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THE 
 
 LOOKING-GLASS 
 
 FOR THE 
 
 M I N D; 
 
 OR 
 
 INTELLECTUAL MIRROR. 
 
 BEING 
 
 AN ELEGANT COLLECTION OF THE MOST DE- 
 LIGHTFUL LITTLE STORIES, AND 
 INTERESTING TALES, 
 
 Chiefly Translated from that much admired Work 
 L'AMI DES ENFANS. 
 
 WM\) elegant Cngrattn&s on OTcou, 
 BY ANDERSON. 
 
 NEW- YORK : 
 PRINTED FOR EVERT DU YCKTNCK 
 
 BOOKSELLER Sf STATIONER, 
 
 By L.Nichols. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 LITTLE Adolphus 1 
 Anabella's Journey to Market - 6 
 
 The absurdity of young peoples wishes exposed 12 
 
 Louisa's tenderness to the little birds in winter - - - 16 
 The story of Bertrand, a poor laborer, and his little family 23 
 Nancy and her Canary bird, poor Cherry- 29 
 
 The birds, the thorn bushes, and the sheep - - - 36 
 Poor crazy Samuel, and the mischievous boys - - - 41 
 Bella and Marian --------45 
 
 Little Jack 56 
 
 Leonora and Adolphus -------67 
 
 Flora and her little lamb - - - - - - - 71 
 
 The fruitful vine -------- 75 
 
 Sir John Denhani, and his worthy tenant 79 
 
 Alfred and Dorinda -87 
 
 Rosina, or the froward girl reformed - - - - 91 
 
 Little Anthony 95 
 
 History of Jonathan the gardener - - - - - 98 
 
 The sparrow's nest - - - - - - - -102 
 
 William and Thomas, or the contrast between industry and in- 
 dolence -.- -107 
 
 Mischief its own punishment - - - - - -111 
 
 Antony and Augustus, or rational education preferable to riches 1 17 
 The destructive consequences of dissipation and luxury - 123 
 William and Amelia £ - 129 
 
 The rival dogs - • - - 137 
 
 Cleopatra, or the reformed little tyrant - - - - 142 
 The passionate boy - - - - -" - - 146 
 
 Caroline, or a lesson to cure vanity - - - - - 150 
 Arthur and Adrian, or two heads better than one - - 158 
 Madam D'AUone and her four pupils - - - -161 
 
 The bird's egg - 166 
 
 The covetous boy - - -175 
 
 Dissipation the certain road to ruin - - - <. - 181 
 Calumny and scandal great enemies to society - - - 185 
 
 Clarissa, or the grateful orphan 189 
 
 Returning good for evil, the noblest revenge - - - ]93 
 Grev hairs made happy J 97 
 

LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 LITTLE ADOLPHUS. 
 
 IN one of the villages in the neighborhood of the me- 
 tropolis, lived little Adolphus, who had the misfortun? 
 to lose his mother, before he reached his eighth year. 
 Notwithstanding his early age, this loss made a strong 
 impression on his mind, and evidently affected the na- 
 tural gaiety of his disposition. His aunt, the good 
 Mrs. Clarkson, took him home to her house, in order 
 to remove him, from the scene of his affliction, and to 
 prevent his grief adding to the inconsolable sorrows of 
 his father. 
 
 After the usual time, thev left off their mourning: ; 
 but, though little Adolphus affected chearfulness, yet 
 his tender heart still felt for the loss of'his mother. His 
 father, whom he sometimes visited, could not avoid 
 observing how little Adolphus endeavored to conceal 
 his grief;- and this consideration made him feel the 
 more for the loss of a wife, who had given birth to so 
 
$ LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 promising a child. This made such an impression on 
 his mind, that every one foresaw it would bring on his 
 final dissolution. 
 
 Poor Adolphus had not been to see his dear father for 
 some time ; for, whenever he proposed it to his aunt, 
 she constantly found some excuse to put it off. The 
 reason was, that Mr. Clarkson being so ill, she feared 
 that seeing him in that condition would increase the 
 grief of Adolphus too much, and lay on his heart a load 
 too heavy for him to support. In short, the loss of his 
 wife, and his uneasiness for his son, put an end to Mr. 
 Clarkson' s life on the day before he reached the fiftieth 
 year of his age. 
 
 The next morning, little Adolphus thus addressed 
 his aunt : * This is my dear father's birth-day, I will go 
 and see him, and wish him joy.* She endeavored to 
 persuade him from it ; but, when she found that all her 
 endeavours were in vain, she consented, and then burst 
 into a flood of tears. The little youth was alarmed, and 
 almost afraid to ask any questions. At last, * I fear 
 (said he) my dear papa is either ill or dead. Tell me, 
 my dear aunt, for I must and will know : I will sleep 
 no more till I see my dear father, who so tenderly loves 
 me.' 
 
 Mrs. Clarkson was unable to speak ; but when Adol- 
 phus saw his aunt take out his mourning clothes, he was 
 too well satisfied of what had happened. < My dear 
 papa is dead ! (cried he) O my papa, my mamma ! 
 both dead! What will become of poor Adolphus !' and 
 then fainted, when Mrs. Clarkson found it difficult to 
 bring him to his senses. 
 
 As soon as he was a little come to himself, ' Do not 
 afflict yourself, my dear child, (said his aunt) your pa~ 
 
 t 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 3 
 
 rents are both living in heaven, and will intercede with 
 God to take care of you while on earth. While he yes- 
 terday was dying, his last prayer was for you, and his 
 prayer will be heard.' 
 
 ' What, did my dear papa die yesterday, while I was 
 thinking of the pleasure I should this day have on seeing 
 him ? Oh! let me go and see him, since I cannot now 
 disturb him, or make him unhappy on my account. 
 Pray, my dear aunt, let me go.' 
 
 Mrs. Clarkson could not resist his importunities, and 
 engaged to go along with him, provided he would pro- 
 mise to keep himself composed. ( You see my sorrow, • 
 (said she) and how much I am grieved for the loss of a 
 brother, who was good, charitable, and humane, and 
 from whose bounty I received the greater part of the 
 means of my livelihood . Though I am now left poor 
 and helpless, yet I trust in Providence, and you shall 
 see me cry no more. Let me intreat you, my dear 
 child, to do the same.' Poor Adolphus promised to do 
 as she would wish him ; when Mrs. Clarkson took him 
 by the hand and led him to the melancholy scene. 
 
 As soon as they were come to the house, Adolphus 
 slipped from his aunt, and rushing into the room where 
 his father lay in his coffin, surrounded by his weeping 
 neighbors, he threw himself on the breathless body of 
 his dear papa. After lying some little time in that 
 state, without being able to speak, he at last raised his 
 little head, and cried out, < See how your poor Adol- 
 phus cries for having lost you ! When mamma died, 
 you comforted me, though you wept yourself ; but 
 now to whom am I to look for comfort ? O my dear 
 papa, my good papa !' 
 
 By this time his aunt got into the room, and, with 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 the assistance of the neighbors, forced him from the 
 coffin, and carried him to a friend's house, in order to 
 keep him there tiJl his father should be buried ; for his 
 aunt dreaded the thoughts of Jetting him attend the 
 funeral. 
 
 The solemn scene was now preparing, and the bell 
 began to toll, which Adolphus heard, and every stroke 
 of it pierced his little innocent heart. The woman, to 
 whose care he had been left, having stepped into ano- 
 ther room, he took that opportunity to regain his liber- 
 ty, got out of doors, and ran towards the church-yard. 
 On his arrival there, he found the funeral service finish- 
 ed, and the grave filling up, when, on a sudden, a cry 
 was heard. * Let me buried with my dear papa. 1 He 
 then jumped into the grave. 
 
 Such a scene must naturally affect every one who saw 
 it. They pulled him out of the grave, and car: 
 home, pale and speechless. For several days he refus- 
 ed almost every kind of sustenance, being at intervals 
 subject to fainting fits. After some time, however, the 
 consolations and advice of his good aunt appeared to 
 have some weight with him, and the tempest in his lit- 
 tle heart began to abate. 
 
 This affectionate conduct of Adolphus was the con- 
 versation for miles round their habitation, and at last 
 readied the ears of a wealthy merchant, who had for- 
 merly been a little acquainted with the deceased Mr. 
 Clarkson. He accordingly went to see the goo.d Adol- 
 phus, and, feeling for his distresses, took him home with 
 him, and treated him as his son. 
 
 Adolphus soon gained the highest opinion of the mer- 
 chant, and, as he grew up, grew more and more in his 
 favor. At the age of twenty, he conducted himself 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 5 
 
 with so much ability and integrity, that jthe merchant 
 took him into partnership, and married him to his only 
 daughter. 
 
 Adolphus had always too great a soul to be ungener- 
 ous ; for even during his younger days, he denied him- 
 self every kind of extravagance, in order to support 
 his aunt ; and when he came into possession of a wife 
 and fortune, he placed her in a comfortable station for 
 the remainder of her life. As for himself, he every 
 year, on his father's birth-day, passed it in a retired 
 room alone, sometimes indulging a tear, and sometimes 
 lifting up his heart to heaven, from whence he had re- 
 ceived so much. 
 
 My little readers, if you have the happiness still to 
 have parents living, be thankful to God, and be sensi- 
 ble of the blessing you enjoy. Be cautious how you 
 do any thing to offend them ; and, should you offend 
 them undesignedly, rest neither night nor day till you 
 have obtained their forgiveness. Reflect on, and enjoy 
 the happiness that you are not, like poor little Adol- 
 phus, bereft of your fathers and mothers, and left in 
 the hands, though of a good, yet poor aunt. 
 
 But lo ! to give the unhappy mourners ease, 
 From pale affliction's eye to wipe the tear ; 
 
 To bid the plaintive voice of sorrow cease, 
 Behold Religion's heavenly form appear. 
 
 ' Attend, she cries, poor mortal ! grieve no mare* 
 No more lament thy dear departed friends, 
 
 Their souls are wafted to a happier shore, 
 Where every sorrow, every trouble ends. 
 
 Follow my steps, and soon you'll meet again, 
 Will meet in yonder blissful realms above ; 
 
 Forever there join in the seraphs strain, 
 And sing the wonders of redeeming love/ 
 
LOOKING-GLA^ 
 
 N 
 
 ANABELLA'S JOURNEY TO MARKET. 
 OTI11NG c mi be more natural and pleasing than 
 to see young children fond of their parents. The birds 
 of the air 3 and even the wild inhabitants of the forest, 
 arid are beloved by their young progeny. 
 
 Little Arabella was six years old, very fond of her 
 mamma, and delighted in following her every where. 
 Her mother being one day obliged to go to market, 
 wished to leave her little daughter at home, thinking 
 it would be too fatiguing for Anabella, and trouble- 
 some to herself ; but the child's entreaties to go, were 
 so earnest and pressing, that her mother could not with- 
 stand them, and at last consented to her request. 
 
 The cloak and bonnet was soon on, and* the little 
 maid set off with her mamma in high spirits. Such 
 was the badness of the paths in some places, that it 
 was impossible for them to walk hand in hand, so that 
 Anabella was sometimes obliged to trudge on by her- 
 self behind her mamma ; but these were such kind of 
 hardships as her little spirit was above complaining o f 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 7 
 
 The town now appeared in sight, and the nearer 
 they approached it, the more the paths were thronged 
 with people. Anabella was often separated from her 
 mamma ; but this did not at present much disturb her, 
 as by skipping over a rut, or slipping between people as 
 they passed, she soon got up again to her mother. How- 
 ever, the nearer they approached the market, the crowd 
 of course encreased, which kept her eyes in full employ- 
 ment to spy which way her mother went ; but a little 
 chaise drawn by six dogs having attracted her atten- 
 tion, she stopped to look at them, and by that means 
 lost sight of her mother, which soon became the cause 
 of much uneasiness to her. 
 
 Here, my little readers, let me pause for a moment 
 to give you this necessary advice. When you walk 
 abroad with your parents or servants never look much 
 about you, unless you have hold of their hand, or some 
 part of their apparel. And I hope it will not be deem- 
 ed impertinent to give similar advice to parents and 
 servants, to take care that children do not wander from 
 them, since, from such neglect, many fatal accidents 
 have happened. But to proceed — 
 
 Little Anabella had not gazed on this object of novel- 
 ty for more than a minute, before she recollected her 
 mamma, and turned about to look for her ; but no mam- 
 ma was there, and now the afflictions of her heart be- 
 gan. She Ccdled aloud, 6 Mamma; mamma;' but no 
 mamma answered. She then crawled up a bank, which 
 afforded her a view all around ; but no mamma was to 
 be seen. She now burst into a flood of tears, and sat 
 herself down at the foot of the bank, by which people 
 were passing and repassing in great numbers. 
 
 Almost every body that passed said something or 
 
t LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 other to her, but none offered to help her to find her 
 mother. * What is the matter with you, my little 
 dear, (said one) that you cry so sadly ?' ' I have lost 
 my mamma !' said Anabella, as well as the grief of 
 her heart would permit her to speak. Another told 
 her never to mind it, she would find her again by and 
 by. Some said, ' Do not cry so, child, there is nobo- 
 dy that will run away with you/ Some pitied her, 
 and others laughed at her ; but not one offered to give 
 her any assistance. 
 
 Such, my little pupils, is the conduct of most peo- 
 ple. When any misfortune brings you into trouble, 
 you will find enough ready to pity you, but few who 
 will give you any material assistance. They will tell 
 you, what you then know yourselves, that you should 
 not have done so and so ; they will be sorry for you, 
 and then take their leave of you. 
 
 Little Anabella, however, was soon relieved from 
 her present terrible anxieties. A poor old woman with 
 eggs and butter in a basket, happened to be that day 
 going to the same market, whither Anabella's mother 
 was gone before her. 
 
 Seeing Anabella in so much distress, still crying as 
 if her little heart would break, she went up to her, and 
 asked her, what was the cause of those tears that fell 
 from her little cheeks. She told her she had lost her 
 mamma. * And to what place my dear, (cried the old 
 woman) was your mamma going when you lost her ?* 
 
 * She was going to the market,' replied Anabella. 
 
 * Well, my sweet girl, (continued the old woman) I 
 am going to the market too, and if you will go along 
 with me, I make no doubt but we shall find your mo- 
 ther there. However, I will take care of you till you 
 
JLOOKING-GLASS. 9 
 
 do find her.' She then took Anabella by the hand, 
 and led her along the road. 
 
 The good old woman put her hand in her pocket, 
 and pulled out a piece of nice plum-cake, which she 
 gave to Anabella, who thankfully accepted of it ; but 
 her little heart was too full to permit her to think of 
 eating at that time. She therefore put it into her pock- 
 et, saying, that she would eat it by and by, when she 
 had found her mamma, which she hoped would be 
 soon. 
 
 As they walked along, the good old woman endea- 
 vored to amuse Anabella by telling her pretty stories, 
 and enquiring of her what books she read. 6 I very 
 well know, (said the old woman) that young children 
 are too apt to be fond of histories of haunted houses, 
 of witches, ghosts, and apparitions, which tend only 
 to fill you with idle fears and apprehensions, and 
 make you afraid even of your own shadows.' But 
 when Anabella told her that her books were all bought 
 at the corner of St. Paul's Church-yard, she seemed 
 perfectly satisfied. 
 
 They had hardly entered the market, when the lit 
 rambling eyes of Anabella caught sight of her ma 
 She shrieked with joy, and, like an arrow out of 
 darted from the old woman, and flew to her paren 
 clasped her pretty dear in her arms, and, after U 
 embracing her, l How came you, (said she) m ; 
 angel, to wander from me ? I have been so fri 
 as to be hardly able to contain myself 
 
 Anabella threw her arms round the nee 
 mamma, and fixing her lips to her cheeks, kep 
 her, till a torrent of tears gave ease to her he 
 soon as she was able to speak, ' My dear 1, 
 
It LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 (said she) I stopped to look at a pretty little chaise 
 drawn by six dogs, and in the meantime I lost you. I 
 looked for you, I called for you, but I could neither 
 see nor hear you. I sat down crying by the side of a 
 bank ; some as they passed pitied me, and others joked 
 me; but none attempted to take care of me, till this 
 good old woman led me by the hand, and brought me 
 here.' 
 
 Anabella's mother was very thankful to the good old 
 woman for her tenderness and humanity to her daugh- 
 ter, and not only bought of her what eggs and butter 
 she had left, but even made her a small present besides, 
 which she along time declined accepting of, saying, 
 she had done no more than what every good Christian 
 ought to do. 
 
 Anabella kissed the good old woman over and over 
 again, and all the way home talked of nothing but her 
 kindness. Nor did she afterwards forget it, as she 
 would frequently go and pay her a visit, when she al- 
 ways took with her some tea and sugar, and a loaf of 
 bread. Anabella's mother constantly bought all the eggs 
 1 butter the old woman had to spare, and paid her a 
 price for them than she could have got at mar- 
 vino- her, at the same time, the trouble of go- 
 ther. 
 
 s you see, my young friends, what are the con- 
 ges of good nature and humanity. You must ac~ 
 yourselves early not only to feel for the misfor- 
 * others, but to do every thing that lies in your 
 o assist them. Whatever may be your condi- 
 fe at present, and however improbable it may 
 you may ever want, yet there are strange vi- 
 es in this world, iu which nothing can be said 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 1 1 
 
 to be really certain and permanent. Should any of 
 vou my readers, like Anabella, lose themselves, would 
 they not be happy to meet with so good an old woman 
 as she did ? Though your stations in life may place you 
 above receiving any pecuniary reward for a generous 
 action, yet the pleasing sensations of a good heart, on 
 relieving a distressed fellow-creature, are inexpressible. 
 
 WHEN you a wilder'd trav'ller meet, 
 Guide to the road his erring feet ; 
 Or to your roof, if late, invite, 
 And shield him from the damps of night. 
 To still the voice of anguish, try 
 To wipe the tear from sorrow's eye ; 
 And every gqpd you can, impart 
 With ready hand, and glowing heart ; 
 So shall ye pass, from manhood's stage, 
 Smoothly along the slope of age ; 
 Then from the pleasing journey rest, 
 In peaceful sleep belov'd and blest. 
 
12 
 
 LOOKING-GI 
 
 ^gjggg^ii^^Ng^ggg^ 
 
 THE ABSURDITY OF YOUNG PEOPLE'S WISHES 
 EXPOSED. 
 
 A HE present moment of enjoyment is aH young peo- 
 ple think of. So long as Master Tommy partook of the 
 pleasure of sliding on the ice, and making snow up in 
 various shapes, he wished it always to be winter, to- 
 tally regardless of either spring, summer, or autumn. 
 His father hearing him one day make that wish, desired 
 him to write it down in the first leaf of his pocket-book, 
 which Tommy accordingly did, though his hand shi- 
 vered with cold. 
 
 The winter glided away imperceptibly, and the 
 spring followed in due time. Tommy now walked in 
 the garden with his father, and with admiration beheld 
 the rising beauty of the various spring flowers. Their 
 perfume afforded, him the highest delight, and their 
 brilliant appearance attracted all his attention. l Oh, 
 (said Master Tommy) that it were always spring !' His 
 fathef desired him to write that wish also in his pocket* 
 book* 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 13 
 
 The trees, which lately were only budding, were 
 now grown into full leaf, the sure sign that spring 
 was departing, and summer hastening on apace. Tom- 
 my, one day, accompanied by his parents, and two or 
 three of his select acquaintance, went on a visit to a 
 neighboring village. Their walk was delightful, af- 
 fording them a prospect sometimes of corn yet green, 
 waving smoothly like a sea unruffled with the breeze, 
 and sometimes of meadows enamelled with a profusion 
 of various flowers. The innocent lambs skipped and 
 danced about, and the colts and fillies pranced around 
 their dams. But what was still more pleasing,- this 
 season produced for Tommy and his companions a de- 
 licious feast of cherries, strawberries, and a variety of 
 other fruits. So pleasant a day afforded them the sum- 
 mit of delight, and their little hearts danced in their 
 bosoms with joy. 
 
 ' Do you not think, Tommy, (said his father to him) 
 that summer has its delights as well as winter and 
 spring ?' Tommy replied, he wished it might be sum- 
 mer all the year, when his father desired him to enter 
 that wish in his pocket-book also. 
 
 The autumn at length arrived, and all the family 
 went into the country to view the harvest. It happen- 
 ed to be one of those days that are free from clouds, 
 and yet a gentle westerly wind kept the air cool and re- 
 freshing. The gardens and orchards were loaded with 
 fruits, and the fine plums, pears, and apples, which 
 hung on the trees almost to the ground, furnished the 
 little visitors with no small amusement and delight. 
 There were also plenty of grapes, apricots, and peach- 
 es, which ate the sweeter, as they had the pleasure of 
 gathering them. < This season of rich abundance 
 
 B 
 
LOOKlNG-GIiASS. 
 
 Tonuny, (said his father to him) will soon pass away, 
 
 and stern and cold winter will succeed it.' Tommy 
 again wished, that the present happy season would al- 
 ways continue, and that winter would not be too hasty 
 in its approaches, but leave him in possession of au- 
 tumn. 
 
 Tommy's father desired him to write this in his book 
 also, and ordering him to read what he had written, 
 soon convinced him how contradictory his wishes had 
 been. In the winter, he wished it to be always winter; 
 in the spring, he wished for a continuance of that sea- 
 son ; in the summer, he wished it never to depart ; and 
 when autumn came, it afforded him too many delicious 
 fruits to permit him to have a single wish for the ap- 
 proach of winter. 
 
 6 My dear Tommy, (said his father to him) I am not 
 displeased with you for enjoying the present moment, 
 and thinking it best that can happen to you ; but you 
 see how necessary it is that our wishes should not al- 
 ways be complied with. God knows bow to govern 
 this world much better than any human being can pre- 
 tend to. Had you last winter been indulged in your 
 wish, we should have had neither spring, summer, nor 
 autumn ; the earth would have been perpetually cover- 
 ed with snow. The beasts of the field, and the fowls 
 of the air, would either have been starved or frozen to 
 death; and even the pleasures of sliding, or making 
 images of snow, would have soon become tiresome to 
 you. It is a happiness that we have it not in our pow- 
 er to regulate the course of nature : the wise and un- 
 erring .designs of Providence, in favor of mankind, 
 would then most probably be perverted to their own 
 inevitable ruin.' 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. ts 
 
 , Behold, fond man ! 
 
 See here thy pictur'd life : Pass some few years ; 
 Thy flow'ring spring, thy summer's ardent strength, 
 Thy sober autumn fading into age, 
 And pale concluding winter comes at last 
 
 Aud shuts the scene Ah i whither now are fled, 
 
 Those dreams of greatness ? those unsolid hopes 
 Of happiness? those longings after fame ? 
 Those restless cares ? those busy bust'ling days ? 
 Those gay spent festive nights? those varying thought* 
 Lost between good and ill, that shar'd thy life? 
 All are now fled ! Religion sole remains 
 Immortal, never-failing friend of man, 
 His guide to happiness on high. 
 
16 
 
 LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 LOUISA'S TENDERNESS TO THE LITTLE BIRDS IN 
 WINTER. 
 
 XTOWEVER long the winter may appear, the spring 
 will naturally succeed it. A gentle breeze began to 
 warm the air, the snow gradually vanished, the fields 
 put on their enamelled livery, the flowers shot forth their 
 buds, and the birds began to send forth their harmony 
 from every bough. 
 
 Little Louisa and her father left the city, to partake 
 of the pleasures of the country. Scarcely had the 
 blackbird and the thrush began their early whistle, to 
 welcome Louisa, than the weather changed all on a 
 sudden ; the north-wind roared horribly in the grove, 
 and the snow fell in such abundance, that every thing 
 appeared in a silver white mantle. 
 
 Though the little maid went to bed shivering with 
 cold, and much disappointed in her expectations, yet 
 she thanked God for having given her so comfortable a 
 shelter from the inclemency of the elements. 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 17 
 
 Such a quantity of snow had fallen during the night, 
 that the roads were almost impassable in the morning, 
 which was a matter of great affliction to poor Louisa ; 
 but she observed, that the birds were as dull as her- 
 self upon the occasion. Every tree and hedge being 
 so covered with snow, the poor birds could get nothing 
 to eat, not so much as a grain of corn or worm was to 
 be found. 
 
 The feathered inhabitants now forsook the woods 
 and groves, and fled into the neighborhood of inhabi- 
 ted towns and villages, to seek that relief from man, 
 which nature alone would not then afford them. In- 
 credibly numerous were the flight of sparrows, robins, 
 and other birds, that were seen in the streets and court- 
 yards, where their little beaks and claws were employ- 
 ad in turning over whatever they thought could afford 
 them a single grain. 
 
 A large company of these feathered refugees, alight- 
 ed in the yard belonging to the house, in which Louisa 
 and her father then were. The distress of the poor 
 birds seemed to afflict the tender-hearted maid very 
 much, which her father perceived as soon as she enter- 
 ed his chamber. ' What is it makes you look so pen- 
 sive now, (said her father) since it is but a few minutes 
 ago when you was so remarkably cheerful ?•' — < O my 
 dear papa, (said Louisa) all those sweet dear birds, that 
 sung so charmingly but a day or two ago, are now 
 come into the yard starving with hunger. Do, pray ? 
 let me give them a little corn L' 
 
 Her papa very readily granted her so reasonable a 
 request, and away she ran, accompanied by her gover- 
 ness, to the barn on the other side of the yard, which 
 had that morning been cleanly swept. Here she g'tfti 
 
 b2 
 
•s LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 handful or two of corn, which she immediately scatter- 
 ed in different parts of the yard. The poor little birds 
 fluttered around her, and soon picked up what the 
 bounty of her generous hand had bestowed on them. 
 
 It is impossible to describe the pleasure and satisfac- 
 tion, expressed in the countenance of Louisa, on seeing 
 herself the cause of giving so much joy to those little 
 animals. As soon as the birds had picked up all the 
 grains, they flew to the house-top, and seemed to look 
 down on Louisa as if they would say, < Cannot you 
 give us a little more ?' She understood their meaning, 
 and away she flew again to the barn, and down they all 
 came to partake of her new bounty, while Louisa cal- 
 led to her papa and mamma to come and enjoy with her 
 the pleasing sight. 
 
 In the mean time, a little boy came into the yard, 
 whose heart was not of so tender a nature as Louisa's. 
 He held in his hand a cage full of birds, but carried it 
 so carelessly, that it was evident he cared very little 
 for his poor prisoners. Louisa, who could not bear to 
 see the pretty little creatures used so roughly, asked 
 the boy what he was going to do with those birds. The 
 boy replied, that he would sell them if he could, but if 
 he could not, his cat should have a dainty meal of them, 
 and they would not be the first she had munched alive. 
 
 ' O fie, (said Louisa) give them to your cat ! What, 
 suffer such innocent things as those to be killed by the 
 merciless talons of a cat !' — * Even so,' said the boy, 
 and giving the cage a careless swing, that tumbled 
 the poor birds one over another, off he was setting 
 when Louisa called him back, and asked him what 
 |N)e would have for his birds. ' I will sell them, (said 
 he) three for a penny, and there are eighteen of their v ' 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 19 
 
 Louisa struck the bargain, and ran to beg the money 
 of her papa, who not only cheerfully gave her the mo- 
 ney, but allowed her an empty room for the reception 
 of her little captives. 
 
 The boy, having thus found so good a market for 
 his birds, told all his companions of it ; so that, in a 
 few hours, Louisa's yard was so filled with little bird 
 merchants, that you would have supposed it to be a 
 bird market. However, the pretty maiden purchased 
 all they brought, and had them turned into the same 
 room with those of her former purchase. 
 
 When night came Louisa went to bed with more 
 pleasure than she had felt for a long time. { What a 
 pleasing reflection it is, (said she to herself) to be thus 
 capable of preserving the lives of so many innocent 
 birds, and save them from famine and merciless cats ! 
 When summer conies, and I go into the woods and 
 groves, these pretty little birds will fly round me, 
 and sing their sweetest notes in gratitude for my kind 
 attention to them.' These thoughts at last lulled her 
 to sleep, but they accompanied her even in her dreams; 
 for she fancied herself in one of the most delightful 
 groves she had ever seen, where all the little birds were 
 busied, either in feeding their young, or in singing, or 
 hopping from bough to bough. 
 
 The first thing Louisa did after she had got up in the 
 morning, was to go and feed her little family in the 
 room, and also those that came into the yard. Th&ugh 
 the seed to feed them cost her nothing, yet she recol- 
 lected that the many purchases she had lately made of 
 birds must have almost exhausted her purse; and if 
 the, frost should continue, (said she to herself) what will 
 be< ome of those poor birds that I shall not be able to 
 
10 LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 purchase ! Those naughty hoys will either give tiiem 
 to their cats, or suffer them to die with hunger.'' 
 
 While she was giving way to these sorrowful reflec- 
 tions, her hand was moving gently into her pocket, in 
 order to bring out her exhausted purse ; but judge what 
 must be her surprise and astonishment when, instead 
 of pulling out an empty purse, she found it brim-full 
 of money. She ran immediately to her papa, to tell 
 him of this strange circumstance, when he snatched her 
 tip in his arms, tenderly embraced her, and shed tears 
 of joy on her blooming cheeks. 
 
 ' My dear child, (said her papa to her) you cannot 
 conceive how happy you now make me ! Let these lit- 
 tle birds continue to be the object of your relief, and, 
 be assured, your purse shall never be reduced to empti- 
 ness/ This pleasing news gladdened the heart of Lou- 
 isa, and she ran immediately to fill her apron with seed, 
 and then hastened to feed her feathered guests. The 
 birds came fluttering round her, and seemed conscious 
 of her bounty and generosity. 
 
 After feeding these happy prisoners, she went down 
 into the yard, and there distributed a plentiful meal to 
 the starving wanderers without. What an important 
 trust had she now taken on herself ? — nothing less than 
 the support of an hundred dependents within doors, and 
 a still greater number without! No wonder that her dolls 
 and other play-things should be now totally forgotten. 
 
 As Louisa was putting her hand into the seed -bag, 
 to take out of it the afternoon food for her birds, she 
 found a paper, on which was written these words : 
 6 The inhabitants of the air fly towards thee, O Lord ! 
 and thou givest them their food ; thou openest thy 
 hand, and fillest all things living with plenteousn^ss.' 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 21 
 
 As she saw her papa behind her, she turned round > 
 and said, " I am therefore now imitating God.' — 
 ' Yes, my sweet Louisa, (said her father) in e"£fery 
 good action we imitate our Maker. When you shall be 
 grown to maturity, you will then assist the nec/^^* 
 part of the human race, as you now d^ xl 
 the more good you do, the near*?*- ~ 
 the perfections of O r ' 
 
 Louisa 
 birds for 
 melt, and 
 verdurr 
 the 
 
22 LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 Louisa hardly ever went into the fields, but she fan- 
 cied that some of her little family seemed to welcome 
 fiiV approach, either by hopping before her, or enter- 
 toir " »** her with their melodious notes, which afforded 
 >* of inexhaustible pleasure. 
 
 1 Msom heaves a sigh, 
 ' deep distress ; 
 
LOO&ING-GLASS. 
 
 23 
 
 THE STORY OF BERTRAND, A POOR LABORER, AND 
 HIS LITTLE FAMILY. 
 
 x HINK yourselves happy, my little readers, since 
 none of you perhaps know what it is to endure hunger 
 day after da} r , without being able to enjoy one plentiful 
 meal. Confident I am, that the following relation will 
 not fail to make an impression on your tender hearts. 
 
 Bertrand was a poor laborer, who had six young 
 children, whom he maintained with the utmost difficul- 
 ty. To add to his distresses, an unfavorable season 
 much encreased the price of bread. This honest la- 
 borer worked day and night to procure subsistence for 
 his family, and though their food was of the coarsest 
 kind, yet even of that he could not procure a suffi- 
 ciencv. 
 
 Finding himself reduced to extremity, he one day 
 called his little family together, and with tears in Ins 
 eves, and a heart overflowing with grief, ' My little 
 children, (said he to them) bread is new so extravagant- 
 J v dear, that I find all my efforts to support you inef- 
 
24 LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 fectual. My whole days labor is barely sufficient to 
 purchase this piece of bread which you sec in my hand ; 
 it must therefore be divided among you, and you must 
 be contented with the little my labor can procure you. 
 Though it will not afford each of you a plentiful meal, 
 yet it will be sufficient to keep you from perishing 
 with hunger.' Sorrow and tears interrupted his words, 
 and he could say no more, but lifted up his hands and 
 eyes to heaven. 
 
 His children wept in silence, and, young as they 
 were, their little hearts seemed to feel more for their 
 father than for themselv r es. Bertrand then divided the 
 small portion of bread into seven equal shares, one of 
 which he kept for himself, and gave to the rest each 
 their lot. But one of them, named Harry, refused his 
 share, telling his father he could not eat, pretending to 
 be sick. < What is the matter with you, my dear child ?' 
 said his father, taking him up in his arms. ( I am very 
 sick, (replied Harry) very sick indeed, and should be 
 glad to go to sleep.' Bertrand then carried him to bed, 
 and gave him a tender kiss, wishing him a good night. 
 
 The next morning, the honest laborer, overwhelmed 
 with sorrow, went to a neighboring physician, and beg- 
 ged of him, as a charity, to come and see his poor boy. 
 Though the physician was sure of never being paid for 
 his visit, yet such were his humanity and feelings, that 
 he instantly went to the laborer's house. 
 
 On his arrival there, he found no particular symptoms 
 of illness, though the boy was evidently in a low arid 
 languishing state. The doctor told him he would send 
 him a cordial draught ; but Harry begged he would 
 forbear sending him any thing, as he could do him no 
 good. The doctor was a little angry at this behavio i 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. *# 
 
 aid insisted on knowing what his disorder was, threat- 
 ening him, if he did not tell him immediately, he would 
 go and acquaint his father with his obstinac} T . 
 
 Poor Harry begged the doctor would say nothing 
 about it to his father, which still more encreased the 
 doctor's wish to get at the bottom of this mystery. At 
 last, poor Harry finding the doctor resolute, desired 
 his brothars and sisters might leave the room, and he 
 would acquaint him with every particular. 
 
 As soon as the physician had sent the children out of 
 the room, ' Alas, Sir, (said little Harry) in this season 
 of scarcity, my poor dear father cannot earn bread 
 enough to feed us. What little quantity he can get, 
 he divides equally among us, reserving to himself the 
 smallest part. To see my brothers and sisters suffer 
 hunger is more than I can bear ; and, as I am the eld- 
 est, and stronger than they, I have therefore not eaten 
 any myself, but have divided my share among them. It 
 is on this account that I pretend to be sick, and unable 
 to eat. I beseech you, however, to keep this a secret 
 from my father.' 
 
