupied by fuch a crowd of images, might be in 
 feme degree at rell Soon af:er, he propofed indulging 
 him with fome refrefhment, if he liked it. — Polydore 
 gladly took his father's offer ; and foon after, having fatis- 
 ficd his appetite and palate, fpoke as follows: 
 
 How extremely happy every one here prefent feems to 
 be 1 I fii' uld like, papa, if we had fuch a charming gar- 
 den. Did you notice what a number of fine carriages 
 were at the door? And all thofe gentlefolks that pafs us 
 how v.'ell drefied they are ! I fhoulJ be glad to know why 
 \vc mull live To favingly, when others in the world indulge 
 ihemfelves with every thing that they fancy. 1 begin, 
 papa, believe me, now to fee how poor you are. But why, 
 then, are fo many around us rich? I'hey are not better 
 people fure than you, papa. 
 
 You fpeak exaftly like a cliild, replied the father. 
 Vou begin to fee hoi.v poo-r I am ? Now J can t^U you, I ana 
 quite ricii. 
 
 Polydo7-e. And where, then, are your riches ? 
 
 Mr. Sage. 1 h&ve a garden bigger by far than this. 
 
 Pcljilore. A garden I You, papa ! I lliould be glad to 
 fee it. 
 
 Mr. Sage. When we go into the country, you fliall 
 fee k. 
 
 They went very foon, it being now the feafon for taking 
 the pleafures of the country, and on the very day of 
 their arrival at the country- houfe, not far from London, 
 Mr. Sage took his fon and led him up a hill, from 
 whence the eye commanded an extenfive profpeft. Oft 
 the right, was feeii a fpacious foreft, whofe extremities 
 feemed loft at the horizon. On the left, appeared a 
 beauteous mixture of fine gardens, verdant meadows, and 
 vaft fields quite covered wiih the promife of a plenteous 
 harveft. Clofe below the hill was firctched a valley, 
 watered in its whole extent with a thoufand little rills ; 
 
 i and 
 
THE GREAT GARDEN. 169 
 
 aad all this landfcape v/as in motion. There were fi(her- 
 men in one part, bafy with their nets ; and huibandmen, 
 who in another were employed in gathering fruits and 
 herbs, and rportfmen with their greyhounds urging the 
 fwlft flag, and fnepherds watching by their flocks, or 
 playing near them in the fhade ; and reapers carting their 
 iafl fhc^aves, and dancing all the way before them as they 
 proceeded homeward. This delightful piclure captivated 
 Mr. Sage and his fon, who for a time kept filence, till the 
 child began the following converfation : 
 
 Papa, when fhall we reach your garden ? 
 
 Mr. Sage. We are at it now, my child. 
 
 Polydcre. But this is not a garden : it is a hill. 
 
 Mr. Sage. Look round as far as you can fee ; for this, 
 I tell you, is my garden. Yonder forell, and thefe rields 
 are all my property. 
 
 Folydore. Your property, papa? You are joking ! 
 
 Mr. Sage. No, indeed, 1 am not. 1 will convince yoii 
 in an inlbnt that I difpofe of every thing ail around us as 
 the owner of it only can do. 
 
 Polydore. ft will delight me to be Aire of that. 
 
 Mr. Sage. If you had all this country, what would you 
 do with it ? 
 
 Polydore. What the owners of eftates generally do. 
 
 Mr. Sage. What may that be? 
 
 Polydore. In the firil place, then, I would cut down a 
 deal of timber, and make fire- wood of it, to be ufed this 
 winter. In the next place, f would go a hunting to catch 
 vcnifon J and fometimes 1 would fifii. I would breed 
 iheep, and oxen ; and in harveic, gather in tlie corii that 
 covers this fine country. 
 
 Mr. Sage. Why, you comprehend the matter admi- 
 rably, Polydore : and J am glad to find our notions are io 
 like each other's. Well, whatever you would do, then, 
 I already do ; and I will convince you of it. 
 
 Polydore. How, papa ? 
 
 Mr. Sage. 1 fay, then, in the firll: place, I have mea 
 who cut down for me in this foreil all the wood that X 
 want. 
 
 Polydore. And yet, I never heard you order them to cue 
 down any for you ! 
 
 Mr. Sage. And why not ? becaufe they have tl;c fore- 
 thought to prevent mc. We have always a good f.re 
 
 Vol II, I belo'v, 
 
170 THE GREAT GARDEN. 
 
 -he!ow', and fometimes, too, up ilairs. Well then, I have 
 the wood brought to me from the foreft to keep up thofc 
 fires: for here, you know, we cannot get coals to burn as 
 if we were in London. 
 
 Folydore. You have, indeed, the wood brought to you 
 from this foreft ; but mull pay for what you h:ive. 
 
 Mr, Sage. If I were what you call the real o\\ner of this 
 foreft, Ihould I not be forced, as 1 am at prefcnt, to pay 
 for what I might have brought me from it ? 
 
 Fclydorc. No indeed, papa. It would be cut down for 
 you, and fent in without a penny coft on your part. 
 
 Mr. Sage. You believe fo, do you? On the contrary, 
 I think the coft might be a great deal more in that ca'le 
 than at prefent ; for you will grant, if I pofTtfied the 
 foreft, I muft keep at le<:ft a wocdman to cut down the 
 trees for lire- wood. 
 
 Folydore^ Well ; pafs over this : but can you go a hunt- 
 ing? 
 
 Mr. Sage. And why fhould I hunt, Polydore ? 
 
 PJydore. For inllancc, to have venifon. 
 
 Mr. ScTge. Could wc two, then, eat a buck or doc our- 
 fclvcs entirely ? 
 
 Polydore. We fhould have a charming appetite to do fo.. 
 
 Mr. Sage. Well then, as I cannot go a hunting, I fend 
 hunilmen in my place ; and very probably, the venifon 
 that you have feen hang up at Chaiing-crofs, where, as 
 you remember, you uent with me lately to buy feme, was 
 hunted in this foreft. I can therefore, without hunting 
 venifon, have as much fis I think proper. 
 
 /'(5/v^.!7;r. For voiir money ! 
 
 Mr. Sage. Well ; and is it not a chr.rming thing for me 
 that I can come at venifon on ihcfe tcims ? for [ have no 
 wages to pay to th(fe who hunt it for me ; or provided they 
 Ihould fhoot it, I have neither to fupply them with gun, 
 nor ball nor powder. Thofe .various kinds of dogs that 
 our fquire rnaintains, thank Heaven ! they eat up nothing 
 that belongs to me. 
 
 Polydore'.' Are. the fe cows too, and Iheep that graze in 
 yonder meadow, yours? 
 
 Mr. Sage. Yes, truly. Have not you frefh butter every 
 day ? T get it from thofe covvs. 
 • Polydore. But papa, if all tliefe flocks, and all thofe 
 little rivers too, are yours, why have not we at dinner 
 
 every 
 
THE G R EAT GARDEN, 171 
 
 every day all forts of meat and fifn, as other rich folks I 
 am told have r 
 
 Mr. Sage, Do they eat up every thing that their fervants 
 fet before them r 
 
 PuJydore. No: but they may chufe at table whatever 
 they like. 
 
 Mr. Sage. Axnd as for me, I make my choice before my 
 vi<^uals'cOme to table. Every thing that I want, 1 have. 
 Sopcrfluous thitigs, it is true, I do rrot poflefs : but what 
 benefit would they procure me if I had them ? 1 fhould 
 want, in that cafe, a fuperfluous (lomach alfo. 
 
 Polydore. Wealthy people make good cheer ; but you, 
 papa,. 1 fancy, do not. 
 
 Mr. Sape: Indeed 1 d©, and better than the wealthy, 
 Polydore. 1 have a faace that almoft always fails them; 
 namely, a good appetite. 
 
 Poljaare. And have you then a deal of money, as they 
 have, to fatisfy a thoufand v/iilies? 
 
 Mr. Sage. Much more money ; or at lead, what Is 
 better, I have no wifhes. 
 
 Polydore I believe, however, there is a deal ofpleafure 
 in contenting them. 
 
 Mr. Sage. A hundred times more pleafure, child, ia 
 being content of one's felf, as 1 am. 
 
 Polykore: But does not God,; pray, love the rich a great 
 deal more than you, fmce he bellows upon them {o much 
 go-!d ahd filverr 
 
 Mr. Sage. Polydore, do not you recolledl the wine that 
 we had lall Wednefday on the table, when your uncle 
 came to dine and fup with us, and which you faid was fo 
 delicious? 
 
 Polydore. Yes, papa; I remember you were fo good as 
 to give me half a glafs full of it. 
 
 ' Mr. Sage. But you wanted more, I might have let 
 you have it, fince, you know, the bottle had a deal left 
 in it, even after fupper : why, then, diJ 1 not oblige you, 
 pray ? 
 
 Polydore. Becaufe you were afraid that it would make 
 me ill. 
 
 Mr. Sage. I recoileifl I told you fo : and do not you. 
 think that I did right? 
 
 Polydore. Oh ! as for that, you did indeed ; I know you 
 love me, and are always lludying how to make me happy. 
 
 I 2 So 
 
172 THE GREAT GARDEN. 
 
 So you would not have refufed me fucli a trifle as a glafs 
 of wine, if you had thought that it Would have pleafed 
 mc, and not hurt my health. 
 
 Mr. Sage. And can you think that God loves you lefs 
 than Ixio? 
 
 Polydore. No, papa, I cannot, after what I have heard 
 you fay fo often of his goodnefs. 
 
 il/r. Sage. On the other hand, do you believe that he 
 would have found it difficult to give you gold and filver 
 in abundance ? 
 
 Polydcre. No more difficult than I fhould find it to give 
 any one a handful of the duft that we tre^d. 
 
 Mr, Sage. Well then, if, as you acknowledge, he is 
 able to bellow thefe on you, and does not beltow them, 
 even though he lo.ves you, what are you to think of his 
 refufal? 
 
 P(.lydore. That the riches which I defire from him would 
 be hurtt'ul. 
 
 Mr. Sage. Are you perfe(ftly convinced of this ? 
 
 Polydore. Yes, pcrfedly, and have not a word to fay 
 againll it. Yet, papa — 
 
 Mr. Sage. Well ; why thus (hake your head ? You 
 >iave iiill lome burthen on your heart : what is it.? 
 
 Polydore, Notwitliilanding all your reafonings, I can 
 never bring myleU to fancy all this country yours. 
 
 Mr . Sage. A n d w h y ? 
 
 Folydore. Becaufe you cannot enjoy it as you pleafe. 
 
 Mr. Sage. You know the famous Vlr. Norton } 
 . Folydote. Do 1 know hirn ? Why that is he who has 
 fuch charming gardeas. 
 
 Mr Sage. And can he enjoy thofe gardens as he 
 pleafes ? 
 
 Polydore. No, indeed ; poor man ! he dares not even 
 cat a bunch of grapes ! 
 
 Mr. Sage. And. yet you have feen fome very fine ones in 
 his garden ? 
 
 Polydore. I have; but they would do him harm. 
 
 Mr. Sage. You fee then, one may eafily pofi'cfs a num- 
 bir of gooa thin^-, and yet n"t dare to ufe th.-rr. as one 
 likes, 1 dare not ufe my gardens as I certainly ihould 
 like, becaufe my fortune will not let me: and this Mr. 
 Norton da-res not ulc his garden as he likes, becaufe his 
 
 health 
 
THE GREAT GARDEN. 1 73 
 
 Health will not allow him. So that I am much the 
 happielt. 
 
 Polydore. But, papa, you love to ride a horfe-back — 
 do not you ? 
 
 Mr. Sage. Yes ; for it is an exercife that does me good, 
 when 1 have time to take it. 
 
 Polydore. Well then, if thefe meadows arc all yours, 
 why do not you take the hay that grows upon them, and 
 in future keep a horfe ? 
 
 Mr. Sage. Why that is the very thing which I ^o. And 
 thofe fame hay-cocks that you fee there, are poilibly in- 
 tended for the horfe that I ride. 
 
 Polydore. And yet 1 never favv one in your flabk? 
 
 Mr, Sage. Heaven be praifed, I am not at fuch a great 
 cxpence. 
 
 Polydore. Nor do you ride as frequently as you would 
 like r 
 
 Mr. Sage. You are wrong : for I am fo prudent, that 
 I nsver wiih to ride but when a ride would do ine good, 
 and then I get it for about three fhillingt. God be j-raii'e.. ! 
 1 am rich enough to pay that fum. 
 
 Polydore. Do not you imagine that to have two fine pie- 
 bald horfes, and to be drawn about the country in a 
 fafhionable coach, would be very pleafant ? 
 
 Mr, Sage. Agreeable enough: but when I think of all 
 the inconvenience that attends a coach ; how often one 
 would want the harnefs-maker, fmith and wheelwright ; 
 how much one depends upon the health of horfes, and 
 the condud of a coachman ; and what rifque one runs of 
 being overfet, together with the fatal confequences which 
 luxury too frequently occafions, — truly, Polydore, I do 
 not grieve that I am obliged to ufe my legs, which cer- 
 tainly will lail me long enough. But fee, ^ the fun is now 
 fet, and we muft think of getting home before the evening 
 clofes on us. Let me have your hand. — Now, are you net 
 quite pleafed in having hen. my great eftate ? 
 
 Polydore, Ah ! dear papa, I Ihould be much more fo, 
 could J but be perfuaded that it were yours. 
 
 The father fmiled at this reply ; and down the hill they 
 walked together. As it happened, they went by a mea- 
 dow, which at hrft they thought had been a pond, becaufe 
 it was quite covered with Vvatcr. Blefs me! cried out 
 Mr. ^Si%^t do you fee this meadow, how it is overflowed ? 
 I % The 
 
174 THE GREAT GARDEN. 
 
 The neighbouring river mull have burlt its bounds, and 
 all ihe hay this year is fpoilt'd. 
 
 Poljdore. 1 fancy he lo whom tiie hay belonged will not 
 be \ery happy, when rhey tell him of his lofs. 
 
 Mr. Sage. No, no ; nor yet is this the worll : he will 
 be forced to mend the banks, and very likely make ario- 
 ther dam. Why, he will be very happy, if he does not 
 fpend in thefe repairs the produce of ten harveils that he 
 could make in fuch a meadow. 
 
 Pclydore. Oh! What a misfortune ! 
 
 Mr. Sage, But I thought there had been a windmill 
 hereabouLs. 
 
 Polydore. And there is, papa. Look there before you. 
 
 Mr. Sage. Right, I fee it now: the rer.fon is, 1 did 
 not hear it going. I v/ou!d lay any wager that the torrent 
 coming dov/n has forced away the wheeiwork. Let us go 
 fee. — Jutt fo. — It is broke to pieces. — What will the poor 
 owner do? He mull be very rich indeed, to Hand againll 
 fo many loffes ! 
 
 Polydore. Oh ! I pity him with all my heart! But fince 
 the day is over, piay why are the bricklayers ftill at woik ? 
 
 Mr. Sage. I cannot ttll why. We need but afk the 
 reafon. Pray friend, be fo kind as to inform us why you 
 work fo late ? 
 
 A Bricklayer. We fliall be here all night ; for yeflerday, 
 when it was dark, a gang of thieves pulled down the wall, 
 that they might get into the park, and ileal away the fur- 
 niture that had been put into a new built fumnier-houfc. 
 'I'he theft was not difcovered till this morning; and in- 
 deed it is very lucky that no one caught them in the fiict. 
 
 Mr. Sage. How fo .'' "" 
 
 The Brjckhiyir. Becaufe the thieves had previoufly dlf- 
 pofed combuhibles to fet the fumnjer-houfc on fire, if 
 they had been diilurbed in plundering ; fo that they might 
 get away ailiiled by the buille and confufion which fuch 
 dcltrudlion would have caufed. The owner of this ground, 
 as you may judge, is therefore very happy in his lofs : he 
 might have feen his fummer-houfe burnt down ; whereas, 
 the affair will coil him now no more than fome flight re- 
 pairs to his wall, the expence of keeping up a watch all 
 night, and buying other furniture inllead of the former, 
 which indeed had coil him a good deal. 
 
 Well, 
 
THE G R E A T G A R D E N. 1 75 
 
 Well, Polydore, now iaid Mr. Sage to his Ion, wheti 
 they had walked a liLtle way m filence, what do you ob- 
 ferve on thefe misfortunes ? Do not they grieve you ? 
 
 Polydore. Why Ihou-ld I be ibrry ? I have fufl'ered no- 
 thing by them. 
 
 Mr. Sage. But if this eilate had been your property^ 
 as Mr. Norton's grounds are his ; and if, when going out 
 this morning, youhadfeen your meadow overflowed, your 
 wind-mill broken to pieces, your park wall demoliihed, 
 and your fummer-houfe robbed, would you have gone home 
 as fatisfied as you appear to be at prefent t 
 
 Polydore. Oh by no means. I ffiould, en the contrary^ 
 be miferable, had I undergone fo many heavy loiTes in a 
 day. 
 
 Mr. Sage. But what if you had every day fuch lofTes- 
 to endure, or to dread? would you be as happy as at 
 prefent ? 
 
 Polydore. I fhould be a thoufand times more miferp.ble. 
 
 Mr. Sage. Well then, Polydore, fuch is in reality tlie 
 ilateof all whopoflefs great abundance. Without reckon- 
 ing up the cares that agitate them, and the innumerable 
 wants which they fancy, — in the elevation of their for- 
 tune lies too frequently the caufe of its decay. A bar- 
 ren feafon, or a falfe Hep in the purfuit of their rapacious 
 projeds, frequently fuffices to produce their ruin. As 
 they fear the iofs of their imaginary confequence, fhould 
 they refolve upon fome facrifices to their luxury and pride ; 
 the more they undergo diftreffing lofTes, the more the/ 
 fuppofe that they ought to make afumptuous fhow to keep 
 up the appearance of their riches, and fupport a credit 
 which already totters to its fall. What then is the effect 
 of fuch a wretched fort oi vanity ? Their fervants, per- 
 haps, kept out of their wages an unfeafonabie time, 
 proceed to introduce a fort of robbery through ail the 
 houfe. The improvement of their fortune, and the edu- 
 cation of cheir children being overlooked, their lands in 
 fome fort as it were lie fallow, or produce a blighted har- 
 veit only; and their children, left to riot in the ways of 
 wickednefs, commit difgraceful adtions which are ftifled. 
 by the neceffary aid of money. All their property, when 
 feized by inexorable creditors, is in the end completely 
 dilTipated, or elfe the law lays hold of what would other- 
 wife be left them. And thefe favourites of fortune, once 
 I. A... fo 
 
^j;^ 1'HE GREAT GARDEN. 
 
 fo proud of their abundance, elevated ftation, and enjoy- 
 xntnt5, fall at once to theloweft pitch of indigence, fiiame 
 ;nirl defpair. 
 
 f^jc'ore- Oh what a frightful pidlure is this, papa ? 
 