 The physician, wiping away a tear which started in- 
 voluntarily from his eye, asked poor Harry if he were 
 not then hungry. He acknowledged indeed that he 
 was hungry ; but said that did not give him so much 
 affliction as to see the distresses of his family. < But 
 my good lad (said the doctor) if you do not take some 
 nourishment you will die.' — I am indifferent about 
 that, (replied Harry) since my father will have then one 
 nioiitb less to feed, and I shall go to heaven, where I will 
 pray to God to assist my dear father and my little sisters 
 and brothers.' 
 
 What heart but must melt with pity and admiration 
 C 
 
*6 LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 at the relation of such facts ? The generous physic m, 
 taking up Harry in his arms, and clasping him to bis 
 bosom, <No, my dear little boy, (said he) tbou shalt 
 not die. God and I will take care of thy little family, 
 and return thanks to God for having sent me hither. I 
 must leave you for the present, but] will won return.'' 
 
 The good physician hastened home, and ordered one 
 of his servants to ioadhimself with refreshments of ev- 
 ery kind. He then hastened to the relief of poor Har- 
 ry and his starving brothers and sisters. lie made 
 them all sit down at the table and eat till they were per- 
 fectly satisfied. What could he a mere pleasing scene, 
 than that which the good physician then beheld, six- 
 pretty little innocent creatures smiling over the bounty 
 of their generous and humane friend ! 
 
 The doctor, on his departure, desired Harry to be un- 
 der no uneasiness, as he should take care to procure 
 them a supply of whatever might be wanting. He 
 faithfully performed his promise, and they had daily 
 cause of rejoicing at his bounty and benevolence. The 
 doctor's generosity was imitated by every good person, 
 to whom he related the affecting scene. From some 
 they received provisions, from some money, and from 
 others clothes and linen. So that, in a short time, this 
 little family, which was but lately in want of every 
 thing, became possessed of plenty. 
 
 Bertrand's landlord, who was a gentleman of consi- 
 derable fortune, was so struck with the tender generosi- 
 ty of little Harry, that he sent for his father, and pay- 
 ing him many compliments on his happiness of having 
 such a son, he offered to take Harry under his own in- 
 spection, aud bring him up in his own house. This 
 matter being agreed on, Bertrand's landlord settled an 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 2? 
 
 annuity on him, promising, at the same time, to provide 
 for his other children as they grew up. Bertrand, trans- 
 ported with joy, returned to his house, and falling on>» 
 his knees, offered up his most grateful thanks to that 
 good God, who had graciously condescended to bestow 
 on him such a son ! 
 
 Hence you may learn, my young readers, how much 
 you have it in your power to prove a blessing to your 
 parents, and a comfort to yourselves. It is not necessa- 
 ry, that in order to do so, you should be reduced to the 
 necessity that poor Harry was : for however exalted 
 your station m*y be, you will always find opportunities 
 enough to give proofs of }-our duty to your parents, 
 your affection for your brothers and sisters, and your 
 humanity and benevolence to the poor and needy. Hap- 
 py indeed are those poor children, who have found a 
 friend and a protector when they were needful and help* 
 less ; but much happier those, who, without ever feel 
 ing the griping hand of penury and want themselves, 
 have received the inexpressible delight that never fails 
 to arise from the pleasing reflection of having raised 
 honest poverty to happiness and plenty ! 
 
 IiOW happy is he bom or taught, 
 
 Thai serveth not another's will ; 
 Whor^e armour is his honest thought ; 
 
 And simple truth his highest skill. 
 Whose passions not his masters are; 
 
 Whose soul is still prepare! for death ; 
 Not ty'd unto the world with care 
 
 Of princes' ear, or vulgar breath. 
 Who hath his life from humors freed, 
 
 Whose conscience is his strong retreat, 
 Whose state can neither flatt'rers feed, 
 
 Nor ruin make oppressors great. 
 
cs 
 
 LOOKING-GI 
 
 Who envies none whom chance doth raise, 
 Or vice; who never understood 
 
 How deepest wounds "are giv'n with prS^v ; 
 Nor rules of state, but rules of good : 
 
 Who God dot 1 late and early pray, 
 More of his grace than gifts to lend, 
 
 And entertains the harmless clay 
 With a well-chosen book or friend ! 
 
 The man is freed from servile bands 
 
 Of hope to rise or fear to fall, 
 Lord of himself, though not of lands ; 
 
 And having nothing, yet hath all. 
 
 v 
 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 5'/ 
 
 NANCY AND HER CANARY BIRD, POOR CHERRY. 
 
 xjlS Nancy was one day looking out of her window, 
 a man happened to come by, crying, ( Canary-birds ; 
 come buy my canary birds.' The man had a large 
 cage upon his head, in which the birds hopped about 
 from perch to perch, and made Nancy quite in love with 
 them. * Will you buy a pretty bird or two, Miss ?' said 
 the man. ' I have no objection, (replied the little maid) 
 provided my papa wilt give me leave, If you will stop 
 a little while, I will soon let you know.' So away raa 
 Nancy down stairs to her papa, while the birdman put 
 do\yn his cage at the door. 
 
 Nancy ran into her papa's chamber quite out of 
 breath, crying, ( O dear papa ; only come here ! here 
 is- a man in the street that has a large cage on his head 
 with, I dare say, an hundred canary-birds in it.*-f- 
 4 Well, and what of all that ? (replied her papa) Why 
 does that seem to rejoice you so much ? ' Nancy answer- 
 ing, that she should be happy to buy one of them,, her 
 papa reminded her, that the bird must be fed^ and 
 c 2. 
 
oO • LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 should it be neglected, even only for a day, it would 
 certainly die. 
 
 Nancy promised, that she would never eat her own 
 breakfast till she had given her bird his ; but her papa 
 reminded her that she was a giddy girl, and that he 
 feared she had promised to much. However, there 
 was no getting over her coaxings and wheedlings, so 
 that her papa was at last obliged to consent that she 
 should buy one. 
 
 lie then took Nancy by the hand, and led her to the 
 door, where the man was waiting with his birds. He 
 chose the prettiest canary-bird in it ; it was a male, of a 
 fine lively yellow color, with a little black tuft upon his 
 head. Nancy was now quite chearful and happy, and 
 pulling out her purse, gave it to her father to pay for 
 the bird. But what was to be done with the bird with- 
 out a cage, and Nancy had not money enough ? How- 
 ever, upon her promising that she would take great care 
 to feed her bird, her papa bought her a fine cage, of 
 which he made her a present. 
 
 As soon as Nancy had given her canary-bird posses- 
 sion of his new palace, she ran about the house, calling 
 her mamma, her brothers and sisters, and all the ser- 
 vants, to come and see her pretty canary-bird, to which 
 she gave the name of Cherry. When any of her little 
 friends came to see her, the first thing she told them 
 was, that she had one of the prettiest canary-birds in 
 the world. * He is as yellow as gold, (said she) and lie 
 has a little black crest like the plumes of my mamma's 
 hat. Come, you roust go and see him ! His name is 
 Cherry.' 
 
 Cherry was as happy as any bird need wish to be, un- 
 4er the care of Nancy. Her first business ever^ mom- 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 51 
 
 ing was to feed Cherry ; and whenever there was any 
 cake at table, Cherry was sure to come in for a share of 
 it. There was always some bits of sugar in store for 
 him, and his cage was constantly decorated with the 
 most lively herbage. 
 
 Her pretty bird was not ungrateful, but did all in his 
 power to make Nancy sensible how much he was oblig- 
 ed to her. He soon learned to distinguish her, and 
 the moment he heard her step into the room, he would 
 flutter his wings, and keep up an incessant chirping. It 
 is no wonder, therefore, if Cherry and Nancy became 
 very fond of each other. 
 
 At the expiration of a week, he began to open his 
 little throat, and sung the most delightful songs. He 
 would sometimes raise his notes to so great a height, that 
 you would almost think he must kill himself with such 
 vast exertions. Then, after stopping a little, he would 
 begin again, with a tone so sweet and powerful, that lie 
 was heard in every part of the house. 
 
 Nancy would often sit for whole hours by his cage, 
 listening to his melody. Sometimes > so attentively 
 would she gaze at him, that she would insensibly let 
 her work fail out of her hands ; and, after he had en- 
 tertained her with his melodious notes, she would regale 
 him with a tune on her bird organ, which he would en- 
 deavor to imitate. 
 
 In length of time, however, these pleasures began 
 to grow familiar to his friend Nancy. Her papa, one 
 day, presented her with a book of prints, with which 
 she was so much delighted, that Cherry began to lose 
 at least one half of her attention. As usual, he would 
 chirp the moment he saw her, let her be at what dis- 
 tance she would ; but Nancy began to take no notice 
 
3> L&OKING-GLASS. 
 
 of him, and almost a week had passed, without his re- 
 ceiving either a bit of biscuit, or a fresh supply of chick- 
 weed. He repeated the sweetest and most harmonious 
 notes that Nancy had taught him, but to no purpose. 
 
 It now appeared too clearly, that new objects began 
 to attract Nancy's attention. Her birth-day arrived, 
 and her god-father gave her a large jointed doll, which 
 i he named Columbine : and this said Columbine proved 
 a sad rival to Cherry ; for, from morning to night, the 
 dressing and undressing of Miss Columbine engrossed 
 the whole of her time. What with this, and her carry- 
 ing her doll up and down stairs, and into every room 
 in the house, it was happy for poor Cherry if he got 
 f^d by the evening, and sometimes it happened that he 
 went a whole day without feeding. 
 
 One day, however, when Nancy's papa, was at ta- 
 ble, accidental \y casting his eyes upon the cage, he saw 
 poor Cherry lying upon its breast, and panting as it 
 were for life. The poor bird's feathers appeared all 
 rough, and it seemed contracted into a mere lump. Nan- 
 cy's papa went up close to it ; but it was unable even to 
 chirp, and the poor little creature had hardly strength 
 enough to breathe. He called to him his little Nancy, 
 and asked her what was the matter with her bird. Nan- 
 cy blushed, saying in a low voice, ' Why, papa, I — 
 somehow, I forgot ;' and ran to fetch the seed-box. 
 
 Her papa, in the mean time, took down the cage, and 
 found poor Cherry had not a single seed left, nor a drop 
 of water, c Alas, poor bird, (said he) you have got in- 
 to careless hands. Had I foreseen this, I would never 
 have bought you.' All the company joined in pity for 
 tfce poor bird, and Nancy ran away into her chamber to. 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 33 
 
 ease her heart in tears. However, her papa, with some 
 difficulty, brought pretty Cherry to himself again. 
 
 Mer father, the next day, ordered Cherry to be made 
 a present of to a young gentleman in the neighbor- 
 hood, who, he said, would tJ;e much better care of it 
 than his little thoughtless daughter ; but poor Nancy 
 could not bear the idea of parting -with her bird, and 
 most faithfully promised never more to neglect him. 
 
 Her papa, at last, gave way to her entreaties ; and 
 permitted her to keep little Cherry, but not without a 
 severe reprimand, and a strict injunction to be more 
 careful for the future. ' This poor little creature, 
 (said her papa) is confined in a prison, and is therefore 
 totally unable to provide for its own wants. When- 
 ever you want any thing, you know how to get it ; but 
 this little b'rd can neither help himself, nor make his 
 wants known to others. If ever you let him want seed 
 or water again, look to it.' 
 
 Nancy burst out into a flood of tears, took her pa- 
 pa by the hand, and kissed it ; but her heart was so 
 full that she could not utter a syllable. Cherry and 
 Nancy were now again good friends, and he for some- 
 time wanted for nothing. 
 
 About a month afterwards, her father and mother 
 were obliged to go a little way into the country on some 
 particular business ; but, before they set out, he gave 
 Nancy strict charge to take care of poor Cherry. No 
 sooner were her parents gone, than she ran to the cage, 
 and gave Cherry plenty of seed and water. 
 
 Little Nancy, now finding herself alone and at liber- 
 ty, sent for some of her companions to come and 
 spend the day with her. The former part of the day 
 they passed in the garden, and the latter in playing at 
 
34 LOOKft \i». 
 
 blindman's-buffand four corners. She went to bed very 
 much fatigued ; but, as soon as slic awoke in the morn- 
 ing, she began to think of new pleasures. 
 
 She went abroad that day, while poor Cherry was 
 obliged to stay at home and fast. The second and 
 third day passed in the same playful manner as before ; 
 but no poor Cherry was thought of. On the fourth day 
 her father and mother came home, and, as soon as they 
 had kissed her, her father enquired after j>oor Cherry, 
 ' He is very well' said Nancy, a little confused, and 
 then ran to fetch him some seed and water. Alas J 
 poor little Cherry was no more : he was lying upon his 
 back, with his wings spread, and his beak open. Nancy 
 screamed out, and Wrung her hands, when all the fa- 
 mily ran to her, and were witnesses of the melancholy 
 scene. 
 
 1 Alas, poor bird, (said her papa) what a melancho- 
 ly end hast thou come to ! If I had twisted thy head 
 off the day I went into the country, it would have 
 caused you but a moment's pain ; but now you have 
 endured all the pangs of hunger and thirst, and expir- 
 ed in extreme agony. However, poor Cherry, you are 
 happy in being out of the hands of so merciless a 
 guardian.' 
 
 Nancy was so shocked and distressed on the occa- 
 sion, that she would have given all her little treasure, 
 and even all her playthings, to have brought Cherry 
 to life ; but it was now too late. Her papa had the 
 bird stuffed, and hung up to the cieling, in memory of 
 Nancy's carelessness. She dared not even to lift her 
 eyes up to look at it, for whenever she did, it was sure 
 to make her cry. At last, she prevailed on her papa to 
 have it removed, but not till after many earnest entrea-* 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 3. 
 
 ties and repeated acknowledgments of the fault she had 
 been guilty of. Whenever Nancy was guilty of inat- 
 tention or giddiness, the bird was hung up again in its 
 place, and every one would say in her hearing, 4 Alas, 
 poor Cherry, what a cruel death you suffered !■ 
 
 Thus you see, my little friends, what arc the sad 
 consequences of inattention, giddiness, and too great a 
 fondness for pleasure, which always make us forget- 
 ful of what we ought carefully to attend to. 
 
 TIME was when I was free as air, 
 Tlie thistle's downy seed my fare, 
 
 My drink the morning dew ; 
 I perch' d at will on ev'ry spray, 
 My form genteel, my plumage gay, 
 
 My strains forever new. 
 
 But gawdy plumage, sprightly strain, 
 And form genteel were all in vain, 
 
 And of a transient date ; 
 For caught andcag'd and starv'd to death, 
 In dying sighs my little breath 
 
 Soon pass'd the wiry grate. 
 
 Thanks, little miss, for all my woes 
 And thanks for this effectual close 
 
 And cure of ev'ry ill ! 
 More cruelty could none express ; 
 And I, if you had shewn me less, 
 
 Had been your pris'ner still. 
 
LOOKING-GJ 
 
 THE BIRDS, THE THORN-BUSHES, AND THE SHEEP, 
 
 Mil. STANHOPE and his son Gregory, were one 
 evening, in the month of May, sitting at the foot of a 
 delightful hill, and surveying the beautiful works of 
 nature that surrounded them. The reclining sun, now 
 sinking into the west, seemed to clothe every thing 
 with a purple robe. The cheerful song of a shepherd 
 called off their attention from their meditations on those 
 delightful prospects. This shepherd was driving home 
 his fleck from the adjacent fields. 
 
 Thorn-bushes grew on each side of the road, and 
 every sheep that approached the thorns was sure to be 
 robbed of some part of its wool, which a good deal 
 displeased little Gregory. ' Only see, papa, (said he) 
 how the sheep are deprived of their wool by those 
 bushes ! You have often told me, that God makes no- 
 thing in vain ; but these briars seem made only for 
 mischief: people should therefore join to destroy them, 
 root and branch. Were the poor sheep to come often 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 39 
 
 tude of different sorts of birds, who loaded themselves 
 with the plunder. 
 
 Gregory was quite astonished at this sight, and asked 
 his papa what could be the meaning of it. ' You by 
 this plainly see, (replied Mr. Stanhope) that Provi- 
 dence provides for creatures of every class, and fur- 
 nishes them with all things necessary for their conve- 
 nience and preservation. tlere, you see, the poor birds 
 find what is necessary for their habitations, wherein 
 they are to nurse and rear their young, and with this 
 they make a comfortable bed for themselves and their 
 little progeny. The innocent thorn-bush, against 
 which you yesterday so loudly exclaimed, is of infinite 
 service to the inhabitants of the air ; it takes from 
 those only that are rich, what they can very well spare, 
 in order to satisfy the wants of the pocr. Have you 
 now any wish to cut those bushes down which you will 
 perhaps no longer consider as robbers ?' 
 
 Gregory shook his head, and said, he would not cut 
 the bushes down for the world. Mr. Stanhope applaud- 
 ed his son for so saying ; and, after enjoying the sweets 
 of the morning, they retired home to breakfast, leav- 
 ing the bushes to flourish in peace, since they made so 
 generous a use of their conquests. 
 
 My young friends will hence be convinced of the 
 impropriety of cherishing too hastily prejudices against 
 any persons or things, since, however forbidding or 
 useless they may at first sight appear, a more familiar 
 acquaintance with them may discover those accomplish- 
 ments or perfections, which prejudice at first obscured 
 from their observation. 
 
40 
 
 LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 SWEET contemplation to pursue, 
 Behold a rural scene in view, 
 The bleating herds, the lowing kine, 
 The spreading oak, the towVing pine ; 
 The air, from noxious vapors free, 
 Whilst squirrels trip from tree to tree, 
 And the sweet songsters hover round, 
 Fruit, herbs and flow'rs, enrich the ground, 
 And each their various fruits produce, 
 Some for delight, and some for use. 
 Behold, O ! youth, this scene, and see 
 What nature's God hath given thee. 
 With wonder view his great designs, 
 In which superior wisdom shines ; 
 Revere his name, admire his love, 
 A ad raise thy thoughts to worlds abov^. 
 
LOOKiNG-GLASS. 
 
 iJ 
 
 '«t*&K€&k 
 
 POOR CRAZY SAMUEL, AND THE MISCHIEVOUS 
 BOYS. 
 
 AN the city of Bristol lived a crazy person, whose 
 name was Samuel. Whenever he went out, he always 
 put four or five wigs on his head at once, and as many 
 muffs upon each of his arms. Though he had unfortu- 
 nately lost his senses, yet lie was not mischievous, un- 
 less wicked hoys played tricks with him, and put him 
 in a passion. 
 
 Whenever he appeared in the streets, all the idle boys 
 would surround him, crying, ' Samuel ! Samuel ! how 
 do you sell your wigs and your muffs !' Some boys 
 were of such mischievous disposit'ons as to throw dirt 
 and stones at him. Though the unfortunate mau ge- 
 nerally bore all this treatment very quietly, yet he 
 would sometimes turn about in his own defence, and 
 throw among the rabble that followed him any thing 
 that came in his way. 
 
 A contest of this nature happened one day near the 
 house of Mr. Denton, who, hearing a noise in thf 
 
42 LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 street, went to the window, and with much regret saw 
 his son Joseph concerned in the fray. Displeased at 
 the sight, he shut down the sash, and went into another 
 room. 
 
 When they were at dinner, Mr. Denton asked his 
 son who the man was, with whom he and other boys 
 in the street seemed to be so pleasingly engaged. Jo- 
 seph said, it was the crazy man, whom they called 
 Samuel. On his father asking him what had occasion- 
 ed that misfortune, he replied, that it was said to be in 
 consequence of the loss of a law-suit, which deprived 
 him of a large estate. 
 
 ' Had this man been known to you (said Mr. Den- 
 ton) at the time when he was cheated of his estate ; and 
 had he told you, that he hadjust lost a large inheritance, 
 which he had long peaceably enjoyed ; that all his pro- 
 perty was expended in supporting the cause, and that 
 he had now neither country or town-house, in short 
 nothing upon the earth left ; would you then have 
 laughed at this poor man ?" 
 
 Joseph with some confusion replied, he certainly 
 should not be guilty of so wicked an action, as to laugh 
 at the misfortunes of any man ; but should rather en- 
 deavor to comfort him. 
 
 * This man, (said Mr. Denton) is more to be pitied 
 now than he was then, since the loss of his fortune is 
 added to that of his senses also ; and yet you have this 
 day been throwing stones at this poor man, and other- 
 wise insulting him, who never gave you any cause.' 
 Joseph seemed very sorry for what he had done, ask- 
 ed his papa's pardon, and promised not only never to 
 do the like again, but to prevent others, as much as 
 -xy in his power, committing the same crime. 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 His father told him, that as to his forgiveness, he 
 freely had it, but that there was another besides him, 
 whose forgiveness was more necessary. Little Joseph 
 thought that his father meant poor Samuel ; but Mr. 
 Denton explained the matter to him. ' Had Samuel 
 retained his senses, (said he) it would be certainly just 
 that you should ask his pardon ; but as his disordered 
 mind will not permit him to receive any apologies, it 
 would be idle to attempt to make any. It is not Sa- 
 muel, but God, whom you have offended. You have 
 not shewn compassion to poor Samuel, but, by your 
 unmerited insults have added to his misfortunes. Can 
 you think that God will be pleased with such conduct?' 
 
 Joseph now plainly perceived whom he had offended, 
 and therefore promised that night to ask pardon of God 
 in his prayers. He kept his word, and not only for- 
 bore troubling Samuel for several weeks afterwards, 
 but endeavored to dissuade all his companions from 
 doing the like. 
 
 The resolutions of young people, however, are not 
 always to be depended on. So it happened with lit- 
 tle Joseph, who, forgetting the promises he had made, 
 one day happened to mix with the rabble of boys, who 
 were following and hooting, and playing many naugh- 
 ty tricks with the unfortunate Samuel, 
 
 The more he mixed among them, the more he for- 
 got himself, and at last became as bad as the worst of 
 them. Samuel's patience, however, being at length 
 tired out by the rude behavior of the wicked boys 
 that pursued him, he suddenly turned about, and 
 picking up a large stone, threw it at little Joseph with 
 such violence, that it grazed his cheek, and almost cut 
 off part of his ear. 
 
41 LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 Poor Joseph, on feeling the smart occasioned by the 
 blow, and finding the blood trickling down his cheek at 
 a great rate, ran home roaring most terribly. Mr. 
 Denton, however, shewed him no pity, telling him that 
 it was the just judgment of God for his wickedness. 
 
 Joseph attempted to justify himself by saying, that 
 he was not the only one who was guilty, and therefore 
 'ought not to be the only one that was punished. Mis fa- 
 ther replied, that, as he knew better than the other 
 boys, his crime was the greater. It is indeed, but jus- 
 tice, that a child who knows the commands of God and 
 his parents should be doubly punished, whenever he so 
 far forgets his duty as to run headlong into wickedness. 
 
 Remember this, my young readers; and, instead of 
 adding to the afflictions of others, do whatever you can 
 lo alleviate them, and God will then undoubtedly have 
 compassion on you, whenever your wants and distres- 
 ses shall require his assistance. 
 
 AH me ! how little knows the human heart, 
 
 The pleasing task of soft'ning other's woe; 
 Stranger to joys that pity can impart. 
 
 And tears sweet sympathy can teach to (low. 
 
 If e'er I've mourn' d my humble, lowly state ; 
 
 If e'er I'vebow'd my knees at fortune's shrine; 
 If e'er a wish escap'd me, to be great, 
 
 The fervent pray r, humar.it} , was thine. 
 
 Be mine the blush of modest worth to spare, 
 
 To change to smiles affliction's rising sigh ; 
 The kindred warmth of charity, toshgu-e, 
 
 Till joy shall sparkle from the tear fill'd-eye. 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 45 
 
 BELLA AND MARIAN. 
 
 A HE sun was just peeping above the eastern edge of 
 the horizon, to enliven with his golden raj^s one of the 
 most beautiful mornings of the spring, when Bella went 
 down into the garden to taste with more pleasure, as 
 she rambled through those enchanting walks, the deli- 
 cacies of a rich cake, of which she intended to make 
 her first meal. 
 
 Her heart swelled with deliglit, on surveying the 
 beauties of the rising sun, in listening to the enlivening 
 notes of the lark, and on breathing the pleasing frag- 
 rance, which the surrounding shrubs afforded. 
 
 Bella was so charmed with this complication of de- 
 lights, that her sweet eyes were bedewed with a mois- 
 ture, which rested on her eyelids without dropping in 
 tears. Her heart felt a gentle sensation, and her mind 
 was possessed with emotions of benevolence and ten- 
 derness. 
 
 The sound of steps in the walk, however, all on a 
 sudden, interrupted these happy feelings, and a little 
 
4o LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 girl came tripping towards the same walk, eating a 
 piece of coarse brown bread with the keenest appe- 
 tite. As she was also rambling about the garden for 
 amusement, her eyes wandered here and there unfixed; 
 so that she came up close to Bella unexpectedly. 
 
 As soon as the little girl saw it was Miss Bella, she 
 stopped short, seemed confused, and turning about, ran 
 away as fast as she could ; but Bella called to her, and 
 asked her why she ran away. This made the little 
 girl run the faster, and Bella endeavored to pursue her; 
 but, not being so much used to exercise, she was scon 
 left behind. Luckily, as it had happened, the little 
 stranger had turned up a path leading into that in which 
 Bella was. Here they suddenly met, and Bella caught 
 her by the arm, saying, c Come, I have you fast now ; 
 you are nry prisoner, and cannot get away from me.' 
 
 The poor girl was now more frightened than ever, 
 and struggled hard for her liberty ; but, after some 
 time, the sweet accents of Bella, and her assurance that 
 she meant only to be her friend, having rather allayed 
 her fears, she became a little more tractable, and quiet- 
 ly followed her into one of the summer-houses. 
 
 Miss Bella, having made the stranger sit down by 
 her, as! ed her if she had a father living, and what was 
 his profession. The girl told her, that, thank Gcd, her 
 father was living, and that he did any thing for an ho- 
 nest livelihood. She said he was then at work in the 
 garden, and had brought her with him that morning. 
 
 Bella then observing, that the young stranger had 
 got a piece, of brown bread in her hand, desired she 
 would let her taste it : but she said that it so scratched 
 her throat on swallowing a bit of it, that she could eat 
 no more, and asked the little girl, why her father did 
 
LOOkiNG-GLASS. 47 
 
 riot get better bread for her. ' Because, (replied the 
 stranger) he does not get so much money as your pa- 
 pa ; and besides that, there are four more of us, and 
 we all eat heartily. Sometimes one wants a frock, 
 another a jacket, and all he can get is barely suf- 
 ficient for us, without laying out hardly any thing 
 upon himself, though he never misses a day's work 
 while he has it to do.' 
 
 Upon Bella's asking her if she ever eat any plum- 
 cake, she said she did not even know what it was ; but 
 she had no sooner put a bit into her mouth, which Bel- 
 la gave her, than she said, she had never in her life tast- 
 ed an}' thing so nice. She then asked her what was her 
 name ; when the girl, rising and making her a low curt- 
 sey, said it was Marian. 
 
 ' Well then, my good Marian, (said Bella) stop here 
 a moment ; I will go and ask my governess for some- 
 thing for you, and will come back directly ; but be 
 sure you do not go away.' Marian replied, that she 
 was now no ways afraid of her, and that she should 
 certainly wait her coming back. 
 
 Bella ran directly to her governess, and begged she 
 would give her some current-jelly for a little girl, who 
 had nothing but dry bread for breakfast. The gover- 
 ness, being highly pleased with the good-nature of her 
 amiable pupil, gave her some in a cup, and a small roll 
 also. Bella instantly ran away with it, and coming to 
 Marian, said she hoped she had not made her w r ait; but 
 begged her to put down her brown bread till another 
 time, and eat what she had brought her. 
 
 Marian, after tasting the jelly, and smacking her 
 lips, said it was very nice indeed ; and asked Bella if 
 She ea1 su«h every day. Miss replied, that she eat those 
 
48 looking-c;lass. 
 
 tilings frequently, and if she would come now and the* 
 she would always give her some. 
 
 They now became very familiar together, and Miss 
 Bella asked Marian a number of questions, such as 
 whether she never was sick, seeing her now look so 
 hearty, and in what manner she employed her time. 
 
 Marian replied, she did not know what it was to be 
 sick ; and, as to her employments, in winter she went 
 to get straw for the cow, and dry sticks to make the pot 
 boil ; in summer she went to weed the corn, and in 
 harvest-time, to glean and pull the hops. In short, 
 they were never at a loss for work ; and she said her 
 mother would make a sad noise, if any of her little 
 ones should take it into their heads to be lazy. 
 
 Miss Bella observing, that her little visitor went 
 barefooted, which much surprized her, was induced to 
 ask her the reason of it ; when Marian replied, that it 
 would be too expensive for their father to think of find- 
 ing shoes and stockings for them all, and therefore none 
 of them had any ; but they found no inconveniency 
 from it, since time had so hardened the bottom of their 
 feet, as to make shoes unnecessary. 
 
 The time having slipped away in this kind of chit- 
 chat, Marian told Miss Bella that she must be going, 
 in order to gather some greens for her cow, who would 
 want her breakfast by eight o'clock. This little girl 
 did not eat up all her roll and jelly, but saved some part 
 of it to carry home to her^youngest sister, who, she said, 
 she was sure would be very fond of it. Bella was vast- 
 ly pleased to find Marian was so tender of her sister, 
 and desired she would not fail to come again at the 
 same hour the next morning. So after a mutual good- 
 bye, they separated for the present. 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 49 
 
 Miss Bella had now, for the first time, tasted the 
 pleasure of doing good. She walked a little longer in 
 the garden, enjoying the pleasing reflection how happy 
 she had made Marian, how grateful that little girl had 
 shewed herself, and how pleased her sister would be to 
 taste currant-jelly, which she had never seen before. 
 
 Miss Bella was enjoying the idea, of the pleasure she 
 should receive from her future bounties to her new ac- 
 quaintance, when she recollected, that she had some 
 ribbands and a necklace, which her mamma had given 
 her a little time before, but of which she now began to 
 grow tired. Besides these, she had some other old 
 things to give her, which, though of no use to herself, 
 would make Marian quite fine. 
 
 The next morning Marian came into the garden 
 again, and Miss Bella was ready to receive her, with a 
 tolerable good portion of gingerbread. Indeed, this 
 interview was continued every morning, and Miss Bel- 
 la always carried some dainties along with her. When 
 her pocket failed her, she would beg her mamma to 
 supply her with something out of the pantry, which 
 was always cheerfully complied with, 
 
 One day, however, it happened, that Bella received 
 an answer which gave her some uneasiness. She had 
 been begging her mamma to advance her something on 
 her weekly allowance, in order to buy shoes and stock- 
 ings for Marian ; to which her mamma gave her a flat 
 denial, telling her, that she wished she would be a little 
 more sparing to her favorite, for which she would give 
 her a reason at dinner-time. Bella was a little surpriz- 
 ed at this answer, and every hour appeared an age till 
 •dinner-time arrived. 
 
 At length they sat down to table, atid dinner was half 
 
50 LOOKING-GLASS; 
 
 over before her mamma said a word about Marian ; but a 
 dish of shrimps being then served up, gave her mamma 
 an opportunity of beginning the conversation. ' I think 
 Bella, (said the lady) this is your favorite dish.' Bel- 
 la replied it was, and could not help observing, how 
 happy she supposed poor Marian would be to taste 
 them, who, she imagined, hjft never so much as seen 
 any. With her mamma's leave, she begged two of the 
 smallest, to give to that little girl. 
 
 Mrs. Adams, for such was her mamma's name, seem- 
 ed unwilling to grant her request, urging, that she was 
 afraid she would do her favorite more mischief than 
 good. ' At present, (said her mamma) she eats her 
 dry brown bread with an appetite, and walks barefoot- 
 ed on the gravel without complaining. Should you 
 continue to feed her with dainties, and accustom her to 
 wear shoes and stockings, what would she do, should 
 she by any means lose your favor, and with it all those 
 indulgences ? She will then lament that she had ever 
 experienced your bounty. 
 
 Miss Bella hastily replied, that she meant to be a 
 friend to her all her life, and only wished that her mam- 
 ma, in order to enable her to do so, would add a little to 
 her weekly allowance, and she would manage it with 
 all the frugality possible. 
 
 Mrs. Adams then asked her daughter, if she did not 
 know of any other children in distress ; to which Bella 
 replied, that she knew several besides, and particularly 
 two in a neighboring village, who had neither father 
 nor mother, and who, without doubt, stood much in 
 need of assistance. Her mamma then reminded her, 
 that it was somewhat uncharitable to feed Marian with 
 sweetmeats and dainties, while other poor children ( 
 
 1 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 51 
 
 were starving with hunger. To this Bella replied, that 
 she hoped she should have something to spare for 
 them likewise ; but, at all events, she loved Marian 
 best. 
 
 However, her mamma advised her, to give her sweet 
 things seldomer, and instead thereof something that 
 would be of more use to her, such as an apron or a 
 gown. Miss Bella immediately proposed to give her 
 one of her frocks ; but her mamma soon made her sen- 
 sible of the impropriety of dressing up a village girl, 
 without shoes or stockings, in a muslin slip. * Were I 
 in your place, (said her mamma) I would be sparing in 
 my amusements for some time, and when I had saved 
 a little money, I would lay it out in buying whatever 
 was most necessary for her. The stuffs that poor chil- 
 dren wear are not very expensive.' Bella followed her 
 mamma's advice. Marian was not, indeed, so punctu- 
 al in her morning visits, but Bella made her presents 
 far more useful than sweetmeats. 
 
 Miss Beba, besides frequently giving Marian an 
 apron, a petticoat, or such like, paid a certain sum ev- 
 ery month to the schoolmaster of the village to improve 
 her in reading. Marian was so sensible of these kind- 
 nesses, that she grew every day more tenderly fond of 
 her kind benefactress. She frequently paid her a visit, 
 and was never so happy as when she could do any little 
 matters to oblige her. 
 
 Marian came one day to the garden-gate to wait for 
 Bella's coming down to her ; but she did not come, and 
 she was obliged to go back again without seeing her. 
 She returned two days successively, but no Bella ap- 
 peared, which was a great affliction to her little heart, 
 Kid she began to fear she had inadvertently offended 
 
52 LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 her. < I have perhaps, (said she to herself) done some- 
 thing to vex her : I am sure, if I knew I had, I would 
 ask her a thousand pardons, for I cannot live without 
 loving her. ' 
 
 While she was thus reflecting, one of Mrs. Adams' 
 maids came out of the house, when poor Marian stop- 
 ped her, and asked her where Miss Bella was. < Miss 
 Bella ! (replied the woman) she is ill of the small-pox, 
 so ill, indeed, that there are no hopes of her recovery V 
 Poor Marian was all distraction, and without consider- 
 ing what she did, Hew up stairs, and burst into Mrs. 
 Adams' room, imploring on her knees, that she might 
 be permitted to see her dear Miss Bella. 
 
 Mrs. Adams would have stopped Marian ; but the 
 door being half open, she flew to her bed-side like an 
 arrow out of a bow. Poor Bella was in a violent fever, 
 alone, and very low spirited ; for all her companions 
 had forsaken her. Marian, drowned in tears, seized 
 hold of Bella's hand, squeezed it in hers, and kissed it. 
 4 Ah ! my dear Miss, (said she) is it in this condition I 
 find you ! But you must not die ; what would then be- 
 come of me ? I will watch over you and serve you ! 
 Shall I, my dear Miss Bella?' 
 
 Miss Bella, squeezing Marian's hand, signified to 
 her, that staying with her would do her a great lave r. 
 And the little maid, with Mrs. Adams' consent, became 
 Bella's nurse, which she performed the part of to admi- 
 ration. She had a small bed made up for her^ close be- 
 side her little sick friend, whom she never left for a mo- 
 ment. If the slightest sigh escaped Bella, Marian.. was 
 up in an instant to know what she wanted, and gave 
 her, with her own hands, all her medicines. 
 
 This grateful girl did every thing she could to 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 53i 
 
 amuse her friend. She ransacked Mrs. Adams' libra- 
 ry for books that had pictures in them, which she 
 would shew to Bella ; and during the time that her 
 eyes were darkened by her disorder, which was for 
 near a week, Marian exerted herself to the utmost to 
 divert her. When Bella grew impatient at the want 
 of sight, Marian told her stories of what happened in 
 the village ; and, as she had made a good use of her 
 school-master's instructions, she read whatever she 
 thought would be amusing and diverting to her. 
 
 Thus Marian was not only her nurse, but philoso- 
 pher also ; for she would sometimes say to her, ( God 
 Almighty will have pity upon you as you had pit}^ on 
 me. Will you let me sing a pretty song to divert you?' 
 Bella, had only to make a sign, and the little maid 
 would sing her every song she had learned from the 
 village nymphs and swains, endeavoring by this means 
 to soften the afflictions of her generous friend. 
 
 At length, she began to open her eyes, her lowness 
 of spirits left her, the pock dried up, and her appetite 
 returned. x Her face was still covered with red spots ; 
 but Marian looked at her with more pleasure than ev- 
 er, from the consideration of the danger she had been 
 in of losing her ; while the grateful Bella, on the other 
 hand, regarded her with equal tenderness. ( In what 
 manner, (she would sometimes say) can I think of re- 
 quiting you, to mv own satisfaction, for the tender 
 care you have taken of me r' 
 
 Miss Bella, as soon as she found herself perfectly 
 
 recovered, asked her mamma in what manner she 
 
 should recompense her faithful and tender nurse ; but 
 
 Mrs, Adams, whose joy on the recovery of her dauffh- 
 
 b4 
 
54 LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 > 
 
 ter was inexpressible, desired Bella to leave that mat- 
 ter to her, as she likewise was equally in her debt. 
 
 Mrs. Adams gave private orders to have a eomplete 
 suit of clothes made for Marian, and Bella desired 
 that she might have the pleasure of dressing her the 
 first time she was permitted to go into the garden. 
 The day arrived, and it was indeed a day of rejoicing 
 throughout the whole family ; for Bella was beloved 
 by all the servants, as well as by all her acquaintance. 
 
 This was a joyful day to Miss Bella, who had the 
 double satisfaction of seeing her health restored, and 
 of beholding her little friend dressed out in her new 
 clothes. It is much easier to conceive than to express 
 the emotions of these two tender hearts, when they 
 again found themselves in the garden, on that very 
 spot where their acquaintance first commenced. They 
 tenderly embraced each other, and vowed an insepa- 
 rable friendship. 
 
 It is evidently clear, from the story of Bella and 
 Marian, how advantageous it is to be generous and 
 humane. Had not Bella by her kindness attached 
 Marian to her interest, she might have sunk under the 
 severe indisposition ; from which the kind attentions, 
 and unremitting assiduities of Marian, were perhaps 
 the chief means of restoring her. 
 
 FRIENDSHIP, peculiar boon of heav'n, 
 
 The noble mind's delight and pride, 
 To men and angels only giv'n, 
 
 To all the lower world deny'd. 
 
 While love, unknown among the blest, 
 
 Parent of thousand wild desires, 
 The savage and the human breast 
 
 Torments alike, with raging fires. 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 55 
 
 "With bright, but oft destructive gleam, 
 
 Alike o'er all his lightnings fly, 
 The lambent glories only beam 
 
 Around the favorites of the sky. 
 
 Thy gentle flows of guiltless joys, 
 
 On fools and villains ne'er descend, 
 In vain for thee the tyrant sighs, 
 
 And hugs a flatt'rer for a friend. 
 
 Directress of the brave and just, 
 
 O guide us through life's darksome way ! 
 
 And let the tortures of mistrust. 
 On selfish bosoms only prey. 
 
 Nor shall thine ardors cease to glow, 
 
 When souls to peaceful climes remove : 
 What rais'd our virtue here below, 
 
 Shall aid our happiness above. 
 
 i^-^I^^^> 
 
56 
 
 'LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 O 
 
 LITTLE JACK. 
 
 NE day, as Mr. Glover was returning home, after 
 taking a ride over his estates, and passing by the wall 
 of a burying-ground belonging to a small village, he 
 heard the sound of groans and lamentations. As he 
 had a heart that was ever open to the distresses of 
 others, he alighted from his horse to see from whence 
 the voice proceeded, and got over the enclosure. 
 
 On his entering the place, he perceived a grave fresh 
 filled up, upon which, at full length, lay a child 
 about five years old, who was crying sadly. Mr. Glo- 
 ver went up to him, and tenderly asked him what he 
 did there. ' I am calling my mother, (said he) they 
 laid her here yesterday, and she does not get up.' 
 
 Mr. Glover then told him, that his poor mother was 
 dead, and would get up no more. l I know, (replied 
 the poor child) that they tell me she is dead, but I do 
 not believe it. She was perfectly well when she left 
 me the other day with old Susan our neighbor ; she 
 told me she would soon come back, but she has not 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 57 
 
 kept her word. My father is gone away too, and al- 
 so my little brother ; and the other boys of the village 
 will not play with me, but say very naughty things 
 about my father and mother, which vexes me more 
 than all. O mammy, get up, get up ! ' 
 
 Mr. Glover's eyes were filled with tears : he asked 
 him where his father and brother were gone to. He 
 replied, that he did not know where his father was ; 
 and as to his little brother, he was the day before tak- 
 en to another town, by a person dressed in black, just 
 like their parson. Mr. Glover then asked him where 
 he lived. ' With our neighbor Susan, (said he) I am 
 to be there till my mother comes back, as she prom- 
 ised me, I love my other mammy Susan very well ! 
 but I love my mammy that lies here a great deal bet- 
 ter. O mother ! mother ! why do you lie so long ? 
 when will you get up ? ' 
 
 ' My poor child, (said Mr. Glover) it is in vain to 
 call her, for she will awake no more !' — ' Then, (said 
 the poor little boy) I' will lie down and sleep by her. 
 Ah ! I saw her when they put her into a great chest to 
 carry her away. Oh, how white she was ! and how 
 cold ! I will lie down here and sleep by her ! ' 
 
 The tears now startled from the eyes of Mr. Glo- 
 ver, for he could no longer conceal them, but stooping 
 down, took the child up in his arms, and tenderly kis- 
 sed him, asking him what was his came. * When I 
 am a good boy, they call me Jackv, and when I be- 
 have amiss, they say, you Jack.' Mr. Glover, though 
 in tears, could not help smiling at the innocence and 
 simplicity of this answer, and begged Jacky to con- 
 duct him to the house of the g;ood Susan. 
 
 The child very readily consented, and running be* 
 
58 LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 fore him as fast as his legs Mould carry him, conduct- 
 ed Mr. Glover to Susan's door. Susan was not a lit- 
 tle surprised, on seeing Jack conduct a gentleman in- 
 to her cottage, and then running to her, hid his little 
 head into her lap, crying, ' This is she ! this is my 
 other mammy !' Mr. Glover, however, did not keep 
 her long in suspense, but related to her what he had 
 just seen, and begged Susan to give him the history of 
 the parents of this little boy. Susan desired the gen- 
 tleman to be seated, and then related to him the fol- 
 lowing particulars : 
 
 * The father of this poor child is a shoe-maker, and 
 his house is next to mine. His wife, though handsome, 
 was not a healthy woman ; but she was a careful and 
 good housewife. It is about seven years since they 
 were married, always lived together on the best terms, 
 and undoubtedly would have been perfectly happy, 
 had their affairs been a little better. 
 
 ' John had nothing beyond what his trade produced 
 him, and Margaret, his wife, being left an orphan, 
 only a little money which she had scraped together in 
 the service of a worthy neighboring curate. With 
 this they bought the most necessary articles of house- 
 hold furniture, and a small stock of leather to begin 
 business with. However, by dint of labor and good 
 management, they for several years contrived to live 
 a little comfortably. 
 
 ' As children encreased, so did their difficulties, and 
 misfortunes seldom come alone. Poor Margaret, who 
 had daily worked in the fields during hay-time, to 
 bring home a little money to her husband at night, 
 fell ill, and continued so all the harvest and winter. 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 5f 
 
 John's customers left him one after another, fearing 
 that work could not go on properly in a sick house. 
 
 ' Though Margaret at last grew better, yet her 
 husband's wt)rk continued to decline, and he was 
 obliged to borrow money to pay the apothecary ; 
 while poor Margaret continued so weakly that nobody 
 thought it worth their while to employ her. The rent 
 of their house, and the interest of the money they 
 had borrowed, were heavy loads upon them ; and 
 they were frequently obliged to endure hunger them- 
 selves, in order to give a morsel of bread to their poor 
 children. 
 
 1 To add to their misfortunes, their hard-hearted 
 landlord threatened toput poor John in jail, if he did not 
 pay the two quarters rent that were due ; and though he 
 is the richest man in the place, it was with the greatest 
 difficulty that they could obtain a month's delay. IJe 
 declared, if they did not at the end of that time pay the 
 whole, he would sell their furniture, and put John in 
 prison. Their house was now a picture of melancholy 
 and patient distress. How often have I lamented my 
 inability to assist the distresses of this honest couple ! 
 
 c I went myself to their landlord, and begged of him, 
 for God's sake, to have some compassion on these un- 
 fortunate people, and even offered to pawn to him all 
 I was posssessed of in the world ; but he treated me 
 with contempt, and told me I was as bad as they were. 
 I was obliged, however, being only a poor widow, to 
 bear the insult with patience, and contented myself by 
 easing my heart with a flood of tears, 
 
 ' I advised poor Margaret to make her distresses 
 known to the worthy clergyman, with whom she had 
 so long lived with an unblemished character, and to 
 
60 LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 beg of him to advance them a little money. Margaret 
 replied, that she supposed her husband would not like 
 that proposal, fearing that their friend might suspect 
 their necessities proceeded from mismanagement. 
 
 e It is but a few days ago since she brought me her 
 two children, and begged me to take care of them till 
 the evening. Her intention was to go to a village at a 
 little distance, and endeavor to get some hemp from the 
 weaver to spin, with a view to get something towards 
 the debt. As she could not persuade herself to wait 
 upon the clergyman, her husband had undertaken it, 
 and had accordingly set off on that business. As Mar- 
 garet was going, she clasped her two children to her 
 breast and kissed them, little thinking it was to be the 
 last time she should ever see them. 
 
 ' Soon after she had gone, I heard a noise in her 
 house, but supposed it might be only the flapping of 
 the door. However, the evening came on, and my 
 neighbor did not come to fetch her children as usual. I 
 therefore determined to go to her house, and see if she 
 was come home. I found the door open, and went in ; 
 but how shall I express my horror and astonishment, 
 when I found poor Margaret lying dead at the foot of 
 the stairs ! 
 
 ' After trying in vain to recover her, I fetched the 
 surgeon, who shook his head, and said all was over. 
 The cornor's inquest brought in their verdict, Acciden- 
 tal Death ; but as her husband was missing, ill-natured 
 people raised suspicious reports. Her death, however, 
 was easily to be accounted for : she had returned to her 
 house, to go up to the loft for a bag to hold her hemp, 
 and, as her eyes were still dimmed with tears, she had 
 missed her step in coming down, and fallen from the 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. $1 
 
 top of the stairs, with her head foremost, on the ground. 
 The bag that laid by her side shewed this to have been 
 the case. 
 
 * I made an offer to the parish officers to keep the 
 two children myself, not doubting, but that the good- 
 ness of God, even a poor widow as I was, would enable 
 me to support them. The worthy curate came yester- 
 day to see the unfortunate Margaret, and great indeed 
 was his affliction, when I related to him what I have 
 been now telling you. I then told him, that John was 
 gone to him ; but I was much surprised, when he de- 
 clared he had seen nothing of him. The two children 
 came up to him, and little Jack asked him, if he could 
 not awake his mother, who had been a long time asleep* 
 This brought tears into the eyes of the good curate, 
 who proposed to take the two children home to his own 
 house, and bring them up under his care ; but, as I 
 could not consent to part with both these innocents, it 
 was at last agreed, that he should take the younger 3 
 and leave me the elder. 
 
 6 He asked little Jack, if he should not like to go 
 with him. ' What, where my mother is ? (said Jack) 
 oh ! yes, with all my heart !-— c No, my little man, (re- 
 plied the curate) I do not mean there, but to my hand- 
 some house and garden.' — < No, no, (answered Jack) 
 I will stay here with Susan, and every day go to where 
 my mother is ; for I would rather go there than to your 
 handsome garden.* 
 
 ' This worthy curate did not chuse to vex the child 
 more, who went and hid himself behind my bed cur- 
 tains. He told me he would send his man for the 
 younger, who would be more trouble to me than the 
 
q LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 elder child, and before he went, left me some money 
 towards the support of this. 
 
 1 This, Sir, is the whole of this unfortunate busi- 
 ness. What makes me exceedingly uneasy at present 
 is, that John does not return, and that it is reported in 
 the parish, that he has connected himself with a gang 
 of smugglers, and that his wife put an end to her life 
 through grief. These stories have obtained such cre- 
 dit in the village, that even the children have got it ; 
 and whenever poor Jack attempts to mix with them, 
 they drive him away as though he were infectious. 
 Hence, the poor little fellow is quite dull, and now ne- 
 ver goes out but to pay a sad visit to his mother's 
 grave.' 
 
 Mr. Glover, who had silently listened to this melan- 
 choly tale, was deeply affected by it. Little Jack was 
 now got close up to Susan, he looked at her with fond- 
 ness, and often called her his mother. Mr. Glover at 
 length broke silence, and told Susan she was a worthy 
 woman, and that God would not fail to reward her for 
 her generosity towards this unfortunate family. 
 
 ' Ah ! (said Susan) I am happy in what I have done, 
 and I wish I could have done more ; but my only pos- 
 session consists in my cottage, a little garden, in which 
 I have a few greens, and what I can earn by the labor 
 of my hands. Yet for these eight 3-ears that I have 
 been a widow, God has not sufTered me to want, and I 
 trust he never will.' 
 
 Mr. Glover reminded her, that keeping this little 
 boy must be very inconvenient to her, and that she 
 would find it difficult to supply him with clothes. She 
 answered, ' I leave the care of that to him, who clothes 
 the fields with grass, and the trees with leaves. He has 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 6J 
 
 given me fingers to sew and spin, and they shall work 
 to clothe my poor little orphan. I will never part with 
 him.' 
 
 Mr. Glover was astonished at this good woman's re- 
 solution. ' I must not suffer you alone (said he) to 
 have all the honor of befriending this poor orphan, 
 since God has bestowed on me those blessings of afflu- 
 ence whicli you do not enjoy. Permit me to take care 
 of the education of this sweet $>oy ; and, since I find 
 you cannot live separate, I will take you both home 
 with me, and provide for you. Sell your cottage and 
 garden, and make my house your own, where you may 
 spend the remainder of your life amidst peace and 
 plenty.' 
 
 Susan gave Mr. Glover a most affectionate look, but 
 begged he would excuse her accepting his offer, as she 
 jras fond of the spot on which she was born, and had 
 lived in so long. Besides, she added, she could not suit 
 herself to the bustle of a great house, and should soon 
 grow sick, were she to live upOn dainties in idleness. 
 * If you will please (continued Susan) now and then 
 to send him a small matter to pay for his schooling, 
 and to supply him tools when he shall take to business, 
 God will not fail to reward you for your bounty. As 
 I have no child, he shall be as one to me, and whatever 
 I possess shall be his at my death.' 
 
 Mr. Glover, finding she did not chuse to quit her ha- 
 bitation, told her, he should every month send her what 
 would be sufficient for her support, and that he would 
 sometimes come and see them himself. Susan lifted up 
 her hands to heaven, and bid Jackey go and ask the 
 gentleman's blessing, which he did. He then threw 
 down his purse on the table, bid them a farewell, and 
 
64 LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 mounting his horse, took the road that led to the parish, 
 in which the worthy curate Jived. 
 
 On Mr. Glover's arrival there, he found the worthy 
 curate reading a letter, on which he had shed some tears. 
 He explained the cause of his visit to this worthy di- 
 vine, and asked him, if he knew what was become of 
 the father of the two little unfortunate children. The 
 curate replied, that it was not a quarter of an hour 
 since he received a le#ter from him to his wife. ' It 
 was (said the curate) inclosed in one to me, and con- 
 tains a small draft for the use of his wife ; he requests 
 me to deliver it to her, and to console her for his ab- 
 sence. As she is dead, I have opened the letter, and 
 here it is : be so kind as to read it.' Mr. Glover took 
 the letter, the particulars of which were as follow : 
 
 He hoped his wife would not give herself any un- 
 easiness on account of his absence. As he was going 
 to the clergyman's house, he began to think, that it 
 could be of no use to go thus a begging, and, if lie 
 should borrow money, he was not sure he should be able 
 to pay it, which he thought would be as bad as thiev- 
 ing. At this instant a thought struck into his head, 
 that he was young and hearty, stout and able-bodied, 
 and therefore could see no harm if he entered on 
 board a man of war for a few years, where he might 
 stand a chance of getting a fortune for his wife and 
 children, at least get enough to pay all his debts. 
 While he was thinking of this matter, a press-gang 
 came up, and asked him if he would enter, telling him, 
 they would give him five pounds bounty. The thought 
 of receiving five pounds, fixed his determination at 
 once, and he accordingly entered, received the money, 
 and sent every farthing of it to his wife, with his love 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 65 
 
 and blessing, and hoping they would all join in their 
 prayers to God for him. He hoped the war would 
 soon be over, and that he should then return with inex- 
 pressible joy to his dear wife. 
 
 Mr. Glover's eyes swimmed with tears all the time he 
 was reading the letter. When he had finished it, ' this 
 man, (said he) may indeed justly be called a good hus- 
 band, a tender father, and an honest man. There is an 
 expressive pleasure in being a friend to such characters 
 as these. I will pay John's debts, and enable him to 
 take up his trade again. Let his money be kept for the 
 children, to be divided between them, as soon as they 
 shall be at an age to know how to make use of it^-and 
 I will add something to this sacred deposit.' 
 
 So greatly was the worthy curate affected, that he 
 could make no reply, and Mr. Glover perfectly under- 
 standing the cause of his silence, squeezed him by the 
 hand, and took his leave ; but he completely accomplished 
 all his designs in favor of John, who at length returned, 
 and enjoyed an easiness of circumstances beyond any 
 thing he had before experienced. 
 
 Nothing now disturbed John's felicity, but the sor- 
 rowful reflection of having lost his dear Margaret ; she 
 had experienced part of his misfortunes, but had not 
 lived to share in his felicity ; and John's only consola- 
 tion is perpetually to talk about her to Susan, whom he 
 looks' upon as a sister to him, and as a mother to his 
 children. Little Jack frequently visits his mother's 
 grave ; and has made so good a use of Mr. Glover's 
 generosity in improving himself that this excellent gen- 
 tleman intends placing him in a very desirable situa- 
 tion. John's younger son has likewise a share in his 
 favors ; and whenever Mr. Glover's mind is oppressed 
 
 F2 
 
06 LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 a visit to this spot, where sueh an affecting scene pas- 
 sed, and where he has been enabled to do so much good, 
 never fails to raise his spirits. 
 
 My readers will from hence learn, that God always 
 assists those who put their trust in him. It is on him 
 we must rely on every occasion, and he will not desert 
 us, provided we ourselves also try to surmount difficul- 
 ties by patience and industry. 
 
 HAIL, lovely pow'r ! whose bosom heaves a sigh. 
 When fancy paints the scene of deep distress ; 
 
 Whose tears spontaneous chrystalize the eye, 
 When rigid fate denies the pow'r to bless. 
 
 Not all the sweets Arabia's gales convey 
 
 From flow'ry meads, can with that sigh compare : 
 
 Not dew-drops glitt'ring in the morning ray, 
 Seem near so beauteous as that falling tear. 
 
 Teach me to soothe the helpless orphan's grief j 
 With timely aid the widow's woes assuage ; 
 
 To mis'ry's moving cries to yield relief, 
 And be the sure resource of drooping age. 
 
 So when the verdant spring of youth shall fade, 
 And sinking nature owns the dread decay, 
 
 Some soul congenial then may lead its aid, 
 And gild the close of lilVs eventful day. 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 67 
 
 LEONORA AND ADOLPHUS. 
 
 A YOUNG widow lady, who -6 name was Lenox, 
 had two children, Leonora and Adolphus, both equally 
 deserving the affections of a parent, which, however, 
 were unequally shared. Adolphus was the favorite, 
 which Leonora very early began to discover, and con- 
 sequent]j T felt no small share of uneasiness on the oc- 
 casion ; but she was prudent enough to conceal her 
 sorrow. 
 
 Leonora, though not remarkably handsome, had a 
 mind that made ample amends for the want of beauty ; 
 but her brother was a little Cupid, on whom Mrs. Le- 
 nox lavished ail her kisses and caresses. It is no wonder 
 that the servants, to gain the favor of their mistress, 
 were very attentive to humor him in all his whimsies. 
 Leonora, on the other hand, was consequently slight- 
 ed by every one in the house ; and, so far from wish- 
 ing to study her humor, they scarcely treated her with 
 common civilitv. 
 
68 LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 Finding herself frequently alone and neglected, and 
 taken ice of by any one, she would privately 
 
 shed a torrent of tears ; but she always t< ! care, that 
 not the least mark of discontent should i cape her in 
 the presence of any one. Her c< nstant attention to 
 the observance of her duty, her mildness, and endea- 
 vors to convince her mother, that her mind was supe- 
 rior to her face, had no effect; for beauty alone attracts 
 the attention of those, who examine no further than ex- 
 ternal appearances. 
 
 Mrs. Lenox, who was continually chiding Leonora, 
 and expecting from her perfections far beyond the reach 
 of those more advanced in years, at last fell sick. 
 
 Adolphus seemed very sorry for his mother's illness ; 
 but Leonora, with the softest looks and most languish- 
 ing countenance, fancied she perceived in her mother 
 an abatement of her accustomed rigor towards her, and 
 far surpassed her brother in her attention to her parent. 
 She endeavored to supply her slightest wants, exerted 
 all her penetration to discover them, that she might 
 even spare her the pain of asking for any thing. So 
 long as her mother's illness had the least appearance of 
 danger, she never quitted her pillow, and neither 
 threats nor commands could prevail on her to take the 
 least repose. 
 
 Mrs. Lenox, however, at length recovered, which 
 afforded inexpressible pleasure to the amiable Leonora; 
 but she soon experienced a renewal of her misfortunes, 
 as her mother began to treat her with her usual severity 
 and indifference. 
 
 As Mrs. Lenox was one day talking to her children 
 on the pain she had suffered during her illness, and was 
 praising them for the anxiety they had shewn on her 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 65 
 
 account, she desired them to ask of her whatever they 
 thought would be the most pleasing to them, and they 
 should certainly be indulged in it, provided their de- 
 mands were not unreasonable. 
 
 First addressing herself to Adolphus, she desired to 
 know what he would choose ; and his desire was to have a 
 cane and a watch, which his mother promised he should 
 have the next morning. ' And pray, Leonora, (said Mrs. 
 Lenox) what is your wish? — ' Me, mamma, me? (an- 
 swered she, trembling) if you do but love me, I have no- 
 thing else to wish for ! — ' That is not an answer ; (repli- 
 ed her mother) you shall have your recompence likewise 
 miss; therefore speak your wish instantly.' 
 
 However accustomed Leonora might have been to 
 this severe tone, yet she felt it on this occasion more 
 sensibly than ever she had before. She threw herself at 
 her mother's feet, looked up to her with eyes swimming 
 in tears, and instantly hiding her face with both her 
 hands, lisped out these words : ' Only give me two kis- 
 ses, such as you give my brother.' 
 
 What heart could fail to relent at these words ? Mrs. 
 Lenox felt all the tender sentiments of a parent arise in 
 her heart, and taking her up in her arms, she clasped 
 her to her breast, and loaded her with kisses. The 
 sweet Leonora, who now for the first time received her 
 mother's careifees, gave way to the effusion of her joy 
 and love ; she kissed her cheeks, her eyes, her breasts, 
 and her hands ; and Adolphus, who loved his sister, mix- 
 ed his embraces with hers. Thus all had a share in this 
 scene of unexpected happiness. 
 
 The affection which Mrs. Lenox had so long with- 
 held from Leonora, she now repaid with interest, and 
 her daughter returned it with the most dutiful atten- 
 
TO LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 tion. Adolphus, so far from bang jealous at this 
 change of his mother's affection for his sister, shewed 
 every mark of pleasure on the occasion, and he after- 
 wards reaped a reward of so generous a conduct ; for 
 his natural disposition having been, in some measure, 
 injured by the too great indulgence of his mother, he 
 gave way in his early days to those little indiscretions, 
 which would have lost him the heart of his parent, had 
 not his sister stepped in between them. It was to the 
 advice of this amiable girl that Adolphus at last owed 
 his entire reformation of manners. They all three then 
 experienced, that true happiness cannot exist in a fa- 
 mily, unless the most perfect union between brothers 
 and sisters, and the most lively and equal affection be- 
 tween parents and children, are constantly and strictly 
 adhered to. 
 
 THE shape alone let others prize 
 
 The features of the fair ; 
 I look for spirit in her eyes, 
 
 And meaning in her air. 
 A damask cheek, and ivory arm, 
 
 Shall ne'er my wishes win : 
 Give me an animated form 
 
 That speaks a mind within. 
 A face where awful honor shines, # 
 
 Where sense and sweetness move. 
 And angel innocence refines 
 
 The tenderness of love. 
 These are the soul of beauty's frafce. 
 
 Without whose vital aid 
 Unfinished all her features seem, ^\ 
 
 And all her roses dead. * 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 71 
 
 FLORA AND HER LITTLE LAMB. 
 
 Z\. POOR countryman's little daughter, whose name 
 was Flora, was one morning sitting by the side of the 
 road, holding on her lap a pan of milk for her break- 
 fast, into which she was breaking some bits of coarse 
 black bread. 
 
 While Flora was thus busily employed at her break- 
 fast, a farmer was passing the road with his cart, in 
 which were about twenty lambs, and these he was go- 
 ing to carry to market for sale. These pretty little 
 lambs, were ti^d together like so many criminals, and 
 lay with their legs fastened with cords, and their heads 
 hanging down. Their plaintive bleatings pierced the 
 heart of poor Flora, but they had no manner of effect 
 on the hard-hearted farmer. 
 
 As soon as he came opposite to the place where little 
 Flora was sitting he threw down to her a lamb, which 
 he was carrying across his shoulder, saying, * There my 
 girl, is a poor sorry creature that has just died, and 
 
7« LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 made me some shillings poorer than I was. You may 
 take it, if you will, and do what you like with it.' 
 
 Flora put down her milk and bread, and taking up 
 the lamb, viewed it with looks of tenderness and com- 
 passion. ( But why should I pity you ? (said she to 
 the lamb) either this day or to-morrow, they would 
 have run a great knife through your throat, whereas 
 now you have nothing to fear. ' 
 
 While she was thus speaking, the warmth of her 
 arms somewhat revived the lamb, who opening its eyes 
 a little, made a slight motion, and cried baa in a very 
 low tone, as if it were calling for its mother. It would 
 be impossible to express little Flora's joy on this occa- 
 sion. She covered the lamb in her apron, and over 
 that put her stuff petticoat ; site then bent her breast 
 down towards her Jap, in order tocncrease the warmth, 
 and blew into its mouth and nostrils with all the force 
 she could. By degrees the poor animal began to stir, 
 and every motion it made conveyed joy to her little 
 heart. 
 
 This success encouraged her to proceed : she crum- 
 bled some of her bread into her pan, and taking it up 
 }n her fingers, she with no small difficulty forced it be- 
 tween its teeth, which were very firmly closed together. 
 The lamb, whose only disorder was hunger and fatigue, 
 began to feel the effects of this nourishment. It first 
 began to stretch out its limbs, then to shake its head, 
 to wag its tail, and at last to prick up its ears. In a 
 little time it was able to stand upon its legs, and then 
 went of itself to Flora's breakfast pan, who was highly 
 delighted to see it take such pleasing liberties ; for she 
 cared not a farthing about losing her own breakfast, 
 since it saved the life of the little lamb. In short, in a 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 73 
 
 little time it recovered its usual strength, and began to 
 ship and play about her kind deliverer. 
 
 It may naturally be supposed, that Flora was great- 
 lv pleased at this unexpected success. She took it up 
 in her arms, and ran with it to the cottage to shew it to 
 her mother. Her Baba, for so Flora called it, became 
 the first object of her cares, and it constantly shared 
 with her in the little allowance of bread and milk, 
 which she received for her meals. Indeed, so fond was 
 she of it, that she would not have exchanged it for a 
 whole flock. Nor was Baba insensible of the fond- 
 ness of her little mistress, since she would follow her 
 wherever she went, would come and eat out of her hand, 
 skip and frisk round her, and would bleat most piteous- 
 ly, whenever Flora was obliged to leave her at home. 
 Baba, however, repaid the services of her little mis- 
 tress in a more substantial manner, than that of merely 
 dancing about her ; for she brought forth young lambs, 
 those lambs grew up, and brought forth others ; so that 
 within the space of a few years, Flora had a very capi- 
 tal flock, that furnished the whole family with food 
 and raiment. Such, my little readers, are the rewards 
 which Providence bestows on acts of goodness, tender- 
 ness and humanity. 
 
 WIDE as the sun his bright dominion spreads, 
 Heav'n-born Benevolence her bounty sheds. 
 She, meek-ey'd goddess, quits the angelic sphere, 
 To banish grief, and dry the human tear. 
 
 Plenty's rich urn her willing arms sustain, 
 Life, Hope, and Joy, exulting in her train. 
 Her ear is open to the orphan's cry, 
 Her soul expanding, as the poor pass by* 
 G 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 From her bless'd tongue, the words of manna flow, 
 
 And carry Courage to desponding Woe. 
 Objects of aid she seeks, through all the land, 
 Diffusing bounty with a Saviour's hand. 
 
 Thro* prison-bars she darts a pitying eye, 
 Her heart, responsive, echoes sigh for sigh : 
 Nor scorns she ev'n the malefactor's chain : 
 
 She mourns his guilt- 
 
 -but mitigates his pain. 
 
 The wretch she asks not, in what climate bred, 
 To what profession or religion wed ; 
 That's not the subject of her mission there — 
 To succor all Avho wants, is all her care. 
 
 These are, O bright Benevolence, thy ways, 
 And these the solid basis of thy praise ! 
 When Caesar's fame, and Malbro's deeds are past, 
 Th' effects of thy philanthropy shall last. 
 
 In nature's wreck, the juster fates shall see 
 Distinguish 'd worth ; and fix their eyes on thee ; 
 A preference for thy honest heart shall find, 
 Before the proud destroyers of mankind. 
 Their lapsing honors shall forbear to save : 
 But thy blest name shall triumph o'er the grave* 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 THE 
 
 iT was in the beginning of the spring, when Mr. 
 Jackson went to his country house, and took with him 
 his little son Junius, in order to treat him with a walk 
 in the garden. The primroses and violets were then 
 displaying all their beauties, and many trees had begun 
 to shew what livery they were soon to wear. 
 
 After walking some time about the gar den, they hap- 
 pened to go into the summer-house, at the foot of which 
 grew the stump of a vine, which twisted wildly, and 
 extended its naked branches in a rude and irregular 
 manner. As soon as little Junius saw this tree, he ex- 
 claimed sadly against the ugly appearance it made, 
 and began to exert all his strength to pull it up ; but 
 he found his efforts in vain, it being too well rooted to 
 yield to his weak arm. He begged his papa to call 
 the gardener to grub it up, and make fire-wood of it ; 
 but Mr. Jackson desired his son to let the tree alone, 
 telling him that he would, in a few months, give him 
 his reasons for not complying with his request. 
 
To LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 This did not satisfy Junius, who desired his father to 
 look at those lively croeusses and snow-drops, saying, 
 he could not see why that barren stump should he 
 kept, which did not produce a single green leaf. \\c 
 thought it spoiled and disfigured the garden, and 
 therefore begged his lather would permit him to fetch 
 the gardener to pluck it up. 
 
 Mr. Jackson, who could not think of granting his 
 request, told him, that it must stand as it then was, at 
 least for some time to come. Little Junius still persist- 
 ed in his entreaties, urging how disgraceful it was to 
 the garden ; but his father diverted his attention from 
 the vine, by turning the conversation. 
 
 It so happened, that Mr. Jackson's affairs called him 
 to a different part of the country, from whence he did 
 not return till the middle of autumn. He no sooner 
 came home, than he paid a visit to his country house, 
 taking little Junius with him. As the day happened 
 to be exceeding warm, they retired to enjoy the be- 
 nefit of the shade, and entered the arbor, in which the 
 vine stump had so much before offended his son Junius. 
 
 c Ah ! papa, (said the young gentleman) how charm- 
 ing and delightful is tins green shade ! I am much 
 obliged to you for having that dry and ugly stump 
 plucked up, which I found so much fault with when 
 Ave were here last, and for putting in its place this 
 beautiful plant ; I suppose you did it in order to give 
 me an agreeable surprize. How delightful and tempt- 
 ing the fruit looks ! What fine grapes ! some purple, 
 and others almost black. I see no tree in the garden 
 that looks m so blooming a state. All have lost their 
 fruit; but this fine one seems in the highest perfec- 
 tion. See how it is loaded ! See those wide-spreading 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 77 
 
 leaves that hide the clusters. If the fruit be 4 as good 
 as it appears beautiful, it must be delicious !' 
 