 Mr. Sa^e. It is one, however, daily to be feen infociety; 
 and be ailured, there is not one exaggerated feature in 
 the wh )ie portrait. J can at all times fhew you, in the 
 ])ublic pnpcrs, the decay of fome great family or other: 
 Slid thefe llriking inllances God's providence expofes to 
 the obfervation of the rich, that they may fee what fortune 
 3£ moll likely to await their pride and folly. In the mor- 
 ning wc will go and gaze on thofe fine buildings which ex- 
 cite your envy now, where you may read the ruin of to3 
 many families infcribed on every pillar round about, ti'I 
 they are fwallowed up themfelves in their own ruin. Why, 
 alas, can I not fpare your fenfibiiity the cries of many de- 
 folated families, which are but too evincing tokens of fuch 
 miferable revolutions I 
 
 Polydire. VVhatthen, fliould I look upon the mediocrity 
 of our condition as a blelTing meant us from above? 
 
 jl/r. Sage. Yes, yes; if you are only frugal and in- 
 duilrious, and poffefs fufiicicnt refolutlon to renounce am- 
 bition and the immoderate wifh of getting money, of 
 confining your defires, and keeping them within the 
 limits of that ilate you fill. Do I want any thing to make 
 me happy? and in reafon, would you wifh hereafter to 
 be happier than your father is? Confider the whole uni- 
 ^erfe as your cllate; fmce if you are but properly induf- 
 trioas, it will furniOi you a comfortable maintenance. 
 God's providence has placed your earthly habitation half 
 Vv'ay up a hill, whofc fummit is extremely crag^ry, and 
 its bafc choakcd up with fvvamps. Lift up your eye at 
 intervals upon the rich and great, not with a view to 
 envy them their fituations, but to think upon the ftorms 
 that bellow round them. Sometimes too, look down 
 upon the poor beneath you, not by wiy of infult on 
 their friendlcfs fituation, but fo hold them out your hand. 
 ]f God ihould blefs you with a family of children, let 
 them often hear the leilbn which I have ju(t now taught 
 you ; but particularly, give them in your life and man- 
 ners that example which God's blelTing has enabled me to 
 afford you. 
 
 By 
 
BLIND-MAN'S BUFF. 177 
 
 By tViis time they were both at home. The virtuous 
 7Ar. Sage went up flairs into his chamber, and there 
 failing on his knees, gave thinks to God for all tiie 
 bleffings which he had conftantly received, and offered 
 him the facriiice of his exillence, as the heft return that 
 he could make. What need had he of being any longer 
 upon earth ? His days had been replete with probity and 
 honour, and by giving fujh a leffon on contentment to 
 his Ton, he endeavoured, as far as in him lay, to endov/ 
 him with a valuable patrimony, fucli as no one could take 
 from him. 
 
 BLIND- MAN'S BUFF. 
 
 A Drama, in Two Acts. 
 
 Characters. 
 
 Mr. Jephson. 
 Frank, his f on, 
 
 , ' > his daughters. 
 
 Isabella, j ^ 
 
 Dor IN DA, 1 
 
 Alice, > their Friends, 
 
 L A u R A , /3 liftle lamCy 3 
 
 Elder Danby, \ v • j t> , 
 
 Younger u kh^y .luhojlutters.^ 
 Roberts, their acquaintance. 
 Mr. Jephjon^s groom. 
 
 Scene an apartment in the houfe of Mr. 'Jephfon, nvith a 
 table, and upon it books and other papers, and a /peaking 
 trumpet in the corner. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE r. 
 
 Frank, {/peaking to his father as he gees donv-i fairs.) 
 O, no, p.ipa, do not be afraid : I will takeihe eteat- 
 
 N 
 
 ell care that no accident fhall happen to your papers. 
 I will put up your books too in the clofet. — [be comes for- 
 I 5 <-ujcird, 
 
178 BLIND-MAN^ BUFF. 
 
 njoarcl.. jumping for joy.) We fhall have fome fine dlverfion ! 
 Wiien the cat is away, the mice (it ii faid) will phiy. 
 (To Lucy, 'vjho iio<zv comes in) Well now, Lucy, is aiama 
 gone out, and all our little friends ?.>rived ? 
 
 Lucy. My frieuds are all three come ; but none of your 
 companions yet. 
 
 Frank. O, 1 can eafily believe you iiiler. We do not 
 want to run a gadding like you gir!s ; and lo we are not 
 the firll to keep appointments of ihi? nature. You mull 
 force us from ourltudy, if you would have us. Look you, 
 I vvould lay any wager that the Danby's, at kail, are hard 
 at work, while we are fpeaking. 
 
 Lucy. Yes, to fettle what line tricks they can contrive 
 to put upon us. — But pray, Frank, is it true that papa 
 will let us pafs the evening here? our room above is fo 
 very fmall, we could not have found room to turn our- 
 felves well'round. 
 
 Frank. Could my papa refufe you any thing, when \ 
 concerned myfelf to aik it } Softly, little girl, do not dif- 
 compofe the papers.— Let them lie. 
 
 Lucy, Keep that advice, fir, to yourfcif : I meant to 
 lay them fmooth. 
 
 Franks {jwith an air of importance) No, no, you can- 
 not, mifs ; J am charged vi\\\\ that commiirion, 
 
 Lucy. Truly, my papa could not have given it to fo 
 orderly a gentleman ! let me at leall ainft you then ; and 
 afierwards J will put the chairs in order. Thefe great 
 books I fliall remove firft. 
 
 Frank. Do not think of touching them ! At moll 
 I can permit you only to take one by on?, and pile 
 them up upon my hands, i^^he docs foy till they reach 
 his chin.) 
 
 Lucy. There is enough. 
 
 Frank, {leaning hachivards.) One more only. — So. — I 
 ]iave now iulHcient for one turn, [He takes a Jiep or tivo, 
 '■-when all the bocks fall doi.vn ) 
 
 Lucy^ {hurjUng out a laughing.) Ha, ha, ha, ha! there, 
 there they go ! Thofe handfome books that papa would 
 never let us touch ! 1 fancy he will be greatly pleafed to 
 fee them all tumbled together thus ! 
 
 Frank. 1 had loft the ctrnter of Gravity, as my tutor 
 i'aysj and you know, he is Gravity ivfeif, [He picks the 
 
 ■ ■ Icokf 
 
B' L I N D - MA" N ' s B U F F. 1 7-^ 
 
 hcoks upy hut they tumble donjon as f aft as he gathers them.) 
 Deuce take it ! 'I'hey have been at Sadler's Wells, I think, 
 and learned to tumble Ture ! 
 
 Lucy. You will never finifh, If I do not aflift you. So 
 d'ye fee, I will fpread my apron, and do you lloop dov>/u 
 and pile them in it. 
 
 Frank. That is well thought indeed ! i^F rank gees upon 
 his knees, takes up the books and places them in order in his 
 Jtjier's apronS) 
 
 Lucy. Softly, brother, they will rub one a,^ainft ano- 
 ther 1 So ; 1 have got them all, and now I will carry tiiem 
 into the clofet. {She goes out.) 
 
 Frank {rijing out of breath.) Blefs me ! I fhould never do 
 to live a long time in the country where men go upon all- 
 fours like monkies. [He fans himfelf <vjith his hat.) 
 
 Lucy, [re-entering.) Could you fee how neatly I have 
 ranged them on the chimney, you v/ould be charmed! 
 So let me have the reft. {Frank puts the other books and all 
 the papcr^s in his ffers lapy ^ixho fays 3 ivhen fie recei-jes 
 them,) Well, every body muH acknowledge that girls are 
 cleverer than boys. 
 
 Frank. O yes, and you particularly. Ifibella is con- 
 ftantly employed in putting bv your flireds and rags. 
 
 . Lucy. And if your tutor had not conftantly his eye upson 
 you, you would never knov/ where you fhould find your 
 exercifes and tranflations. {She looks about her.) Bat 1 
 fancy, I have now got th:m all. 
 
 Frank. Yes, yes ; there is nothing left ; fo get you 
 gone. {Lucy goes cut.) 
 
 Frank, .{putting back the chairs and table in their places.) 
 There ; fo that is done, and we Ihall now have elbow-room 
 enough. I cannot help thinking what fine work we fhall 
 be fure to make. However, I am furprifed that they 
 are not come yet. For my part, I can fay I hardly ever 
 make any one wait for me when a vifit is in the cafe. 
 