 Little Junius was in raptures when he tasted one of 
 the grapes, which his father gave him ; and still more 
 when he informed him, that from such fruit was made 
 that delicious liquor, which he sometimes tasted after 
 dinner. The little fellow was quite astonished on 
 hearing his father talk thus ; but he was far more sur- 
 prized, when Mr. Jackson told him, that all those 
 fine leaves, and delicious fruit, grew from that very 
 crooked and mishapen stump, with which he had been 
 so angry in the spring. His father then asked him, if 
 he should now order the gardener to pluck it up, and 
 make fire-wood of it. Junius was much confused ; 
 but, after a short silence, told his papa, that he would 
 ra-ther see every other tree, in the garden cut down 
 than that, so beautiful were its leaves, and so deli- 
 cious its fruit. 
 
 As Mr. Jackson was a man of good sense, he thus 
 moralized on this occasion. ' You see then, my dear,, 
 (said he) how imprudently I should have acted, had I 
 followed your advice, and cut down this tree. Daily 
 experience convinces us, that the same thing happens 
 frequently in the commerce of this world, which has 
 in this instance misled you. When we see a child 
 badly clothed, and of an unpleasing external appear- 
 ance, we are too apt to despise him, and grow conceited 
 on comparing ourselves withhim ; and sometimes even 
 gosofar as cruelly to address himin haughty and insult- 
 ing language. But beware, my dear boy, how you 
 run into errors by forming a too hasty judgment. It 
 is possible, that in a person so little favored by na-, 
 ture, may dwell an exalted soul, which may one day 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 astonish the world, with the greatness of its virtues, or 
 enlighten it with knowledge. The most rugged stem 
 may produce the most delicious fruit, while the straight 
 and stately plant may be worthless and barren.' 
 
 BENEATH those rugged elms, that yew tree's shade, 
 Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, 
 
 Each in his narrow eell for ever laid, 
 The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 
 
 Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield ; 
 
 Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke : 
 How jocund did they drive their teams afield ! 
 
 How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke ! 
 
 Let not ambition mock their useful toil, 
 Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; 
 
 Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile, 
 The short and simple annals of the poor. 
 
 The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, 
 
 And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave. 
 
 Await alike, the inevitable hour; 
 
 The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 
 
 Full many a gem, of purest ray serene, 
 
 The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear ; 
 
 Full many a flow'ris born to blush unseen, 
 And wa»t< its sweetness on the desert air. 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 19 
 
 SIR JOHN DENHAM AND HIS WORTHY TENANT. 
 
 vJNE morning, Sir John Denham having shut him- 
 self up in his study on some particular business, his 
 servant came to inform him that one of his tenants, far- 
 mer Harris, desired to speak with him. Sir John told 
 him to shew the farmer into the drawing room, and to 
 beg him to stay one moment, until he had finished writ- 
 ing a letter. 
 
 Sir John had three children, Robert, Arthur, and So- 
 phia, who were in the drawing room when the farmer 
 was introduced. As soon as he entered, he saluted them 
 very respectfully, though not with the grace of a danc- 
 ing master, nor were his compliments very elegantly 
 turned. The two sons looked at each other with a 
 smile of contempt and disrespect. Indeed, they behav- 
 ed in such a manner, that the poor farmer blushed, and 
 was quite out of countenance. 
 
 Robert was so shamefully impertinent as to walk 
 round him, holding his nose, and asking his brother, 
 if he did not perceive something of the smell of a 
 
■80 LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 dung heap ? Then he lighted some paper at the tire, 
 and carried it round the room, in order to disperse, as 
 he said, the unpleasant smell. Arthur all the while 
 stood laughing most heartily. 
 
 Sophia, however, acted in a very different manner ; 
 for, instead of imitating the rudeness of her brothers, 
 she checked them for their behavior, made apologies 
 for them to the farmer, and approaching him with the 
 most complaisant looks, offered him some wine to re- 
 fresh him, made him sit down, and took from him his 
 hat and stick to put by. 
 
 In a little time, Sir John came out of his study, and 
 approaching the farmer in a friendly maimer, took him 
 by the hand, enquired after the health of his family, 
 and asked him what had brought him to town. The 
 farmer replied, that he was come to pay him half a 
 year's rent, and that he hoped he would not be dis- 
 pleased at his not coming sooner, the roads having 
 been so bad that he could not till then cany his corn 
 to market. 
 
 Sir John told him he was not displeased at his not 
 coming sooner ; because he knew him to be an honest 
 man, who had no occasion to be put in mind of his debts. 
 The farmer then put down the money, and drew out of 
 his great coat pocket ajar of candied fruits. ; I have 
 brought something here, (said he) for the young folks. 
 Won't you be so kind, Sir John, as to let them come 
 out one of these days, and take a mouthful of the coun- 
 try air with us ? I'd try, as -well as I could, to entertain 
 and amuse them. I have two good stout nags, and 
 would come for them myself, and take them down in 
 my four-wheeled chaise, which will carry them very 
 safely, I'll warrant it,' 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 81 
 
 Sir John said, that he would certainly take an op- 
 portunity to pay him a visit, and invited him to stay 
 to dinner ; but the farmer excused himself, say- 
 ing, he had a good deal of business to do in town, and 
 wished to get home before night. Sir John filled his 
 pocket with cakes for his children, thanked him for the 
 present he had made to his, and then took leave of him. 
 
 No sooner was the farmer gone, than Sophia, in the 
 presence of her brothers, acquainted her papa of the 
 very rude reception they had given the honest farmer. 
 Sir John was exceedingly displeased at their conduct, 
 and much applauded Sophia for her different behavior. 
 
 Sir John, being seated at breakfast with his children, 
 opened the farmer's jar of fruit, and he and his daugh- 
 ter ate some of them, which they thought were very 
 nice ; but Robert and Arthur were neither of them 
 invited to a single taste. Their longing eyes were fix- 
 ed upon them ; but their father, instead of taking any 
 notice of them, continued conversing with Sophia, 
 whom he advised, never to despise a person merely for 
 the plainness of his dress ; ' for, ( said he ) were we to 
 behave politely to those only who are finely cloathed, 
 we should appear to direct our attention more to the 
 dress than to the wearer. The most worthy people 
 are frequently found under the plainest, dress, and of 
 this have an example in farmer Harris. It is this man 
 who helps to clothe you, and also to procure you a 
 proper education, for the money that he and my other 
 tenants bring me, enables me to do these things.' 
 
 Bre Jkfast being finished, the remainder of the fruit 
 was ordered to be locked up ; but Robert and his bro- 
 ther, whose longing eyes followed the jar, clearly saw 
 they were to have, none of them. In this they were 
 
R2 i. >OKING-GLAS , 
 
 i ir father, who told them not tq expect 
 
 to taste any of those fruits, either on that or any fu- 
 ture day. 
 
 Robert endeavored to excuse himself, by saying, 
 that it was not his fault if the farmer did not smell well; 
 and he thought there was no harm in telling him of it. 
 If people will go among dung they must expect to 
 smell of it. ' And yet (said Sir John) if this man 
 were not to manure his land with dung, his crops would 
 fail him, he would be unable to pay his rent, and you 
 yourself would perhaps be obliged to follow a dung- 
 cart.' The two boys saw displeasure in their papa's 
 countenance, and therefore did not presume to say any 
 thin^ more. 
 
 o 
 
 Early on a morning shortly after, the good farmer 
 came to Sir John Denham's door, and sent up his com- 
 pliments, kindly inviting him to make a little excursion 
 to his farm. Sir John could not resist the friendly in- 
 vitation, iis a refusal might perhaps have made the ho- 
 nest farmer uneasy. Robert and Arthur begged very- 
 hard to £0 alonor with them, promising to behave more 
 Civilly in future, and Sophia begged for them likewise. 
 Sir John at last consented. They then mounted the 
 four-wheeled chaise with joyful countenances, and as 
 the farmer had a pair of good horses, they were there. 
 in a short time. " 
 
 On their arrival, Mrs. Harris, the farmer's wife, 
 came to the door to receive them, helped the young; 
 gentlefolks out of the chaise, and kissed them. Ail their ; 
 little family, dnessed in their best clothes, came cat to 
 compliment their visitors. Sir John woul J have pop- 
 ped a moment to talk with the little ones, and caress 
 them ; but Mrs. Harris pressed him to go in, lest the 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. S3 
 
 coffee should grow cold, it being already poured out, it 
 was placed on a table, covered with a napkin as white 
 as snow. 
 
 Indeed the coffee-pot was not silver, nor the cups chi- 
 na, yet every thing was in the neatest order. Robert 
 and Arthur, however, looked slily at each other, and. 
 would have burst out into a laugh, had not their father 
 been present. Mrs. Harris, who was a sensible woman, 
 guessed by their looks what they thought, and there- 
 fore made an apology for the humble stile in which her 
 table was set out, which she owned could not be equal 
 to what they met with at their own homes ; but hoped 
 they would not be dissatisfied at her homely fare. The 
 cakes she produced were excellent, for she spared no 
 pains in making them. 
 
 As soon as breakfast was over, the farmer asked Sir 
 John to look at his orchard and grounds, and Mrs, 
 Karris took all the pains she could to make the walk 
 pleasing to the children. She shewed them all her 
 flocks^ which covered the fields, and gave them the 
 prettiest lambs to play with. She then conducted them 
 to her pidgeon-house, where every thing was clean and 
 wholesome.— There were some so young that they 
 were unable to fly ; seme of the mothers sitting on their 
 eggs, and others employed in feeding their young. 
 From the pigeon-house they proceeded to the bee- 
 hive ; but Mrs. Harris took care that they should no* 
 go too neat them, for fear of being stung. 
 
 Most of these sights being new to the children, they 
 seemed highly pleased with them, and were even going 
 to take a second surrey of them, 'when the farmer's 
 youngest son came to inform them that dinner was rea- 
 dy* They eat off pewter, and drank out -of delf ware ; 
 
U LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 but Robert and Arthur finding themselves so well plea- 
 sed with their morning walk glared not to indulge them- 
 selves in ill-natured observations. Mrs. Harris, indeed, 
 had spared neither pains nor attention to procure eve- 
 ry thing in the best manner she was able. 
 
 Sir John, after dinner, perceiving two fiddles hang 
 up against the wall, asked who played on those instru- 
 ments. The farmer answered, he and his son ; and 
 without saying a word more, he made a sign to his son 
 Luke to take down the fiddles. They by turns played 
 some old tunes, with which Sir John seemed highly 
 delighted. As they were going to hang up the in- 
 struments, Sir John desired his two sons to play some 
 of their best tunes, putting the fiddles into their hands, 
 but they knew not even how to hold the bow, and 
 their confusion occasioned a general laugh. 
 
 Sir John now thinking it time to return home, desir- 
 ed the farmer to order the carriage. Farmer Llarris 
 strongly pressed Sir John to stay all night, but the far- 
 mer was at last obliged to submit to Sir John's excuses. 
 
 On his return home, he asked his son Robert how 
 he had liked his entertainment, and what he should 
 have thought of the farmer, if be had taken no pains to 
 entertain them. He replied, that he liked his entertain- 
 ment ; but had he not taken pains to accommodate 
 them, he should have thought him an unmannerly 
 clown. 'Ah, Robert! Robert! (said Sir John) this ho- 
 nest man came to our house, and, instead of offering 
 him any refreshment, you made game of him. Which 
 then is the best bred, you or the farmer?' 
 
 Robert blushed and seemed at a loss what answer to 
 make ; but at length replied, that it was his duty to re- 
 ceive them well, as he got his living off their lands. 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 83 
 
 * That is true, (answered Sir John) but it may be easi- 
 ly seen who draws the greatest profit from my lauds, 
 the farmer or I. He indeed feeds his horses with hay 
 which he gets off my meadows, but his horses in return 
 plow the fields, which otherwise would be overrun 
 with weeds. He also feeds his cows and sheep with the 
 hay ; but their dung is useful in giving fertility to the 
 ground. His wife and children are fed with the har- 
 vest corn ; but they in return devote the summer to 
 weeding the crops ; and afterwards, some in reaping 
 them, and some in threshing. All these labors end in 
 my advantage. The rest of the hay and corn he takes 
 to market to sell, and with the produce thereof he pays 
 his rent. From this it is evident Avho derives the 
 greatest profit from my knds.' 
 
 Here a long pause ensued ; but at last Robert con- 
 fessed that he saw his error. — c Remember then, all 
 your life (said Sir John) what has now been offered 
 to your eyes and ears. This farmer, so homely dressed, 
 whose manners you have considered as so rustic, this 
 man is better bred than you ; and, though he knows 
 nothing of Latin, he knows much more than you, and 
 things of much greater use. You see, therefore, 
 how unjust it is to despise any one for the plainness of 
 his dress, and the rusticity of his manners. You may 
 understand a little Latin, but you know not how to 
 plough, sow grain, or reap the harvest, nor even to 
 prune a tree. Sit down with being convinced that you 
 have despised your superior.' 
 
 NATURE expects mankind should share 
 The duties of the public care. 
 Who's born for sloth I To some we find 
 u The plow-share's annual toil as.iign'd. 
 
I 
 
 LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 Seme at the sounding anvil glow ; 
 Some the swift-sliding shuttle throw : 
 Some, studious of the wind and t. 
 From pole to pole our commerce guiae : 
 Some, taught by industry, impart 
 With hands and feet the works of art : 
 While some, of genius more retin'd, 
 With head and tongue assist mankind ; 
 Each aiming at one common end, 
 Proves to the whole a needful friend. 
 Thus, born each other's useful aid, 
 l$v turns are obligations paid. 
 
 The monarch, when his table's spread; 
 Is to the clown obliged for bread ; 
 And when in all his glory drost, 
 Owes to the loom his royal vest. 
 Do not the mason's toil and care 
 Protect him from the inclement air ? 
 Does not the cuttler's art supply 
 The ornament that guards his thigh ? 
 Thus they their honest toil employ; 
 And with content their fruits enjoy. 
 In ev'ry rank, or great or small, 
 'Tis industry supports us all. 
 
 Consider, sot, what would ensue, 
 Were all such worthless tilings as you, 
 You'd soon be fore'd by huog 
 To make your dirty meals on dung; 
 On which such despicable need, 
 Unpitied, is redue'd to i'^.ci.]. 
 Besides, vain, selfish insect, learn, 
 If you can right and wrong discern, 
 That I13 who, with industrious zeal, 
 Contributes to the public weal, 
 By adding to the common good, 
 vvn hath rightly understood. 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 87 
 
 
 ALFRED AND DORINDA. 
 
 M 
 
 H. VENABLES, one fine summer day, having 
 promised bis two children, Alfred and Dorinda, to treat 
 them with a walk in a fine garden a little way out of 
 town, went up into his dressing-room to prepare him- 
 self, leaving the two children in the parlor. 
 
 Alfred was so delighted with the thoughts of the 
 pleasure he should receive from his walk, that he jump- 
 ed about the room, without thinking of any evil conse- 
 quence that could happen ; but unluckily the skirt of 
 his coat brushed against a very valuable flower, which 
 his lather was rearing with great pains, and which he 
 had unfortunately just removed from before the win- 
 dow, in order to skreen it from, the scorching heat of 
 the sun. 
 
 ' O brother ! brother ! (said Dorinda, taking up the 
 flower which was broken off from the stalk) what have 
 you done !' The sweet girl was holding the flower in 
 her hand, when her father having dressed himself, came 
 into the parlor. ' Bless me, Dorinda, (said Mr. Vena 
 
Si LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 bios in an angry tone) how could you be so thoughtless 
 as to pluck a Mower, which you have seen me take so 
 much care to rear, in order to have seed from it.' Poor 
 Dorinda was in such a fright, that she could only beg 
 her papa not to be angry. Mr. Venables, growing 
 more calm, replied he was hot angry, but reminded 
 her, that as they were going to a garden where there 
 was a variety of flowers, she might have waited till they 
 got there to indulge her fancy. Pie therefore hoped 
 she would not take it amiss if he left her at home. 
 
 This was a terrible situation for Dorinda, who held her 
 head down, and said nothing. Little Alfred, however, 
 was of too generous a temper to keep silence any long- 
 er. Lie went up to his papa, wife!} his eyes swimming 
 in tears, and told him, that it was not his sister but him- 
 self, who had accidentally beaten oa the Lead of the 
 flower with the flap of his coat. He therefore desired, 
 that his sitter might go abroad, and he stay at home. 
 
 'Mr. Venables was so delighted with the. generosity 
 of his children, that he instantly forgave the accident, 
 and tenderly kissed them both, being happy to see 
 tbem have such an affection for each other. He told 
 them, that he loved them equally alike, and that they 
 should Loth go with him. Alfred and Dorinda kissed 
 each other, and leaped about for joy. 
 
 They all three then walked to the garden, where 
 they saw plants of the most valuable kinds. Mr. Vena- 
 bles observed with pleasure how Dorinda pressed her 
 clothes on each side, and Alfred kept the skirts of his 
 coat under his arms, for tear of doing any damage in 
 their walk among the flowers. 
 
 The flower Mr. Venables had lost would have given 
 him some pain had it happened from any other cir- 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 89 
 
 cumstance ; but the pleasure he received from seeing 
 such mutual affection and regard subsist between his 
 two children, amply repaid him for the loss of his 
 flower. I cannot omit the opportunity that here pre- 
 sents itself, of reminding my young friends, not only 
 how necessary, but how amiable and praise- worthy it 
 is, for brothers and sisters to live together in harmony. 
 It is not only their most important interest to do so, 
 but what should be -a still stronger argument with 
 them, such are the commands of him who made them. 
 
 FROM the gay world we'll oft retire, 
 To our own family and fire, 
 
 Where love oar hours employ, 
 No noisy neighbors enter here, 
 No intermedling stranger near, 
 
 To spoil our heart-felt joys. 
 
 If solid happiness we prize, 
 Within our breasts this jewel lies; 
 
 And they are fools Avho roam : 
 The world has nothing to bestow, 
 From our own selves our joys must floWj 
 
 And that dear hut our home. 
 
 Our babes shall richest comforts bring : 
 If tutor-'cl rigl.it, they'll prove a spring 
 
 Whence pleasure ever rise : 
 We'll form their minds with studious car.;., 
 To all that's manly, good, and fair, 
 
 And tram them for the skies. 
 
 While they our wisest hours engage, 
 They'll joy our youth, support our age^ 
 
M LOOKING-GLASS 
 
 And crown our hoary hairs : 
 They'll grow in virtue every day, 
 And thus our fondest loves repay, 
 
 A ud recompencc our cares. 
 
 Thus hand in hand, thro' life we'll go, 
 Its chequer'd paths of joy and woe 
 
 With cautious steps we'll tread : 
 Quit its vain scenes without a tear, 
 Without a trouble, or a fear, 
 
 And mingle with the dead. 
 
 While conscience like a faithful friend, 
 Shall thro' the gloomy vale attend, 
 
 And cheer our dying breath : 
 Shall, when all other comforts cease. 
 X.ike a kind angel whisper peace, 
 
 And srsvotQ the bed of death ! 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 SO 
 
 n 
 
 ROSINA; OR, THE FROWARD GIRL REFORMED. 
 
 I 
 
 > 
 
 WOULD recommend to all my little readers, who 
 have had the misfortune to contract a vicious habit, ve- 
 ry attentively to peruse the following historical frag- 
 ment, in which, if they will but properly reflect, they 
 will see that amendment is no difficult thing, when once 
 they form a sincere resolution to accomplish it. 
 
 Rosina was the joy of her parents until the seventh 
 year of her age, at which period the glowing light cf 
 reason begins to unfold itself, and make us sensible of 
 our infantile faults ; but this period of life had a differ- 
 ent effect on Rosina, who had then contracted an un- 
 haon 
 
 IV 
 
 disposition, which cannot better be described, 
 than by the practices of those snarling curs that grum- 
 ble incessantly, and seem always ready to run at and 
 bite these that approach them. 
 
 If a person touched any of her play-things, though 
 it were by mistake, she would be out of temper for 
 hours, and murmur about the house as though she had 
 been robbed. If any one attempted to correct her, 
 
?)•> LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 though In the most gentle manner, she would fly into a 
 rage, equalled only by the fury of contending elements, 
 and the uproar of the angry billows of the ocean. 
 Her father and mother saw this unaccountable change 
 
 with inexpressible sorrow ; for neither they, nor any 
 one in the house, could now bear with her. Indeed, 
 she would sometimes seem sensible of her errors, and 
 would often shed tears in private, on seeing herself thus 
 become the object of contempt to every one, not ex- 
 cepting her parents ; but an ill habit had got the better 
 of her temper, and she consequently every day grew 
 Worse and worse. 
 
 One evening, which happened to be new year's eve, 
 she saw her mother going towards her room, with a 
 basket under her cloak. Rosina followed her mother, 
 who ordered her to £10 back to the parlor immediately. 
 As Rosina went thither, she threw about all the stools 
 and chairs that came in her way. 
 
 About half an hour after, her mamma sent for her, 
 and great indeed was her surprize on seeing the room \ 
 lighted up with a number of candles, and the table cov- 
 ered with the most elegant toys. 
 
 Her mother called to her, and desired her to read, in 
 a bit of paper which she gave her, for whom those toys 
 wen- intended, on which she read the following words 
 in large letters : ' For an amiable little girl, in return 
 for her good behavior. ' Rosina looked down, and could 
 not say a word. On her mother's asking her, for whom 
 those toys were intended, she replied., with tears in her 
 eyes, that they could not be intended for her. 
 
 Her parent then shewed her another paper, desirirTg 
 her to see if that did not concern her. Rosina took it, 
 and read as follows : ' For a frowarU little girl, who is 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. y3 
 
 sensible of her faults, and in beginning anew year will 
 take pains to amend them.' Rosina, instantly throwing 
 herself into her mother's arms, and crying bitterly, said, 
 ' O ! that is I, that is I.' The tears also fell from her 
 parent's eyes, partly for sorrow on account of her 
 daughter's faults, and partly through joy in the pro- 
 mising hope of her amendment. 
 
 6 Come Rosina, (said she to her, after a short pause) 
 and take what was intended for you, and may God, 
 who has heard your resolution, give you ability to ful- 
 fil it.' Rosina, however, insisted on it, that it belong- 
 ed to the person described in the first paper, and there- 
 fore desired her mamma to keep those things for her 
 till she answered that description . This answer <rave 
 her mother a deal of pleasure, and she immediately put 
 all the toys into a drawer, giving the key of it to Rosi- 
 na, and telling her to open the drawer, whenever she 
 should think proper so to do. 
 
 Several weeks passed without the least complaint 
 against Rosina, who had performed wonders of herself 
 She then went to her mamma, threw her arms round 
 her neck, and asked her if she thought she had any 
 right to open the drawer. * Yes, my dear, (said her 
 mother, clasping her tenderly in her arms) you may 
 now open the drawer with great propriety. But pray tell 
 me how you have so well managed to get the better of 
 your temper ?' Rosina sad it cost her a deal of trouble ; 
 but every morning and evening, and indeed almost 
 every hour in the day, she prayed to God to assist her. 
 
 Her mother shed tears of delight on this occasion ; 
 and Rosina became not only mistress of the toys, but 
 of the affections of ail her friends and acquaintances. 
 Her mother related this happy change in the temper of 
 
<H LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 her daughter in the presence of a little miss, who gave 
 way to the same unhappy disposition ; when the little 
 girl was so struck with the relation of it, that she im- 
 mediately determined to set about the work of refor- 
 mation, in order to become as amiable as Rosina Her 
 attempt was not made in vain, and Rosina had the sa- 
 tisfaction to find, that in being useful to herself, she had 
 contributed to make others happy. My youthful read- 
 ers, if any of you labor under bad habits, set about a 
 reformation immediately, lest you become hardened by 
 time, and thus totally destroy your present and future 
 happiness. 
 
 LOVELY, lasting peace of mind .' 
 Sweet delight of human kind ! 
 Heav'nly born, and bred on high, 
 To crown the fav'rites of the sky 
 With more of happiness below 
 Than victors in a triumph know ! 
 Whither, O whither art thou fled, 
 To lay thy meek contented head ! 
 What happy region dost thou please 
 To make the seat of calm and ease ? 
 
 Lovely, lasting Peace ! appear : 
 This world itself if thou art here, 
 Is once again with Eden blest, 
 And man contains it in li is breast, 
 
 'Twas thus as under shade I stood, 
 I sung my wishes to the wood, 
 And, lost in thought, no more perceivM 
 The branches whisper as they wav'd : 
 It seeni'd as all the quiet place 
 Confess'd the presence of the Grace : 
 When thus she spoke— ' Go rule thy will, 
 * Bid thy wild passions all be still ; 
 ' Know God — and bring thy heart to know 
 ' The joys which from religion flow ; 
 ' Then eV'ry Grace shall prove its guest, 
 ' And I'll be there to crown the rest.' 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 95 
 
 o 
 
 LITTLE ANTHONY. 
 
 N one of those fine mornings, which the month of 
 June frequently affords us, little Anthony was busily 
 employed in preparing to set out with his father on a 
 party of pleasure, which, for several days before, had 
 engrossed all his attention. Though, in general, he 
 found it very difficult to rise earl)*, yet this morning 
 he got up soon, without being called, so much was 
 his mind fixed on the intended jaunt. 
 
 It often happens, with young people in particular, 
 that, alien a sudden, they lose the object they flatter 
 themselves they were almost in possession of. So it 
 fared with little Anthony ; for just as they were ready 
 to set out, the sky darkened all at once, the clouds 
 grew thick, and a tempestuous wind bent down the 
 tree^, and raised a cloud of dust. 
 
 Little Anthony was running down trie garden every 
 'minute to see how the sky looked, and then jumped up 
 stairs to examine the barometer; -but neither the sky 
 HOT/tae barometer seemed to forbade anv thing in his 
 
SO LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 favor. Notwithstanding all this, he gave his father the 
 most flattering hopes that it would still be a fair day, 
 and that these unfavorable appearances would soon dis- 
 perse. He doubted not but it would be one of the finest 
 days in the world ; and 1*3 therefore thought, that the 
 sooner they set out the better, as it would be a pity to 
 Jose a moment of their time. 
 
 His father, however, did not choose to be too hasty 
 in giving credit to his son^s predictions, and thought it 
 more adviseableto wait a little. While Anthony and his 
 father were reasoning on this matter the clouds burst, 
 and down came a very heavy shower of rain. Poor 
 Anthony was now doubly disappointed, and vented 
 his grief in tears, refusing to listen to the voice of con- 
 solation. 
 
 The rain continued without intermission, till three 
 o'clock in the afternoon, when the clouds began to dis- 
 perse, the sun resumed its splendor, the element its 
 clearness, and all nature breathed the odors of t he 
 spring. As die weather brightened, so did the counte- 
 nance of little Anthony, and by degrees he recovered 
 his good humor. 
 
 His father now thought it necessary to indulge him 
 with a little walk, and off they set. The calmness of 
 the air, the music of the feathered songsters, the live- 
 ly and enchanting verdure of the fields, and the sweet 
 perfumes that breathed all round them, completely 
 quieted and composed the troubled heart of the disap- 
 pointed Anthony. l Do you not observe, (said his fa- 
 ther to him) how agreeable is the change of every thing 
 before you ? You cannot have yet forgotten how dull 
 every thing appeared to us yesterday ; the ground 
 was parched up for want ofrai:; ; the flowers had lost 
 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 S7 
 
 their color, and hung their heads in languor ; and, in 
 short, all nature seemed to be in a state of inaction. 
 What can be the reason, that nature has so suddenly- 
 put on such a different aspect V — ' That is easily ac- 
 counted for, Sir, (said Anthony) it undoubtedly is occa- 
 sioned by the rain that has fallen to-day.'' 
 
 Anthony had no sooner pronounced these words, 
 than he saw his father's motive for asking him the ques- 
 tion. He now plainly perceived the impropriety of 
 his late conduct, in being so unhappy about what was 
 evidently so universally serviceable. He blushed, but 
 his father took no notice of it, judging that his own 
 sense would sufficiently teach him another time, with- 
 out reluctance, to sacrifice selfish pleasure to the gene- 
 ral good of the community at large* 
 
 NATURE attend ! join, every living soul 
 Beneath the spacious temple of the sky, 
 In adoration join ; and ardent raise 
 One general song !. To him, ye vocal gales, 
 Breathe soft, whose spirit in your freshness breathes : 
 Oh talk of him in solitary glooms, 
 Where o'er the rock the scarcely waving pine 
 Fills the brown shade with a religious awe ! 
 And ye, whose bolder note is heard afar, 
 Who shake the astonish'd world, lift high to heav'ft 
 The impetuous song, and say from whom you rage. 
 His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling rills : 
 And let me catch it as I muse along. 
 
53 
 
 LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 THE HISTORY OF JONATHAN, THE GARDEN Ett. 
 
 AN the city of Lincoln lived an honest and industrious 
 gardener, whose name was Jonathan, and who was in 
 general considered as the most skilful in his profession 
 ot any in that country. His fruits were much larger 
 than any of his neighbors, and were generally suppo- 
 sed to have a more exquisite flavor. 
 
 It was the pride of all the neighboring gentlemen to 
 have Jonathan's fruits to form their deserts, so that he 
 was under no necessity of sending the produce of his 
 garden to market, as he was always sure of meeting 
 with a sale for them at home. 13 is prudence and assi- 
 duity increased as his good fortune enlarged, and, 
 instead of riches making him idle, he attended more 
 closejy to cultivation. 
 
 Such a character and situation could not fail of pro- 
 curing hini a suitable matrimonial mate, and he ac- 
 cording!)' married a young woman in the neighbor- 
 hood, whose name was Bella, and who was both pru- 
 dent and handsome, The first year of their marriage 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. & 
 
 was as comfortable as they could wish for ; for Bella 
 assisted ber husband in his business, and every thing 
 prospered with them. 
 
 This happiness, however, was not to last long ; for 
 near his house lived another gardener, whose name was 
 Guzzle, and who spent his time, from morning to night, 
 in an alehouse. The merry and thoughtless humor of 
 Guzzle by degrees began to be pleasing to Jonathan, 
 who soon fell into the same ruinous error. At first, he 
 only went now and then to drink with him, and talk to 
 him about gardening ; but he very soon began to drop 
 the subject of plants, and delight only in the praises of 
 malt. 
 
 Bella saw this change in her husband with the utmost 
 grief and consternation. As yet, not having sufficient 
 experience to attend the wall-fruit herself, she was fre- 
 quently obliged to fetch him home to his work, when 
 she generally found him in a state of intoxication. It 
 would often have been better had he kept out of the 
 garden than gone in it ; for his head was generally so 
 muddled with beer when he went to work on his trees, 
 that his pruning-knife committed the greatest depreda- 
 tions, cutting away those branches which ought to have 
 been left, and leaving those that were useless. 
 
 Hence it was not to be wondered at, that the garden 
 fell off in the quality and quantity of its fruit, and the 
 more Jonathan perceived the decay, the more he gave 
 himself up to drinking. As his garden gradually fail- 
 ed in procuring him the means of getting strong liquor, 
 he fYrst parted with his furniture, and then with his lin- 
 en and clothes. 
 
 Bella, in the mean time, did what little she could to 
 keep things together ; but all to no purpose, One day,. 
 
100 LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 when she was gone to market with some roots she had 
 reared herself, he went and sold his working utensils, 
 and immediately went and spent all with Guzzle. Judge 
 what must be the situation of poor Bella on her return ! 
 It was indeed a heart-breaking consideration to be thus 
 reduced to poverty by the folly of her husband ; but 
 yet she loved him, and equally felt for him as for her- 
 self, but still more for an infant, as yet but six months 
 old, and which received its nourishment from her breast. 
 
 In the evening, Jonathan came home drunk, and 
 swearing at his wife, asked her for something to eat. 
 Bella handed him a knife, and put before him a large 
 basket covered with her apron; Jonathan in a pet pulled 
 away the apron ; but his astonishment was inexpressible, 
 when he beheld nothing in the basket but his own child 
 fast asleep. i Eat that, (said Bella) for I have nothing else 
 to give you. It is your own child, and if you do not 
 devour it, famine and misery will in a short time.' 
 
 Jonathan seemed almost petrified into a stone at 
 these words, and for some time remained speechless, 
 with his eyes fixed on his little sleeping son. At last 
 recovering himself, quite sobered, his heart eased itself 
 in tears and lamentations. He rose and embraced his 
 wife, asked her pardon, and promised to amend ; and 
 what was still better, he was faithful to his promise. 
 
 Though his wife's father had for some time refused 
 to see him, yet on being made acquainted with his pro- 
 mises of reformation, he advanced money sufficient 
 to enable him to restore his garden to its former state. 
 Jonathan did not deceive him ; for his garden 'put 
 on another appeara nee, and cut a more splendid figure 
 than ever. After this, neither his prudence or activi- 
 ty forsook him, but he became at once, and continued 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 ioj 
 
 so even to old age, the honest man, the indulgent hus- 
 band, and the tender father. He would sometimes tell 
 this tale of his follies to his son, as a lesson to him, how 
 dangerous it is to get connected with bad company, and 
 how easily human nature is led astray by the poison of 
 example. The son, who thus acquired knowledge at 
 the father's former expence, became a wise and prudent 
 man, and conceivedggpch an aversion to idleness and 
 drinking, that he continued all his life as sober as he 
 was laborious. Thus was an innocent infant the cause 
 of reformation in a deluded father. 
 
 GREAT Heav*n ! how frail thy creature Man is made \ 
 
 How by hims elf insensibly betrayM ! 
 
 .In our own strength unhappily secure, 
 
 Too little cautious of the adverse pow'r ; 
 
 And, by the blast of self-opinion mov\1, 
 
 "We wish to charm and seek to be belov'd, 
 
 On pleasure's flow'ry brink we idly stray, 
 
 Masters as yet of our returning way : 
 
 Seeing no danger, we disarm our mind, 
 
 And give our conduct to the waves and wind ; 
 
 Then in the flow'ry mead, or verdant shade, 
 
 To wanton dalliance negligently laid, 
 
 We weave the chaplet, and we crown the bowl, 
 
 And smiling, see the nearer waters roll ; 
 
 Till the strong gusts of passion rise, 
 
 Till the dire tempest mingles earth and skies; 
 
 And, swift into the boundless ocean borne, 
 
 Our foolish confidence too late we mourn : 
 
 Round our devoted heads the billows beat; 
 
 And from our troubled view the lessen'd lands retreat. 
 
tO'J 
 
 LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 THE SPARROW'S NEST. 
 
 JDILLY lessamy, having one day espied a sparrow's 
 nest under the eves of the house, ran directly to inform 
 his sisters of the important discovery, and they imme- 
 diately fell into consultation concerning the manner in 
 which they should take it. It was at last agreed, that 
 they should wait till the young ones were fledged, that 
 Billy should then get a ladder up against the wall, and 
 that his sisters should hold it fast below, while he 
 mounted after the prize. 
 