 Lucy, {entering once again, and looking round about.) Ay, 
 very well : but brother you muit hide this fpeaking trum- 
 pet.; If your friends flipuld happen to perceive it, they 
 will be fure to ftun us with their noife, 
 
 Frank. Stay, flay; I will put it up behind the door, as 
 perhaps I fhall want it. Let your little friends come now 
 and din me v/ith their chattering, as they ufed to do, and 
 we fhall fee who- will cry out io^jd^ll:. ^ • ■ 
 
 16 " Lucy^ 
 
i8o B LIND- M AN's BUFF. 
 
 Lucy. Pfliaw ! we need but join together; we fhouli 
 very ihortly get the upper hand of fuch a little thing 
 as you. 
 
 Frank. O n6 ; for if you ladies have yonr clappers fo 
 well hung, we gentlemen poilefs a fine clear manly voice, 
 which every one refpet^s : as thus — You hear nie ? 
 
 Lucy^ [jhruggivg up her fnoulden.') Yes ; and have {q 
 much refped as you fay, for you, that I will take niyfelf 
 ;iway. Farewel. I will run and join my friends. 
 
 Frank, And bid the fervant fend me up my vilitors when 
 tliey arrive. 
 
 Lucy. Yes, ye?. {She ivithdra'-ivs.) 
 
 Frank, {taking up the /peaking irurnpet.) Here is what 
 has often brought me from the furthcll corner of the gar- 
 den, much againft my inclination ; and, I think, I hear it 
 ftill, — So ho ! there 1 Frank ! Frank ! — My young friefids 
 live only at the corner of the ftreet. J^et me fee if I can 
 liurry them. {He puts the trumpet to his tneuth, throaus up 
 the 'windofw, and cries out,) 
 
 Girls and boys ccme out to play. 
 The moon doth (hine as bright as day ; 
 Come with a whoop, and come with a call, 
 Come with good-will or not at all. 
 {He lewves the wiKcIcw, and drauos near the door. ^ Well,^ 
 is not this furprifing ! It is like Harlequin's enchanted 
 horn. I think I hear them talking to each other on the 
 ftairs. {Helijiens.) Yes, yes! 1 proteft the two Danby'a 
 {He puts the trumpet hy.) Suppofe I were to jump now on 
 the table, and receive them fitting on my thtone? {He 
 runs to fetch a fiocl that he may pat it on the table ; and 
 prepares- to take a fl^ring^ lut the arri-val of the iiuo Danby^s 
 prei'ents him.) 
 
 SCENE II. 
 Frank, Elder Danby, 7'ounger Danby, 
 
 Frank. Could not you have ilaid a little at the door till 
 I wa? mounted on my throne, that 1 might give you audi* 
 cnce, as they fay, in all my glory? 
 
 Elder Danby. Good indeed 1 you have no occafion for a 
 throne to look exadly like a king. And ai^live as yoo are, 
 the throne might polTibly caule your majefty a tumble. 
 
 Frank% 
 
BLIND-MAN's BUFF. igt 
 
 Frank. Why, to fay the truth, I have read of many 
 tumbles of that nature in my ancient hiftory. 
 
 Elder Danby, And in fome fort, fuch an accident has 
 happened to my brother, though he is no great prince. 
 He fell down flairs laft week, and hurt his nofe coa- 
 fiderably. 
 
 Younger Danhy^ {Jiuitering.) Yes, indee-deed! It paini 
 me Ili-ilill a little, and that ma-a-after Roberts is a very 
 nau-au-aughty boy. 
 
 Frank. Does he defign to come to-night ? 
 
 Elder Danby, I hope not : if we had expected him here» 
 we Ihould not have iHrred out. 
 
 Younger Danby. He o-o-only thinks of mis-mifchief» 
 
 Frank. What has he done then ? 
 
 Elder Danby. We were both going out laft Saturday. 
 I ftopped to get a handkerchief: my brother went down 
 Hairs alone, and, as it happened, Roberts hearing fome 
 one, carae out ilily, jumped at once upon my brother, 
 who was frighted, loft his footing, and rolled down the 
 ftairs from top to bottom. 
 
 Frank. Poor Danby ! I am forry for you. Roberts 
 looks for all the world as if he loved fuch mifchief. We 
 fhall have his company this evening for the firft time in 
 our lives : his father begged papa to let him come and 
 fee us. 
 
 Elder Danby, I am forry for it. For we do not fpeak 
 to one another. 
 
 Frank. My papa fuppofed you all good friends, becaefd 
 you lodge together, and confidered that you would have 
 the greater pleafure if he came. 
 
 Elder Danby, The greater pleafure ! We fhould like to 
 have him ten miles off. Since he has been our neighbour, 
 we are continually uneafy. He has frequently amufed 
 himfelf with breaking windows, and then tried to lay the 
 blame on u.<^. 
 
 Frank. Does no one make complaint about him to his 
 father ? 
 
 Elder Danby. Oh ! I do not know what to make of 
 him ', he is fuch an odd fort of a man ! He fcolds a little, 
 pays the damage, and that is all. 
 
 Frank. If I were your papa, I would quit my lodgings 
 and live fomewhere elfe, 
 
 mdsr 
 
iBz B L I N D > M A N ' s BUFF. 
 
 ElJcr Danhy. Ves, fo he means to do, and therefore" 
 yciterday gave warning; and now we arc forbidden all 
 manner of connexion with this Roberts, he is fo wicked! 
 Would you think it, very few go by the houfe, without 
 being apprehenhve that he will put fome trick upon them. 
 Sometimes he diverts himfelf by fquirting p"udd!e water at 
 them, or elfe pelting them with rotten apples. Nay, he 
 will fometimes fallen rabbits tails or bits of rags behind 
 their backs, at which the people, when they fee it, all burll 
 out a laughing. Then too he has what he calls his 
 caxen Jijherj. 
 
 Frank. Caxen filTiery ! 
 
 EUer Danby. Yes : he will take thd people's wigs ofF, 
 as they pafs him, with a hook, as you would carp. When 
 any poor man Hops before his window to converfe with 
 an acquaintance, Roberts immediately goes up to the bal- 
 cony, with a ftring fufpended from a hibing-rod, and at 
 the end of it a hook, with which he jerks the poor man's- 
 wig off. Tiien he runs and ties it to a dog that he has- 
 before provided for the purpofe, after which he drives the 
 creature out into the llrcet, and off he fets that iniiant, 
 fo that the poor perriwig has frequently been dragged for 
 twenty minutes through the mud, before its owner can 
 lay hold of it again. 
 
 Frank, But this is more than mere amufement ! 
 
 Eldw lyanhy. And yet this is nothing to the (lories that 
 I could tell you. Why, he lames or bruifes all the dogs 
 and cats that come within his reach. Nor is it long ago, 
 when one of his relations broke a leg, by flipping down 
 upon the ftairs where Roberts had been fcattering peas ou 
 purpofe. Ay, it is fo j or elfe our name is not Danby. 
 And for the fervant.s 1 am fure, his father would not get 
 one to attend liim, if he did not pay extraordinary wages. 
 
 Frank. Shall 1 tell you now \ I long to fee him. 1 like 
 boys a little u-icrry. 
 
 Elder Danby . Nothing *is more natural : but Roberts's 
 mirth is not like other children's. You, I know, love 
 laughing in your heart ; but would not, fur the world, 
 hurt any one ; whereas this wicked fellow laughs at bumps 
 and bruifes. 
 
 Frank. Oh that does not fright me in the haft. I fli'all 
 be much more plcafcd in paying hiin as he defer ves. 
 
 Elitr 
 
B L I N D - M A N ' s BUFF. lUy 
 
 Ehisr Danhy. If he ilioulo come, my brother will not 
 olfcnd you by withdrawing ? He- would do him ibme fiefh 
 nvjiiehief. 
 
 2'cu?!ger Danhy. Ye-ye-yes, I will go. 
 
 Faai-uk* No, no :. we are old Friende ; and pofitively no 
 new comer fliall divide us. I will' take care and manage 
 him, I warrant you.—- But do not I hear a noiO? upon the 
 ftairs f — It is Roberts. -—No, i fee iv.y filler aiid her com- 
 pany. 
 
 SCENE in. 
 
 Frankj Eldir Dan^hy^ Tou-nger Danhy^ Litcy, Ifahelhii 
 Dorinda, Alice , LsUura^ 
 
 Lucy. Your humble fervant, my good friends ! but 
 why not feated, brother? You might eafily have got the 
 gentlemen a chair apiece, fince they have been with you* 
 b.ure theje has been time enough. 
 
 Frank. As if v^e did not know that it is ufual to Hand 
 up when we receive ladies. 
 
 Lucy. l.a.n) charmed to find -you know your duty; but 
 where is mailer Roberts? [ta the Danbys.) I did fuppofe 
 that you would haye brought iunx with you. 
 
 Elder Danh. It is a long time now, thank Heaven., 
 fiace we have been feparated from, him.. 
 
 Dorinda, Is he then unluckier than Lucy's brother ? 
 
 Laura y [archly.) Certainly he would be unlucky then 
 indeed ! 
 
 Jlice, Lucy's brother! He is a very iamb to Roberts. 
 We have known hi'm for a long time. Have we not, 
 dear filler ? 
 