 As soon as they thought these poor little creatures 
 were properly Hedged, preparations were made for 
 the execution of their intended plan. The old birds 
 flew backwards" and forwards about the nest, and ex- 
 pressed, as well as they were able, the sorrow and af- 
 fliction they felt on being robbed of their young. Bil- 
 ly and his two sisters, however, paid no regard to their 
 piteous moans ; for they took the nest, with three 
 young ones in it. 
 
 As they had now got the innocent prisoners in their 
 
LOOKING-fejLASS. 103 
 
 possession, the next thing to be considered was what 
 they should do with them. The younger sister, being of 
 a mild and tender-hearted disposition, proposed put- 
 ting them into a cage, promising to look after them 
 herself, and to see that they wanted for nothing. She 
 reminded her brother and sister how pretty it would 
 be to see and hear those birds when grown up. 
 
 Billy, however, was of a very different opinion ; 
 for he insisted on it, that it would be better to pluck 
 off their feathers, and then set them down in the mid- 
 dle of the room, as it would be very fanny to see how 
 they weald hop about without feathers. The elder 
 sister was of the same way of thinking as the young- 
 er ; but Billy was determined to have the matter en- 
 tirely his own way. 
 
 . The two little ladies finding they were not likely to 
 have things as they wished, gave up the point without 
 much hesitation ; for Billy had already begun to strip 
 the poor helpless birds. As fast as he plucked them, 
 he put them down on the floor, and it was not long be- 
 fore the little birds were stripped of all their tender 
 feathers. The poor things cried, Weet I IVeet I and 
 complained in the most piteous accents ; they shook 
 their little wings and shuddered with the cold. 
 
 Billy, however, who had not the least kind of feel- 
 ing for their sufferings, carried his persecutions stiil 
 further, pushing them with his toe to make them go 
 on when they stopped, and laughing most heartily 
 whenever they staggered or tumbled down through 
 weakness. Though Ms two sisters at first setting off 
 had pleaded against this cruel kind of sport, yet see- 
 ing their brother so merry on the occasion, they for- 
 got their foUaer -dictates of humanity, a;nd joined . 
 
104 tdoKmo-GLAsa 
 
 the cruel sport with him. Such, as we saw in the pre- 
 ceding tale, is the influence of bad example. 
 
 In the midst of this cruel kind of enjoyment, at a 
 distance they saw their tutor approaching. This put 
 them into some flurry, and each pocketed a bird. 
 They would have avoided their tutor, but he called to 
 them, and asked their reason for wishing to shun him. 
 They approached him very slowly, a\ ith their eyes 
 cast downwards, which convinced him that something 
 amiss was going forwards. 
 
 On their answering that they Avere only playing, 
 their tutor observed to them, that they very well knew 
 he never denied them innocent amusement, but on the 
 contrary was always glad to see them chearful and 
 happy. He took notice that each held one of their 
 hands in their pocket, upon which he insisted on their 
 puiiing them out, and letting him see what it was 
 they endeavored to conceal. 
 
 They were obliged to comply, much against their 
 will, when each produced a poor bird that had been 
 stripped of its feathers. The tutor was filled with 
 pity and indignation, and gave each of them a look, 
 that was more dreadful than any words he could have 
 spoken. After some silence, Billy attempted to jus- 
 tify himself by sa} 7 ing, that it was a droll sight to see 
 sparrows hopping about without feathers, and ho 
 could see no harm in it. 
 
 ' Can you then, (said the tutor to Billy) take plea-, 
 sure in seeing innocent creatures suffer, and hear their 
 cries without pity ?' Billy said, he did not see how 
 they could suffer from having a few feathers pulled 
 off. The tutor, to convince him of his error, pulled 
 a few hairs from his head, when he roared out loudlj l 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 105 
 
 that he hurt him. ' What would your pain be then, 
 (said the tutor) where I thus to pluck all the hair off 
 your head ? You are sensible of the pain you now 
 feel, but you was insensible of the torment to which 
 you put those innocent creatures that never offended 
 you. But that you, ladies, should join in such an act 
 of cruelty, very much surprises me ! ' 
 
 The ladies stood motionless, and then, without be- 
 ing able to say a word, sat down with their eyes swim- 
 ming in tears ; which their tutor observing, he said no 
 more to them. But Billy still persisted in his opinion 
 that he did the birds no harm ; on the contrary, he 
 said, they shewed their pleasure by clapping their 
 wings and chirping. 
 
 ' They clapped their wings (said the tutor) from 
 the pain you put them to ; and what you call singing, 
 were cries and lamentations. Could those birds have 
 expressed themselves in your speech, you would have 
 heard them cry, Ah, father and mother, save us, for 
 we have fallen into the hands of cruel children, who 
 have robbed us of all our feathers ! We are cold and 
 in pain. Come warm us and cure us, or we shall soon 
 die!' 
 
 The little ladies could no longer refrain from tears, 
 and accused Billy of leading them into this act of cru- 
 elty. Billy was himself become sensible of his faults, 
 and had alreadv felt the smart of having a few hairs 
 plucked from his head ; but the reproaches of his own 
 heart were now visible on his countenance. It appear- 
 ed to the tutor, that there was no need of carrying the 
 punishment any further ; for the error Billy had com- 
 mitted did not arise from a natural love of cruelty, 
 but merely from want of thought and reflection, Froja 
 
10i> LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 tliis moment BiWy, instead of punishing aud torment- 
 ing dumb creatures, always felt for their distresses, 
 and did what he could to relieve them. 
 
 ' WHEN returning with her loaded bill, 
 The astonish 'd mother finds u vacant nest, 
 By the hard hand of unrelenting clowns 
 Robb'd : to the ground the vain provision falls ; 
 Her pinions ruffle, and, low-drooping, scarce 
 Can bear the mourner to the poplar shade ; 
 Where, all abandoned to despair, she sings 
 Her sorrows through the night, and on the boughs 
 Sole sitting ; still, at every dying fall, 
 Takes up again her lamentable strain 
 Of winding woe, till, w T ide around, the woods 
 Sigh to her song, and with her wail resound/ 
 
 I would not enter on my list of friends 
 (Though graced with poiish'd manners and fine sense 
 Yet wanting sensibility^l.he man 
 Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm. 
 An inadvertent step may crush the snail 
 That crawls at evening in the public path, 
 But he that has humanity, forewarned. 
 Will tread aside, and let the reptile live. 
 Ye therefore who love mercy, teach your sons 
 To love it too. The spring time of our years 
 Is soon dishonor'd and defil'd inmost 
 By budding ills, that ask a prudent hand 
 To check them. But alas ! none sooner shoots, 
 If unrestfain'd, into luxuriant growth, 
 Than cruelty, most dev'lisb of them all, 
 Mercy to him that shews it, is the rule 
 And righteous limitation of its act, 
 i>y which beav'n moves in pardoning guilty man ; 
 And lie that shows none, being ripe in years. 
 And conscious of the outrage he commits, 
 Shall beek it, and not find it in hio turn. 
 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 101 
 
 WILLIAM AND THOMAS ; OR, THE CONTRAST BE- 
 TWEEN INDUSTRY AND INDOLENCE, 
 
 AN a village at a small distance from the metropolis, 
 lived a wealthy husbandman, who had two sons, Wil- 
 liam and Thomas 1 , of whom the former was exactly a 
 year older than the latter. 
 
 On the day that the second son was bom, the hus- 
 bandman set in his orchard two young apple-trees of 
 an equal size, on which he bestowed the same care in 
 cultivating, and they throve so much alike, that it was 
 a difficult matter to say which claimed the preference. 
 
 As soon as the children were capable of using gar- 
 den implements, their father took them, on a fine day 
 early in the spring, to see the two plants he had rear- 
 ed for them, and called after their names. William 
 and Thomas having much admired the beauty of these 
 trees, now filled with blossoms, their father told them, 
 that he made them a present of them in good condi- 
 tion, and that they would continue to thrive or decay, 
 in proportion to the labor or neglect they received. 
 
10$ LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 Thomas, though the younger son, turned all his at- 
 tention to the improvement of his tree, by clearing it 
 of insects as soon as he discovered them, and prop- 
 ping up the stein that it might grow perfectly upright. 
 He dug all around it, to loosen the earth, that the 
 root might receive nourishment from the warmth of 
 the sun, and the moisture of the dews. No mother 
 could nurse her child more tenderly in its infancy a 
 than Thomas did his tree. 
 
 His brother William, however, pursued a very dif- 
 ferent conduct ; for he loitered away all his time in the 
 most idle and mischievous manner, one of his princi- 
 pal amusements being to throw stones at people as 
 they passed. He kept company with all the idle boys 
 in the neighborhood, with whom he was continually 
 fighting, and was seldom without either a black eye or 
 a broken shin. His poor tree was neglected, and ne- 
 ver thought of, till one day in the autumn, when, by 
 chance, seeing his brother's tree loaded with the finest 
 apples, and almost ready to break down with the 
 weight, he ran to his own tree, not doubting but he 
 should find it in the same pleasing condition. 
 
 Great indeed was his disappointment and surprise, 
 When, instead of finding the tree loaded with excel- 
 lent, fruit, he beheld nothing but a few withered leaves, 
 and branches covered with moss. He instantly went 
 to his father, and complained of his partiality in giv- 
 ing him a tree that was worthless and barren, while his 
 brother's produced the most luxuriant fruit. He there- 
 fore thought, that his brother should, at least, give 
 him one-half of his apples. 
 
 His father told him, that it w r as by no means reason- 
 able, that the industrious should give up part of their 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 10$ 
 
 labor to feed the idle. ' If your tree, (said he) has 
 produced you nothing, it is but a just reward of your 
 indolence, since you see what the industry of your 
 brother has gained him. Your tree was equally full 
 of blossoms, and grew in the same soil ; but you paid 
 no attention to the culture of it. Your brother suffer* 
 ed no visible insect to remain on his tree ; but you 
 neglected that caution, and left them even to eat up 
 the very buds. As I cannot bear to see even plants 
 perish through neglect, I must now take this tree from 
 you, and give it to your brother, whose care and at- 
 tention may possibly restore it to its former vigor. The 
 fruit it shall produce must be his property, and you 
 must no longer consider yourself as having any right 
 therein. However, you may go to my nursery, and 
 there choose any other, which you may like better, and 
 try what you can do with it ; but if you neglect to take 
 proper care of it, I shall also take that from you, and 
 give it to your brother, as a reward for his superior 
 industry and attention.' 
 
 This had the desired effect on William, who clear- 
 ly perceived the justice and propriety of his father's 
 reasoning, and instantly got into the nursery to choose 
 the most thriving apple-tree he could there meet with. 
 His brother Thomas assisted him in the culture of his 
 tree, advising him in what manner to proceed; and 
 William made the best use of his time, and the in- 
 structions he received from his brother. He left off 
 all his mischievous tricks, forsook the company of idle 
 boys, applied himself chearfully to work, and in au- 
 tumn received the reward of his labor, his tree being- 
 then loaded with fruit. 
 
 From this happy change in his conduct he derived 
 K 
 
110 LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 the advantage, not only of enriching himself with a 
 plentiful crop of fruit, but also of getting rid of bad 
 and pernicious habits. His father was so perfectly sa- 
 tisfied with his reformation, that the following season 
 he gave him and his brother the produce of a small 
 orchard, which they shared equally between them. 
 
 'TIS the voice of a sluggard — I heard him complain, 
 'You have wak'd me too soon, I must slumber again ; J 
 As the dooi on its hinges, so he on his bed, 
 Turns his sides, and his shoulders, and his heavy head. 
 
 ' A little more sleep, and a little more slumber ;' 
 Thus he wastes half his days, and his hours without number \ 
 And when he gets up he sits folding his hands. 
 Or walks about sauntering, or trifling he stands. 
 
 I pass'd by his garden, and saw the wild briar, 
 The thorn and the thistle, grow broader and higher; 
 The clothes that hang on him are turning to rags ; 
 And his money still wastes, till he starves or he begs. 
 
 I made him a visit, still hoping to find 
 He had took better care for improving his mind ; 
 He told me his dreams, talk'd of eating and drinking, 
 But he scarce reads his bible, and never loves thinking, 
 
 Said I to my heart, « Here's a lesson for me ; 
 That man's but a picture of what I might be ; 
 But thanks to my friends for their care in my breeding, 
 
 Who taught me "betimes to love working and reading !' 
 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 ni 
 
 MISCHIEF ITS OV/N PUNISHMENT*. EXEMPLIFIED 
 IN THE HISTORY OF WILLIAM AND HARRY. 
 
 iVlR. Stevenson and his little Son Richard, as they 
 were one fine day walking in the fields together, pas- 
 sed by the side of a garden, in which they saw a beau- 
 tiful pear tree loaded with fruit. Richard cast a long- 
 ing eye at it, and complained to his papa that he 
 was very dry. On Mr, Stevenson's saying, that he 
 was dry also, but they must bear it with patience till 
 they got home, Richard pointed to the pear tree, and 
 begged his papa would let him go and get one; for, 
 as the hedge was not very thick, he said he could easily 
 get through, without being seen by any one. 
 
 Richard's father reminded him, that the garden and 
 fruit were private property ,^and to take any thing 
 from thence without permission was nothing else than 
 being guilty of a robbery. He allowed that there 
 might be a possibility of getting into the garden with-* 
 out being seen by the owner of it ; but such a wicked 
 action could not be concealed from him, who sees eve- 
 
U2 LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 ry action of our lives, and who penetrates even into the 
 very secrets of our hearts ; and that is God. 
 
 His son shook his head, and said, he was sensible of 
 his error, and would no more think of committing 
 what might be called a robbery. He recollected, that 
 parson Jackson had told him the same thing before, 
 but he had then forgotten it. 
 
 At tliis instant a man started up from behind the 
 hedge, which had before concealed him from their sight. 
 This was an old man, the owner of the garden, who 
 had heard every thing that had passed between Mr. 
 Stevenson and his son. * Be thankful to God, my child, 
 (said the old man) that your father prevented your get- 
 ting into my garden, with a view to deprive me of 
 that which does not belong to you. You little thought, 
 that at the foot of each tree is placed a trap to catch 
 thieves, which you could not have escaped, and which 
 might have lamed you for the rest of your life. I am, 
 however, happy to find, that you so readily listened to 
 the first admonition of your father, and that you shew- 
 ed such a fear of offending God. As you have beha- 
 ved in so just and sensible a manner, you shall now, 
 without any danger or trouble, partake of the fruit of 
 my garden.' He then went to the finest pair-tree, gave 
 it a shake, and brought down near a hatful of fruit, 
 which he immediately gave to Richard. This civil old 
 man could not be prevailed on to accept of anything 
 in return, though Mr. Stevenson pulled out his purse 
 for that purpose. * I am sufficiently satisfied, Sir, 
 (said he) in thus obliging your son, and were I to ac- 
 cept of any thing, that satisfaction would be lost.' Mr. 
 Stevenson thanked him very kindly, and, having sha- 
 ken hands over the hedge, they parted; Richard at the 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 113 
 
 same time taking leave of the old man in a polite man- 
 ner. 
 
 Little Richard, having finished several of the pears, 
 began to find himself at leisure to talk to his papa. 
 * This is a very good old man, (said he) but would God 
 have punished me, had I taken these pears without his 
 leave ?' ' He certainly would, (replied Mr. Stevenson) 
 for he never fails to reward good actions, and chastise 
 those who commit evil. The good old man fully ex- 
 plained to you this matter, in telling you of the traps 
 laid for tlueves, into which you must have inevitably 
 fallen, had you entered his garden in a clandestine 
 manner. God orders every thing that passes upon 
 •earth, and directs events so as to reward good people 
 for virtuous actions, and to punish the wicked for their 
 crimes. In order to make this more clear to you, I 
 will relate to you an affair which happened when I was 
 a boy, and which I shall never forget.' Richard seem- 
 ed very attentive to his father, and having said he 
 should be very glad to liear his story, Mr. Stevenson 
 thus proceeded. 
 
 ' When I lived with my father, and was much about 
 your age, we had two neighbors, between whose hou- 
 ses ours was situated, and their names were Davis and 
 Johnson. Mr. Davis had a son named William, and 
 Mr. Johnson one also of the name of Harry. Our gar* 
 dens were at that time separated only by quickset 
 hedges, so that it was easy to see into each other's 
 grounds. 
 
 c It was too often the practise with William, when 
 he found himself alone in his father's garden, to take 
 pleasure in throwing stones over the hedges, without 
 paying the least regard to the mischief they might do* 
 
114 LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 Mr. Davis had frequently caught him at this dangerous 
 sport, and never tailed severely to reprimand him for 
 it, threatening him with severe punishment if he did 
 not desist. 
 
 < This child, unhappily, either knew not, or would 
 not take the trouble to reflect, that we are not to do 
 amiss even when we are alone, for reasons I have al- 
 ready mentioned to you. His father being one day 
 gone out, and therefore thinking that nobody could see 
 him, or bring him to punishment, he filled his pockets 
 with stones, and then began to fling them about at ran- 
 dom. 
 
 ' Mr. Johnson happened to be in his garden at the 
 same time, and his son Harry with him. This boy 
 was of much the same disposition as William, thinking 
 there was no crime in committing any mischief, pro- 
 vided he was not discovered. Llis father had a gun 
 charged, which he brought into the garden, in order 
 to shoot the sparrows that made sad havoc among his 
 cherries, and was sitting in the summer house to watch 
 them. 
 
 'At this instant, a servant came to acquaint him 
 that a strange gentleman desired to speak with him, 
 and was waiting in the parlor. He therefore put down 
 the gun in the summer-house, and strictly ordered 
 Harry by no means to touch it ; but he was no sooner 
 gone, than his naughty son said to himself, that he 
 could see no harm in playing a little with the gun, 
 and therefore took it up, put it on his shoulder, and 
 endeavored to act the part of a soldier. 
 
 6 The muzzle of the gun happened to be pointed to . 
 wards Mr. Davis's garden, and just as he was in the 
 midst of his military exercises, a stone thrown by 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 115 
 
 William hit him directly in one of his eyes. The fright 
 and pain together, made Harry drop the gun, which 
 went off, and in a moment both gardens resounded with 
 the most dismal shrieks and lamentations. Harry had 
 received a blow in the eye with a stone, and the whole 
 charge had entered William's leg. The sad consequen- 
 ces of which were, the one lost his eye, and the other 
 a leg.' 
 
 Richard could not help pitying poor William and 
 Harry for their terrible misfortune ; and Mr. Stevenson 
 ■was not angry with his son for his tenderness. ' It is 
 true, (said he) they were much to be pitied, and their 
 parents still more, for having such vicious and disobe- 
 dient children. Yet it is probable, if God had not 
 early punished these boys, they would have continued 
 their mischievous practices as often as they should find 
 themselves alone; but by this misfortune they learned 
 to know, that God publicly punishes all wickedness 
 done in secret. This had the desired effect, as both 
 ever after left off all kinds of mischief, and became 
 prudent and sedate. Certain it is, that an all-wise 
 Creator never chastises us but with a view to add to our 
 happiness.' 
 
 Richard was very much struck with this story, and 
 said he hoped he should never lose either a leg or an 
 eye by such imprudent conduct. This interesting con- 
 versation was interrupted by their arrival at their own 
 house, when Richard hastened to find his brothers and 
 sisters, to tell them the adventures of his walk, and the 
 history of William and Harry. 
 
US 
 
 LOOKING-ULASS. 
 
 WHY should I deprive my neighbor 
 Of his pears against his will ? 
 Hands were made tor honest labor, 
 Not to plunder or to steal. 
 
 'Tis a foolish self-deceiving, 
 By such tricks to hope for gain : 
 All that's ever got by thieving 
 Turns to sorrow, shame, an.d pain. 
 
 Have not Eve and Adam taught us 
 Their sad profit to compute ? 
 To what dismal state they brought us, 
 When they stole forbidden fruit ! 
 
 Oft we see a young beginner 
 Practise little pilPring ways, 
 Till grown up a hardened sinner : 
 Then the gallows ends his days. 
 
 Theft will not be always hidden, 
 Though we fancy none can spy : 
 "When we take a thing forbidden, 
 God beholds it with his e\ e. 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 117 
 
 ANTONY AND AUGUSTUS ; OR, A RATIONAL EDU- 
 CATION PREFERABLE TO RICHES, 
 
 XjL VERY early friendship commenced between 
 Antony and Augustus, who were nearly of an age, 
 and as they were neighbors, they were almost insepa- 
 rable companions. The father of Antony, whose 
 name was Lenox, possessed a very lucrative employ- 
 ment under government, and was besides possessed of 
 a considerable fortune ; but Mr. Littleton, the father 
 of Augustus, was not in such affluent circumstances, 
 though he lived contentedly, and turned all his thoughts 
 to the welfare and happiness of his son, in giving him a 
 well-grounded education, which he thought might 
 prove of more advantage to him than riches, or, at least, 
 might amply supply the place of them. 
 
 As soon as Augustus was nine years of age, he was 
 accustomed to bodily exercise, and his mind inured to 
 study, which at once contributed to improve his 
 health, strength, and understanding. Being thus used 
 to exercise and motion, he Mas healthy and robust - 9 
 
118 LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 and being contented and happy in the affection of his 
 parents, he enjoyed a tranquil cheerfulness, which 
 much influenced those who enjoyed his company. 
 
 Antony was one of his happy companions, who was 
 always at a loss for amusement when Augustus was ab~ 
 sent ; and in that case, in order to fill up his time, he 
 was continually eating without being hungry, drink- 
 ing without being dry, and slumbering without being 
 sleepy. This naturally brought on a weak habit of 
 body, and frequent head-achs. 
 
 Both parents ardently wished to see their children 
 healthy and happy ; but Mr. Lenox unfortunately 
 pursued that object in a wrong channel, by bringing up 
 his son, even from his cradle, in the most excessive 
 delicacy. He was not suffered to lift himself a chair, 
 whenever he had a mind to change his seat, but a ser- 
 vant was called for that purpose. He was dressed and 
 undressed by other people, and even the cutting of 
 his own victuals seemed a pain to him. 
 
 While Augustus, in a thin linen jacket, assisted his 
 father to cultivate a small garden for their amusement, 
 Antony, in a rich velvet coat, was lolling in a coach, 
 and paying morning visits with his mamma. If he 
 went abroad to enjoy the air, and got out of the car- 
 riage but for a minute, his great coat was put on, and 
 a handkerchief tied round his neck, to prevent his 
 catching cold. Thus accustomed to be humored to 
 excess, he wished for every thing he saw or could I 
 think of ; but his wish was no sooner obtained, than he 
 became tired of it, and was constantly unhappy in the 
 pursuit of new objects. 
 
 As the servants had strict orders to obey him with 
 implicit submission, he became so whimsical and im- 
 
 % 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 119 
 
 perions, that he was hated and despised by every one 
 in the house, excepting his parents. Augustus was 
 his only companion who loved him, and it was upon 
 that account he patiently put up with his humors. He 
 was so perfectly master of his temper, that he would 
 at times make him as good humored as himself. 
 
 Mr. Lenox would sometimes ask Augustus, how he 
 contrived to be always so merry ; to which he one day 
 answered, that his father had told him, that no person 
 could be perfectly happy, unless they mixed some kind 
 of employment with their pleasures. ' I have frequent- 
 ly observed, (continued Augustus) that the most te- 
 dious and dull days I experience are those, in which I 
 do no kind of work* It is properly blending exercise 
 with amusement that keeps me in such good health and 
 spirits. I fear neither the winds nor the rain, neither 
 the heat of summer nor the cold of winter, and I have 
 frequently dug up a whole plat in my garden before 
 Antony has quitted his pillow in the morning.' 
 
 Mr. Lenox feit the propriety of such conduct, and 
 , a sigh unavoidably escaped him. He then went to 
 I consult Mr. Littleton in what manner he should act, in 
 order to make Antony as hearty and robust as Augus- 
 tus. Mr. Littleton informed him in what manner he 
 treated his son. ' The powers of the body and the 
 mind (said he) should be equally kept in exercise, un- 
 less we mean them to be unserviceable, as money buri- 
 ed in the ground would be to its owner. Nothing can 
 T>e more injurious to the health and happiness of chil- 
 dren, than using them to excess of delicacy, and, un- 
 der the idea of pleasing them, to indulge them in their 
 whimsical and obstinate humois. The person who has 
 been accustomed from his childhood to have his, flatter- 
 
i:o LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 ed, will be exposed to many vexatious disappointments. 
 He will sigh after those things, the want or possession 
 of which will equally make him miserable. I have, 
 however, every reason to believe, that Augustus will 
 never be that man.' 
 
 Mr. Lenox saw the truth of those arguments, and 
 determined to adopt the same plan for the treatment of 
 his son. But it was now too late, for Antony was four- 
 teen years of age, and his mind and body so much en- 
 ervated, that he could not bear the least fatiguing ex- 
 ertions. His mother, who was as weak as himself, beg- 
 ged of her husband not to teaze their darling, and he 
 was at last obliged to give way to her importunities, 
 when Antony again sunk into his former destructive ef- 
 feminacy. The strength of his body declined, in pro- 
 portion as his mind was degraded by ignorance. 
 
 As soon as Antony had entered his seventeenth year, 
 his parents sent him to the university, intending to 
 bring him up to the study of the law ; and Augustus 
 being intended for the same profession, he accompani- 
 ed him thither. Augustus, in his different studies and 
 pursuits, had never had any other instructor than his 
 father ; while Antony had as many masters as there are 
 sciences, from whom he learned only a superficial edu- 
 cation, by retaining little more than the terms used in 
 the different branches he had studied. Augustus, on 
 the contrary, was like a garden, whose airy situation 
 admits the rays of the sun to every part of it, and 
 which every seed, by proper cultivation, advances ra- 
 pidly to perfection. Already well instructed, he still 
 thirsted after further knowledge, and his diligence and 
 good behavior afforded a pattern for imitation to all his 
 companions. The mildness of his temper, and his vl 
 
 on 
 on 
 
 m 4 
 •a- 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 121 
 
 vacity and sprightly humor, made his company at all 
 times desirable ; he was universally beloved, and every 
 one was his friend. 
 
 Antony was at first happy on being in the same room 
 with Augustus ; but his pride was soon hurt on seeing 
 the preference that was given by every one to his friend, 
 and he could not think of any longer submitting to so 
 mortifying a distinction. He therefore found some fri- 
 volous excuse, and forsook the company of Augustus. 
 Antony, having now nobody to advise or check him, 
 gave loose to his vitiated taste, and wandered from plea- 
 sure to pleasure in search of happiness. It will be to 
 little purpose to say, how often he blushed at his own 
 conduct ; but being hardened by a repetition of his fol- 
 lies, he gradually fell into the grossest irregularities. To 
 be short, he at last returned home with the seeds of a 
 mortal distemper in his bosom, and after languishing a 
 few months, expired in the greatest agonies. 
 
 Some time after, Augustus returned home to his pa- 
 rents, possessed of an equal stock of learning and pru- 
 dence, his departure from the university being regret- 
 ted both by his teachers and companions. It may easily 
 be supposed, that bis family received him with tran- 
 sports of joy. You know not, my little readers, how 
 pleasing are those tender parental feelings, which arise 
 from the prospect of seeing their children beloved and 
 respected ! His parents thought themselves the happiest 
 
 )f people, and tears of joy filled their eyes when they 
 
 >eheld him. 
 
 Augustus had not been long at home, before a consi- 
 derable employment in his profession was conferred on 
 [Jhim, with the unanimous approbation of all who were 
 •acquainted with his character. This enabled him to 
 
 h 
 
m LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 gratify His generous desire of promoting- the felicity of 
 his friends, and a sense of their happiness added to Ins 
 own. He was the comfort of his parents in the evening 
 of their lives, and with interest repaid their attention and 
 care of Him in his childhood. An amiable wife, equal- 
 ly endued with sense, virtue, and beauty, who bore 
 him children like himself, completed his happiness. 
 
 In the characters of Antony and Augustus, we sec 
 trie fatal consequences of giving way to folly and vice, 
 and what a happy effect the contrary conduct has. An- 
 tony fell a victim to the misguided indulgence of his 
 parents, while Augustus lived to be happy by the pru- 
 dent management he received in his infancy » 
 
 QUEEN of all virtues ! for wliate'er we call 
 Sublime and great, 'tis thou obtain'st. it all. 
 No task too arduous for thy strong essay, 
 And art, and nature own thy potent sway. 
 The sage, whilst learning studious he pursues> 
 }W thee the stubborn sciences subdues : 
 Thro' truth's wide fields expatiates unconfin'd, 
 And stores for ever his capacious mind. 
 
 « 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 12, 
 
 THE DESTRUCTIVE CONSEQUENCES OF DISSIPA- 
 TION AND LUXURY. 
 
 UN u fine evening, in the midst of summer, Mr. 
 Drake and his son Albert took a walk in some of the 
 most agreeable environs of the city. The sky was 
 clear, the air cool, and the purling streams, and gen- 
 tle zephyrs rustling' in the trees, lulled the mind into 
 an agreeable oioom. Albert, enchanted with the natu- 
 ral beauties that surrounded him, could not help ex- 
 claiming, 'What a lovely evening!' He pressed his fa- 
 ther's hand, and looking up to him, said, ' You know 
 not papa, what thoughts rise in my heart !' He was 
 silent for a moment, and then looking towards heaven, 
 his eyes moistened with tears, c I thank God (said he) 
 for the happy moments he now permits me to enjoy! 
 Had I my wish, every one should taste the beauties of 
 this evening as I do Where I king of a large country, 
 I would make my subjects perfectly happy.' 
 
 Mr. Drake embraced his son, and told him, that 
 the benevolent wish he had iust uttered came from a 
 
124 LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 heart as generous as it was humane. * But would not 
 your thoughts change with your fortune? Are you cer- 
 tain, that in an exalted station you should preserve the 
 sentiments, which now animate you in that middling 
 state, in which it has pleased heaven to place you? 7 
 
 Albert was a little surprized that his father should 
 ask such a question ; for he had no idea that riches 
 could bring with them cruelty and wickedness. 
 
 Mr. Drake told him, that indeed was not always the 
 case. * The world has produced fortunate persons, 
 (said he) who have remembered their past distresses, 
 and have always retained the most charitable ideas for 
 the unfortunate ; but we too often see, what is a dis- 
 grace to the human heart, that a change of fortune al- 
 ters the most tender and sympathetic affections. While 
 we ourselves labor under misfortunes, we look upon it 
 as a duty incumbent on every man to assist us. Should 
 the hand of God relieve us, we then think, that all 
 his intentions in the preservation of the world are an- 
 swered, and too often cease to remember those unfortu- 
 nate wretches, who remain in the gulf from which we 
 have been rescued. You may see an instance of this 
 in the man, who frequently comes to beg charity of 
 me, whom I relieve with reluctance, and cannot but 
 censure myself for so doing.' Albert told his father 
 that he had frequently observed how coolly he put mo- 
 ney into his hands, without speaking to him in that 
 tender language, which he generally used to other 
 poor people. He therefore begged his father would 
 tell him what could be his reason for it. 
 
 i I will tell you, my dear, (said Mr. Drake) what 
 lias been his conduct, and then leave you to judge 
 how far I do right. Mr. Mason was a linen-draper in 
 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. Kj 
 
 Cheap-side ; and, though the profits of his business 
 were but moderate, yet a poor person never asked his 
 charity in vain. This he viewed as his most pleasing 
 extravagance, and he considered himself happy in the 
 enjoyment of it, though he could not pursue this in- 
 dulgence to the extent of his wishes. Business one 
 day calling him on 'Change, he heard a number of ca- 
 pital merchants talking together of vast cargoes, and 
 the immense profits to be expected from them, * Ah ! 
 (said he to himself ) how happy these people are ! Were 
 I as rich, heaven knows, I should not make money 
 my idol, for the poor should plentifully partake of my 
 abundance.' 
 
 ' This man went home with a bosom full of ambiti- 
 ous thoughts ; but his circumstances were too narrow 
 to embrace his vast projects, as it required no small 
 share of prudence in the management of his affairs, to 
 make every thing meet at the end of the year. c Ah ! 
 (crk ' s he) I shall never get forward, nor rise above the 
 middling condition, in which I at present linger.' 
 
 In the midst of these gloomy thoughts, a paper, in- 
 viting adventurers to purchase shares in the lottery, 
 was put into his hand. He seemed as if inspired by 
 fortune and caught the idea immediately. Without 
 considering the inconvenience to which his covetous- 
 ness might reduce him, he hastened to the lottery office, 
 and there laid out four guineas, From this moment, 
 he waited with impatience for the drawing, nor could 
 he find repose even at night on his pillow. He 
 sometimes repented of having sa foolishly hazard- 
 ed what he could not well bear the loss of, and at 
 other times he fancied he saw riches pouring in upon 
 him from all quarters. At last the drawing bcga.% 
 
 h 3 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 and, in the midst of his hopes and fears, fortune fa- 
 vored him with a prize of five thousand pounds. 
 
 'Having received his money, he thought of nothing 
 else for several days ; but when his imagination had cooled 
 a little, iie began to think what use he should make of 
 it. He therefore increased his stock, extended his bu- 
 siness, and by care and assiduity in trade soon doubled 
 his capital. In less than ten years, he became one of 
 the most considerable men in the city, and hitherto he 
 had punctually kept his promise, in being the friend 
 and patron of the poor ; for the sight of an unfortunate 
 person always put him in mind of his former condition, 
 and pleaded powerfully in behalf of the distressed. 
 
 ' As he now frequented gay company, he by degrees 
 began to contract a habit of luxury and dissipation ; 
 he purchased a splendid country-house with elegant 
 gardens, and his life became a scene of uninterrupted 
 pleasures and amusements. All this extravagance, 
 however, soon convinced him, that he was considerably 
 reducing his fortune ; and his trade, which he had 
 given up, to be the more at leisure for the enjoyment 
 of his pleasures, no longer enabled him to repair it. 
 Besides, having been so long accustomed to put no 
 restraint on his vanity and pride, he could not submit 
 to the meanness of lessening his ex nences. I shall al- 
 ways have enough for myself, (thought he) and let 
 others take care of themselves.' 
 
 'As his fortune decreased, so did his feelings for the 
 distressed, and his heart grew callous to the cries of mi- 
 sery, as with indifference we hear the roaring tempest 
 when sheltered from its fury. Friends whom he had 
 till then supported, came as usual to implore his boun- 
 ty ; bathe received them roughly, aud forbid them 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 127 
 
 his house. Am I, (said he) to squander my fortune upon 
 you ? Do as I have done, and get one for yourselves.' 
 
 ' His poor unhappy mother, from whom he had ta- 
 ken half the pension he used to allow her, came to 
 beg a corner in any part of his house, where she might 
 finish her few remaining days ; but he was so cruel as 
 to refuse her request, and with the utmost indifference 
 saw her perish for want. The measure of his crimes, 
 however, was now nearly filled. His wealth was all 
 soon exhausted in debauchery, and other excesses, and 
 he had neither the inclination nor ability to return to 
 trade. Misery soon overtook him, and brought him 
 to that state in which you now see him. He begs his 
 bread from door to door, an object of contempt and 
 detestation to all honest people, and a just example of 
 the indignation of the Almighty.' 
 