 Laura. We have, and he has played me many a trick, 
 
 Alice. He was very intimate with Anthony my brother ; 
 but he is rid of him entirely now : why, he is the faddell 
 fellow in the world! 
 
 Lucy. Oh, as for that, my brother is even with him 
 there. 
 
 Dorinda, But to do mifchief mt;rely for the pleafure of 
 it — there is the villainy I 
 
 Lucy. No, no, my brother is better than that com.es to. 
 
 Frank, [jwith an air of irony.)- Do you really think fo } 
 I am obliged to you ! 
 
 4 . Dorinda, 
 
i84 BLIND- MAN'S BUFF. 
 
 Dorinda. Well, well, my dear Lucy, we will be under 
 your protedion, you are the biggeft of us ; and befides, 
 at prefent you are millrefs of the houfe, and may com- 
 mana him. 
 
 Lucy. Do not you be afraid. I will keep him perfeftlf 
 in bounds. 
 
 Frank, Yes, yes, Lucy: you (hall take care of the 
 ladies, and for you, {to the Danhy's,) I will take you 
 under my protedlion. 
 
 Elder Danby, Oh ! he will hardly think of playing 
 tricki with me. Ke knows me, I aflureyou. I only fear 
 for luy brother. 
 
 Younger Danly. He makes ga-ga-game of me ! yes, al- 
 al-alwaj-s ! 
 
 Laura. That is his way; he always attacks the leaft. 
 He would never vex my filter, — none but me. 
 
 Lucy. 1 can believe you : fuch as he are always cow- 
 ards. I compare him to a puppy following clofe upon a 
 cat as long as Ihe keeps running : but if once the cat 
 turns round, and Ihevvs her whifkers, then the pijppy fcam- 
 pers for it. 
 
 Frank. Well then, firter, you (hall be the cat. 
 
 Laura. And let him fee your whifkers. 
 
 Lucy. But methinks it would not be amifs if we fat 
 down. Though we expe<rt this Mr. Mifchief-maker, 
 we have no need, I fancy, to remain Handing up till he 
 chufes to appear. 
 
 Frank, Huth ! here he is. ^ 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 Frank, Elder Danby^ Toungtr Danbyy Lucy, I/abella, 
 Dcrinduy Alice ^ Laura, Roberts. 
 
 Roberts y [io Frank and his Jijler, making them a boiv.) 
 Your fervant. Your papa was pleafed to let me wait 
 upon ycu : fo I am come to fpend the evening with you. 
 
 Lucy. We are g'ad to fee you, and (ha-i have a deal of 
 pleafure in your company ; at leaft my brother. 
 
 Jfubella. Yes, indeed ; he wants tor good example. 
 
 Frank. Do 1.? So your good example, you would have 
 the genticman foppofe, is noi lufikient. 
 
 3 X«<-j/. 
 
BLIND-MAN'S BUFF. 185 
 
 Lucy, Well, a truce to compliments. As miflrefs of 
 tiie houfe, it is necefiary that I fhould let you know who 
 is who. This tall young iady, in the firll place, is Mifs 
 Dorinda Lambton. 
 
 RobertSy {nvith a banter.) I am charmed to hear it. 
 
 Lucy. And thefe are the Mifs — 
 
 Roberts. O, I know them very well. This here Is 
 [pointing to Alice,) my lady — what is her name? Pent- 
 weazie, that will take you off the company, as fimple as 
 fhe feems : And there is [pointifig to Laura, and limping 
 round the room) Mifs Up-and-down, who broke her \zg 
 by running from the rod. This gentleman, {Elder Danby) 
 cbferve him, he is a grave wife Grecian, who looks ftrait 
 before him when he walks, as if he pitied us poor filly 
 children. And this other good little friend of mine 
 {pointing to younger Danhy^ and letting fall his hat) is Pe- 
 pe-peter Grievous, whofe dear mama forgot, poor crea- 
 ture ! to untie his tongue when he was born, {^he children 
 feem furprizedy and Jl are at one another.) 
 
 Frank. And who am J, fir, for methinks you feem 
 quite clever at this fort of portrait painting? 
 
 Roberts. Oh, I am not fufnciently acquainted with yott 
 yet, to take your likenefs: but I fhall let you have it foon. 
 
 Lucy. For you, fir, I could draw you at a glance, and 
 I muft tell you, the fimilitude would not b^ very pleafing. 
 I could never have fuppofed it pofTible that any well bred 
 little gentleman, as I imagine you affect to be, fhould 
 think of turning natural defeds into a theme for banter^. 
 If my little friends were not fincerely fuch, they would 
 have reafon to reproach me for expofing them to your in- 
 decency. But they can fee that I could not have ex- 
 peded half fo much myfelf. 
 
 Roberts. Why, Frank, 1 proteil, your filler is mighty 
 eloquent. You need not go to church on Sundays, hav- 
 ing luch a charming preacher in the houfe. 
 
 Frank. She has tolerable fkill, when any one is to be 
 told the truth ; and therefore both my fiRer Ifabella and I 
 love her fincerely. 
 
 Roberts. Well, well, you fee I have tolerable fkill like- 
 wife in telling truth; and therefore no doubt you will 
 love me, too, fincerely. [He bo--ws to Lucy.) i afe. your 
 pardon, mifs, for having taken your employment out of 
 your hands, as you are yourfelf fo clever at it. 
 
i86 B L I N D - M A N ' s B U F F. 
 
 Lucy, Your cxcufcs and your bow are both an infulc ; 
 but an jnfult, Aich as I defpife. Though, were they on 
 the other hand fincere, they would hardly make atone- 
 rhent forfo coarfe an incivility. If Ihad not confidered 
 every word that you faid as meant in jcke, however grofs 
 1 cr.nnot but Aippoie it, I fhould know what fuited rae to 
 do, and iliou-id have done it likewifc. Let nis therefore 
 bqg, fir, that you will indulge in no more freedoms of 
 this nature, \i you,incan that v/e fhould remain together. 
 
 Roberts, [Jome^iKihat e?nharraJJicL) Wei!, but 1 fee, you 
 do not undcritand a little harmlels piece of banter. Let 
 us be friends. [He holds out his hand.) 
 
 Lucy, {gi'-vis'ig hers.) With all ray heart, fir ; but pro- 
 vided — 
 
 Roberts, {ti-irning his hack fuddcnly upcn Lucy, and ad- 
 dreJpng'yi^uH^ Dcuibj .) You are an honelt little fellow, too, 
 and I will ihake ha'nds with you. {^He hejitates to gi-ue his 
 hcnd, -and therefore Roberts /ei%i>!g on it, jhakes his arm Jo. 
 roughly, that he falls a crying.) 
 
 Elder Danby. Malkr Roberts ! 
 
 Frank, \laying hold of Roberts'* s arm.) Pray, fir, let this 
 child alone ; or — 
 
 Roberts. Well — or wlvat r — my little Jack-a-dandy. 
 
 Frank, {boldly.) I am little, I acknowledge, but yet 
 ftrong enough ; and fo you will find me, when my friends 
 require to be defended. 
 
 Roberts. Say you fo ? in that cafe I fliould like to bo 
 one of them. But beforehand, if you pleafe, we v;ill 
 have a brufh, juft to -fee how you will be able to defend 
 them. 
 {^Roberts on a fudden tries to fling him donvn ; hut Frank 
 
 fands his ground, and Roberts falls. T^he company rujh in 
 
 to part them.) 
 
 Frank. But one moment, if you pleafe, young ladies. 
 I will not do him any harm. Well, Mr. Roberts, pray 
 how do you find yourfelf ? I fancy, I am your mafler. 
 
 Roberts, {fruggling.) Take } our knee off, — or you will 
 fiifle me. 
 
 Frank. No, no ; you mull not think of getting up, 
 unlefs you firll allc pardon. 
 
 Roberts, {furiotf}-.) Pardon ! 
 
 Frank. Yes, fir, and of all the company, as you have 
 certainly offended all the company. 
 
 Rdcrts* 
 
B L I N D - M A N ^ s BUFF. 187 
 
 .Roberts. Well, well ; I do afe pardon. 
 
 Frank. If you fliould infult us again, be afTiired, we 
 will fend you down inxo the cellar till to-morrow morning, 
 which will furely cool your cour:ige. Tkiit is much bet- 
 ter than to hurt you. VVe do not tliiak you worth the 
 trouble. — Rife. i^He gets fiotn off hiniy and ^whm both are 
 upi continues,^ You have; no. right to be offended ; for re- 
 member, it was yourlelf began the conteil. {Rcberts ftems 
 cJhameJ. ) 
 
 Dorinda, {ajide to I/abella.) I could never have fuppofed 
 your brother half fo valiant ! 
 
 I/abella. Oh! a lion is hardly bolder; and yet, Do- 
 rinda, he never quarrels. He is in ihort, although f fay 
 it, the bell: tempered little fellow in the world. {To the 
 company.) But what are we doing ? We ought t-o think of 
 fome amufement for the evening. 
 
 Fratik- Certainly we ought, or why are we all come 
 together? Well, what play fhall we chuTc? 6omething_ 
 funny? what fay you, Dan by? 
 
 Elder Danhy. We will let ihe ladies chufe. 
 {Roberts , makes 7n.0u.ths at Frank and Danby : the vejl pretend 
 
 as if they did not fee him.) 
 