 Albert told his father, that if fortune made men so 
 wicked and miserable, he wished to remain as he was, 
 above pity, and secure from contempt. 
 
 'Think often, my dear child, (said his father to him) 
 of this story, and learn from this example, that no true 
 happiness can be enjoyed, unless we feel for the mis- 
 fortunes of others. It is the rich man's duty to relieve 
 the distresses of the poor, and in this more solid plea- 
 sure is found, than can be expected from the enervating 
 excesses of luxury and pomp.' 
 
 The sun was now sinking beneath the horizon, and 
 his parting beams rejected a lively glow upon the 
 clouds, which seemed to form a purple curtain round 
 his bed. The air, freshened by the approach of even- 
 ing, breathed an agreeable calm ; and the feathered 
 inhabitants of the grove sung their farewell song. The 
 wind rustling among the trees, added a gentle murmur 
 
128 
 
 LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 to the concert, and every thing seemed to inspire joy 
 and happiness, while Albert and his father returned to 
 
 their house with thoughtful and pensive steps. 
 
 FOR him, who, lost to ev'ry hope of life, 
 This long with fortune held unequal strife, 
 Known to no human love, no human care, 
 The friendless, homeless object of despair; 
 tor the poor vagrant feet, v tide he complains, 
 Nor from sad freedom send to sadder chains. 
 Alike, if folly or misfortune brought 
 Thos ; last of woes his evil days have wrought ; 
 Relieve with social mercy, and, with me, 
 1-olly's misfortune in the first degree. 
 
 Perhaps on some inhospitable shore 
 The houseless wretch a widow 'd parent bore ; 
 Who, tin in ao more by golden prospects led, 
 Of the poor Indian hreg'u a h-nty hod. 
 Cold on Canadian hills, or Mindin's plain,- 
 Perhaps that parent moaru'd her soldier slain ; 
 Bent o'er her babe, her eye dissolved in dew, 
 The big drops mingling with the inilk he drew, 
 Gave the sad presage of his future years, 
 The child of misery baptiz'd m tears f 
 
 jpp 
 
 I'* 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 \29 
 
 
 WILLIAM AND AMELIA. 
 IN a pleasant village, at some distance from the me- 
 tropolis, lived Lord and Lad}' Russel, who had brought 
 up an orphan named William, from his infancy, and 
 had a stranger to the family seen in what a tender man- 
 ner he was treated, he. would have supposed him to be 
 their son. This amiable couple had only one child liv- 
 ing, a daughter, named Amelia, who was nearly of the 
 same age with William, and the lady was pleased to see 
 that the two children had something beyond a common 
 attachment for each other. 
 
 William and Amelia were one fine summer morning 
 sauntering in the orchard with their little friend Char- 
 lotte, whose parents lived in the neighborhood. Of 
 these two little misses, Amelia was the youngest, and 
 not quite eight years of age. They were walking arm 
 in arm, and humming over a pretty song, then fashion- 
 able in the village collection of ballads. At the same 
 time William was walking before them, at some dis- 
 tance, amusing himself with a shepherd's pipe, 
 
130 LOOKIKG-GMSS. 
 
 While Amelia and Charlotte were thus rambling 
 about, they cast their eyes on sonic beautiful apples 
 that hung on a fine tree, tVoiri which ail the fruit had 
 been supposed to be gathered ; but the branches had 
 hidden some from view, and in course had escaped the 
 notice of the gatherers. The beautiful vermilion, with 
 which these ;;pj)!e were tinged, and which the leaves 
 could not entirely hide, seemingly invited the hand to 
 come and take them. William instantly climbed the 
 tree they were admiring, and threw down as many ap- 
 ples as he could reach, while the ladies below held their 
 aprons to catch them as they i^U. 
 
 Chance so directed it, that two or three, which were 
 considered as the finest, fell into the apron of Charlotte, 
 who was much pleased with this accidental distribu- 
 tion, as she might with reason have been, had a pre-- 
 meditated preference fc>eeu the cause of it, for William 
 was in reality the politest and prettiest little fellow in 
 the village. 
 
 Charlotte, with joy and triumph in her eyes, thus 
 addressed herself to Amelia : ' Only see how tine and 
 large my apples arc;, v. bile yours are nothing to com- 
 pare to them !' Amelia was very much displeased with 
 these words, she hung down her head, and putting on 
 a serious countenance, remained silent during the re- 
 mainder of the walk. William, by an hundred assi- 
 duities, endeavored to recover Amelia's cheerfulness, 
 again to spread a smile on her clouded countenance, 
 and make her renew her usual pleasing prattle. 
 
 As soon as they arrived near home, Charlotte took 
 her leave. Little William then addressed his sister, 
 for by that tender name he always called her, and ask- 
 ed her why she seemed so angry with him. i Certain- 
 
 
L00KIXG-GLAS3. 131 
 
 lv, (said he) you cannot be angry at Charlotte having 
 her share of the apples. You very well know that I 
 always loved you best, and therefore endeavored to 
 throw into your apron those apples, which, hy chance, 
 fell into Charlotte's. You must be sensible, that I 
 could not afterwards take them from her. Besides, I 
 thought yon of too generous a disposition to take no- 
 tice of such trifles. Be assured, the first opportunity 
 that shall offer, I will give you a convincing proof 
 that I had no design to vex you, whatever you may 
 at present think of my intentions.' 
 
 i Very pretty, indeed, Mr. William ! (replied Ame- 
 lia, with a look of uneasiness and disdain.) Pray who 
 told 3^ou that I was vexed ? Suppose Miss Charlotte's 
 apples had been ten times finer that mine, Avould that 
 be any consideration to me ? You very well know, Sir, 
 that I am no glutton ; neither should I have taken any 
 notice of the preference you shewed her, had it not 
 been for that saucy little creature's looks. I never 
 wish to see her more ; and as for you, fall down on 
 your knees this instant, or I never will forgive you 
 while I live.' 
 
 Little William could not think of submitting to such 
 an indignity, as that would be confessing a fault of 
 which he was not guilty, and therefore now stood 
 more upright than before. t I am no story-teller, Miss 
 Amelia, (said he) and therefore it is very wrong in 
 you not to believe what 1 so positively affirm, for I 
 certainly had no design to vex you.' 
 
 ' Very wrong in me, Sir ! (replied Amelia.) That 
 is pretty indeed ! But you need not thus affront me, 
 because Miss Charlotte is your favorite !' So saying, 
 
122 LOOKING-GLAx. 
 
 and bestowing a contemptuous curtsey on him, she 
 
 left him with an affected air of scorn and contempt. 
 
 Dinner being now ready, they sat down at table, 
 but pouted at each other all the time it lasted. Ame- 
 lia would not once drink, in order to avoid saying, 
 1 Your good health, William. 1 And William, on 
 his part, was so vexed at her treatment of him, that 
 he was determined not to give up the point. Amelia, 
 however, could not help sometimes stealing a glance 
 at William, and from a corner of her eye watch all 
 h\§ motions. As it happened, one of these sly glances 
 met the eye of William, who was equally attentive to 
 watch all the motions of Amelia, without wishing to 
 be observed. Their eyes thus meeting, she instantly 
 turned hers away to another object ; and as William 
 attributed this to contempt, which in reality it was not, 
 he affected much indifference, and continued eating 
 with the most apparent composure. 
 
 As soon as the cloth was removed, and the wine and 
 fruit put on the table, poor Amelia, being sadly out 
 of temper at the indifference she experienced from 
 William, made a disrespectful answer to a question 
 put to her by her mamma, and, for a second offence 
 of the same nature, was ordered to retire from table. 
 She obeyed, and bursting into a flood of tears, instant- 
 ly withdrew, without caring whither she went. How- 
 ever, it so happened, that the garden door was open ; 
 she therefore flew down the walk, and went into the 
 arbor, in order there in secret to give a vent to her 
 Q''^\ Here she cried most lamentably ; and soon re- 
 pented of her qu are! ling with William, who constant- 
 ly, whenever she happened to get into disgrace with 
 her mamma, would not only weep with her, but eu* 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 133 
 
 dearer to bring about a reconciliation, which he nev- 
 er failed to accomplish. 
 
 Though William continued at table, he could not 
 help feeling for the disgrace of Amelia. He had fix- 
 ed his eye on two peaches, and endeavored to contrive 
 means of getting them into his pocket in order to con- 
 vey them to Amelia, whom he knew he should find 
 some where in the garden, and he could easily make an 
 excuse to ^o thither ; vet he was fearful of having; bis 
 intentions discovered. He pushed back his chair, 
 then brought it forward several times, and was conti- 
 nually looking down, as if for something on the car- 
 pet. * Pretty little Caesar ! sweet Pompey V cried he, 
 speaking to two dogs then in the room. At this time, 
 he held a peach in his hand, which he meant to slip in- 
 to his pocket, as soon as he could discover the eyes of 
 my lord and lady attracted by any other object. c On- 
 ly see, papa and mamma, (continued he) how prettily 
 they are playing !' 
 
 His lordship replied, that they would not eat one 
 another, he would answer for it ; and having just look- 
 ed at them, put himself into his former position. Thus 
 poor William, who thought he was sure of then pocket- 
 ihg the peach, was sadly disappointed, and obliged to 
 replace it on the table. 
 
 These motions, however, were observed by lady 
 Jfiissel, who conjectured what were his intentions. 
 Plie therefore, for some time, enjoyed the poor fel- 
 low's embarrassments, and made his lordship acquaint- 
 ed with it by looks and dumb motions. 
 
 William, who had no idea that his scheme was sus- 
 pected, being fearful of trying the same stratagem 
 twice, instantly thought of another expedient. He 
 
 M 
 
i:+ LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 took a peach, and placed it in the hollow of his hands 
 both put together, after which he conducted it to his 
 mouth, and made believe as though he was really eat- 
 ing it. Then, while with his left hand he found means 
 to clap his peach into a cavity he had previously hol- 
 lowed in the napkin on his knees, he put his right hand 
 out to reach the other, which he disposed of in the 
 same manner. 
 
 In a few minutes, my lord and lady forgot to watch 
 the motions of William, and entered into conversation 
 on various subjects. He therefore thought this a pro- 
 per opportunity to get away, rose up from table, 
 with both peaches in the napkin, and began to imitate 
 the mewing of a cat, which a young shepherd's boy had 
 lately taught him. His view in this was to engage the 
 attention of Caesaf and Pompey, in which he succeed- 
 ed, and they both got up and jumped about the room. 
 
 Lady Russel was a little angry with him for making 
 such a noise, and told him, if he wanted to make such 
 a mewing as that, the garden was the most proper 
 place. William pretended to be very much confused 
 at this reproof, though the consequence of it was the 
 very thing he wanted. He then instantly ran up to 
 Caesar. ' See, mamma, (said William) lie wants to bite 
 Pompey !' and as he turned, he dexterously slipped the 
 napkin into his pocket, and pretended to run after Cae- 
 sar to punish him. The dog ran towards the door 
 Amelia had left open when she went into the garden, 
 and away went William in pursuit »f her. 
 
 Lady Russel called William back, and asked him 
 where he was going. ' My dear mamma, (said he) if 
 you please, I will take a turn in the garden, and I 
 hope you will not refuse' me that favor.' As Lady 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 13S 
 
 Russel did not immediately answer him, he lowered his 
 voice, and spoke in a more suppliant manner. At last 
 having obtained her permission, away he ran with so 
 much haste, that his foot slipped, and down he fell; 
 but, luckily, neither he nor the peaches were hurt. 
 
 After searching round the garden for his sister, h<$ 
 at last found her in the arbor, sitting in an attitude of 
 sorrow, she was exceedingly unhappy to think she had 
 grieved the three best friends she had, her worthy pa-« 
 rents, and her dear William. ' My sweetest Amelia, 
 (said the little fellow, falling on his knees at the same 
 time) let us be friends. I would freely ask forgiveness 
 for my fault, had I really intended to displease you. 
 If you will ask my pardon, I will ask yours also. My 
 pretty Amelia, let us be friends. Here are two nice 
 peaches, which I could not think of eating while you 
 were not present to partake of them.' 
 
 ' Ah, my dearest Billy ! (said Amelia, squeezing his 
 hand while she spoke, and weeping on his shoulder) 
 what a sweet good-tempered little fellow you are ? 
 Certainly, (continued she, sobbing while she spoke) 
 those that are friends to us in our misfortunes are truly 
 valuable. It was very wrong in me to be so vexed, 
 as I was this morning, about the loss of a few apples, 
 It was the insulting lock that Miss Charlotte gave me 
 that was the cause of it ; but I will think of her no 
 more. Will you forgive me ? (added she, wiping off 
 the tears she had let fall on William's hand) I confess 
 that I sometimes love to plague you ; but keep your 
 peaches, for I cannot think of eating them.' 
 
 'As to plaguing me, sister, (answered William) 
 you may do that as often as you like ; but, I assure 
 you, nobody shall do so but yourself; as to the peach- 
 
136 LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 es, I most certainly will not cat them. I have already 
 told you so, and my word is like the law of the Medes 
 and Persians, which altereth not. 
 
 'For the same reason, (said Amelia) I shall not eat 
 Ihem,' and immediately threw them both over the gar- 
 den wall ; for, besides her having said she would not 
 eat them, she could not bear the thought of receiving 
 a bribe to reconcile a quarrel. Amelia's next consider- 
 ation was, how to make it up with her mamma, and 
 she said she should be happy indeed, if she would but 
 permit her to appear before her, and ask her pardon. 
 The generous little William no sooner heard these 
 ■words, than, he promised to settle that husiness, and 
 away he instantly ran ; but before he had taken many 
 steps, he stopped short, and turning round, said 'I 
 will tell mamma, that it was I who made you anger 
 her, by having vexed you in the morning.'' 
 
 Little William succeeded beyond his expectations, 
 and all parties were soon reconciled to each Other. A 
 friendship so affectionate and generous, is highly wor- 
 thy of the imitation of all my juvenile readers. 
 O happy they ! tin- happiest of their kind ! 
 Whom gentle stars unite, and in one fate 
 Their hearts, their fortunes, and their beings blend. 
 'Tis not the coarser tie of human laws, 
 Unnatural oft, and foreign to the mind, 
 That binds their peace, but harmony itself, 
 Attuning all their passions into love ; 
 Where friendship full exerts her softest power, 
 Perfect esteem enliveu'd by desire 
 Ineffable, and sympathy of soul ; 
 Thought meeting thought, and will preventing will, 
 With boundless confidence : for nought but loye 
 Can answer love, and render bliss secure. 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 137 
 
 THE RIVAL DOGS. 
 
 A. GENTLEMAN, whose name was Howard, had 
 brought up two pretty dogs from puppies. The one 
 he called Castor,, and the other Pollux, hoping they 
 would live in such friendship together, as did the 
 two illustrious heroes, after whom they were named. 
 Though they both came From the same mother, and at 
 the same time ; had been both fed together, and equal- 
 ly treated ; yet it was soon seen, that there was a great 
 difference in their tempers and dispositions. 
 
 Castor was of a meek and tractable nature ; but 
 Pollux was fierce and quarrelsome, When any per- 
 son took notice of the generous Castor, he would wagf 
 his tail, and jump about for joy, nor was he ever jea- 
 lous on seeing more notice taken of his brother than oF 
 himself. The surly Pollux, on the contrary, when- 
 ever Mr. Howard had him on his lap, would growl and 
 grumble at Castor, if he attempted to come near him,, 
 or if anv one took notice of him. 
 
 When any of Mr. Howard's friends happened to 
 M 2 
 
ui LOOKING-TSLAS 
 
 come on a visit to his house, and bring their dogs along 
 with them, the good-natured Castor would immediate- 
 ly mix among them, and in his way endeavor to amuse, 
 them. As he was by nature extremely pliant and en- 
 gaging, they were all peaee and harmony whenever it 
 fell to his lot to entertain them. They would jump 
 and play about the house, as boys do in school when 
 they are left to themselves. 
 
 The surly Pollux acted a very different part. lie 
 would sneak into a corner, and bark all day at the 
 strangers. If any of them happened to pass too near 
 him, he would be sure to snarl and grin, and would 
 often start up, and bite their ears or tails. If his mus- 
 ter happened to take any notice of either of the 
 strange dogs, on account of their good-nature or hand- 
 someness, Pollux would howl as loud as if thieves 
 were actually breaking into the house. 
 
 This odious disposition of Pollux did not escape the 
 notice of Mr Howard, who gradually began to neg- 
 lect him ; while Castor, on the contrary, was every 
 day increasing in his master's favor. 
 
 As Mr. Howard was one day sitting at table, it sud- 
 denly entered his mind to make a more particular tri- 
 al of the temper of these two dogs than he hadhitherto 
 done. Both happened to be attending at table, but 
 Pollux was nearest his master ; for the good-natured 
 Castor, in order to avoid strife and contention, always 
 let him choose his place. 
 
 Mr. Howard threw a nice piece of meat to Pollux, 
 which he devoured with much greediness. Caster 
 shewed no signs of uneasiness at this, but patiently 
 waited till his master should think it was his turn. Soon 
 afterwards, Mi\ Howard threw Castoj- a bone with 
 
LOOKINC-GLASS. r3* 
 
 hardly an}' meat on it ; but he took it without shewing 
 the least mirk of discontent. The surly Pollux, how- 
 ever, no sooner saw his brother engaged on his meat- 
 less bone, though he had feasted on his own delicious 
 morsel, than he fell upon him, and took it from him. 
 The good-natured Castor made no opposition, but 
 gave up the bone without a murmur. 
 
 My readers must not from hence imagine, that Cas- 
 tor was a coward, or was in the least afraid of the 
 strength of his brother ; for he had lately given suffi- 
 cient proof of his courage and resolution, in a battle 
 he had been drawn into by Pollux, whose intolerable 
 moroseness had brought on him the vengeance of a 
 neighboring dog. Pollux, after engaging his antago- 
 nist only a few minutes, though he bad provoked the 
 dog to try his strength, ran away like a cowaM; but 
 Castor, in order to cover the ret . s brother, 
 
 and without any one to take his part, fought him like 
 a hero, and at last forced him to run away likewise. 
 
 Mr. Howard was well acquainted with this circum- 
 stance, and as he had before established his credit, in 
 point of courage, so was his master now fully convin- 
 ced of his good temper, and the surly and cowardly 
 disposition of his brother. < My good fellow, (said 
 Mr. Howard to Castor) it is but just, that you should 
 at least fare as well as your brother, who does not de- 
 serve so much as you.' So saying, he cut off a large 
 piece of nice meat, and gave it to Castor. 
 
 Pollux, seeing so nice a morsel given to his brother, 
 accompanied with such cutting words from his master! 
 began to growl and snarl. 'Since you have shewn 
 so much complaisance and generosity to your brother, 
 (continued Mr. Howard, still peaking to Castor) who 
 
 
140 LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 in return treats you with ill-manners, jealousy, and 
 envy, }'ou shall in future be my dog, and be at liber- 
 ty to range about the house at your pleasure ; but your 
 brother shall be confined in the yard. Here, (cried he) 
 bring a chain for Pollux, and order the carpenter to 
 make him a little house !' The order was instantly 
 obeyed, and Pollux was led to his kennel ^* while Ins 
 brother rambled about at liberty. 
 
 Had Pollux received so singular a mark of favor, he 
 would undoubtedly have supported it with insolence ; 
 but Castor was of a different disposition, and appear- 
 ed very unhappy at his brother's disgrace. When- 
 ever any nice bit was given to Castor, he woidd run 
 away with it to Pollux, wag his tail for joy, and in- 
 vite him to partake of it. In short, he visited him 
 every night in his house, and did every thing he could 
 to amuse him under his sufferings. 
 
 Notwithstanding all these marks of tenderness, Pol- 
 lux always received his brother in the most surly man- 
 ner, howling as though he were come to devour him, 
 and treating him with every mark of disrespect. At 
 length rage and disappointment inflamed his blood, 
 he pined away by degrees, and at last died a misera- 
 ble spectacle. 
 
 The moral of this story is so obvious, that, there 
 hardly appears a necessity to tell my young readers, 
 that such a disposition as Pollux must render its pos- 
 sessor an object of contempt and abhorrence, while 
 that of Castor will ever be beloved and respected. 
 
 NOR think, in Nature's state they blindly trod ; 
 The state of Nature was the reign of God : 
 Self-love and social at her birth began, 
 Union the bond of all things, and of Man, 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 HI 
 
 Pride then was not ; nor arts, that pride to aid ; 
 Man walk'd with beast, joint tenant of the shade; 
 The same his table, and the same his bed ; 
 No murder cloath'd him, and no murder fed*. 
 In the same temple, the resounding wood, 
 AH vocal beings hymn'd their equal God : 
 HeavVs attribute was universal care, 
 And man's prerogative, to rule, but spare- 
 Ah ! how unlike the man of times to come ! 
 Of half that live the butcher and the tomb ; 
 Who, foe to Nature, hears the gen'ral groan, 
 Murders their species, and betrays his own. 
 Eut just disease to luxury succeeds, 
 And ev'ry death its own avenger breeds ; 
 The fury-passions from that blood began, 
 And turn'd on Man, a fiercer savage, Man. 
 
1*2 
 
 LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 CLEOPATRA ; OR, THE REFORMED LITTLE 
 TYRANT. 
 
 xjl PERT little hussey, whose name was Cleopatra, 
 ■was continually teasing and commanding her poor bro- 
 ther. < So yon will not do what I bid you, Mr. Obsti- 
 nacy ! (she would often say to him) Come, come, Sir, 
 obey, or it shall be the worse for you.' 
 
 If Cleopatra's word might be taken for it, her bro- 
 ther did every thing -wrong ; but on the contrary, what- 
 ever she thought of doing, was the master-piece of 
 reason and sound sense. It he proposed any kind of 
 diversion, she was sure to consider it as dull and insi- 
 pid ; but it often happened, that she would herself the 
 next day recommend the same thing, and having for- 
 gotten what she had said of it before, consider it as the 
 most lively and entertaining. 
 
 Her brother wa^ obliged to submit to her unaccount- 
 able whims and fancies, or else endure the most disa- 
 greeable lectures a little female tongue could utter. If 
 ever he presumed to be so hardy as to reason with her 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. M3 
 
 on her strange conduct, instant destruction to his play- 
 things was the inevitable consequence of it. 
 
 Her parents with regret saw this strange and tyran- 
 nical disposition of then* daughter, and in vain did 
 every thing they could think of to break her of it. 
 Her mother, in particular, continually enforced on her 
 mind, that such children never procured the esteem of 
 others ; and that a girl, who set up her own opinion 
 against that of every one eke, would soon become in- 
 tolerable and insupportable to all her acquaintance. 
 This prudent advice, however made no impression on 
 her stubborn heart; and her brother wearied out by her 
 caprice and tyranny, began to have very little affection 
 for her. It one day happened, that a gentleman of a 
 free and open temper dined at their house. He could 
 not help observing with, what a haughty air she treated 
 her poor brother, and, indeed, every other person in 
 the room. At first, the rules of politeness kept him 
 from saying any thing ; but at last, tired out with her 
 impertinence, he began' addressing his discourse to her 
 mamma, in the following manner : 
 
 ' 1 was lately in France, and, as I was fond of being 
 present at the soldiers exercise, I used to go, as often 
 as I could, to see their manoeuvres on the parade, near- 
 ly in the same manner as they do here, near the Park, 
 Among the soldiers there were many I observed with 
 whiskers, which gave them a very fierce and soldier-like 
 look. Now, had I a child like your Cleopatra, I would 
 instantly give her a soldier's uniform, and put on her a 
 pair of whiskers, when she might, with rather more 
 propriety than at present, act the part of a comman- 
 der.' 
 
 Cleopatra heard this, and stood covered with confu- 
 
U4 LOOKlNG-GIiASS. 
 
 sion ! she could not help blushing, and was unable to 
 conceal her tears. However, this reproach perfectly 
 reformed her, and she became sensible how unbecom- 
 ing was a tyrannizing temper. It lias been observed, 
 that to be sensible of our errors is half the work of re- 
 formation. So it happened with Cleopatra, who, with 
 the assistance of her mother's prudent counsels, became 
 an amiable girl. Her reformation was a credit to her ; 
 and it is much to he wished that all young ladies, who 
 take no pains to conquer their passions, would at last 
 imitate Cleopatra, and wish to avoid being told, that 
 a soldier's dress and a pair of whiskers would better be* 
 come them, than nice cambric frocks and silk slips. 
 Had Cleopatra attended to the advice of her parents, 
 and not have imagined that greatness consists in imper- 
 tinence, she would have been happy much sooner than 
 she was. 
 
 THERE was a little stubborn dame, 
 Whom no authority could tame : 
 Restive, by long indulgence, grown, 
 No will she minded but her own ; 
 At trifles oft she'd seold and fret, 
 Then in a corner take a seat, 
 And, sourly moping all the day, 
 Disdain alike to work or play. 
 
 Papa all softer arts has try'd, 
 And sharper remedies apply 'd ; 
 But both were vain, for every course 
 He took still made her worse and worse. 
 Mamma obseiVd the rising lass 
 By stealth retiring to the glass ; 
 On this a deep design she laid 
 To tame the humor of the maid ; 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. U$ 
 
 Contriving, like a prudent mother, 
 
 To make one folly cure another. 
 
 Upon the wall, against the seat 
 
 Which Cleo us'd for her retreat, 
 
 Whene'er by accident offended, 
 
 A looking-glass was straight suspended, 
 
 That it might shew her how deform'd 
 
 She lookM, and frightful, when she stormM 5 
 
 And warn her, as she prizM her beauty, 
 
 To bend her humor to her duty. 
 
 All this the looking-glass atchievM, 
 
 Its threats were minded and belie vM. 
 
 The maid, who spurnM at all advice* 
 
 Grew tame and gentle in a trice ; 
 
 So when all other means had fail'd^, 
 
 The silent monitor prevaiPd. 
 
 *f 
 
14ti 
 
 LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 r^^^^^t^^H^r^l 
 
 THE PASSIONATE BOY. 
 
 Y OUNG Frederick had naturally a noble soul, ele- 
 vated thoughts, and generous notions. His turn of 
 mind was lively, his imagination strong and quick, and 
 his temper chearful and pleasing* Indeed, the ele- 
 gance of his person, and his behavior and accomplish- 
 ments, gained him the respect of every one ; but not- 
 withstanding all these amiable qualities, he had one un- 
 happy defect, which was that of giving way too readi- 
 ly to the most violent emotions of passion. 
 
 It would frequently happen, that while he was 
 amusing himself in the circle of his playmates, the 
 most trifling contradiction would ruflle his temper, 
 and fill him with the highest degree of rage and fury, 
 little short of a state of madness. 
 
 As he happened to be one day walking about his 
 chamber, and meditating on the necessary prepara- 
 tions for a treat his father had permitted him to give 
 his sister, his dear friend and favorite, Marcus, came 
 t© him to advise with him on that business. Frederick, 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 147 
 
 being lost in thought, saw not his friend, who there- 
 fore, having spoken to him in vain, drew nearer to 
 him, and began to pull him by the sleeve. Frederick, 
 angry and out of patience with these interruptions, 
 suddenly turned rouud, and gave Marcus such a push, 
 that he sent him reeling across the room, and he at 
 last fell against the wainscot. 
 
 Marcus lay motionless on the floor, without the least 
 appearance of life ; for in his fall, he had struck his 
 head against something which had given him a deep 
 and terrible wound, from which issued a great quan- 
 tity of blood. How shall we describe the situation of 
 poor Frederick, who loved his friend tenderly, and for 
 whom he would, on occasion, have sacrificed his life ! 
 
 Frederick fell down beside him, crying out most la- 
 mentably, ' He is dead ! he is dead !' I have killed 
 my dear friend Marcus !' So great were his fright and 
 consternation, that he had no idea of calling for assis- 
 tance, but lay by his side uttering the most dismal 
 groans. Happily, however, his father heafd him, 
 and, instantly running in, took up Marcus in his arms. 
 He called for some sugar to stop the bleeding of the 
 wound, and having applied some salts fo his nose, 
 and some water to his temples, they brought him a little 
 to himself. 
 
 Frederick was transported with joy when he per- 
 ceived symptons of life in his friend ; but the fear of 
 relapse kept him in the greatest anxiety. They imme- 
 diately sent for a surgeon, who as soon as he arrived, 
 searched the wound. He found it was not in the tem- 
 ple, but so very close to it, that the tenth part of an 
 inch nearer would probably have made the wound dan- 
 gerous indeed, if not mortal. 
 
HI LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 Marcus being carried home, soon became delirious, 
 and Frederick could not be persuaded to leave him. 
 He sat down by the side of his poor friend, wholely 
 absorbed in silence. Marcus, while he remained in 
 that delirious state, frequently pronounced the name 
 of Frederick. ' My dear Frederick, (he would some- 
 times say) what could I have done to deserve being 
 treated in this manner ? Yet, I am sure, you cannot 
 be less unhappy than myself, when you reflect you 
 wounded me without a cause. However, I would not 
 wish your generous nature should be grieved. Let us 
 forgive each other, I for vexing you, and you for 
 wounding me. 
 
 In this manner did Marcus talk, without being sen- 
 sible that Frederick was near him, though he held him 
 by the hand at the same time. Every word thus pro- 
 nounced, in which there could be neither flattery nor 
 deceit, went to the heart of the afflicted Frederick, 
 and rendered his grief almost insupportable. 
 
 In ten days time, however, it pleased God to abate 
 the fever, and he was enabled to get up, to the great 
 joy of his parents; but how can we express the feel- 
 ings of Frederick on this happy occasion ! fhat task 
 must be left for those who inay have unfortunately 
 been in a similar situation : his joy now was undoubt- 
 edly as great as his sorrows had been. 
 
 Marcus, at last, got perfectly well, and Frederick 
 in consequence recovered his former cheerfulness and 
 good-humor. He now stood in need of no other les- 
 son, than the sorrowful event that hail lately taken 
 place, to break himself of that violence of temper, to 
 which he had been so long a slave. In a little time, 
 no appearanca of the wound remained*, excepting a 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 149 
 
 small scar near his temple, which Frederick could ne- 
 ver look at without some emotion, even after they were 
 both grown up to manhood. Indeed, it ever after- 
 wards ^as considered as a seal of that friendship, 
 which they never lost sight of. 
 
 AND therefore wert thou bred to virtuous knowledge, j 
 And wisdom early planted in thy soul, 
 That thou mightst know to rule thy fiery Passions ; 
 To bind their rage, and stay their headlong course ; 
 To bear with accidents and ev'ry change 
 Of various life ; to struggle with adversity ; 
 To wait the leisure of the righteous God, 
 Till he, in his own good appointed hour, 
 Shall bid thy better days come forth at once ; 
 A long and shining train ; till thou, well pleas'd, 
 Shalt bow, and bless.thy fate, and say that God is just, 
 
 N 2 
 
*5t 
 
 LOOiUNG-GLAii* 
 
 t^^W^H*^^^ 
 
 CAROLINE; OR A LESSON TO CURE VANITY. 
 
 x\. PLAIN white frock had hitherto been the only 
 dress of Caroline. Silver buckles in her red morocco 
 shoes ; and her ebon hair, which had never felt the 
 torturing iron, flowed upon her shoulders in graceful 
 ringlets, now and then disturbed by the gentle winds. 
 Being one day in company with some little girls, 
 who, tho' no older than herself, were dressed in all the 
 empty parade of fashion ; the glare and glitter of those 
 fine clothes raised in her heart a desire she had never 
 before felt. 
 
 As soon as she got home, ' My dear mamma, (said 
 she) I have this afternoon seen Miss Flippant and her 
 two sisters, whom you very well know. The eldest 
 is not older than myself, and yet they were all dressed 
 in the most elegant manner. Their parents must cer- 
 tainly have great pleasure in seeing them so finely 
 dressed ; and, as they are not richer than you, do, 
 my dear mamma, let me have a fine silk slip, embroi- 
 dered shoes like theirs, and let my hair be dressed by 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 151 
 
 Mr. Frizzle, who is said to be a very capital man in 
 his profession !' 
 
 Her mother replied, that she should have no objec- 
 tion to gratify her wishes, provided it would add to 
 her happiness ; but she was rather fearful it might have 
 a contrary effect. As Miss Caroline could not give in- 
 to this mode of thinking, she requested her mamma to 
 explain her reasons for what she bad said. 
 
 1 Because, (said her mother) you will be in continu- 
 al fear of spotting your silk slip, and even rumpling it 
 whenever you wear it. A dress like that of M.ss Flip- 
 pant will require the utmost care and attention to pre- 
 serve it from accidents ; for a single spot will spoil its 
 beauty, and you very well know there is no washin g 
 of silks. However extensive my fortune may be^ I 
 assure you it is not sufficient to purchase you silk 
 gowns so often as you would wish to have them.' 
 
 Miss Caroline considered these arguments as very 
 trifling, and promised to give her mamma no uneasi- 
 ness as to her carelessness in wearing her fine clothes. 
 Tho' her mamma consented to let her be dressed in 
 the manner she requested, yet she desired her to re- 
 member the hints she had given her of the vexations 
 to which her vanity would expose her. 
 
 Miss Caroline, on whom this good advice had no 
 effect, lost not a moment in destroying all the pleasure 
 and enjoyment of her infancy. Her hair, which be- 
 fore hung down in careless ringlets, was now tv/isted 
 up in paper, and squeezed between a pair of burning- 
 tongs ; that fine jet, which had hitherto so happily set 
 off the whiteness of her forehead, was lost under a 
 clod of powder and pomatum. 
 
 Li a few days the mantua- maker arrived with a fine 
 
152 LOOKING-GLASS 
 
 slip of pea -green taflfety, with fine pink trimmings, 
 and a pair of shoos, elegantly worked, to answer the 
 slip. The sight of them gave infinite pleasure to Ca- 
 roline ; but it was easily to be perceived, when she 
 had them on, that her limbs were under great restraint, 
 and her motions had lost their accustomed ease and 
 freedom. That innocence and candor, which used to 
 adorn her lovely countenance, began to be lost amidst 
 the profusion of flowers, silks, gauzes, and ribbands. 
 
 The novelty, however, of her appearance, quite 
 enchanted her. Her eyes, with uncommon eagerness 
 wandered over every part of her dress, and were sel- 
 dom removed, unless to take a general survey of the 
 whole in a pier-glass. She prevailed on her mamma, 
 to let her send cards of invitation to all her acquaintan- 
 ces, in order to enjoy the inexpressible pleasure of be- 
 ing gazed at. As soon as they were met, she would 
 walk backwards and forwards before them, like a pea- 
 cock, and seem to consider herself as the empress of 
 the world, and they as her vassals. 
 
 All this triumph and consequence, however, met 
 with many mortifying circumstances. The children, 
 who lived near her, were one ddy permitted to ram- 
 ble about the fields, when Caroline accompanied them, 
 and led the way. What first attracted their attention 
 was a beautiful meadow, enamelled with a variety of 
 charming flowers ; and butterflies, whose wings were 
 of various colors, hovered over its surface. The little 
 ladies amused themselves with hunting these butterflies, 
 which they dexterously caught without hurting them ; 
 and, as soon as they had examined their beauties, let 
 them fly again. Of the flowers that sprung beneath 
 
their feet, they made nosegays, formed in the prettiest 
 taste. 
 
 Tho' pride would not at first permit Miss Caroline 
 to partake of these mean amusements, yet she at last 
 wanted to share in the diversion ; but they told her, 
 that the ground might be damp, which would infalli- 
 bly stain her shoes, and hurt her silk slip. They had 
 discovered her intention in thus bringing them together,, 
 which was only to shew her fine clothes, and they 
 were therefore resolved to mortify her vanity. 
 
 Miss Caroline was of course under the- necessity of 
 being solitary and inactive, while her companions spor- 
 ted on the grass without fear of incommoding them- 
 selves. The pleasure she had lately taken in viewing 
 her fine slip and shoes was, at this moment, but a poor 
 compensation for the mirth and merriment she thereby 
 lost. 
 
 On one side of tbe*meadow grew a fine grove of 
 trees, which resounded With t! e various notes of innu- 
 merable birds, and which seemed to invite every one 
 that passed that way to retire thither, and partake of 
 the indulgences of the shade. The little maidens eu- 
 teved this grove, jumping and sporting, without fear- 
 ing any injury to their clothes. Miss Caroline would 
 have followed them, but they advised her not, telling 
 her that the bushes would certainly tear her fine trim- 
 mings. She plainly saw that her friends, who were 
 joyously sporting among the trees, were making them- 
 selves merry at her expence, and therefore grew peev- 
 ish and ill-humored. 
 
 The youngest of her visitors however, had some 
 sort of compassion on her. She had just discovered a 
 corner, where a quantity of fine wild strawberries 
 
T3* JJJUJUMr-ULASS. 
 
 grew, when she called to Miss Caroline, and invited 
 her to eat part of them. This she readily attempted ; 
 but no sooner had she entered the grove, than she was 
 obliged to call out for help. Hereupon the children 
 all gathered to the spot, and found poor Caroline fas- 
 tened by the gauze of her hat to a branch of white- 
 thorn, from which she could not disengage herself. 
 They immediately took out the pins that fastened her 
 hiit ; but to add to her misfortunes, as her hair, which 
 had been frizzled with so much labor, was also entang- 
 led with a branch of white-thorn, it cost her almost a 
 whole lock, before she could be set at liberty. Thus, 
 in an instant, was all the boasted superstructure of her 
 head-dress put into a state of confusion. 
 
 After what had passed, it cannot be difficult to sup- 
 pose in what manner her playmates viewed this acci- 
 dent. Instead of consolation, of which Caroline stood 
 in much need, they could not refrain from laughing at 
 the odd figure she made, and did actually torment her 
 with an hundred witty jokes. After having put her a 
 little into order, they quitted her in search of new 
 amusements, and were soon seen at the top of a neigh- 
 boring hill. Miss Caroline found it very difficult to 
 reach this hill ; for her line shoes, that were made very 
 tight, in order to set oiT her feet the better, greatly re- 
 tarded her speed. Nor was this the only inconvenience; 
 for her stays were drawn so close, that she could not 
 properly breathe. She would very willingly have gone 
 home to change her dress, in order to be more at ease ; 
 but she well knew that her friends would not give up 
 their amusements to please her caprice. 
 
 Her playmates having reached the summit of the 
 hill, enjoyed the beautiful prospect that surrounded 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 155 
 
 them on all sides. On one hand were seen verdant 
 meadows ; on the other the riehes of the harvest, with 
 meandering streams that intersected the fields, and 
 country seats and cottages scattered here and there. 
 So grand a prospect could not fail of delighting them 
 and they danced about with joy ; while poor Caroline 
 found herself obliged to remain below, overwhelmed 
 with sorrow, not being able to get up the hill. 
 
 In such a situation, she had leisure enough to make 
 the most sorrowful reflections. i To what purpose, 
 (said she to herself ) am I dressed in these fine clothes? 
 Of what a deal of pleasure do they debar me, and do 
 not all my present sufferings arise merely from the pos- 
 session of them?' She was giving up her mind to these 
 distressing thoughts, when she suddenly saw her friends 
 come running down the hill, and all crying out toge- 
 ther, as they passed her, 'Run, run, Caroline! there 
 is a terrible storm behind the hill, and it is coming to- 
 wards us ! If you do not make haste, your fine silk slip 
 will be nicely soused !' 
 
 The fear of having her slip spoiled, recalled her 
 strength ; she forgot her weariness, pinched feet, 
 and tight-laced waist, and made all the haste she could 
 to get under cover. In spite of all her efforts, how- 
 ever, she could not run so fast as her companions, who 
 were not incommoded by their dresses. Every moment 
 produced some obstacle to her speed : At one time, 
 by her hoop and flounces in the narrow paths she had 
 to pass through ; at another, by her train, of which 
 the furzes frequently took hold ; and at others, by 
 Mons. Pomatum and Powder's fine scafYold-work about 
 her head, rtn which the wind beat down the branches 
 
t56 LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 of such trees as she was obliged, in her progress home, 
 to pass under. 
 
 At last, down came the storm with great fury, and 
 hail and rain mixed, fell in torrents. All her compa- 
 nions were safe at home before it began, and none 
 were exposed to its rage but poor Caroline, who in- 
 deed, got home at last, but in a most disastrous condi- 
 tion. She had left one of her fine shoes behind her in 
 a large muddy hole, which, in her precipitate flight, 
 she had hurried over without observing ; and to fill up 
 the measure of her misfortunes, just as she had got 
 over the meadow, a sudden gust of wind made, free 
 with her hat, and blew it into a pond of stagnated and 
 filthy water. 
 
 So completely soaked was every tiling she had on, 
 and the heat and rain had so glued her linen to her, 
 that it was with some difficulty they got her undressed ; 
 as to her silk slip, it indeed afforded a miserable spec- 
 tacle of fallen pride and vanity. 
 
 Her mother seeing her in tears, jocosely said to her^ 
 1 My dear, shall I have another slip made up for yon 
 against to-morrow V — *Oh no, mamma, (answered Ca- 
 roline, kissing her ) I am perfectly convinced from ex- 
 perience, that fine clothes cannot add to the happiness 
 of the wearer. Let me again have my nice white frock, 
 and no more powder and pomatum till I am at least ten 
 years older; for I am ashamed of my folly and vanity.' 
 
 Caroline soon appeared in her former dress, and 
 with it she recovered her usual ease and freedom, look- 
 ing more modest and pleasing than she ever did in her 
 gaudy finery. Her mamma did not regret the loss she 
 had sustained in the wreck of the silk slip, fine shoes 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 157 
 
 and hat, since it produced the means of bringing her 
 daughter back to reason and prudence. 
 
 WHAT is the sex's earliest, latest care, 
 The heart's supreme ambition ? To be fair : 
 For this the toilet every thought employs, 
 Hence all the toils of dress, and all the joys ; 
 For this, hands, lips, and eyes are put to school, 
 And each instructed feature has its rule ; 
 And yet how few have learnt, when this is giv'n, 
 Not to disgrace the partial boon of heav'n ? 
 Do you, my fair, endeavor to possess 
 An elegance of mind as well as dress ; 
 Be that your ornament, and know to please 
 By graceful Nature's unaffected ease. 
 
 
I 
 
 LOOUN- 
 
 sm^i 
 
 ARTHUR AND ADRTAN ; OR, TWO HEADS BUTTER 
 THAN ONE. 
 
 xVDRIAN had frequently heard his father say, that 
 children had hut little knowledge with respect to what 
 was the most proper for them ; and that the greatest 
 proof they could give of their wisdom, consisted in fol- 
 lowing the advice of people, who had more age and 
 experience. 'This was a kind of doctrine Adrian did 
 not understand, or at least would not, and therefore it 
 
 is no wonder he forgot it. 
 
 This wise and good father had allotted him and his 
 brother Arthur a convenient piece of ground, in order 
 that each might be possessed of a little garden, and dis- 
 'play his knowledge and industry in the cultivation of 
 it. They had also leave to sow whatever seed they 
 should think proper, and to transplant any tree they 
 liked out of their father's garden into their own. 
 
 Arthur remembered those words of his father, which 
 his brother Adrian had forgotten, and therefore went 
 to consult their gardener Rufus. ' Pray tell me, (said 
 
 i 
 
LOOKING-GfcASS. 155 
 
 he) what is now in season to sow in my garden, and 
 in what manner I am to set about my business ?' The 
 gardener hereupon gave him several roots and seeds, 
 such as were properest for the season. Arthur instant- 
 ly ran, and put them in the ground, and Rufus very 
 kindly, not only assisted him in the work, but made 
 him acquainted with many things necessary to be 
 known. 
 
 Adrian, on the other hand * shrugged up his shoul- 
 ders at his brother's industry, thinking he was taking 
 much more pains than was necessary. Rufus, not ob- 
 serving this contemptuous treatment, offered him like- 
 wise his assistance and instruction ; but he refused it in 
 a manner that sufficiently betrayed his vanity and i«no- 
 ranee. He then went into his father's garden, and took 
 from thence a quantity of flowers, which he transplant- 
 ed into his own. The gardener took no notice of him, 
 but left him to do as he liked. 
 
 When Adrian visited his garden the next moaning, 
 all the flowers he had planted hung down thejr Uads, 
 like so many mourners at a funeral, and, as he plainly 
 saw, were in a dying state. He replaced them with 
 others from his Other's garden ; but, on visiting them 
 the next morning, he found them perishing like the for- 
 mer. 
 
 This was a matter of great vexation to Adrian, who 
 consequently became soon disgusted wink this kind of 
 business. He had no idea of taking so much pains for 
 the possession of a few flowers, and therefore gave it 
 up as an unprofitable game. Hence his piece of ground 
 soon became a wilderness of weeds and thistles. 
 
 As he was looking into his brother's garden, about 
 the beginning of summer, he saw something of a red 
 
160 
 
 LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 color hanging near the ground, which, on examination, 
 he found to be strawberries, of a delicious flavor. < Ah ! 
 (said he) I should have planted strawberries in mv gar- 
 den.' 
 
 Some time afterwards, walking again in his brother's 
 garden, he saw little berries of a milk-white color, 
 which hung down in clusters from the branches of a 
 bush. Upon examination, he found they were eurrants, 
 which even the sight of was a feast. < Ah ! (said he) 
 I should have planted currants in my garden.' 
 
 The gardener then observed to him, that is was his 
 own fault his garden was not as productive as his bro- 
 ther's. < Never for the future (said Puifus) despise the 
 instruction and assistance of any one, since, you will 
 find by experience, that t~xo heads are better than one. 
 
 WHAT self-sufficiency and false content 
 Benumb the senses of the indolent ! 
 Dead to all purposes of good, or ill, 
 Alive alone in an tmactvee a ill. 
 II s only vice in nogood action lies, 
 And his sole virtue is his Uxmt of rice. 
 Business he deems too bard, trifles too easy, 
 Aud doing nothing finds himself too busy. 
 Wealth isprocurAl with toil, and kept with fear, 
 Knowledge by labor purchased costs too dear ; 
 Honor a bubble, subject to a breath, 
 And all • i ements vain since nnll'd by death ; 
 Thus all the wise esteem, he can despise, 
 And caring n >t, 'tis he alone is wise ; 
 \i', all his wish possessing, finds no rest, 
 And only lives to know, he never can be blest. 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 lol 
 
 MADAM D'ALLONE; AND I1EH FOUR PUPILS, 
 
 JVlADAM D'Allone was the governess of four f-Otiiig 
 ladies, Emilia, Harriot, Lucy, and Sophia, whom slie 
 loved with the tenderness of a mother. Her principal 
 wish was, that her pupils might be virtuous and hap- 
 py, and that they might enjoy all the comforts of lifd 
 with tranquillity. They each experienced an equal 
 share of her indulgence, and each received the same 
 treatment, either as to pardon for errors, or rewards. 
 or punishments. 
 
 Her endeavors wcr'c crowned with the happiest suc- 
 cess, and her four little girls became the sweetest chil- 
 dren upon earth. They told each other of their faults, 
 and as readily forgave offences ; they shared in each 
 other's joys, nor were they ever happy when separa- 
 ted. 
 
 An unforeseen event, however, disturbed this happy 
 tranquillity, just at the very moment they began to 
 taste its charms, which served to convince them, how 
 
m LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 necessary it was to be guided by their prudent govei 
 neefc, 
 
 Madam D'AIlone was obliged to leave her pupils for 
 a little time, a family affair having made it necessary 
 for her to visit France. She left them with much re- 
 luctance, even sacrificed her interest, in some measure, 
 to the desire of speedily settling her affairs, and, in the 
 course of a month, returned in safety to her little flock, 
 who received'her with the warmest expressions of joy ; 
 but the alteration she perceived in her children very 
 much surprised and alarmed her. 
 
 She saw it frequently happen, that if one asked the 
 slightest favor of another, it was ill-naturedly refused, 
 and from thence- arose tumults, and quarrels. That 
 gaiety and cheerfulness, which had used to accompany 
 all their sports and pastimes, were now changed to a 
 gloomy perverseness ; and, instead of those tender ex- 
 pressions of love and friendship, which had constantly 
 dwelt in all their conversatddnSj nothing w r as now heard 
 but perpetual jarrings and wranglings. If one propo- 
 sed a walk in the garden, another would give some rea- 
 son why she wished to remain in her chamber ; and, in 
 short, their only study seemed to be to thwart each other. 
 
 It happened cue day, that not contented with shew- 
 ing each other how much they delighted in perverse- 
 ness, they mutually distressed themselves with recipro- 
 cal reproaches. 
 
 Madame D'Allone beheld this scene with the greatest 
 uneasiness, and could not help shedding tears on the 
 occasion. She did not then think it prudent to say any 
 thing to them, but retired to her chamber, in order 
 there to think of the prooerest means of restoring peace 
 and hanr.eny among her unhappy pupils. 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 163 
 
 While she was turning these afflicting thoughts in 
 her mind, all the four young ladies entered her apart- 
 ment with a peevish and uneasjr look, each complain- 
 ing of the ill-temper of the rest. There was not one 
 but what charged the other three with being the cause 
 of it, and altogether begged their governess would, if 
 possible, restore to them that happiness they once pos- 
 sessed. 
 
 Their governess put on a very serious countenance, 
 and said, ' I have observed, my pupils, that yon en- 
 deavor to thwart each other, and thereby destroy your 
 pleasures. In order, therefore, that no such thing may 
 happen again, let each take up her corner in this room, 
 if she chuse it, and divert herself in what manner she 
 pleases, provided she does not interfere with either of 
 her sisters.. You may immediately have recourse to this 
 mode of recreation, as you have leave to play till night ; 
 but remember that neither of you stir from the corner 
 in which I shall place you.' 
 
 The little maidens, who were noway displeased with 
 this proposal, hastened to their different quarters, and 
 began to amuse themselves each in her own way. So- 
 phia commenced a conversation with her doll, or rather 
 told her many pretty little stories ; but her doll had not 
 the gift of speech, and consequently was no compa- 
 nion. She could not expect any entertainment from her 
 sisters, as they were playing, each asunder, in their 
 respective corners. 
 
 Lucy took her battledore and shuttlecock, but there 
 were none to admire her dexterity ; besides, she was 
 not allowed to strike it across the room, as that would 
 have been an invasion en one of her lister's territories. 
 
1*4 LOOKING-GLASS, 
 
 She could not expect, that either of them would quit 
 their amusements to oblige her. 
 
 Harriot was Very fond of her old game of hunt the 
 slipper ; but what was she to do with the slipper by 
 herself; she could only shove it from hand to hand. Jt 
 was in vain to hope for such service from her sisteis, as 
 each was amusing herself in her assigned corner. 
 
 Emilia, who was a very skilful pretty house-wife, 
 was thinking how she might give her friends an enter- 
 tainment, and of course sent out for many things to 
 market ; but there was at present nobody near, with 
 whom she might consult on the occasion, for her sisters 
 were amusing themselves each in her corner. 
 
 Every attempt they made to find some new amuse- 
 ment failed, and all supposed that a compromise would 
 be most agreeable ; but, as matters were carried so far, 
 who was first to propose it ? This each would have con- 
 sidered as a humiliating circumstance ; they therefore 
 kept their distance, and disdainfully continued in their 
 solitude. The day at last closing, they returned to Ma- 
 dam D'Allone, and begged her to think of some other 
 amusement for them, than the ineffectual one they had 
 tried. 
 
 * I am sorry, my children, (said their governess) to 
 see you all so discontented. I know but of one way to 
 make you happy, with which you yourselves were for- 
 merly acquainted, but which, it seems, you have for- 
 gotten. Yet, if you wish once more to put it into prac- 
 tice, I can easily bring it to your recollections.' They 
 all answered together, as though with one voice, that 
 they heartily wished to recollect it, and stood attentive 
 while their governess was looking at them, in eager ex- 
 pectation to hear what she had to say. 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 165 
 
 < What you have lost, or at least forgotten, (replied 
 Madam D'Allone) is that mutual love and friendship 
 which you once had for each other, and which every 
 sister ought cheerfully to cherish. O ! my dearest lit- 
 tle friends, how have you contrived to forget this, and 
 thereby make me and yourselves miserable !' 
 
 Having uttered these words, which were interrupted 
 by sighs, she stopped short, while tears of tenderness 
 stole down her cheeks. The young ladies appeared 
 much disconcerted, and struck dumb with sorrow and 
 confusion. Their governess held out her arms, and 
 they all at once instantly rushed towards her. They 
 sincerely promised, that they would tenderly love each 
 other for the future, and perfectly agree, as they for- 
 merly had done. 
 
 From this'T:ime, no idle peevishness troubled their 
 harmonious intercourse ; and, instead of bickerings and 
 discontents among them, nothing was seen but mutual 
 condescension, which delighted all who had the oppor- 
 tunity of being in their company. May this serve as a 
 useful lesson to my youthful readers, how easy it is for 
 them to promote or disturb their happiness. 
 
 PERUSE, young ladies* Madame D'Allone's page, 
 And let its precepts your whole heart engage : 
 Then shall each charm and virtue of the fair, 
 The smile of kindness and the modest air ; 
 The brow by wisdom polish'd and serene, 
 The glow of health, and the decorous inein ; 
 The eye, that, • speaking sense distinct and clear/ 
 Tells in its rays* what pleasure 'tis to hear ; 
 The tear of pity, that, like glistening dew, 
 lmpearls the open rose's crimson hue; 
 The robe embraced by heav'nly Venus' zone, 
 The flowing tresses that each art disown ; 
 Each charm of body, and each gift of mind, 
 Which Nature gave, or culture has refin'd. 
 
lot* 
 
 LOOKING-GLASS 
 
 THE BIRD'S F.GG. 
 
 JLYA ASTER Gregory war, fond of walking in a wood, 
 which stood at a short distance from his father's house. 
 The wood being young, the trees were consequently 
 small, and placed very near to each other, with two 
 or three paths between them. As he was one day 
 walking- up and down, in order to rest himself a little, 
 he placed his back against a tvce f whose stem was 
 quite slender, and therefore ail its branches shook as 
 soon as it was touched. This rustling happened to 
 frighten a little bird who sprung from a neighboring 
 bush, and flew into another part of the wood. 
 
 Gregory was vexed to think he had disturbed the 
 bird, and fixed his eyes upon the bush, in hopes of 
 seeing it return. — While he was thus attentively on the 
 watch, he imagined he saw among the twisted branch- 
 es something like a tuft of hay. As his curiosity was 
 raised to know what it was, he went up close to the 
 hedge, and found this tuft of hay was hollow like a 
 bowl. On putting aside the branches, he saw some- 
 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. W 
 
 thing like little balls within it, which were spotted, 
 tnd of an oval shape. They lay close to each other, 
 on something very soft. ' Bless rne, (said Gregory ) 
 this must be certainly what I have heard some people 
 call a bird's nest, and the balls must be eggs. They 
 are indeed less than our eggs, but then our hens are lar- 
 ger than these birds.' 
 
 He had some thoughts, at first, of taking away the 
 whole nest ; but upon second consideration, he con- 
 tented himself with taking only one of the eggs, with 
 which he instantly ran home. In the midst of his 
 haste, he met his sister. * See this little egg, (said he 
 to her) I just now found it in a nest, in which were 
 five others.' 
 
 She desired to have it in her hand, examined it at- 
 tentively, and then returned it to her brother. x\t last 
 they began rolling it up and down a table, just as they 
 would a ball. One pushed it one way, and the other 
 a different way, till at last they pushed it off the table, 
 when it fell on the floor and broke. This set them a 
 crj-ing, and each mutually accused the other of being 
 the cause of this sad disaster. 
 
 Their mamma happening to hear them cry, came to 
 inquire into the cause of it, when both began at once 
 telling their sorrows, and having heard their different 
 stories, she took them affectionately by the hand, and 
 led them to a tree, whose stately bows afforded a plea- 
 sant shade to a verdant bank, on which they all sat 
 down together. 
 
 'My dear children, (said their mamma) make your- 
 selves easy. You have broken the egg between you, 
 and that, to be sure, is a misfortune ; but it is of to© 
 trifling a nature to suffer it to make you unhappy, 
 
168 LOGXING-GLA 
 
 A fur all, Gregory, there is some room for complaint 
 against you, as it was an act of injustice to rob the 
 poor bird of its egg. You must have seen how the 
 hen places her eggs in a nest, on which she sits to 
 warm and animate them. In about three weeks, from 
 the eggs proceed chickens, which pierce the shell, and 
 in a few days come and feed out of your hand. — This 
 egg, which you have just now broken, had you left it 
 in the nest, would have become a sort of chick. The 
 bird you saw fly out of the bush was probably the mo- 
 ther, who will, very likely, return again, to see what 
 mischief you have done her, and perhaps she will for- 
 sake it altogether, which they frequently do when dis- 
 turbed. 
 
 'Though the loss is only a single egg, yet that per- 
 haps will inform them that their habitation is discover- 
 ed when they have every thing to be afraid of from 
 our violence. They guess, that when their little ones 
 shall be hatched, those that robbed them of an cgg> 
 will return and seize upon their infant family. If this 
 nest you have been robbing, for I cannot call it any 
 thing less than a robbery, should be on that account 
 forsaken, I think you will be very sorry for it.' 
 
 Gregory replied, that it would indeed give him 
 much uneasiness, and seemed very sorry that he had 
 meddled with the egg. 'But, (said he to his mamma) 
 I had not the least thought of what you have been tel- 
 ling me nor did I suppose there could be any harm in 
 bringing it to my sister, for it was principally on that 
 account that I took it.' 
 
 His mamma replied that she readily believed him ; for 
 she told him she was sensible, that he had too good a 
 heart to wish to do mischief merely for the sake of tor- 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. \69 
 
 Hlciiting others. Gregory was, indeed, a very good 
 boy, and was as remarkable for his duty to his parents, 
 Ins tender attachment to his sister, and his universal 
 benevolence to every one. 
 
 The little girl observed to her mamma, that the nest 
 which her brother had shewn her, did not, in any de- 
 gree, resemble the swallows' nests that were seen about 
 the corners of the windows of some houses. 'My 
 dear, (replied her mamma) every nest is not alike 
 any more than every bird, some being great, and 
 others little ; some are never seen to perch on trees, 
 while others are hardly ever out of them ; some are 
 bulky and inactive, others slim, and full of cunning 
 and industry ; the plumage of some are beautiful be- 
 yond description, with an amazing variety of colors, 
 and others have a plain and homely appearance ; some 
 subist on fruits, some feed upon insects, and many live 
 by maing a prey of, and devouring the smaller birds/ 
 
 Here her daughter exclaimed' ' Oh, what wicked 
 creatures! I am sure I should think it no crime to 
 destroy the nests of such unnatural birds I* — \ Very 
 true, (replied her mamma) and there are many more 
 of your way of thinking ; and therefore these great 
 birds, who live upon the smaller class, build their 
 nests in places where they cannot be easily disturbed, 
 such as in woods, in crevices of rocks, and in Other 
 places most unfrequented by men, or at Heights be- 
 yond our reach. 
 
 c Since, therefore, my dear children, these birds 
 are greatly different from each other, as well in size, 
 as in the mode of living, and in the variety of their 
 plumage, it will naturally follow, that their nests 
 must also differ. The lark never perches on a tree, 
 
 P 
 
IT© LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 and sings only when mounting in the air, and builds 
 hej: nest on the ground. The swallow builds about 
 the roofs of houses, under what we call the eves, 
 and sometimes in the corners of windows. The owl, 
 who flies abroad only in the night, seeks out deserted 
 habitations, or some hollow tree, wherein to deposit 
 her eggs ; and the eagles, who soar above the clouds, 
 till absolutely out of sight, bring forth their young in 
 the cliffs of craggy rocks. Those birds, which so 
 prettily sport round our houses, and hop from branch 
 to branch, make their nests in trees and hedges. 
 Those who sport on the water, and find their living 
 therein, build their nests among the rushes that grow 
 ©n the banks. 
 
 'We will, one fine day, take a walk into the little 
 valley that terminates our large meadow, and you 
 will there see a number of these pretty creatures busy 
 in selecting the materials, of which they compose 
 their nests. You will observe one employed in carry- 
 ing off a wheatcn straw, another with wool or feathers 
 in his beak, another with a dried leaf, and perhaps 
 with a little moss. You may frequently notice the 
 swallow, on the borders of a limpid stream, moist- 
 ening in the water a little bit of earth which he holds 
 in his beak, and with this he builds his habitation ; 
 and, though the outside of its nest is formed of hard 
 and durable materials, the inside is lined with the 
 softest and warmest. There are even some birds who 
 pull off their own feathers to make up a comfortable 
 bed, wherein to secure their young from every incle- 
 mency of the elements. 
 
 'Their nests are made large or small, in propor- 
 tion to the number of eggs they are to contain. Some 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 171 
 
 birds hang up their nests by a kind of thread, which 
 they have the skill, to form of flax, of different sorts 
 of weeds, and of the webs of spiders. Others 
 place it in the middle of a soft and gluey substance, 
 to which they carefully stick many feathers. All 
 birds seek retired and solitary places and use every 
 endeavor to make their nests strong and solid, to se- 
 cure them from the attacks of enemies of various 
 species. 
 
 ' It is in this kind of habitation they lay their eggs, 
 where the mother, and at times the father, sits upon 
 them, puts every thing within them into motion, and 
 at last produces little creatures, who break through 
 their shell, and come forth. 
 
 ' I doubt not but you have often seen a fly in win- 
 ter, which appeared to have no life in it ; yet, upon 
 taking it into your hand, the warmth proceeding 
 from it has brought it to life.. It is nearly the same 
 thing with birds, the perseverance of whose parents, 
 in brooding upon their efrgs, converts them into living 
 creatures. 
 
 * While the mother is sitting, the cock is her fedn* 
 Stant attendant, and amuses her with his music, 
 When the young birds are hatched, the old ones en- 
 deavor to release them from the confinement of the 
 egg. At this period, their diligence is redoubled, 
 they do every thing to nourish and defend them, and 
 are constantly employed in that interesting pursuit. 
 No distance deters them from seeking their food, of 
 Which they make an equal distribution, every one re- 
 ceiving in his turn what they have been enabled to pro- 
 cure. So long as they continue young and helpless, they 
 
 rz£ 
 
175 LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 contrive to procure such food as is adapted to their 
 delicacy ; but as soon as they are grown stronger by 
 
 age they provide for them food of a more solid nature. 
 
 4 The pelican, which is a very large bird, is obliged 
 to go a great distance for food for its young, and 
 therefore nature has provided it with a sort of bag, 
 which she tills with such food as she knows is most 
 agreeable to the palate of her young ones. She warms 
 what she procures, and by such means makes it fitter 
 for their tender stomachs. 
 
 ' While they are thus acting the parental part, they 
 seem to be forgetful of themselves, and attentive only 
 to their little family. On the approach of either rain 
 or tempests, they hasten to their nests, and cover it 
 as well as they can with expanded wings, thereby 
 keeping out the wind and water from hurting their in- 
 fant brood. All their nights are employed in nourish- 
 ing and keeping them warm. The most timorous 
 among the feathered race, who will fly away on the 
 least noise that approaches them, and tremble at the 
 most trifling apprehensions of danger, become stran- 
 gers to fear as soon as they have a young family to 
 take care of, and are inspired with courage and intre- 
 pidity. We see an instance of this in the common hen, 
 who, though in general a coward, no sooner becomes 
 a parent, than she gives proofs of courage, and bold- 
 ly stands forth in defence of her young. She will face 
 the largest dog, and will not run even from a man, 
 who shall attempt to rob her of her young;. 
 
 ' In nearly a similar manner, the little birds endea- 
 vor to protect their infant family. When an enemy 
 approaches, they will flutter round the nest, will seem 
 
 i 
 
LOOXING-GLAbS. 173 
 
 to call out for assistance, will attack the invader, and 
 pursue him. The mother will frequently prefer con- 
 fining herself with them to the pleasure of rambling 
 through the woods, and will not quit her little pro- 
 geny.' 
 
 Here their mamma ended, and her two children 
 promised they never would any more disturb those 
 pretty feathered animal?. They promised only to 
 look at their nests, without being so cruel as to do 
 them any harm. They said they would be satisfied 
 with gazing on them, while employed in the delight- 
 ful task of attending on their young, and comforting 
 and caressing their unprotected offspring. 
 
 * My dear children, (said their mamma} this is the 
 conduct you ought to pursue. Keep your resolutions, 
 and I shall love you the more tenderly for it. Do no 
 injury to any creature, for he who made you, made 
 them also. Take no delight in giving pain to the most 
 insignificant part of the creation ; but endeavor, on all 
 occasions, to contribute to their happiness. 
 
 ILL custom? by degrees to habits rise, 
 111 habits soon become exalted vice; 
 What more advance can mortals make in sin 
 So near perfection, who with blood begin ? 
 
 Let plough thy steers ; that when they lose their breatk, 
 To Nature, not to thee, they may impute their death : 
 , Let goats for food their loaded udders lend, 
 And sheep from winter-cold thy sides defend ; 
 But neitker springs; nor nets, nor snares employ. 
 And be no more ingenious to destroy. 
 Free as in air, let birds on earth remain, 
 Nor let insidious glue their wings constrain j 
 
 p 2 
 
174 
 
 LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 Kor opening hounds the trembling stag affright; 
 Nor purple feathers intercept his flight ; 
 Nor hooka concealed io baits for fish prepare, 
 1\ or lines to Leave them twinkling up in air. 
 
 Take not away the life you cannot give ; 
 For all things have an equal right to live. 
 Kill noxious creatures, v ere 'tis sin to save ; 
 This oily just prerogative we have : 
 But nourish life with vegetabli food, 
 AqU shun the sacribsioua taste of blood. 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 
 THE COVETOUS BOY. 
 
 Y OUNG Samuel was the only son of a capital mer- 
 chant, and. was tenderly beloved by Lis father. He 
 bad by no means a bad heart, bis countenance was 
 pleasing, arid bis friends would all have been very fend 
 of him, hid he net shewn, in every part of his con- 
 duct, a covetous propensity that eclipsed all bis ac- 
 complishments. 
 
 His covetous disposition made him wish for every 
 thing he saw others possessed of, and even carried him 
 to so great a length, that he would not share among 
 his playmates any thing he had, or even let them see 
 it. 
 
 It was with little Samuel as it general! v is with eve- 
 ry body else, that he lost more than he gained by his 
 avarice. If any body gave him any sweetmeats, he 
 would get into some private corner of the house, and 
 there swallow them, for fear any of his acquaintances 
 should want part of them. His father, in order to cure 
 him of this greedy disposition; used, while he was 
 
LOOKING-CLA SB. 
 
 feasting in private, to give a double portion to his 
 companions. lie perceived this, and therefore left 
 off hiding himself ; bat he no sooner fixed his eyes on 
 any nicety, than he appeared ready to devour it at 
 once, ami ptfrstied the ban 6 of these that heid it, as a 
 vulture does its pre v. 
 
 From what has been already said, his father may 
 be supposed to be much hurt at this conduct ; and, in 
 order to save himself as mn i possible, he 
 
 ceased to give him any mora &s, or even have 
 
 them within his house, so thai not, at any 
 
 rate, be within the reach of bis voracious son. 
 
 If Samuel had a pleasing toy of any kind, he would 
 never shew it, but concealed himself in the enjoyment 
 of it, without ever being- happy. If he had any sort 
 of fruit, he would not share it with his playmates, but 
 devour it in private, even refusing any to those he hap- 
 pened to love most. Consequently, none of his play- 
 mates would ever give him a part of what they had, 
 and seemed always desirous of shunning his company, j 
 When he chanced to be engaged in a quarrel with any 
 one, none appeared ready to take his part, not even : 
 when they knew him m the right ; and, when he was 
 in the wrong, every one joined against him. 
 
 It one day happened, that a little boy observed him 
 with an apple in his hand, and gave him by surprise a 
 knock on the elbow, which made him let the apple 
 fall. However, he picked it up hastily, and in order 
 to revenge himself on the boy, set off to catch him ; 
 but, in running, fell into a hog-pond, and had like to 
 have been suffocated in the soil. He exerted all his 
 power to get out, but to no effect ; he endeavored* 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 177 
 
 but without succeeding, to prevail on bis playmates 
 to take hold of his hand and help him out. 
 
 Instead of assisting him, they laughed at his distress, 
 and joyously danced about the pond, from which he 
 could not relieve himself. They told him to ask the 
 assistance of those, to whom he had done the least 
 kindness ; but, among ah his playmates, there was 
 not one, whose help he could demand on that score. 
 At last, one of the boys, who took pity on him, came 
 forward and gave him his hand, when he safely got 
 out. 
 
 Samuel shook off the mud as well as he could, and 
 then, to shew his gratitude to the little boy who had 
 assisted him, he bit off about a quarter of the apple 
 which had caused this disaster, and which he never let 
 go, and desired him to accept of it. But the boy, dis- 
 gusted with so pitiful a gift, took the morsel, and then 
 riling it in his face ; an J this served as a signal for all 
 the boys to scout him. They pursued Samuel quite 
 borne, hooting him ail the way he went. 
 