 Lucy, There, Frank ; there is a leiTon for you : we may 
 chufe. Well then, fuppofe we play at quellions and com— 
 iiaands ? or poffibly you would like a gaine at cards mack 
 better ? 
 
 Laura. I fhould rather play at fomething with the lead 
 Danby. U you Lave a piclure-book, we will turn it over: 
 (liall vve ? 
 
 Tounger Danby, O o-ooh, yes, yes. 
 
 Lucy. With all my heart, fweet dears ! I will carry you 
 up Hairs. You will neither want for pictures nor play- 
 things there. 
 {Laura and the younger Danby take hold of one another by tht 
 
 handy and jump for joy,) 
 
 Lucy, {to the ladies.) My friends, will you go with me 
 for amufement into my apartment ? I have a charming, 
 bonnet thit you will like to fee. 
 
 Ml {together.) Yes, yes, yea ; let us go. 
 
 Elder Danby. Will you accept my Kand as far as your- 
 apartment, Mifs Lucy ? 
 
 Lucy, Rather let Mifs Doriada or Alic€ have it, if. the}^ 
 pleafe. 
 
iSS BLIND-MAM's BUFF. 
 
 {T^e elder Danby pre/ents his hand to Alice ^ njoho happens 1t^ 
 
 Jiand next him.) 
 
 Roberts. What then, do you mean to leave me by my- 
 felf here ? 
 
 Frank. No, \u ; thefe young ladies will excufe me, fa 
 I fhall rtay : but I am obliged to leave you ior a moment. 
 
 Roberts. Are yeu ? but 1 will follow you. I do not 
 like to be left alone by night, and in a houfe where I am 
 a flranger. 
 
 ACT IL 
 SCENE I, 
 
 Franky Roberts. 
 
 Roberts. The truth is, 1 was apprehenfive ]cf> you might 
 think of pl-'yiiig me feme trick; fo 1 accompanied you. 
 But now ihat we aie letumed, and all alone, we may de- 
 vile fome mirtli between us. 
 
 Frank. Very willingly ; I afk no better : fo let us think 
 a little. 
 
 Roberts. We muft have fome fun, I fancy with the 
 younger Danby. 
 
 Frank. If by fun you mean fome trick to hurt him, I 
 fay no: I will not be in a joking humour; fo pray leave 
 him out, if you are bent on mifehief. 
 
 Roberts. They told me that you were always merry, 
 and fond of fomething funny. 
 
 Frank. And fo 1 am : but, notwithllanding, without 
 hurt to any one. However, let me know what lort of fun 
 you m.eant. 
 
 Roberts. Lock you : here are two large needles. I will 
 ftick them both with the points upward in the bottom of 
 two chairs, that common eyes fliall not dilcern them. 
 In the next place you Ihall offer two of thefe young ladies 
 the two chairs, iir very likely they would lufpeft that I 
 meant them mifehief of fome fort or other, and (hey will 
 naturally both fit down : bwt figure to yourlelf what ftrange 
 grimaces they will both make! Ha! ha! ha' ha! It 
 makes me die a laughing, when 1 barely think whai faces 
 we Ihall fee them put on ! Ay, ay ! and your prudifh 
 fifteij too, will find the matter quite diverting. 
 
 Frank* 
 
^ LI ND- MAN'S BUFF. 189 
 
 Franks But fuppofe < were to treat you juft in the fame 
 manner, would you like it ? 
 
 Roberta. Oh I treat me I that is different; but thofe 
 little idiots 
 
 Frank. So you call them idiots, do you, fince they are 
 not mii'chlevous? 
 
 Roberts. Well, you are mighty formal and precife. 
 Then fhrJl I mention fome thing elfe ? 
 
 Fra?ik. Yes, do. 
 
 Roberts. Then I have fome thread as flrong as whip- 
 cord in my pocket. 1 will thread one of thefe great 
 needles with a little of it; and as foon as they are all 
 come down, one of us fhall go up politely towards them, 
 make a deal of fcraping, and wry faces, while the other, 
 keeping Itiil behind, Ihall few their gowns together. They 
 will all want to dance, as you may guefs ; fo up we will 
 come, and take them out. — Hal ha ! you know the reft; 
 ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! 
 
 Frank. Yes, to tear their gowns, and get them anger 
 when their parents find it out? 
 
 Roberts. Why there is the fun. 
 
 Frank. What ! have you no pleafure then in any thing 
 .but doing miichief? 
 
 Roberts. But it does not hurt me. 
 
 Frank. O ho ! 1 underftand : you think of no one but 
 yourfelf, and all the world is nothing to you ! 
 
 Roberts, Well; but we are come together to divert our- 
 felves, and we mufl pofitively have fome laughing. So 
 fuppofe we frighten Laura and the leall Danby ? 
 
 Frank. But that is quite wrong. Suppofing any one 
 ihould frighten you ? 
 
 Roberts. With all my heart, if any one is but able, I 
 am afraid of nothing. 
 
 Frank, {ajide.) Say you fo ? — That we fhall fee, per- 
 haps. — {Aloud to Roberts ) Well, about this frightening? 
 
 Roberts. 1 have an wgly mafk at home. 1 will run and 
 fetch it. And do you, when I am gone, contrive to bring 
 the little children down, and you fnali fee — I will not be 
 abfent half a minute. 
 
 Franks {afide.) Good ! — There fhall be a better mafk 
 ready for you, though ! — (T"© Roberts y calling him hack.) 
 ^ut Roberts ! Roberts] 
 
 Roberts, 
 
i'9o BLIND- MAN'S B U 1^ F. 
 
 Ucherts. What is the- matter ? 
 
 Frank. It will be better that we fhould come upon thefti 
 where we are, if I can b/ing the others down ; fbr when, 
 there are but two or three in this part o^ the houfe, thci^ 
 fomctimes comes a^fpirit; and in -that calt, ueourfdves 
 ihould be but badly off. 
 
 Rohisris. What is all this Ilory of a fpirit ? 
 
 Frank. Nay, it is rri^e; At firll onehears a noife, a»(l 
 then a phantom with a lighted torch glides by, and then 
 ■the room f(Jems all on fire. {Hedr^-ivs back, asif ojyaid.) 
 Oh ! raeth ink's liee it n-ow. 
 
 Rcbcrts, {a little fright encJ.) See what?- — O dear! — 
 And w.h^it can bring the phantom here? 
 
 Frahk; [dratving Roberts tcnx>ards a corner ^ and then 
 *^>.K>hi>J[:ertfig to him-) l"he reuion, as we are told, is this : 
 There- was a miier who lived here formerly, and he was 
 robbed' on-e night of all his imon-ey. In defpair he cut his 
 throat, and now fiom time to time his gholt goes up and 
 down 
 
 Roberts, {in a tremble.) O ho! I will Hay no longer 
 here, unlefs you get more company, 
 
 Franks But recollect ho.w brave you were juH now. 
 
 Roberts. You mull not fancy I am afraid ; — but — but—* 
 but — but — but I will go and fetch my mafk. 
 
 /'^tt^^i D6^,dO't and I will prepare things here. — What 
 pleafure we fllftll hiave ! 
 
 - Roberts i ['hxith a grin.) Oh! enough to make one die 
 witli'huighing 1 
 
 Frank. They will be finely frightened ! 
 
 R.iiberts., That they will! and therefore T will make 
 hallc. 1 am at home and back aq-ain — you Ihall fee how 
 ioon ! [He goes out.) 
 
 Frank, [cdor.e.) Ah! ah! you want to frighten others, 
 and are not afraid }'ourfelf! Well! well! 1 have- thought: 
 of fomething that will frighten you, or I am very much 
 millal;en. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Frcarky Lucy, Ifabella, Dorinda, Alice, elder Danby, 
 
 Lucy. W^e faw Mafter Roberts run acrof« the ilreet this 
 moment ! What is the matter? Have you had a quarrel ? 
 
 Frank, 
 
BLIND-MAN's BUFF. 191 
 
 Tr-ank. On the contrary-, he thinks me his beft friend. 
 I have leemed willing to go fhares with him in a trick that 
 he niean-s to put upon the little ones above ; but it is 
 himfelf that he will trick, ivnd never wifh to come here 
 a third time 
 
 I.ucy. Well, what is your projedt ? 
 
 Franks You fhall know very loon. At prefent I have 
 no time to lofe-, for every thing mull be in readinefs againfl: 
 his coming back: lb, ladies, 1 requeft permilTion to b'e 
 abfcnt for abourfive minutes. 
 
 Dor'tnda. Yes, go, go : but do not Sk.\^ longer. We 
 are all impatient to be told what you dellgn. 
 
 Frank. I Ihall cenfider it my duty to inform you when 
 I have liniihed my preparations. So once more with yoar 
 leave. J will come again ia lefs, perhaps, than live mi- 
 nutes. [He goes out.) 
 
 Lucy. Ah! ah! ah! — Two pretty fellows together! 
 V>'e fhall fee what good comes out between them ! They 
 are well matched. 
 
 Elder Danby. Oh! for Heaven's fake, Mifs Lucy, da 
 not do fuch dlllionour to my friend, your brother, as to 
 name* him and that wicked Roberts together. 
 
 Alice. You are in the right, Danby. One is nothing 
 bat politenefs, and the other quite a lavage. 
 
 Ifahella. Savage as he is, however, I would lay a wager 
 that Frank will be f:3und his m.ufter. 
 
 Dorinda. What a piece of fervice Frank would do us, 
 could he clear the houfe of fuch a fellow ! We fhall have 
 TiO pieafure all the evening, if he ftays among us. 
 
 Lucy, i am afr'.iid, however, Frank will proceed too 
 far, and think h'mlelf permitted to do any thing againfl 
 this Roberts. 
 
 Elder Danhy. He can never do enough; and thougli 
 his fcheme ihould be a little hard on Roberts, there will 
 be inftruftion in it : it is the greateft fervice that one can 
 do him : and his father,. I am perfuadcd, will be pleafed 
 with Frank, when he hears what pains he has taken to 
 inllrudl his fon. Alas ! he would part with half his for- 
 tune, to have Roberts like him. 
 
 Alice. So Lucy, do not you go about to thwart your 
 brother's good intentions. 
 
 Lucy. But, my dear Mifs Alice, I am in a ticklilh iitu- 
 ation : I am now inftead of my mama-y and cannot pof- 
 
 fib!y 
 
192 BLIND. MAN'S B U F K. 
 
 fibly let any thing go forward that fhe would not ap- 
 prove. 
 
 Alice. Let him have his way. We will take the blame 
 of what he does upon ourfelves. 
 
 Ifahella. Yes, let him, fifier. War, I fay, war j war 
 for ever with the wicked ! 
 
 Frank y {returning joyfully.^ — I have fettled every thin», 
 and Roberts may appear whenever he thinks proper. 
 We will receive him. 
 
 Ltuy, But, 1 hope, you will tell mc — 
 Dorinda, Yes, we will be in the plot too : and more 
 than that, alTift you if we can. 
 
 Frank. No, ladies, that is not neccflary. There is a 
 little violence, I mull acknowledge, in my plot, and 
 therefore I will not make you parties. 1 have been 
 fettling every thing with Ralph in the liable. He con- 
 ceives my meaning. clearly, and will fecond it with great 
 dexterity. 
 
 Lucy. But flill, you do not acquaint me — 
 Frank. This is all of the contrivance that you need 
 know. We will go to Blind-man's BufF, that Roberts 
 may fufpedl no harm on his return. 1 will let my/elf be 
 caught, and he or fhe that blinds me mull take care that 
 I may have an opportunity of feeing through the hand- 
 kerchief, and fixing upon Roberts. After he is blinded, 
 you fhall fteal into the clofet, take away the lights, and 
 leave us both together. When 1 want your aid, 1 will 
 call you. 
 
 Elder Danhy. But if Roberts fliould proceed to thralh 
 you in your lete a tetc ? 
 
 Frank. Proceed to ihralh me! You obferved how eafily 
 I flung him down. I am not afraid of fuch a one as he^ 
 for 1 have found him to be nothing but a coward : fo that 
 is fixed. But firfl:, v^e mull have both the little ones down 
 flairs, or Roberts might go up and frighten them while 
 we are talking here together. So pray, filler, {to I/ahcllay) 
 go and bring them down. 
 
 Ifahella. Yes, yes. {ohe goes out.) 
 
 Lucy. But, brother, I am not clear that I fhould permit 
 
 you 
 
 Alice. What Is the matter ? Let him do, I tell you, a3 
 he pkafes. 
 
 Frank. 
 
RLIND-MAN's BUFF. tgy 
 
 ¥rank. Yes, yes, filler; and rely on my difcretion. 
 iTou are Tcnfible, 1 do not like mifcliicf, for the fii^e of 
 jnifchief : therefore he fhall not have half the punifhment 
 that he merits but come off when 1 have frightened him 
 a little ; and that is all the harm that I mean to do him. 
 
 Lucy, Well then, Frank, on your promife of difcre- 
 tion — 
 
 Frank. Yes. I promife you no lefs. So let us make 
 hafte, and put the things to rights, that all may be iri 
 order here too when he comes. — {They put a-jjay the chairs 
 €ind table. I/ahella in the mean time comes do-vju ^vith Laura 
 and younger Danby.) 
 
 Frank y {going up to Laura and younger Danhy.) — Come, 
 come, my little friends, into this clofet; but take care, 
 and do not make any noife, or Roberts wQvy poffibly will 
 hear you. 
 
 Jjahellc. I will condud them. There is a book of 
 pit^iuiCvS ia it; and I will ilay to fhew them whatever they 
 like. 
 
 Laurfi,. I thought the tea was ready : May we not ilay 
 here with you till it comes in ? 
 
 Frank. 1 lliall fetch you when the fervant brings it ; 
 but at prcfent you mufl go into the clofet : Roberts wants 
 to frighten you, and I will not let him. . 
 
 Younger Danhy. Ye- ye- yes, let us go, my de-de-dear. 
 { Ifahella takes up a candle ^ and goes in 'wilh Laura and 
 younger Danhy, ^ 
 
 Frank. We comprehend, I fuppofe, what we are to do.? 
 My eyes not wholly covered, and, whenever I may give 
 the fignal, you mull take away the light, and get into 
 the clofet; but particuhuly, a perfed lilence. 
 
 Dorinda, Yes, we underiland you. 
 
 Frank. I believe, 1 hear a noife.? hufh ! hufh! hufh ! 
 {he lijlens at the door.) 
 
 Yes yes ; it is he ! it is he ! be quick^ let one of you 
 be blinded. 
 
 Dorinda. I will begin. Who takes my handkerchief? 
 {Alice blinds Dorinda ^ and they begin to run ahQut.) 
 
 v«r.. ir, K S C E N E 
 
191 -B L 1 N D - M A N ' s BUFF, 
 
 SCENE irr. 
 
 Frank, Liicy^ Dorinda^ AlicCy Roherls. 
 
 {Roberts f as he enters y pinches Doritula^ en ^vhich Jfje thro-xvs 
 hzr hands out, and lajs hold of him.) 
 
 Dcrinda. It is mailer Roberts. I well know him by his 
 pliching me. 
 
 Frank. It is mailer Roberts ; but he was not in the 
 play. You niuft begin again. 
 
 Roberts. Undoubtedjy, Frank u right. 
 
 Dorinda. Well, be it To : but if I catch you again, it 
 ilia'l be all fair, rlemember, i have warned you. 
 
 Roberts. O yes, yes. {He takes Frank ajide^ and hts him 
 fie a little of the tnajk.) What think you of it.? 
 
 Frank, {feigning to be frightened.) — O how frightful ! I 
 fliould certainly be terrified at feeing it mylelf. Well, 
 hide it carefully : we will play a little, and then Hip 
 away. 
 
 Roberts, {n.vhijpering Frank.) — Yes, yes, we will; buC 
 I nuirt, iirft of all, do romcthing to teize the ladies. 
 
 Frank, {yjhifpering Roberts ) — I will go up to Dorinda, 
 and turn her round : if Ihe (hould catch me, (lie will fup- 
 pofe it to be you, and muil fet out again. 
 
 RolertSy [n^vhifpcring Frank.) — Good ! good! I will 
 have a little fun with iier tuo. 
 
 Jlice. Well; when will you have told each other all 
 your fecrcts ? Two fine gentlemen ! why, do not you iec, 
 the game ftands ilill ? 
 
 Roberts. You need not Hay for us ; we are ready. 
 
 Frank y {keeping near Mifs Dorinda, as if he <T.viJ/?ed to pull 
 her b") the go-xun, and feeing Roberts go to fetch a chair y)—" 
 {Jf'de.) Now, Mifs Dorinda, 1 will put myfelf into your 
 way. 
 
 {Roberts brings a chair y and puts it fo that Dorinda may 
 tumble ever it : but Frank takes the chair aixay, and puts 
 hinifelf injlead, upon his hands and feet y nvith Jo much noife, 
 that Dorinda ?nay hear hi?n. As Jhe fides along her feet, as 
 if at hazard y Jhe encounters Frank, floops and feizes him.) 
 
 Dcrinda, {after halving felt abcnt his cape and ivrijls, and 
 .faming doubtfid.) It is Mailer Frank, 
 
 4 Freinki 
 
IT L I N D - M A N ' s BUFF. r^% 
 
 Frank, {in appearance difconcer ted.) — Yes, indeed; lam- 
 taken. \Vhat ill luck ! lo foon ? 
 
 Dorinda. {pulling off ihe bandage.) — O, ho! you want- 
 ed to throw me down ! 1 thought nobody but nuJler Ro- 
 berts played fuch tricks ; but it fhall not be long before I 
 take revenge. 
 
 {She c-o'uers Frank'' s eyes, hut fo that he can fee a little y 
 leads him tozvards the middle of the room, andthe?i, as is ths 
 cujhmof the gani-e, afs him,) How many horfes iu your' 
 father's Irable ? 
 
 Frank. Three; black, white and grey. 
 
 Dorinda. Turn about three times, and catch whom yon- 
 may. 
 