 This was the first time lie had ever been hooted, 
 and, as he did not want for feeling, it threw him into a 
 depth of thought. lie kept out of his iiither's presence, 
 and confine:] himself to his room for some days. There 
 he reasoned with himself on the cause that could pro- 
 duce such treatment from las playfellows. * For what 
 reason, (said he to himself) could my little neighbor, 
 who even lent me his hand to get out of the pond, 
 throw the apple in nay face, and set the bovs to hoot 
 me ? Why has he so many good friends, while I have 
 not a single one ?' 
 
 On comparing the good boy's behavior with his own, 
 he soon discovered the reason. To become sensible 
 
17$ LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 of our errors is half the work of reformation. He re- 
 collected, that he had observed his friend was always 
 ready to help every one ; that, whenever he had any 
 fruit, confectionary, or the like, he seemed to feel 
 more pleasure in sharing it with his companions, than 
 in eating it himself, and had no kind of amusement in 
 which he did not wish every one to bear a part. On 
 this short review of circumstances he plainly percei- 
 ved, wherein lay the difference between himself and 
 this little good boy. He at last resolved to imitate 
 him ; and the next day, filling his pockets with fruit, 
 he ran up to every boy he met, and gave him a part 
 of it, but he could not, on a sudden, give up self, 
 having left a little in his pocket to eat at home in pri- 
 vate. 
 
 Though it is evident, that he had not yet completely 
 conquered his avarice, \vt he was not a little pleased 
 with the advances he had made since his companions 
 were now, on their part, more generous to him ; they 
 shewed themselves much more satisfied with his com- 
 pany, and admitted him a partner in all their little 
 pastimes ; they divided with turn whatever they hap- 
 pened to have, and he always went home pleased and 
 satisfied. 
 
 Soon after, he made a still greater progress in con- 
 quering his seliish disposition ; for he pulled out of his 
 pocket every thing he had; and divided it into as many 
 shares as there were mouths to eat it, without reserv- 
 ing any more than an equal part for himself. Indeed, 
 it was the general opinion of the boys, that his own 
 share was the least. This day he was much more sa- 
 tisfied than before, and went home gay and cheerful. 
 
 By pursuing this conduct, he soon acquired a ge- 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 17$ 
 
 nerous habit, and became liberal even to those who 
 had nothing to give in return. He consequently ac- 
 quired the love and esteem of his companions, who no 
 sooner saw him than they ran to meet him with joyful 
 countenances, and made his pleasure their own. Thus, 
 instead of being miserable and wretched through ava- 
 rice, he became completely happy in the practice of 
 generosity. 
 
 His father was undoubtedly highly pleased with this 
 change, and tenderly embracing him, promised to re- 
 fuse him nothing in future that might add to his plea- 
 sure and delight. Samuel hereby learned in what true 
 happiness consists. 
 
 HAPPY the man, and happy he alone, 
 
 He, who can call to-day his own : 
 
 He who, secure within, can say, 
 
 To-morrow do thy worst, for I have livVt to-day, 
 
 Be fair, or foul, or rain, or shine, 
 
 The joys I have possess 'd, in spite of fate are mine, 
 
 Not Heav'n itself upon the past has pow'r ; 
 Bat what has been, has been, and Thave had my hour. 
 Fortune, that, with malicious joy. 
 
 Does man her slave oppress, 
 Proud of her office to destroy, 
 Is seldom pleas'd to bless : 
 Still various and unconstant still, 
 But with an inclination to be ill, 
 
 Promotes, degrades, delights in strife, 
 And makes a lottery of life. 
 I can enjoy her while she's kind ; 
 But when she dances in the wind, 
 And shakes the wings and will not stay, 
 I puff the flutt'ring thing away : 
 
"UO 
 
 LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 The little or the much she gave, is quietly resign 'd 
 Content with poverty, my soul I arm ; 
 And virtue, tho' in rugs, will ktep me warm. 
 
 What is't to me, 
 Who never sail in her unfaithful sea, 
 If storms arise, and clouds grow black ; 
 If the mast split, and threaten wreck? 
 Then let the greedy merchant fear 
 
 For his ill-gotten gain ; 
 And pray to gods that will not hear, 
 While the debating winds and billows bear 
 His wealth into the main. 
 For me, secure from fortune's blows. 
 Secure of what I cannot lose, 
 In my small pinnace I can sail, 
 Contemning all the blustering roar ; 
 And running with a merry gale, 
 With friendly stars my safety seek 
 Within some little winding creek ; 
 And see the storm ashore. 
 
 
 ££« '"$>-. '"j£ 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 151 
 
 
 DISSIPATION, THE CERTAIN ROAD TO RUIN. 
 
 A. Young man, whose name was Humphries, was a 
 dull companion, but an excellent workman. Nothing" 
 ran in his head so much as the wish to become a mas- 
 ter, but he had not mone}- enough to gratify that wish. 
 A merchant, however, who was well acquainted with 
 his industry, lent him an hundred pounds, in order that 
 he might open shop in a proper stile. 
 
 It will from hence naturally follow, that Humphries 
 thought himself one of the happiest men in the world. 
 He supposed his warehouse already filled with goods, 
 be reckoned how many customers would come to buy 
 them, and what would be his profits thereon. 
 
 In the midst of these extravagant flights of fancy, 
 he perceived an alehouse. ' Come, (said be on entering" 
 \t) I will indulge myself with spending one six pence of 
 this money .' He hesitated, however, some few mo- 
 ments, about calling for punch which was his favorite 
 liquor, as his conscience loudly told him, that his time 
 for enjoyment ought to be at some distance, and not 
 
 Q 
 
IM LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 till he had paid his friend the money he had borrowed J 
 
 that it wuiild not be honest in him, at present, to spend 
 a farthing of that money but in absolute necessaries. 
 With these right ideas he was nearly leaving the ale- 
 house ; but, methinking himself, on the other hand, 
 that if he spent a sixpence of his money, he should 
 still have an hundred pounds all but that sixpence, that 
 such a sum was fully sufficient to set him up in trade, 
 and that a single half hour's industry would amply 
 make amends for such a trilling pleasure as he wished 
 then to enjoy. 
 
 He called for his punch, and the first glass banished 
 all his former qualms, little thinking that such a con* 
 duct would, by insensible degrees, open a way to his 
 ruin. The next day he recollected the pleasures of the 
 former glass, and found it easy to reconcile his con- 
 science to the spending of another sixpence. He 
 knew he should still have an hundred pounds left 
 all but one shilling. 
 
 The love of liquor had at last completely conquered 
 him, and every succeeding day he constantly returned 
 to his favorite alehouse, and gradually increased his 
 quantity, till he spent two shillings and sixpence at 
 each sitting. Here he seemed to make a stand, and 
 every time he went he consoled himself with saying, 
 that he was spending only half-a-crown, and that he 
 need not fear but he should have enough to carry on his 
 trade. 
 
 By this delusive way of reasoning, he silenced the 
 prudent whispers of conscience, which would some- 
 times, in spite even of liquor, break in upon him, and 
 remind him, that the proper u^e of money consisted in 
 prudently applying every part of it to advantageous 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 purposes. Tims you see how the human mind is led 
 into destructive extravagances by insensible degrees. 
 Industry has no longer any charms to allure him, being" 
 blindly persuaded, that the money he had borrowed 
 would prove an inexhaustible resource for all his extra- 
 vagance. He was at last convinced, and his conviction sud- 
 denly fell upon him like a clap of thunder, that he could 
 not recover the effects of his preceding dissipation, and 
 that his generous benefactor would have little inclination 
 to lend another hundred pounds to a man, who had so 
 shamefully abused his kindness in the first instance. 
 
 Entirely overcome with shame and confusion, his 
 recourse to hard drinking, merely to quiet his con- 
 science and reflections, served only to bring on his ru- 
 in the sooner. At last, the fatal moment arrived, when 
 quite disgusted at the thought of industry, and becom- 
 ing an object of horror even to himself, life became 
 insupportable, and nothing presented themselves to 
 him but scenes of poverty, desolation, and remorse. 
 
 Overtaken by despair, he tied from his < - i try, and 
 joined a gang of smugglers, whose ravages were 
 dreaded through every town and village on the coast. 
 Heaven, however, did not permit these iniquities to 
 have a tang reign ; for a disgraceful death soon put a 
 period to the existence of this unhappy wretch. 
 
 Alas ! had he listened to the first dictates of reason, 
 and been wrought upon by the reproaches of his con- 
 science, he might have been easy and happy in his 
 situation, and have comfortably enjoyed the repose of 
 a reputable old age, instead of coming to that deplo- 
 rable end, which is the certain reward of vice and 
 
 foilj. 
 
m 
 
 LOO LASS. 
 
 UNHAPPY man, whom sorrow thi *gt! 
 
 So different ill alternately engage ! 
 
 Who drinksj a!u>> ! but to forget ; nor sees 
 
 That melancholy sl< 
 
 Mem'ry confus'd and interrupted thought, 
 
 Death's harbingers, IU . it; 
 
 And in the flowers that vvre bowfj, 
 
 Fell addc 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 !85 
 
 CALUMNY AND SCANDAL GREAT ENEMIES T« 
 SOCIETY. 
 
 I HOUGH Maria was of a tolerable good temper, 
 yet she had contracted a most mischievous vice, and 
 that was calumny. Whenever she fancied she saw any 
 thing amiss in others, though they were her most inti- 
 mate friends, she seemed to take pleasure in publish- 
 ing it to the world. 
 
 The inexperience of her age frequently led her t<* 
 ascribe indifferent actions to improper motives, and a 
 single word, or violation of disposition, was sufficient 
 to raise in her breast the worst suspicion *, with which, 
 as soon as she had formed them, she would run into 
 company, and there publish them as indubitable facte. 
 As she was never at a loss for embellishments from 
 her own fancy, in order to make her tales appear the 
 more plausible, it may easily be supposed what mis- 
 chief such a conduct was capable of producing. In a 
 little time, all the families in her neighborhood were 
 set together by the ears, and the seeds of discord scon 
 
 Q 2 
 
186 LOOKING-GLASS 
 
 after sprung up among individual*; husbands 
 
 wives, brothers and sisters, : - arid servants, com- 
 menced perpetual variance between each other. All 
 on a sudden mutual confidence seemed to be Lost in 
 every place where Maria visited. 
 
 Matters at last were carried so far, that every one 
 shut their doors against her^ as they would have done 
 against any one tainted with the plague ; but neither 
 hatred nor humiliation could reform a vice, which cus- 
 tom and prejudice had so deeply rivetted in her heart. 
 
 This glorious work of reformation was reserved for 
 Angelica, her cousin, who was the only one left that 
 would keep her company, and who lived in hopes, 
 that she should in the end be able to convince her of 
 her ruinous conduct. 
 
 Maria went one day to see her cousin, and entertain- 
 ed her as usual with a long recital of scandal against 
 their common friends, though she well knew that such 
 tales were disagreeable to Angelica. ' And now, m}^ 
 dear, (said Maria, having stopped for want of breath) 
 your turn is come to tell me something. You see 
 *uch a variety of company, that you surely must be 
 acquainted with a number of anecdotes.' 
 
 ' My dear Maria, (answered Angelica) whenever I 
 visit my friends, it is for the sake of enjoying their 
 company ; and 1 am too sensible of my own interest 
 to forfeit their esteem, by exposing their defects. In- 
 deed, I am sensible of so many errors in myself, and 
 find it so difficult to correct them, that I have no 
 leisure to contemplate the imperfections of others. 
 Having every reason to wish for their candor and in- 
 dulgence, I readily grant them mine ; and my atten- 
 tion is constantly turned to discover what is corrunea- 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 187 
 
 dable in them, in order that I may make such perfec- 
 tions my own. Before we presume to censure ether:', 
 we ought to be certain that we have no faults ourselves , 
 I cannot therefore, but congratulate you on that fault- 
 less state, which lam so unhappy as to want. Con-* 
 tinue, my clear Maria, this employment of a charitable 
 censor, who would lead the world to virtue by expo- 
 sing the deformity of vice, and you cannot fail of 
 meeting your deserts.' 
 
 Maria well knew how much she was the public ob- 
 ject of aversion and disgust, and therefore could not 
 help feeling the irony of Angelica. From that day, 
 she began very seriously to reflect on the danger of 
 her indiscretion, and trembling at the recollection of 
 those mischiefs she had caused, determined to prevent 
 their progress. 
 
 She found it difficult to throw off the custom she 
 had long indulged of viewing things on the worst side 
 of the question. At last, however, she became so 
 perfectly reformed, that she studied only the pleasing 
 parts of characters, and was never heard to speak ill 
 of any one. 
 
 Maria became more and more convinced of the per- 
 nicious consequences that arise from exposing the 
 faults of others, and began to feel the pleasing satisfac- 
 tion of universal charity. My dear children, shun tha 
 vice of scandal, and still more being the authors of it? 
 as you would plague, pestilence, and famine. 
 
 WHAT is that vice which still prevails, ' 
 When almost every passion fails ; 
 Which with our very dawn begun* 
 Nor ends but with our setting sun ; 
 
185 
 
 LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 Which, lika a noxious weed, can 
 The fairest flovv'rs, and choke the .soil ? 
 'Tis Calumny- — with .shame I own, 
 The vice of human kind alone. 
 
 Th' insidious slandering thief is worse 
 Than the poor rogue who steals your purse. 
 Riy, he purloins your glitt'nng store ; 
 Who takes your gold, takes trash — no more ; 
 
 Perhaps he pilfers — to be i'vd 
 
 Ah ! guiltless wretch who steals for bread ! 
 But the dark villain who shall aim 
 To blast thy fair, thy spotless name, 
 He'd steal a precious gem away, 
 Steal what both Indies can't repay ! 
 
 Be good yourself, nor think another's shame 
 Can raise your merit, or adorn your fame ; 
 Virtue is amiable, mild, serene, 
 Without all beauty, and all peace within. 
 
LOCKING-CLASS. 
 
 \W 
 
 CIAKISSA; OR, THE GRATEFUL ORPHAN. 
 THE amiable Dormda, soon after the misfortune of 
 losing her husband, was so unhappy as to have a few- 
 suit determined to her disadvantage, and thereby lost 
 great part of her possessions, which were taken from 
 her with the met unrelenting hand. This reduced 
 her to the necessity of selling all her furniture, and 
 the greater part o^ her jewels. The produce of these 
 were placed in the hands of a banker, and retired to 
 a village, where she could live much cheaper than in 
 the metropolis, and with tolerable decency. 
 
 She had not passed move than two months in this re- 
 treat, when information was brought her, that her 
 banker had failed in trade, and consequently all her 
 money was lost. Judge what must be the horrors of 
 her situation ! Sickness and grief had so debilitated her 
 constitution, that she was unable to do any kind of 
 work, whereby to procure a subsistence ; and, after 
 having passed her youth in ease and pleasure, she had 
 
LOOKING-*; i [si 
 
 no resources left in the evening of her life, but that 
 of a work-house, or common beggary. 
 
 Not one of her acquaintance would see her, nor con- 
 descend to take the bast interest in her sufferings. Be- 
 jug brought by her husband from a foreign country 
 she had no friends to fly to for assistance, except a 
 distant relation, whom she had brought with her to 
 England, and who, by her husband's credit, gained 
 great riches ; but this man's avarice was greater than 
 Ins wealth, and there was little charity to be expected 
 from a man, who denied himself the common necessa- 
 ries of life. 
 
 Afflicted virtue, however, always finds resource in 
 the bounteous hands of Providence, and she found as- 
 sistance where she little expected it. In the former 
 days of her prosperity, she had adopted a female or- 
 phan, whose name was Clarissa, who now became her 
 guardian and protector. Clarissa had a grateful heart ; 
 she wept for the misfortunes of her friend, but she re- 
 joiced at the thoughts of having an opportunity to 
 shew her gratitude. 
 
 When Dorinda mentioned her design of seeking re- 
 fuge in a parish work-house— < No, (said Clarissa) you 
 shall never leave me. From your tenderness I fonn< 
 ly received the indulgences of a beloved child ; and, it % 
 in your prosperity I thought myself happy in the idea 
 of being so nearly related to you, by adoption, I still 
 think it more so now I see you in adversity. Thank 
 Heaven and your adoption for my comfortable situa- 
 tion ! your maternal conduct was amply displayed in 
 teaching me all the necessary female arts ; and I am 
 happy in the reflection, that I can make use of my 
 knowledge for your sake. With health and courage, 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 1S1 
 
 I fear not being able to procure for us both at least a 
 comfortable living.' 
 
 This generous offer exceedingly affected the unhap- 
 py widow, who embraced Clarissa, and with joy ac- 
 cepted of her proposal. This amiable girl, in her 
 turn, became the mother, by adoption, of her former 
 benefactress. Not contented with feeding her with the 
 produce of an unremitted labor, she consoled her in afflic- 
 tion, attended her in sickness, and endeavored, by the 
 tenderest methods, to soften the iron hand of fortune. 
 
 For two years did the constancy and ardor of Claris- 
 sa continue with unwearied attention, and her only hap- 
 piness seemed to consist in promoting that of her friend, 
 At the end of that period, when death relieved the un- 
 happy Dorinda from the cares and troubles of this life, 
 she sincerely lamented her death, and bewailed it as a 
 grievous misfortune. 
 
 A short time after died also the relation of Dorinda, 
 of whom we have lately spoken, and who had shewn 
 himself so shamefully insensible to every claim of gra- 
 titude and kindred. As he could not carry his riches 
 with him, he supposed that it would be making some 
 atonement for his ungenerous conduct, by leaving the 
 injured Dorinda every thing he possessed, Alas ! it 
 came too late, for she was no more ! 
 
 The amiable Dorinda had not, before her death, the 
 consolation of knowing that such a change had hap- 
 pened in her fortune, as in that case she might have 
 easily tui ;ed it to the advantage of the generous Cla- 
 rissa. This large fortune, therefore, for want of an 
 heir, fell to the king ; but Provideucc so directed it, 
 that the generous conduct of the orphan to her bene- 
 factress reached the ears of the prince. i Ah I then, 
 
m LOOKING-GLAS 
 
 (said be) she merii nberitance! I renounce my 
 
 right in her favor, and sliull be happy in being her fa- 
 ther and friend. " 
 
 This generous act of the king was applauded by the 
 whole nation ; and Clarissa, having thus received so 
 glorious a reward for her gratitude, employed it in the 
 maintenance of orphans, such as she herself had been. 
 It was the summit of her delight, to inspire them with, 
 sentiments similar to those she herself possessed. 
 
 I READ God's awful name emblazon'd high 
 With golden letters on th' illumin'd sky ; 
 Nor less the mystic characters I see 
 Wrought in each flow'r, inscrib*d on ev'ry trcs ; 
 In ev'ry leaf that trembles to the breeze 
 I hear the voice of God among the trees. 
 With thee in shady solitudes I walk, 
 With thee in busy crowded cities talk : 
 In every creature own thy forming power, 
 In each event thy providence adore. 
 
 Thy hopes shall animate my drooping soul* 
 Thy precepts guide me, and thy fear controul ; 
 Thus shall I rest, unmov'd by all alarms, 
 Secure within the temple of thine arms 
 From anxious cares from gloomy terrors free, 
 And feel myself omnipotent in thee. 
 
 Then when the last, the closing hour draws nigh; 
 Aral earth recedes before my swimming eye ; 
 When trembling on the doubtful edge of fate 
 I stand, and stretch my view to either State ; 
 Teach me to quit this transitory scene 
 With decent triumph and a look -serene ; 
 Teach me to fix my ardent hopes on high, 
 And, haviug liv'd to thee, in thee to dio« 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 195 
 
 RETURNING GOOD FOR EVIL, THE NOBLEST RE- 
 VENGE. 
 
 A WILL be revenged on him, that I will, and make 
 him heartily repent it, 'said little Philip to himself, with 
 a countenance quite red with anger. His mind was so 
 engaged, that as he walked along, he did not see his 
 dear friend, Stephen, who happened at that instant to 
 meet him, and consequently heard what he had said. 
 
 e Who is that, (said Stephen) that you intend to be 
 revenged on ?' Philip, as though awakened from a 
 dream, stopped short, and looking at his friend, soon 
 resumed the smile that was natural to his countenance. 
 c Ah ! (said he) come With me, my friend, and you 
 shall see whom I will be revenged on. I believe you 
 remember my supple jack, a very pretty little cane, 
 which my father gave me. You see it is now all in 
 pieces. It was farmer Robinson's son, who lives in 
 yonder thatched cottage, that reduced it to this worth* 
 
 l«ss state.' 
 
 R 
 
191 LOOKLV 
 
 Stephen very coolly asked him, what induced the 
 fanner's son to break it. * I was walking very peacea- 
 bly along, (replied Philip) and was playing with my 
 cane, by twisting it round my body. By some acci- 
 dent or other, one of the two ends got out of my hand 
 when I was opposite the gate just by the wooden bridge, 
 and where the little miscreant had put down a pitcher 
 full of water, which he was carrying home from the 
 well. It so happened, that my cane, in springing, 
 overset the pitcher, but did not break it. He came up 
 close to me, and began to call me names, when I as- 
 sured him I did not intend any harm, what I had done 
 was by accident, and I was very sorry for it. Without 
 paying any regard to what I said, he instantly seized 
 my supple jack, and twisted it as you here see ; but I 
 Will make him heartily repent it.' 
 
 < To be sure, (said Stephen) he is a very wicked boy, 
 and is already very properly punished for it, since no- 
 body likes him, nor will do any thing for him. He 
 finds it very difficult to get any companion to play with 
 him, and if he attempts to intrude himself into their 
 company, they will all instantly leavehim. To consider 
 this properly, I think, should be sufficient revenge for 
 
 you.* 
 
 ' All this is true, (replied Philip) but he has brokeri 
 my cane. It was a present from my papa, and a very 
 pretty cane you know it was. My father will perhaps 
 ask me what is become of it ; and, as he will suppose 
 I have carelessly lost his present, he will probably be 
 angry with me, of which this little saucy fellow will 
 be the cause. I offered to fill his pitcher again, having 
 knocked it down by accident — -I will be revenged.' 
 
 1 My dear friend, (said Stephen) I think you will act 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 195 
 
 better in not minding him, as your contempt will be 
 the best punishment you can inflict on him. He is not 
 upon a level with you, and you may be. assured that he 
 will always be able to do more mischief to you, than 
 you would choose to do him. And now I think of it. 
 [ will tell you what happened to him not long since. 
 
 6 Very unluckily for him, he chanced to see a bee 
 hovering about a flower, which he caught ; and was 
 going to pull off its wings out of sport, when the ani- 
 mal found means to sting him, and then flew away in 
 safety to the hive. The pain put him into a most furi- 
 ous passion, and, like you, he vowed to take a severe 
 revenge. He accordingly procured a little hazle stick, 
 and thrust it through the hole into the bee-hive, twist- 
 ing it about therein. By these means, he killed several 
 of the little animals ; but, in an instant, all the swarm 
 issued out, and falling upon him, stung him in a thou- 
 sand different places. You will naturally suppose that 
 he uttered the most piercing cries, and rolled upon the 
 ground in the excess of his agony. His father ran to 
 him, but could not, without the greatest difficulty, put 
 the bees to flight, after having stung him so severely, 
 that he was confined several days to his bed. 
 
 1 Thus, you see, he was not very successful in his 
 pursuit of revenge. I would advise you therefore to 
 pass over his insult, and leave others to punish him, 
 without your taking any part in it. Besides, he is a 
 wicked boj~, and much stronger than you are ; so that 
 your ability to obtain revenge may be doubtful.' 
 
 { I must own, (replied Philip) that your advice seems 
 
 very good. So come along with me, and I will go and 
 
 .tell my father the whole matter, and I think he will not 
 
 be angry with me. It is not the cane that I value of 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 any consideration than that it was my father's present, 
 and I would wish to convince him that I take care of 
 every thing he gives me.' He and his friend then went 
 together, and Philip told his lather what had happen- 
 ed, who thanked Stephen for the good advice he had 
 given his son, and gave Philip another cane exactly 
 iike the. first. 
 
 A ihw days afterwards, Philip saw this ill-natured 
 boy Kill as he was carrying home a very heavy log of 
 wood, which lie could not get up again. Philip ran to 
 him, and replaced it on his shoulder. 
 
 Young Robinson was quite ashamed at the thought 
 of having received this kind assistance from a youth he 
 had treated so badly, and heartily repented of his be- 
 havior. Philip went home quite satisfied, to think he 
 had assisted one he did not love, and from pure mo- 
 tives of tenderness and humanity. i This, (said he) is 
 the noblest vengeance I could take, in returning good 
 for evil.' 
 
 THE man whose mind, on virtue beat, 
 Pursues some greatly good intent, 
 
 With undiverted aim, 
 Serene beholds the angry crowd ; 
 JNor can their clamors, iierce and loud, 
 
 His stuhhorn honor tame. 
 lS T ot the proud tyrant's fiercest threat, 
 l\or storms, that from their dark retreat 
 
 The lawless surges wake, 
 Nor Jove's dread bolt, that shakes the pole, 
 The firmer purpose of his soul 
 
 With all its pow'r can shake. 
 Should nature's frame in ruins fall, 
 And chaos o'er the sinking ball 
 
 Resume primeval sway, 
 His courage chance and fate defies, 
 Nor feels the wreck of earth and skies 
 
 Obstruct its destin'd way. 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 197 
 
 GREY HAIRS MADE HAPPY. 
 
 v/PPOSITE to the house, in which Charlotte's pa- 
 rents lived, was a little opening, ornamented with a 
 grass-plot, and overshaded by a venerable tree, com- 
 manding an extensive view before it. On this delight- 
 ful spot, Charlotte used frequently to sit in her little 
 chair, while employed in knitting stockings for her 
 mamma. 
 
 As she was one day thus employed, she saw a poor 
 old man advancing very slowly towards her. His hair 
 was as white as silver, and his back bent with age ; he 
 supported himself by a stick, and seemed to walk with 
 great difficulty. ( Poor man, (said Charlotte, looking 
 at him most tenderly) he seems to be very much in 
 pain, and perhaps is very poor, which are two dread- 
 ful evils !' 
 
 She also saw a number of boys, who were following 
 close behind this poor old man. They passed jokes 
 upon his threadbare coat, which had very long skirts, 
 
 and short sleeves, contrary to the fashion of those days. 
 
 r? <2 
 
KM LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 His hat, which was quite rusty, did not escape their 
 notice ; his cheeks were hollow and his hotly thin. These 
 wicked boys no sooner saw him, than they all burst out 
 a laughing. A stone lay in his way, which he did not 
 perceive, and over it he stumbled, and had like to 
 have fallen. This afforded them sport, and they laugh- 
 ed loudly ; but is gave great pain to the poor old man, 
 who uttered a deep sigh. 
 
 ' I once was as young as you are, (said he to the 
 boys) but I did not laugh at the infirmities of ^ge as 
 you do. The day will come in which you will be old 
 yourselves, and every day is bringing you forward to 
 that period. You will then be sensible of the impro- 
 priety of your present conduct.' Having thus spoken, 
 he endeavored to hobble on again, and made a second 
 stumble, when, in struggling to save himself from fal- 
 ling, he dropped his cane, and down he fell. On this 
 the wicked boys renewed their laugh, and highly en- 
 joyed his misfortune. 
 
 Charlotte, who had seen every thing that had passed, 
 could not help pitying the old man's situation, and 
 therefore putting down her stocking on the chair, ran 
 towards him, picked up the cane and gave it him, and 
 then taking hold of his other arm, as if she had been 
 as strong as a woman, advised him to lean upon her, 
 and nut mind any thing the boys might say to him. 
 
 The poor old man looking at her very earnestly, 
 • Sweet child, (said he) how good you are ! This kind- 
 ness makes me in a moment forget all the ill behavior 
 of those naughty boys. May you ever be happy.' They 
 then walked on together ; but the boys being probably- 
 made ashamed of their conduct by the behavior of Char- 
 lotte, followed the old man no further. 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 19.9 
 
 While the boys were turning about, one of them fell 
 down also, and all the rest began laughing, as they had 
 before done at the old man. He was very angry with 
 them on that account, and as soon as he got up, ran af- 
 ter his companions, pelting them with stones. He in- 
 stantly became convinced, how unjust it was to laugh 
 at the distresses of another, and formed a resolution, 
 for the future, never to laugh at any person's pain. He 
 followed the old man he had been laughing at, though 
 at some distance, wishing for an opportunity to do hirn 
 some favor, by way of atonement, for what he had 
 done. 
 
 The good old man, in the mean time, by the kind 
 assistance of Charlotte, proceeded with slow but sure 
 steps. She asked him to stop and rest himself a little, 
 and told him, that her house was that before him. ' Pray 
 stay, (said she) and sit a little under that large tree. My 
 parents, indeed, are not at home, and therefore you will 
 not be so well treated ; yet it will be a little rest to you.* 
 
 The old man accepted Charlotte's offer. She brought 
 him out a chair, and then fetched some bread and cheese 
 and good small beer, which was all the pretty maid 
 could get at. He thanked her very kindly, and then 
 entered into conversation with her. 
 
 4 I find, my dear, (said he) you have parents. I 
 doubt not but you love them, and they love you. They 
 must be very happy, and may they always continue 
 to be so !' 
 
 ' And pray, good old man, (said Charlotte) I sup- 
 pose you have got children.' — ' I have a son (replied 
 he) who lived in London, loved me tenderly, and fre- 
 quently came to see me ; but, alas ! he is now dead, 
 and I am kit disconsolate. His widow, indeed, is 
 
J J GLASS. 
 
 rich : bul she assumes the character of the lady, arid 
 thinks it beneath her to enquire whether I be dead or 
 living, as she does not wish it to be known, that her 
 husband's father is a peasant.' 
 
 Charlotte was much affected, and could hardly be- 
 lieve that such cruel people I. i Ah ! certain I 
 am, (said she) that my dear mother would not behave 
 so cruelly.' He then rose , - ; ed Charlotte with 
 a blessing ; but she was dett rmined not to leave him, 
 till she had accompanied him a little way further. 
 
 As they walked on, they saw the little boy who had 
 been following them ; for he run on some way before, 
 and was then sitting on the grass. When they looked 
 upon him he cast his eye downwards, got up after 
 they had passed, and followed them again. Charlotte 
 observed him but said nothing. 
 
 She asked the old man if In* lived alone. ' No lit- 
 tle lady, (answered he) I have a cot cage on the other 
 side of that meadow, seated in the middle of a little 
 garden, with an orchard and a small field. An old 
 neighbor, whose cottage fell down through age, lives 
 with me, and cultivates \ny ground. lie is an honest 
 man, and I am perfectly easy in his society ; but the 
 loss of my son still bears hard upon me, nor have I the 
 happiness to see any of his children, who must by this 
 time have forgotten inc.' 
 
 These complaints touched the heart of Charlotte, 
 who told him, that she and her mother would come 
 and see him. The sensibility and kindness of this lit- 
 tle girl, served only to aggravate his grief, by bring- 
 ing to his mind the loss he had sustained in his son. 
 Tears came in his eyes, when he pulled out his hand- 
 kerchief to wipe them ? and, instead of again putting 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 201 
 
 it into his pocket, in the agitation of his mind, it slip- 
 ped aside, and fell unnoticed by him or Charlotte. 
 
 The little boy who followed them, saw the handker- 
 chief fall, ran to pick it up, and gave it the old man, 
 saying, < Here, good old man, you dropped your 
 handkerchief, and here it is.' * Thank you hearti- 
 ly, my little friend, (said the old man). Here is a 
 good-natured lad, who does not ridicule old age, nor 
 laugh at the afflictions that attend it. You will cer- 
 tainly become an honest man. Come both of you to 
 my habitation, and I will give you some milk.' They 
 had no sooner reached the old man's cottage than he 
 brought out some milk, and the best bread he had, 
 which, though coarse, was good. They all sat down 
 upon the grass, and made a comfortable repast. How- 
 ever, Charlotte began to be afraid her parents might 
 come home, and be uneasy at her absence ; and the 
 little boy was sorry to go, but was sadly afraid, should 
 he stay, of being scolded by his mother. 
 
 c This mother of your's, (said the old man) must be 
 very cross to scold you.' — ; She is not always so, (re- 
 plied the boy) but though she lovtfS me, she makes 
 me fear her.' — And your father ?' ' Oh, I scarcely 
 knew him, he having been dead these four years.' — 
 ' Dead these four years ! (interrupted the old man, and 
 fixing his eyes attentively on the boy). Is it possible 
 that I have some recollection of your features ? Can it 
 be little Francis !' Yes, yes, Francis is my name.' 
 
 For a few moments the old man stood motionless, 
 and with an altered voice, his eyes swimming with 
 tears, cried out, * My dear Francis, you do not recol- 
 lect your grandfather ! Embrace me ! You have got 
 the very features of my son ! My dearest child, you 
 
LOOKIN'G-GLASS. 
 
 was not thinking of me ! My son affectionately loved 
 me, and his son will love me also. My old age will 
 not be so miserable as I expected, and the evening of 
 my life will not pass away without some joy. I shall 
 
 depart in peace ! Bat I forgot, that by detaining 
 
 you, I may expose you to your mother's anger. Go, 
 my dear child, for I do not wish that my joy should 
 cost yon tears. Go, love your mother, and obey her 
 commands, even though you should not come and see 
 me. Come and see me if you can ; but do not disobey 
 or tell a story on any account.' 
 
 He then turned to Charlotte, and said, though he 
 then did not wish her to stay, for fear of offending her 
 parents, yet he hoped she would come again. He then 
 dismissed them, giving them a hearty blessing, and 
 the two children walked away hand in hand. Char- 
 lotte got. home safe before her parents, who were not 
 long after her, when she told them every thing that 
 had passed, which furnished an agreeable conversa- 
 tion for the evening.. 
 
 The next day, they all went to sec the good old 
 man, and afterwards frequently repeated their visits. 
 Francis also came to see his grandfather, who was- re- 
 joiced to hear him speak, and to receive his affection- 
 ate caresses. Francis, on his side, was equally rejoic- 
 ed, excepting when he did not meet with Charlotte ; 
 for then he went home sorrowful and sad. 
 
 The nearer Francis arrived to manhood, the more 
 his affections for Charlotte encreased ; and according- 
 ly, when he was old enough to marry, he would think 
 of no other woman, though she was not rich. The old 
 man lived to see them married and happy, and then 
 finally closed his eyes in peace, 
 
LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 203 
 
 '■••••TO bless is to be blest ! 
 We led the bending beggar on his way; 
 (Bare were his feet, his tresses silver-grey) 
 ( Sooth/d the keen pangs his aged spirit felt, 
 And on his tale with more attention dwelt* 
 As in his scrip we droop'd our little store, 
 And wept to think that little was no more, 
 He breath'd his pray'r, ' Long may such goodness live ! 
 Twas all he gave, 'twas all he had to give. 
 
 END OF LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
&k 
 
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