 Frank gropes his <w ay from place to place, and lets himfelf 
 he j:Jlled as they pleafe Mifs Dorinda particularly plagues 
 hitn ; he pretends to follo-oj ber, but all at once turns round, 
 and fills on Roberts ) 
 
 Frank. Ah ! ha I I have caught you ! have I ? It is a 
 boy. it 15 Roberts! {pulling oj' the handkerchief.) Yes,. 
 yes ; I am noc miftaken. 
 
 Roberts, {njohifpering Fra>tk.) V/hy lay hold on jne ? 
 
 Frank, {^cvhifpering Roberts.) Do not mind it. Yoii 
 fhail catch Dbnoy. I will pufh him towards you. 
 
 Roberts, y^ivhifpering Frank.) Do ! and you fhall fee' 
 how 1 will make him fqueak: 1 will pinch him till the very 
 blood comes. 
 
 Frank begins to co'ver Roberts'' s e\'es, and gi'ves his compu" 
 ny a nod, as he had fettled it. Elder Danby, afjijted by the 
 little ladies, takes a^way the lights, and all together run into 
 an adjoining clofct, <vjithout making any noife. ) 
 
 Elder Danby, {juji before he feps into the cJofet.) Well : 
 have you finiihed? Oh make hafte. You take a deal 
 of time. What mifchief are you whifpering to each, 
 other ? 
 
 {Jt this infant the groom prefents himfelf at the door ; he 
 has a lighted torch in one hand, and a fick beneath it in the 
 other, tvith a large fullbot tome d n,vig upon it. He is co'vered' 
 head and all, nA:ifh Air. fephfon^s go^jjn, ^vhich trails along 
 upon the ground behind him. Frank beckons him to fay a lit- 
 tle at the entrance, nvhile he is b'ir.ding Roberts. 
 
 Frank, {putting Roberts in th^ middl; of the room.) Ko»v 
 many horfes in yo<!r father's liable ? 
 
 Roberts. Three ; black, white and gjey. ^ 
 
 K 2 ' Fra>:':, 
 
196 B L T N D . M A N ' s B U F F. 
 
 Frcrvk.' Turn about — {^pretendinv to he angiy -ivitb ihi 
 §the>-s.) Be quiet p. ay, young ladies, and noc quit your 
 places till the game is begun. — Turn about three timts, 
 and catch \vhom you may. 
 
 {labile Roberts tarns about, Frank runs for ths f^eaHng 
 itumpet, hiis the groom nntie a chain that be has about h.S 
 ivaijt, ivhich falling makes a biJeous noi/e, and then be crits 
 cut lujlily him/elf .) I'he ghoil ! the ghoil ! Run, Robens,- 
 lor your life. 
 
 {He claps the door to <viokntly^ bides bimfeJf behind the 
 Groom, and f peaking through the trumpet. Jays,) It is you 
 lihen that come to ileal my treafure ? 
 
 Roberts, {trembling iviih fear, and nfit daring to pull 0^ 
 the bavdnge.) Fie! fire! Danby I where are ycu, Frank? 
 murdei ! murder ! Dorinda ! 
 
 Franky {/peaking through the t rum bet.) I have feared 
 them ail away. — Pull off your bandage, and iook at me. 
 {Roberts, ^without pulling off the bandage, puts both hands 
 before his face, retiring as the ghoji ad'vances on him.) 
 Frank. Pull it off, 1 fay— 
 
 {Roberts makes Jhift to pull the bandage dcnvn, ^which 
 falls about his neck. He dares not lift bis eyes up ; but 
 ct lajl ^>:h£n he cbjer-ves the ghcjl, he jcreams cut, and has 
 net po^ver to ma've ) 
 
 Frank. I kno^v you well, your name is Roberts. 
 {Roberts blearing this, runs up and doxvn to get aivay : be 
 f.nds the door Jhut fajl , falls df,^xvn upon his knees, holds out 
 his ha, ids, a. id turns an.vay his head ) 
 
 Frank. What \ou think 10 cfcape me, do you ? 
 F.oberts, {after fever al fffor is ) J have done nothing tO 
 you. You v^ere never rob'ocd- by mc. 
 
 Frank. Never robbed by you r You are capable of any 
 vilUiny 1 Who fquirts at people in the llrcct .'' Vv ho fallens 
 rabbits' tails behind their backs ? Who fifties for their v\igs ^ 
 V/ho lames poor doo;s and cats? Who llicks up pins in 
 chairs to prick his friends when they fit down ! And who 
 has in his pocket even now, a maik to frighten two poor 
 little children ? 
 
 Robins. 1 have done all this ! indeed I own it ! but 
 for heaven's fake pardon me, and 1 will not do io any 
 more. 
 
 Frank. Who will a,nfwcj- for you ? 
 
 Robe Its., 
 
BLIND- MAN'S BUFF. 197 
 
 ^IRcherts. Thofe that you have frightened away, if yoa 
 will but call them. 
 
 Frar.k. X^^ ycu pronufc me yourfelf ? 
 
 Roberts, Yes, yes ; upon my honour. > 
 
 Frank. Well then, \ tiike pity on you : but remember, 
 hr.d it been my pleajure, I might eafily fly away with yoa 
 thro igh the window. 
 
 {Here the phantom Jhakss his torch, nvhich gi^es a glars 
 like lightning, and then goes out. Roberts almoji jhvQomng 
 nMith terror f falls do-ivn on his face,) 
 
 SCENE the lafl. 
 Roberts^ Frank, the Grccirty Mr. Jephfon, 
 
 Mr. jephfon, {entering -oAth a candle in his hand.) What 
 is all this d;il:urbance ? 
 
 RoLertSi {'without looking up.) It is not I that make it. 
 Pray, pray, do not come near me ! 
 
 Mr, fephfony {percei<ving Roberts on the ground.) Who 
 can this be on the ground I 
 
 Roberts. You know me well enough, and have already 
 taken pity on me. 
 
 Mr' Jephfon. 1 already taken pity on you ! 
 
 Roberts, It was not 1 that robbed you. 
 
 Mr. Jephfcn. Robbed me ! what does all this mean ? do 
 BOt I know you, mailer Roberts r — - 
 
 Roberts. Yes, yes 5 that is my name, good ghcfl : fo 
 pray do not hurt me. 
 
 Mr. jephfon. 1 am afioniflied ! why in fuch a poilure ? 
 (^He puts doi.vn the light, holds cut his hand and lifts him up-) 
 
 Roberts, {Jlrifggling frji of ait., but kno-xving Mr. Jephfon 
 afiernjjards.) Mr. Jepliion, isityou? {his features brighten) 
 jhe is gone then ! is he r {he looks round about him, fees ths 
 ghrf and turns away again.') There,, there he iiands \ 
 -— t;)e phantom ! — don't you fee him I 
 
 {Frank brings the child: en from the cl'rfet. Laura and 
 younger Dauby are frightened at the o-rcom's appearance j but 
 the ref burjl out a laughing.) 
 
 Mr. Jephfon. Weil ! what fignifies ail this ? 
 
 Frank, {coming J sr ward.) Let me explain the whole, 
 papa, 'i his phantom is your groom j and we have put 
 «n him your wig and gown. 
 
198 BLIND-MAK's BUFF. 
 
 The Groom, {letting fall his difguife.') Yes, fir, it is f. 
 
 Mr. yephj'on. An odd fort of iwwrt this, Frank ! 
 
 Frank. True; but afk the company if mailer Roberts 
 has not well deferved to be thus frightened. He defigned 
 to frighten Laura and Danby : J only wifhed to hinder 
 him. Let him but Ihevv the frightful mafk that he has 
 about him. ■ :^ 
 
 Mr. Jephfon^ (to Roberts.) Is this true? 
 
 RchtrtSi {giving him the majk.) I cannot deny it : here 
 it is, fir. 
 
 Mr. Jephfon. You have met with nothing, then, but 
 what you delerve. 
 
 Dorinda. We perfuaded Mifs Lucy to permit her 
 brother to make ufe- of this device in order to puniih 
 Roberts, 
 
 Alice. If you knew befidcs, fir, all the other tricks :hat 
 lie meant to play us — 
 
 Mr. Jephfon. What, fir, is this the fample that yoir 
 give us oi your behaviour, the firlt time you let foot within 
 my doors? You have been din-cfpeftful to me in the per- 
 fon of my children, who were pleafed with the e":pe^latioiv 
 of having you as their guell. You ha^■e been diirefpe^lful 
 to thefe ladies, uhoni I need not fiy you fliould have 
 honoured and regarded. So be gone ! Your father, when 
 he comes to know that you have been thus turned out of 
 doors, will fee how neceilnry it is to corred the vices of 
 your heart. I will not permit your decellable example t3 
 corrupt my children. Go, and never let me fee you here 
 again! [Roberts is confounded, and n.vkhdra-vjs,') And yon, 
 my friends, although the circumftances of the cafe may 
 very pothbly excufe what you have done, yet never, for 
 the time to come, indulge yourfelves in fuch a fport. The 
 fears which have power to alFed children at a tender age, 
 may poilibly be followed by the worll confequences during 
 their whole life. Avenge yourfelves unon the wicked 
 tjnly by behaving better; and remember after the example 
 which mailer Roberts has aftorded you, that by intending 
 harm to others, you will ofcenell bring it down upoa 
 yoLirfelvcc. 
 
 THE C N D O I" VO I.. «T,